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Wednesday, 30 January 2013

In which One unveils Cocoon, by Kim L. Vastgut…

                                     IMG_1702

I luuuuurve animals!  In their proper place…

A PIE OR A ZOO

And this, dear reader; my appalling treatment of our little furry/feathered/scaly friends has been One’s undoing.

Let me explain…

One has been perusing, of late, the miserable, self-pitying, downtrodden nature of One’s existence and One can’t put it down to maltreatment of One’s fellow oooomans, so, must be me downright neglect of me pets…

See above for ghastly representation of the circle of One’s life.

It all began with Kitty and Bugs.  Yes, yes, I know, not exactly inventive names, but that’s Aged P for you.

Kitty, a particularly stchoopid white cat used to sit for hours in my dolls pram dressed in a violet dress and mob cap (I kid you not!) and be wheeled around Field End Close in Stopsley, Luton, for all to snigger at.  It was generally felt that Kitty died from embarrassment.

Bugs, my white rabbit, lived in a cage outside the back door and regularly used to liberate himself and biff off into Mimo’s garden to gorge on his lettuces.  This misdemeanour was directly attributed to my having not fed him sufficiently.  Mimo, a volatile Italian chappie from over the fence, well, over the sea too, I suppose, could regularly be heard issuing expletives accompanied by ‘I killa your rabbito,’ threats.One day Bugs never returned and it was always suspected that Mimo gave him a swift garden fork injection up the chuff box.  Exit Bugs.

Kevin and Trevor, another couple of rabbits who lived in the garage, went lame and shuffled off this mortal coil.  That tragedy could be attributed to carbon monoxide poisoning I suppose given their gaff.

And thence came Hammy the hamster, acquired following years of watching Tales of the Riverbank.  He resided under the stairs in a little cage with a wheel in it.  Much amusement was garnered by One and The Brother when Hammy appeared at the bars with horrendously long teeth.  Clearly he wasn’t given the attention, or dental care, he deserved, and following an extensive search to locate a putrid smell in the hall, Hammy was discovered, paws up, under his wheel.

Epilogue…

Lovely One’s neglectful treatment of helpless creatures put into One’s care must be the reason that One’s life is such shite.

Now, there’s only a grizzly bear to re-home…

Tuesday, 29 January 2013

In which One tells it like it is…

Dr T     Hmmmm. Your blood pressure has gone up.  I’ll take it again.

Three attempts at making it lower with each reading…

Dr T     It is very high, but I won’t do anything about it at the moment.  How is the depression?  You wouldn’t do anything to harm yourself would you?

LO      No, I have a son and as I always tell you, I don’t care if I don’t wake up tomorrow.

Dr T    Do you want to take 3 tablets a day?  Would you like to talk to someone about it?

LO       No thank you to both.

Dr T    Fill in this form then.

One fills in the form.  One is deemed depressed, yet again.

Unless a drug is developed to:

Pay mortgages

Afford holidays

Get jobs for sons

Remove malevolent presences

Get rid of people who only wish me harm

Re-home unwanted pets

Stop One from making stupid decisions

Go back to the beginning and start again

etc etc etc

ONE MUST PUT UP WITH IT

IT IS CALLED ONE’S LIFE

Oh, and by the way – this is a record of my descent into hopeless oblivion – FOR ME. 

If you don’t like it – don’t read it

In which One is giving in and getting a cat…

Am absolutely and utterly sick of being me. 

Have had a long and disastrous succession of unsuitable men in my life.

AND IT’S ALL MY OWN FAULT

Why didn’t I just get a cat?  I love cats. They love Lovely One. 

Men hate Lovely One:  Too tall, too fat, too opinionated, too difficult,  too everything, except acceptable it would seem.

I must have that old chestnut ‘low self esteem’ to have put up with the shite that’s been dealt out over the years.

If you unpicked the fecking lot of them you couldn’t knit a decent human being out of the collected fibres.

Not that One didn’t have fun as a young One…

Certainly didn’t let the grass grow under me gusset! 

Maybe that’s it!  The ferocity of undercarriage action has left the old twinkle flapping like a face hitting a G force.  Eeuugh – yuk!

Bet One couldn’t even lure a lesbian stalker now!

Any road up, have been reminiscing about them all… (not the one nighters though, be here all fecking day!)

The one’s that have particularly been worthy of a claw hammer to the head have been the ones that One simply can’t remonstrate with, without suffering days numerous of abuse, both verbal and physical, in one case.

But even he wasn’t as tiresome as the one who throws his toys out of the pram and flounces off for weeks at a time.

YOU MAY BE AN OLD ONE – BUT YOU KNOW WHO YOU ARE

Monday, 28 January 2013

In which One cannot be classed…

Just caught an interesting item on the Today programme…

Some navel gazing bod has written a tome re: Class distinction through the medium of Coffee.  Well, spending habits actually, but the item took place in coffee shops various in order to explain the theory.

Apparently ‘Asda Mum’ goes to McDonalds for her coffee;

The ‘Middle Classes’ go to Costa.

And the ‘Professional Class’ favour the independent Coffee Emporium (with a log burner)

What has become of the ‘working class?’ Do they sit around the formica table drinking Camp Coffee? Raising their cracked cups in a toast to ‘The Queen Mum’ Gawd love ‘er!

