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Friday, 30 November 2012

In which One appears to have strayed into a parallel universe where everything is arse about face…

In a further twist of feckin’ fate, the head man of the ‘drain digger-uppers’ has resigned due to the stress of the Underground Lair.



Any road up – to explain…

Apparently, on finally getting to speak to him this morning, he is leaving the company at the end of December because he can’t cope any more.

‘Twould appear that the ‘workers’ are instructed to do their drainy bit and then scarper without ever speaking to the policy holder.  And so, ‘twas thus that no one ever bothered to inform Lovely One that her gaff wasn’t ready for occupation this very day, or indeed any day in the near future.

Due to ‘a very nice young man’ at the insurance company, who has taken pity on the, by now, tranquilizer and alcohol dependant Lovely One, the assessors are coming next Thursday to ascertain what needs to be done next. 

They are unable to enter the building without being accompanied and as yet, no one has located the whereabouts of me fecking keys!

So, it would appear that One will be Christmassing in Salcombe and v prob New Yearing an’ all!

Yes, yes it is a simply divine gaff…





Popped out while the housekeeping service came in to clean and change all the beds.

NO SHEETS ON ANY BEDS (or any left for the use of)

I fecking give up!!


Thursday, 29 November 2012

In which One displays the Salcombe masterpiece in it’s spiritual home…



Following the shocking visit to the shite encrusted Underground lair, One has had to make alternative arrangements for the foreseeable. 

Trawling through the rentals in and around Wivey, it soon became clear that ‘twould be impossible to find a gaff nearer home and The Old Fish Shop Gallery.

It would appear that the whole world and his wife are availing themselves of holiday lets for Christmas this year, so here we are in Salcombe for yet another month.

How nice it would have been if someone from the insurance company had informed the wandering Lovely One that that the workmen had fecked off and that the next motley crew weren’t fronting up for at least another two weeks.



If anyone can answer these simple enquiries please let me know.

So, here One is.  Admittedly ‘tis a splendid gaff and indeed a near perfect setting…


And, just to put the tin hat on the whole ghastly extravaganza…

After all the digging, Shirleytosis shite removal, trashing of my flat etc…




I told you I was a disaster just looking for somewhere to happen, but you wouldn’t listen would you?

Wednesday, 28 November 2012

In which Lovely One is kicking arse…

Well Well Well.  Not the story of three holes in the ground

No.  Sadly the expletive, well, not quite actually, that One expelled upon entry into the Underground Lair.

Let me take you back to the beginning of last week, Dear Reader…

‘Hello?  Can you confirm that the flat will be ready for me to move back into on Friday 30th?’

I had no reply, so biffed off to Wivey to take some stuff back.  All my painting stuff and most of my clothes, if yer interested.

Imagine my surprise when I entered the building…

Cracked concrete floor, shite splashed as high as me favourite chandelier, no cleaning done and no effing decorating.


Several fraught phonecalls to a plethora of eejits who all chorused ‘It’s nothing to do with us’  bla bla, fecking bla





No flat ready.

No rental property to live in



Sunday, 25 November 2012

In which Aged P is returned to normal service…

AP      ‘Hello?  Claire?’

LO      ‘Yes.’

AP       ‘Well it doesn’t sound like you,’ went on the Aged P.

LO        ‘Well – ‘tis I.  Everything alright?’

AP         ‘I’ve only had three Wheetabix in the last four days!’ she went on, ‘I need a bath seat and I can’t climb over the edge'’.

One is fairly sure that Aged P went ‘over the edge’ some goodly time ago…

LO         ‘Never mind about a bath seat.  Have you done anything about moving to a more suitable home?’ One ploughed on.

AP         ‘Oh shut up! I’m not listening – La la la la (presumably with fingers in ears by this point)

Brief pause, whilst Lovely One removes telephoning device from shell like…

LO         ‘Well you can la-la as much as you like but you will have to do something about it for your own sake, or better still, let me sort it out,’ One soldiered heroically on.

AP           ‘Well I’ve had the doctor in.  I’ve had that winter vomiting virus from the hospital.  Mary (The Father’s loony adopted sibling) phoned up and I said: Mary, I can’t talk to you now, I’m being sick, I expect she wondered why I hadn’t sent her a birthday card. Anyway, you get all sorts up that hospital with all THEM all over the place! The doctor wouldn’t hang around in case she got it and now Jackie up the road’s got it so no one’s bringing me any biscuits and the landing carpet needs hoovering.’

