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Monday, 31 December 2012

In which One is busily flogging a deceased cheval…

So here we all jolly well are then.  Well, One and Boy actually and not exactly jolly.

Aged P is more concerned about Boy not having brought any PJ’s or a clean towel than actually seeing him.

The hospital visit is this afternoon so today seemed like a good time to once again approach the subject of moving to a more suitable gaff.

‘They get priority,’ informed Aged P with a swift digit indication to next door.

‘No they don’t’, I opined.  (They being the evil foreigners)  Who, incidentally came round yesterday with home made cakes for her.

‘They do here,’ she went on, meaning the council actively assists immigrants rather than the indigenous population.

I know, I know, utter nonsense. 

‘What about the places that are being built at the top of the road?’ One ploughed on.

‘They’re crap!’ was the sensible retort.

‘Oh you’ve been in one then,’ I countered,

‘No, I went past there in a car.’

How on earth does One attempt to get any sense out of an attitude like that.

Peace brokerage has failed entirely on my part between Aged P and the Brother, who now has added ‘she ruined my childhood’ to the list of surprising calamities. 

I give in. 

I wish someone would move me out of my unsuitable old broken down gaff into a nice new warm modern apartment.

But that’s just silly old One for you!

Happy New Year

Saturday, 29 December 2012

In which One is undertaking a day of nappage…

Today One shall be having a day of rest.  No! Don’t try and stop me!  One is utterly exhausted from the reassembly of the Underground Lair.

Boy, as per, has been consp by his abs, being a bit of a chocolate teapot when practicality is required, but V ex H has proven to be rather a gem.  So now, the old homestead is gradually reverting to normal. Mind you, One has actually paid him cash to do One’s bidding.

Unlike Lovely One who is crumbling under the pressure of all things horrid. 

The only hope is to win the lottery, cash that is,  not the lottery of life, in which One’s ticket seems to have been left out of the draw.

V ex H says that statistically One is only very slightly more likely to win the lottery if One has a ticket than if One doesn’t.  How can that be?  Surely ‘you caint winnit if yer aint innit’

Any road up he will insist that the likelihood of the numbers coming up in sequence is just as random as any set of numbers.  That just can’t be. Can it?

So One shall ponder that as me roots turn grey whilst One sleeps.

For tomorrow – visit to Aged P

Aaaaaaaaaaahhhh

 

Thursday, 27 December 2012

In which One has a short moan…

Back at the underground lair again.  All alone and flamin’ well cheesed off to boot!

What a miserable Chrimbo!  No tree, no decs, nothing! 

A £3.50 red berry curiosity and a green glass elephant from the charity shop just isn’t the same as a real tree with lights and a fairy.

Have been religiously rubbing the elephant for luck.  Uncle Bert says he’s been rubbing his for years and it’s never worked for him.

Anyway, have positively exhausted One’s little self with clearing up and moving furniture.

Am leaving the broken bog fiasco until I’ve made the pilgrimage to Aged P’s with Boy.  That’s planned for Sunday to Tuesday.  After that the gaff will be ready for the return of Uncle Bert and the flea-ridden shite machine Montgomery.

Not to mention the re-acquisition of the furniture from storage.  At present, sitting on the footstool v uncomfortably.

Drove home with a flat tyre and the driver’s side window rattling and half hanging out of the door.

Shit shit bugger bugger, life’s a drag.

Roll on next year – go on 2013 – hit me with your worst! I can take it!!

Tuesday, 25 December 2012

In which One goes all Phil is Offical…

Impossible to sleep in the attic tonight.  The wind is battering the shutters back and forth with an angry vengence as if to get inside.

In a few short weeks the turquoise calm on the shore has been whipped into a frothy brown frenzy sucking the old year out to sea.

There really is no need, as a malevolent icy cloak has settled inside and no amount of wintry weather could render a frostier chill, or indeed, whip it away.

Early in the day a patch of sunshine fell upon the place, making the windows creak and groan for a while before black clouds blew in and sent horizontal sheets of sharp rainy needles buffeting through the struggling trees.

Lovely One snuggled under her fluffy and watched A Christmas Carol.  All alone, of course, whilst Uncle Bert lay prone on his single bed in the cellar dreaming of Christmases that might have been.

There isn’t anything so lonely as being with someone who wishes you ill. But One struggles on knowing that you, Dear Reader, are out there making merry with one another.