Yuk Yuk Yukkety Yuk

Fact is…

ANYONE WHO WORKS – IS WORKING CLASS

I expect ‘Asda Mum’ does a bit of ‘Avon’ or ‘Arse-wiping’ to make ends meet and in order to be able to take Rooney and Shaniquar out for a Happy Meal.

The imaginary ‘Middle Class’ are probably all working part time and claiming working tax credits in order to survive and nip into Costa in order to rub shoulders with other displaced persons.

As for the rest, they can do as they please and frequent Organic sheds where you can get hand knitted paninis that cost too much and are served by bored looking Jocastas waiting for term to start.

Deep in the Underground Lair…

One of us drinks Espresso, shops online and in Waitrose, listens to radio 4, reads extensively.

The other, drinks three in one, shops at the cash and carry, listens to Talksport and watches the sport channels.

Guess which is Lovely One

Sunday, 27 January 2013

In which I’ve got the hump now!…

Having left it until the last possible minute, One is absolutely GOING TO DO ONE’S TAX RETURN TODAY, come what may!!

In order not to be disturbed by Aged P, One settled down on the truckle bed to give her a call…

LO     Hello.  Is all the snow gone there?

AP      Yes!  I’m bloody sick of it!  It’s all washed away now and I’ve been outside to the dustbin in me new shoes.

LO     Oh well, you can get out now then, can’t you?

AP      Old people can’t get out at all when it’s snowing.  We went to Asda though and that was nice.  I’m having a shepherd’s pie. I’ve only got five minutes before it pings, so I’ll have to go.

LO     All the snow has gone here too.  I thought I’d just give you a call to tell you about Boy; he’s starting with work experience and hopefully it will lead on to greater things.

AP     Jam sponge and custard for afters.  I have me dinner at lunch time now it’s better for old people.  I’m keeping Jackie on to do the hoovering.  I haven’t seen HIM.  Still I’ve phoned loads of times I can’t do anything else.

LO     Oh that’s nice.  I’ll let you know how he gets on.

AP     Did D phone you?  She wants you to do her a painting for her husband’s birthday.  She can go up to £150.

Would she do a week’s work for £150?  I don’t think so!

Saturday, 26 January 2013

In which One makes a sale…

Have just returned from the House of F Art Exhibition of Fakes, Forgeries and Failures. 

Not living up to expectations, lots of work was sold and so now they have ‘failed to fail.’

Lovely One espied a personage casting her beadies over a print of the hunt leaving Wivey Square…

‘Do you like it?’ enquired LO

‘Oh yes, very much,’ was the reply.

‘Good job you said that’ says One ‘I painted it.  If you’d said you didn’t I would have pushed you over.’

She didn’t laugh.

‘How much is it?’

‘Thirty quid, but if you bought it from the galleries I now work out of it would be £80,’ says me, hoping for a sale, ‘I don’t work out of Somerset any more, I’m only doing this for Kate.’

‘For cake?’ came the reply.

Well -  no – but a v good idea!

My Kim L. Vastgut was a success but at £8M there were no takers.

A very enjoyable ‘do’ which biffs on to Midnight which is a smidgeon later than One’s snuggle time and anyway, am too old to play out at night.

In the Buffy stakes I’m more Saint Marie than Vampire Slayer, so there you are, that gives away my vintage.

Thursday, 24 January 2013

In which One is going back to bed…

At last a little bit of sunshine to melt the snow and thence expose the piles of dog shite.

Take the bloody furry shit machine for a walk for heaven’s sake!

Ah well, every cloud has had it’s lining ceremoniously ripped out in Lovely One world.

Feel literally under the weather today as the sunshine has only served to bring a large chunk of snow down off the roof on top of One’s head as One peeked out to survey the grounds.

Any road up, can’t possibly go and see the Doctor as all ailments are immediately ascribed to the fact that One could do with ‘lowering One’s centre of gravity’ as he put it.

AND

How does anyone get out of there without a sufficiency of virus/flu/puking delights?

ANSWER ME THAT IF YOU CAN

One has been devising a plan so as not to have to touch the vile, germ ridden, booking in screen.

I ask you. Fancy putting that in there.  I know, I know, there’s a measly little container of that handwash stuff, but, One’s got to pick that up, then put it back, open the door etc

The perils are positively endless.

One has taken to carrying a packet of cotton buds with which to prod the screen.  A plastic bag in which to deposit the cotton bud…

But wait…

Then One has to enter the surgery, pull back a chair etc

And as for using the Toiley Boiley – NO NO NO

Someone from the council estate might have been in there and Lovely One can only fend off private germs.

It’s all too stressful and One is going back to the truckle bed with a hot.

 

Wednesday, 23 January 2013

In which One escapes assassination by a gnat’s cock…

Call the Po-Leece!  Lovely One has been the subject of a failed assassination attempt!

AND JUST AS ONE WAS GOING TO PRONOUNCE UPON THE CURRENT ECONOMIC CRISIS!

Let me explain…

Boy, in an attempt to raise the game re: idle conversation, piped up, ‘What do you think Cameron is going to say in his speech?’

