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Tuesday, 30 October 2012

In which One is whinging yet again…

Here One is, packing, yet again, to be shuffled off to Brixham whilst the underground lair is transformed into an open sewer.  (sorry if you’re having your wheaty-bangs, dear reader.)


I want to stay here and sulk, not go down there and have to paint me arse off in order to scape a meagre and lonely living. (now yer crying into yer cereal, int yer?)

Any way, while we’re on the subject – who reads this constant, never ending whinge?  Are you young, slim, successful, loved and cherished, and merely taking a self satisfied peek into the groundhog day, car crash that is the lot of Lovely One?  Or are you an even more pathetic lump than Moi and long to emulate me doings?

Who knows?  All One does know is that One has the decency to simply whinge and whine into me blog rather than burden living and breathing beings with me misery.


But – it has to be said – Lovely One has deffo missed the boat in the ‘lifetime companion’ stakes.  Who would want a jaded old, wobbly thighed, wine sodden, loose toothed, super-floo-us hair covered (well one I found on me face), big old dollop of gloom, who, it has to be said, has some unpleasant habits normally associated with uncouth young gentleman.

Hmm- not doing a very good sales pitch here, methinks. 


Then I could slowly morph into one of those sad old bats whose flat smells of cat pee and whiskers.

But no, am stuck with a hound and it’s master.  All living separate lives in a small confined space.


Ho hum – double the dose today I think!!

Sunday, 28 October 2012

In which a chill wind blows out from under me blankie…


A chill wind blows through the underground lair and it’s not just from the above newly created masterpiece – shortly to be available from a reputable gallery near you, dear reader.

No, perhaps tis the forth coming festival of All Hallows Eve, or maybe the general miasma of all consuming hatred that hangs in the air.

Not from your very own dear Lovely One, I might hasten to add, who at this very mo is knitting merino lamb willy warmers to be distributed amongst the frozen membered poor of the parish.  Shall also be baking fresh brownies for all the little dears who will be tap tapping on the portcullis for a treat. And thence, straight on to making up seasonal hampers for the deserving poor.

Oh hell, it’s all crap!  I’m currently under me blankie with a giant vodishka and tonic and a catering pack of violet creams, watching re-runs of Come Dine with Me.

That said, One doesn’t deserve the current one word answer, no eye contact, face like a pickled gonad, world One is currently forced to inhabit.

Ho hum, pass the prozac

Moving on…

Was incandescent with rage the other day in The Old Fish Shop Gallery when a customer, looking over my shoulder, said

‘Oooh, your work is like that woman from Monksilver.’

Let’s call her the ‘Tricker Treat’ - very seasonal!

This is becoming quite a habit.  People biffing in and mentioning the flaming woman, who, incidentally…


She bought one of mine many moons ago and is still mimicking Lovely One.

The sincerest form of flattery?  I think not!  But a jolly good way to lure Lovely One out from under her blankie for revenge!!!!

Saturday, 27 October 2012

In which One has a v boring and dull life indeed…

Closed early due to extreme boredom. 

Lovely One used to get out of me pram if anyone ever dared to shut the old Red Hat early, but, well, when it’s not One’s own, One is beginning not to give a rat’s fat about it.  One was oft heard replying to the…

‘Well nobody came in so I shut,’             with

‘Well if you shut – they can’t effing get in can they!’

The good Burghers of Wellington obviously don’t want what we’ve got – so bollicks!

It has proven to be a quiet and uninterrupted venue for the creation of masterpieces to be sold elsewhere, but even that’s wearing a bit thin.  It’s just such a repulsive venue what with the pigeon shite, which is now accompanied by a thick layer of feathers (obv the little blighters spend the evenings massacring each other.)

Any road up, am off to sunny Brixham for a month at least, so sod it!

Ooooh and One mustn’t forget to brag about yet another gallery wanting me doings….

Apropos of nothing One bit the bullet and (OMG I can’t believe I did it) but I actually purchased fecking pop sox.  Well, to be brutally honest, fif-feckin-teen pairs.  To be fair to Moi, I thought there was only one pair per box, it was a ‘buy two boxes get another free’, there were five pairs per box.  Et voila! Fifteen fecking pairs!

All in aid of preserving my recently labelled ‘fabulous feet’.  Well, and my shoes, which suffer from being worn barefoot.

So, this morning, One had every intention of actually wearing the things.  Could I find them? Could I feck?


Man – Have I had a boring day – or what!!!!!

I think the style fairies sneaked into me boudoir and spirited the nasty things away to wait in patience for me at the charity shop with all the beige elastic waisted trousers of old age.


Thursday, 25 October 2012

In which One peruses an alternative life…

Lovely One should most definitely have been an  academic.  Blue stockings, unplucked eyebrows, faint moustache etc. 

Yes, Yes, I know, a little light on the old  grey matter, but could certainly got by with a thick pair of spectacles and a furrowed brow.

It appears to be really easy, if One were to follow the Radio 4 path.