As this most unusual, unsettling year draws to a close One is hiding under One’s blankie with a warm snuggly package of memories One made earlier and every now and then One lets one go and basks in it’s warmth for a moment or two.

So, Dear Reader, my Christmas message to you is to think long and hard before you cast your beadies onto pastures new in the coming year.  It takes the passing of many a moon to build up a comfy layer of ‘do you remember whens’.  And the seemingly green shoots of the grass in the next meadow will soon turn to dried up dust that you just can’t kick off your shoes, no matter how hard you try.

Monday, 24 December 2012

In which Aged P hasn’t done anything…

LO     Hello

Aged P    It’s me I haven’t seen those children and I put £20 in a Christmas card.

LO    What children?

AP     ‘is!

LO     Well, I told you what he said to me, that he’s not coming round because of what you said to him.

AP     I haven’t done anything!  sob, sob.

LO     Well, I’ve texted and emailed him and there really isn’t anything else I can do is there? Why don’t you phone him?

AP     I have phoned him twice.

LO     Well phone him again!

AP     Mary thinks he’s gone doolally.  She phoned up the other night and went on about property and all that and made me miss me programme.  There’s nothing on the bloody telly.  It’s all repeats.

LO     Well, you’ve got masses of channels and watch again, why not use that.

AP     I’m not doing that, that bloody Eileen has to watch Eastenders before she goes to bloody Tesco and I have to wait up until quarter past ten to get me shopping.

LO     What time do you go to bed then?

AP     Oh about half past eleven.  And anyway I’ve got loads of presents.  I always open them on New Years Eve, don’t you?

LO     No. Christmas morning.

AP     I haven’t spoken to a soul all bloody day and I am still limping about with a stick and having to bring all me stuff downstairs in the morning.

LO     You know what to do about that don’t you?  Go and live in one of those lovely warden controlled flats and you’ll have company as and when you want it.

AP     I’m not doing that, that bloody Eileen still lives up the road and anyway she wants a piss every time we go out.  I’m bloody sick of it!  We went up that garden centre and had fish and chips and she just want to go to the toilet all the bloody time.  The doctor told me…   ‘Mrs Harris I can’t believe you’re 82 and you’ve got the most enormous bladder I’ve ever seen.’  How about that then – Ha!

LO     Perhaps Eileen has got a normal sized bladder?

AP      That’s it!  You take her side!  I’d like to see you with her wanting a piss all the bloody time, and as for ‘im – I’m sick of it.  I haven’t done anything….

LO    We’ll see you at the end of the week then.

ps

I bet she has done something!

 

Sunday, 23 December 2012

In which One has laundered me pudden…

So here it is Merry Christmas, and nobody’s having fun….   bla bla fecking bla…

Well, at least Lovely One flamin’ well isn’t!  What with me smashed up toiley boiley and incarceration in flaming Salcombe, One’s now gone and accidentally laundered me Chrimbo Pudden.

The Pinkster made it long ago and far away, out of felt, and every Christmas since, One has had it strategically pinned about One’s person throughout the Christmas season.

Not so this year!  Now it’s taken on the proportions of a shrivelled reindeer turd.

And that has just about put the tin fecking hat on the year from hell.

One shan’t bore you with the entire details as One is planning a special Christmas Broadcast to you, my public.

It has just come to One’s attention that Uncle Bert is manipulating aforementioned pudden with a view to knocking it out.  One fears that the exercise will prove pointless!

Any road up, given that we will be sitting on opposite sides of the banqueting table for Christmas lunch, and no doubt hurling insults hither and thither, I suppose watching him bashing the pudden will at least put me off having seconds.

Tra la la la la feckin’ la

Saturday, 22 December 2012

In which One is up shit street without a khazi…

Oh my giddy aunt!  The shit is about to hit the fan…

The shit will have to hit the fan because one of the unidentified morons who’ve been letting themselves in and out of the underground lair, William Nilliam, has smashed up me toiley boiley!

BROKEN ME BOG

KAPUTTED ME KHAZI

DAMAGED ME DUNNY

TOTALLED ME TOILET

SHAGGED ME SHITE-HOUSE   etc etc…

It’s hardly surprising, given the brute force required to dig up the concrete floor that it has poleaxed the pedestal, but perleeeeese, why didn’t one of the eejits OWN UP TO THE ERROR

Now, having had the cleaners in, who meticulously cleaned round the broken bog and the, unidentified floor laying fairies, who laid the bloody wooden floor around it, I am left with no contact at the insurance company who will sort it out.

