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Saturday, 31 May 2014

In which One get it all sewn up…

Oh my giddy Aunt!  All systems to warp factor one in the Underground Lair.

Having been ejected from One’s own home in favour of the Wood Nymph’s little chum, One was dispatched with indecent haste to Dear J’s. 

J is head of our girl gang, what with her being the oldest, and we sat up till midnight shooting the breeze with the Count on our laps.

As long as you keep stroking the Count and feeding him tit-bits he doesn’t complain too much.  The ideal Male companion in One’s opinion.

Any road up, One has come to an empas and is taking up a position as a Lady’s Maid in preparation for the obv arrival of Maxim de Winter in the guise of a rampant Squash Coach, who will no doubt want to whisk One away from all this and live outrageously in a rose covered cottage in the Highlands until we die of a boffing overdose…

Watch this space, Dear Reader…

Thursday, 29 May 2014

In which (perhaps a little late in the afternoon) One shall be exercising caution…

Failure to follow even the simplest of instruction may incur the wrath of Lovely One.

Just such an incident occurred yesterday, Dear Reader…

One gave explicit instruction to a prospective suitor NOT under any circs to read One’s innermost thoughts and doings in One’s blog.

Obv with in-depth reporting on One’s thrilling adventures, for example…

The dental floss incident

The Big Issue selling incident

The fart controlled lighting

and scores more misdemeanours over the passing of many a moon it is entirely possible for a stranger to get the wrong impression of Lovely One and to (wrongly) assume that One is not a Lady of the utmost quality.

One is not saying that One’s best pants will never get another airing on the world’s stage, or that One will never be allowing yomps across One’s delicate, creamy white acreage…

But let’s face it Dear Reader…

We’ve trodden this well-worn path afore with dis-fecking-astrous consequences!

One shall be exercising the utmost caution given the dog/chocolate/toxic effect of One on the M of the species.

One shall NOT be casting aside One’s Liberty Bodice in a flurry of pash and indecent haste.

One’s Gok Wan control camisole will NOT be shooting up like a roller blind at every opportunity and One shall NOT be taking a leaf out of the WN’s book and submerging any paramours in the hip-bath.

Well, not yet anyway……………


In which One is up to the back teeth with errands of mercy…

The drawbridge is up…

All lines of communication are down…

Preparations are underway for the release of Lovely One into society…

As if One doesn’t require a full day to render One fit for human consumption, the fates were conspiring against One in the shape of the Tiny Temptress and ‘er next door.

The Tiny one, other wise known as the wood nymph, had to be delivered to the workshop for a day hewing items from logs afore dragging a peer of the realm into his claw footed bath for an evening of pash.

‘I say to heem… shall we hef a bass, and he rush off straight away to draw zee water,’ she said with a serious note of surprise.

‘Good grief girl,’ shrieked One, ‘ I should think he thought all his Christmases had come at once!  I’ll wager the gels he takes on first dates very rarely suggest having a BATH.’

Anyway, in an aborted effort to further Lady-fy the little minx, One acquired a delicious slinky frock in order that she might, for once, eschew the jeans and Doc Martens. No success thus far!

Then, ‘er next door required collecting from hospital. 


Oil myself from tip to toe in order to slide into me Gok Wan control body stocking…

Deploy a goodly squirt of Cillit Bang Mould and Mildew dans me décolletage

and get me best pants out of cold storage


Wednesday, 28 May 2014

In which One is proven toxic to the male of the species…

‘Blimey O’reilly,’ as me granny would say, ‘Just as there’s a flicker of gusset-gratification on the horizon: One was a’launderin’ One’s maximum suckage Sloggis and a Gok Wan control brief noir (well not that brief actually) sneaked in and turned the lily-white undergarments a whiter shade of grey.

Grading One’s pantage is now a ‘no-brainer’ (Oh how I loathe the exp) and all pants are ‘second best,’

One had warned the RR that on the unlikely event of his being allowed into One’s Burlesque Boudoir, One would only be removing One’s second best shreddies, sad to say: ‘Is that all there is?’  (Peggy Lee) and the answer is ‘YES’

Any road up…

One seems to have lost the prospective lodger somewhere in the ether although, hopefully not for ever, One perambulated One’s fat arse to a coffee house to sup with a further abandoned and shelved article.

‘Twould appear that One is toxic to the male of the species in the manner of chocolate to dogs.

Dogs can’t resist chocolate, yet too much of it shall render them deceased and so it is with Lovely One and the male of the species.

The longer One remained in the company of aforementioned cove, the more he developed a nervous tick.

By the time One took One’s leave the article could have been diagnosed with St Vitas Dance by all but the most inexperienced of lay-man Shaman.

In future, One shall strictly limit the Lovely One dosage to manageable levels.