Monday – Start the week with Andrew Mar.  You know, the thinking woman’s Pob.  That dear little hand felted wing nut type, with the savage interviewing technique of Mary Berry.  I could do all that naval gazing bollicky chat for an hour!

Tuesdays are a bit random, so One could either take a break and do sums or actually join in the immigration chat (this week) with people in Texas?  What’s that all about? Hardly relevant to us little englanders.

By Wednesday it’s really hotting up with that seriously annoying bint, Libby Purves.  Why oh why does she have a totally different way of pronouncing some words to every one else on the flamin’ planet?  It doesn’t matter how many times one of her brainy guests say it right, the old Libbster plods on with her own uniquely irritating language. I could do that, I’m always saying the wrong thing. 

Any road up, this week she treated us to a bloke who was trying to explain to Oprah Winfrey’s dog how famous she was, Fiona Fullerton and her incarcerated pen pal and some other star gazing bod.  Lovely One could have joined in with that lot, surely?

But by today, dear old Melvinus Braggus was wafting on about some  bloke who’d taken three hundred years to do a sum!  Surely old MB can’t actually understand what some of these  articles are blathering on about?  One knows One can’t, but at least leaving it on full blast annoys the lodger and is payback for all the fecking football I have to endure – ON  MY TELLY 

And tomorrow?  Krusty Thong and desert island  Mcdiscs.  I spect that’ll be some boring academic twittering on and pretending to like Mahler.


Tuesday, 23 October 2012

In which One’s ‘plates of meat’ are the dish of the day…

What if the Hokey Kokey really is what it’s all about?

Upon the revelation of this T-shirt information Lovely One has decided to cease hand wringing and snivelling dans le truckle bed, re-apply the ‘lightest ash blonde’ (because I’m worth it) and kick some ass.

A v full day was endured today, so why am I not sleeping like a bambino?  At this rate I shall be frequenting all night speak easies when One actually is an old personage, since I believe the requirement for sleep diminishes with age.

Delivered a masterclass in knocking out masterpieces to a gang of elderly persons in a village hall that was hot enough to boil a monkey’s bum this morning. 

Lovely One doesn’t often partake of this kind of gig, but funds are getting frighteningly low at the mo and the prospect of retiring on the proceeds of The Old Fish Shop Gallery seem scarce.  

Having spent a goodly amount of time delivering art therapy to persons handicapped or downright dangerous in the past, One can safely say that there is nothing quite so intimidating as a sea of bespectacled, retired, well to do hobby painters peering expectantly at One!

One managed to keep up a commentary that seemed to satisfy the bods in the class, but clearly irritated the bridge club in the next room, who from time to time biffed in and out of the adjacent kitchen to do some serious cup rattling to indicate their displeasure.

Any road up, I think the little blighters enjoyed ‘paint-along-a-Lovely One’ since they all cleared off in their expensive 4x4’s to Waitrose with satisfied mutterings, leaving One to swap the forty quid I’d just earned for some petrol to get me back home again.

Rounded off the day’s excitement with a personal MOT carried out by a  frighteningly efficient nurse, who, upon sight of One’s dainty feet, burst forth…

‘Oooh your feet are really lovely.  You should see some of the feet I have to look at, but yours are perfect.’

Since then, have been whipping off me Uggs and admiring said plates on a regular basis.  If One ever contemplates another  vain attempt to lure a member of the opposite in my direction, shall v definitely post a pic of me plates on – since clearly when One has to be complimented on the beauty of One’s hoofs, the rest of One must be a total disaster! 


Monday, 22 October 2012

In which have deffo got SADS…

Counting down the days now until poor me will have to be incarcerated at the seaside  for at least a month.  In the summer that would have been rather jolly, but November?

Any road up, can’t be got out of and diggers and  builders will be beating the shite out of me lovely wooden floor – literally.

Am rather surprised at how badly this has all affected Lovely One.  Usually, dust Oneself down and get on, but must be losing  me Pollyanna streak and going all Eeyore.

Am deffo an outcast, a veritable pariah in polite society. Not only does Lovely One not like chips, One feels an alien when others (the lodger) watches popular culture TV.

Was unfortunate enough to get a  face full of that Strictly Come Dancing nonsense.

What on earth is that all about? Pray tell!

One didn’t even know who half of them were for goodness sake.

Maybe have got that seasonal disorder and am not a miserable old bat after all. What’s it called?

SADS – Strictly affected disorder syndrome

Any road up, later in the evening, ( a pattern of excessive TV watching is building up here) One sat down to marvel at Donald Trump’s hair – oh and his vast swathes of Scotland.

There was no conclusion to the bullying and unpleasant tactics employed to reach his aim, but it was made clear that the grand scheme was welcomed by the SNP

What will follow independence – McDisney?

Oooh, all a bit serious – no laughs

Tough – it’s my diary – if you don’t like it – don’t read it!

Saturday, 20 October 2012

In which One ponders the future, and it looks bleak…

Who reads this stuff?  Every day a goodly amount of you unwashed rabble tune in to lap up the unfortunate chaos that is the life of your very own Lovely One.

What does One do?  In response to ‘Hello, how are you?’ One generally replies, ‘Jolly fine, thanks!. How are you?’

