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Tuesday, 30 December 2014

In which One’s twinkle is the place to spend New Year…


‘We have made an appointment for you at two fifty on Friday’, came the instruction from the hosp. 

‘Flippin’ ‘eck,’ thinks One, they might as well have hired a charabanc (see above) and invited David bleedin’ Bailey and Cecil Beaton up there with their box Brownies, fer fecks sake.

Roll up, roll up, Dear Reader, and get your ticket for the magical mystery tour of the womb of doom. Bring yer polaroid swingers, belt out a couple of choruses of ‘I’ll be up your flue in a minute or two,’ and we’re off…

They must have liked it up there, because now they want yet another fecking trip!

I’ve got an excellent idea…

When you were up there in the first fecking place, why not do all you’ve got to and let One get on with what’s left of One’s sojourn on planet earth, having a high old time with the A of the F.

Any road up, One will be there, legs akimbo, yet again with a team of students perusing me pudenda.


‘What have you to say in your defence?’ enquired One of Vile ex Husband when One finally caught up with him regarding his no-show on removal day.

‘I completely forgot. I was at D’s (she’s not as good looking as One, by the way OBV) I’ve had an upset tummy for a couple of days.’

HA HA methinks the new object of desire must be a serial killing poisoner.  AND she wants Boy over there with Vile ex Husband to celebrate the New Year.


‘I liked him, he’s alright,’ came Boy’s opinion of the A of the F having met him on Christmas Day.

When One was ordered to the galley to make sausage rolls One heard Boy say to the A…

‘Blimey!  I wasn’t expecting to have a conversation about philosophy at Mum’s.  She usually only talks about shoes and handbags.’

So – ‘He’s alright,’ as opined by Boy is tantamount to ‘you  may marry him forthwith and I shall call him Dear Papa evermore.’

Any road up, I’m off now to seek out a clean pair of shreddies and a catering pack of Femfresh since half of Somerset appear desp to get a shot up me twinkle…



Monday, 29 December 2014

In which One is full of the seasons goodwilly…


The speed with which One packed and vacated the Manor yesterday, and the state of One’s Vile-ex-Husband (see above) are doing little to show One in a favourable light as a life partner to the A of the F.

I know, I know, Dear Reader, One is a seasoned bolter, a notorious numbty in the relationship arena, and a really, really hopeless judge of character…

BUT One simply ADORES the A of the F, who appears to accept One with all One’s flaws and imperfections (haven’t got any really, obv, but for the sake of the story let’s assume I have)

Whatever we do or say to one another it doesn’t change a thing and we are a tiny team of war-wounded warriors against the world.

Speaking of wounded…

One favours the ‘Chinese burn on the willy’ as a suitable punishment for Vile-ex-husband’s misdemeanours but One hasn’t unpacked the Marigolds as yet, so had to punch him in the face.

One, never having encountered a situation that violence couldn’t solve, is sore afraid that One may have tainted Boy’s view of womankind.  The Christmas card he sent One had the greeting…

‘May your Christmas be filled with peace and happiness’

BUT, Boy had crossed out ‘peace’ and replaced it with ‘beating the shit out of everyone’

As if a fragrant confection of loveliness like One, all ackled up in me chiffon tea-dress and Manolos would bash anyone up?

Well maybe the odd one or two…


In which One is hot on the tail of Vile ex Husband…

‘Deck the halls with Hubbster’s bollicks, fa la la la fecking la’

And so, Dear Reader, me and the A of the F slipped and slid back to Wivey at some ungodly hour (with him moaning about One’s directions and pointing out that his route would have been both quicker and more sensible)

As previously arranged with Vile ex Husband, One arrived with the Wivey Man with a Van at his gaff to collect One’s fablious antique furniture and splendid Persian rug, and, guess what, THE FECKER WASN’T IN



Fortunately, the ‘man with the van’ is a regular employee of One, given the frequency with which One bolts in directions various, and so he didn’t bat an eyelid, didn’t charge One extra and even offered One a monthly charge plan to facilitate One’s frequent changes of address.

The remainder of One’s possessions were acquired from the Bung of Doom and One sincerely hopes never to cross the path of the SSS ever again.

One is never, ever, ever going to help anyone ever again!  Anyway, BF will punch me in the gob if I attempt so to do.

In fact, One has finally accepted that One is a right looking eejit of the highest order.

And with that thought I’m off outside with a catering pack of fags and a bucket of wine.

Saturday, 27 December 2014

In whish One is boiling in me Christmas jim jams...

Meanwhile, back at the Manor...
'We need to go back to my gaff' said the A of the F, 'your printer won't work.'
And so within 17 minutes we were in the car and slithering through driving snow on the top of Exmoor.
'You're lucky, you are', opined Lovely One.
'How do you work that One out?' Came the retort.
'Well' says One, 'how many women do you know who could pack and leave with everything they need in ten minutes?'
'Only you,' Came the reply, 'and that is why we won't be moving in together just yet.'
Sad, but true, Dear Reader, as One has rather a rep for bolting.
'Come live with me and be my love and we shall all the pleasures prove.'
A John Donne mantra that One has lived by thus far with varying degrees of success.
And so it is thus that One is currently seeking a roomie.

Any road up...
The festive season has been a riot of carrot sharpening and tying things up with string. (See ref to BF' s Xmas gifts)
Telly is shite and the only info gained thus far by One is that One is 'sofa poor'
Loads of needy souls worldwide want One to send them at least two quid a month.
Sad donkeys, Indians who can't see, chilly snow leopards, men who kip in doorways and Middle Eastern types who lost their cardigans in conflicts...
I tell you what, Dear Reader, they can have these sodding fleece Christmas pyjamas! It's fecking boiling in here! And anyway the A of the F says I look like an enormous, mutant four year old...

Friday, 26 December 2014

In which One got rather wet…


The hounds, as seen by One and photographed by the A of the F, yesterday in the square as the Chipstable Hunt biffed off to frighten foxes (not kill them, of course, in case it upsets anyone living in Islington)

Any road up, One, resplendent in the de riguer uniform of the countryside, the Barbour and the Hunters) sashayed up the square at around ten o’clock, having levered the A of the F off the futon with a pick axe handle) to be informed by S in the pub that ‘they don’t leave until 11.00am’)  One had forgotten that in the passage of the moons that had taken place as One systematically bolted to places various and eschewed Wivey.

We repaired to a settle with a couple of lukewarm cappuccinos and had a peruse through a comic someone had left on the table. One believes it was called the ‘Sun’ and it sported pictures of young women in their vest and pants and more than a sufficiency of information regarding football, and whether persons various were ‘gutted’, or it’s apparent polar opposite, ‘over the moon.’

We took up the position to get the best shots outside the Courthouse and braved a veritable deluge of precipitation which in the shake of a lamb’s tail had turned One’s otherwise sleek and perfectly coiffed bob into a big, curly mop that dripped seductively down me face and streaked me non-waterproof massacre. Fortunately One is congenitally gorgeous, what with One appealing in equal measures to both Man and Woman, and One was still the belle of the bollicks.

The turnout of followers was rather sparse. Even Princess P was nowhere to be seen.  As for the participants, apart from the Master and the other posh blokes on big horses the assemblage was entirely female, mounted on beasts varying from beautifully groomed mounts to scraggy little ponies.

Whilst One isn’t entirely sanguine about the ripping apart of one of God’s critters (unless it’s for pie filling) One finds the sight of the hunt in flight a wonderful and peculiarly English sight.  As they galloped off into the distance that other peculiarly Wivey phenomenon took place: a massive queue in the Co-op for bottles of scotch and fags.

We. of course, made up the numbers and then biffed off down Silver Street to put our feet up and moan about what was on the telly…

Thursday, 25 December 2014

In which One disgraces Oneself…


It must have seemed like a good idea at the time, but when One woke up and found Oneself and the A of the F had been kipping on the floor, One needed the help of our Lord (see above) to attain the vertical.

It could have been attributed to the bottle of Prosecco One necked in celebration of reaching Christmas Day with all of One’s internal organs still internal and with nary a tumour in sight. 

Or it could have been the second bottle of Prosecco that One inhaled at the sheer bliss of being in the Underground Lair with Boy and the A of the F.

‘Blimey Mum,’ opined Boy when the A of the F went off on one at the serious lack of phone signal and high speed broadband in Wivey, ‘he’s just like you only a bloke.’

