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Monday, 30 June 2014

In which One is the loneliest number…


Apropos of nothing…

Here is a picture of the Wivey Postie, in his Christmas regalia, who retired this week. (He cycles on as a Christmas Card forever!)

Any road up…

One is a lonely number…

This is how One found it out for sure:

Early in the day One and J went to the Pinksters and collected ten bottles of newly brewed Ginger Wine for the Wood Nymph to present to her chums at the workshop as a parting gift.

‘Never mind that!’ admonished One as she eagerly grabbed the loot, ‘What happened with the Peer of the Realm at the stately pile?’

‘Oh you should sees  eet!’ she countered, eyes glazed over, ‘They have the original painting of Lord B that you love.’  (please, Dear Reader, picture One swooning at this point.) ‘The house is like a museum devoted to all things B.’

‘Did he ask you to stay in England?’ demanded One.

‘Yees we are looooking at changing the teeket and next weekend I am meeting his parents.’

(At this point One mentally scoured One’s wardrobe for a suitable wedding outfit.  A new frock beckons, methinks!)

So, off went One to continue moving One’s meagre leavings from Boy and V ex H to One’s new home, secure in the knowledge that ‘Love conquers All.’


The realisation that $2000 to change the flight hit the lovestruck pair like a smack round the gob from a poetry anthology and they took the sensible option.



Were One in the situation aforementioned, One would have done ANYTHING for even an hour more time together.


And that, Dear Reader, is why the Wood Nymph shall prevail and One is the loneliest number… 


Sunday, 29 June 2014

In which One is looted and cast aside yet again…


Boy and Vile ex Husband…

descended upon One with a highwayman-like glee last seen when Dick Turpin was abroad.

‘Check the spec on her TV,’ ordered the V ex H, ‘If it’s higher than ours, we’re having it!’

And indeed it was thus, even though the piratical pair had mocked One’s Samsung and gleefully paraded their Sony in front of One.

One’s antique Persian rug, Chippendale occasional table, Eames chairs, 18th century wine goblets, Liberty, hand sewn cushions and many more object d’art were hastily loaded onto the trailer lest One should have a change of heart and not leave the building.

‘Can I have your Dyson?  I’ll swap it for the ‘Nothing Sucks Like Electrolux’ one?’ enquired the V ex H.

‘Swap it!’ One quizzed, ‘I gave you that last time I sheared. I’m afraid filthy luca shall have to change hands if the Dyson is to be looted!’

Any road up, if One’s antique Persian rug is to be walked upon by the sort of Snaggle Toothed Trolls that V ex H takes up with, of late, One ought to ensure he has an adequate cleaning device.  One dares not ponder what other clandestine activities might take place upon the hallowed pile, and whose scraggy old butt will be recumbent upon One’s cushions!

One was left looted and alone to face the future as a refugee from the sort of Ribena advertisement kind of life that One longed for…

Ah well, ‘Fokkit’ as the WN would say.


Later that evening…

One was further tortured by another male of the species who purports to care for One…

Look at all the delicious sweeties in the window Darling.  You can’t have any until Thursday.’

In which One’s gnome has a new home…


One’s charming little stone gnome who has been observing the doings in the apartments upstairs is to be re-homed with One, of course.

No more will he be party to…

‘That referee is a f*****g idiot,’ and similar sports commentaries from the floor above One.

No more shall he be present when ‘er or ‘im next door shout….

‘Claire! I was just wondering if you could give us a lift to Taunton/Wellington/Guatamala bus station…’

No more shall he have to dodge fag ash from the article on the top floor, or listen to the baby above next door giving voice to his displeasure.

I tell you, Dear Reader, it’s like the Elysiun Fields round ‘ere some nights…

(‘They told me to take a Streetcar named Desire…’  Blanch DuBoir)

Instead, we shall be in a far more genteel place as befits a Lady like what One is!

One shall be cooking on a Rayburn in a kitchen with a footprint the size of the entire Underground Lair.

Dear old Lovely Gordon presented One with ‘The New Rayburn Cookbook’ at supper last evening as a parting gift.

I tell you, Dear Reader, judging from the level of wailing and grinding of teeth, you’d think One was off up the Orinoco not just up the road.

Any road up, it is an elegant solution to One’s and others woes.

From the Underground Lair up…

SIT, the new occupants have a lovely home with a nice safe garden for the bambino…

One has a lovely situation with a studio to actually get some serious work done in…

One’s saviour gets company, a companion and someone to use the Rayburn at last!

I know, I know, Dear Reader, you’re all wondering where the trysts with the Masterful Gentleman will be taking place…

Let’s hope the nice weather holds so One can continue to be taken up the Quantocks!!

Saturday, 28 June 2014

In which One will venture down the ladder to snog the MG…


Books are really, really heavy!  The Pinkster and One attempted to lift the first crate…

‘Stand aside Women!’ came the cry of the devoted Hubbster and with a single heave they were up the steps and into the back of the Land Rover.

Then came the fun part…

One, most unsuitably attired for a removal, tucked One’s frock into One’s pants (knickers Michael) and proceeded to climb up and down the ladder to One’s studio many, many times with as many books as One’s poor little arms could carry. 

The Count sat immediately at the bottom of the steps and got his tail trodden on more than once so repayed One by depositing a fur ball on the rug.

One’s new housemate stood aghast at the amount of stuff One has…

‘Blimey! What are we going to do with that lot?’ came the plaintive cry.

‘That’s not even made a dent in it,’ countered Lovely One, ‘There’s loads more.  We artists have oodles of accoutrement.’

Today One will be moving plants (One shall leave a few lovely displays for SIT) who are the new tenants of the Underground Lair, and if they don’t look after One’s little paradise garden One has made them aware that they will forfeit their delicious baby!

One will look classy in the extreme with the driver’s side window now stuck in with black tape.  This time Mr Jones has stuck tape over the switch so that silly old Lovely One won’t accidentally open the blighter again!

Any road up, the second car load of the day will be One’s shoes and handbags.  Each divine handbag in it’s own carrying pouch and each sparkly shoe on it’s own velvet cushion.

Pinkster and the devoted Hub have put off digging the long-drop latrine until tomorrow and are coming back this afternoon for books a-plenty.

