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Thursday, 31 July 2014

In which One is back from the Valleys…

IMG_2154

At the age of fifty seven (well, nearly)

She realised she’d actually

Drive through the Rhonda

In a sports car (Mercedes Sports)

With the warm wind in her hair

Marianne Unfaithfull

And here One is, back from the valleys and the glorious miles and miles of beaches…

A tour worthy of  Wallis Arnold was delivered into the lap of Lovely One. 

What an absolute treat and delight it all was.

One shed a tiny tear upon crossing the Severn bridge as One sped along back to Somerset and the life of abject slavery One lives on a daily basis.

Every single minute of every single day was sunny and warm and interesting and funny and absolutely loverly.

One shall be boring you, Dear Reader, with tales of fishing, beach bumming, coffee drinking, ice cream eating and generally being spoilt rotten every minute of every day and every night.

Ah, what it is to be young – again!

Please note Michael – Wallis Arnold is, or was, a famous English Coach Tour Company

Monday, 28 July 2014

Here One is in Wales.
Today mosied off in the Merc Sports to The Rhonda Valley, Swansea and The Mumbles
Viewed a fishing lake from afar, instead taking in the birthplace of Richard Burton and Katherine Zeta Jones gaff, high on a hill and surrounded by an eight foot wall.
One is residing in a place where the chiffon trousers and silk jacket are most unlikely to be deployed.
No matter One shall dress down, drink pints, eat takeaway and generally join in.
After all One is from Luton.
Inhaled a peach sundae in the famous Joe's in Swansea.
Tomorrow going to Dylan Thomas's boat house, can't wait for that.
Have located a likely gallery in Swansea and taken lots of pics of the Marina to attempt entry.
Phoned aged P to tell her I was in Swansea. 'Are you with the Headmaster?' She enquired.
But sadly I can't get detention from that quarter no matter what I do.

Saturday, 26 July 2014

In which One sets off…

bridge

Lovely One will be pootling across the bridge later on today…

Fortunately One has a veritable tribe of cousins, aunts and uncles all as Welsh as a cake…

One well remembers long ago summers on the Mumbles eating ice-cream with Auntie Connie whilst Uncle Hubert and Auntie Ann sat on fraying deckchairs on the prom.

Are there still deck-chair men on the beach?  Who knows?  One will soon find out.

Auntie Connie, Auntie Ciss and indeed Lovely One have all married late in life.  We girls like to keep our hand on our halfpenny for as long as nature will allow.

Any road up, Auntie Cis used to sit with her legs splayed, displaying for all the world to see, her bloomers: down to the knee and with a smidgeon of cream lace at the end of the legs.  This unusual posturing may well have been the reason for there being no takers in the Husband department, but, one fine day along came Uncle Jim and in the manner of an intrepid explorer disappeared up her knicker leg and re-appeared some eight years later to die.

Auntie Connie always used to fascinate One as a girl: her clothes hung neatly in plastic bags in a moth-ball scented wardrobe and her shoes, with no sign of ever having stamped the streets of Cardiff, resided in their original boxes.

She worked at the Post Office and looked after Auntie Ann.  ‘Twas a rough deal for daughters, having to stay at home and minister to all and sundry instead of skipping off into the sunset with Jones the Bread…

(sorry Michael, just when you’d started getting used to the English-isms I introduce Welsh)

 Auntie Ann had only one leg which used to fascinate the young Lovely One as One was convinced of the existence of persons with varying amounts of legs and not aware that AA had originally had the two with which most of us are lucky enough to be issued.

Any road up, I digress…

At the Post Office, Uncle Hubert was in charge.  A dour, be-suited cove, with a pocket watch that would be issued forth to register the arrival of the Post Office girls, one of whom was the rosy cheeked Auntie Connie.

Unsullied by human hand, Connie was all a quiver in the presence of Uncle H and with the licking of more than a second-class stamp going on behind the counter it wasn’t long before Mrs Uncle Hubert the second was found deceased and number three, Auntie Connie, took up the first counter position.

Rumour abounded about Hubert and his succession of wives, all who neatly shuffled off this mortal coil when his roving eye alighted on the next incumbent of the pebble-dash terrace in Cardiff.

Auntie Connie now had Hubert’s Mother, as well as her own, to minister to on a daily basis.  One hopes that the doubtful pleasure of a counter-ender with Hubert was worth the unpaid slavery.

Well if things don’t alter, they’ll remain as they are (Nanny Cooper)

And with that soubriquet ringing in One’s shell-like One is off, on this fifty-seventh summer to paint the Gower and butter up to Jones the Bread.