Monday, 26 May 2014

In which One has cast aside One’s earthly body…

It has come to pass, Dear Reader, that One no longer requires One’s earthly body as One can now exist entirely in Cyberspace.

Yesterday was the final blow to One’s human form.  Being a Bank Holiday Monday the dating website was awash with floor pacing, trouser twitching old codgers desp for contact with the outside world.

One, entirely due to One egging on aforementioned old codgers, received an invitation to dinner, an offer of a new flat mate, a more general ‘tea and a bun’ offer and the usual ‘please sleep with me, I love you,’ plea…


One has been required to take a look into the Gothic looking glass in order to remind One that One is in fact a fat old has-been and not the delicious confection of yore.

Oh how One yearns for the days, many moons ago, when One could merely bat an eyelid or accidentally let the top button of One’s chemise fall loose in order to get some deluded old sap to do One’s bidding.


‘Tis still alarmingly simple to ‘hook’ the silly blighters with an amusing tale or a jolly jape, but One suspects the minute One lets the drawbridge down on the Underground Lair that even the most decrepit old, duffel-bag willied, old git would shear as fast as his varicose legs would carry him.

Any road up, speaking of delusion, One has been informed by the RR that ‘anyone expecting passion after the age of 50 is delusional’ and should effectively ‘gather ye faded rosebuds where ye may.’

One of course, is, in the manner of Blanche DuBoir…

‘I haven’t gained an ounce since my wedding day.’

Me neither, Blanche, I’m still a size 22 with bra overhang and wobbly thighs.



In which One is best viewed from behind a lace curtain…

One imagines, Dear Reader, that you are familiar, even if only from an observational point of view, with the ‘Big Dipper.’  Not the mere buttock clenching rides of the past, but the gob shuddering, tiny bit of wee escaping, white knuckle rides of today…

For it is here that you find Lovely One today.  One has chugged in a stately manner up the very nigh vertical slope of hope and is now teetering on the cusp of the plummet of despair…

There will be no refreshing flume-like splosh into cool fresh water at the bottom for Lovely One, but an almost immediate immersion into a bottomless vat of shite.

For: come the end of June, One will have no ‘fee-paying’ guest and therefore, since you selfish bastards spend all your money on food and leccy instead of art, NO FECKING INCOME WHAT-SO-FECKING-EVER.

Well, not quite abs nothing as Aged P has stepped up to the plate and is sending One ten quid a week to avoid absolute starvation.  Oh, that, and a Marks and Spencer voucher to the value of twenty five quid.  That’s really fecking handy when One is financially embarrassed – an M&S voucher!  What does the daft old bat think One is going to do with that?  Buy some big pants fer fecks sake!!

AND HOW FECKING EMBARRASSING – having food parcels sent by One’s Aged P, fer fecks sake!

But then, One did support the whole lot of them from the age of nineteen for the passing of many a moon and, after all, that’s what family is for: getting money off!!

Anyway, being in a state impossibly high spirits, given the approaching shite, (entirely due to the removal of the Prozac and Pinot diet) One is unable to get much kip of late.

One has reorganised the truckle bed into a different corner and draped a Nottingham lace tablecloth over the front window (not that One would deny any old perv the miniscule amount of satisfaction that he might gain from catching One in One’s vest and pants) and it has afford One a muted glow within the lair.

‘Why haven’t I ever seen you in the daylight Blanche?’ springs to mind…

You know, Dear Reader, Mitch speaking to Blanche DuBoir in ‘A Streetcar named Desire.’

Well, that’s One, that is.  Best viewed behind the veil of a lace cloth from under the softening glow of a paper lantern.  Even then One bets Stanley Kowalski wouldn’t even bat a gonad. 


Sunday, 25 May 2014

In which One answers a call for help...

Here is One drowsing in a big comfy bed (alone) Bert is on the futon, and One is V rudely awakened by a cry for HELP.

Snuggling down neath the duvet One hears said cry again.


Forced from One's slumbers by a call of duty, One opened the curtains expecting to find at least one gentleman in distress, who would be so grateful and mesmerized when finding the angelic gob of LO gazing upon him he would propose forthwith and immediately set up a substantial monthly allowance for One.

But no, Dear Reader, outside by the stream   was an old codger bellowing at a despondent looking greyhound.


Although, to be fair, One did have a cat called ' Oi'

Any road up, One went back to bed.  Incidentally it is, OR WAS, One's bed and One's futon.

In fact One is like the DFS version of Mother fecking Theresa with all the items of furniture One has given to the deserving poor.

Vile ex Husband has got his boney old arse all over me Chesterfields.  Uncle Bert is either kipping in me big bed or reclining like a morbidly obese consumptive on me futon.

And here's poor darling Lovely One with but a tiny, lonely, single truckle bed that One could hardly cram an Accountant in.

