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Monday, 31 March 2014

In which One drones on about One’s raw deal…

Well that’s just about put the tin fecking lid on it!

No card, no phone call, no text, no email.   Jeeeez, we’re in-feckin-undated with modes de communication and yet One’s offspring eschews them all in favour of deadly silence.

What should One do?  Cast your mind back, Dear Reader, to when One was prone in an NHS bed with sides…

Clinging to the thread of life as the three fates loomed large with their secateurs, One had no family or friends fretting at her bedside, only Uncle Bert with a face like a slapped arse and exuding the faintly erotic aroma of frying onions.

I know, I know, One has been ‘dining out’ on ‘The Stroke’ since time immemorial, making jokes about it being a ‘Seasonal’ Berry Aneurism and all that, but let me remind you all that


Maybe it’s all down to the murder of Gerald.  You recall, Dear Reader, he who met his end (and mine) between One’s thighs in the ve-hicle.

Gerald has been living in the car since One acquired it, spinning webs and generally colonising the dash, and when the window wouldn’t shut, the wing mirrors.

One hoofed out a blueberry sized ball of spider-spit (presumably housing the coming generation of Geralds) or should that be Geraldine?  One’s not entirely sure about the reproduction of the Volvo spider.

Any road up, Gerald/Geraldine exuded enough spit the other day to drop directly between One’s thighs, and the rest (including G/G) is history.

Is this really enough to unleash this month’s horrors…

No sales

No orders

No spons


Saturday, 29 March 2014

In which One recalls the Sunday lunches of yore…

The call came from Boy to excuse himself from Mother’s Day. 

‘Would it be alright if he saw me the next day?’

There wasn’t much point in labouring the topic, so One agreed with a heavy heart.

One has been mindful of the years spent under the cloud of Aged P’s misery and bitterness and has endeavoured not to inflict the same tip-toeing, resentful life enjoyed by One and the Brother.

The tightening stomach and the shallow breaths of Sunday lunchtimes still loom large in One’s memory…

Every week we would gather ‘en famille’ to descend upon the Moat House restaurant for a Sunday roast.

Brother and One were duly kitted out in ‘Sunday best’ and positioned on the sofa awaiting the arrival of Father, who would have been working in the morning.

Without fail, he never, ever arrived at the appointed time and each second over the expected arrival wound the Mother into an increasing frenzy.

The eventual outing would be an indigestion inducing nightmare, peppered with spiteful repartee back and forth between the warring parents.

Any road up, Father is deceased and One would now go to the lengths of severing a limb to avoid spending time with the surviving Aged P, so One is mindful of the reluctance for Boy to see One.

It is only once a year though.

It’s Mothering Sunday, not Mothering Monday…

Friday, 28 March 2014

In which One embraces the way of the sloth…

The relocated ‘art’ section at Dartington is so fecking small that there is room for three normal sized paintings or ONE of LOVELY ONE’S.

‘Oh the food section has been extended,’ opined the bod what orders stuff from One, ‘food is doing really well, much better than everything else, so they get all the best and biggest locations.’


Selfish grockle bastards coming down here from Birm-feckin-ingham and spending all their spons on scran!


One emerged from the undergrowth, having macheteed me way through bramble and briar to be confronted by the broken down B&Q shed that now serves as the Art Gallery.

Frankly, there’s more hanging space in the bog in the Underground Lair!

And then just to put the tin hat on the proceedings a delivery note was required before One could be processed.


And then to further add despair to a moist, yet clammy, experience, One accidentally crushed Gerald to death between me gargantuan thighs in the car on me way ‘ome!  (more on that story later)

Today, One shall embrace the life of the sloth.


Saturday, 22 March 2014

In which One bids Adieu (until Monday that is)…

All that fuss about digging up the floor of the Underground Lair and cleaning out the pipes. 

Huh!  One spits upon the drain rodders!  If only they’d shoved half a tub of Lidl stoned prunes and a bag of dried apricots down there!  Job done!

Well it worked pour Moi, having spent most of the night on the bog!