Who am I kidding?  Everyone already knows the bumper scrapes, broken window, failed parking light of my car crash life!

I know, I know, everyone has their demons, but my demons are accompanied by the knowledge that I am one sale away from the gutter. 

A dear old person of my acquaintance is in a perpetual state of flux, albeit flux that is endured in financially secure luxury, and this bod is  envious of Lovely One for my ‘stoic, get on with it, if it doesn’t kill One it strengthens One attitude.’

And, of course, my Boy!

So I suppose it’s true, ‘tis the human condition.

Having positively charged through the summer months with an inane grimace upon One’s lovely visage, the onset of mists and mellow wossnames has rendered One a complete misery guts.

The little adventure that is a month at the seaside is about to begin.  But, One doesn’t want an adventure, One wants to snuggle up on the comfy sofa of middle age with a blankie and a three litre box of Pinot Grigio Blush.

Dear Little S want One to biff off to a new adventure with him. 

‘You can’t keep changing things,’ I hear the Father chorus from beyond the grave.



In which Aged P sees fit to discuss Lovely One’s private doings…

Another dull day in The Old Fish Shop Gallery. £2 – entire day’s takings!  It cost me £2.60 to fecking park! 

On the plus side, a message from Dear little S to say that posh J is shearing in the near f.

Lovely One might go back down there to play.  We could have chair races and eat chocolate cake pie all day – what fun!

Any road up, having once again informed Aged P and all her hanger’s on that One is incarcerated in the shop all day on a Saturday, was a bit nonplussed to get home to a garbled message on the answering machine that had been left at 2.15pm…

‘Hello hello.  Are you there? Pick up  the phone can’t you?’

And so it went on, but the best bit was when she’d finished leaving the message but hadn’t hung up the phone.

‘Well she’ll have to get him out,’ said an unidentified voice.

‘She can’t get him out, even though she doesn’t want him there,’ retorted Aged P, ‘Oh it’s such a shame for her.’

More mumblings about Lovely One’s pathetic existence  followed - and then it became clear…

Once again, Aged P was making Lovely One out to be a victim.



I thought I’d return the call…

Following a full breakdown of the treatment etc One enquired as to the identity of the latest unlucky blighter to be given  chapter and verse of all the made up doings of Moi.

‘Oh I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ said the Aged P.

‘I have the entire conversation taped on my answerphone’, said I.

‘Oh it wasn’t me. I wasn’t saying anything.’

‘I have asked you not to discuss my business with your friends, haven’t I?’

‘Oh it wasn’t Enid, I was talking to the physiotherapist.’


One feels that in the current Brother/Aged P falling out situation – Aged P might not be exactly blameless!

Friday, 19 October 2012

In which the Pinkster ward off vampires…

Kin Ada!  There is poor dear little Lovely One biffing out masterpieces by the dozen…

‘Oooh, I’ve just come for an appraisal of my work,’ struck up the gormless, bespectacled, ponytailed, aged streak.

Barely keeping a lid on it, One downed One’s paintbrush and turned toward the cove with, what One hoped, was a superior stare, in order to put the blighter off.  But no…

‘What do you think of that!’ went on the irritating tit, plonking a scuffed canvas


I tell you, if he hadn’t been such a soiled looking article I would have given him a chinese burn on the knob, there and then!  But ever the lady…

‘Mmmmm, I can see who influences you,’ One mused offering a quizzical look in the cove’s direction.

Expecting more, the great long streak of nuisance stepped back in amazement with folded arms in a confrontational manner.


Fortunately the Pinkster bounced in to grab all her doings for the Craft Fair/Barn Dance this evening.  A curious coupling, but it is Wivey!

The article sheared upon her arrival, but then so did the two ladies having a browse.  You could have sewn a button on the aroma of garlic surrounding the bouncy little feltster.

She biffed off with a load of mine and BF’s stuff as well, the little dear, but I’ll mange me chapeau if she sells anything, since I’d be surprised if anyone gets within 20yds of the stall!

She says it ward off colds.  No doubt it does and if there are any vampires on the loose in Milverton, they won’t sink there fangs in that aromatic little bleeder!

Wednesday, 17 October 2012

In which One has a companion at last…



Following a rash foray into a dating site – don’t panic – One didn’t join – One merely had a peek, One has resigned Oneself to a lonely existence with no fun, companionship nor nothin’   Just work, work, work and sleep.  And I haven’t even got a cat for company.

SO – One biffed of to the seaside for a spot of fresh air and to indulge in my guiltiest of pleasures – the seafront grabbers at the arcade!

Had luncheon in a curious cafe that was like walking back into the 1950’s – scoff an’ all!

Patrolled the shops, most of which were closing down for the season, or for good!  Happened upon the Exmoor Art and Craft shop.   What an eye opener that was!  And not in a good way.

Being a ferocious shopper, One generally finds something to purchase, but not in there!

The gaff was manned by a morose article who sniffed constantly.  Not a delicate sniff either, but one of those productive snorts that, down the alley outside The Old Fish Shop, usually precedes a noisy emission of green slime to add to the pigeon shite.