WORTH A TRY THOUGH, isn't it Dears!

Saturday, 24 May 2014

In which One is resigned to failure and doom…

One has been given the opportunity to be a companion/carer/bosom friend, in the manner of ‘The Girl’ in Daph du M’s ‘Rebecca.’

A temporary solution to the homelessness carriage of One’s runaway train of failure and shame.

One fears there may not be a Maxim de Winter out there to come to the rescue of Lovely One and One will be secreted away companioning/caring/bosom friending until One is consumed by rodents.


The WN was in residence when One returned from a mercy mission for a chum…

Whilst One had been festering away with a pinot in one hand and a tub of Ben and Jerry’s in the other, soaking me feet in the washing up bowl (with special socks on, saves on the laundry), the little blighter had been submerged in a claw-footed, cast iron bath with a view of the family acreage, accompanied by a member of OUR BRITISH ARISTOCRACY.

‘How do you know he really is LB?’ enquired the RR when One passed on the tale.  (One only lives through the doings of the WN)

‘I could say I am the heir to the throne of Uffers if I felt like it,’ the cynical cove continued.


One wouldn’t let the tiny temptress fling herself in the path of just any old codger, well, not one without the possibility of a bit of favourable fallout in the direction of One, anyway. 

Just think, Dear Reader, One could be at least a ‘Mrs Bridges’  (oooh err Mister ‘Udson) type below stairs.

Any road up, even if the RR is heir to the throne of Uffers, One is far too sullied, in the manner of Wallis Simpson, to be accepted by the serfs as their Queen.  Especially when One has been observed visiting one of the said serfs on a regular basis for solace and an Uffers Kebab.





Friday, 23 May 2014

In which One prays for a swift demise…

Deadly silence in the Underground Lair this a.m.

The pitter patter of tiny Doc Martens is conspicuous by it’s absence.

One is alone contemplating One’s ‘delusional’ requirement for something other than a noncommittal shaggette to enrich One’s short time left on earth.

‘Twould appear that the RR had been ‘obliquely’ discussing One’s deepest wants and desires with another of the Granny Fanny Stable which One is cordially invited to join.

As if it’s not enough to be burdened with the  prospect of shrivelling up like a prune, growing a beard and generally drying up until One becomes dust, One is expected to remove One’s tack in a stable of similarly faded old harridans.

Delusional or not, and One supposes One is, it is perhaps time to accept the inevitable and abandon all hope.

One is clearly, unemployable, unlovable, and generally unrequired in the grand scheme of things.

It may never come to pass that One’s winceyette nightie is used to keep One’s neck warm again.

And the WN isn’t even here to complain to!

Goodbye cruel world, One is going to recline on the chaise lounge with the back of One’s hand clasped to One’s fevered brow and pray for death to come swiftly.


Thursday, 22 May 2014

In which One is entering the valley of death…

One is now existing completely in cyberspace.  One need never, and indeed never does, venture beyond the cave-like boundaries of the Underground Lair.

Since One is able to have supplies delivered herein by grocers various One is able to remain in One’s jim jams until One expires and is consumed by rodents.

‘Ha!  Who gives a Kipper’s Dick?’, I hear you cry, Dear Reader,

‘Not a one’ comes the resounding reply.

The runaway train/car crash/general all round fecking disaster of One’s existence is drawing to a close.  One can feel the icy arms of death brushing against One’s creamy white shoulders as One perambulates twixt the fridge and the TV.

One catches sight of the crooked and gnarled digit of destiny beckoning One onward through the veil as One downs the second pint of Pinot.

Yesterday One had the opportunity to feel the embrace of something with a pulse. 

Obv One eschewed such a thrill, since the Underground Lair is awash with seething Wood Nymph hormones at the mo.  Any elderly roué entering the establishment would choke almost immediately on the sexual tension left by the residue of a Romantic Poet’s direct descendant.

Obv One proffered One’s sage wisdom to the WN in the manner of a short lecture regarding the upbringing of the British Aristocracy.


One has seen fit to ignore the possible addition of exotic, temperamental, comedy-sock wearing, foot stamping tiny temptresses infiltrating the unsullied bloodline of our most luscious Lord, but NO MORE.

Off with the Doc Martens and on with a frock!

At this rate One will never get a grace and favour apartment, will One.


One is required by a fictional character to issue a withdrawal of the ‘chain smoking/drunkard’ description, made by this fictional character.


Wednesday, 21 May 2014

In which One is on the lookout for a trousorial twitch…


That’s it!

You selfish bastards!


Anyway, I hate painting.  I loathe it with a passion.

In my deepest soul ‘One is a writer.’

‘One is a writer?’ I hear you chorus, Dear Readers, ‘You call this daily diatribe writing?’