Friday, 25 July 2014

In which One has an Espresso Frappe with Blanche DuBoir…

ella

‘Every time we say goodbye I die a little,

Every time we say goodbye I wonder why a little.’

Elephant Gerald

And, sadly, it’s is beginning to look dangerously like it wasn’t ‘Au Revoir,’ but indeed, goodbye…

No matter…

One’s June-bug has lived it’s day in a blaze of glory, shagged, and dropped off it’s clematis flower to the dusty earth.

May the partner in this year’s madness put his black heart back in a Georgian corner cupboard and move off to stab some other unsuspecting damsel in the heart with a Charles Horner hat pin.

Any road up, off One biffed yesterday to partake of an Espresso Frappe with a chum…

One, resplendent in One’s yellow frock and straw hat arrived at the designated venue in plenty of time and sat down to devour a couple of chapters of A Streetcar Named Desire.’

‘Stella, Stella, Stella for star, why you’re as plump as a little partridge,’ Blanch DuBoir

Sadly One is as plump as a little old bison…

But not quite so plump as One was…

During an exchange regarding Bear Grylls, with Dear Little S, One opined that Bear Grylls and Fries are this weeks 99p deal at Mc D’s.  This discourse continued along humorous lines…

Dear Little S suggesting that One had a hairy tongue…

One suggesting that One shaved it…

Dear Little S enquiring about One’s Prada Willi Worm (google it, not the worm bit)

One mentioning that One may have shed the odd ounce or two,

‘How do you think I get Headmasters to snog me?’ questioned One.

‘Threats?’ came the cheeky reply.

One just left Oneself sitting with an Espresso Frappe…

One waited twenty minutes and then biffed off.

‘Either I have the time/day/venue wrong, or One has been forgotten,’ thought One.

Arriving home…

Miffed missive from chum…

‘Where were you?  I waited for half an hour outside the coffee house, from 2.30pm until 3.00pm in the blistering heat!!’

‘I was inside from 2pm until 2.20pm drinking Espresso Frappe!’ countered One, ‘anyway we were due to meet at 2pm.’

‘I was having a burger in the pub over the road then,’ came the indignant reply.

One hopes it was a Bear Grylls and fries…

 

Thursday, 24 July 2014

In which One is re-evaluating the situation on an almost hourly basis…

m f

‘At the age of thirty-seven,

she realised she’d never

drive through Paris in a sports car

With the warm wind in her hair’…

Marianne Faithfull

Well, nearly fifty-seven actually.

 

And so, following a week where One has been accused of using One’s doings and One’s correspondents  as ‘Blog Fodder,’ One has enquired of a certain Gentleman whether he actually has time enough to devote to the ever needy Lovely One, One has been  prolific in One’s output, One has given up drinking, taken up smoking and generally ended up all (fat) arse, about (lovely) face, One is taking Bing’s advice and has gone fishin’

More on that story later…

One does indeed use all of One’s experiences as ‘blog fodder’ as ‘twas so charmingly put.  That is what it is…

No matter, One lives by the blog and shall die by it…

One, who falls in love with the passion and fervour of a teenager, has been mooning about in the manner of a love-struck Hippo, enquired of the object of One’s desire, ‘are you sure you have time to devote to a relationship at the mo,’ and upon receiving nary a missive has taken the hint and sheared, taking One’s broken heart with One.

Whilst One will indeed be unlikely to experience a soft Santana wafting through One’s bouncy golden locks, in the company of, say, Johnny Depp, in a, say, Bentley Mulsanne, One is most definitely going to get a waft of Welsh wind up One’s gusset in the next week…

A simply divine blog chum of One’s (see, they don’t all hate me SO) has taken pity on the dispossessed Lovely One and invited One to join them on the Gower Coast for a spot of, and this is the itinerary, as offered…

Night fishing (so as not to waste the days)

Painting on the Gower Coast

Visiting Richard Burton’s birth place (swoon, swoon, gusset trembling)

Cardiff

Yummy dinners

etc., etc., etc……

bingGone fishin', there's a sign upon his door
Gone fishin', he ain't workin' anymore
There's his hoe out in the sun where he left a row half done
He said "hoein' ain't no fun", he ain't got no ambition
Gone fishin' by a shady wady pool
I'm wishin' I could be that kinda fool
I'd say no more work for mine on my door I'd hang a sign
Gone fishin' Instead of just a wishin'
Gone fishin'. . .see him snoozin' by a brook

Note:

Michael:  One explained, in detail, the difference between ‘pants’ (and yes, we HATE the word ‘panties’) and knickers.