Any who, One digresses, One had assumed that One was snugglerised in me spesh fluffy Christmas jim-jams looking like a cuddly Marilyn Monroe as One slid seductively neath the quilt, but upon closer inspection in the harsh and unforgiving light of day, One was found to be sporting One’s v old, faded jim-jam bottoms with the shagged elastic waist, teamed with a Matalan vest that is old enough to vote, with a fecking great lump of toothpaste stuck to the right tit area.

‘Why did you let me sleep on the floor,’ enquired One of the A of the F.

‘Have you ever tried arguing with a drunken woman?’ came the exasperated retort, ‘and anyway you were giggling and farting so much you wouldn’t have heard me.’

One might still have One’s organs in tip-top and in original packaging but One’s girlish, feminine allure appears to have left the building.

In which One gets some fabuloso giftage…

knitted tree

That’s One’s tree that is, Dear Reader…  One knitted it yester-eve whilst listening to the Carol concert.  Yeah right, One could well have done some serious damage with One’s hand-turned, designer, bamboo knitting needles following the inhalation of a bottle of BF’s finest Mulled rocket fuel.

Any who, a joyous Noel to every last one of you what hangs on One’s every word.

What Christmas stocking would be complete without a carrot sharpener and a ball of string?  Two of the many gifts, gratefully received, from BF. (She’s still on the strong pain killers)  One can’t let her stop taking them in order to get the disabled parking ticket so we can park right outside Primarni.

Another delightful gift came in the shape of the recently published ‘Vinegar and Brown Paper’, written by the Pinkster’s uber cool and talented Dear Mama, Mary Baker.  One shall treasure it for the continuation of One’s visit to planet earth.

(Available to download from Amazon.) Get it now!

As you may be aware, Dear Reader, One doesn’t have a Christmas Cancer, so Boy won’t be receiving the gift of a Womb of Doom in a jar this year.  One shall be loitering about annoying everyone well into One’s dotage if One doesn’t have cirrhosis of the livington following the neckage of many a box of the Co-op’s finest in the four-fecking-teen week wait for the results of the biopsy.

‘There’s absolutely nothing to worry about,’ came the message on One’s phone, ‘but call me on *****’

Like feck One will.  If there’s nothing to worry about they’re not plunging anything else up me chuffer in the near future!

Any road up, One must adjourn to the galley and make ready the fatted calf for the visitation of Boy and the A of the F…

Monday, 22 December 2014

In which One is chesty...

The fags and wine have got to go.
Not only can One not afford such ridiculously expensive pastimes, but One has developed a deep chesty hacking cough worthy of a user of 40 Senior Service per day.
The remains of the A of the F' s man flu has settled down for the winter on One's chest.
As you know, Dear Reader, with the generous proportions of One's chest to adhere to, any ailment could prove fatal.
Any road up, One shall be meandering toward The Underground Lair on the morrow to make ready the festive season and shall be welcoming the A of the F into One's natural environment for the first time.
How shall he react to the ways of the One?
There is no moss green velour elderly gentleman's recliner for him to snuggle down into.
Shall he find sufficient comfort in the Louis Cans settle?
As far as One is aware, football isn't on girl's T. V' s at all. Will this test the blossoming love story?
Will he develop a liking for the boxed sets of Bewitched? (One's absolute fave)
Shall he follow the 'No bare bottoms on the antique throw' rule?
Will One be forced to embark upon a training programme the like of the one Vile ex Husband failed miserably afore he fled screaming into the arms of the Snaggle Toothed Troll?
Who can tell, Dear Reader.
One shall warmly embrace the blighter neath the mistletoe on the portcullis and issue him with the Underground Lair do' s and don't's dossier upon his arrival.
We may then repair to the truckle bed until spring creeps over me window sill.

Sunday, 21 December 2014

In which One breathes through One's ears...

Bonjour fellow travellers upon life's lovely highway.
One is in fine fettle and seasonal of spirit this divine dawning of another sensational day in Deepest Devon, at the Manor.
Biffed off to Barnstaple yesterday with the A of the F to acquire some festive frippery and a couple of vats of Pinot to accompany the pie of the sheep  herd that was threatening to be dished out for a TV supper.
We called in to present the LF (lovely family) with a seasonal token of our esteem in the shape of One of the A's shots of their rural gaff taken last Monday when a morning mist cloaked the grounds.
'Want to stay for supper?' Asked Mrs Lovely.
'A is cooking tonight' said One, and thus embarked upon the great shepherd's pie debate.
'That will be ready in half an hour tops,' announced the A of the F.
'Oooh no' chorused One and Mrs Lovely.
'You need to leave it simmering for at least an hour. Go out and ride your horse or something.'
The A gave us one of his 'looks' accompanied by a snort and folded his arms, which is a declaration of ensuing battle.
Upon our return to the Manor a slight adjustment was made in the cooking time, observed by One, but sadly not enough.
'I can't sleep' moaned the A, ' I've got terrible indigestion' says he necking a catering pack of Rennies.
'Huh' huffed One and spent the rest of the sleepless night listening to him groaning and bottom burping, whilst attempting to perfect the art of breathing through One's ears.

Saturday, 20 December 2014

In which One sucks a brazil...

Good Morning world it's a brand new day, I'm packing my bags and I'm getting away...
One is definitely not a servile, ladies maid type and entirely unsuited to the world of being a 'companion of the bosom' in the manner of 'the girl' in Rebecca - Daffers Du Mozzer.
One, too, has One's own Maxim de Winter in the shape of the A of the F.
He even resides in a gaff not dissimilar to Manderley.

In fact, One is, at this very juncture, reclining on a brass day bed being drip fed Bollinger and cracking open oysters between One's muscular thighs.
The Christmas Tree lights cast a festive glow about One's naked acreage as One ponders what to do with 'panic Saturday'
Shall One perambulate into town and return flushed and sated by a day's retail therapy? Or just stay here and suck all the chocolate off the A of the F' s brazils.

Thursday, 18 December 2014

In which One does a bit of glee wee…


That’s me, that is, Dear Reader, upon One’s liberation from the bung of doom…

On Tuesday, ably assisted by Boy and Vile ex Husband, One shall be once again returning to the Underground Lair.

The irresistible lure of the lair takes hold of One once again…

Bloke’s massive Christmas tree is still on loan and due to be laden with One’s scary Gothic Crimbo decorations….

Please Mummy!  Not the scary snowmen again!’ pleaded Boy in Christmases of yore, upon the deaf ears of fiendish mummy One.

‘I want to spend Christmas Day with you Mumuz,’ opined Boy yesterday, ‘I don’t want you to be on your own, especially this year.’

HUH, methinks, the blighters have already decided that One will snuff it from the womb-of-doom disease.

Not fecking likely…

Or as the delightful chatelaine of the bung of doom whined…

‘You’re too evil to die.’

What a lovely old lady.  To think One is almost doing a bit of wee with glee at leaving her.


‘What did you think of Dad’s new girlfriend?’ enquired One of Boy.

‘It was really creepy,’ says Boy, ‘She’s got the same hair as you.’

‘Bet she’s not as good looking as me though, is she?’ countered One to a terrified looking Boy who could offer no response.

‘What did you buy her for Crimbo?’ says One to Vile ex Husband.

‘Chanel no 5,’ counters he.

Read next bit in ‘The League of Gentlemen’ voice, from Royston Vasey…


Wednesday, 17 December 2014

In which One is a great warrior Queen…

warrior two

That’s One, that is, Dear Reader,

Atilla the Hunny

great warrior Queen, resplendent with me hoooj thighs…

Any road up, One has just such a great warrior spirit as the fiery-haired, ginger girly warrior queens of yore. 

In fact, if One leaves One’s ‘L’oreal Ash Blonde’ on a tad too long, One too is a ginger for the passing of a brace of moons.

‘It came to me in the night,’ said BF, ‘I was lying there awake and it just came to me.’

‘What?’ enquired a curious One.

‘Well. How to say ‘I love you’, or anything in fact with flags,’ went on she.

And so a morning of Blue Peter type workshops ensued, monitored on a far too frequent basis by BFP, to the point where we were sorely in danger of not being able to sneak up the bottom of the garden for a fag.

When we finally escaped, BF accidentally set fire to the fag-end dump and subsequently to the stick with which she pokes it. Luckily, by this time, BFP had been distracted by daytime tv and we were in the clear.