Well it keeps One amused and a goodly amount of you losers out there trawling through life desperately seeking someone with a sadder existence than your own.

And as for the remaining petal of the flower of One’s youthful beauty…

‘Twill be bestowed upon some lucky Whittakering bod (yes still in hot pursuit) and definitely not on any old passion prohibited reprobate.

One has clearly learned nothing.  One’s head was briefly turned, by what?

The foul mutterings of a chain smoking old drunkard? 

And – One is not referring to Oneself.

Were it not for the absence of the Ve-Hicular device, One would, no doubt be ruffling the 600 count Egyptian cottons in a dull village in Devon.

Praise be the Lord that One has been confined to the Underground Lair or One would be knee deep in making an absolute fool of Oneself YET A-FECKING-GAIN

Henceforth it shall be Tea and Buns with inoffensive old codgers that One is still able to run away from at the merest trousorial twitch!


Tuesday, 20 May 2014

In which One sets timber a’shivering…

Throughout the land, in dull villages just like this one, sad little individuals are positively elbowing one another into the traffic in order to bring themselves to the attention of unsuspecting collectors of lame ducks.

Just such a collector is Lovely One…

‘Here comes one,’ would opine One’s co-worker, ‘He looks like a weird loser.  Go and capture him for your collection.’

One would indeed spring into action, and, whatever ailed the poor article, One would try One’s hardest to mend.


One is not here to assist the errant/sober the inebriated/lick the wounded/buy winter coats for shivering Vile ex Husbands/take old people shopping/generally smile a beatific smile on the damned or shag any old git not of One’s choosing.


For the remainder of One’s sojourn upon this planet, One will be ‘filling One’s Uggs’ with personal satisfaction and pirated treasure.


Monday, 19 May 2014

In which One considers abandoning all hope…

Things are definitely moving apace…

In a positively downward direction, Dear Reader.

Following the most expensive  (crashed the car) picnic in the history of the world, One has now embarked upon a correspondence, well, One’s fictional ‘One’ has, with another fictional character in America.  At least I hope he is fictional, otherwise a more disorganised, hopeless person than Lovely One has been discovered.  One feels like Captain Cook.

Being trapped in the Underground Lair since Thursday has been  v v boring.  Not that One would have strayed far but not actually being able to has rendered One pacing the floor in the manner of a caged Tigress.

That makes One sound much more inviting than One actually is doesn’t it, Dear Reader.

In the cat world One is definitely not a Tiger, not even a kitten (sex or otherwise) No, One is a mangy old moggy sniffing around for some desperate old Tom in order to take up residence in his litter box.

The RR has abandoned One.  Not an email (106 last week) not a phone call (every day at least one long one, without fail) Even the current Whittakerage has dropped off the radar.

What’s to be done?  Shall One spruce up One’s profile (and actual self) and re-launch upon the sea of hoary old gits, or should One retire gracefully into One’s boudoir with a crate of Pinot?


Sunday, 18 May 2014

In which if things don’t alter, they’ll remain as they are…

An entire day has passed with not a single emaciated, retired Accountant begging access to One’s acreage.
Perhaps it was a ‘one day only’ offer and One, yet again, was at the airport when One’s ship came in.
Ah well, Espresso pour une, this a.m.
Yet, Dear Reader, the most amazing transformation has taken place!  Lovely One, even at such an advanced yearage, has never been known to let an opportunity for fun and frolics pass One by.
‘I have called off all future liaisons in favour of spending quality time under the quilt with you!’  stated the RR
‘I had a dinner date this Friday and I’ve cancelled it,’ he went on, indignant in the extreme.
One fears this may have been the remark that rendered immediate Twinkle access denied…
This other ‘Fem Fatal’ was being being wined and dined afore the inebriate pounced, yet access to LO was required with indecent haste.
Fem Fatal number one            scoff/boff
Lovely One                                  boff/boff/boff
The decision to decline has been made without the usual counselling of the WN who is absent from the Underground Lair, carving, literally, notches on the bed post of the Aristocracy.
Unless One is persuaded otherwise, Whittakering shall commence shortly.

Friday, 16 May 2014

In which One offers a little advice…

The night time prowling has begun again. 

Lest the constant floor walking be in vain, One trawled the TV for something educational to pass the time.

Alighting upon ‘Desperate Housewives’ One inadvertently uncovered the answer to all One’s current woes.

Marry a lifer on death row!

Why didn’t One think of it before!  The definitive solution!

Lots of lovely long letters to spend the sleepless nights reading and NEVER EVER the merest possibility of the exchange of body fluids.

‘Tis true One would like nothing more than to embark upon a love affair of mammoth proportions but, let’s face it, One is no longer the luscious love goddess of afore.