The long-drop, in case you were wondering, Dear Reader, is in the field, the site of the Pinkster’s yearly gathering of the great unwashed for a mini Glastonbury.  It is to be hoped that the long-drop is more successful than last years ‘Turdis’ and the year before’s chest of drawers with a hole cut in the top.  (the drawers filled up one by one)  DIRTY DIRTY DIRTY

One would love to attend the gathering, but is too high maintenance for such a do.

Any road up, I digress as is my wossname…

So, Michael, does all that answer your kind enquiry as to how the book/painting/illustration is coming along?

Nada, Zippo, Nothing as yet…

BUT One is going to shut Oneself up in the attic studio for the next six months and WORK WORK WORK.

One shall, of course, venture down regularly to snog the MG.

Friday, 27 June 2014

In which One is presented with yet another perfect day…


This, Dear Reader, is the view One shall get from One’s new studio. Aptly, gazing down upon a seething hoard of One’s adoring subjects.

AND whilst we’re on the subject of adoration, One is an Adorer and an Adoree.  Now – isn’t that just about as perfect as a day can get?

I digress darlings, today One wished to tell of other things…

One has just awoken from a complete twelve hour slumber dans le truckle bed, breathing in the delicious scent of the crumpled white linen and luxuriating in the company of nothing more than a Steiff Bear.

The stamping of tiny Doc Martens is now absent. No doubt they will be charging about the long gallery of the Aristocracy wondering where they will be lined up next.

Any road up, the MG arrived, as fragrant and fabulous as ever and whisked One off to The Blue Ball Inn for a splendid luncheon of Wood Pigeon and a chocolate confection that was, frankly, orgasmic in the extreme.  One can only recall one other delicious confection in the entire loveliness of the day that was more orgasmic…

Of course, not satisfied with the wood pigeon on offer the Masterful Gentleman repaired to the woods, fashioned a sling from a sliver of One’s knicker elastic, and deftly brought down lunch in a single shot.  The shot, fashioned from a golden nugget previously honed from the tooth what One sucked out last week.

One was all a quiver with pride and admiration and melted adoringly into his muscular arms…After lunch, of course.


We then pootled off in the Porche to gaze, once more, at the perfect little love nest that is Sweet Briar Cottage. 

NO, NO, silly old Dear Reader, not pour une et le Gentleman Masterful!  Pray No!

And then the inevitable occurred…

Big painting sold…………  car exhaust drops off

Small one sold……………  smash back light on tractor

Another Big one …………   driver’s side window falls out

(Today’s little drama)

In future One shall have all One’s sales funds directed to ‘Jones Automobiles of Wiveliscombe’ and hope they can find it in their hearts to allow One a small sum each month for Wood Pigeon Luncheons and the like.


Thursday, 26 June 2014

In which One’s heart is stolen by a Wood Nymph…


‘What do you mean, you could stay another month?’ asked Lovely One of the Wood Nymph as we sat with our Prosecco and ciggies (hers thank you, all you who would admonish One.)

‘We-ell I could sta-ay another month if LB asked me to.  I could stay weeth heem as I hev a month left on my visa,’ countered the WN

The subject has been skirted around whilst they crammed in as much time together, eating, sleeping, having sex and taking baths.

‘Do you love him?’ enquired One, always straight to the point on these matters.

‘Yes I do.’



Tell him sometime over the weekend when you are at the stately pile, or he will never know. 



The Wood Nymph has left the building.  One imagined One would be sad and bereft without her bright light shining in The Underground Lair, and indeed One is a little gloomy.  But One has so enjoyed the past six months and the little blighter has given One the renewed zest for life that has brought the Masterful Gentleman into One’s existence.  And that, Dear Reader, is the best thing that has happened to One in the passing of many a moon.

Any road up, One has had to cancel the Wood Nymph’s ambassadorship of the British Bath Plug Association and the on-going work with the Barnes Wallace Foundation on the design of the Bouncing Bath Bomb.

No matter, even if she doesn’t get the crown and sceptre handed over upon declaration of love for the Peer of the Realm, she will doubtless embark upon a new adventure and steal the heart of everyone she meets.  Just like she has stolen mine.


Tuesday, 24 June 2014

In which this is the Wood Nymph and Me…


Here we are, Dear Reader, the Wood Nymph and me.

Tonight is the ‘last supper’ no doubt with lashings of Beer and Pinot a’plenty.

What will One do when she is gone?

Who will stink out the coffin-sized kitchen with the stench of burning Extra Virgin Olive Oil, despite One informing her on an almost daily basis that the goodness of the ‘Extra Virgin is lost upon cooking and that it burns at rather a low temperature.’

Who will bung up the plug-holes with all that black hair so that it is quite often possible to fill the bath without the plug in.

AND  while we’re on the subject, what on earth will a certain Peer of the Realm do, on his own, in the bath without her.

Surely the opening gambit…

 ‘I think we should have a bath,’

should pass into folklore as the perfect first date suggestion.

Won’t the floor look bereft without tiny pairs of Doc Martens lined up awaiting tiny feet to stamp off in them to the workshop?

No more the sound of shrieking and laughing whilst chatting in Spanish to her sister Maria (I know, I know, they’re both called Maria, I don’t get it either)

No more tiny little dresses acquired from the charity shop…

‘Eeeet wos onlee threee queeed I don’t beleeeve eeet!’

being paraded with palpable glee and then the image completely ruined by the addition of comedy socks and Doc Martens.

May the pattern of her life continue as it always has…

‘Eating, sleeping and having Sex.’

A v sensible mantra and having had her light shine upon me for the last six months, I am inclined to agree.

Note to a Masterful Gentleman…

I know you aren’t exactly captivated by the tearful female, but you may well have one of your very own tomorrow.

Monday, 23 June 2014

In which One isn’t going anywhere…


Dear old Wiveliscombe.  Nestling in a dip  in the hills next Exmoor.

The Underground Lair is next to the Brewery Tower. A fitting place for One to linger…  but not for much longer.

For those of you, Dear Readers, who are unfamiliar with the moors of England: Exmoor is what One calls a ‘Girl’s Moor.’  It’s pretty and peppered with idyllic stone farmhouses and charming little villages.  On sunny days every single, perfect tree has a gathering of the most attractive sheep slumbering beneath. The hedgerows are groaning under the weight of fat fluffy songbirds and the soft rolling hills are alive with shiny red tractors carving furrows into the delicious red soil…

And then there’s Wivey…

Peopled with an eclectic mix of oddities drawn in as if by a Coven. 

‘You don’t find Wiv.  It finds you.’

2000 of us cheek by jowel in the village all having chosen a decade and living in it.