‘Blimey,’ said One, ‘You’re a bit reckless today!’

‘Actually,’ replied BF ‘I also came to the unavoidable conclusion in the middle of the night that you get yourself into such horrendous scrapes because you are absolutely fearless.  In fact you would have made an excellent extreme sports person, or a soldier, or an astronaut, or a tightrope walker, or a crocodile wrestler etc etc etc.’

‘Hmmmmm’ replied One, ‘Fearless, or very, very stchoopid.’

In which One tears out One’s hair…


That’s me, that is, Dear Reader…

Not that One actually needs to tear out One’s glorious (natural) blonde, satin smooth, silky tresses.  Oh no, the feckers are coming out in sodding handfuls at the mo with the stress of One’s current swathe of insurmountable predicaments.

What the feck is it with One?  One biffs about minding One’s own bees-tiddly-wax and a veritable maelstrom of chaos and carnage buffets about up me gusset.

One won’t bore you with the details, Dear Reader, as One’s probably bored the tits clean off the lot of you over the years with One’s tales of derring-do and disaster…

Suffice it to say that One shall be rather chuffed in the little mintball department to see the arse end of this year and all it’s current woes.

BUT, it has to be said the year has delivered, in the shape of the A of the F, the most delightful, delectable, de-lovely, Detective Chief Inspector One has ever been inspected by…


Monday, 15 December 2014

In which One does a Dozzer...

In order to have a weekend that couldn't be blighted by bad news, One turned off One's phone and remained incognito for the duration.
The plan worked a treat until last night, One couldn't sleep for the proliferation of ghastly imaginings, so at 5.30 a.m. One pressed the button of terror.
Silence prevails. Obv, when they said 'two weeks' they actually meant 'two weeks'
One really does feel that ten weeks of torturous waiting for the definitive answer is rather too long.
The vast quantities of Pinot that have been consumed and the overflowing ash trays will render One, and indeed, the A of the F, the lucky recipients of at least one lifestyle disease, by the time the verdict is read out.
One was distracted by the marvelious man of the moment by the acquisition of some gloriously tacky Christmas decorations.
'I don't dismind the blue fairy lights' says he bunging them in the basket afore One could tell him that 'Christmas is red, green and gold and New Year is silver, purple and blue.'
No matter, obv years of flashing blue lights have coloured his life.
When the decorations were up One went all Dozzer Day and repaired to the kitchen in me pinny to knock up a pot roast for supper.
There were no complaints, tips for future visits to the kitchen, or otherwise unfavourable comments...
Until the A cleared off to make a cup of tea, whereupon, One heard him shriek...
'What the feck happened in here?'
One supposes it does look a bit like someone threw a hand grenade in, but hey, One can't make a pot roast without cracking pots, can One.

Sunday, 14 December 2014

In which One makes a wish...

A magical night of shooting stars...
In the starlight of a frosty night, standing at the front of the manor with the darling A of the F, One made a wish...
By Wednesday One will have the answer.

Friday, 12 December 2014

In which One and BF discover the truth…


The A of the F is BFP’s evil twin.  ‘Tis a dead cert.  They must have been separated at birth. (See above)

‘It’s impossible to watch TV with BFP,’ complained BF, ‘He always knows who dunnit, and remembers everything if he’s seen it before.’

‘Tell me about it!,’ agreed One, ‘The A of the F is like a sodding Police Inspector. Oh, hang on, he is a sodding Police Inspector.’

‘If it’s not bloody Sharpe, it’s Hornblower,’ moaned BF.

‘Noooo, you’re kidding me,’ countered One, ‘The A has the boxed sets of both.’

‘And,’ went on BF, ‘for laughs it’s Norman-sodding-Wisdom!’

I don’t believe it,’ shrieked One, ‘They are exactly the same. Sunday afternoons just aren’t complete without Mr Grimsdale impersonations.’

One has always indulged the male of the species with their curious comedy choices, since, being male, the bar is set that much lower.

However, in the case of BFP and the A of the F, who are both wildly intelligent coves, One does wonder awhile.

Any road up, the mild mannered, quiet, logical, analytical perseverance of BFP is matched and exceeded by the A of the F who brings to the duo: the veiled threat of violence (to be deployed only when necessary),competent firearms usage, steely determination, an aura of authority, dangerous charm, and of course, drinking, smoking and swearing…

Imagine the carnage when the twins are unleashed upon the Sister Ugly as they victimise poor darling Lovely One upon her return to the underground lair…

Thursday, 11 December 2014

In which One ponders…

Here One rests in One’s small room

Pondering One’s sickly womb

One can but lie here, still, and wait

Until One learns it’s grisly fate

Through a small hole will they winkle

or drag the blighter out me twinkle?

I’ll save it as a gift to give

and mark it ‘where I used to live’

To bring a little Christmas joy

To that great big lummox Boy.


‘You go too far’ I hear you chorus Dear Reader.  Nonsense, One is merely laughing in the face of adversity.   Well, One should always stick with what One does best, shouldn’t One?

One went a visiting yester-eve to Vile ex Husband and Boy’s gaff.  Together, as a dysfunctional family we watched  a skeletal Father Christmas being dragged around Wivey in a rather fetching sleigh, by a flatbed truck.

There were no revellers abroad that evening and save for the Council workers in their High-Viz jackets (and us at the window) the only by-standers were the blokes having a fag outside the pub.

A strange ritual then ensued…

Father Christmas was presented with an aluminium step ladder, looked awfully chuffed, and shot off into the distance to the sound of sleigh bells.

Obv a strange Somerset tradition…

Or, maybe it’s just Wivey.  That’s more likely.

Wednesday, 10 December 2014

In which Pollyanna temporarily left the building…

glad game

That, Dear Reader, is One (see above) perpetually offering a smiling, cheerful (and obv flawlessly beautiful) face to the world.

Yesterday, and temporarily over the weekend, Pollyanna left the building.

The thing is this, Dears, Christmas appears to have been cancelled in all of One’s ports of call this year.

‘There isn’t room for a Christmas Tree in here,’ opined the A of the F when One began mentally measuring up for decking the hall with boughs of holly. (and, by the way, how does he know what I’m thinking?)

Back at the Bung of Doom ‘I hate Christmas’ is the preferred mantra of the chatelaine.

As for One’s eclectic collection of Seasonal baubles: they are packed away with the rest of One’s life in a big wooden chest in the Underground Lair.

When One and Boy went to look at the Underground Lair prior to purchase, One said to Boy…

‘Where shall we put the Christmas Tree?’ (that being the first consideration for One on any home acquisition.)

‘Mumuz, it’s only April!’ countered Boy.

One recounts this story merely to share with you,Dear Reader, the importance One places on this time of year and the keeping of all it’s traditions.

Surely there is nothing in the world nicer than sitting in the firelight with the twinkly glow of the Christmas Tree lights sharing a Tesco Winebox of Pinot with the One you love? Chuck in a three quid box of Tesco Collection chocolates and yer luck’s in!

Any road up, One is back to normal this very a.m. and ready to take on the womb of doom…

Tuesday, 9 December 2014

In which One has a gloomy day, as does everyone else…

A gloomy day, weather-wise, and frankly, most other things wise.  One is desp attempting to ‘live in the day’ but ‘tis difficult sometimes, to remain positive.

When at the A of the F’s gaff, all is well and wonderful.  Lovely company and oodles of cosy cuddles sustain One through One’s darkest hours.

And, lets not forget the darling A, for he is worried for One.

Just to trounce yesterday’s ‘red eye’ One received a missive from the solicitor acting for the Malthouse Management company demanding One pay for the restoration of the stone work on the back of the block since One’s water butt caused the problem.

One has been versed in what to say to them, but frankly, One has bigger poisson to fry at the moment.

‘Whatever will be, will be…’

Dozzer Day.

Monday, 8 December 2014

In which One is pissed...

As if poor darling Lovely One hasn't got enough to put up with...

1.  Being chucked out into the cold
2.  Going back, alone, to the underground lair
3.  Not selling enough to keep the wooluff from the door
4.  Waiting FAR TOO FECKING LONG to find out the fate of One's womb

One now has a burst blood-fecking-vessel in One's otherwise beautiful baby blue left eye.

Feck feck feckety feck.