LO         ‘Are you better now?  You sound in fine fettle’.

AP          ‘Yes, I feel fine and I’ve got £100 for you.’

LO          ‘Oh that’s nice.  Where did you get that from?’

AP           ‘I sold that gold watch that Aunt Sis left you.’

Lovely One’s rosebud mouth falls open at this point.  One ponders the mindset of a person who can not only fail to GIVE the bequeathed item to intended beneficiary, but, indeed SELL the item and then require approval!!!

‘Twould be pointless and downright foolish to challenge the action, so Lovely One changes the subject back to reality…

LO      ‘Did you hear on the news that council tenants with spare rooms will have to pay for them or take in a homeless person?’

AP       ‘Oh, that won’t apply to MEEEEE, surely?’

For some obscure reason AP has always seen herself as a special case.  Normal rules do not apply, exceptional treatment is required, flattery and bumping up to first class are seen as a right.  One thinks it is as a direct result of being an only and cherished late child, never having done any work and being at liberty to use her own time in whatever way she chose, instead of being at the beck and call of another ( in order to make a living)

Any road up, it is essential that she makes a move before someone makes the decision for her so….

LO      ‘Of course it will apply to you!  Why wouldn’t it?’

AP       ‘Well that Eileen has got a three bedroomed house to herself as well!’

LO       ‘In that case, Eileen will have to move as well, then!’

AP      ‘Well I’M NOT DOING IT!  They’ll only give it to one of THEM.’

Racist? Bigot? Or just plain stupid?


Saturday, 24 November 2012

In which One hates dogs, and cats (except Tigerboy) and humans…

Lovely One is not an animal lover!

Alright! Alright!  I know I luuurved Tigerboy, but he was an exceptional cat in every way, and his memory shall live on in my profile pic and the forever numb and useless right hand of Vile ex Husband.

Any road up, there are two perfect situations for animals…

1     In a zoo

2     In a pie

Dogs in particular are a pet hate. Geddit? ‘pet.’

They are furry shite machines, that, when not crapping everywhere are scratching themselves, licking their own smedley-bothams, or poking their nasty damp noses all over the shop.

One is sure, Dear Reader, that you are familiar with the saying…

‘Sticks like shite to a blanket.’


‘Sticks like shite to sisal matting,’ is even more ghastly.

One is interrupted by the sound of a key in the door…

Would you Christmas Eve it?  That’s the second effing time that a representative of Coast and Country Cottages has seen fit to LET THEMSELVES INTO THE GAFF in the past couple of weeks.

What’s the matter with the idiots?  Am I not paying enough for the privilege of hiring the place?

‘Just doing a winter check,’ came the excuse this time.


If this carries on, One will have to sashay about the place with more on than the radio and a dab of No 5.


Wednesday, 21 November 2012

In which One makes an important scientific discovery…

Did you know, dear reader, that people have a special area inside their tummletons that only accepts puddings?

No?  Well, it’s a recent discovery, made by Moi, who is, of course, expecting the Nobel Prize for Tummy-ology, following this remarkable find.  The Scientific American have got hold of it, and it’s being called ‘Rice-Pudding-Tummy.’ (That’s me that is – Mrs Rice)

It was discovered following a HUGE roast dinner that entirely filled up Lovely One to the point of ‘having somebody’s eye out’ with me trouser button, whereupon One espied a pie.  A socking great apple pie with cream AND ice-cream. 

Clearly it would have been rude in the extreme to dismiss the offer of pudding and so it was that One made the scientific discovery of the Pudding Tummy, because even though full to bursting, One inhaled a goodly amount of pie!

Just come back from Plymouth having dropped off a load of masterpieces and picked up some spons.  Then, on the way back, offloaded a further load of stuff in Modbury.  Fingers crossed there then!

Painting in the KAYA gallery on the Barbican this Saturday, so do come along to worship at my alter.

Tomorrow, off to deliver another batch to Dartington.

THEN, expecting Boy for a few days before biffing off back to the underground lair.

Still, couldn’t last forever, could it?