‘Slasher’ or ‘Meat-head’ could pour out his tortured soul to One on a daily basis. One could appear on daytime TV to explain the inevitability of the long distance love and One need never even disturb an under garment.

The ultimate solution!

However, should One be persuaded otherwise, let One offer a little preliminary advice…

‘You are a fat girl, it’s true, but I’d boff you anyway,’ is not a chat up line that will result in Twinkle access!

In which One has a temper tantrum….


Were you, Dear Reader, to enquire, in the manner of a bosom chum,

‘How went the picker nick tryst yesterday?’

One would be obliged to reply…

‘It went downhill after One crashed the Bentley, dear bosom chum.’

You, Dear Reader, in the manner of aforementioned BC would settle down on the Louis Cans sofa, with furrowed brow, should the botox allow, and bid me continue…

Once upon a time…

One picked up the old reprobate since he is unable to drive, and set off for a secluded riverbank somewhere in the West Country.

The burgeoning picker nick basket, having been hastily stuffed by Wivey Larder, sat temptingly on the rear seat.

To cut an L S short, One was brutally assaulted by a tractoring device in an extremely narrow lane adjacent to Uffers.

The Tractoring device operative merely snarled at One and shot off to plough something without nary a backward glance – the bastard!

One, who is occasionally given to a tantrum worthy of a two year old, shot out of the ve-hicle, stamped about in the road shouting…


Whilst the RR sat in stony silence with a suitably visible level of quiverage.

Incidentally, when the incident occurred, One was channelling Anna Wintour and wearing Grandpa Rice’s authentic vintage polaroids, circa 1960.


‘tas cost One the the price of an entire fecking back right lens.

Any road up, One eventually climbed back into the drivers seat and shouted to the poor dear RR…

‘If you say one fucking word, I’m taking you home, right, fucking, now!’

And so One is eschewing the search for a benefactor, getting a proper job and continuing along One’s usual path for the foreseeable…

‘Tis clear that the one above is fairly determined that One shall remain alone…

But not necessarily untouched by human hand….

Thursday, 15 May 2014

In which One packs the basket of lurve…

It would appear that this week is going to end up as one of those that hasn’t been even a tiny bit industrious.

The ‘Roger Whittaker’ look a like is still set to be ‘teaed and bunned’ on Friday but due to mounting pressure from the RR the picnic tryst is back on and due to come to pass this very morn.

I know, I know, Dear Reader, ‘tis a foolish wench that chooses a Rogering over a Whittakering at this point in life but One is back aboard the old runaway train.

Any road up, One attempted to purloin a bottle of the finest from Maison Pink whereupon One spilled the haricots about the RR. 

Apparently ‘shagging on picnics’ is practically de rigueur up the council estate and One was instructed to do so forthwith.

Of course One shall do no such thing and as a precaution shall be wearing One’s control leggings under me Chloe tea dress. That should dislocate any ageing finger joint that ventures south of the border, down Twinkletime way.

Thus far a bottle of Bolly and a pack of wetwipes are in the picker nick basket.

Do you think One will require anything further, Dear Reader?


Tuesday, 13 May 2014

In which One can offer baked goods and snogging…

Things One should have done yesterday:

Applied for a proper job

finished the ‘embarrassing daub’ of Exmouth Marina

sandblasted the Underground Lair

Things One actually did:

Embarked upon a lengthy email session with the Ravishing Roué

Baked some scones

Went round Joan’s house


When One was eventually interrupted by ‘er from next door One was mid phone call with the RR and still ackled up in me jim jams.

For future reference – When One says 2.30pm One doesn’t actually need to get dressed until 2.25pm


If you don’t want to see me partially clothed, don’t come round, and that includes YOU – Post Person.

Any road up, ‘twas another unsettling day and hence One is sat sitting here at 2.14 am drinking warm milk and honey and evaluating the goings on.

One is currently being actively pursued by, amongst many others I hasten to add, a Roger Whittaker lookalike who One shall be favouring with tea and buns this very Friday afternoon.

I never could stand all that sodding whistling, could you, Dear Reader?

Anyway, every time the RR suggests a tryst One hurriedly agrees to a meeting with any old crusty dollop that’s available so as One isn’t tempted to become involved with someone so clearly unsuitable.

As One explained to him, ‘What One is actually and actively seeking is a decrepit old cove with a willy like an old duffel bag, who would be grateful to be in the position of generally maintaining One and picking up the tab until One snuffs it.’

Obv in return there would be plenty of baked goods and the odd snog.

Whereas if One biffed off to Uffers, as One would actually prefer, One would have a more active wanger to service and lots of empty bottles for recycling.

And anyway it is One’s propensity for unsuitable menfolk that got One in this fecking mess in the first place.

One does admire his persistence and complete disinterest in the word ‘NO’ though.