PAY ATTENTION PLEASE

Wood Nymph:

Stow away in someone’s hand luggage, come back to us, we all miss you and have shed tears upon leaning that ‘you are lost.’

Wednesday, 23 July 2014

In which One looks like Miss Fecking Marple…

IMG_1822

The Paddy Power pants hot air balloon…

No, Dear Reader, not One’s pants, One’s pants have been re-discovered in a Gucci weekend bag under the truckle bed.  There was One imagining that one of One’s prospective suitors had snaffled the Sloggis for their own private use, and they were under t’bed all the time.

Not that One relished the thought of an amour of One’s nestling down with well-worn gusset, shirring elastic splaying out at angles, baggy legs billowing in the night-time breeze to perform such rituals as One worshippers are wont to do.

No, but One would appreciate a smidgeon of gusset action that’s for sure…

It’s the hot weather, Dear Reader, remember what’s happened every June since One went over the edge?

Lure in some old unsuspecting codger with One’s ‘come hither’ smile and inviting d√©colletage, complete with carrot cake crumbs that need fishing out, and Fanny’s yer Auntie.

Heavens, One even takes up such pastimes as, fag smoking, a revolting habit One eschewed millennia ago. 

In fact, One’s head is turned by the sun…

Yesterday, J insisted One wore a fetching sun hat (well One thought One looked fetching until J said) 

‘You know what?  You look like Miss Marple in that hat.’

Fer fecks sake, J, One wasn’t going for the Miss Marple look, One was going for the beach Bardot look, or that Ursula Underpants woman wading out of the ocean. Blimey, One even stood in a washing-up bowl full of water to complete the look.

So, there we have it, One is over the hill, and soon to be far away, in Wales.

Yes, that’s right Dear Reader, One is off to the land of sheep and men with baritone voices…

One will be painting on a Gower beach if anyone wants One.

WHICH OF COURSE NO ONE DOES

 

Tuesday, 22 July 2014

In which One will be in the shed…

tear

A tear…

Incidentally, Joan Crawford had all her back teeth removed so that she had those sculptured cheeks.

One’s, and Michael’s (One’s bloggster chum) are falling out on their own.

The tear is to alert you, Dear Reader, to the manner in which One spent One’s night. 

One has inadvertently offended just about everyone in the entire universe.

One’s daily doings have fallen into question.  Rather unfairly, since One has been beavering away dans le back garden amassing a veritable stack of masterpieces for the September market.

I know, I know, Dear Reader, I said I wasn’t going to do markets any more now I’m a ‘proper’ artist, but well frankly, One would sup with the Devil at the mo, in order to make a sale.

Why are you spending all your time on POF? came the enquiry from an interested observer, although this information can only be obtained by the accuser when stalking the accused in exactly the same manner. 

Oddly enough, One doesn’t spend all fecking day trawling through dumper-truck loads of crinkly old men, ONE LEFT THE WINDOW OPEN ON ONE’S KINDLE.

This is clearly why One receives so many offers of a life of un-wedded bliss in a council flat in Swansea with motorcycle parts on the sitting room table!

Any road up, henceforth only polite offers of tea and buns shall be turned down in a kindly manner.

No matter, One should remain alone with stray cats until One dies horribly in a kitchen related incident (One’s always in the sodding kitchen preparing delicious din dins for elderly ladies) whereupon One will be devoured by tabbies and tortoishells and pooped out into a litter tray.

Ah, the life of the middle-aged spinster of this parish is not one to be envied, no Sir-ee

One was even in the maison chien for not wanting One’s shoulders massaged with an ancient Pifco Pummler.

One doesn’t like contact with other humans as a rule and even dislikes the feel of a fellow travellers thigh against One’s on the Clapham Omnibus.

Pifco pummelling in not very high on One’s agenda at this present moment in time.

BF tells One off regularly as One wanders through life attempting not to offend fellow travellers, One spreads Oneself too thinly and instead of being an angel shining in the darkness One is a foul smelling demonic harpie who offends one and all.

One shall be shut in the shed if anyone wants One…

In which One is a goon and an eejit…

That rarest of things…

A DOUBLE BLOG DAY

Not for spectacular reasons, or One has won the lottery, or One has been asked to do the front cover of Vogue

No, One is sooooooooooooo bore-diddly-oooored that One has actually been messaging One’s Vile-ex-Husband on POF

Not to say anything other than ‘Bollicks’ or ‘You! an Ultramatch, flippin’ ‘eck.’