One favours the glamour of 1950’s Capri and lives in the manner of a lipsticked, headscarfed starlet nipping about in an open-topped car with Cary Grant, clicking my kitten heels on the cobbles whilst he nips in the Co-op for a bottle of Prosecco and half an ounce of Golden Virginia.

Others favour the 1960’s and live in patchouli-scented squats with purple lace curtains wafting the scent of hashish about.

The council estate has the usual gathering of Waynes and Courtneys constantly disgorging enough special-needs progeny to fill up the local school.

The pub is full of gangs of old ladies having the pensioners’ lunch and downing pints of Thatcher’s Gold.  Their gap-toothed grimaces declaring to all why the dentist left town.

Where else would you see a goat in the sitting room eating the curtains? 

Or an odd-looking woman curled up reading a book on an outside windowsill under a duvet?

Or a gentleman doing a poo in the middle of Golden Hill?

Or a horse, without a rider, going into the Paper Shop?

Where else could have a Cafe that closes at lunchtime?

and the best bit is…


In which we have lemon cement…


Here are Lovely One and Boy.  As far as One can recall, this is what Boy looked like the last time One saw him.


Any road up off we were ready to trot, One and the Wood Nymph to Lovely Gordon’s up the passage.  We had been invited and therefore got all fancied up, One in a diaphanous Chloe Tea-Dress with strappy Manolos and discreet, apres 6.00pm diamonds. And the Wood Nymph in shorts that surely cut of the blood supply to her legs, a charity shop shirt and the ubiquitous Doc Martens.

The eyeliner was deployed having been out having sex with LB and WN.


Then came the call…

‘I’m in a right two and eight about the gardener.  I’ve left thirty-seven messages on his mobile, spoken to his Dad and waited for him all day.  I shan’t be able to entertain you and I’ve lost my wallet.’

One felt fairly sure the wallet would be nestling in a Waitrose carrier next to the second best fridge beneath the carefully laundered shreddies.  Which, indeed it was.

‘Come to us then,’ countered Lovely One, ‘have a yard of Pinot and a garden-picked salad.’

And ‘twas thus that LG fronted up around two hours later just when we thought we’d been blown out, and we repaired to the garden in order for the WN to roll a snout. (cigarette Michael)

‘Do come for pudding, I have a cheeky little lemon posset or a blackberry and apple crumble,’ announced LG as he left.  ‘Arrive at 11.00pm.’

We did arrive at 11.00pm and were presented with a lemon pudding that had adhered in the manner of cement to the dish, at around 1.30am in the morning.

We sauntered back up the passage as the cock was crowing leaving Lovely Gordon to do a bit of early morning garden titivation.

Saturday, 21 June 2014

In which buns are inhaled…


That, Dear Reader is Beakery Duncan.  ‘Tis a shot from the Church at Selworthy, bunged in ‘ere to demonstrate to you, assembled throng, how high the Masterful Gentleman made One climb in One’s new, bondage, walking boots.

‘See over there,’ indicated MG, ‘That’s Burn ‘em-on-Sea, and Twinkly Point and a bit further on is Whales.’

Obv., One was being taken up the Quantocks at the time, and the above view is of somewhere called The Brenda’s Hills, but no matter, Dears, all fecking hills look exactly the same to One, and the sight of one looming in front of One is enough to make One hyper ventilate.

However, One simply adores the MG and if dragging One up a 1:10 gives him pleasure then the least One can do is put One’s perfectly manicured and shod, foot forward.

Atop a grassy mound One made a significant and ghastly discovery…

Well, two discoveries actually…

One espied an abundant ground-covering of what looked exactly like what One has been cultivating in One’s little ornamental herb garden.  What One has been cutting and feeding to Lovely Gordon is not in fact, chives, but a rather brutish, spear-like ornamental grass.  The consumption of which might go some way to explain the recent need to tarry on hill-tops like a goat.

The other discovery, made after One collapsed in a gasping heap next the MG, was the abundance of animal shite that One had scooped up with the open-toes of One’s bondage walking boots.

One has espied that Chris Packam bloke off ‘Countryfile’ getting all steamed up about the identification of shite various.  He looks like the sort of chap One could happily pass an afternoon with lying in the ornamental grasses whilst he gently eased, and identified, all manner of grisly doings from between One’s toes.

This aforementioned tryst should be heeded by the MG who, despite offering to bathe One’s toes in a babbling brook, merely dragged One back down the slope, informed One it was ‘tea time’ sped One off to ‘Who put the Dull in Dulverton,’ ordered tea and buns and proceeded to inhale MY BUN as well as his own!


In which One is Jesus’s favourite…


One imagines that this is the face of the Lord.  Well it better be because One spent an inordinate amount of time prostrate on the floor of the Church in Selworthy attempting not to wobble the camera in order to capture his image.  Some down-trodden, serf-like blighter had obv had to scramble up the rickety Medieval scaffolding and paint the thing so One thought the least One could do was show it to you, Dear Reader.

Any road up, One hopes you are in a suitably worshipful mood for himself, and of course, Lovely One who is, after all, Jesus’s favourite.

One is exceptionally fortunate to be able to survey the Lord’s fizzog this v lovely a.m…..

‘Pray, why is that Lovely One?’ One hears you, my sad little subjects chorus in unison.

‘Well,’ One should have to reply, ‘last evening One repaired to the local hostelry with the Wood Nymph to have a farewell supper and a few pints of falling down water.

One, being unused to the vast quantities of ale quaffed by the WN was rat-arsed before the burgers arrived. 

AND ONE EVEN ATE CHIPS  (fries, Michael)

As you know, Dear Reader, One is a social outcast because of One’s dislike of the humble British chippington. 

Not last night, Dear Reader, they were being posted past One’s pearlies (teeth, Michael) at a furious rate of knots and washed down with a vast quantity of Thatcher’s Gold.


When we got home the WN discovered a bottle of Lidl’s finest Pinot dans le Frigidaire.

In fact One was in such a two and eight (state, Michael, cockney rhyming slang) that One inadvertently removed One’s make-up with a Femfresh Intimate Wipe.  Well, the packet is the same as the Waterproof Mascara Remover, in my defence.

Any road up One now has eyes puffington to the degree that One looks like One has gone ten rounds with Marvin Haggler.

But every last trace of waterproof mascara has been removed from One’s twinkle!