In which One doesn’t disembark…

Awoke from a fractured and fitful sleep at 6am.  One had no idea that such an hour existed.

The night had been punctuated by strange dreams, one in particular about One’s bridesmaid’s widower and gallons of blood.  A tricky one to decipher, and anyway One hadn’t cast a thought in the direction of that particular oddity in many a moon.  Gawd knows what she ever saw in that ill-mannered, poorly educated, coarse clod.

Any road up, One is still in a complete ‘two and eight’ about the Ravishing Roué. 

Fair took me breath away ‘ee did!

And then One took a look in the gothic looking glass and staring back at One was Aged P. 

‘There’s no fool like an old fool,’ fits One like a glove, clearly.

Back on terra firma, One has eschewed boarding yet another runaway train and has opted to remember the line One once delivered to another prospective gusset groper…

The cheeky blighter took one look at One and said, ‘I bet you go like a train.’

To which One replied, ‘Yes I do, but I don’t stop at your station.’


Monday, 12 May 2014

In which One is frit to death by an amusing cove…

In these lean middle years there is seldom a requirement for a ‘double blog’ day…


One had intended to finish the Exmouth Marina painting and then attempt to put One’s groaning burden of debt into order. 

But, following the new profile on POF One had a short communique from a devastatingly interesting cove who One would have definitely broken the ‘three date’ rule for, should One have been a young One.

Several messages later One threw caution to the wind and emailed One’s actual number, the direct line to the Underground Lair, in fact.

Within seconds the awfully well-spoken cove was on the other end regaling One with tales of a world One would have killed to join.

How interesting and amusing it all sounded, so deploying One’s best voice, One agreed to a picker-nick this very week.

Following the second phone call, One had the distinct ringing of alarm bells up the gusset.  Far too much intimate chat was being bandied in One’s direction and One felt uncomfortable in the extreme.


Not only that, there’s a current one that nips in and out of his gaff William Nilliam.


Would you Christmas Eve it, Dear Reader, One had never even heard of Uffers, and now there’s a double-shag opportunity rearing it’s ugly in the vicinity!

Not that One views Uncle Bert in those terms, but you know what One means.

Any road up, ‘gusset talk’ with a person One has never even met is a serious no no for a person of One’s delicate sensibilities and One fired off an email to curtail the event before things got off terra firma.

One has to say that the response caused One to gasp  and awaken the interest of the WN who made enquiries and offered advice.

‘Don’t be ridiculous’ it said ‘I will be waiting.’



One is required to take Boy to the hospital at the very hour of the tryst, so it could never come to pass anyway.

I think I might get a cat instead.


In which One’s eyeliner might have had sex…

Here’s One placing an ad on ‘Spare room . com’ to replace the WN who shears at the end of next month and there’s her, still in bed when she should be out tantalising the Romantic Poet’s direct descendant in order to secure a ‘Grace and Favour’ gaff pour Moi!

These young people have no vision.  Off she went yesterday, whilst One was gusset deep in chopped vegetables for soup production One might add, to the cinema with some nonentity.


Any road up, today One is applying for a proper job.  That’s it – I give in – you selfish Bastards are obviously not going to pay my exorbitant prices any more, so push has come to shove and One is out there touting One’s wares – Yet  a-fecking-gain!

Honestly, at One’s age One should be cosily cossetted by some ageing cove and living off a large professional pension in the Home Counties, shouldn’t One.

One should be sending £2 to depressed donkeys and saving the Himalayan lesser spotted Fuck-warbler, not scrovelling around bargain bins in Lidl.

Spent a goodly amount of yesterday scouring POF for likely benefactors, but what the hell?  I still hold the same opinion I expressed when I found out about ‘bedroom doings’ at age 10…

‘If I have to show someone my BUM, I’m NEVER getting married, SO THERE!’

For all I know, my eyeliner might have had sex yesterday…



Sunday, 11 May 2014

In which One takes solace in One’s favourite socks…


Here are my special socks.  They are fluffy inside, and a bit cheesy, and the thermal quality of their excellent cosiness is the only fecking thing keeping One warm at the mo,

Here One sits, listening to the Archer’s Omnibus, (who else HATES that new Tony?) and viewing oneself through the gothic looking glass, in between the photos of One and Boy/One and V ex H and One’s big fat ginger cat.

One keeps a special picture of One and V ex H taken one Christmas morning.  One is already rat arsed and opening presents and V ex H has got a face like a pustulating gonad.

Happy memories!


Last week One had a new haircut.  Much more suitable for the more mature woman, with long sides and an short back, but now a few days down the line One has reverted to the scrunchie and natural curls.

What’s the fecking point?

Even if I waxed me face/had a bath/put some eyeliner on/smiled etc  One wouldn’t stir the faintest trousorial murmerings.