I FECKING GIVE IN

Well, until after Chrimbo I do and then….

Christmas leftover recipe…

TAKE ONE UGG

ONE INSURANCE MAN’S ARSE

KICK UNTIL SATISFIED

SHOVE HEAD DOWN BOG

FLUSH

SERVE WITH A LARGE VODISHKA

This all started with that festering old hag with the inappropriately long hair for a hag of her years.

One wonders…  Is there a hairdressing wing of the Taliban whom One could deploy with a sharp pair of scissors to trim the bint?

Boy says One should stop threatening actual bodily harm to persons who have annoyed One as he doesn’t have the cash to bail me out.

One may turn over a new leaf in the new year

THEN AGAIN – ONE MAY FECKING WELL NOT!

Tuesday, 18 December 2012

In which FFS makes out she’s not a thug… yeah right!!

Plymouth wiped her neck with a damp flannel, flossed her gusset with a briny anchor chain, dabbed a squirt or two of Cilit Bang Grime and Lime on her wrinkly d├ęcolletage and opened for business…

Mar and me had broken our duck with a flagon of Pinto Grigio when FFS tottered in on an impossibly high heels clutching one of those pretend cigarette things.  It has to be said FFS does have remarkably pretty feet and they looked a picture in the Freeman Hardy and Willis numbers poking out the bottom of her size 24 Primarni leggings like two little splayed out babies hands.

It was a shame!  She had tried her best!  It seemed obvious to Lovely One what had happened…

Someone had given her an old Plumbs two-seater sofa cover and she’d had a go at making a frock.  It looked for all the world like she’s used an old Butterick pattern of Mar’s that had got torn in the mists of time because she’d ended up with a shift dress that just covered her arse and what’s worse, the right sleeve had been torn off so her anchor tattoo was on show all night.

She looked for all the world like the mutant offspring of Fred Flintstone and Joan Collins.

Already having been given chapter and verse on the Posh J incident…

‘I don’t never do no swearin nor nuffin.  It makes yer look like you ain’t got no vocableree, dunnit?’

Apparently she’s launched herself at PJ making the delicate Dear Little S leave the ground in fright.  There she was jabbing her chipped nail polish (black of course, what else!) digit in the wrinkly visage of PJ, with her buy one, get 47 free bangles jangling menacingly.

Any road up, PJ had fled, teary-eyed from the building leaving the pneumatic FFS attempting to convince all and sundry that she’s not a thug.

The scenario was repeated at full volume for the assembled ugly crowd at Les Sombreros Mehican Scoffage House…

The trouble was…  Every time she made like ‘I don’t never swear nor shout or do no fightin’ like,’ another tale of banshee behaviour was added to the story… 

This pattern of behaviour had obviously started early, as the first couple of stories were from when she was being taken in the armed vehicle to  approved school and she’s battered the living shite out of some poor sap who’d given her brother ‘evils.’ The other concerned some innocent child who’s DNA had to be scraped out by Mar from under FFS’s fingernails upon her return to the barn where the James gang holed up.

By far my favourite, however, was the one about the poor old bint who’s hair she ripped from it’s follicles.  Apparently the drunken slapper had offended Mar by oggling one of her offspring and FFS had taken it upon herself to prise the rampant lush off the child before he lost his cherry to the addled old bill-poster’s bucket.

What ensued was a bizarre tug of war between Mar, FFS and some other passing inebriate with the sodden slapper in the middle hanging on by her hair.

Eventually FFS was removed, still clutching handfuls of the tart’s tresses.

‘Ooooh, me ‘air, me ‘air,’ trilled the trollop, dramatically inspecting her bald patches.

‘’ere! ‘Ave it,’ countered FFS hurling the hair at her.

With that they staggered off up Union Street dragging the barely conscious, drunken object of desire, who, by all accounts (geddit?) turned out to be a mutant - a normal family member.

Any road up, having regaled the assemblage with these tales of terror whilst inhaling 47 fajitas and an individual washing-up bowl full of guacamole, she does no more than…

Stands up, picks the frock-wedgie out, farts, burps, rattles her keys and says..