Thursday, 19 June 2014

In which One’s feet are a sensation…


Since One’s feet caused a sensation unparralled since Marilyn’s frock blew up over that air vent…

Here are One’s recently acquired new walking boots.

They do let in a fair poundage of terra firma through the bondage style straps, but hey, if a fellow walker can’t be gentleman enough to bathe One’s toes in a babbling brook, whatever is the world coming to?

One is anxious in the extreme to discover what wilderness One will be required to traverse in One’s party frock on the morrow.

Even LG, who has known One since the ‘Red Hat’ days made the pitifully ridiculous plea for One to scramble up a stone-ridden path to the top of the world to peer at a heap of rocks on atop  Beakery Duncan.  And not a burro in sight to carry One’s Chloe Paddington.

I come from ‘up the smoke’ (London, Michael) we like to regard the scary greenness of the countryside from the TV screen.


The sum of One’s communing with nature is when One sits outside (very close to the back door) with a glass of something divine.

Returning to One’s feet…

One is now toying with the idea of displaying a different body part per day to further intoxicate you, Dear Reader.

Tomorrow, a perfectly manicured digit, perchance…

Then an elbow (so recently broken on the beach in Corfu)  I ask you, Dear Reader, one sodding stone on the entire beach and One has to fall on it!

Perhaps an arthritic knee to ponder upon?

Maybe a slightly puffy ankle, never quite recovered from falling from One’s clunky, Elton John style platforms in 1974?

‘her thighs are ruined, she wants too much’  Leonard Cohen

Not a thigh then…

One thinks not then, Dear Reader!


Wednesday, 18 June 2014

In which One tries to contact the British Bath Plug Federation…


Lovely Gordon looking pensive in the grounds at Selworthy.

What a lovely day that was and so was yesterday albeit spent mooning around the garden trying to dream up things to paint that SOMEONE MIGHT ACTUALLY WANT TO BUY

This is the life One has chosen for Oneself and One is not about to give up so must put up with all the delights that abject poverty has to offer.

Uncle Bert and Montgomery the wonder dog arrived in the morning to reclaim their garden furniture before the arrival of the alternatives.

They brought with them a gloomy air and a rake of boxes plastique for One to pack One’s little existence in afore hot-footing up the road to someone else’s gaff for the foreseeable.

The sight of Uncle Bert on the piano stool was one to gladden the heart.

Note to self:  Visit Uncle Bert (he always has a stash of that Toffiffeefee stuff)

One now has to sit on a seat currently occupied by a massive and invasive Clematis that hasn’t bothered to flower for two years but still straggles it’s way all over the place looking aggressively green.

The nubile little Wood Nymph has been absent for the passing of two moons now, no doubt submerged with LB in tepid bathwater.

‘Tis a cruel twist of fate that of the two deliciously intimate relationships occurring concurrently dans le Underground Lair, the young are in a state of frenzy about their approaching separation and are serious in the extreme, whilst the more aged of the amores are simply ecstatic with blissful glee at the unexpected gloriousness of it all!

Any road up, with the need for the WN to acquire gainful employment in order to remain in England, One would like to reach out to The British Bath Plug Federation and offer her up as an Ambassador and Poster Girl.

Surely no one person has done more for the humble British bath plug than she in her short time on our island?

Tuesday, 17 June 2014

In which One has an impromptu day out with a chum…


Selworthy, Dear Reader.  A village built by a jolly nice Victorian gentleman for his workers who had previously lived in hovels.

‘If you think I’m living in that, you’re sadly mistaken!’ came the complaint of a Victorian WAG (grubby arms folded defiantly across ample bosom.)

But, indeed they all  moved, having had their previous village razed to the ground by said enlightened boss.

Selworthy became the choice numerous deux following an aborted visit to Horner’s Tea Room, sadly boarded up and nestling in it’s gloriousness next a ghastly emporium offering a Mr Whippy cornet whilst having One’s generous girth wedged into the most unacceptable of plastic chair!

Atop the Selworthy Church steps One had the perfect view of Beakery Duncan, according to Lovely Gordon (One’s companion Du Jour) the highest point in Somerset.

‘Shall we park at the bottom on walk up?’ challenged his Loveliness.


These, Dear Reader, are what pass for Walking Boots in the Underground Lair.  Obv., One politely declined and motored in the Morgan to a far more acceptable height above sea level before alighting.

Why, only last week the object of One’s desire uttered those awful words still ringing in One’s ears…

‘Have you got any walking boots?’

Now, even One’s chums are at it!  Despite having known One for the passing of many a moon, even LG expected One to perambulate up a mountain with nary a donkey or a Sherpa in tow.

What is it with these coves?  Do they not appreciate the delicate company of a frock-wearing, hand-bag swinging, lipsticked and laced confection?

Surely not all gentleman want one of those grey-haired, spectacle-wearing, back-pack brandishing, walking-booted old bats so abundant about the National Trust Gardens at this time of year?


If they jolly well do, they should give One prior warning so One at least can rustle up some ghastly, sensible attire.


Received a communiqué from the practically perfect Masterful Gentleman to inform One that he was trapped inside a gymnasium with thirty nubile young ladies.

Strueth, methinks, shall have to discourage that sort of day out in future!

In which it was in truth, a tooth…


The flowers break through their blanket of dew.

And there it is, Dear Reader, One’s summer work-station.  Isn’t One the luckiest one!  No office desk for One, no Supermarket checkout, handling dirty food, rather, a delightful garden seat (so recently sat upon by the descendent of the most famous romantic poet of all time) and the lovely vista of the grounds to inspire One.

One feels fairly certain that the poetic muse has soaked upward through One’s fat bottom (from the aforementioned garden seat) and inspired One to greatness this weekend.

One can’t explain the giddy, intoxicated feeling in any other way.  Or, I suppose it could be the introduction of a Masterful Gentleman into One’s life. Or the vodka.

‘He has a hard heart who does not love in May.’

Can’t remember who wrote that…

Any road up, it doesn’t apply to Lovely One who, in May, can be found easing herself gently out of her winter Liberty Bodice and discarding the camphor packs that have been in place since the prior November.  A must against the damp, biting, cold Somerset air. 

The bitter winter bathed away by summer breezes awakens the tiny smidgeon of girlish charm left tucked up the leg of One’s Spanx and by the time Flaming June comes a’calling beware all elderly gentleman entering the Underground Lair!

One has delved into the memory and ‘twould appear that any such luscious liaison has begun in June, including that of the ill-fated twenty-fecking-year debacle with Vile-ex-husband.