Tuesday, 20 November 2012

In which One is a raving Banshee…

Following a most harrowing drive through the winding lanes of Devon, One daintily sighed with relief at the sight of the open iron gates on the edge of my current des res.

Until….. That is, One had to slam One’s size four onto the Bugatti’s brakes in order to avoid bashing into the rear end of what can only be described as a  ‘travelling ve-hicle.’

Unwilling to disturb who or whatever was raucously marauding about in the lower level sitting room, One dragged One’s Luis Vuitton up the stone steps and snuck in the front door.

Down below the delirium ceased upon the closure of the front door and a frantic low level whispering accompanied the sound of four overgrown men attempting to tidy.

One sashayed into the melee with aplomb, One’s hands upon One’s hips, face bearing a quizzical look in the direction of the crestfallen Uncle Bert.

‘Twould appear that contact had been made over the airwaves and the assembled ugly crowd had chosen to ‘eyeball their good buddy’ dans Lovely One’s palatial residence.

Unfortunately for them, One had biffed up prior to expectation to find the following…

Chinese food cartons aplenty discarded upon the stone floor in the manner of a Roman mosaic.

Nasty, dirty calling cards in ALL toiley boileys. (to include: grime of various hues upon: seat/lid, and most distressingly, given Lovely One sashays about barefoot, little pools of number ones all over the linoleum.)

Short of lining them all up and demanding the removal of their rancid foot attire and then tinkling on their toes, One couldn’t even begin to contemplate the manner of One’s revenge.


There was a pile of Montgomery shite next to the sink!


Another coiled brownster in front of the aesthetically pleasing pebble feature gas flame fire.

Suffice it to say that should any Devonshire/Somerset or anywhere else for that matter, ever encounter problems moving along ‘travellers’ they should immediately deploy the ferocious Lovely One in raving Banshee mode.

The ‘site’ was vacated forthwith and the recalcitrant Uncle Bert is now to be found down on his knees, marigolds deployed, furiously shampooing the entire gaff.


Monday, 19 November 2012

In which One threatens that Pudsey B*****d…


And so the exhibition is over.  Finito. Gorn. Expired. Flat on it’s fiz in a puddle…

Large amounts of spons were dealt out to Dear Little S, the printer etc in order to take part in the extravaganza.  Not to mention the fecking petrol costs and the gargantuan amount of Lovely One’s energy to get the flamin’ lot done and dusted and then up three flights of stairs!

Any road up, One fronted up, done up like a ninepenny dinner, awaiting the arrival of a panting throng.

‘Twas not to be.  The artists outnumbered the guests on the opening night. Canapes galore pour Moi! 


One thought…  It’s that festering yellow bear night tonight!  All and sundry will be getting their heads shaved and standing in buckets of baked beans for the starving babies in Africa.

Beggar the starving babies in flamin’ Africa-ca-ca


Well, I’ll go to the foot of our stairs.  (No other feckers did!) and so it was thus, that we all stood about like expectant bridesmaids awaiting a good rogering, that never came!

So, there One was, proffering One’s wares to mister nobody.

But come the Saturday….

In came the great unwashed to pay homage to the genius that is your very own darling Lovely One.

In fact, one pair of star-struck little dears brought along a paparazzi photographer to have their likenesses professionally executed with the great artist.  (that’s me, that is)

They did in fact buy some prints and then some more on a visit to the gallery.

Earlier in the day, having executed such an exhibition piece of parking, which I might add,  no bloody one took a blind bit of notice of, I found it necessary to biff outside to feed the meter on an almost hourly basis.

On one such foray a large American gentleman was waxing lyrical about One and One’s doings and when One fronted up again, the blighter had sheared!

One met One’s costs, made a tidy sum and got a commission from a retired Barrister who’d chased me up the road to the parking meter.  So all in all a pretty amusing way to spend a weekend.

But, I tell you…..


Sunday, 18 November 2012

In which Mar is responsible for the sad demise of Kev...

Ebay ad…….  Two hearing aids – used – no reserve
Plymouth Gazette headline…………Emaciated body found in gutter, wearing Furniture Village uniform.

