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Wednesday, 30 April 2014

In which One is down but not quite out…

‘ Can you just do an artist’s impression of a new build for me?’ came the enquiry.

‘Yes, of course I’d love to and thank you for thinking of me,’ was the grateful, bacon-saving, reply.

Two trips to collect the paperwork and one site visit later, One was still unable to sharpen One’s pencil.

‘I can’t download the drawings at the moment but if you visit the site the builder will walk you around,’ was the instruction.

So, off One pootled in the Porsche to a little hamlet on the way to the seaside.

A pickernick basket in the boot and a twenty times zoom slung round me neck and One was off!

The site proved to be a muddy clearing in a sunny dip by a stream. 

‘Jolly nice,’ thought One, but even with One’s active imagination One can’t produce anything without the plans.

‘Hot Diggety’, here they are, (One is currently watching the Waltons) when the email lands.

One can begin!

‘Twas, however, a splendid day out at the beach with One’s pickernick basket that contained a sumptuous luncheon comprising of home baked ham sandwiches (made from home made bread) and a clotted cream filled home baked chocolate cake with home made raspberry jam.


No matter – They all end up as just an irritation and a pile of socks and pants to launder.


Just caught a bit of ‘The Wright Stuff’ and some silly Saira Kahn sort, who reckons that depression is ‘feeling a bit low’ and would be ‘cure by some exercise,’


Depression is when you don’t get out of your truckle bed for weeks and when you do it is to research suicide methods online.


Monday, 28 April 2014

In which One is not over ‘Over Totnes two’…


Following an enquiry at one of One’s galleries the above masterpiece was painted.  It took fecking AGES and measures 2 ft x 3ft.

It wasn’t even commissioned, but was the result of an enquiry which was made by a prospective customer who was going to buy either one of One’s or some other painter.


Any road up since the initial question was posed as

‘Do you have an original of Totnes?’ the answer always has to be a resounding YES YES YES

And forthwith One created one.

Since the gallery would rather burn down than actually pass the query onto the artist, One is compelled to pass the painting on, and despite the likelihood of it hitting the hanging space, One is still charged fifty fecking per cent commission!

With this in mind and given the complexity of the painting One priced it accordingly.  Only to be emailed with the response…

‘Could you confirm the price since that is a lot more than the cost of the paintings you usually send us and it might be a deal breaker.’

One did indeed confirm the price with a proviso that if the commission rate were negotiable, then so was the cost even though the painting is twice the size and complexity of One’s usual doing for them.

An eerie silence has fallen upon the pooter in the Underground Lair…

Maybe One should follow up the last missive with an offer…

‘Perhaps everyone would like to shit upon One from a great height, urinate all over One’s masterpieces and then stab One to death with the pointy end of a paintbrush.’


Saturday, 26 April 2014

In which One is saddened by spite…

Hard to believe, but the Pickled Egg Mafia are still dominating the Community Centre with a hard stare or two.

Seems soooo long ago that they waddled over to One’s newly produced Christmas Cards, flicked through them with a menacing snarl and regrouped for strategy talks behind the clocks made out of CD’s.

The main thrust of their venom was based upon the mantra…

‘She thinks ‘er stuff is better than ours.’


Now it would seem any newcomer to the supposed ‘Community’ market gets the same ‘un’welcome.

One never bothered mentioning this to the newly enthusiastic bods of One’s acquaintance as One assumed that One’s ‘incident’ which occurred around TEN FECKING YEARS AGO was a one off or, at the very least, treatment reserved for ‘outsiders.’

But NO – News reaches One of the spiteful old harridans still behaving in such a manner that persons new are unwilling to return following their inaugural outing.

Just as another little business was forced out of the place by mean spirited spite, so it would appear another has stumbled at the starting blocks.

One supposes it’s futile to ask them to play nicely.


Friday, 25 April 2014

In which One has finally discovered One’s soul mate…

One has inadvertently stumbled across One’s ‘Soul mate.’

Prior to this discovery One had spat upon the notion of such a thing and barfed at those who opined that they had been lucky enough to find theirs.

Sadly, One’s Soul Mate is on the other side of the Atlantic and available only through a blog of even more mammoth proportions than One’s own.

Advertised as a daily record of a miserable failure (although the author is acceptable to the gen pub, as is One, as a relatively normal article) the diatribe is right up One’s passage and no mistake.

The writing is a truly miserable litany of missed opportunities and bad decisions, just like One’s own.

Now there’s a man One could love!

He spends his week doing a shite job, that he hates, and his weekend eating junk food and avoiding household chores.