One is a pathetic goon (Alice the goon in fact)

One couldn’t recognise a potential partner if he fell on One, licked One’s neck (One likes that) presented One with a Chloe Paddington, or gave One a back tickle (One likes that as well)

AND THE REASON ONE WOULDN’T KNOW ANY OF THAT STUFF IS….

One doesn’t even have any reliable Gaydar…

BF was peeing her laser-cut M&S, lace topped nick-nick today recalling the Eugenia and Pelham incident…

One should be instantly forgiven if One has recounted this story afore as One is past One’s best…

E was the first guest artist at Red Hat – she brought in some Pablo Picasso copies and a painted Didgeridoo  (about what One writ a poem)

The things One can do

with a Didgeridoo

It’s thrilling for One

but delicious with two

Come, take up your end

Please don’t say you won’t

For I’ll Didgeridoo

If you Didgeridon’t

Any road up I digress, E developed a big girly crush on One.  One had no fecking idea being a goon!

Pelham, the love interest of E, got to hear of the pash and sent One a threatening letter (an actual letter with real writing and on paper)

One showed it to BF who, it has to be said, spends a goodly amount of time laughing at One and One’s gooniferousness.

Any road up, the result was that One went into hiding and BF and BFP removed E and Pelham from the shop in One’s abscence.

ONE IS A GOON

ONE DOESN’T DESERVE THE LOVE OF ANYONE SINCE ONE IS A CERTIFIABLE EEJIT

Monday, 21 July 2014

In which One should be dog sharing…

IMG_2008

There she is – The Wood Nymph

And – there she was, gone

Flight 493 to Atlanta will be awash with tears…  As is the front of One’s pink jim-jams.

‘Down here,’ called One as the door flew open and a tiny girl swamped by an enormous back-pack walked into the Underground Lair and changed One’s life forever.

One adores Boy, but being Boy he regards One with the scornful eye of a measured, clever and calm human being.  Whilst One charges through life devouring each day as if ‘twere the last carrot cake in the Co-op. 

The WN understood One immediately and accepted One’s indecision/erratic behaviour/appalling untidiness/lack of work ethic with that lovely smile.

‘Would you like to see what I’ve done today?’ One would enquire as she blew in from the workshop.

‘No woman!  I fokking don’t want to see anything until it’s finished.  Get on with your work!’  and One would return, suitably admonished to One’s easel. (having actually been faff-tiddly-affing about in the grounds until five mins to six)

There is no one to…

Pick all the crust off the home made bread whilst it’s still warm

fill the entire flat with beer bottles that One had to secret out under cover of darkness

flick fag ends in One’s beautifully manicured plant pots

scream with laughter over Skipe to her sister, the other Maria.  I know, I know, Dear Reader, I don’t get it either!!

clog up the plug holes of the Aristocracy with enough black hair to stuff a truckle-bed mattress

stamp about in the tiniest Doc Martens One has ever seen

Fortunately for One, One is now under the care of another chum, since should One (bottom lip is quivering now, cnat ees what One is tpying) have been in the Underground Lair alone, One wouldn’t have been able to continue.

One couldn’t even go to the Summer Gathering in the field because it would have been our fourth goodbye.

If that great streak of curly haired Aristocracy doesn’t fly out, grab her and bring her back and marry her, HE IS AN EEJIT

                                                                                                                                ~

Any road up, Lovely One will be pootling to the garage with the Bugatti today (the ashtrays are full of Cocktail Sobrani fag ends) and no doubt leaving with a vastly inferior car with which to biff off to Waitrose in.

                                                                                                                                 ~

Being a little lonely stuck out at the Cross (too far to walk to Wiv in the combat walking boots) One was visited in a dream…

Two dogs and a cat (with the ghostly shadow of a parrot on it’s back) appeared to One in the depths of night. 

‘Come with us to Devon,’ said the white fluffy dog, ‘There’s someone there who could dry your tears with belly button fluff.’

One hid under the 600 count Egyptian cotton sheets, until One could stand it no more.  (One was warned that 300 count would be enough in this weather, but did one listen – did One ‘eck as like!)

The white fluffy dog was still there waiting with his adorable head cocked to one side.

As he disappeared into the ether and One recalled the dream, One thought…

‘Perhaps One should get a hound, or at least, share someone else’s.’

In which the shadows grow longer…

messerschmidt_busts

Messerschmitt masks…

It could be One, Dear Reader…

For One is descending into the vale of madness.