Well, obv, this floored Lovely One, having been minding One’s own bees-tiddly-wax for the passing of many a moon.  One had abs not a singular clue what Boy was waxing lyrical about!

Gen up on it immediately, One thought, else One’s progeny will think One a complete Buffoon!

And so it was thus that LO eschewed ‘The Real Housewives of Beverly Hills’ and boned up on News 24, only to find out that Cameroon and his chum, Gervais, (don’t let him calling himself George, fool you into thinking he is in possession of a chin) are spending sleepless nights worrying about their triple A credit rating.

El stupiiido! Methinks! Haven’t the blithering eejits heard of Experian?  Just send in one measly pound and they will let you know your credit rating by return!

Or even bett, apply for a Great Universal Catalogue!  If you can’t get yer Trutex and Startrites from them on the drip, you’ve had it!

Any road up, that’s me solution, so take note you Eton messes.

I digress, Dear Reader, for One suspects you are now quaking in yer snowboots re: the assassination attempt…

Well, it all began when One and Boy and V ex H were scarfing down a rake of Thorne burgers in the Bear, when a large Tractoring Device biffed up outside the window directly behind our table.  It had a massive great scooping device deployed on the front with enormous great teeth for excavating lumps of Somerset.

It came to a halt perilously close to a shiny new Land Rover who’s owner was at 45 degrees to the bar with a pint of Thatchers grasped in his mit. 

Any road up after a few revs of the engine the driver began swinging the scooping device hither and thither and by the breadth of a gnat’s cock missed the window and opportunity to decapitate Lovely One et al!

He did manage to take out the frontispiece of the pub, and with curled lip snarling shot off up West Street.

Well, I say HE – One is sure One glimpsed a hard skinned grey foot in a Clarks Sandal on the accelerator and the swish of inappropriately long split ends through the window.

Tuesday, 22 January 2013

In which One has contracted a v bad case of Corned Beef Arse…

Am showing a prospective sharer around my 10Parishes venue this morn.  One would have thought that the offer of a free venue would have been leapt upon with fervour, but no, apparently One’s gaff will have to be inspected first!

No matter, ‘tis a prime location and will be snapped up in no time. 

Am unusually late removing Oneself from the snuggle heaven of the truckle bed, yet again!  This alarming habit will have to cease forthwith! 

Have been dozing on and off and have begun reading the complete works of Virginia Woolf.  £1.95 for the Kindling device version, illustrations an’ all, no less.  As yet, part way through first novel, can’t imagine what all the fuss was about, but will plod on regardless.

Any road up, with all this snow turning the grounds into a Christmas card, One has taken to wearing a hot water bottle as a permanent accessory. As always, ‘tis crammed down me jim-jam bottoms, back of course, and has left One with a rather unsightly case of Corned Beef Arse.

Corned Beef Leg was an affliction suffered by One’s Nanny as she sat knitting in front of an open coal fire. 

In the winter months at 76 Kingston Road it was entirely possible to ignite one’s frontispiece and still have a goodly coating of ice about one’s rear, such was the ferocity of the coal fire in the grate, coupled with the freezing extremities of the remainder of the ‘front room.’

Aged P, the Brother et moi, were allowed into the hallowed ‘front room’ of a Saturday afternoon so that Grandad could listen to the football results in peace.

I digress…

The ‘Corned Beef Shin’ was an occupational hazard of sitting huddled around the fire – and now – with a Hot stuffed down me jimmsters, have contracted a really bad case of ‘Corned Beef Arse.’

‘Tis, however, a further area of outstanding beauty, and as such, will be displayed to interested parties for 20p a yard at the forthcoming Fakes and Forgeries Art Show at Fitzhead Tithe Barn this very Saturday.

Monday, 21 January 2013

In which One is shagged, not literally, unfortunately…

Have only just emerged from the truckle bed!  Prob wouldn’t even have rolled out now, had it not been for the inconsiderate bastard upstairs who’s hammering away as if his life depended upon it.

Sounds like he’s laying a wooden floor – Mmmmm how thoughtful in an upper floor flat.

Lovely One was burning the paintbrush at both ends and painting at three this morning in a mad rush to get Cocoon finished for the Fakes and Forgeries do at Fitzhead Tithe Barn on Saturday 26th January.  Do come!

Shall have to start some doings for the actual paying customers as the famous pussy purse is nearing empty.

The pussy purse is an emergency cash fund should Lovely One ever need to flee danger and seek asylum in Milverton or further afield.

Sadly, LO had to delve deep into it for life’s little essentials of late.

Ah well, a life of luxury is a thing of the past and now One is entombed in penury for all time it would appear.

The chances of luring a protector are slim – unlike One who is the living image of a wrinkly old Budda

‘Fat Fanciers’ or Chubby Chasers’ are my only hope now.  Wonder if they have a ‘senior’s chapter?

Saturday, 19 January 2013

In which One volunteers…

Crunched off up the alley, having treated One’s new Uggs with water repellent to manfully volunteer for something or other.

As a solitary Lovely One, One has found volunteering a win win situation: the great unworthy unwashed benefitting from the ministrations of Lovely One, and Lovely One benefitting from a bit of human companionship.