The only stumbling block upon the horizon, to use two clichés, is that he has a dog.  But since he is too idle to walk the creature One is sure he could be persuaded to dispose of the creature, whereupon One could surreptitiously introduce One’s pussy to the equation.



Thursday, 24 April 2014

One has been drained in the manner of Sampson…

One is sporting short hair as of today and ‘twould appear that One’s entire brain power has drained away along with One’s lustrous locks.


Well, except for three eps of Breaking Bad, which One has almost finished.


First, having volunteered as a knitter for Coldharbour Mill’s Yarn Storm (or Bomb, One can never remember which) One was unable to print the fecking pattern off the computer as the bastard was ‘refusing’ to talk to the printer.

These things were all so easily remedied when One was enslaved by Vile Ex Husband and had Boy on tap.  Now, as a poor defenceless Atilla the Honey, all on One’s lonesome (apart from the beer swilling Wood Nymph, Fokkit) One has to attempt to solve all One’s technical issues Oneself, fer feck’s sake!

Any road up, the V ex H is accommodating (on the other end of a phone) and talked One through it.



Then, One biffed off to ‘The Jewel of Somerset’ for a print of one of One’s attractive big cocks, for which One has an order.

Forgot to take the disc.


Wednesday, 23 April 2014

In which Boy is singled out …

God, that bloody woman really annoys One!  The Aged P, that is.

One would mange me chapeau if she is innocent in the Aged P/Brother war saga.

‘Oh hello, I was getting worried,’ was the opening gambit in yesterday’s call.

‘Oh, why was that?’ enquired One.

‘Well you haven’t phoned since last week and I phoned the other day and there was no answer.’


‘I was out I expect,’ said One, already fit to bite a nail in half.

‘Did you get your Easter card?’ she ploughed on.

‘Yes, thank you and I sent you one.  Did you send Boy an egg?’

‘No.  He didn’t phone me last time so I decided to leave him out. I took eggs for all the others though.’

(the offspring of Brother and wife number one, who haven’t spoken to her for years and then popped up out of the blue trying to get info on the Brother’s doings.)

‘I see, so Boy was the only one left out then,’ said One through clenched teeth.

Whilst I agree, Boy should have thanked her for the egg previous, she has now obv switched allegiance to First Wife who was commented upon on the wedding day  thus:

‘It’ll be the happiest day of my life when that marriage breaks up.’

(Obv the poor girl didn’t worship at the alter of Aged P to the required degree.)

But now, Brother onto wife numero deux, fallen out with Aged P being the common enemy, Aged P and First Wife are best buds.

‘You should see her new house, well she deserves it, she’s got four bedrooms, two ensuite, a toilet downstairs, even! And it’s in a mews with a private garden and someone comes and does it.  What do you think of that then?’


Thursday, 17 April 2014

In which One is masticating a Toffifee or two…

One is intent on leaving the Underground Lair for an hour or two today to soak some springtime rays into One’s leathery old hide.

What is One saying, One still has the soft plumptiousness of a new born baby. In fact One still has the creases halfway up One’s thighs providing an ideal place to thaw out ready meals for One.


Today One will mostly be wearing blue hair.

The salutary lesson here is not to leave Lightest Ash Blonde on for longer than the recommended time.

No matter, One is over fifty, so One is invisible to the naked eye.


All alone, One will be sitting with One’s Toffifee watching imaginary families on TV eating leg of lamb and going on Easter egg hunts.

Ha – Tesco – profits down again.

One has previously eschewed the lesser European confectionary such as Toffifee and, in particular, those Kinder fecking Surprises.  Boy favoured those overpriced slivers of inferior chocolate concealing within a miniscule piece of plastic shite that One required a sodding magnifying glass and a physics degree to assemble.

Any road up, One digresses and, in fact, One is now addicted to the delicious discs of toffee that is Toffifee.

One still has three teeth that aren’t wobbling and One is determined to masticate One’s way through the ‘holidays’ without dislodging a further filling.

Wednesday, 16 April 2014

In which One requires a good stuff…

‘Contentment lies in self acceptance.’ Says who?

One is certainly not accepting that One is a lumpy, grey-rooted old dollop with minimal talent, soon to be,  no home and an utterly miserable disposition.

True, One has been in a bad mood for fifty-seven years, but look at the evidence…

40% bad luck

60% bad choices

Today One is feeling like acting in the manner of Michael Douglas in ‘Falling Down’ and shooting up the neighbourhood, but instead One will be hoovering, dusting and touching up me roots.

One feels that One is being unduly influenced by the watchage overload of ‘Breaking Bad.’

Obv, One not being a Chemist, One can’t embark upon a life of drug cooking.