Am fed up, peed off and generally fecking pissed.

Have resolved to remain intoxicated at all times.

Sunday, 7 December 2014

In which One is being brave...

One should be painting for One's adoring public today, but instead One is reclining on a chaise lounge in the A of the F' s magnificent drawing room being fed oysters and champagne by his own fair hand.
One is being brave, and, obv, looking not dissimilar to a gaunt, but exceptionally beautiful Pre Raphaelite painting.
This afternoon One shall be transported via  sleigh and four white steeds to a Victorian Christmas extravaganza.
Carefully wrapped in One's Beaver, One shall recline like a mysterious Festive wraith, coughing gently with a Brussels lace handkerchief clutched in my tiny hand.
Or, if we can't be arsed, we might stay in and have fish finger sandwiches and a snog.

Saturday, 6 December 2014

In which One puckers...

Lying in bed in the starfish position (the A of the F was in the water closet) One was drifting in and out of kip, when One wondered if fish fart.
'How the feck would I know that' said th a A upon One's enquiry, 'and anyway what a stchoopid question to start the day with and what are you doing?'
'I'm looking at sparkly things' countered One 'and then I'm going to have a game of Angry Birds.'
From this, Dear Reader, you will deduce that One is in a non-cerebral zone today.
One shall very likely spend the remainder of One's days in just such a manner.
One had calculated that One had approximately 23 years left to snog the A of the F, but since One may be embarking upon One's festive finale, One had better pucker up without delay.

Friday, 5 December 2014

In which One makes an important discovery…


‘Are you sure you two girls are old enough to smoke?’ enquired the amusing article in the fag shop of One and BF.

One giggled and twisted One’s control knicker leg to such an extent that One inadvertently made a v important discovery by not paying attention and purchasing the wrong fags.

And Lo, the Menthol Fag was discovered. A drag on one of them and One felt positively fragrant and fighting fit.

‘A gurt big pack of green ones?’ went on the flirtatious fag flogger.

If he’d have offered One a five pack of Cubans rolled up a maidens thigh One would have nodded, still blushing and hopping from One foot to another with the ridiculous glee of being flirted with by a real, red blooded, pulse positive male of the species.

One sold One’s wedding and eternity ring to fund the festive season.   ‘Aaaaah’ One hears you chorus Dear Reader,  but, no, sorrow not, for One was married for a mere twenty minutes many moons ago.

With a Barbour pocketful of cash One and BF peeked inside a curiosities emporium and One espied a divine day-bed on which One could re-enact the death scene from Camille should the occasion arise.

‘You’re not getting that!’ declared BF and shot of up the high street in an indignant manner.

One could just picture Oneself, pale, beautiful, in a Victorian lace nightgown, snuggled up in me v expensive shabby chic throw on that there day bed with all you adoring Readers sobbing around my tiny body, racked with pain.

But no, BF the sensible would have One shuffle off this mortal coil in me flippin’ truckle bed, no doubt wearing me brown jim-jams.

Any road up, the top end dealt with, the bottom end is still in question and unless an assistant with a mop and bucket and suitable wipe-clean seating is arranged One won’t be Mwa-Mwa-ing One’s public at the Art Show Opening this evening.

Wednesday, 3 December 2014

In which One swerves the TV…


A small portion of One, see above, was removed for further investigation.

‘There’s a T.V. screen to your left so that you can see inside your womb,’ began the cove nestled between One’s thighs.

‘If it’s all the same to you,’ One countered, ‘unless you’ve got Breaking Bad on there, I’ll swerve it.’

One chose not to go down the ‘Womb with a View,’ joke route, being an inventive sort even with me pants off and me legs in the air.

‘Have you got anyone at home to look after you?’ came the enquiry.

Well we all know the answer to that sad question, don’t we Dear Reader, and so even though One could have done with fifteen pints of Vodka and a sharp blow to the temple to accompany the proposed anaesthetic, One resolved to remain schtum in the face of agony lest they try to ackle One up in One of those disgusting gowns and invite One to stay the night.

‘It’s the best cancer to get,’ said the medical bint, ‘not that it’s definitely that.  We’re just ruling it out at the moment.  Since it’s all contained we can just remove everything.’

‘Oh goody’, thought One, ‘just how the feck am I going to have that, move and start a new job all in the space of a couple of weeks?’

One need to get back into One’s Underground Lair ASAP since One needs One’s own space, and a portion of wall on which to hang a certificate One won at the South Molton Fatstock Show at the weekend.

One is the current ‘Heifer Most Likely to…’

Tuesday, 2 December 2014

In which One is …


‘No longer mourn for me when I am dead, than though shall hear the surly sullen bell’…..  bla bla fecking bla

One never even knew that was a sonnet, One read it in a book by Victoria Holt when One was a gel.

Any road up, that and other miserable missives have haunted One’s dreams…

And then, One woke up in One’s cold, lonely truckle bed in One’s begrudged cell, without the A of the F beside One.

It can’t get any worse than that, can it?


One received an email during the night from the National Lottery…  Sign into your account as soon as you can we have news about your ticket.

‘Oh goody, goody’ thought One, One can have One’s insides scooped out with a silver spoon, in a private hospital, instead of having them hooked out with a spike by an apprentice from Dewhurst the butcher. (Hopefully not the one who hacked through One with a serrated vegetable knife to release Boy into an unsuspecting world)

Speaking of Boy, he who was nestled in the offensive organ of the day, should One pickle the womb in formaldehyde and present it to Boy as a Christmas gift?  No sales figures in for last month, so it looks as if that’s all he’s going to get.

One, however, has been informed that the A of the F will be spending the day of Chrimbo with his Dear Mama.  That is just as it should be. 

‘I thought you could come over on Boxing Day,’ says he.

Well, One is currently all gung ho and blasé about being alone, but really, One would rather spend the day at the A’s than being at the Underground Lair, or even, God forbid, the bung of doom.

In which One is fairly sanguine...

Good Morning world...
The A of the F flew out of the truckle bed at an ungodly hour to minister to his flock of the day, so it's just me and Chris Evans snuggling under the quilt.
It is the best of times. It is the worst of times...
BUT, One is a lucky One, with good friends to gently guide One through whatever happens next, and of course, the A of the F, who is more than a friend.
One's Pollyanna positivity is hanging by the slenderst of threads today, since One has acquired the A's man flu, just to put the tin hat on it.
Obv, One won't be affected to such a grave degree, since One is a girl.
'Don't worry about anything practical,' said he, 'that can all be sorted.'
One has never had a chap do anything much in a practical manner. One has been alone in the world for most stuff.
Little things like a call to say he is on his way home or the sound of his key in the door, or even his huffing and puffing and complaining when he first appears are tiny pieces of Heaven to One.
All One need now is a Christmas Tree and some mistletoe and One's joy will be unbounded.
Well, that, cracking Padstow, winning the lottery, and not having cancer...

Monday, 1 December 2014

In which One uderstands...

Off we biffed up hill and down Dale to the distant farm that we can see from the sitting room window.
We'd been invited to Sunday lunch by friends of the A of the F and what a delightful family they are. One was merely absorbed into the throng and not treated as a minor celebrity/curiosity as per other erstwhile A's BF' s
One had been requested to wear socks inside One's Uggs Noir, as upon removal of the snuggly boots One's feet are Noir aussi.
Does the blighter know nothing?
Nonetheless, One being loved up to the armpits, One obliged, not wishing to display One's feet Noir to the delightful assembled throng.
Joy of joys, not only did they have pussy cats, but puppies too, so One and the wife of the A of the F' s bezzie mate oooohed and aaahed with rapturous glee whilst the chaps looked at us in abject horror and started talking about sport in case they felt obliged to pet the pussies.
How simply divine to be gathered up into a delicious family for the afternoon. One completely forgot about the ghastly goings on that are awaiting One around the corner of this week.
The A of the F has been a complete Angel to One, to the degree that One has silently shed a couple of buckets of tears when One is alone.
Whatever lies over the rainbow, One shall prevail, as One at last understands.

Sunday, 30 November 2014

In which the memory foam tries to forget...