But, no matter, One is buoyant with delight at the mo.  All senses heightened (which can only be good for the painting output) and having developed super-human powers…

Including such a powerful suck that One is now capable of dislodging even the most entrenched of dental devices with a single inward sigh.

‘For goodness sake don’t swallow it,’ came the plea, ‘that cost me two hundred quid!’

So, there you have it, Dear Reader, dispel all thoughts from your mind regarding the nature of the body-part transported home in the Spode receptacle.

‘Twas in truth, a tooth!


Sunday, 15 June 2014

In which One is unexpectedly all alone…

The Peony's gone over,

In her ample pink blowsiness,

Toppling on her stem

like a home counties matron

In her dying clover,

Upon the Penstemmon


Any road up, One very unexpectedly spent the day all alone. Odd, that, and a situation that One shall be keeping a watchful and beady eye upon! 

And it didn’t bode well, giving One the opportunity to dwell upon One’s changing state and find everything sadly wanting.

A distraction has been in place for a while and allowed One to forget the coming maelstrom.  Albeit a pleasing one, One shouldn’t allow One’s ageing head to be turned.  ‘Twill only end in tears…

But not this week…

One must pack One’s existence into a hankie on a stick and take to the highway.

And the saddest thing of all is that One doesn’t even have a cat to accompany One.

But One will have a share in a cat in One’s new situation. 

A calming influence, a cat.  Just what the doctor ordered!


One really should have been spending the day doing something productive but One chose to spend it with John Betjeman in the grounds, reading . 

Delightful company, there he sat wearing a crumpled Panama with the flicker of a mischievous smile playing upon his lips. A companionable silence on a sunny summer afternoon.  What more could One desire…


Saturday, 14 June 2014

In which One deploys a strategically placed comma…


Daybreak, another new day, the mist on the meadow has drifted away… The sun’s in the sky so blue, At daybreak I daydream of you…

(Frank Sinatra)

This, Dear Reader, is the great wilderness that forms the grounds of the Underground Lair.  One captured it, in all it’s fecund fabulousness, v. v. early in the morning of another hot summer’s day…

‘Have you got any walking boots?’ came the absurd enquiry from the Masterful Gentleman…

One isn’t exactly certain what ‘walking boots’ actually are, but One is fairly sure One doesn’t have any.

One gazed down at One’s strappy, diamante, T-bar, open-toed confections, that revealed perfectly manicured and scarlet painted toes.


‘I want to take you, up on the Quantocks,’ persisted the MG

And indeed, he did.  Sharing with One, the wild, still spaces that speak to the desolate corner of his soul that yearns for the beauty of an empty space on earth.

One is much better able to commune with such spaces by lying on a blankie regarding the clouds scudding by and having a bit of a kip…

Any road up, off we pootled to Samuel Taylor Coleridge's cottage, whereupon we were met with a spinster of the parish who seemed utterly determined to persuade the MG to move, immediately, into the village and partake of companionable strolls with her to the Post Office.  One nipped that in the bud, put the pulsating pensioner in her place and removed the MG forthwith by placing a proprietary, vice-like grip upon his shirt and leading him away…  He is, after all, the play-thing of One and is not to put up for grabs for many a moon – if EVER!

It would appear that ST Coleridge was a bit of a selfish cove: biffing off on long strolls with Wordsworth who probably left that irritating sister of his, Dorothy, mooning about the place, getting under poor old Sara Coleridge’s feet. 

‘Now look ‘ere Sam,’ Sarah would cry, ‘Bert next door’s out all day and he comes back with a couple of rabbits and a pheasant for tea.  What do you expect me to do with a poem about a sodding Nightingale, eh? And that bloody Dorothy’s about as useful as a chocolate fire-guard in the kitchen!’

Any road up, it all goes to explain to One why there aren’t many women Inventors/Scientists/Poets/great Artists etc.



Friday, 13 June 2014

In which One is party to the dismembering of a gentleman caller…

One settled down to watch ‘Bell, Book and Candle.’ (One’s fourth favourite film)

How is it that One can remain, un-sullied, within the Underground Lair for the passing of many a moon, and yet when One is anxious to hole-up under a blankie and indulge Oneself, the world and his flamin’ dog decide that that is the precise moment when they require a quick word in One’s shell-like.

One has never, ever seen it all the way through and therefore has never quite picked up the knack of enchanting the object of One’s desire.  Not that One could deploy One’s very own Pyewacket, since he shuffled off this mortal coil in a blur of claw and flea powder some time ago.

Ah, well, One shall deploy One’s own method.  Hurl all One’s hopes and dreams heavenward and see what occurs without the power of witch craft.

A most satisfactory result thus far!


‘Did you see the moon?’ enquired Princess P’s manservant, as One and the WN waited for our fifteen minutes of fame in 10 Radio land.

See the moon? One has seen nothing but legs and feet various pass the window of the second best boudoir for an age.

 The Wood Nymph had seen it though and reported it’s loveliness, so this very night One has been patrolling the grounds by moonlight making wishes and murdering molluscs a-plenty.

How very boring!  One hears you collectively chorus, Dear Reader.

I know, I know, but there it is.  All is right with One’s little world at the mo, so absolutely no drama, dilemma or disaster for you all to crow over.

Except perhaps, the slight dismembering of One’s delightful companion.

Many a poor sap has come to grief after the briefest of visits to the Underground Lair, but tonight was the first time One has despatched a gentleman with part of his anatomy in a Spode receptacle requiring re-attachment.


Thursday, 12 June 2014

In which One requires 2 quarts of camomile lotion…



One has been industrious in the extreme this week, Dear Reader.

In fact, so intense was the concentration that One failed to notice the sun beating down upon One whilst One sat, painting up a frenzy, wearing only One’s polka-dot baby dolls.

One has just awoken smarting rather badly all across One’s ample bosom and chubby shoulders.  In fact in the moonlight, One resembles a rather attractive Gloucester Old Spot that’s been left in the field for too long on a summer’s day.

Any road up, One feels smug regarding One’s work output and shall therefore spend today smoothing vast quantities of Almond Oil all over One’s scorched terrain.


One was presented with a dilemma in the form of being required to actually make a decision…

And the quandary was thus…

1. A bite to eat and visit the gallery for drinkies and more nibbles!

2. A bite to eat followed by a quiet drink in a pub and perhaps more nibbles!

3. A bite to eat, followed by … (One can’t recall the rest)

Anyway, whatever it was, One went for option three (and for once One won’t be changing One’s mind, Dear Reader.)