Fortunately the article didn’t flob all over the counter, but she certainly added an unwelcome frisson to the occasion.

What an absolutely horrid shop!  Nasty little paintings, lots of wood carvings, which I loathe, spindly little knitted items and the ever present strung beads that are too gross to describe.

Any road up, had some chips on the beach.  I wish I liked chips – I’m a social outcast – I am!



Now I’ll never be lonely again

and it only cost me about £329.20

Monday, 15 October 2012

In which One needs a hobby or something…

Things are not as they should be. 

Poor, poor me. 

One does seem to be spending far too much time hiding in One’s room to escape TV programmes various and unsolicited comments regarding One’s behaviour.

Not to mention the vast quantities of lightly boiled underwear draped seductively across rusty airers hither and thither, (an unpleasant bi product of residing in an underground lair without tumblington drying facilities)

AND steaming dog towels laying across radiators.

Yuk yuk yukkety yuk!

How did someone who finds the companionship of a cat such bliss, end up with a lodger and dog?  Temporary madness?  Making bed – lying in it? Act in haste?  bla bla and all that…

I read somewhere that you know you’ve hit rock bottom if you have to share your bedroom with kitchen equipment, and since me boudoir’s the only place I could bung a drier, acquisition has been thus far resisted.

There must be a plethora of mad old bats like Lovely One out there: One knows at least another four, personally, who have, when hit by the menopause, have thrown their collective hands in the air, caution to the wind and embarked on ‘relationships’ that have been proven to be ill advised.

It’s this flamin’ internet!  All those desperate old codgers (or todgers) out there looking for luurve. 

In the olden days menopausal old hags like Aged P was, Moi,  et al, had to just ‘get on with it.’  And One imagines, finally enter that ‘short grey hair and glasses’ phase of life where one simply goes from charity shop to charity shop buying up fawn elasticated waist trousers and drinking Mellow Birds.



It should have been abundantly clear given One’s history in that department, that no good would come of it.  But no, One had to biff about like a feckin’ eejit until One alighted upon possibly the most unsuitable amour of all. 

That’s all over now and accepted as an error on both parts but due to financial pressures has landed us, hopefully temporarily, in the same sodding gaff!

Sitting here all alone and gazing mournfully into the approaching Wiveliscombe winter, One is almost tempted to have another bash…

Thank feck that Hotmail’s gone down, or who knows what might happen next!!!!!!!

In which winter and misery abound…

A definite smell of the winter to come pervades the air abroad in the grounds of the underground lair.  The sharp aroma of cold air and, it has to be said, defeat.

Defeat for The Old Fish Shop Gallery, which also has the smell of bleach and polish, since Lovely One spent an energetic Sunday cleaning the gaff.

Two meandering ladies briefly interrupted the hoovering to wax lyrical about our ‘stuff’ but still managed to extricate themselves without parting with any cash.

‘Ooooh you do have such lovely things,’ they opined as they shot off up the alley, hands firmly on their wallets.

That has certainly been the order of the day for The Old Fish Shop Gallery: lots of praise and oooohs and aaaahs, good wishes and interest, but not enough money changing hands.

The Distinguished Elderly Gentleman has proven to be a popular bod, particularly for other chaps, who seem to be drawn to the bright colours.

Of course, it goes without saying that the genius of your very own Lovely One has abounded with vigour, but even Moi was a slow starter.

Not to ignore the perpetual popularity of the tiny little BF.   She’s been labouring away in the garden in the little shoe box workshop that BFP built for her.

Lovely One will be shearing to Brixham to frighten the fishing fleet for the month of November, leaving the Pinkster to man the gaff.

Will we make anything for Christmas?  Who knows.

Saturday, 13 October 2012

In which One isn’t a very good shop assistant… 

Well, I’ll go to the foot of our stairs!

I just had possibly the rudest would be contributor to the Old Fish Shop Gallery ever!

‘I’ve been told you take other people’s stuff in here and sell it.  What are your terms?’ was the opening gambit, as the personage strode straight up to Lovely One without a mere glance at our wares. (And we do have some loverly stuff!)

Lovely One, passive and obliging as ever, opened gob in order to inform bod of deal –

Being deep in concentration, dashing off a likeness of Totnes, One momentarily failed to grasp the inappropriate attitude of the bod, who by now was looming over dear little Lovely One.

Regaining a modicum of composure, One downed tools and spun theatrically round on me piano stool to commence dialogue…

‘What is it that you do?’ One enquired.

‘I’m very successful, and I don’t often come to Wellington,’ came the terse reply.

‘OK.  What is it that you do?’ One ventured again, hoping to be permitted a peek.

‘I’m in lots of high class stores,’ came the reply with a small, childlike, likeness of a cat being thrust under the upturned nubby of Lovely One.

With that, the bod strode manfully over to me print rack and distainfully pulled out a print of Taunton.

‘Is this a giclee print?’ One was questioned.

‘No, I don’t use that process,’ One proferred.

‘Well, what is it then?’