Any road up, One is still reeling from the shock of One’s imminent removal from the Underground Lair.

One did ask the blighters and all was well, but well, the rules keep on changing just as One has got the hang of the game.

One wonders if the same person who found it necessary to open my post and write to my previous mortgage holder to tell them I was letting it, is responsible for the latest dilemma?

They wouldn’t!  Would they?

40% bad luck 60% stupid decisions on One’s part have left One in the shite yet again.

Still, you can buy potassium cyanide on Amazon.


Off to attend to a chum with my tree loppers.

Adieu cruel world

Friday, 21 March 2014

In which it’s only the depth that varies…

Since One is a citizen requiring advice, One got some and ‘twould appear that One is up shit creek without a paddle.

Whatever should One do?

One can no longer reside in the Underground Lair.

Should One sell the Lair, One wont have enough spons to purchase a further hidey hole.

Should One let the Lair, One wont have enough to rent a tent.

Ho Hum.  As site goes, this is a big ‘un.

One has oft daydreamed of taking to the road in a camper van but at One’s advanced stage in life One would end up not dissimilar to the potty old pensioner that lived on Alan Bennett’s driveway.

One ponders: is One too advanced in years to put Oneself up for adoption?

Could One join the armed forces?

Could One be a companion ‘friend of the bosom’ such as the girl in Rebecca?

Whatever One does is going to entail taking to the road.

How the devil does One attend to One’s grey roots when One resides on a park bench?

If any of you Dear Readers has the answer, do let make One aware, wont you.

Thursday, 20 March 2014

In which the WN sets fire to the Underground Lair - AGAIN

Spoke too soon regarding the WN and the cremated eggs.  She appears to have taken the hint and has now begun to favour grilling foodstuffs. 

Sadly last evening it was cheese on toast bunged on the grill immediately after Lovely One had dined on that British staple of grilled sausages. 

Needless to say, whilst the WN was knitting, (I have seldom seen anyone with such an expression of intent since Einstein discovered the theory of wossnames) the Underground Lair went up.

She shot out into the kitchen like a thing possessed having flung aside the knitting, and proceeded to open the front door.

‘Don’t do that,’ hollered Lovely One, ‘last time I did that the whole block went off!’

As it is, the elderly and infirm now congregate in the car park as soon as the WN gets home in case she’s cooking.

Open went the French doors and all the windows and yet another ‘morning breeze’ scented candle burned down to it’s wick.

Any road up, all that is left of the debacle is a charred offering that the Blackbirds in the back garden have turned their beaks up at and a tiny black hand print on the extractor fan.

‘The thing is,’ she said, ‘I can’t promise I won’t do it again!’

‘You are a disaster looking for somewhere to happen,’ countered One.

But having said that, the amusement factor is fab!!

Wednesday, 19 March 2014

In which One is shagged…

Been plodding manfully on with the WW2 waistcoat and keeping an eye out for a member of the opp it might fit.  Sadly, with the exception of a Masai Mara Warrior, it has begun to look increasingly unlikely, so with that in mind, One mournfully unknitted it and embarked upon yet another scarf.  Biggan Ryd Upp (my knitting Guru) would get her shreddies in a proper twist if she could see it.

Any road up, collected Uncle Bert and sallied forth to the South for reasons various.

Called in on DLS to be confronted by FFS in strange attire:  bottom half clad in shiny blag leggings and storm trooper boots, top half in a silver lurex jumper, circa 1972, last seen on Queenie Watts at the Barnsley Working Men’s Club Christmas do.  In a bizarre way FFS was rocking it as a look.

Moving on…

Have just received a missive from One’s mortgage company advising me that they have ‘just been informed that my buy-to-let is now my main residence.’  How can this be, One peruses, as One told them it was three years ago.  ‘We have no record of that,’ they replied, ‘And we want you to repay the loan immediately or source another lender.’






Monday, 17 March 2014

In which One knits a dowry…

Hurrah!  The WN has knitted a pair of mittens!  Pray for snow, Dear Reader, in order that the world at large can cop a gander at them.