Please Note:  All you boring little drones out there going about your business on Friday 13th at 10.00am that One will be interviewing the Wood Nymph on 10 Radio  (and One is under pain of death not to mention his Lordship)  Who, incidentally smoked a fag whilst sitting in one of One’s garden chairs!  (There’s a blue plaque on it)

10Radio transmits on 105.3FM from a hill-top near our Studios in the small Somerset town of Wiveliscombe.

or online

Wednesday, 11 June 2014

In which One is mourning One’s loss…


SATISFIED? All you un-believers who imagine One bosom-deep in asses milk, necking a box of Lidl’s Pinot and smoking fags all day!

I know, I know, it’s not actually finished, but it would have been if next door hadn’t trundled in with tasks various for One to perform –INSTANTLY.

Granted – When the call came, One was actually in the foetal position in the truckle bed still recovering from the Supper a trois, but, One had been wielding a paintbrush since 5.00am so One thoroughly deserved a teeny nap, didn’t One, Dear Reader.

Any road up, that was yesterday.  A yesterday, One might hasten to add, that was barely interrupted AT ALL by protestations of desire/need/want or any other One-based requirement!

‘how soon the flame of love can die,’ (Henry Mancini) 

Yes!  I know, we had him last week, Dear Reader, but if it fits, bung it in!

One even took all comms based products into the boudoir lest anyone be anxious to hear the gravelly tones of One.

Did they ‘eck as like!  Even the WN was nowhere to be seen.  Submerged with LB, no doubt.


Have just this minute surveyed the person that is Lovely One in the gothic looking glass and all has become clear.

One appears to have One’s face on inside out and let’s face it, polka-dot baby-dolls and Ugg boots aren’t a good look for the over fifties.

No matter, One shall survey the ground anyway and give ‘im next door an eyeful.  After all, One shall be banished from the grounds before the passing of many a moon.

How shall One survive?

It’s not what happens to One, it’s how One reacts to it.  That is a mantra One attempts to live by…


At this precise moment One is stamping One’s Ugg, wiping a tear from One’s eye and in dire need of a massive cuddle.

Tuesday, 10 June 2014

In which One is three for supper…

We were three for supper, Dear Reader.  Lovely One, Lovely Gordon and Funny, Clever C (FCC)

One’s invitation came suddenly and One dropped everything and shot up the passage gleefully.

Well, I say ‘invitation’ and use the word loosely…

‘Supper tonight, you bring the pud, you’re meeting FCC, you’ll love each other,’   brrrrrrrrrr

Later on, One having been practically manacled to One’s easel all fecking day by the WN…

‘Get on with eeet Wooooman!  You heven’t done anything for three fooking weeeks, and noooo I don’t want to seee eeet until eeets finished!’

(it being another panoramic view of Brixham)

And there she sat, regarding One from the  sofa that One is minding for One’s chum, brandishing a 10mm easy-grip, knitting a desk. (don’t ask!)

One sheared at around six thirty to LG’s gaff and the WN shot off with a bath bomb, a crate of beer and an evil glint in her eye. (Heaven help the young Peer of the Realm tonight, Dear Reader!)

FCC was a divine confection in the shape of an old student of LG’s who is now Head Boy of Colouring In at the local Art College.

Individual washing-up bowls of Chateau Waitrose were doled out upon arrival and nibbles appeared which we fell upon with gusto, having been present at a ‘7.00pm for 7.30pm’ supper before, that arrived at 11.24pm when we were rat-arsed and starving!

‘I made this casserole three weeks ago and put it in the coldest part of my second best fridge,’ announced LG.

A wave of anxiety crested over the assembled throng, but FCC assured One that he’d flung in the neck-end of a bottle of bacteria-banishing Rioja.

Any road up, to the ever present thrum of the Baumatic (laundering shreddies singular) we sat down (One always gets the Eames chair) and manfully inhaled the botulism surprise.

‘I don’t know how I’m going to get up in the morning,’ opined LG beating a path through the foliage up his passage to see One to the gate.

‘You don’t know, hic!’ shrieked One, ‘ I doubt I shall live until sunrise!’

We mwa-mwa-ed in the passage and agreed to do it all again at JJ’s studio opening party on Friday night, when hopefully One will be sporting a rather divine, clever, amusing and throbbingly attractive gentleman on One’s arm…


Monday, 9 June 2014

In which One has a love of peonies…

IMG_2065Flowers from the grounds

Picked by One for One…

There’s nothing worse than having One’s peonies smashed to the earth by summer rain, so One rescued them, along with that big, fat, delicious lilac rose and awarded them to One.

Others will be seduced by  the glories of One’s garden by this time next month and that is as it should be.

‘How would you ever find another me?’ enquired the Wood Nymph when I showed her the profile of a prospective room mate. 

True so true!  And anyway, too late, One has flight plans afoot that are too far into the blue yonder to abandon.

Should One have remained in the Underground Lair One would surely have returned to the hand-wringing, self critical days of yore, and look where that got One, Dear Reader.


‘What do you think of that?’ came another enquiry (re: house-hunting)

‘A little dull,’ countered One.

‘It’s lovely.  We will go and see it,’ came the return order.

Now there’s a chap who has very quickly got the measure of One! 

Rule one re: One…

Always be polite and enquire after the opinion of One.

Rule two re: One…

Furrow brow, appear to be considering the sage advice of One.

Rule three re: One…

Do exact opposite of One’s instruction.

And anyway it’s delightful to have a (Head) masterful gentleman on board!


General comments for the duration of the day…

One needs to work…

One is not available for mercy dashes of any kind…

One will not look favourably on any neighbour shimmying over the fence in search of a cup of tea…


And as for ‘Discussting’ – you’re right!  I’ve thought about it and I probably was eating pizza with no pants on.

My my those were the days…


Sunday, 8 June 2014

In which One is howling at things various…


I know, I know!  One did say that One would be starting the new Brixham painting this aft (having dined out on ‘Brixham Sunset’ for FIVE YEARS…


‘Beaches’ was on TV and One couldn’t bear to miss it, so, kleenex clutched, One settled down for a massive howling session.


In homage to the wonderful BM: here is a pic of Lovely One from the Bette Midler lookalike years.

That size ten, Chelsea Girl Top wouldn’t fit up me left thigh now, Oh cruel, cruel time. 