‘right then Mar and Nana, you ready to go ‘ome?’

Sunday, 16 December 2012

In which One looks forward to the Christmas Cheer…

LO    ‘Hello, Boy and I are coming sometime between Christmas and New Year so that we can take you to the hospital.’

Aged P   ‘I’ve got to wait until after 10.00 o’clock for that bloody Eileen to bring my shopping!  Why do they have to go to Tesco in the middle of the bloody night?’

LO   ‘You should be thanking them for getting your shopping, not complaining about them.’

Aged P    ‘Why? they’re going anyway.  I like to see what I’m getting.’

LO   ‘Why don’t you let me get your shopping delivered? It would be a lot easier.’

Aged P   ‘I said… I like to see what I’m getting. Anyway, I’m going to buy a bed frame for that futon mattress for when Boy comes.’

LO   ‘Do not buy a bed frame!  I shall be bringing the futon mattress back with me and anyway you don’t want to buy things like that when you should be thinking about moving to a smaller place, shouldn’t you?’

Aged P   ‘I’m not looking into that now.  I’ve had enough.  I can’t live in a place with no windows in the bathroom and no garden.  What about all my furniture’

LO   ‘Get rid of it.  You don’t need it.’

Aged P   ‘I’ve left the contents of the house to you, you know. He’s not getting any of it!’

Oh goody, methinks, ‘He' has had all your savings and lucky One gets to spend out a fortune getting rid of all of your crap!

LO   ‘Well, anyway, we’ll give you a ring before we come.’

Aged P   ‘I haven’t got any white bread.’

LO   ‘I have never eaten a slice of white bread in my life.’

Aged P   ‘I can’t get out for some, I have to wait up till after 10.00 for that bloody Eileen to get back from Tesco.’

LO   ‘I will bring whatever we need.’

Aged P   ‘I have to bring whatever I need for the day downstairs in a bloody carrier bag!’

LO    ‘Well you’d be better off in a nice little flat or bungalow then wouldn’t you?’

Aged P   ‘I couldn’t fit the sideboard in. That bloody Christmas Dinner at the Ewe and Lamb was shit!  The turkey was cold and the veg weren’t cooked. And, I had to go straight to bed when I got home from the garden centre.  I’m not going in one of them wheelchairs they’ve got.  Now me legs are really aching, walking from one end of it to the bloody other!’

re:  Ewe and Lamb…That means that the sprouts hadn’t been on to simmer since October.

re:  Not using wheelchair…  Will take much longer to recover from broken leg operation.

As for Christmas present… Have a lovely pair of screw on pearl earrings for Aged P and a very fancy collapsible walking stick.  Can but imagine the scene when the walking stick is unwrapped!

Chestnuts roasting by an open fire, Jack Frost nipping at your toes…….bla bla fecking bla…

 

Saturday, 15 December 2012

In which the thot plickens…

One has figured it out at last!

They had the list upside down!

1   Clean gaff

2   Decorate gaff

3   Lay flooring

So – there you have it, Dear Reader!  That is the obvious answer as to why the floor has been laid!

Any road up, having had the blessing of the Insurance Company to purloin a cleaning personage and decorating bod of choice, One set about the mission.

They are clearly trying to save themselves the aggravation of a court case.

IT WON’T WORK

Upon securing the services of an article known to Lovely One, and yes, in the biblical sense, One made more extensive enquiries as to the whereabouts of me fecking keys!

The useless tit on the ansa (drainage company) (shite relocators) whatever you like to call them, switchboard, was a tad nonplussed by my enquiry.

‘Let me put it quite simply,’  went on Lovely One, ‘someone (* ** *) will be at your office on Monday morning to collect my keys.  They had better be there or I call the police.’

‘We ain’t got yer keys.  Asprea (the insurance claim handlers) have ‘em,’ went on the tit.

‘No they haven’t,’ One insisted, ‘and if they have then who laid the floor, since they haven’t even appointed a tradesperson?’

Such a long silence ensued that One thought the bod had fallen off his perch.  But no…

‘Well, what’s happened is this…  Your insurance company said it was ok if we laid the floor before the place was cleaned and decorated and that they would cover it up so it doesn’t get damaged.’