Not that One has nothing to do and no one to do it with, it’s just that now One is knocking off masterpieces on One’s jack, One invariably slopes about having a ‘blackie’ in me jim jams for the passing of many moons in a stretch.

‘V Dutty!’ One hears you chorus, Dear Reader.  And you would be right! Mind you, One does benefit from what One calls ‘An Oil Day,’ where One shuns the shower and merely oils One’s acreage to keep it firm and supple in case anyone wants to yomp across it in the near future.

Have recently been declared ‘An Area of Outstanding Beauty,’ by English Heritage and am hoping for full ‘National Park’ status in the fullness of time.

‘Tis always a mystery to One how so many people unknown to One biff up with pleasantries as if we’ve been bosom buddies all our naturals.  One has no idea who most of these articles are!  Clearly these bods are well info’d up re: Lovely One, addressing One by One’s monika and all that.

One was fairly sure the stroke had left One with just the selective memory, now One’s not so sure!

Any road up, returned to the Underground Lair laden with shopping and a promise to answer the phones on the early shift at 10 Radio.  Not to mention fronting up for the Jim Laker Fund as and when.

Was informed that BF is being looked after.  This information was delivered with an almost triumphal note, not dissimilar to the general husbandish cries of ‘I’ve put the rubbish out, or, I’ve done the washing up.’  Why is it that they feel the need to pass on this kind of information?  Is some kind of reward or certificate required?

JUST GET ON WITH IT LIKE WE DO

One doesn’t recall having to vocalise all One’s doings…

‘I’ve just done the washing and then squeezed out a small human from me twinkle that’s the size of an oven ready turkey.  Now you can gang up with it against me for the rest of yer natch!’

Ah well. ‘spect answering the phones at 10radio will be a breeze.

Thursday, 17 January 2013

In which the grounds are ‘neath a forgiving snow…

A v strange anomaly has occurred: One has, for the first time, more Dear Readers in Germany than One has is either America or The United Kingdom.

Perhaps some exiled Lutonian is longing for the fiords and hangs on One’s every word as a nostalgic comfort blankie.

No matter.

Any road up, a forgiving snow has silently fallen throughout the night and given the grounds that lovely silent wintry feel that so reminds One of the winter days in Highgate when Boy was a baby.

The piles of offensive dog do-do and partially gnashed bones are covered as if to be mere sleeping spring blossoms.

Speaking of Boy again: today is the interview day.  He has already been contacted by the interviewer to be assured that in the event of aforementioned snow, he won’t be expected to show.

As per – the merest flurry brings our entire nation to a standstill.

One was blissfully engaged in the production of ‘Cocoon’: a macabre and disturbing picture indicative of the fragile state of One’s mind, when Boy biffed up to have his shirt ironed for the occasion.

Took the opportunity to manacle the little blighter and give him a grooming session, throughout which, groans and tuts punctuated the proceedings.

Sadly, the buffoon had only brought the suit with him whilst the new shirt languished at the bottom of a plastic carrier bag in the pile of detritus that doubles as the hallway to the lair of Boy and V ex H.

Boy passed some rather unflattering remarks about the state of One’s mind on viewing ‘Cocoon.’ One rather thought it an ingenious pastiche of One’s passage through time in the manner of Bibendum/stick insect and vice versa.

Retired to the truckle bed early feeling a bit Uncle Dick, only to re-emerge within the hour for a further slice of Nigel and to watch a rather intriguing film noir.

Expecting a visit from OJ today.  No doubt to be informed of One’s unattractive girth and negligence in the acquisition of a suitable beau.

 

Wednesday, 16 January 2013

In which One saves a lump of Nigel Slater for later…

It’s quarter to three, no one in the place…   ‘cept you and me

Well, actually, ‘cept me and a cheese scone and a bottle of tonic water (with quinine)  I may get fatter, but I won’t get malaria!

Positively rumbled forth from the truckle bed in an emergency dash to the kitchen cupboard for a snack-zilla. 

I say – the kitchen cupboard.  Well, the kitchen in the underground lair is nothing more than a cupboard.  When One was a real person, living in abject luxury in Hampstead village, One had downstairs toiley-boileys that were bigger!

Any road up, I digress, as is me wossname…

That Nigel Slater, you know the one, wafts about the kitchen like a Dickensian alley-lurker, made a massive cheese scone on his ‘tasty supper’ entertainment and now One is for ever making the vast, claggy, man-hole cover sized delight stuffed full with any old bit of mouse-trap, and in this instance, walnuts.   MMMMMM, num, num!

Ooooooh, One’ll have indigestion dans le truckle bed!  That quilt’ll be hovering celingward in no time!

Lucky One always has an emergency Gaviscon up me knicker leg!

Had a visit from A the B today…

Life has dealt her a cruel blow or three in the past year and she sat there enveloped in a massive woolly article, quite bowed by life.

With her poor little head sunk down inside the huge roll neck, she resembled a little old yorkshire pudding slumped on the sofa.

She used to be the most bright eyed, twinkly person imaginable.  Life has issued her with a low wattage, energy saving bulb, like the one in my bog, and her sparkle has gone.