Cat Burgling is out, since One hasn’t been able to shimmy through a fan-light since around 1963 and prospective victims would need to leave their patio doors open.

To add further to the mire of shite, One has some kind of ‘virus’ I believe they call it when they don’t have any idea what it is.

Confined to the truckle bed for most of the day One is growing more morose by the minute.

This condition has only one cure:

An Uffculmbe kebab and a bottle of Pinot.

Fire up the Ferrari, Hudson – we’re going out!

Tuesday, 15 April 2014

In which One is tempted by a sausage surprise…

There are certain difficulties that arise when one, anyone, not just One, has a Seasonal Surprise in the shape of a Berry Aneurism.

The resulting memory loss (I’ll grant you some of it is selective) does tend to lead One into the odd dilemma.

One such incident occurred this very day upon the visitation of Uncle Bert for his Birthday Brunch.

Being alarmingly short of spons One ransacked the Underground Lair for a suitable gift with which to delight the Gargantuan Gonadded old Git.

One carefully and delightfully wrapped the gift in ‘The Gift Wrapping Room’ a la Aaron Spelling. I kid you not, Dear Reader, they had a fecking gift wrapping room fer fecks sake!

Any road up, battling a chest infection, and believe moi, with my chest it could be fatal, One knocked up scrumptious luncheon and presented the gift.

UB tore into it (the brunch and the gift) with gusto and a bemused expression fell upon his fizzog.

‘This is mine,’ he said as he unwrapped the onyx egg.

‘Twas only then that One remembered that One had lifted it from his gaff previously.

But then, as One said, ‘You shouldn’t be too miffed, I only steal from people I like.’


One then retired to One’s truckle bed for a cough and a spit and a couple of eps of Breaking Bad. Only to be rudely awakened by Lovely Gordon with the offer of a ‘Sausage Surprise.’

Sadly One had to take a rain check so he will either have to stick it in the ice box or surprise some other maiden with it.


Monday, 14 April 2014

In which One sets up ‘Baking Bad’…


Jeeeeez!  One is really, really BORING!

One shot up (in the truckle bed,  not into a vein) last night, having watched the obligatory two eps of Breaking Bad, in the realisation that One is Dull – with a capital Shite!

One had, the other evening, attempted to engage the Wood Nymph in a scintillating conv about hair-fecking-brushes!

What is the problem with One?  No wonder the WN slopes off into her room of an evening when all she has to entertain her is the story of One’s three Denman Hairbrushes…

Just in case you are interested, Dear Reader, One’s Nanny bought the first, when One was seven.  A wooden handled, bristle brush it was that endured until One reached the ripe old figure of twenty two, if you please!

The latest one, an inferior plastic model with acrylic bristles…. Oh feck!  There One goes again!

Any road up, with the doings of Heisenberg echoing in One’s subcon, One is going to embark upon a life of crime to liven things up a bit.

The production of Meth Amphetamine may prove a little beyond One, and The W N has refused point blank to be the dealer, so One is setting up

Baking Bad

One will be known as ‘Battenburg’

see above: coffee and walnut gateaux

One will advertise the product as having organic flour and free range eggs (of course)

One will actually be using Lidl, weevil infested flour and eggs from depressed hens kept in cages.

One will claim the coffee is from a Fair Trade collective whilst One will actually buy from a Columbian, moustachio twiddling monster – Ha Ha

Obv One will have to broaden One’s recipe catalogue before commencing to take to the streets with One’s wares.

But watch out Mrs B with yer produce cart…

There’s a new main man in Town!

Sunday, 13 April 2014

In which One doesn’t put all One’s eggs on one basket…

‘How do you like your eggs in the morning?’ was a chat up line oft used to Lovely One in days of yore.

‘Unfertilised,’ would come the reply.

Any road up, last week four dozen eggs were wolfed down in the Underground Lair by the Wood Nymph et Moi.

‘What the Devil were you doing with them all?’ you might enquire, Dear Reader.

‘Seeking poached egg perfection,’ would come the retort.

That, and the production of yet another baking anomaly from the coffin-sized kitchen of Lovely One. 

One’s latest baked good was the production of a Lemon Sludge Cake.  The receipt called for a Lemon Drizzle Cake, but One’s drizzle wouldn’t.

A man-sized portion was fed to Boy who inhaled it with the comment, ‘Yeah that was OK.’

No matter, the WN took the rest to the workshop whereupon the assembled woodcutters enquired as to how One had baked a cake with a perfectly spherical hole right through the centre.

One’s fecked if One knows!