A sorry, sorry tale for a Winter’s eve…
Once upon a time there was a tiny little old woman known as ‘Mar.’ 
Mar lived in circa 1980’s splendour.  She tottered about the abode clad in a moulting 1930’s ferret fur cape and was often to be found sitting in the window seat wearing her sequined fingerless gloves counting her money.
Despite her magnificent wealth, her seventeen bottle a day Pinot Grigio habit was seriously making a dent in the money bag that she kept up her knicker leg. 
And so it was thus that she embarked upon a new career as a ‘Mystery Shopper.’
The day arrived and the covert camera was delivered.  Dear Little S was seconded to accompany the old girl on the stakeout and so off they sallied forth in Mar’s stock car.
Upon entering Furniture Village Mar checked in via the video camera device cunningly concealed in a Morrison's carrier.
'This is Mar calling control.  I am entering the building.' 
Mar sauntered up to the unfortunate acne covered youth who was to be her target.  
Mar flung herself and Dear Little S hither and thither upon sofa after sofa whilst at all times pointing the Morrisons carrier in the direction of the merchandiser in the manner of a dalek pointing its plunger thingy.
Apparently the object of said Mystery Shopper is to get the unfortunate shop assistant to the point of sale and then biff off having captured his/her sales techniques for the powers that be to ponder upon.
Some goodly time later Mar alighted upon a tres expensive glass topped dining table with chairs.
Stroking it lovingly with the free hand whilst brandishing the Mozzers concealed Dalek camera, she enquired of the unfortunate cove...
'Ooooh there's a scratch on there and I really want to buy it.  Any chance of a discount?'
'Well, I shouldn't really say this,' came the reply 'but you should buy it and then claim on the insurance saying that you did it, and then you will have the dining suite and the insurance pay out.'
Mar, realising that she had v prob hung the blighter out to dry, began flailing about with her Dalek video device in an attempt to either break it or alarm the cove into silence.
But, as the afore mentioned headlines now reveal...
Mar was ultimately responsible for the sacking of the individual and his subsequent loss of home resulting in his living on the streets whereupon some dastardly fiend stole his hearing aids.
Of course, when passers by approached him to offer succour or a few coppers for his upturned hat, he could only utter...
And so it was thus that he ended his days face down on the pavement in the bitter cold of winter whilst Mar sat at home swigging out of a Pinot Grigio bottle contemplating her next move...
Should she put her feet up and pick her nose, or turn her nose up and pick her feet?

Friday, 16 November 2012

In which Mar tries to show off with her naked ferret...

Oh my giddy aunt!  Have just surfaced from the kingdom of spare oom in Mars house.  I tell you, dear reader, that tiny little innocent looking personage is deffo attempting to kill Lovely One!

One arrived yesterday evening to be confronted with the little Mar cooking up  a Christmas dinner and wearing a pair of flashing antlers.  Poor dear Lovely One had to get ackled up in a scarlet stetson complete with dusting of fake snow and flashing lights.

Upon alighting from the Bentley, Mar shrieked in alarm that One might 'fall down the kerb like me mother.'

One did inform Mar that One, although past One's best, has in fact been negotiating kerbs successfully for some goodly amount of time.

Not content with that, Mar then cast aspersions about One's ability to ascend one flight of stairs carrying me own hand-feckin-bag!

Any road up, things soon settled down when Full Frontal Sister and Dear Little S biffed up to start the Christmas celebrations.

Jonathan the reindeer was switched on to serenade us with Carols, delivered in a sickly American accent.  Sadly the passage of time had not sat kindly with Jonathan and his antlers have ceased to rotate, his eyes spin wildly and his mouth, that used to open along with the words, had collapsed into menacing sneer that moved only occasionally, but sufficient to send small children screaming from the room.

Further along the windowsill an alarming light-up poinsettia flashed on and off throughout the evening until One grew cross eyed with the inhalation of fourteen pints of Pinot Grigio.

One finally managed to get jim jammed up at about 2.00am and rather than fall asleep, passed out with one shapely leg tucked up in a manner that has left One rather limp today.

Having been crammed full of Chrimbo Dinner, plus Chrismas Pudding and a bowl full of charred brown goo that looked like shite but tasted heavenly, Mar attempted to force feed One a full English upon arrival in the kitchen.

One travelling truncks were opened to display the delicious array of tulle and chiffon that One had to choose from to delight One's punters at the do this evening.