Any road up, it was lovely to see her, nonetheless and she went off full of plans for the coming year.

One seems to have been bitten by the Limerick bug…

Uncle Bert’s still holed up in his room

That now issues a whiff of the tomb

And none come to free him

From his mausoleum

He just festers alone in the gloom

In which One has piles of news…

Positively leapt from the truckle bed yesterday morn with a view to sashaying off to the great Metrolopis of Plymouth to enchant the great unwashed with me wares.

From the previous days’ depths of gloom emerged a manic Lovely One with the possibility of having contact with other humans.

The sudden and most welcome shift of mood made One briefly consider that One may, indeed, be one of those Bi-Polar-Bears: one minute fit to leap from the highest kerb, the next being scraped from the ceiling.

Ah well, One’s artistic je ne se quois makes One even more adorable, Dear Reader.

Any road up, cleared off at a rate of knots in the Lovely One Mobile, putting the frighteners on those hat wearing nonentities trundling up the middle lane in those ridiculous little vehicles that resemble Noddy shoes.

Dear Little S was full of tidings about some bint on TV having cheek fillers removed and wouldn’t rest until he’d made poor dear Lovely One watch the spectacle on YouTube.   Silly Boy!

Made One’s way thence to the printer…

Mwah, mwah, Happy N Y and all that bollicks!

Thence to Dartington where One was stalked by a special needs traffic controller until One practically had to schmoooze her low slung gusset in order to avoid a porking ticket.

DON’T THESE EEJITS KNOW WHO ONE IS?

Everyone suitably agog at me doings One sheared, only to find a pile of furry bastard puke all over me v expensive Emu sheepskin slippers.  Why did it have to be on One’s, and not the entry level Matalan Mules of it’s master?

To finish, and One doesn’t feel as though One has betrayed a confidence with the little ditty, has One?

ODE TO A PILE

A girl I know’s just overjoyed

To be free from a huge haemorrhoid

It was awfully unsightly

gave grief day and nightly

A cold compress has since been deployed

Monday, 14 January 2013

In which Mr Trebus rises from the grave…

Mr Trebus went for the world record for staying, unbathed within his storage facility.  Obv, One began to make plans upon the event of his sad demise…

1     contact ex Mrs Trebus and offload dog

2     appoint clearance company to dispose of contents of storage facility: numerous bottles of fizzy kak, suspicious looking potato based snacks and many, many pairs of ‘special’ trousers.  (always worn pulled up too high in manner of Father Christmas)

3     design plan for spare room

Just biffed off to la la land with that particular favourite daydream when the Pinkster pringed to discuss our recent comms from the Corduroy Calamity.  (When bent over: takes on the appearance of a jumbo cord two seater sofa)  buy now pay later at DFS, delivered in time for Christmas.  Sadly our sales payments never were though!

Any road up, the CC has finally fronted up via email to explain the reason that sales payments haven’t been made.  Apparently there were no sales and the bills kept mounting up!  You don’t say!  There’s me thinking we were going to be in profit from day one!

Ah well, all’s well that ends well.  It’s just that, well, it didn’t.

Drainage bloke fronted up to explain himself and to make good my bog today.

Long moaning session from Lovely One culminating in the complaint about no one knowing where my keys were.

‘We gave them to the Asprea man,’ said Bog Bloke.

‘No you didn’t, that was my husband,’ said LO

‘No it wasn’t, I’ve met your husband,’ he went on.

‘That wasn’t my husband,’ says One

AAAAAhhhhh he said

Now everyone’s confused, including you, Dear Reader.

Sunday, 13 January 2013

In which One saunters down memory lane…

As a young Lovely One, One rather enjoyed One’s own company.  Not that One had a goodly amount of time to Oneself.  Now, a rather different story.  Even though, technically, there is a further human in residence, One is rather more ill disposed to the deafening silence.  Mr Trebus has taken up residence in his storage facility.

A double edged sword.  Rather satisfying not to have to suffer sports various upon the televisual device, but abandoned by One’s friends who no longer wish to visit now One is not technically alone.

Ah well, bed – made – lie in it, as me old granny used to say.

One must be growing v old, as One has begun to recall the distant past with alarming accuracy, whilst of course, forgetting what One went into the kitchen for.

This very morning One sat up in bed with a start, having recalled the name of a dangerous old rogue who lurked around in the premises of One’s v first job, in order to get the nubile young One in the lift on her own.

I expect all these doings have been prompted by the revelations concerning that ghastly, creepy man Savile.

One read an article in the Sunday Times a couple of weeks ago by India Knight who was defending the seventies against all the salacious stories currently circulating.   Well, she’s a little younger than Lovely One and One can inform her with absolute knowledge of the distasteful and downright lewd treatment that a young girl had to endure in the world of work.

A while ago when the penchant for taking legal action against employers for compensation began, One totted up the amount One would have been able to inveigle from colleagues various and, make no mistake, One would have been sashaying around the Caribbean rather than festering in the underground lair.

It was a different world.  A world where an interviewer could ask without impunity ‘are you engaged/married/pregnant/planning a child,’ and the outcome depended on your answer.

It was de riguer to pass comment on what One was wearing or on any body part the old lech was ogling at the time.