‘NO NO NO THAT ISN’T TRUE,’  said LO, ‘I’VE JUST SPOKEN TO THEM. ‘ tbc

 

 

 

Friday, 14 December 2012

In which One is going to get rat arsed…

Revved up the Roller and aqua-planed back to the old homestead, via The Old Fish Shop Gallery.

Knowing that the Pinkster had an offspring home sick, One was more than a little surprised to see the lights on.  Upon entry, it was the corduroy clad calamity, WWW, just biffed in to collect the books. 

Clearly wrong-footed by the fate of the Old Fish Shop Gallery, she had her face on inside out and was bemoaning the fact that neither the Pinkster nor your very own lovely One has been manning the gaff. 

Sadly, that’s life, when your unpaid workers have things in their own lives that need to be attended to.  Good job we don’t get paid!  We might need sick pay or compassionate leave!

Any road up The Albatross Art Cafe seems to be doing well…

‘Because I’m there,’ according to the intrepid entrepreneur.

Oh well, One lives and learns and there is certainly a salutary lesson in there somewhere.

Upon investigation of the Underground Lair, the floor has been laid.

I very nigh filled me Tena Lady on the spot!

One called the claims handler to enquire how this can be?

‘Well we only appointed a manager yesterday,’ said Darren or Wayne or whatever the feck one of them is on the switchboard today.

‘Well who did it then?’ enquired Lovely One, ‘The fecking fairies?’

So – now I have a new floor laid on top of all the shite and detritus and the decorating still not done.

Needless to say One is three quarters down a bottle of Rioja…..

Hic

 

Thursday, 13 December 2012

In which One is decking the fecking halls…

Deck the Halls with ChemDry’s entrails,

Fa,La, Fecking La, La, La

Oh goody gumdrops!  Just had a call from the eejits to say that ‘I’ve emailed me boss and he’s looking into where your keys are.’

I HAVE TOLD YOU WHERE MY KEYS ARE. 

GET THE KEYS.  CLEAN THE GAFF.

And so it was thus, the situation needs to be assessed again and again ad infinitum…

So, ‘tis Christmas in Salcombe for Lovely One et al.  And then New Year in Luton…

Sublime to ridiculous – or what!!!!!!!

Shall be making an official visit to The Old Fish Shop Gallery on the morrow to sing the praises of the good old Pinkster who has been manning the gaff on her tod.

Biffed off in the Bugatti to the Barbican last eve for to wassail with me public in Kaya Gallery.

What a splendid idea to have the Barbican late night shopping on the night before the Plymouth centre late opening.

The lottery funded waterfront bods fronted up for a peruse of the few shops that bothered to open.

It was pointed out that a Christmas Tree, at least, not to mention ‘chestnuts roasting by an open wossname’, Carol singers or even a visit from Santa himself might have jollied the visitors along.

‘Oh good point. Takes a lot of organising, ya.’

Que?  Christmas arrives at approximately the same fecking time every sodding year…

GET A TREE

BUNG IT IN A HOLE

STICK SOME LIGHTS ON IT

Clearly, Lovely One should be Mayor, nay, Princess of Plymouth!

Monday, 10 December 2012

In which One is spitting venom yet again…

At 1.32pm One received a long awaited call from ChemDry. 

Having sent two letters to One, both to the Underground Lair, one of which was delivered to V ex H. 

What is it with the Wiveliscombe Post Office?  Ok, so they know where he lives, but PLEASE deliver letters addressed to my house –TO MY HOUSE

Any road up, back to ChemDry…

What the hell did they send the letters there for anyway?  Did they think I was in residence sailing about in Shirleytosis’s shite?

Even though the assessor from Asprea has ‘assessed’ the fecking gaff, the ChemDry bod now wants to assess it, AND – WAIT FOR IT – pass the job on to a sub-contractor who will also need to assess it.

NO MORE ASSESSING PLEASE

DO THE FECKING JOB

The promised ‘claims handler’ from Asprea hasn’t materialised and the assessor from last Thursday has gone AWOL

I can’t sleep.  I’m getting really pissed off AND I don’t think that’s unreasonable since the claim went in in fecking March, for feck’s sake!

Thursday’s bloke said he’s actually sent people off on all inclusive holidays rather than pay for temporary accommodation as it’s often cheaper.  The length of time this has taken One could have gone on a round the world bloody cruise!