Cleared off into the wilds for some more oeufs and was seduced by the offer of a shed load for practically zilch from ‘caged hens’

Mindful of a telling off by the Wood Nymph, One pulled up at a farm and biffed the required spons into the ‘Honesty Box’ and acquired some free range (still with the poop on)

Saturday, 12 April 2014

In which One is confused…

‘Hello I just thought I’d give you a call to see how you are,’ said One

‘Huh! There’s work going on up the road outside the school.  The council do stuff for them but don’t care about old people and what we want.’

‘What are they doing?’ enquires One.

‘Putting a bloody crossing outside,’ replied the socially aware Aged P.

THE BASTARDS thought One.  Fancy wasting council tax by putting a crossing outside a school!

Any road up, in an attempt to refocus the conv, One swerved further comment on the crossing.

‘Have you been out this week?’ was One’s next attempt.

‘That bloody Eileen goes to Tesco after Eastenders and I have to wait for them to bring my shopping until 10 o’clock.’

‘It’s good of them to get it for you isn’t it?’ said One.

‘HE takes HER every week,’ was the reply.

Changing tack One went on…

‘There are a proposed fourteen houses being built on the waste ground by the Brewery Tower and so I am thinking of moving,’ said One.

‘The fucking busses aren’t stopping outside here and when I phone up they said they don’t know when they will be re starting.  Fancy that, the idiots don’t know anything and so I can’t go out now,’ came the irrelevant reply.

‘Can’t you get a cab into town?’ enquired One.

‘I’ve got to go. Delphine is coming round with her bad knee and John is bent right over he can’t do anything now and I’m not having that Reiki any more I can see the screw poking out of me leg.’



Friday, 11 April 2014

In which One is in a bit of a rush…

One is now informed, to a degree, of the censorship of mail during the first world war.  All One said was ‘Good Morning’ and One unleashed a lecture upon the aforementioned subject.

We were briefly disturbed by the ‘specials’ from next door who were going up town for their daily cake walk in the Co op. 

And then…

Two elderly spinsters of this parish appeared from the other wing of Stalag Malthouse…

One of them, the one with the ridiculously long hair for a person of advancing years, appeared to have a nasty red gash under her nose.  Upon closer examination, it proved to be her mouth!  It was smothered in Max Fuctor no 69 – a startling shade of scarlet, fashioned from the blood of aborted council estate foetus.

Off they popped in matching mobility scooters to ‘worry’ old men at whist drives…

Any road up, One informed the ‘specials’ that One is shearing with immediate effect.  Obv the poor dears were devastated to learn that One is on the road again, but, no matter One feels sure that given time and counselling they will recover.

Freshly returned from assisting Uncle Bert with the soaking of his anemones in a bucket, One found a message from some minted sort who requires a view over Totnes…

‘Have you got an original of Totnes?’ came the enquiry.

‘Yes.  I am just finishing One as we speak,’ retorted Lovely One.



Toodle Pip, Dear Reader

Thursday, 10 April 2014

In which One is off to conquer the known world…

The fourteen year old Estate Agent is already back tracking with his valuation figure, even though it is in writing.  What a pullover!

Any road up, as One pointed out to the spotty oik, ‘One may lower the price but not increase it.’

So, onward and upward, or in One’s case, backward and sideways.

One has received a most marvellously generous offer of sanctuary from one of the best people One’s life has careered into along the way.  However, as per, One has a list and a plan.

Even after all the peaks and troughs, One still has a sneaky delight in something completely different. 

After all, One could sit festering in the Underground Lair knocking out paintings various of sodding Smeaton’s Tower from every angle apart from sitting atop it, or One could liquidise One’s assets and biff off in a camper van to conquer the Orient.


Well, I’ll go to the foot of our stairs!

The phantom carrots are back!

One was pottering, Charlie Dimwit style around the grounds the other am and during the restyling of a herb pot, One discovered a veritable crop of phantom carrots.

One has never planted carrots. One has never bought carrot seeds and yet there they were – carrots! Large as life and twice as pointy!

A new career as a market gardener beckons so One shall dispense with One’s foundation garments, remove the nail polish and adopt an Earth Mother vibe, (after One has finished painting the sodding lighthouse)

Wednesday, 9 April 2014

In which One is eating the last Rolo…

Well, Dear Reader, ‘tis done!

The Underground Lair is officially up for grabs to the highest bidder.  What a sad day for the other residents of Stalag Malthouse, (Lovely One being the only hope against the Uberleuitnent)  I know, I know it’s speelt wrong, but who gives a rat’s fat.

Nothing stays the same, does it?  So onward and upward, since the only alternative is flat lining.

penthouse apartment

Web definitions

  1. A penthouse apartment or penthouse is an apartment that is on one of the highest floors of an apartment building. Penthouses are typically differentiated from other apartments by luxury features. ...