TOMORROW, twixt mercy dashes, One shall resume normal output.  It seems almost obscene that One should make, an albeit meagre, living when One has done feck all in the work depot for the past three weeks.



To be rewarded by the universe for such errant behaviour with delicious days of unbridled bliss seems decadent in the extreme.

One has been positively romping through life, smelling the flowers and devouring long forgotten delicacies.

Just when One had pulled up the drawbridge, organised One’s grey, second-best pants drawer (if any of those Sloggis get to see the light of day they will become radio active) and generally begun withdrawing into the confines of the Underground Lair, One has been poked from above by a divine digit.  One has been positively singled out and sprinkled with stardust, picked out by a silver moonbeam and given the starring role. (And you know, Dear Reader, how One simply adores showing off!)

However, ‘tis actually rather difficult to recount One’s fabulous life with a WN throwing up an entire tub of Ben and Jerrys in the bathroom. 



And as if all that wasn’t bliss enough, Lovely Gordon is putting in an appearance up the passage tomorrow.

One expects more tales of the Ottolenghi catered soiree where LG regaled Peter Cattaneo (google him, Dear Reader) with tales of Baumatic washin mashins and how washing under 60 degrees can render one’s shreddies veritably toxic.

Oh how the rich and famous mwa mwa up the smoke!


No one has shouted One’s name that loudly since One inadvertently hopped off the kerb in front of the Stopsley School Bus!


Saturday, 7 June 2014

In which Oysters are consumed…


A little glimpse of the Wood Nymph having a quick smoke in Brixham yesterday.

The three quid, charity shop frock, sadly isn’t quite visible under the four quid raincoat.  It did, of course, look divine, until teamed with the 60 denier black tights (with a large hole in) and the Doc Martens.

Ah well, One is obv out of touch with all things on trend, and was, as per, ackled up in a floaty frock with some chubby-thigh gripping Spanx beneath.

BUT One was wearing Doc Martens!  (Girly ones, of course)

Any road up, we delivered a big painting and ONE GOT AN ORDER FOR SOME NEW ORIGINALS – Hurrah!

But – that does involve One actually doing real work instead of mooning around like a love-sick Koala Bear. (gently intoxicated  and very, very sleepy)

Oysters were consumed on the harbour wall and ghastly shell-dwelling molluscs such as: cockles, whelks and the slightly more attractive – mussel.

One does have slight worries regarding The Peer of the Realm given that the WN has been consuming Oysters!  Not only that, but she was last seen heading off into the distance, clutching a lavender bath-bomb, shouting

‘I neeeed a beeer.’


Friday, 6 June 2014

In which One hopes that this time, it NEVER stops raining…

There’s simply no other explanation:  One is a complete blithering eejit!

Unable to sleep, yet again, One has been analysing One’s complete inability to ‘just let it go.’

For instance, upon receipt of nary an obscene telephone call from the RR, One was compelled to enquire, via email, ‘You haven’t blogged.  Are you OK.’

A perfectly innocent enquiry, made out of concern for another, when One is in sanguine mood and positively flooded with all kinds of liquid joy. 

NO NO NO.  A character flaw in Lovely One.

‘One of many,’ One hears you collectively remark, Dear Reader.

Well, Yes. 

When will One learn that One alone cannot cure the ills of the world?  When will One’s lame canard collection be complete?  When will One cease banging One’s beautifully coiffed head against a wall?

Who can say?


No more shall One continue in unsatisfactory situations.

‘Deliberate cruelty is not acceptable,’ (Blanche DuBoir, Streetcar)

One will no longer be hanging around like the last lemon in the bowl with a green, furry,  mouldy bottom.

No.  One will slice Oneself into fat chunks and dive into the Gin and Tonic of life long before that happens.

One has finally learned that we are all on our own paths through this life, and when those paths collide and merge, they will sooner or later part and go on their own singular journeys.

But then again…

‘Sometimes there is God,’ (Blanche DuBoir, Streetcar)

Sometimes One can say…

‘Would you like to come under my umbrella?’ and One can hope it NEVER, EVER stops raining. 


Thursday, 5 June 2014

In which ‘It’s such a perfect day’…

‘How do you like your eggs in the morning?’ (Dean Martin)

‘Unfertilised,’ (Wood Nymph)

The Peer of the Realm has perfected the perfect poached, One hears.

Dans le Underground Lair, however, One was busily applying ‘Dettol Mould and Mildew’ to areas that hadn’t been uncovered for the passing of many a moon, and holding out not a small hope that eggs wouldn’t be incinerated in Extra Virgin dans le petit salle a manger.

‘Ken I heff your meelk?’ came the enquiry, and One’s generous bosom heaved a sigh of relief to learn that porridge was being constructed.

Having spent the goodliest part of an entire day sandblasting the Underground Lair, One hoped against hope that it wouldn’t exude the parfum of a transport caff.

Any road up, One flopped in relief onto the truckle bed and, gazing up at the ceiling, let out a shriek.

‘What eez eet?’ came the enquiry as the WN flew into the second best boudoir.

‘Look at that ceiling!’ countered Lovely One with a note of panic last heard when we ran out of Pinot.

‘Noooooo  Weeeeey!’ yelled WN, ‘Wot eez eet?’

Let me explain, Dear Reader…

For the passing of many an evening, since being banished to the second best boudoir, One has been musing verily upon a large number of shiny caramel coloured blobs on the ceiling directly above the truckle bed.  One has supposed that a previous occupant has felt it necessary to spray the contents of a coke can Heavenward.

Any other explanation has proven too ghastly to dwell upon, and One has drifted off to dreamland on a nightly basis and ignored aforementioned – until now.

‘Stend beck, I know what I’m dooooiiing,’ ordered the WN from the doorway, brandishing a bucket of bleach and a mop.

Off came the Doc Martens and clad in the comedy socks she mounted the truckle bed with a single bound and started mopping the ceiling.

‘Looook et yoooo,’ she opined, ‘you spend all day polishing the floor when you should hef been cleaning the ceiling.  Don’t you know anything!’

And, Dear Reader, how right she was!

‘Oh it’s such a perfect day, I’m glad I spent it with you,’  (Lou Reed) Oh and (Lovely One)

Wednesday, 4 June 2014

In which One polishes the floor…

Many things to furrow One’s brow…

How do those blue hundreds and thousands kill slugs and snails?  AND, now what is One going to do at three in the morning with no molluscs to murder?