Oneself, however, is now half way through the production of one of those fair isle waistcoat jobbies that chaps favoured during WW2.

Knitting tips for this garment have been gleaned from the Knitting Daily website, that has become the religious text of preference in the Underground Lair. 

The particularly oddly named ‘expert’ is Biggan Ryd-Upp, which doubles not only as a snigger inducing Monika, but a description of One’s pants.

Any road up having plodded manfully on with One’s waistcoat One was called out of the B by none other than the delicious Lovely Gordon, the prospective recipient of the aforementioned garment.

‘Oh I’d have to start smoking Woodbine and get some pigeons if I wear one of those,’ he amusingly chuntered.


So, ‘twould appear that upon completion of said garment a man will have to be sought to fit into it. 

With it’s current projected measurements the gentleman would have to be seven feet four, have exceptionally narrow shoulders and positively muscle bound upper arms.

The only prospective candidate One has encountered thus far is the Jolly Tall Well Spoken Elderly Gentleman, who went off in a huff some months ago.

So – when the item is sewn up and ready for use One will advertise upon the medium of electronic device …


Friday, 14 March 2014

In which One is incandescent with fury in the ‘Chemist’s’…

What is going on?  Why can’t people stay firmly in their station in life and not continually attempt to stray into territories other?

A case in point is the ‘Chemist’ shop in Wivey.  One refuses point blank to use that ridiculous epithet ‘Pharmacy.’

Any road up following the debacle when the over-reaching ‘pill counter’ decided to read out One’s vast medication list to a lengthening queue, along with whatever ailment they were to obliterate, One has now another  brace of complaints about the blighters.

A couple of large medication bags ago, One was confronted with a ‘sticker’ inviting One to ‘discuss One’s medication with the Pharmacist.’

Now, why would One do such a thing?  One informed the over zealous bint that should One have any such queries One would be discussing them with One’s General Practitioner.

Off she went with a distinct flounce.

Yesterday, the same self important type demanded information re alcohol consumption.  All this took place at the counter in full view and clearly audible to the assembled mob of both Chemist Shop Assistants and customers.

Now anyone familiar with the indigenous pop of Wivey will know that, to a man, they are fond of a falling down beverage or two.  One declined the kind offer to divulge One’s Pinot preference, as it were, and was met with a hard stare and the statement…

‘So you are refusing are you?’



Thursday, 13 March 2014

In which One deserves the Victoria Cross at the very least…


Boy and Vile ex Husband both brandishing their cameras at One.  Obv One is taking a pic of the two of them paying One a visit for some free scran.  They, however, are here to snap the little Wood Nymph on their new devices.  The poor child was sore afraid, and with good reason!

Any road up, there they are in all their glory.  Vile ex Husband with his tiny little peanut head and Boy with his enormous cannonball bonce. 

Boy swerved a follow up visit yesterday so the WN got his special supper and then One proceeded to continue the knitting tuition.

Cries of ‘Aaaiiieeee Fockitt,’ abounded as the WN struggled with turning a considerable lump of sheep into a pair of mittens.

One scoffs at Scott of the Antarctic

One dismisses the valiant efforts of Florence Nightingale

One cocks a snook at Erasmus

One rolls One’s eyes at Galileo

One dismisses the efforts of Alan Turing with a bat of the hand

Famous for their marvellously magnificent lives


They didn’t have to teach the Wood Nymph to knit


Wednesday, 12 March 2014

In which One accepts the inevitable…


‘And when she was bad, she was horrid!’

An epiphany has taken place in the previously fantasy controlled world of Lovely One. 


One has been labouring under the misapprehension that One could actually enjoy a meaningful relationship with a member of the opposite.

AND YES – before you switch off, Dear Reader, thinking ‘Oh no, she’s off on one again,’

YES – One is off one one again.

For every six or so amusing interludes One feels duty bound to include a soul searching, navel gazing, reality check of downright misery.