One sashayed into Mar's room to take advantage of the full length mirror, and held up one tea dress after another until a combination was decided upon. 

Poor little dishevelled Mar standing there in her Primarni dressing gown was not to be outdone by Lovely One and with a great flourish produced from the wardrobe what must once have been a fur cape.

Sadly, as the curious cape made it's escape from dans le cupboard, so did all it's fur, which flew madly round Mar like a brown snowstorm before fluttering helplessly to the carpet.

'Oooooooooooh,  Ooooooooooooooooh,' shrieked Mar, 'Woss 'appnin?'

Lovely One, never the most symathetic of darlings, had an 'ooops moment' in me shreddies I laughed so much.

'What can I do?'  she went on.

'Well I think it's passed saving, call the taxidermist or deploy the dyson.'

There she stood with her little gob drooping at the corners, face on inside out, ankle deep in fur  holding what for all the world looked like the naked arse end of a ferret.

Tuesday, 13 November 2012

In which One ponders the perfection of Salcombe…

Oh dear! Have the beginnings of a severe stoop, having been bent over the easel for the passing of many moons.

But, tis not moons of which One blogs this deep and sleepless night.  No – tis stars.

For the duration of this casting out of Wivey, One is sleeping in the attic of the Salcombe cottage, which, incidentally was the painting studio of an, in his lifetime, famous artist, Walter Shaw RI. (Even the clued up Lovely One shall have to google him!)

Any road up, I digress, – the stars…

As One has to rise early on the morrow to visit Boy and Vile ex husband.  I know, I know, I said they were coming down here, but as it turns out, One needs a plethora of stuff various from the gallery, so shall have to biff up there.  As One said, One has to rise at the crack so left open the curtains in order to be awoken by the light and lo and behold ‘twas like One was kipping in the clouds.

The stars were out in full glory to the extent that One could have reached up and gathered armfuls for to decorate the Christmas tree.  Speaking of which, when in Modders, acquired some Gisela Graham chrimbo dekkos for a ridiculous price.  Had a gander on the website, and indeed the foolish virgins had labelled ‘em up wrongly, so am calling in to buy the entire gaff-full in order to make me fortune re-selling them on ebay. (Twirls moustache – evil glint in eye)

But One digresses again, dear reader. Back to the stars which One is sure are more twinkly and brighter than One has ever seen them afore.  In fact, this being a bit of a Hampstead Upon Sea, One expects that a special little man is deployed of a night to lasoo them down, give ‘em a spit and polish and hurl the blighters back into space whilst the great and good are pushing out the zeds.

In fact, even in the swirling mists of a chilly November day the view of the bay from the cliff road is the colour of the Mediterranean sea, and down by the water’s edge the sparkling depths in the moorings are crystal clear to the seabed.

Round the back in the boatyard there is a giant plug and each night the ‘little man’ pulls it out, puts the dyson round the seabed and while it’s filling up again he nets the stars down for a polish.

In which One must be assuaged…

All going according to plan re: paintings etc.  So am expecting a sizeable catastrophe imminently.

Biffed off to the printers/framers/galleries (interspersed with a spot of retail therapy). 

There is a divine ‘previously loved’ ladies outfitters in Modbury and One always likes to pay them a visit whenever poss. and it just so happens that in order to gain access to the great Metrolopis, One has to sally forth through the Georgian relic of a village.  So it would be rude in the extreme not to pop in.

Unfortunately, since the world has turned upon it’s head and the poor are now the fatties with the rich being lean, as opposed to previous standards, the only item that would meet about the generous proportions of Lovely One was a scarf!  ‘Twas a diaphanous whisper of pink with tiny cloud like adornments and threads of gossamer attached which prob cost as much as a small car when first it alighted upon the open market.  But, nonetheless it cast a becoming rosy glow upon the perfect complexion of your very own heroic Lovely One, and so with it firmly grasped to One’s bosom, One biffed back to Salcombe.

A slight cloud was cast upon the day when One came to the stark realisation that not all the good burghers of Plymouth are well disposed in the gen direc of LO. 

One hears your collective gasp of astonishment from ‘ere!  A rather unpleasant situation arose dans one of One’s ports of call during which a monstrous scene erupted which was entirely brought about by an innocent remark made by Lovely One. It was seized upon and flung hither and thither by the cove to which it was directed in the manner of a sabre tithed tooger biffing a tasty caveman from left to right.