'You really must go to Padstow,' said the diminutive Mar as she swilled a quart of Chardonnay to wash down the six pack of cheese and onion.
One merely mentioned this in passing to the wonderful A of the F, and in a trice, One was on One's way wrapped snugly in One's beaver.
Despite the darling man having been at the wheel of his ve-hickle for the entire week, and hanging on to the arse end of a bout of man flu that would have hospitalized a lesser cove, he demonstrated his unwavering devotion by immediately whisking One off.
Where has he been whilst One's been frog snogging all these years?
No matter, he's here now.
We espied a gallery that could do with an immediate injection of Claire Rice Art.
As if anticipating One's desires, he then took One to Port Isaac, which proved to be a damp and dingy little destination.
'£10 Doc Martin tours' were advertised in the harbour. A bit stchoopid, since One could see everything from where One was loitering.
Each place was beautifully captured on film for One, to the level of perfection that left One considering jettisoning One's camera into the briney and using the case as a handbag.
One would obv NEVER admit it, but One is just a tiny bit in love with him.
No, Dear Reader, not like the school girl, knicker twisting, mooning about love so oft referred to in this diary, but proper, being quiet while he's reading, letting him watch the football, doing the washing up, love.
'Well try not to feck it up,' ordered BF as she shot up the top of the garden for a fag, looking like Tiny Tim, on her crutch.
One shall do One's level not to, especially since the darling man is going to install a normous truckle bed in the underground lair, complete with one of them 'memory foam' mattresses that's thicker than the lining of One's uterus.

Friday, 28 November 2014

In which One is losing One's magic touch...

Fled to Plymouth to sort out work for the Christmas show.
Me and Mar saw off a box of Lidls finest and grizzled about our nearest and dearest.
One displayed a macabre sense of the ridiculous regarding the womb saga.
What an absolute bore that all is.
Best not start any long books or indulge in an advent calendar in case One isn't here to open all the doors.
Took the new paintings into the gallery where One was met with scorn.
No matter, One is deffo losing One's magic touch.
Nestling into the green velour, elderly gentleman's recliner whilst the A of the F speeds around Deepest.
Can't wait to see the curmudgeonly blighter and shower him with kisses.

Wednesday, 26 November 2014

In which One's handbags are full..

Today, Dear Reader, we will be having a game of...
What's in your handbag Lovely One?
One has chums who play this game regularly.
One's oversized, overpriced handbags (some worth more than One's car) are a veritable cavern of curiosities.
Only yesterday, One found a large baking potato, uncooked, nestling alongside a partially masticated crunchie.
One oft recalls the look of abject horror on BF' s face when, on thrusting her tiny hand into One's cavernous Kelly bag for something or other, she accidentally retrieved a soiled panty liner.
Ah well, it did have a sherbet lemon stuck to it, so it wasn't a complete disaster.
Last Friday at the radio show, One curiously had a black lace brassiere and a bottle of Pinot dans le sac.
Pinot - no surprise there, One hears you chorus, Dear Reader, but a black lace brassiere?
The same manner of delights are to be found in One's coat pockets.
On retrieving One's padded country jacket from the boot of the Bentley last weekend, after it had been thrust in there months ago following a day out with the A of the F, One discovered in the pocket, a Swiss army knife and a pot of Vaseline. That must have been an interesting day out.

Tuesday, 25 November 2014

In which One is resolved...

One is feeling severely displaced. Back from the A of the F' s gaff and incarcerated in the bung of doom as a reluctant companion.
'I was looking forward to having someone to talk to' said One's mistress as One went early to One's cell.
Odd that she is casting One out then, wouldn't you say, Dear Reader?
Thereby making SIT, One's tenants homeless into the bargain.
Ah well, such is life.
One has a job! Will be starting that apres the Festive Season, which still hangs in the balance.
Will it be Turkey Twizzler for One sans womb?
Who can say, Dear Reader?
Off to Mars for wine/moaning/giggling tomorrow and to set up the apres biopsy exhibition.
Pray non, Dear Reader, One Shan't be displaying One's scrapings in a jar, it's just that everything, by then will be, 'before I had' or 'after I had.'
Or just possibly 'when I thought I had.'
Gosh, that's Gloomy for One!
Where is One's Pollyanna positivity?
Fear not One shall draw on a smile and biff on regardless.

The A of the F has come out fighting One's corner regarding what we consider too low a price on One's doings.
One is thrilled that he has embraced One's world with such vigour.
Let us just pray that he embraces the assembled throng at the art sale and doesn't biff anyone up the bracket.

in which One is on a mercy dash...

'Wear braces, fer fecks sake' opined the A of the F, upon catching One lugging up One's strides again.
So I did. Dear old BF bought me some off ebay. She's obv Fed up with it too.
A lovely day for the A's birthday.
Went off with him to work and had a lovely meander around the coast.
Came home and had a lovely meander round one another.
Off now on a fag mercy dash to BF' s.

Sunday, 23 November 2014

In which One is googling shoes...

Good Morning Dear Reader, and what a divine bonus today is. One is sanguine in the extreme regarding the twinkle traumas to come.
'What are you doing at Christmas?'enquired One, of the A of the F.
'Let him decide. I'm sure he'll want to spend some, if not all of it with you,' She had wisely advised as she limped up the top of the garden for a sneaky fag, looking seasonally like Tiny Tim.
BFP and the A of the F are a similar type of sea faring cove, and as such, One has undertaken an intensive training programme at the feet of BF in the management of such fellows.
34 successful years of BFP control are not to be sniffed at.
At the Manor everything is being sniffed at by the A, who still has man flu.
One is administering lemon juice with everything in order to effect a rapid recovery. However, One's sympathetic nursey skills are at about the same level as One's ability to keep One's gob shut.
One opens said GOB and anything on One's mind just comes charging out. An attractive quality in a three year old but not, sadly, a Lovely One of a 1950's vintage.
So, Dear Reader, everyone is too well informed regarding the thoughts of One, AND, if that's not bad enough The Government's now decreed that service providers must hand over personal information about internet users.
SO, now, not only will everyone know that One talks a load of nonsense, but that when One isn't, One is googling shoes.

Saturday, 22 November 2014

In which One is forlorn...

The A of the F has a cold/man flu
Much snuggling and sighing has been endured by One during the night as One lay contemplating One's future.
Obv One is loathed to accept that the future may be bleak 're: twinkle excavation results, but One is feeling forlorn this morn.
Life comes to an end for us all, but it's preferable not to have a programme of events.
One will know more when further excavations have been undertaken.
'It's slightly uncomfortable' said the medical piece.
'Yer telling me!'thought One 'the last time One of you types shot up there with a sharp instrument it was like the flamin Texas Chainsaw Mascara.
Hopefully if anything is located it'll be in the 'baby-growing' division, since One can dispense with that department.
After all One loves the A of the F but One doesn't want to have his babies.

Thursday, 20 November 2014

In which One is jiggered...

Today One shall be delivering 'The Rice Papers' on 10 Radio. The subject for discussion is 'Barefoot Running.'
One foresees the conversation being something like this...
'So, what is Barefoot running?'
'It's running with bare feet.'
I'll be jiggered if One can think of any further enquiry.
Any road up the barefoot bod is a v talkative little blighter, so hopefully she will blather on nicely for half an hour and leave poor dear Lovely One to contemplate the next round of twinkle excavation.

Wednesday, 19 November 2014

Inwhich One deploys the Birthday Suit...

Suddenly realised that Christmas is hurtling toward One at breakneck speed round the bend in hot pursuit of the a A of the F' s birthday.
Upon enquiry as to what the inscrutable blighter does to mark his particular passage of time, One was informed...
'It's just another day.'
One has spent the passing of many a moon seeking a curmudgeonly, inscrutable and adorable companion such as he and One is here to inform you that ...
One perused to the max over the interweb to find the perfect gift with change from a fiver.
Should One opt for the catering pack of Raid?
Let me explain, Dear Reader, The A has an on going fued with flies that are hell bent on invading his abode.
The North Devon fly is a persistent and hardy specimen that appears to be invulnerable to all but an aerosol canfull of Raid per fly.
One has oft found Oneself surrounded by the moist mist of a recently emitted Raid cloud to the extent that One is now so toxic to airborne critters that upon entering a ten foot exclusion zone around One the blighters drop down, stone dead.
Best not get that then!
Perhaps a subscription to a photography magazine?
Or, perhaps not, since that would involve such demonic diatribes as...
'Ere, just listen to what this twat says about': (insert any action/camera part known only to photographers) This generally is delivered from neath the snuggliness of the quilt where the barely awake Lovely One is doing something really important like looking at shoes on the internet.
Won't get that then.
One generally knits all One's gifts, but the A of the F was brought up in an atmosphere of fag smoke and clicking knitting needles like One was, and has vetoed the woollen love token.
That just leaves an eighty foot ocean going yacht, but even if One had the spons in One's pussy purse, he'd say...
'Yeah, it's alright but I'd have got the blue one.' ( the curmudgeonly cove)
So it'll just be One leaping out of a Dundee cake, singing Happy birthday, wearing nothing but a dab of Cilit Bang about One's decolletage and wearing, of course, One's birthday suit.