With the advent of computer dating sites it is entirely possible for anyone to continue the abject misery of meeting members of the opp for afternoon tea and buns/evening meals and cinema/snogging in car parks/a risk free shag etc…

But, when One has lost One’s looks (yes it was last Tuesday at around 3.25 pm) One shall be for evermore, a lumpy, greying dollop with fat thighs.

Should One have remained in wedlock with vile ex-husband he could remember One when One was young, vivacious and nubile, with long lustrous locks, clear blue eyes, perfect white teeth and an enviable figure. 

Sadly, any old codger/todger who encounters One now will only know the decaying hulk that One sees before One in the mirror.

And (see above) how it all began, sneering from One’s school pic, proving One has always known it would all be a massive disappointment.

Tuesday, 11 March 2014

In which One discovers ‘fart controlled lighting’…

Everyone’s home has anomalies.  For example, in the Underground Lair, the extractor fan converts the Wood Nymphs ‘essence de burnt oil’ into slime that seeps into the top of the cupboard (through the hole in the suspicious looking extractor tube).  This is remedied by scrupulous mopping and the usage of many miles of kitchen paper.  One gets used to these quirks when One has to live with them on a daily basis.

The lower cupboards all emit a foul odour due to the seepage of washing up water down the back of the badly fitted tiling.

All in all, the revolting state of the Underground Lair’s kitchen ensure the survival of many tropical diseases, should one survive a week or two’s consumption of meal being prepared within.

No matter, One gets used to One’s own peculiarities.

The list at Mar’s gaff is presented upon arrival.

To include…

‘Be careful when you sit on the downstairs bog seat, or you will slide off onto the floor.’

‘Point the shower head directly into the centre of the shower tray or the water leaks onto the top of the fridge freezer in the downstairs toilet.’  (Best not to enquire as to the health benefits of having food in the bog)

‘Oh, and if the tiles start coming off the wall in the shower, just give them a sharp kick.’

These pearls of wisdom, plus many more, become second nature following a couple of stints in the Sarah Ferguson Suite or the Princess Diana up-grade.


Following a restless night barfing up pints of Pinot, One awoke from a coma like snooze and emitted a rather enormous fart that activated the light above One’s bed.


Monday, 10 March 2014

In which One is knitting a bath mat…

One arrived just in time to stop the complete bunging up of the plug hole works by long black hair.

‘Why won’t the bath water go down?’ thought One upon alighting from the room temperature asses milk.

Then, One proceeded to attack the hole with a special foot long pair of tweezers (it’s amazing what Bettaware sell) and retrieved enough hair Espanole to knit a bath mat.

How can someone so small and with such thick hair shed so much on a daily basis?

One hasn’t seen that amount of super-floo-us hair since One attacked Boy with the clippers.  There was such a massive mound on the floor that it had re-grouped and organised itself into a living entity and attempted to re-join the Motherlode as it left the building.

What a pity Boy bats for the same side.  If he were to breed with the WN they could start a race of house trained Yetti.

Sunday, 9 March 2014

In which One has discovered the elixir of life…

Having spent so little time in the Underground Lair of late, One is delighted to be back in the calm silence of it’s damp chambers.

Mar’s gaff is noisy and animated all the time, not least since she has been boosting the dwindling coffers with her drug dealing antics.

Not anything illegal, One hastens to add, but Senakot Tablets if you ever did!

Mar’s ageing Ma has a serious shit drug inducing habit.  So much so that she sidles up to all and sundry and with hand across mouth demands…

‘Have you got any?’

Sadly, the v aged one has a habit of forgetting how many she’s imbibed and this leads to a gusset foraging incident led by the capable hands of Mar. 

This is such a regular occurrence now that Mar goes by the nom de plume of ‘The Shit Fairy.’  Try as she may with a spray of Cilit Bang Grime and Lime down the d├ęcolletage along with a build up of Red Door, she can’t seem to shake the aroma of Senakot induced shite that clings to her hands.