It wasn’t even a ‘hands off’ policy and it didn’t confine itself to work either. I well remember the ghastly little bus conductor who used to ram himself up against my back and I’m pretty sure it wasn’t the ticket machine I could feel!

Obviously, One doesn’t condone these prehistoric practices and is v glad that at last the pathetic predators are being exposed.  It’s just that no one ever said anything about it and if you had the nerve all you could do was give them a swift knee in the gusset.

There we are, got that out of me system.  Off for another day of silence and work.

Is it worth it?  No

Saturday, 12 January 2013

In which One is upset yet again by nasty neighbours…

A missive on the mat…

FOR STORAGE OF ME BASHED UP OLD STUFF IF YOU PLEASE…

Send us money, bla de bla bla etc…

From the ever kindly fairy godmother up the path.

The insurance company signed the job off on 17th December according to ‘I’ve worked in insurance for 28 years’ head haggster.

Well – no – actually…  and if you’d kept yer beadies on the action as you should have, you’d know that!

Any road up, having been inconvenienced to the point of illness, One would have hoped the little old dears might have enquired about the drain doings. 

Oh, why am I bothering to endow these fiends with human emotions?

28 years in insurance wasted then.  Still, One is fairly sure it wasn’t in Customer Services!

Biffed off to acquire Boy a suit yesterday.  He has an interview! Woo Hoo

I do hope something comes of this foray into the outside world.

One is now ‘on me uppers’  and if he changes his mind again and wants to be a lion tamer, he’ll have to buy his own chair!

Limped up to the 10 Parishes meeting (still got v annoying leg)  Well, actually both One’s legs are quite annoying – being short and fat with positively thunderous thighs.

How does Princess P do it?

She spent a goodly amount of time explaining everything and then, as usual, some dimwits had to have it all explained again.

WHY piped up on numerous occasions.  Time hasn’t taken the edges off that little horror!

As ever, P was magnificent.  One would have been over the desk manhandling the irritating little jaspers, but not P.  Over and over she repeated the information, whilst the assembled company fidgeted and raised eyes skyward.

The Corduroy Calamity’s plus one was there.  Notably herself had eschewed the occasion which was just as well, given that there were v angry artists who would like to know the current whereabouts of their art and their payments!

Am having thoughts second about the whole thing now.  Half the fun of it is having a few bods all gathered together and that won’t happen this time.

Perhaps just feel a bit jaded today,  Yes that’s it

Note to self

Just because Prosseco looks like lemonade doesn’t mean One should neck it as such

Thursday, 10 January 2013

In which One is deconstructing…

Why do I do it?  Why oh why do I just say…. ‘yes.’

When what I actually mean is NO NO NO, I’ve done it before and it doesn’t work.  It’s not what I do and I don’t want to do it.

That annoying Johnny Depp wanting another lie in…

Well, alright then no.  Actually it’s someone wanting a painting of one building.  That’s right! ONE

LOVELY ONE DOESN’T DO ONES

Well that’s not strictly true since One has been attempting to paint this particular one all fecking day today and yesterday and a goodly amount of the day before.  When what I should be doing is the Kim Vastgut forgery for the Pinkster’s show in Fitzhead Tithe Barn.  (Saturday 26 January if yer interested)

Admittedly, One was seduced into the agreement by the promise of the aforementioned ‘onester’ being hung in the reception of an exceptionally grand establishment.  AND NO – One isn’t telling YOU, Dear Reader, it’s way too special for you! 

One is so easily led by the prospect of a bit of free publicity.

Any road up One has been granted an absolutely splendid gaff for One’s personal gallery for the 10 Parishes Festival. 

BF and her associate are doing theirs in a disused inspection pit. 

‘Tis but fitting that Lovely One should have a gaff of One’s own, as befitting the acquired status of your very own Lovely One.

Day four of not having a studio or gallery to go and paint in and already One is letting standards slip.

Jim jams until 11.30am

No make up

eating cereal for every meal

GOT TO GET OUT TOMORROW

Wednesday, 9 January 2013

In which One is in demand …

Pring pring, pring pring,,,

LO     Hello (in mournful, nay, funereal tone)

DH    Good morning LO, this is a very posh and expensive gallery here.  We have sold squillions of your very lovely pictures and we need some more immediately.

LO     That IS splendid news (audibly brightening and visibly preening)

DH     Yes, we want 6 x bla de bla, 20 x wossnames, 45 assorted thingummies and a brand new view of the Big house on Nob Hill. 

LO     One will sharpen up me bestest painting stick forthwith. When would you like these to be delivered?

DH     Well, ‘tis quiet as the grave in here at the mo, being the first week of January.

LO     Mmmmmm. One should be able to deliver within the week, methinks.

DH    If we (big posh gallery – far too expensive and refined for you, dear reader) sell one more of your pieces it will begin to look a little bare.   Still…..  I expect I could put something else in it’s place.

LO      SOMETHING ELSE!!!!!……………………..

Screeeech,  brrrmmmm,   whizz…..

(noises of Bentley winging it’s way IMMEDIATELY to V posh gallery)

MUCH TOO GOOD FOR YOU!!