As for the WN …

After all my hard work attempting to ready her for marrying into the aristocracy, she’s only going out with some normal, no mark, loser this afternoon.

And if One hears one more time…

‘He has a girlfriend.’

One will batter her to death with a sock full of One’s old wedding and engagement rings!!

Friday, 9 May 2014

In which it is unlikely that the WN will be marrying into the Aristocracy…

It has come to One’s attention that the previously mentioned Aristocratic Article on the next bench to the WN is none other than a direct descendant of THE most famous poet of the English romantic era.

NOT ONLY THAT but he actually looks like the latter day love god! 

When One was a dreamy teenager One had a crush on the long dead Adonis.  (One was an odd child)

‘Who ees hee?’ enquired the beer swilling, comedy sock wearing exotic child as she shoved a hunk of garlic bread in her gob.



Have you learnt nothing from your historical instruction evenings?

With that off she sheared up the Co-op for more beer.

That is going to have to stop…

Drinking is and always has been a popular past time for Aristocratic Love Gods but One would prefer to think of the involvement of Champagne rather than 3 for a fiver bottles of Co-op beer.

‘That focking beeeetch up the Co-op,’ came the shriek as the WN appeared in the doorway…

‘Every week I buy beeer and now she wants to see my focking ID, the beeeetch.’

One does have a modicum of sympathy, but, come on – ‘every week’, more like every day!

Any road up, One is informed that there will be an evening out next week including the Luscious Lord.

‘What are you wearing?’ One enquired (hoping upon hope that a dress and girls shoes might be involved in the ensemble.


‘Black tights, Doctor Marten boots and a very short skirt, Oh and eyeliner,’ came the reply.  ‘Don’t worry, I know what I’m doing.’


Thursday, 8 May 2014

In which One is going back to bed…

This time last year - £1,377.50

This year – £52.50

That’s just from one gallery… 

What the feck is the problem with you selfish bastards?  Are you spending all your money on food?  Has the acquisition of art become so low down on the agenda that you are merely purchasing my cards and framing them.

(No, scratch that! Don’t give the cheap losers ideas.)

Do you Birmingham (and places even worse than that) based stingy bleeders realise that One is on the cusp of having to get a job!

You come down here buying food and dictating that food halls and cafes take up the primo locations in shopping villages et al.

The purveyance of Art is now taking place in a location that requires the holiday maker to be armed with a machete in order to slash and burn their way to the gallery area. (Dartington Hall, you will live to regret your foolish actions!)

That is, the few galleries that are struggling on throughout these shite times.

Well, that’s it!  If you don’t start buying my works of art forthwith One will have to start favouring Aldi with me Pinot purchases and we don’t want that do we?

What is the point of One even getting out of me jim jams, eh?  What is the use of showering and putting me face on?  Why bother rolling out of the truckle bed at all?

Farewell cruel world.  I’m going back to bed.


Wednesday, 7 May 2014

In which One has achieved a modicum of success…

‘Chubby, barely solvent has-been, clinging on for grim death to extraordinary good looks, seeks similar for shambolic descent into the delights of living off a state pension. To include:
Dawdling around antique fairs
Visiting National Trust properties
Picnics on the beach with homemade bread and cakes
Frequenting hostelries for lashings of West Country Cider
Cosy evenings in, reading by the fire
The odd snog, if we hit it off.’

That, Dear Reader, is what One changed One’s profile to, for a laugh, on a ‘free of charge’ dating website.  

Fear not, loyal subjects, One is not actually going to meet anyone.  One merely sits for an hour or two on lonely nights in the Underground Lair, reading the profiles of other solitary losers like Oneself.

But, and this is the really weird thing, since changing to the above description and eschewing the ‘ I am a professional painter, read a lot, have a keen interest in current affairs’, Oh, and of course, the obligatory, ‘love walking on the beach,’ One has been inundated with wrinkly old codgers wanting gusset access.

One has asked around One’s male acquaintances and ‘twould appear that most wobbly old mares, like One, drone on about how they ‘adore Foreign travel, go to endless Zumba classes and do DIY till they chip their nail polish.’  This and other standard information like, ‘long walks, Gordon Blow cookery and keeping fit,’ apparently bore the old codgers shitless. 

So, after a couple of pints of Pinot, One came up with the above description, and frankly, they’re all foaming at the gusset!!

Tuesday, 6 May 2014

In which One has indigestion…

And this is what happened…

One thought One would just have a glass of wine.

Then One thought One would have another…

It’s always following the second glass that One starts to trawl the kitchen cupboards looking for titbits to snack on.

Desperate foraging produced a sticky, half eaten bag of fruit jellies nesting at the back of a desk drawer. There’s no telling how long they’d been there but the label said 9d.