In which One is a thirteen and a half year old show-off…

knitted treepic A (relevant)IMG_2401Pic B (showing off)

Firstly, Dear Reader, as One is sure you’ve all been pacing the floor in anticipation of good/bad/indifferent news regarding the excavation of One’s chuff box area, let me allay your fears of the worst and tell you: One is likely to survive in the immediate future, although the intruder may be cause for later concern.  No matter, pass the fags and Pinot, Darling.

‘Hurrah’ One hears you chorus collectively, ‘Don’t desert us Lovely One, especially so close to the season of goodwill to all men.’ (Although it has yet to be determined whether this extends to all/some women.)

Goodwill to all men, indeed, and with that in mind One playfully suggested to the A of the F that we should biff forthwith to Arlington Court and peruse the Christmas Fair.  A more sombre gathering of seasonal stallholders ‘twould be difficult to imagine and One and the A tiptoed through the marquee, whispering, so as not to disturb their slumber.

The application of a smidge of mulled wine/carollers/ho ho ho ing wouldn’t have gone amiss and so we perambulated into the main hice.

‘Twas the ancestral gaff of Sir Francis Chichester, although you’d never have guessed, given the distinct lack of info regarding the seafaring cove.  Not a problermo for Lovely One though, since wherever we go or whatever we do the uber well informed A of the F is literally awash with further information. 

‘Did you know he flew around the world before he circumnavigated?’ enquired the encyclopaedic A.

‘No,’ said One who was busy admiring the shell collection and the felt mice distributed about the gaff. Not to mention the knitted Christmas Tree (see above)

Sensing One’s disinterest the A cleared off looking at models of boats whilst One marvelled at the various woollen crafts.

Espying one of those old birds what stand about in stately homes looking cross, One enquired,

‘Can you tell me the significance of the felt mice?’

‘Oh they are part of a children’s trail around the house,’ came the reply.

Mmmm thinks One, that about sums up Moi entirely.

‘Come on,’ says One to the A, ‘I want to go and have a look at the Bat-Cam.

When we got there, that too was a children’s attraction.

The A has a special look for One when he gets exasperated and he adopted it without delay.

‘Come one you,’ he huffed, ‘before you find any other ‘things to do before you’re thirteen and a half’ activities.’

So we biffed off to Tesco, got some chocolate and snuggled up in front of the fire.

Tuesday, 18 November 2014

In which One is pissed off...

How to get through today?
There's an interesting conundrum.
Stay here, work and be silently alone in splendid isolation?
Return and soak it up again?

Any road up, yesterday brought rather a splendid painting to life and today One will complete it ready for The 21 Days of Art in Sutton Harbour with Kaya Gallery.
More on that story later...

An unusual weekend, with the welcome added bonus of Monday in Deepest Heaven with the A of the F.

Back to reality...

Monday, 17 November 2014

In which One is a bit scared...

Good morrow fair readers and may your day bring joy unbounded.
Mine won't, as One is rigid with trepidation regarding the twinkle/chuff box/Polaroid swinger incident marked on One's dance card for tomorrow night.
Yes, that's right, 7.30pm is the rather unusual time of night earmarked for twinkle excavating. Let's hope the polaroids got a built in flash.
Any road up, One very nearly didn't live to see this morning dawning as according to the A of the F, One was conducting a brutal punch up with an unknown assailant whilst emitting snores of such magnitude that upon inhalation One sucked open the wardrobe door and brought the carefully laundered contents ceiling-ward.
He had biffed One up the bracket a few times and was on the cusp of shearing to the spare room, when One ceased and desisted and snuggled down in a more ladylike fashion.
So, at the time of night when any self respecting lush would be half way down a catering pack of Pinot and sucking the last puff out of a dog end, One will be entertaining a medic up me business end.
This time last year, couldn't have given a flying feck what happened to One, but now One does and shall be doing One's darndest to keep the A of the F awake in more thrilling ways for the passing of many a moon.

Sunday, 16 November 2014

In which One is a dico diva...

An unusual evening spent with unusual persons at the village hall disco.
Obv One and the A of the F were the most glamorous couple in the room by a country mile. Just as well, since most of the others owned all the country miles thereabouts.
No matter, One wouldn't trade a single second spent with the A of the F for a lifetimes country mileage.
The young hooded article delivering the sixties through eighties musical accompaniment to the evening's beer and wine guzzling event wasn't born when any of the music made it's first foray into the wireless and the listening booths of F L Moores where a young Lovely One spent Saturday afternoons. He looked distinctly unimpressed with all the dad dancers and their post menopausal partners.
Unaccustomed to the rituals of our age, he didn't play a slow dance at the end and One was denied melting into the warm embrace of the A of the F so we biffed off outside for a fag instead.
One rather overdid the Latvian laughing water and rather embarrassingly, in the cold light of day, recalls necking it straight from the bottle when One temporarily mislaid One's wine glass.
No matter, given the ragged milkmaids shimmying about, One remained the fabulous, fragrant confection you all know and love, Dear Reader despite One's lack of decorum.
You can take a Lovely One out of Luton, but you can't take Luton out of a Lovely One.
'Get in the car, stupid' hollered the A of the F charmingly.
One did and was transferred to bed via a further couple of pints of Pinot.
Upon waking rather late we discovered that our houseguests had fled without so much as a fond farewell, kiss me arse nor nothing.
Was it the spag boll?
The Latvian laughing water induced behaviour?
But wait, Dear Reader, a furtive tap on the portcullis reveals the pair bearing a dozen red roses and a thank you note for a lovely evening.

Saturday, 15 November 2014

In which One knits The Season of Goodwill...

'Don't bite my bum, I'm not a baby' and 'I'm not paying thirty fecking quid to see a fecking knitted Christmas Tree.'
Two sentences One didn't expect to hear upon waking, Dear Reader.
Very likely, two sentences the A of the F didn't foresee ejaculating immediately upon opening his ice blue eyes.
Let me explain...
'Don't bite my bum' requires no further dwelling upon, Darlings, but One feels an urgent need to elucidate further regarding the knitted Christmas Tree.
Tis apparently the highlight of the decoration at Arlington Court, where we are visiting a Christmas Fair today.
It got One thinking...
One feels an urgency to create garments with One's bamboo number sixes.
Last year One began knitting Christmas in August, and all One's chums were the thrilled recipients of such woollen delights as, fingerless mittens, fairisle weskits, socks, scarves and even a knitted companion in the shape of a black and white pussy for Lovely Gordon.
The A of the F, however, shall not be in receipt of even the smallest woolly delight, as he has issued an edict thus...
'I was brought up to the sound of clicking, fecking, knitting needles, and I don't want anything knitted!'
'My needles don't make any sound' replied an indignant One 'they are handmade, designer, bamboo knitting needles.'
He then  threw me one of his looks, leapt from the bed, and wearing nothing but his spectacles, about faced and left the room.
One couldn't help mentally sizing up his delicious bottom with a view to perchance knitting him some seasonal shreddies.

Thursday, 13 November 2014

In which One introduces the foundation garment…

foundation 3

Once the sound barrier has been broken and ‘tis useless to coyly pretend One never guffs, ‘tis time to introduce the foundation garment into the relationship with impunity.

I know, I know, Dear Reader, the poor dear A of the F had first hand knowledge of the brown pyjamas on One’s very first foray into his gaff, but to be fair he did promise ‘no funny business’ and One thought One would be safe with the ‘brownies’ and me baggy legged, grey sloggis and that they’d not see the light of day.

Any road up, BF and One biffed off in the Bugatti to Matalan to acquire some of their finest foundation wear (see above)

As you know, Dear Reader, One already deploys the control vest with me Gok Wan control leggings but upon any sudden movement the vest shoots up like a sodding roller blind whilst the leggings are gripping below the waist resulting in the escapage of a goodly amount of acreage in the manner of a Titanic sized life belt about the midriff.