Obv, Lovely One remained serene throughout and maintained a softly spoken calm that further irritated the article.

One examined Oneself in the extreme in the hours that followed and decided that perhaps One can be a trifle brash at times and so shrugged One’s shapely shoulders and put the incident behind One.

But then…

During One’s riffling through the castoffs of the ‘haves’ in Modders, me phonestruck up, and guess what, the offended article was all for calling a truce.

Obv, One was serenity itself and goodbyes were exchanged politely.

Of course, being the goose that lays the golden wossnames, One should have seen it coming…

Sunday, 11 November 2012

In which One is still married to Paul Weller…

In an unforeseen mishap, somehow this particular household has gone for a 2 day silence, rather than the standard two minutes.

Ho hum, must have committed some ghastly faux pas or other.  So, not an entire waste of two days then!

In the case of your very own Lovely One, not a waste of time at all.  In fact, have beavered me way through five new masterpieces for the coming show.  Well, that’s not strictly true, since a couple of them were half done when first One alighted in Salcombe.

Uncle Bert has been off a wandering today trying to find a down market food emporium in order to stock up on frozen mixed veg and potato based products.  Mmmmm

Lovely One dined on a chicken Caesar salad whilst delighting in a Chet Baker CD, and necking a European wine lake of Shiraz.

Was, in fact, rather relieved that UB had trundled manfully up the avenue and fired up the doormobile, having been worried that someone may slap a ‘Police Aware’ notice on the incongruous ve-hicle.  Actually, was alarmed that one might get posted onto UB himself if stagnant in one particular spot for a goodly amount of time, being a being not normally at large in these parts.

Vile Ex Husband is due to arrive with Boy on Wednesday for a family meeting re: Boy and the usage of time etc.

Shall cork up the Shiraz now and go up the wooden stairs to Bedfordshire as don’t wish to be visited by the vino induced dreams of last night during which One married Tyrone from Coronation Street.   Half way through the ceremony One suddenly realised One was still married to Paul Weller. 

Paul Weller? Tyrone Dobbs?  Mmmmm dilemma.

Would that all Lovely One’s choices were so obvious.

Friday, 9 November 2012

In which One is under siege from all quarters–yet again!…

One’s first nocturnal wandering dans le splendid new holiday home and what a treat! Apart, that is, from the unwelcome arrival of Uncle Bert and Montgomery, who is at this moment scratching his rear portion to the extent that the stylish, contemporary sitting room is filling up with hairs and heaven knows what else. (Monty that is, not Uncle Bert) who is pushing out the zeds in a king sized, Egyptian cotton sheeted bed that is better than him.
There One was minding One’s own bees-tiddly-wax, floating about like Dora Carrington at Ham Spray (obv - with me Lytton Strachey holed up at Wivey with Boy) and up the tree lined avenue chugs the Bertster dans le doormobile.
Now then, One can’t be bothered to explain to you lumpenproletariat – google Dora Carrington or the Bloomsbury set.
Any road up, suffice it to say, that One’s artistic idyll has been well and truly shattered, or shat upon, if One dares venture into the walled, landscaped garden that now is the toiley boiley for Montgomery.
Fannying around with a paintbrush stuck behind me ear and a glass of Shiraz in me mit isn’t the same with UB chuntering in me shell-like about the lack of a whelk stall in Salcombe.
I should think Piers and Jocasta up the road would faint dead away at the very sight of a sodding whelk!
‘Quest que c’est Jocasta?’ Piers might enquire, pointing a perfectly manicured digit at Uncle Bert’s whelk.    Oooooh, that sounds vaguely disturbing!
So, there One was in splendid isolation biffing about like the lady of the manor when, once again, am forced kicking and screaming and thumping down to terra firma by the whelk request.
Spent all day yesterday painting Polperro, yet again, with the tide out (me water’s shite) and now I’ve gorn right off it.  However, shall have to biff on since have just received word from Boy, who having returned, back of hand against fevered brow from Uni, required One to refund the trainfare.
‘I do hope you will forgive my little indulgence of an upgrade to first class….’ One read as One’s gob dropped open in shock.
And – even when One does have some, One is still painting it up like a storm in anticipation of the next appeal to me generous nature!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Thursday, 8 November 2012

In which One shall de-fungi forthwith…

Lovely One has gone all ‘Smeg and Smallbone.’  However shall One return to the underground lair again?