‘Look,’ said Moi, getting a bit shirty, ‘I don’t think your work would sell in here, we don’t carry that kind of art.’

‘Well, wouldn’t that be a good thing then?’ biffed on the bod.

‘I don’t think so at the moment,’ went on L.O. ‘and quite honestly, sales are rather slow at the moment and we are testing the water until Christmas when the shop proprietor will make a decision as to which way we will go in the new year, so I’m not going to take your work at the present time.




In which One is dispensing advice yet again…

PrincessThat’s me that is.  The veritable queen of The Old Fish Shop Gallery.  But not for long…

Am considering a resurgence of a residency in the shed, dispensing advice to all and sund, since yesterday, some odd bodikin biffed in ‘for a chat about where to go from here…’

Tiny little BF scuttled off up the alley upon the appearance of the painting bearing article, leaving me to it.  She had fronted up with some divine earring creations that are far too good for the great unwashed lugs of the Wellingtonian.

Any road up, the bod, who had bothered Lovely One afore, informed me that he could only paint part time as he had a mortgage and a family to support, but still thought he could command the respect (and prices) that the full time, seriously skint, risk taking, self sacrificing full time professionals have.  I expect you get me drift!

In an extremely rare moment of ‘niceness’ and deserving of a break from the Totnes creation on the easel, One decided to give him the benefit…

Following a good half hour of printer/framer/marketing advice, One tentatively enquired how many painting he had completed.

‘One,’ came the reply.


That was at least half an hour of me life I won’t get back!  Give me feckin’ strength!

That got me gusset in a twist, but ‘twas soon smoothed out by the calming zen presence of The Distinguished Elderly Gentleman, who is always a welcome visitor with his advice and interest in the wellbeing of the Divine Lovely One.

He had come to bring in a masterpiece that a bod from down the road had intimated that he would purchase. 

By and by the bod fronted up, but had since decided he wanted Lovely One to paint his gaff instead.

Now, I know I will do anything for cash, but ‘The Cash for Clothes Shop,’ that’ll stretch even the genius of Lovely One!

Still, a deal for the two could be a poss…

Thursday, 11 October 2012

In which One is in the shite…

Cat faceThere Lovely One is – large as life and twice as scary – pointing at the pigeon shite.  A reasonably sized article in the Somerset Gazette, which, One might add, was the headline on those standy-uppy things that newsagents put outside, but all to no avail.

Having been asked for comment, Taunton Deane Council proffered thus…

‘Unless it presents a health or environmental hazard, the property owners are required to clean it up themselves.’


One would have thought that a small child slipping in the knee deep guano would have constituted a health hazard!

Any road up, they completely missed the point.  Sadly though the pigeons didn’t and continue to shite-bomb the alley.  They line up at regular intervals with their feathery arses poised over the edge and ‘chocks away’ we’re all coated as if in some foul fondant icing.

If only the ferocious feline, Tigerboy, was still amongst us, he could eat the b******s!  Speaking of which, One called Vile ex Husband to inform him that One had received a text to say that Boy had mastered the usage of the on-site washin mashin and drier and no longer pervaded the atmosphere with the delicate aroma of soiled laundry, whereupon he informed One that the Tigerboy inflicted wound is tres seriouse.

Apparently, he was perambulated with indecent haste to the local infirmary to have his finger operated upon with immediate effect to cut out the festering goo that Tigerboy had infected him with!

Being something of a ‘girl’ about all that sort of palava, V ex H had implored the medical blighters to try one more super-strength dose of antibiotics before going under the knife.   So his digit is on a three day reprieve afore the life or death surgery is undertaken.

So, Tigerboy goes out with a flourish, not dissimilar to the one with which he came into our lives…

The legacy of a life (or at least digit threatening) injury and a flea infestation!

And the b*****d pigeons are left to plunge the alley and Lovely One further and further into the shite.

In which One is delivering whilst Aged P surfs…

Upon emergence from the underground lair, One’s mobile went off william nilliam for some considerable amount of mins.

Dashing to The Old Fish Shop Gallery to have One’s likeness captured by a bod from the Somerset Gazette, One didn’t have a min to discover who was desirous of the attention of Lovely One.   The local paper is running a story today regarding the ankle deep pigeon shite that is deterring the great unwashed of Wellington from meandering down the alley and snapping up the odd masterpiece.  So, like the trouper One is, One alighted from the Truckle Bed at fecking six a.m. and biffed off in the gen direc of Welly.

‘Can yer crouch down there next to it and point at it?’ enquired the camera wielding article.

‘No!  I flamin’ well can’t!’ retorted Lovely One, so a compromise was reached whereupon One was positioned ‘neath the perilously dangling, dripping, Victorian lamp and the guano, pointing at it with a look of distain upon One’s gob.

With the Ferrari packed to the gunnels with masterpieces destined for Dartington, One then sped off into the fog to pay a visit to Dear Little S.

‘It’s like being on the flamin’ Generation Game when you come down ‘ere!’, opined the put-upon D little S,  ‘How many jobs can I do before you disappear again!’