NOT NO MORE, Dear Reader, some clever cove has come up with the ‘control slip’ AND it’s got sticky stuff round the hem so that roller blind activity is completely removed.

One’s Nana used to deploy a fearsome contraption referred to as the  ‘roll-on’. It remained mysterious until a dear little Lovely One actually encountered the Nana rolling herself into the rubberised grey device.  I bet it was choice in there on a warm summer’s night!

‘It’s all got to come out somewhere!’ opined BF as we fought over the last one and bunged it in the trolley with some control pants and comfy, Peggy Mount style brassieres.

Upon deployment of aforementioned garment with the obligatory Gok Wans, One was immediately transformed into the hour-glass Lovely One of yore.

Movement, however, is severely restricted and One now has a seductive Marilyn Monroe shuffle, only being able to move One’s legs from the knee down.

One must monitor the inhalation of cocktails various at Saturday’s disco in the village hall, for should One embark upon a significant Shimmy-Shake and the ensemble rolls up, One’ll take out the front row of the queue at the bar.

In which One is seeking a quiet corner…


‘She loves you, yeah, yeah, yeah’…

One painted the above whilst waiting for a further masterpiece to dry.

‘Not bad’ thinks One, ‘The A of the F might like that’.

‘It’s not a ‘Red Crane’ or a ‘Minehead’, came the dismissive and disinterested reply when One had emailed it for approval.

Just in case you are unaware, Dear Reader, ‘Red Crane’ and ‘Minehead’ are two much dissed  (by the A) former masterpieces.

Should you wish to add your disinterest, please visit where you may ‘not buy’ them at your leisure.

The website is, of course, hopelessly out of date (presided over by vile ex H)  and the only place to keep one step ahead of One is to visit the rake of galleries that stock One’s doings, or ‘friend’ One on facebook, whereupon you will be automatically frogmarched to ‘Claire Rice Art.’

Any who, back to me preev complaint…

‘Red Crane’ is constantly referred to by the A of the F, since it is one of only three (yes, three) paintings One has ever done that didn’t sell. 

Even ones that One has biffed over One’s shoulder in disgust have been carefully picked out of the pile of fag ends and sweet wrappers by Dear Little S and sold.

But the poor old ‘Red Crane’ much maligned by the A remains in the studio festering.  As do the 150 limited edition prints, of which feck all has been shifted.

One must find a lonely little corner for the storage of ‘Red Crane’ prints, ‘Minehead’ placemats, ‘She love you’ and One, apparently…

‘Minehead’ on the other hand was sold to some cove who’s Ma lived there.  It also lives on as a placemat (yes One does homewares and is a regular little Martha Stewart) a massive crate of which are currently residing in the sitting room of the A of the F.


Tuesday, 11 November 2014

In which One fixes One’s hair and make-up…


‘I’m a bloke,’ came the reply to the question…

‘Did you know that your machine is a dryer as well as a washer?’

One unloaded the washin mashin and enquired as to why the towels were hot.  Upon further investigation One ascertained that the machine included a tumble dryer, thereby removing the problem of the trail of damp shirts on hangers that greet One on a weekly basis like a trail of breadcrumbs in the manner of Hansel and Gretel and the bitter aroma of damp towels pervading the otherwise fag/wine/scotch atmosphere.

One, being a 1950’s production, cannot meet with such a scene without the uncontrollable urge to Geisha.

Having been brought up in an era where women were urged to …

‘Hey, little girl, comb your hair, fix your make-up, soon he will open the door.Don’t think because there’s a ring on your finger, you needn’t try any more…’      Andy Williams

And while we’re at it.  What’s all that ‘little bit of giggle’ that’s attached to the end of any vocal ejaculation made to a chap, so favoured by the women of that era.  Aged P still does it at the ripe old of 84 in the manner of a moist-gusseted teenager, the daft old mare.

AND – the seeming inability to say ‘NO’ to any-fecking-thing. AP does that, and always has, and then incessantly moans on about not wanting to do whatever it was she willingly agreed to.


Let’s not forget, Dear Reader, that One was a captain of industry afore One squeezed that great lummox ‘Boy’ out of me twinkle.

Bearing this in mind One hollered…

‘Get in here and have a look at these controls,’ to the A of the F.

‘I’m watching the football!’ came the indignant reply, closely followed by a personal appearance from the A, mumbling and huffing…

‘Well I don’t know how it works.  Can’t you set it for me so that it washes and dries? There’s a manual somewhere.  Have a little read of that while the football’s on,’ he concluded and shuffled off back to the elderly gentleman’s, moss green, velour, recliner.

And try as One might, One simply cannot ignore such a plea and did just that.

However, One is a flippety-gibbet as you know, Dear Reader, and completely forgot to move the controls from ‘dry to wardrobe condition’ to ‘wash and dry’, so if the A bungs his shreddies in, all that will happen is that they’ll be warmed up to keep his entertainment area cosy until One arrives with a VIP pass to all rides.


Monday, 10 November 2014

In which One fears the ‘turkey twizzler for One’ Christmas…

me at x

That’s  me, that is, Dear Reader…

A forlorn, unwanted, lonely creature wandering the streets seeking a smidgeon of seasonal succour.

‘What are you doing at Christmas Boy?’ enquired One.

‘Dunno. Don’t care as long as I see Doctor Who,’ came the glad tidings.

‘That bloody Eileen can’t make gravy, you know. I’m going to tell her and offer to make it for her when I go round there on Christmas Day,’ came the ill-advised mantra of the Aged P, ‘What do you think?’

‘I think that if I’d been kind enough to invite you into my family and home and give you Christmas dinner and you complained about anything, I’d punch you in the gob!’ One replied.

Anyway, that pretty much summed up the doings of One’s nearest and dearest and rendered One a bit of a verruca at a pool party in the invitation stakes.

Ah Ha! thinks One.  One has a ‘boyfriend’ currently, surely he’ll want to spent the festering season with One?

Or will it be a turkey twizzler for One.


Sunday, 9 November 2014

In which One is hoping to dance round me handbag...

Can't believe it, Dear Reader, it's Mon-fecking-day AGAIN.
Think positive! That's the way forward.
This week, following a few days of unbridled bliss, One shall be working v v hard and preparing to conquer Padstow.
The plan is to knock out four masterpieces, shear to Mar' s gaff to hole up, and biff into Cornwall to be suitably adored.
Works for me, Dear Reader.
The A of the F is lurking about in Somerset being delicious whilst all this is occurring.
Any road up, the wondrous one cooked supper for One since One is sadly indisposed yet again and waiting patiently for a Polaroid swinger to be wanged up me chuffer to ascertain whether or not One will survive long enough to attend next weekend's 60's disco at the village hall.
One does hope so since One has a genuine Biba outfit to dance round me handbag in.

In which the A of the F is advised to hang on to One...

One just got so over excited that a tiny bit of wee came out and soiled me otherwise spotless Georg at Asda Jim jams noir.
The reasons were twofold, Dear Reader...
Reason 1.      Whilst pondering the interweb One happened upon a smidgen of information that leads One to deduce that One's most favourite artist in the whole flamin universe, Martin Procter, is READING MY BLOG.
Reason 2.       Some unknown cheeky bint is attempting to lure MY A of the F, via Skype, away from my tender grasp!
Granted, he did alert One to the uninvited bints communication, but, let's face it Dear Reader, she might be young and nubile and a wobble free zone.
Any road up, upon a fag retrieval visit to the sitting room, One ascertained that some form of punch up must have occurred yester-eve since the zone is littered with clothing various and the general detritus of a ten-rounder.
Maybe he mentioned her last night and One showed him which way was up?
Maybe One biffed him up the bracket when he likened One to the ghost of Jacob Marley when One tried on One's new knitted head band?
No matter, the blighters feeling a bit the worse for wear this morning, so One shant shove an umbrella up his chuff box and open it just yet, but only if he heeds the advice of his bezzie mate...
'Hang on to that One,' he said.

Saturday, 8 November 2014

In which One is a damp dog...