(One is often chided by the WN about scoffing out of date vittels and then complaining because One is up half the night calling for Hughie.)

Scoffed them…

Mmmmmm following another glass One needed something savoury.

A packed of oatcakes later One was still not sated and so began eyeing the supplies of the WN.

A packet of ready salted crisps were then consumed in record quick time.

There are now around ten crisps in a standard packet of Walkers.  What a swizz.

One doesn’t even LIKE crisps, but ‘needs must when the Devil drives.’  (What the feck does that mean anyway.)

By now One is suffering from the inhalation of many litres of Pinot and horrendous indigestion.

‘Serves you fecking right!’ you might say, Dear Reader, and indeed it did.

In fact One then had a Gaviscon chaser whilst watching Ugly Betty.

And so ended the Bank Holiday…

Earlier, when One was consuming the level of food of a normal being, One went to the Uffculmbe Show. 

Two Alpacas, One sheep, three irritated horses and an overpriced burger later, One had a jolly nice dinner prepared and served by Uncle Bert at his gaff.

Saturday, 3 May 2014

In which One is jim jammed up…

It is now 12.25pm and One is still in One’s jim jams feeling like hurling Oneself off the back step and ending it all.

One shouldn’t watch that festering Nigella.  She always makes One feel inadequate in all departments, particularly the kitchen.

Today’s speedily created culinary delights were being enjoyed by all her pre-Raphaelite haired chums and their delicious daughters.

Nige, of course, never broke a sweat under the spotlight and over the steam.  But she does often look like the application of a flannel and a cake of Lifebouy wouldn’t go amiss!

There’s One,  troughing me way through a hunk of homemade (bread maker) bread with marg, whilst picking me feet, and there’s her sashaying around a kitchen with a footprint the size of the entire Stalag Malthouse.

She’s got more effing utensils than fecking Lakeland, hanging in her gaff.  And as for…

‘I simply couldn’t live without Marsala.’ Silly Moo

What the feck is ‘Marsala’ when it’s at home?

Any road up in it went with a load of other lesser known ingredients, and hey presto, a fecking great luncheon is dished up on posh plates.

Who does the washing up?  That’s what I want to know!

‘I’d much rather have a walk in larder than a walk in wardrobe,’ opined the wobbly one.

What the actual feck!

I’ll go to the foot of our stairs!


Today One will be mostly eating Lidls baked beans and drinking a box of wine.



Friday, 2 May 2014

In which One attempts to Lady-fy the Wood Nymph…

Last evening was spent thrashing the rules of etiquette into the Wood Nymph.


And the mug with the man on the side who’s willy appears when hot liquid is added – IS GOING to the charity shop.

The word ‘Fokkit’ will be removed, forthwith, from the Underground Lair dictionary. 

Constant requests for more alcohol will cease immediately.

The WN will acquire a hairbrush – AND USE IT EVERY DAY. (We can’t risk her bunging up the plugholes in the Castle’s antiquated plumbing system)

‘Burke’s Peerage’ will be required bedtime reading, so no more watching ‘The Office’ until the early hours on Netflix!

At least one ‘Chloe’ tea dress and some GIRL’S shoes will be purchased. (And NO, One is fairly certain they can’t be acquired via Ebay)

A twinset and pearls will be worn as daily attire to the workshop.  (Diamonds are vulgar before 6pm)

Polite conversation topics are as follows:



Stocks and shares

The loveliness of the Royal Baby.


The reason? You may well ask, Dear Reader…



With the expert tuition of Lovely One, The Wood Nymph should be Lady of the Manor within the month.

One has been promised a ‘Grace and Favour’ apartment in the family pile and the title of ‘Cake and Ale’ supervisor.


Thursday, 1 May 2014

In which it is clear that no one knows who One is…

What on earth are those fecking builders hitting with a hammer today?

There simply cannot be an area the thickness of a sheet of Bronco that hasn’t had the shite bashed out of it this year.

There is no respite even at weekends AND they don’t even clean up after themselves unless told to!


One is not for a moment suggesting that they ‘down tools’ merely that they have the courtesy to tap upon One’s portcullis and inform One when One is likely to be vibrated out of One’s truckle bed.

Speaking of tapping on One’s door…

The fecking postman has simply shoved a card through the door for ME to COLLECT my post



But One supposes One should be grateful that he actually delivered MY post to MY address instead of to Vile ex Husbands (and vice versa) like he usually does.

In general, a crap start to the day…

One’s feet are fecking freezing and THERE IS NO WAY WE ARE HAVING THE HEATING ON IN MAY


Unable to contact the person requiring the ‘Artist’s Impression,’ One receives an email to the tune of…

‘It looks great but I’m not sure the front is quite right.’



and whilst we are on the subject…