But – As usual – he didn’t let me down and managed to frame five and mount eleven!

Suitably parted from me spons by him and the printer, One sped off to Dartington where One acquired another piece of art to add to One’s burgeoning private collection.


But it was too late and was bombarded by calls various from the sherry-quaffing gang of Aged P’s cohorts, all berating Lovely One for not dashing to her bedside.

Apparently, she’d been stair-surfing and broken her leg!

At this juncture One would like to plead ignorance, since all and sundry have been informed on many an occasion…


Tuesday, 9 October 2012

In which One ponders the prioritising skills of the Wivey workman…

As Lovely One succumbed to Morpheus, and extinguished the  lamp, The Boy King, Tutankhamun, was engaged in giving Edith Sitwell, who had mysteriously grown a cock, a blow job.

Nearby a giant Pikachu, with a rampant stag emerging from his right ear, looked on  with distain.

Further along, a panther, with open gob, pursued a winged fish toward the coving just above the window overlooking the grounds.

An thus was the ceiling when One nodded off.

Awakening some hours on, Tutankhamun and  Edith had repaired to some other world accompanied by Pikachu with stag ranmpant.

Immediately above the lavender scented truckle bed containing your very own Lovely One, a perfect dark heart had appeared, closely pursued by an enormous erect member.

‘Mmmm,’ thinks Lovely One, ‘can this be an omen of things to come?’

On closer inspection, when One had One’s spectacles firmly adhered, One could make out what appeared to be falling tears from the broken heart.

‘How can this be?’ One hears you all chorus, with tiny hands placed, palm out, against your collective brow.

Lovely One, a mere layperson, in the…

‘I’ll ‘ave that done for yer in a minute, missus,’

world of the workman, had foolishly assumed the aforementioned  workmen to have fixed the leak before plastering the ceiling.

Consider the plan…

1      fix leak

2      repair and plaster ceiling.

Maybe they had the list upside down?

Monday, 8 October 2012

In which One ponders ‘going off’…

There One was in One’s truckle bed staring at the ceiling, which currently, is a ghastly brown colour. 

According to the overly jovial little man who fronted up, an hour early, to fill in the hole, it’s      ‘going off.’

The ‘hole’, as you may recall, dear reader, was made by the moistening maintenance man, deployed by the Sisters Ug, every time the Malthouse springs a leak or some such disaster needs to be averted. 

In the experience of Lovely One, he fronts up, makes some spurious diagnosis and then shears, never to be seen again.  Still - cheers up the otherwise cauldron stirring day of the Uggsters, who twitter off shaking their aged booty lest the feather-hatted cove should fancy dipping his woolly roller in some long since condemned  pre-war emulsion.

Any road up, all that’s going off in the boudoir is Lovely One, and with the only thing getting down on  me chest being the fumes, One has abandoned the truckle bed for the quiet calm of the sitting room.

‘Tis a sorry state of affairs that One will actually ‘miss’ the circa 1980’s meringue artex ceiling of the boudoir.  One has lain on One’s back pondering it’s vulgar swirls whilst all manner of events have taken place in the turgid life of your very own darling  Lovely One.

And – having caught sight of Oneself lumbering out of the truckle bed, looking like the mutant offspring of Peggy Mount and Diana Dors, One shall probably be spending a goodly amount of time pondering the ceiling in it’s shiny new flatness – not dissimilar to the dull flatness of One’s tedious existence!

Saturday, 6 October 2012

In which the Foamster pays a visit…

Through a strategically placed mirror (hand worked stained glass, locally made, reasonably priced) One clocked the cove, but too late, he’d snuck a look himself and slithered into the back room and cornered One.

Following a concerted programme of making no eye contact, apart from the occasional hard stare, One had assumed the Foaming Fecker had sheared to invade some other poor sap’s space.  But no, picture the scene…

Lovely One, trapped, like a tiny, quivering,  furry bunny rabbit.  The FF snarling and slathering, in the manner of a wily fox…

Well, OK, I could have beaten the living shite out of him if I’d had a mind to.

But, when all s’d and d’d

‘Ah aym a heylplays wowman,’ (read in Blanche Duboir accent)

Any road up, the fearsome ‘care in the community’ cove commenced his usual monologue concerning them ‘who’ve done him wrong.’  This time it was some unidentified bod who’d ‘broken up the band – if it wasn’t for him we’d be up there with the Stones.’

Thus, ‘twould appear the Foamster has had to fall to earth with a thud and land on a Pizza delivery bike.

This gripping yarn somehow wove itself seamlessly into a gruesome tale of ‘waterworks dilemmas’ that quite put One off One’s cheese and pickle.

The ghastly interlude only reached closure when an equally curious article appeared and the Foamster, preferring to be the centre of attention, legged it up the alley.

 Rounded off a perfect day by scraping pigeon shite off the front of The Old Fish Shop Gallery.

Ho Hum – pass the Pinot Grigio

In which Lovely One counts her wassnames…

Bowled up to The Old Fish Shop Gallery and, guess what? Go on – guess!