One's pussy purse is positively bulging with used tenners this very a.m. following the successful delivery of a freshly painted masterpiece.
Hooray, One hears you chorus, Dear Reader.
Hooray! Indeed, for now another couple of creditors can go into the monthly draw for payment.
Some of the blighters, like The Mortgage Works, have even been kind enough to offer to take some, or all, of One's worldly chattels in lieu of payment.
Sadly One is even deficient in the chattel department of late.
Speaking of the underground lair, One has successfully undergone the removal of One's offensive butt, with the able assistance of BFP, who is positively essential in the damsel in distress department.
What on earth would One do without One's marvellous chums? One would be frantically perambulating up shit creek, sans paddle. That's what!
Any road up, One threw caution to the wind and spent ten quid on Oneself this week in the charity shop. One is now the proud owner of a fur coat and One felt obliged to go commando neath it on its first foray abroad.
Sadly, the current level of precipitation left One emitting the malodourous scent of damp dog.
Should One venture abroad today One will welly up and deploy the gaberdine raincoat as it's very nigh twinkle deep in Devon.

Thursday, 6 November 2014

In which One has a fag in a Hacienda…

mar 1

‘That’s quite enough about me!’ barked Mar having summoned One with a shrill order to her bedside yesterday morning. 

‘stop writing about me and let someone else have it,’ she continued, looking resplendent in her faded puce, hand crotched bed jacket over her winceyette nightie. 

A perfect picture of wholesome granny-esque charm, apart from the little bit of sick down the front of her nightie and the gooey stains where she’d picked her nose in the night and wiped it on the headboard.

At the foot of the bed was a small truckle device.  One wonders: was it for the comfort of a grandchild?  Great grandchild? Or merely the bones of another abused and discarded suitor?

Any road up, One, always willing to oblige, shall cease henceforth, writing about Mar (see above) and paint a picture in words of Mar’s gaff…

Yesterday One was banished to the interestingly named ‘smoking room’ for a fag.

Clearly constructed afore the war, in a Hacienda style, the ‘smoking room’ appeared to have been the unlucky recipient of a buzz bomb at some stage of the conflict.

Rickety cast iron seating rocked to and fro upon the application of One’s fat bottom.  One of said chairs had a ragged gash in the seat, clearly the result of either the shrapnel of the German bomb or an enormous guff emitted following the consumption of one of Mar’s Big Boy’s dinners.

The corrugated roofing creaked in the November winds and shifted the thousands of bottle tops and corks Mar had aimed up there on many an evening spent alone in an alcohol fuelled haze. 

Discarded maracas forlornly rolled back and forth across the paved floor invoking many a Mariachi band having passed through.

The sad remains of what was an ornamental pond lay slimy and discarded in the corner with the skeletons of many a goldfish that Mar had stripped bare with her remaining two top teeth when she couldn’t be arsed to go indoors for a packet of crisps.

The calcified remnants of many an exotic plant hung menacingly from the liberally distributed pots and trellis giving the lean-to the feel of a ghostly, long abandoned film set.

One can but imagine the carrying on that has occurred in there, Dear Reader, One shall interrogate and report.

In which Mar bakes a dry stone wall...

One and Dear Little S Sat down to a table positively groaning under the weight of a feast great enough for an invading army.
'Eat some more, eat some more,' squeaked the diminutive Mar, like a demented parrot.
And One did indeed. In fact, this morning One rather looks to have dined upon a Space Hopper, swallowed whole, given the distended view of One's entirety in profile.
No matter, a quick frog March up a couple of steep slopes at the weekend will see that off.
Perchance One and the A of the F shall perambulate Dartmoor where Mar had obv journeyed to acquire our pudding. For twas surely a slab of dry stone walling served with Lidls finest creme fraiche. Dear Little S wisely swerved it in favour of a pre-festive mince pie.
'Have another bit, Lady Rice, It's my own recipe you know.'
One had to decline as One was busily attempting to digest half a sodding Dartmoor Tor.
But it wasn't that that finally rendered One completely shagged, it was the consumption of an entire jar of Haribo mice, four packets of crisps and a corner of the  European wine lake.
'Oh go on, eat it' slurred Mar, waving a partially masticated chocolate Father Christmas under One's nose, you've lost loads of weight, have a day off.'
She then proceeded to wave her skinny little, short legs under me nose and display her gnarled little, tiny feet.
'My little feet always stay the same size and never swell up even if I go up to eighteen and three quarter stone.'
Maybe so, but feck knows how they hold her up!

Tuesday, 4 November 2014

In which One won’t grow up…

dub dubs

‘Are you still loved up?’ came the enquiry from another of One’s chums who speaks/writes/acts in a manner not befitting of her advanced yearage.

Granted, Dear Reader, the gel is not as far over the horizon as your very own delightfully youthful Lovely One, but nonetheless qualifies admirably as a chum by her outrageously ridiculous behaviour. Most certainly not behaviour befitting a mother of three and the wife of an eminent surgeon who live in a house the size of One’s village and mwa mwa with the great and good regular!

Any road up…

‘Yes,’ One is, and with that in mind is off to wax lyrical to Mar’s gaff this very, where we shall partake of the odd quart of Pinot and several hand rolled cheroots, no doubt.

‘What’s wrong with my cooking?’ came the enquiry, ‘and make sure you look at the flamin’ label!’ was the instruction.

This, Dear Reader, since One had the temerity to offer a takeaway scoff in return for being allowed to crash in The Princess Diana Suite at her gaff.  Oh, and the fact that last time One put in appearance, One was admonished in the extreme for not buying wine with a high enough alcohol content…

‘No wonder I’m not pissed,’ came the complaint, ‘this bastard’s only 6% you idiot!’ hollered the very small, yet completely absorbent Mar.

One has never met such a small and delicate creature with the ability to inhale such vast quantities of food and alcohol.

On a trip to a carvery with the little carnivore she loaded her plate so high with a Yorkshire pudding Jenga that One was sore afraid the construction may falter afore we got back to our table. No chance! And she inhaled it in under ten and washed it down with nine pints of Guinness.

Any road up, I digress, as is me wossname, back to the general flavour of today’s missive ‘the inability to grow up.’…

Following the A of the F forcing One to actually work six days on the trot, One is off down Plymouth for a spot of R and R with Mar.

We like to record the moments for posterity (see above) obv One’s not in the pic, being too young and glamorous and not wishing to show the others up.  Oh and taking the pic!

In which One deploys the cannon…

lens caps

An outfit guaranteed to shiver the timbers of the A of the F (see above)

To the right, and left for that matter, are v large lens cap devices that One deploys over One’s deliciously pert dub-dubs…

That leaves the centre device that suffices as both a twinkle cover and a direct route instruction…

Let me explain, Dear Reader…

One awoke to the A of the F with his ipad propped against his knees, speck-tackles deployed and emitting noises of satisfaction that One deffo hadn’t engendered since One had been pushing out the zeds.

‘Flippin’ ‘eck’ thought One, ‘is One inadvertently offering self service throughout the night?’

Not so, Dears, upon further investigation the A was drooling over what passes for porn in the Manor, a camera shop website.

There was a direct correlation between the height that the ipad levitated above the quilt and the size of the lens cap on screen.

One deployed One’s usual distraction tactics.  All to no avail…

But wait…

One nipped off to the bog and deployed lens caps various (see above) to hills and valleys various located about One’s acreage.

One wrapped a shapely thigh about the boudoir door and huskily whispered…

‘Is there anything I can do for you?’

‘Yeah, get us a cuppa tea and a fag darlin’

Sunday, 2 November 2014

In which One doesn't pucker...

Another abs fabs day yesterday.
The A of the F locked One in me makeshift studio in order that One could paint without the distraction of catching a glimpse of his delicious self sashaying back and forth to the printer as he perfected the heron shots.
One rather imagines, however, that he was recumbent in his elderly gentleman's moss green velour recliner watching football and being handsome.
No matter, simply to be within hollering distance of his divine self will suffice to make One positively delerious with glee.
One is, however, seriously considering never puckering up to snog the blighter ever again.
'How so?' One hears you collectively chorus, 'Twas only a fleeting mo ago that you were planning to snog him over the remaining 23 years of your life.' (23 x 52 = oh feck knows)
Suffice it to say, a mere four months of consistent puckering has brought about a new wrinkle on One's top lip.
This cannot continue, lest One begins to lose One's youthful, glowing English rosiness.
Licking probably doesn't require extensive use of the puckering muscleage.
Excuse me....