Google+ Followers

Follow by Email

Friday, 28 February 2014

In which One is adopting the Buddhist way…

One is inclined to ponder that ‘no news is NOT good news’ in the case of Aged P…

Still no word of whether the aged one will be relocating to the waiting rooms at the top of the road.

Despite having informed all and sundry that ‘it is the ONLY place I ever want to go,’ it would appear that it was all bluster and the gnarled one has no intention of moving at all.

Whilst One was in situ, One set about removing a lifetimes worth of detritus on behalf of the Aged P.

‘How about I sort out some of your old junk and take it to the charity shop?’ said One in all innocence.  Immediately One was made aware of the usage of the word ‘junk’ as a slight.

‘I DO NOT HAVE ANY JUNK,’ was the shrieked retort. 

‘I JUST SHOULDN’T HAVE BEEN BORN SHOULD I?’ was the following statement.

Clearly an error, as the world would have been deprived of the fragrant presence of Lovely One, but, no matter, One swerved mentioning that little detail due to the close proximity of sharp objects.

A slight overreaction, One observed and ploughed on, holding up items various, above a black sack, for the thumbs up, or down, from the Aged P in the manner of a Roman Emperor.

‘I shall have to have a rest,’ said the AP breathlessly upon completion of one bag of stuff various.

‘I’m not going to the charity shop without a car full of stuff, I’ll be back and forward all week,’ chimed Lovely One.

With that, items began flying all over the shop.  Ancient Artist mags were thrust in all directions and Lovely One was forced to scramble about on the deck in order to achieve some semblance of order.

‘It’s alright for you,’ opined Aged P, stabbing a gnarled digit in One’s direction, ‘You don’t mind having change and you can take it!’

Biting One’s lip almost to the point of blood being drawn, One pondered the Buddhist philosophy that Aged P might gain from the practise of…

IT’S NOT WHAT HAPPENS TO ONE, IT’S HOW ONE REACTS TO IT

 

Wednesday, 26 February 2014

In which One returns to the underground lair…

Upon arrival in the Underground Lair One was met with a delightful floral aroma.

‘Mmmmmm home.’  One exhaled completely for the first time in ten day.

Each room exuded the same pleasant aroma until One surveyed the kitchen that has adopted the burnt fat scent of Whelan’s since the arrival of the Wood Nymph. Heaven knows what the little terror fries up in there for breakfast every day!  The ghost aroma of fried something or other clung there, stubbornly refusing to vacate the premises through the inadequate extractor and thereby impossible to erase from the windowless kitchen.

A silent wander through the rooms allowed the comfort blanket of calm to wrap itself around the worn out, limp lovliness of Lovely One.

Upon further investigation, One wandered into the room so recently vacated by Uncle Bert and now a room of One’s own.  The same floral scent pervaded, along with the cloistered feel of a room not used for a couple of weeks and not having had the odd puff of fresh air through the fenetre.  Underneath it all was the unmistakable top note of deceased Hamster. (Clearly the impregnated Eau de Uncle Bert) and nothing whatever to do with the fragrant Lovely One.

No, Dear Reader, the news of One’s demise has been falsely circulated.  One has been in the company of Aged P attempting to lure the wizened one to the top of the hill and into a secure and highly desirable retirement apartment.

One imagines that when One suggested…

‘There is a vacant apartment in the block in which you expressed an interest.  How about having a look and going for it?’…

Aged P must have misheard One and thought One said…

‘I am putting you in a secure prison unit where you will be poked with sticks all day and force fed gruel until you croak.’

Because the response One was met with was…

‘That’s it I’m going to kill myself you C**t.’  And with that she rushed up the stairs as quickly as one can rush with the aid of crutches.

                                       ~

This, Dear Reader, is the beginning of a laborious and depressing saga which will, no doubt, be relayed to you upon numerous occasions forthwith, so be warned, switch off now.

One is off to get completely rat arsed.

Tuesday, 11 February 2014

In which One is ill and ailing…

Woe, woe is One….

A banging headache arrived with a vengeance on Saturday afternoon.  The same kind of headache that rendered One a v reluctant occupant of the high dependency stroke ward some two Christmases ago.

One was at the time of the onset reclining in the truckle bed having just returned from a double accompanied drive to the workshop with a nervous wood nymph.

Then the evacuation of One’s being began and went on and on for a day and night.

All this has delayed One’s visit to Aged P to ensure she gets her sorry old wrinkled arse into somewhere more suitable for a decrepit old woman.