Not only do the little blighters live to a previously unheard of age, they are precocious and far more forward than your average bod.  Swastika (two and a half) has already been to Eye-Bee-Fa with some friends, and has two part time cleaning jobs to make ends meet.

So, there you have it!  Sea air and Senokot!  The recipe for a long and healthy life!

Saturday, 8 March 2014

In which One honours the Mafia with an official visit…

One has just risen from One’s cosy little truckle bed, having spent the last few days and nights in Deepest Devon.

As per, Mar has tried to kill One with a cocktail of wines various.  So much so that One was to be found barfing through the night upon One’s arrival.

Mar is so small!  It’s a complete mystery to One, where she bungs it all. Rumour has it that they all have webbed feet and are amphibious.  Maybe that’s it.

Clearly, Mar had been dining on ‘One sheet does plenty’ kitchen paper in order to soak up the copious amounts of Pinot on offer.  In fact, with the unsightly bulge showing through her hand knitted liberty bodice, it was obvious that she’s actually swallowed at least two rolls whole.

Appearing each morning in thermal socks, a short waffle dressing gown and yesterday’s make-up, Mar proceeded to tend to her pet weevils that live in a sack of Lidl’s flour. 

One can see how Mar must be a magnet to the boys, since each time she bent over to retrieve a stray weevil, straight legged, due to her arthritic knees, she flashed a goodly portion of nocturnal gusset attire.

Any road up, due to the incarceration of Hanner the Janner and offspring, One was up-graded to the Princess Diana Suite with it’s own en-suite.  A luxury that One will be reticent to forego and be bunged back in the inferior Sarah Ferguson room where One has to walk miles to the bathroom.

FFS was conspicuous by her absence and when One did finally catch up with her at Dear Little S’s, One was shocked in the extreme at what One was confronted with.  Clearly now so poverty stricken, FFS was wearing hand-me-downs from Swastika and was very nigh spilling out the top of an age 18mths to 2years Mothercare vest.  AND she is so strapped for cash she can’t afford a jewellery box and has to wear all her stuff at the same time!  With the 384 Primarni bracelets she had on, she could hardly lift the can of Premium Lidl’s Lager to her gob!


Sunday, 2 March 2014

In which One is still reeling…

The Wood Nymph enjoyed a beer filled birthday and was resplendent in her knitted poncho.  With arms outstretched she resembled a knitted tea bag.
It has come to the attention of Lovely One that there are a number of the little blighters in PR and that they are all, every last one of them, called Maria.
Now, call me old fashioned, but One can foresee slight issues with this tradition…
Imagine the stampede when Mama calls out the door…
‘Maria come inside for tea.’
When the roll call is made in school and teacher asks ‘Is Maria here?’ as all the little hands shoot up.
Anyway, the one One has in the Underground Lair is Maria of the Beer (and fried eggs)
One is still reeling from the news that Aged P has opted to remain in the ancestral home, charging up and down the rickety stairs on her crutches.
TEN EFFING DAYS One spent in that back bedroom, sleeping on that lumpy bed, in bottle green sheets, with scores of photographs of the Aged P at varying stages of life, grimacing down on One.
Off again this week to meet my adoring public in Deepest.


Saturday, 1 March 2014

In which One call Amnesty International…

Ten Days

14400 Hours

864000 Minutes

51840000 Seconds

Approximately, of course, and anyway it felt like more than that…

Is the time One spent under house arrest, as a poorly nourished…

‘Ooooh I haven’t got any white sliced bread.’


Culturally deprived…

‘Alan Titmouse/Bradley Walsh/some other gurning nonentity, is on in a minute.’


Intelligent conversation wasteland…

‘Yesterday I had two squares of chocolate and a stuffed chicken leg for me tea.’

The sharing of food/illness/medication information is what passes for communication.

Oh and let’s not forget the profanity and squealing that accompanied any discussion of the retirement apartment, THAT SHE HAD CHOSEN HERSELF, that One has had to endure.

Upon One’s return all fell eerily silent until One crumbled under the pressure and telephoned to enquire as to the progress of the move.

and guess what