Tuesday, 8 January 2013

In which One has awoken under a grey cloud…

So begins a new working year.  Sadly, now with no gallery to go and paint in.  That means being incarcerated in the underground lair for the foreseeable.  What a dragzilla!

Uncle Bert seems to have sheared and left in his place Mr Trebus.  Complete with items various stacked from floor to ceiling.  All clouded in a blanket of gloom and despair.

‘Tis a little difficult to see how the future has any meaning, or indeed, point.  Still, ‘tis the most gloomy month of the year and One is sure that a quick biff up the square will restore One’s sunny disposition.

A new neighbour arrived yesterday afternoon, but they didn’t bring with them the extraordinary amount of baggage that UB had upon his return from the great Metrolopis. 

The poor little Underground Lair simply isn’t equipped to imbibe the gargantuan quantities of Yazoo and animal carcasses from somewhere called ‘the cash and carry’ required to sustain the carnivorous cove that is UB.

Shall have to plod on with the broken bog saga.  What a complete and utter waste of time that all was.  Still, One expects that it brought some Seasonal cheer to the Uggsters, knowing they have brought One even more discomfort and distress.

Perhaps the next stroke will be fatal.  That should cheer them up!

Monday, 7 January 2013

In which One passes the ‘other’ door, with an emergency garlic clove…

Biffed off up the alley to see Lovely Gordon who, incidentally, had been constructing a pie so similar to that of Lovely One, we felt there must be something in the air. ‘Piasma’ perhaps?

No matter.  On the way past the ‘other’ door…  You know, dear reader, the two doors… One, the door to the fiery pit of Hell, marked ‘Abandon hope all ye who enter here.’  Any road up, in the porch a large, fat rodent sat munching on a bit of gristle: the remnants of one of the inhabitants perchance? No such luck!  The lights were on, but still no sign of humanity at home.  Aah well, may they all have the year they deserve!

I digress.  Lowered the drawbridge over the river of Bile and sauntered up the passage awaiting the return of LG from the Laundromat. Why does a chap with two washin’ mashins use the Laundromat?  Less chance of imbibing the eco friendly washing liquid in error, One imagines.  We want not a repeat of the lily white turdage experience, (see early 2012)

So, there One was, a silver coating of Wivey drizzle all over me Fastnet, made-to-order short swing coat when One espied the streak of professorage ambling down through the darkness in no more than a T- shirt!  Mother would have had something to say about that!

Whilst awaiting his attention One cast One’s beadies about the hill.  All quiet and damp as per.  But wait…

A strange new custom must have been born whilst One has been away on the Shirleytosis enforced sabbatical…

Outside One’s previous gaff where once exotic plants brightened up the lives of the gruesome passers by, was a four ring hob nestling on some rather spiffing black plastic held down by a redundant Christmas tree and some large rocks.

One has heard tell of the curious custom of biffing a lump of coal outside on the cusp of the New Year, yet am bamboozled by the casting out of a four ring hob, or indeed, a big black rat.  But, One suspects that was the familiar of one of the inhabitants of the ‘other’ door! 

 

Sunday, 6 January 2013

In which One makes a pie…

Call the po-leece!  One has lost One’s lucky pie dish!  Suitably named, as it’s lucky if it ever gets used.

However, in an inferior dish, One has constructed a chicken and hamilton pie.  Ta Da!

What has brought about this sudden surge of domesticity you might ask?  Well, don’t then.  See if I care.

Well, for those of you dear readers hanging on me every word and doings: it was a trip to the cosy little nest of BF and BFP.  One often recalls the astonishing edict that ‘I like to anticipate his every need,’ gushed forth from BF with regard to BFP.  A fourteen ton truck drove into One’s gob at the time, so wide open in amazement was it!  But, maybe there’s something in it (other than a truck)

There they were all snuggled up in their Mayoral ermine blankie on the Chesterfield, their little tummletons swollen with beef stew and dumplings and positively glowing with satisfaction.  BF (constantly in a wrap over pinnie and curlers these days) was florid from hours bent over the aga and exuded the comforting glow of me grannie on baking day.

SO – ONE HAD A RADICAL IDEA

Maybe One has been approaching the opposite in the wrong direction.

ONE HAS MADE A PIE

But the other inhabitant of the Underground Lair has been in his room for over thirty six hours now, so it looks like it might be pie for One.

Any road up – off up the alley to see Lovely Gordon now – so there!

Friday, 4 January 2013

In which One is up to the gunnels in Mucus…

So, here One jolly well is waiting for the furniture to be delivered so that the underground lair may be returned to something akin to a living space fit for Lovely One.

For a job that was described by the Haggster Numero Uno as ‘someone is just coming round to look at a little blockage in the drains,’ to being out of here for more than two months, is nowhere near an end.

The pea-brained morons who dug up the floor appear to have emptied most of it either into the bath, which takes six weeks to empty now, or down the bog, which is battered and broken.

If any of the numerous twatticuses who engineered this debacle think the subject is now closed, then they are very sadly mistaken!

Any road up, another anomaly has come to my attention, in the over use of the ghastly word ‘mucus’ all over the television.

A plethora of knitted persons with woollen snot and bogies are paraded before us on a daily basis with advice on which product to swallow/inhale/rub on, in order to thin out our ‘mucus’. 