‘I’ve made an appointment to look round that place I like up the road,’ was the reply to my delayed visitation news.

‘Have you filled in the forms and added yourself to the list?’ One enquired, already knowing that Aged P feels it her right to be exempt from the normal sequence of events that everyone else on the fecking planet has to follow.

What is it that makes her feel that she doesn’t have to follow the rules?  It’s not some anarchistic principle. Oh no, rather the misplaced notion that she is somehow better and more deserving than everyone else.

A character trait One does hope One has not inherited!

The conversation ended thus…

‘Don’t come here if you are ill. I don’t want to catch anything.’

One would be utterly delighted never to go there again!!

Saturday, 8 February 2014

In which One is tempted by a horn of plenty…

Here’s One innocently recording One’s doings of a Saturday morning, Hurricane Herbert coursing up the passage, and who should interrupt One’s reverie but Lovely Gordon…

Not in person, One hastens to add, fortunately, since One is still clad in One’s Barbara Cartland Collection for the over eighties Onesie without a swipe of tinted moisturiser on One’s gob, still sporting a day’s beard growth (the bane of the post menopausal Barbie)

‘I’m just getting me gums round a horn of plenty caller,’ came the opening gambit.

‘Ooooh I’ve not had a horn of plenty for decades,’ opined One, ‘And I could do serious damage to one if ‘twere served up right at this minute.’

Lovely G hasn’t been espied up the passage for the passing of many a moon since us poor little West Country-ites are moist in the extreme.

One has kept an eye out for the homestead though and made sure sand bags are shoring up the cob walls so that the entire gaff isn't reduced to a soggy collapsed sand castle upon LG’s return.

‘I accidentally sat on a lady’s crutch on the four fifty-three from Paddington yesterday,’ spouted LG

‘That could explain the mystery hole in yer shreddies then,’ One countered.

One then went on to recount the story of the visit last evening of Boy and Vile ex Husband who fronted up for an individual washing up bowl full of chicken curry, both sporting new cameras with which they proceeded to take pictures of the nubile Puerto Rican wood nymph, if you ever did.

One is now leaving the poor defenceless creature on her lonesome in the Underground Lair as One is off to rehome the Aged P.

‘Lock all the doors and don’t answer the telephoning device’ is the best advice One can dispense.

 

Friday, 7 February 2014

In which One is forced to watch the sodding Olympic opening ceremony…

One had absolutely no clue that One’s TV showed sport of any kind.

Sashaying from One’s boudoir, having had a petite nap in the truckle bed, One was met with the vista of the Wood Nymph prostrate on Paulette’s sofa, beer in hand with, wait for it…

THE SODDING WINTER OLYMPICS ON MY TV

Not only is One missing The Real Housewives of Somewhere or Other, but she keeps chirping up with a commentary of events that are taking place before us.

‘I don’t care,’ One has opined ‘I would rather poke myself in the eye repeatedly with a rusty nail.’

All to no avail…

If she’s not careful I shall slap the back of her legs and shut her in her room until she’s thirty seven.

Upon One’s arrival at 10 Radio this morning One espied a massive great TV set dumped in the driveway.  Clearly some other discerning viewer taking no chances.  In a desperate effort to avoid the mind numbingly boring bloody sport, someone had hurled their TV out of the window in desperation.

Please Note….

Paulette’s sofa is being minded by me until M finds somewhere to put it.

There you are, you’d have been worrying about that all day wouldn’t you!

Thursday, 6 February 2014

In which One is placing Aged P on the list…

One is biffing off in the Bentley to visit Aged P shortly. 

Have had convs various with the wrinkly one regarding her occupying a more suitable establishment than the one in which she currently resides…

Aged P     ‘I am going to walk up to that place up the road and see if they’ve got any spaces.’

One    ‘You have to go on the list and bid for any places that come up.  I told you that and got you the paperwork.’

Aged P    ‘My reflexologist says that I can get a place there.’

nb  Foot massagers are not likely to be better informed than the council.

One     ‘You have  to go on the list and bid for any places that come up.’

Aged P     ‘I phoned the council and they were foreign and I told them I’m not going anywhere I don’t like and I’m only going to that place up the road.’

One     ‘You have to go on the list and bid for any places that come up.’

Aged P      ‘Eileen said that her friend got in there so I am going to phone them and get a place.’