The mysterious disappearance of the Ravishing Roué for one.  Closely followed by the ghostly silence of even the slightest Whittakerage.

‘They must have died,’ opined One to a chum.

‘Just because they don’t contact you doesn’t mean they’ve died,’ admonished said chum.

‘Well, what other possible reason could there be?’ enquired One with sticky out bottom lip (trembling of course)

‘THEY DON’T LIKE YOU,’ countered chum sternly.

One supposes that this could be a possibility. 

Any road up, One doesn’t give even one furry cheek of a rat’s fat…

All One needs now is to entice some other desperate old pensioner over the threshold.  After all, HOUSEWORK was performed in the Underground Lair and ‘twould seem a shame not to be taken advantage of on a freshly polished chestnut oak wooden floor.

Ooooh there goes the door…………………….

Tuesday, 3 June 2014

In which One is a bitter and twisted old woman…

‘What was all that going on out there?’ came the enquiry.
All ‘that’ going on out ‘there’ was akin to two well-spoken, middle-aged Women’s Institute ladies squabbling over a Victoria sandwich at a village fete.  Had One been in possession of One’s knitting bag at the time, One may well have exacted an awful revenge with a 5mm bamboo easy-grip.
‘Twould appear that One is a ‘bitter, spiteful old woman who feels that the world is against her.’
One is in fact a vacuous, silly creature incapable of taking even the most alarming of situations with any seriousness what-so-fecking-ever!
Furthermore, One isn’t even ‘Lovely,’ but gaiety and humour fly high above the heads of the dour, sullen spinsters of this parish.
No matter, you and I, Dear Reader, shall continue to float serenely above it all in our ten quid Matalan summer frocks, clutching our fat tummies and rocking with laughter.
‘Tis most out of character for One to defend Oneself.  Usually One would be hand wringing in the Underground Lair, unable to manage even the most rudimentary ‘colouring in’ task du jour.
One feels fairly certain that even One’s fat bottom had an indignant air about it as One charged as fast as One’s short, fat little legs could carry One in hot pursuit of the Head Girl.
Following Ones fervour and fairly obvious inability to ‘shut up and clear off’ a short re-match was granted under the watchful eye of Mr and Mrs Smoking Man. (who incidentally sheared in opposite directions)
One was further deemed to be a bitter and twisted old harridan with the weight of the world’s woe upon One’s chubby shoulders and to have manipulated situations in order to..
‘Write silly things on my blog.’

Monday, 2 June 2014

In which One’s parade is being rained upon…

No longer mourn for me when I am dead

Than though shall hear the surly sullen bell.

Give warning to the world that I am fled

For I love you so.

That I in your sweet thoughts would be forgot

If thinking on me then should make you woe


Fear not, Dear Reader, for Lovely One hasn’t the merest of intention to shuffle off this mortal coil just yet awhile.

One just felt like writing it down as it’s so lovely.

Any road up, it shall stand as a fitting memorial to the slimy little bastard snails One just stamped under me Doc Martens.

‘Scoff my rocket would you?  Well TAKE THAT’


Don't tell me not to live,
Just sit and putter,
Life's candy and the sun's
A ball of butter.
Don't bring around a cloud
To rain on my parade!

(Bob Merrill, Jule Styne)

But that’s just what’s happened.  One shan’t bore you with the details, Dear Reader.  Suffice it to say that the warders in Prisoner Cell Block Malthouse are pinging the straps on their dungarees and preparing to march…


Isn’t it just a slice of heaven how some little people step lightly upon the earth (even if they wear big Doc Marten boots) and spread their youth and joy around as soft as stardust…

And then there are others who stamp, splay-footed upon the ground in their Clarks sandals (circa 1959) leaving a slug-like trail of bitter spite wherever they slither.

No matter, darlings, One is positively serene without the aid of Prozac (or any other kind of Zac)

Events are moving apace in the Wood Nymph/Descendant of the Romantic Poet saga…

Possible bathing opportunities in the stately pile…

Meeting friends and family…

It’s just too, too thrilling, Dear Reader…

A tiny hiccup is foreseen by Lovely One, however, when it comes to the (possible) new Ladyship listing her hobbies in Burkes Peerage…

Apropos of nothing, One enquired last evening…

‘What are your favourite pastimes?’


came the reply.


Sunday, 1 June 2014

In which two young ladies eat all the strawberries in Somerset…

All the world is fast asleep and peacefully twitching and shifting in it’s truckle bed…


What’s to be done to remedy this ever increasing situation?

Warm milk and honey?

Soothing whale song?

Transcendental meditation?

Massive servings of pash?

NO…….  the ancient art of


One has been abroad about the grounds with One’s torch this very night collecting the slimy shell-dwelling blighters and pitching them with indecent haste over the fence into next door’s garden.

One’s rocket bucket should be brimming with health inducing greenery for consumption by Wood Nymphs and the descendants of romantic poets.


Slimy molluscs much favoured by the ghastly French are nipping up and down me greenery like things possessed.

And to think that on this most satisfactory of weekends One has practically been residing in the enchanted forest of Snow White communing with God’s creatures.

In fact, One is fairly sure that One has perfected the charming fluidity of movement that pervaded the v early Disney motion pictures and One glides through the world in a manner most serene.

One has encountered more wildlife upon One’s perambulatory passage than previously espied in all the long lonely years in these parts.

Or could it be that One is simply viewing the world through the prism of passion?

No matter, Dear Reader, suffice it to say that the Underground Lair has been positively awash with throbbing hormones this very weekend, what with the WN plotting ways to submerge Peers of the Realm in tepid bathwater, whilst her much more lady-like chum attempts to smother the ardour with a Matalan bath sheet.

Any road up, One was swerving to avoid a bunny rabbit, whilst watching a woodpecker in flight when a deer bolted from the forest and charged in front of the Ferrari, no less.

One wouldn’t have batted a carefully made-up eyelid if seven tiny little men had appeared from a clearing and demanded to fall upon the person of Lovely One and smother her satin self with kisses. 

After all, the queue of prospective suitors is straggling from here to the waterworks at the mo! 

Old and chubby is the new black!

One’s musings were brought to an indecent and hasty conclusion, however, when One reached One’s destination in order to collect the two little bundles of raging hormones from the PYO fruit farm.

There will be an unused glut of clotted cream about the West Country this summer, Dear Reader, for two young ladies have eaten all the strawberries in Somerset.