All too easily One has slithered effortlessly into the world of the ‘haves,’ and will be dragged kicking and screaming back into the world of the ‘have nots.’

Boy has made contact, and seems to be much happier with life whilst in Wivey and Bridgwater with his chums than in the academic world of Leeds University.  What a calamity!  He has the brain power and the aptitude to conquer the world, but neither the will nor the desire.

Oh well.  He won’t be realising mine or his Father’s dreams.  But maybe that’s as it should be.  After all they are our dreams and not his.

How vile ex husband would have relished the life of the academic, and as for Moi – well- blue stocking in waiting.

‘Twas not to be.  So, as long as Boy is happy, that will suffice.

As for vile ex husband, the Snaggle Toothed Troll has come up with yet another ruse to lure the twonk into her web.  This time ‘tis as mentor and personal chauffer to her errant,lazy daughter.

Lovely One has warned of the dangers therein, but to no avail.  Their coupling remains the stuff of nightmares!

Any road up, One is taking far better care of Oneself and is toying with the idea of scraping the button mushrooms off the inside of me thighs ( the underground lair was rather damp and encouraged the growth of fungi,) filling in the gaps in me teeth with tile grout and throwing me ‘at into the ring again.  I’ve still got lovely shiny hair – and some of it’s on me ‘ead!

Wednesday, 7 November 2012

In which One is in a purple mood…

And so the purple dusk of twilight falls, and steals across the meadow like a song…

And all is serene and right with the world in Hampstead upon sea (Salcombe)

Reminds Lovely One of when One was a proper person with shed loads of cash, staff and a Harvey Nicks charge card.  Ah, ‘tis all in the far off mists of time.

Did One say all is right with the world?  Utter Bollocks!

The crack fly removal team fronted up PDQ and Henry’d up all the little bluebottles which were still making their way out of the double glazing cases, closely followed by a laundry minion who bunged fresh sheets throughout the gaff.

The fact that Lovely One now has the distinct aroma of fly spray about her divine person appears to have gone awry and the closest One got to compensation was a bottle of vino collapso and a bag of fudge.

Any road up, the hoovering bods told One that this had never happened before in this des res but the laundry bod begged to differ and said it has!  Don’t these people know that everyone makes comments on ‘tinternet so’s we all know the score?

Then the call came from Boy who is on his way home from Uni, having found it all a bit much.

He wanted money for the train ticket, and I am expecting an imminent call from vile ex husband for some funds to get petrol for the car (I gave him) to pick up Boy from the station.

Methinks a pattern is emerging here…

Better paint up a storm this week and hope somebody buys it all!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Monday, 5 November 2012

In which One is inundated with fecking flies…

Oh my giddy aunt!  What on earth is gooin on?

Lovely One has FLEA BITES  about her divine person!

The ghastly, dirty, filthy ‘Harbour View’, 4 Wall Park Drive, Brixham (Owners Direct) was utterly awful!

Let me take you on a brief tour-ette…

the path to the front door – overgrown and decidedly grotty

The vestibule – filthy windows, stinky aura

The hall – ostensibly a positive – with a parquet flooring, but sadly it was stained and dull with the most revolting accumulation of dirt in the corners

the bog – a goodly amount of hairs various on the floor.  The bog itself leaked – mmmm yum!

the bathroom – more of same with towel rail that disengaged from the wall upon pulling the towel off.  V filthy shower

The sitting room – a des res for FLEAS

The kitchen – a breeding ground for as yet unnamed bacteria

Upstairs – dust, dust, hairs various

Lovely One, being a reasonable sort of article gave the owner an opportunity to clean the place, but ‘twas not to be, they preferred to refund the money

And so – off we biffed to an absolutely fab place in Salcombe


One unpacked one’s clothing and then thought ‘mmmm must open the windows’,.

Upon so doing have released a positive plague of flies that have been camping out in the double glazing since the last visitor in the summer!