One can tell that you stchooopid eejits can’t guess – so Lovely One will tell all…


That bloke who knows the road sweeper has done another detour with his road-washering device and cleaned it all up. 

Well to be absolutely honest, he’s sort of swept it off the path and


So, along with me daily duties of manning shop, painting masterpieces, cleaning the bog (Heaven alone knows what the Pinkster eats), chatting to passers by, cleaning the windows and trying not to be too rude to the customers, now


Another bod came in wanting painting lessons, so I suppose that’s the way it will have to go if WWW decides to keep the gaff open. 

At the tail end of the day a bloke sauntered in to see what Lovely One was doing…

‘You are living my dream,’ he said wistfully.

Assuming he didn’t mean he had a penchant for residing in an underground cavern that ought to be condemned, whilst working me smedly-botham off to pay for the privilege, One assumed, rightly, that he meant the painting.



Friday, 5 October 2012

In which One goes all Toiley-Boiley talk…

Well, I’ll go to the foot of our stairs!

It’s official!


or – rather

Lovely One’s arse has supernatural powers.

Let me explain…

Am abs desp for more frames, what with me being sooooo successful and popular, so ordered more, that are, in the suppliers words…

‘Oim gettin’ ‘em darn to yer as soon as, Treacle.’

‘As soon as’ would appear to be today, so am biffing about the underground lair like a thing possessed so as not to alarm the delivery article by appearing at the door in me jim-jams without me face on.

By the by, One had previously assumed that the appalling use of English and grammar in previous comms had been down to the fact that the framing manufacturer was a foreign bod, masquerading as an insider, but no, ‘twould appear from the recent phone call that they’re a clutch of ‘geezers.’

Any road up, I digress, awaiting the shipping order, One fell foul of the Psyllium Husk washed down with prune juice (yes it’s pretty unattractive growing old) and just as One’s arse hit toiley-boiley, bzzzzzz goes the buzzer.

So, if you are awaiting a delivery, just let Lovely One know and One will biff round with One’s arse for the use of.

It also works with my front door key:  as soon as it enters the lock an alarm goes off at Aged P’s and her phone immediately rings the number of the underground lair, so she can impart interesting facts about the toiley-boiley habits of Eileen and the fact that the Polish people next door speak Polish – Whatever next??!!


Thursday, 4 October 2012

In which it’s all bore, snore, bore…

Bore, snore, bore! 

That fecking Old Fish Shop Gallery is a non-starter.  Nobody in Welly is interested in Art, apart from, that is, learning how to draw and paint.

A few hardy souls braved the autumnal day and mosied down the alley for a browse, but nobody bought anything. 

The incessant chorus of…

‘Hiya,  awright, take care, ‘ave yer seen Darren,’ came from the shrieking banshees next door, just to enhance the general thrill of the day.

Have sold another few to the nice young man who bought five a couple of weeks ago, so he is now my most avid collector.  Him and the good burghers down in Devon are still snapping ‘em up.  Just as well, since Boy is requiring further items domestic.

Phoned Aged P to pass on news of Boy…

LO    ‘Hello, just thought I’d ring to let you know about Boy.’

AP     ‘I’m sick of them next door talking Polish all the time!’

LO     ‘Well, they are Polish, and anyway I thought you liked them.’

AP     ‘Well, he’s alright, but all she ever says is hello.  She chats away alright to all them Polish ones what go round there all the time.  They send money home, you know, huh!  And I can’t find grandad at the cemetery because they’ve given it all to them, you know.’

LO     ‘Boy is settling in now at Leeds.’

AP     ‘I know someone who went there.  I’ll never get to Matlock again.  I don’t want to sleep over the road at a B&B and she’s always got that son there sleeping on the sofa.’

LO     ‘Did the council come and do the decorating?’

AP     ‘Three days it took for the smell to go.  They get cheap paint so it makes your eyes water and I can’t get my eye done for another week now.’

LO     ‘Oh, I see, let me know how you get on.’

AP     ‘That bloody June’s been round here telling me how everyone thinks she’s a lot younger than she is.  It’s ridiculous, I told her – the painters thought I was sixty. I’m going up that Eileen’s for tea now.  I suppose she’ll spend half the afternoon going for a pee.’



Wednesday, 3 October 2012

In which One explores the wonders of Bampton…

At last confirmation of alternative accommodation for Lovely One has arrived.  Well, when One says ‘confirmation’ – the insurers haven’t actually fronted up with the cash, so I suppose One is really no further forward.

BUT – supposing it comes to pass, Lovely One will be holing up in a des res in Brixham for the entire month of November.  Shan’t be idling about in the hostelries though, as have aforementioned show in mid Nov to knock up a few masterpieces for.

‘What will become of The Old Fish Shop Gallery’ I hear you chorus. 

What indeed?  WWW is conspicuous by her absence and doesn’t respond to emails, so who knows?  The Pinkster will be manning the gaff for a couple of days per week, but as for the rest…

Biffed off yesterday to investigate Bampton, which it would appear, has more than a sufficiency of cafes and eating establishments various.