LOVELY ONE DOES NOT HAVE MUCUS

Mucus is only available for council house dwelling olfactory devices and not the neat little up-turned nubbie of the Lovely One.

And as for that stchooopid bint in one of the other ads:  Lilian Mary Snot-Gobbler, or whatever her name is.  Does she think she’ll ever get another acting job?  How so?  She’ll forever be the Snot and Bogie bint, the silly moo.

And Ainsley bloody Harriot (he would benefit from the rough end of a pineapple up the chuff-box) is at it as well!  With his sodding Covonia, yet another snot and flob inducing product so popular at this time of year.

The way it’s going One won’t be able to remain upright from sliding about in the ankle deep slime ejaculated from hither and thither,

Any road up, shall have a little sing-ette in the sitting room before the furniture arrives and shags the acoustics.

Shall begin with the ‘Refrain from Spitting.’

Wednesday, 2 January 2013

In which Aged P takes agin the Baked Bean…

So, there we were having lunch and Aged P was up to her old tricks:  keeping all the other customers under observation.

‘Oooooh, look at ‘er ‘air, if you please, mine’s not like that is it AND what’s that she’s wearing?’ all delivered in a loud voice from behind her hand as if that makes it inaudible to the assembled throng.

‘We came in ‘ere the other week and that Enid complained about the food the whole time.  Next week we’re going to Morrisons and she hates it there ha ha,’ she went on, with a gob full of salad that was projected across the table.

In an effort to introduce a different subject, Boy asked One what college One went to…

‘Oh it was only the Technical…….,’ was all One could ejaculate before Aged P biffed in with…

I went to college and did tailoring and sewing, yea, what do think about that then?’

Congratulating Aged P, Boy plodded on with a short sermon about politics which prompted the comment…

‘I’m BNP.’

Boy and One glanced toward one another and turned our attention to our scoff.

A fraught trip to the garden centre to buy shoes and a sweater (go figure) was followed by a welcome cup of tea when back at the Aged P gaff.  The place is antiquated and the bathroom is designed in the manner of a medieval torture chamber, but can we get her out?  Can we feck!

Any road up, we did attempt to encourage the use of the TV remote control to ascertain what was showing, but Aged P refuses to press any other buttons than ‘on’ and ‘off.’

‘It’s all shit anyway and I hate that Eastenders,’ opined the aged one.

‘Well don’t watch it then,’ One suggested, which was met with a ‘Huh’ and the usual sniff.

‘That Enid watches it and then tells me about it when she’s been to Tesco, and have you seen that enormous piece of cheese with cranberries in it that bloody Andrew got me.  I ask you, that Delphine and John… They come round here and then they go to Tesco! And that June.  She couldn’t go out if she didn’t have a car she falls over all the time.  I can’t stand it with them all falling over and wanting to piss when we’re at Morrisons.  And that Eileen goes off every morning at 9.00 down the town and has a breakfast! Did you ever!  Egg, bacon, sausage, beans and toast she ‘as.’

‘Oh that’s a good idea,’ countered One, ‘Why don’t you go with her?’

‘I HATE BEANS YOU IDIOT!’

aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh

Tuesday, 1 January 2013

in which Aged P is just the same as last year…

‘That bloody Enid! She won’t look at any of your cards you know.  I’m a poet, she says.  Everyone else up the art club looks at them except that silly bitch.  I hate her and that stupid son of hers.’

Bla bla bla de bla and so on goes the Aged P.

‘And she always buys me something that she would like for Christmas.  Jumpers with sequins on or flowery T shirts.  I ask you! I take ‘em straight down the charity shop.’

‘Was it Eileen’s you went to for Christmas Day and Boxing Day lunch?’ One enquired attempting to staunch the flow of bile.

‘Oh no.  I went to Enid’s. Her son collected me in the car.  Did you see that bloody great box of Dove stuff he bought me?’ continued the ungrateful old bat.

Busily eating a slice of white bread toast (I can’t stand the strain of explaining it again) I was informed that I had to eat ‘them chicken things’ today.

All meals must be planned whilst eating the previous one and then strictly adhered to.  As a child One thought that if One didn’t consume lunch at precisely noon, that One would expire half way through the afternoon.

The visit to fracture clinic was undertaken in monsoon like conditions. 

‘Ooooh,  ‘ee was lovely that Indian doctor, and so westernised,’ crooned AP

‘Oh for goodness sake, you sound like some Memsahib off a flamin’ tea plantation.  What century are you in?  His parents were probably born in Luton, for goodness sake.’

‘Well I’m just saying,’ she went on, clearly disgruntled.

Aged P didn’t listen to anything he said and as usual reorganised the information given into something more suitable to her requirements.  She also explained to the doc in her very loud, wide open mouth talk that is reserved for anyone born outside Luton, all her other ailments.

We came back and Boy was watching the news…

‘Ooooh just look at that idiot Hilary Clinton,’ she began ‘her ‘air is far too long for a woman of her age.  The silly cow!’

I’ve just phone Arkansas to tell the doctor to go home immediately and not bother with the blood clot but just to contact Vidal Sasoon without delay.