And just to rouse my venom count even further…

Boy telephoned to inform me that V ex H has been helping out at the pensioner’s Christmas party at the community centre…..

BECAUSE THE SNAGGLE TOOTHED TROLL ASKED HIM TO

Lovely One was a stalwart of that little establishment for many a moon and the selfish old git never once even enquired about it, let alone went in it!

I imagine she snapped her soiled gusset, and that was that! 

Ooooh, feel icky now!

In which One is making arrangements…

So, here One jolly well is then, just Lovely One, Uncle Bert and the flea-ridden shite machine, Montgomery.

Uncle Bert in residence, ostensibly to ‘keep me company’ but One fears it may be a return of the screaming Ab-Dabs on the horizon.

All but silence has descended upon the cottage with the afore mentioned UB lolloping about the gaff like a Pilsbury Dough Boy that’s been rolled in iron filings.

As a former keen fisherman, he has taken to flinging his tackle over the third floor balcony to ‘keep ‘is ‘and in’ as he calls it.

Heaven only knows what Jocasta and Hugo make of it when they open the curtains of a morning and are practically whopped in the kisser with a mouldy old set of tackle!

Any road up, One shan’t be too hard on the old codger as he’s given up the will to go on and has, of the passing of many moons eschewed the taking of medications various that have kept him ticking. 

And so it is thus that he sits upon the sofa like a Premier Man clad Buddah awaiting the inevitable. 

One doesn’t exactly admire the curious ability to do absolutely feck all, but One does sometimes envy it, being an industrious little being.

One has suggested kipping in an ecologically sound cardboard coffin, so as to render disposal with ease, but should the package moisten, he may well protrude through the bottom, with his bottom!

Still, it’ll save One pushing him into the cut.

Sunday, 9 December 2012

In which One ponders the state of the nation…

One can but imagine the bliss it would be to be incarcerated in Salcombe in the summer months.  The golden sandy bays and turquoise waters are inviting enough in the grip of Hurricaine Herbert, so One can but dream of the summer Mistral.

Oh well, could be worse.  Could still be stuck in that rancid fleapit in Brixham, TCP-ing me bites.

No word from those incompetent eejits who are supposed to be sorting the Underground Lair.  They should give me a job.  I’d get them organised, the pea-brained twonks! 

Any road up, it has come to the attention of your very own sensitive Lovely One that there are truly vast, nay acreages of difference, twixt the abutting towns and counties clinging to the edges of this sceptic isle.

Take Plymouth, for instance, it is dirty. (Pronounced ‘dutty’)

If it were a person, it would be a slovenly old bint, say, and it would have a tide mark round it’s neck, go to bed without taking it’s makeup off and pick the least ‘dutty’ thing off the top of the washing basket to got to work in on a Monday morning.

Whereas Modbury would be a retired actress, with a wardrobe full of theatrical, sequinned and feathered frocks gathering dust, but would go out every day wearing a ‘weathered’ Barbour and sensible footwear.  The actress would gaze wistfully into the posh shops, all owned by out-of-towners and nod the occasional greeting to a fifth generation local, who would cheerfully stab the lot of them to death with a pastry cutter.

Brixham, on the other hand, is ‘dutty’ with the honest grime of a wind-battered fisherman who cleans his fingernails and his teeth with a gutting knife and who takes a bath in front of the fire every Christmas Eve, whether he needs it or not!

And so to Salcombe…

On every single outing One has encountered a bod with a cart cleaning the roads.  Yet, there’s no recycling facility here!  Go figure!! Fallen leaves are blown into tidy mounds for the convenience of the South Hams Hedgehog, and the waves approach the shore in an orderly fashion.  In fact, Salcombe is a retired couple.  He, an architect, and she a ballerina. Their M&S morning clothes are laid out by the daily whilst they breakfast overlooking South Sands. During their daily sojourn to the village for the Times, cushions will be plumped, beds made (sheets and blankets of course) and a light lunch prepared.

Our retired couple are slender, well groomed and fragrant.  No doubt they will even vacate this hallowed soil with but a barely audible sigh and ascend to the clear night sky as a fresh twinkly star or two.

Saturday, 8 December 2012

In which One is foaming at the gusset…

Imagine the scene, if you will…

Lovely One, foaming at the gusset with indignation, parts company from the Insurance Man with the promise of…

‘Someone will definitely contact you by the end of the day with a schedule of works.’