See above definition before viewing other FLATS for sale in this block.

Fiddle De Dee



:  a multiple-unit low-rise dwelling having considerable lawn or garden space



Lovely One is currently in possession of the latter, correctly described as a Garden Flat.


Any road up, the great unwashed will make up their own minds and surely decide to reside in the blue plaqued lovliness of Lovely One’s old gaff.

One hasn’t had much ado with the doings of the populus of Dear old Wiv, of late, since the little blighters are deserting One’s wares in their droves.  No matter, the holidaying hordes will be descending on Deepest forthwith, clutching their disposable income.

‘You are remarkably sanguine about it all,’ opined Lovely Gordon.

On the surface perhaps, but within, One is deeply disturbed and turbulent.  So much so that One was sleepless in the truckle bed with only 3 episodes of Breaking Bad and a packet of Rolos for company.


Tuesday, 8 April 2014

In which One records a brief thought or two…

chocolate eclair

Here is One looking like a boiled wool obelisk with One’s Choclatey Claires. 

Clearly in pensive mood…

‘Shall One.  Shan’t One.’

One did, of course. 

Don’t fight it. Bite it!

Any road up, as me Granny would say…

‘If things don’t alter, they’ll remain as they are.’

And guess what?  They’ve altered.

One had to break the news to Lovely Gordon that One will be shearing with immediate effect.  Obv, he is utterly beside himself, what with One being the only constant in his life.

But, there you have it, or don’t have it, as the case may be, One simply cannot hang around in the Underground Lair on the off chance that LG will front up, up the passage on the odd occasion and One shall have to take up One’s truckle bed and feck off.

Fortunately One has a chum who will be taking One in, in the manner of a friend of the bosom/companion sort of way.

Just as well, since One would be a gentleperson of the road otherwise.


Saturday, 5 April 2014

In which One is a Chocolatey Claire…

In it plopped, into the ‘in’ box of One’s email tray…

An order from ‘The Hall’  - you know – where One and Henry Moore bung our stuff for you smelly poor people to Ooooh and Aaaaah over.

Any road up, they still haven’t got the message that One isn’t John-fecking-Lewis or Amazon (One actually IS an Amazon, but that’s a whole nother story).

Thirty two items in all this month.  2 off - sixteen different pictures.  I ask you Dear Reader, are these bods stchooooopid, or what?

‘I don’t actually print from all my paintings,’ One explained.

‘Well it would be an investment,’ came the reply from someone who gets paid (the same amount) every fecking month regardless of whether she actually sells anything or not!

Oh Bollicks and Fokkit!


(flippin’ ‘eck!  I hope she doesn’t read this)

So, off One popped to the homestead of one of One’s chums to beg her darling hubbster to knock off a few prints on the cheap. 

The hubbster in question is an Angel sent from Heaven and had even made Chocolate Eclairs in honour of One’s visit.   I LOVE HIM

Now, the visit was a rip-roaring success, as per, but, call me old-fashioned, when One invites a chum for lunch, One actually stays at home for the duration of the visit.

Not so, One’s chum!  Three times she cleared off out on missions various.

With a hubbster like that One wouldn’t take any chances that someone else might try to have a go on him, and frankly, if One had the energy to heave One’s quivering mass off the sofa, One might have done just that!


Tuesday, 1 April 2014

In which One knew you was coming so One baked a cake…


Let’s face it, St Mary of the Berries, can’t live forever, and someONE will have to step into her Manolos.


Feast your beadies on that little beauty, Dear Reader!

One does readily accept that the offering One produced yesterday afternoon in readiness for a visit from Boy and then Uncle Bert, isn’t quite the vision that graced the pages of the Sainsbury magazine.

Triumphant in my doings, One immediately captured it’s likeness to record the baking bonanza for posterity. 

Uncle Bert opined that the usage of Bread Sauce instead of frosted topping was possibly an error and Dear Little S declined the offer of a slice with the opinion that ‘it looks like the contents of a liposuction bag.’


Not only were ‘baked goods’ created, but a fairly pungent and bottom clenching curry was devised, for the use of.

Neither offering was met with enthusiasm from Boy, who shoved the curry around for a while and then asked for a Chrunchie.

The WN could be relied upon to inhale the contents of the kitchen in one go, though.

‘Fockitt!’ came the cry ‘You don’t give yourself enough credit, it’s looooovely.’

Oooooh, have just investigated the fridge and a goodly portion of the baked good has been taken to the workshop for the delectation of the WN’s little wood cutting chums. 

One has alerted A and E in the nearest town.