ONE     ‘YOU HAVE TO GO ON THE LIST AND BID FOR ANY PLACES THAT COME UP.’

meanwhile…

One calls Luton Council Oneself and explains the situation to the Foreign council workers.  They are now sending her a form to fill in ‘TO GO ON THE FECKING LIST’ and a medical questionaire that will render her ON THE TOP OF THE FECKING LIST.

One calls back and informs Aged P of this exciting development…

Aged P     ‘Well the man in the Post Office knows someone who got in there so I’m going up there to get a place.’

THE ASSOCIATE OF THE MAN IN THE SODDING POST OFFICE…

WAS ON THE LIST

Wednesday, 5 February 2014

In which One is having things done…

Was forced to watch some ridiculous film with some article called Will Smith last night.  I’m sure in the film world Smith is a mover and shaker but all One could think was, ‘he’s never going to lose his spectacles with those ears.’

The dear little wood nymph was ‘ooohing’ and ‘aaaahing’ like a good ‘un at all the supposedly romantic doing that were going on for about six fecking hours, or so it seemed, whilst jaded old One was necking the Chardonnay to numb the senses.

Any road up, one unexpected bonus of having the Wood Nymph to stay is that One is able to call upon Vile ex Husband at any hour, day or night, to do all the ‘man’ type jobs that need doing.

For a glimpse of the nubile nymph thus far the Vile one has, sorted out the car and tax and now fronted up to operate on that sodding smoke alarm that has been bleeping day and night and driving One insane in the process.

Now, Vile ex and Boy, who has also fallen under the spell, are coming round again for a scoff on Friday.  One will be compiling a list of jobs that require attention.

Whilst One is happy enough for the Vile ex and ABSOLUTELY DELIGHTED for Boy to worship at the alter of the Wood Nymph, if she so much as casts her deep brown eyes in the direction of Lovely Gordon One’ll chin her!!

Tuesday, 4 February 2014

In which One is stressed…

And on and on it went…

There’s  One thinking that letting the spare room would help pay the mortgage – period.

Not so…

Thus far…

Feed small wood nymph, water wood nymph, take WN out in small Volvo to show her how to drive a manual car…

FAILED

Spent entire day trying to find an insurance company to insure the tiny terror.

Practically fainted at the cost of big Volvo new exhaust…

Now the effing wired in sodding bloody smoke alarm is beeping and ONE CAN’T GET THE FECKING BATTERY OUT

Bring on the Vodishka and chocolate cake pie

Monday, 3 February 2014

In which One is exhausted…

Would you Christmas Eve it?

One has had a bad, bad, baddington day.  First, One found a mouldy satsuma tucked between the folds of the lining in me Mulberry…

AND THEN…

The fecking exhaust fell of the car! 

Never mind, ‘please find it in your hearts to send two pounds per month for sad donkeys, starving children, poorly pussies and neglected dogs…

Send £430 to Lovely One immediately so that One can biff about in the Bentley.

One won’t be taking to the truckle bed in order to sulk as One knows One’s public needs One, now that One is on the wireless twice this week.

And then…

One will be selling favours to the value of a Volvo S80 exhaust, so One will be tied up (literally) for the remainder of the decade.

Saturday, 1 February 2014

In which One is revolting…

One has had an epiphany.  Not the spirit of the Lord wafting through One or any of that old pavlova, but a general sense of self-worth surging throughout One’s being.

‘Twas the middle of the night when One awoke from a Pinot induced coma and the revelation came upon One.

Let me explain…

One had slaved over a hot Belling for the best part of the day, having paddled up the tarn for organic chocolate, hand fed, minced up cow’s bottom and all the attendant fripperies that One has to acquire in order to knock up a supper splendide.

Boy and Vile ex Husband were cordially invited to squizz the Weeny Woodturner.  They stayed approximately six times longer than when they front up for a free scoff when One is One’s lonesome.

Vile ex Husband did his usual impersonation of a love struck teenager and One was on the point of prodding his drooling tongue back in his gob on more than one occasion.  Even Boy piped up that he would pursue the Petite Pine Prodder if he was that way inclined.

One was merely attendant to dole out the chilli and brownies.

Upon their departure, the Little Lodger informed One that she thought the pair of them were particularly ‘cold’ to One and whilst this could be attributed to the fact that Vile ex Husband is, indeed ex, it could not be excused by Boy.

AND SO

One is no longer going to debase Oneself on the alter of the dirty duo and make Oneself available for washing, ironing, feeding and spare cash whenever they want.

ONE IS REVOLTING