That was Thursday.  This is Saturday.  Has anyone even farted in my direction?  Have they feck!

AND ONE KNOWS THAT FOR DEFFO, SINCE ONE HAS RENDERED ONESELF UNDER HOUSE ARREST IN ORDER TO TAKE SAID CALL! (have completed a furious masterpiece though.  So not all in vain)

Any road up, in a further couple of ridiculous twists of fate…

1     The cleaning company due to sandblast The Underground Lair, addressed and sent the letter to Vile ex Husband – AT HIS GAFF – demanding an immediate cheque for £0.00 before the work could commence.

2     The pea-brained bint at the drainage company has been leaving a series of frantic messages on the answer machine at The Underground Lair for me to ‘get in touch as soon as you can.’

Note to stupid bint…

THE FLAT IS FULL OF OTHER PEOPLES SHITE RESIDUE – LOVELY ONE IS ENSCONSED ESLEWHERE

One is now reclining upon a chaise-lounge in the manner of a pre-Raphaelite beauty, back of hand against fevered brow, cracked cup full of gin in the other!

Thursday, 6 December 2012

In which One puts the frighteners on a delivery cove…

Disembarked from the Hummer at the Underground Lair and faster than One could say ‘Why the feck hasn’t my flat been sorted out?’ up popped the insurance geezer.

He agreed all the works.  Hurrah! The claim was only made in bleedin’ March, after all!

It would appear that the ‘floor-digger-uppers’ had taken it upon themselves to organise the entire Hunt Ball, when all their remit was, was to organise the ourses douvers and dig up the floor, offload Shirleytosis’s shite and shear!

He left, promising to ‘pass me on to the next operative’ in the never ending debacle and to have a plan in place afore the setting of the sun.

THE SUN HAS SET.  NO PLAN IN PLACE.  IN FACT, NOT A MURMOUR FROM ANY OF THE EEJITS.

But – Lovely One is serene.  Am currently ackled up to an intravenous Vodishka and Prozac drip.

Couldn’t give a flying feck what happens next and neither could Elvis, who’s just called in for a mince pie and a table-ender.

I digress, dear reader.  Any road up, One, Uncle Bert (who’d come along to add a frightening bit of muscle to me doings) and the flea-ridden Montgomery were just vacating the prem when, lo and behold, a delivery blighter was attempting to let himself in next door.

‘Flamin’ ‘eck,’ cursed the cove, ‘I’ve gotta deliver a load of oak flooring to number two, and the key don’t fit.'

Mmmmmm thinks Lovely One, I’ll bet my virginity on the fact that he’s got MY FECKING flooring in that van and it’s been sent to the wrong place!

Which, upon closer questioning of said delivery cove, IT FECKING WAS

WOULD YOU CHRISTMAS EVE IT

‘Well, I got the keys from Ansa the drain people and I’ve got to take them back there.  AND I ain’t leavin’ the flooring unless they tell me to,’ continued the foolish oaf.

Imagine the scene if you will, dear reader…

Lovely One bars the exit, bears her toothy-pegs, and through gritted tegs, growled,

‘THEY ARE MY KEYS AND YOU ARE GIVING THEM TO ME AND IF YOU ATTEMPT TO LEAVE HERE WITHOUT DELIVERING MY CHESTNUT OAK, HIGH QUALITY, FAST FIT LAMINATE FLOORING, I’LL GIVE YOU A CHINESE BURN ON THE WILLY.’

Lovely One is safely back in Salcombe.

The keys are in my Chloe Paddington.

The flooring is in the flat.

LET THIS BE A SALUTORY LESSON TO ANY OF YOU WHO MIGHT ENDEAVOUR TO HAVE YOUR WAY WITH MOI

 

Wednesday, 5 December 2012

In which One is mugged by a seagull…

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Fired up the Ferrari and biffed off in the gen direc of Dartmouth. 

As soon as Lovely One found Oneself in an area with a signal, picked up a message from the cleaning persons who are due to shampoo and set The Underground Lair.

‘’ello.  This is Bognasty Chemical Blasters.  I’ve got a job ‘ere that was taken in March, is that right?’

Fair quivering with angst One figured out how to return the call after about sixteen and a half hours – EN-FECKIN-GAGED

So, thought I’d call Asprea ‘The company who handle the claims and look after the insured.’ My fat arse!!