The Bamptonite, it would appear, is resistant to change, as One encountered a missive pinned to a lamp post instructing a building firm to cease and desist, where new builds in the locale were concerned. 

But – change is a-coming – as it always does, and this time in the form of WWW/Tea/Cake/Art.  Had a peek through the window, not open, though, so cleared off for an explore.

Encountered a curious establishment full of the remains of other people’s lives.  Piled on the street outside were pieces of furniture various and through the window, all manner of curiosities, including a particularly macabre stuffed Budgerigar.

Upon further exploration, the first room yielded to another and yet another, all stuffed full of desirable detritus, until we stepped over a marble path and found ourselves in an overgrown yard surrounded by tumble-down barns in varying states of decay.

A large bell hung in the inner hall with the instruction:  ‘ring if you want to buy something.’

Mindful of disturbing the manner of cove who might reside amongst the heaps of discarded candlesticks and damp-flecked stern faced photographs, we beat a hasty retreat, lest a Dickensian bod should leap out unannounced.

Discovered a few v interesting shops, including a lovely little gallery, ‘4’, and a posh persons interior  design emporium,  and then cleared off back to the reliable weirdness of Wivey.

Tuesday, 2 October 2012

In which ‘Clunky Lenkie’ proffers his lardy bints…

There One is, minding One’s own bees-tiddly-wax, when bowling into One’s inbox hurtles the publicity poster  for the next big ‘do’ at the Treasury.  Where – of course you will recall, dear reader – Lovely One wiped the parquet with the rest of the saddoes.

‘Appy Dayz’ likes to promote luurve and camaraderie twixt us painters – when really we’d like to duff each other up every time someone else sells one!  After all, in the words of my hero…

‘It’s not enough that I should succeed.  Everyone else must fail.’ 





So you may well ask your dear little selves, ‘Why has our darling Lovely One been overlooked when her sales were so good?’



In the dim and distant past when Lovely One convinced N to hold a  further sale (YES YOU READ ME RIGHT – IT WAS MY IDEA) One was informed that ‘Clunky’ was to design the poster.

‘Clunky’ is a Lenkie follower – one of the articles who used to bore Lovely One to tit-gnawing-offness about the works of the ‘master.’

So, obv, there is a waxy-Clunky in pride of place, with a couple of boat pics by two nice chaps (One hates it when One is forced to accept that a fellow human is ‘nice’) and the Doc Pee’er belonging to moi!

So the whole ‘do’ looks suitable for people who want either a picture of boats (including one not for sale) or a likeness of a wax effigy of Michael Crawford strangling some screeching bint a la ‘Phantom of the wassername.’

One just hopes that One is not parked next to the Chaos article again and shoved up a dark corner.



Monday, 1 October 2012

In which One has an unexpected en route facial…

Having jettisoned my travelling companion in the depths of the North West, a long and solitary journey stretched out ahead of Lovely One upon One’s return, via Aged P’s, to Wiveliscombe and the underground lair.

That was until One spotted a curious cove bearing a ‘Somerset’ sign fashioned from a cardboard box, loitering along the roadside by a particularly desolate stretch of ‘Heathcliffe’ type moor. 

‘Shame you weren’t here in the next couple of weeks,’ opined a local when One was inhaling fish and chips for the umpteenth time last week, ‘you’d have seen all the heather out.’

Well, One didn’t see Heather out, One saw an endless landscape of brown being munched upon by hardy great woolly baa-lambs, soon to be destined for a hot-pot, where they so rightly belong.

Any road up, I digress, as is my wossname – back to the curious cove of the moors…

Having been an avid hitchhiker in One’s misspent youth, One pulled the Porsche over and beckoned the cove aboard.

One used to hitchhike everywhere with the ‘Animal’, One’s glamorous, yet bestial BF of yore.  This was kept up for years until One realised that Animal was pinching items from the poor unsuspecting articles that pulled up. Having seen her endless legs being displayed to their full advantage to gain the ride, then having their hopes dashed when the Lovely One Ordinaire appeared from nowhere to spoil his chances and leapt in.

Digressing again!  Soz, dear reader!  Any way, the great long streak of hitchhiker folded himself into the passenger seat, having stashed his meagre belongings in the lug comp.

‘Thanks for that, the name’s Cheddar George,’ said the cove - the name v soon appearing apt as the confined space filled up with an unwashed aroma.

However, he proved an interesting article and by and by we stopped for a scoff and a chat.

Some hundred miles along, Lovely One had the need for a sugar intake and quite innocently enquired…

‘Have you anything sweet that I could suck?’

‘I dipped me knob in the sugar bowl in KFC,’ came the sniggering reply.

Not knowing if the article was being humorous or, indeed had a fetish for older ladies (who still retain the allure of their youth) One pulled swiftly over and jettisoned the bod, closely followed by his greasy back pack.

The shock of the incident had issued forth a fullsome filling for the Tena Lady Light and so with the application of the heated seat rendered the vehicle interior a veritable steam bath.

Still, One took full advantage of the sit and steamed me face, carefully removing a stubborn Schwatzkopf!