So, One will be requiring the close attention of the holiday company ‘Coast and Country’ upon the crack of the morrow.  One is NOT  going to remove the flies Oneself as One has just forked out two thousand pounds to stay in the gaff, fer fecks sake!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

So, there we have it -

Plague numero uno – shite

dosso – fleas

treo – fecking flies


don’t these people realise I’m nearly famous?

Sunday, 4 November 2012

In which I am incandescent with fury…


Arrived at holiday bungalow, ‘Harbour View’, Wall Park Road (owners direct)  and it is FILTHY.

Smelly carpets, dusty surfaces, filthy hair covered floors etc.

Comprehensive list of complaints:

Run down exterior with unkempt, overgrown garden.

filthy, smelly carpets all over property, apart from the wooden floor or tiled areas which are grimy in the extreme and littered with hairs various.

dirty wall paper, smeared and filthy windows throughout.

Fridge seal broken and mouldy.  All cupboards and drawers dirty,  with bits of food and hair inside.

crockery, baking trays, cutlery, grill and saucepans all with food stains.

The laughingly  named ‘sun loggia’ which is actually a lean to, is so dirty it makes One itch just to go near it, is covered in pet hair and filth.

The place is littered with dried flowers circa 1950 with dust of the same vintage.

A v large rubber plant with exposed roots was actually growing under the carpet!   It is so thick with dust that I imagine the place has NEVER been properly cleaned.

the shower fittings are black and slimy, the towel rail is hanging off the wall.

The bog leaks


I have of course contacted the owner who is coming in to thoroughly clean the place tomorrow whilst I go for a spot of retail therapy.


Thursday, 1 November 2012

In which One becomes a Gladiatorial Gut-Barger…

One gets knocked down

One gets up again

In a truly bizarre twist (One didn’t see that coming) Lovely One was on her dear little way, pootling along the leafy byways in the Bentley, to see WWW to learn the fate of The Old Fish Shop Gallery, when One received a call from Vile ex Husband.

Now, One has regaled you, dear readers, with tales of woe featuring the V ex H for many a passing moon, so One won’t bore you with the grisly details, let’s just record here and now that the upshot of the conv was the cove’s urgent requirement for the old folding stuff!

A madcap plan had been arrived at which needed funds asap.  Funds which your very own Lovely One does-bleedin’-not have!

Any road up, suffice it to say, that LO was not in a serene frame of mind when One fronted up at the Art/Music/Cafe/Creche/Public Lavatory/Chapel of Rest establishment of WWW.  But, having said that, WWW was her softly spoken, sabre-tithed-tooger self, and an empass was reached regarding the OFSG which would mean that the endless hours of the Pinkster et moi manning the gaff may not prove to be entirely fruitless.

Returning to the Underground Lair to pack up me wassnames in me old kit bag and shear, shear, shear, One was confronted by the kicked-nut face of the Rotund Roomie.  ‘Twould appear the pasty faced porkster has lost the will to go on. 

Now, now, dear reader, on this occasion ‘tis not the proximity to Lovely One that has brought about this death wish.  Oh, OK, maybe it is.  One does appear to have an alarming effect on the knob-bearing species.

LO thoughtfully expressed the desire to help the miserable b*****d on his way and was met with not the merest smidgeon of thanks!

One couldn’t actually give a Kipper’s Dick about the state of mind of the curious cove, One merely needs a bod with which to halve the rent, but none the less, being a soft hearted fluffy bunny, One has devised a couple of pastimes that will avoid the Dignitas costs:

One has offered to chase the fat B*****d until either

a     His cholesterol clogged heart gives out

b     He loses purchase on the hill and rolls away in the gen direc of the local undertakers

The selfish shite merely spat an unrecordable reply!

Never being One to give up, One then suggested maybe a gladiatorial gut-barge to the death.

The sitting room of the underground lair is bereft of furniture in the wake of the biff to Brixham, so the run up shouldn’t prove a prob.

And you never know, the effort might hasten the demise of your very own dear Lovely One, who is well and truly hacked off now!!!!!! 

One can see it now….

headlining the Somerset Gazette….

Two dead fat gits found in basement brawl bonanza amidst lake of undigested pie filling.


Hold the front page

Drop the dead donkey

One has found the missing fifteen pairs of popsox.  They were in me first world war German fighter’s helmet carrying case – Where else??