‘Well we only took the job on 27th November.  It was someone else dealing wiv it before us.’

OH RIGHT THEN – AWFULLY SOZ – WHO WAS THAT THEN.

WHY IS IT NEVER ANBODY’S FLAMIN’ FAULT?

Any road up having once again told all parties that I DO NOT HAVE A MOBILE SIGNAL HERE and given them the land line number YET AGAIN! I was informed that the ‘assesor will be calling tomorrow between 12 and 4 and we don’t know who it will be, sorry.’

YOU CAN BET YER BOTTOM THAT ONE WILL BE HOLED UP IN THE DARK, DAMP, FREEZING LAIR UNTIL THE STROKE OF FOUR WAITING FOR THE EEJIT.

Arrived in a state of hyperbole having driven round a road designed in the manner of a corkscrew –WHY CAN’T THE SELFISH BASTARDS DIG AN EFFING ROAD IN A STRAIGHT LINE DOWN HERE?

AND THEN…

Biffed off for a crab sandwich to scoff on a bench down the front.

Whereupon…

The handsome chappie pictured at the top, swooped down and wrenched it from me grasp, much to the amusement of onlookers.

OOOOH ONE IS GETTING BOGGED OFF.

THERE’S ARSE NEEDS KICKING – AND ONE’S GOT JUST THE UGG!

Tuesday, 4 December 2012

In which One is Salcombed out…

Still here in Salcombe.  Wind, rain and mist the order of the day thus far.

The splendid isolation is getting on me nellies now!

From the absence of actual living persons here, it would appear that the entire town is full of holiday homes.  Apart, that is, from a few stalwart locals who open the shops and restaurants at the weekend.

When Lovely One first slipped the key in the lock and entered the vestibule, complete with window seats and aesthetically pleasing and desirable ‘objects’, One was off in a ‘mwa mwa’ type frenzy of imagining the solid, secure, ‘drinks on the balcony Jocasta?’ life that existed only in One’s dreams.

‘Twould appear that the passage of time has rendered Lovely One in need of the company of like minded painting type persons.  Or, at least someone to have a chair race with across Dear Little S’s shiny floor.

Sadly ‘tis too far to biff off to Plymouth every day and plonk meself on the ‘moaning stool’ in DLS’s gaff, so am reduced to gazing out at the winter trees swaying in the breeze and regarding Uncle Bert in his Rudolph Nureyev trackie botts.  (Don’t ask)

On Thursday One is biffing to Wiv, to rabbit punch the eejits coming to ascertain what needs doing in the Underground Lair.

WHAT NEEDS DOING IS THIS…

Put a responsible adult in charge of the works.

Clean the gaff.

Paint the gaff.

Put the floor down.

REINSTALL A CERTAIN LOVELY ONE TO HER FORMER GLORY – POSTINGTON HASTINGTON!

 

Sunday, 2 December 2012

In which One is still under house arrest in a room with a view…

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So here One jolly well is then, still sashaying around Salcombe in me best coat.

Luncheon today in small licensed establishment in the village.  The waitresses ‘uniform’ consisted of a black top, black tights and denim shorts.  The thunderous crashing together of many an adolescent thigh fair gave One indigestion.

Any road up, shall know where to come for a part time job if the painting lark tails off.

‘Her thighs are ruined.  She wants too much…’ etc etc (Leonard Cohen – if yer interested)

Had a brief biffette into Gallery 5, a small cooperative of artists in a sail loft.  Lovely One is signed up for a guest spot some time soon.

In the depths of Wivey the underground lair is mouldering away in the gloom of an unheated Somerset winter, which can only mean one thing…

Mildew on me smalls etc…

Ooooooh when One gets anywhere near a phone where one can actually make an outgoing call, or a printer where One can list all the disastrous doings re: Shirleytosis shite removal…

JUST YOU WAIT, DEAR READER, JUST YOU WAIT

SOMEONE IS GOING TO HAVE TO PAAAAAY FOR MY DISTRESS AND ANGUISH

(back of hand against fevered brow)

DON’T THESE LITTLE MEN KNOW WHO I AM?

Still, the above view beats the current one from the underground lair which is usually Sister Ug Numero Uno’s Clarks sandal clad plates dabbing along the tarmac.   Mmmmm  YUM