Messerschmitt cast his own face as he became more and more bonkers.  (Google it, you culture-free zombies)

Obv he didn’t know he was bonkers, and therefore was bonkers, and One does know, so there is a glimmer of hope for One.

Any road up, the MG is mired in doings to secure his delightful little cottage and has nary the time, nor inclination, to worship at the alter of Lovely One.

Let us hope, Dear Reader, that ‘abstinence makes the heart grow fonder.’

No matter, One should be off to a tented village somewhere in Devon today with a well-to-do chumette from up the lane…

It looks like even she has fallen by the wayside and One is left with no option but to do some WORK (in the garden of course)

One can’t risk the removal of One’s delicious honeyed tan. You never know, Dear Reader, the MG might be available later in the year to undress One’s undulations with his eyes…

Yesterday One spent a lonely, blue-skyed, scorching day in the garden reading an inspirational novel left for One by the Wood Nymph…

Here is a quote, marked as if to warn one…

‘Very clever. Playing the part of a charitable soul was only for those who were afraid of taking a stand in life.  It is always far easier to have faith in your own goodness than to confront others and fight for your rights.  It is always easier to hear an insult and not retaliate than have the courage to fight back against someone stronger than yourself; we can always say we’re not hurt by the stones others throw at us, and it’s only at night – when we’re alone – that we can silently grieve over our cowardice.’

That could very well have been One, before the intensive course in ‘how to assert Oneself and strive for what One wants’ that was delivered by the wise Wood Nymph.

That is not to say that One isn’t understanding when others have matters to which more importance is placed upon than the worshipping of One…

BUT… One would like to point out that One was in the habit of site-managing the renovation of three houses with a baby Boy tucked under One’s left arm.

Obv., the female of the species is more adept at multi-tasking, nonetheless, the summer is drifting by and soon the Autumn will blow in on a breeze and all will be forgotten…

 

 

Sunday, 20 July 2014

In which One is fairly serious…


One does One’s best to ensure Boy is a happy, well-balanced individual and provides such meagre financial backing One can as and when the need arises. 
At this juncture, One would like to point out that, at Boy’s current age One had: put Oneself through college by working in a bar in the evenings (working during the day in a drawing office), supported the rest of the family whilst One’s own Pater had sheared to Israel, attempted on a daily basis to mollify One’s Mother who stamped and sulked through her miserable existence on a daily basis, Oh, and snogged a lot of boys!
As a parent One has tried to do One’s best and any suggestion, however badly received, is made by One with One’s very best intentions.
One’s modus operandi in the ‘get up and get on with it’ department usually involved the swift removal of Boy’s quilt and the administration of a cup of tea, to be consumed as One flung back the curtains.
Vile ex Husband’s approach, as he tiptoes through life, is slack in the extreme.
For, ‘slack’, was his attitude to the support of One and Boy to the tune that when One offered the ultimatum ‘get a job, or I leave,’ One left.
One left taking Boy and worked some of the most awful jobs One has ever had to endure in order that Boy could finish school in a safe place with enough food/clothing/computer games/consoles…
‘Sharper than the serpent's tooth, the thankless child.’
One is far from perfect, as you already know Dear Reader, as One blunders through life like an un-tethered Bullaffo, laughing, sobbing and generally making a nuisance of Oneself all over the shop…
However, One has been blessed, of late, with a surrogate child who appeared on One’s doorstep late one January night, and proved to be the most wise and beautiful creature One has ever had the sublime pleasure of loving.  Rarely in life does one fall into step beside a true companion of the soul and when one does one should savour every moment one is blessed to live.  One certainly did!
Any road up…
One loves Boy
One loves the Wood Nymph
And One loves the Masterful Gentleman
Not necessarily in that order
One left Boy with the advice ‘Don’t do anything stupid again Mum,’ ringing in One’s ears, from Boy who already has done just that…
                                                                                                                       ~
Lest One should depress you, Dear Reader, One shall end this missive on a humorous note…
Despite being admonished by the MG for responding to messages various from toothless old codgers, One cannot resist taking a peek and oftimes replying…
Yesterday came the enquiry…
‘How far would you go on a fourth date?’
One responded…
‘Doncaster.’

Friday, 18 July 2014

In which One takes One’s false eyelashes off for a good cause…

tent

This, Dear Reader, is called a ‘Tent’…

One has been told that people place them outdoors and sleep in them.

WHY?

Are there such remote, far-flung holiday destinations, One would care to visit, that have no hotels?

The individual who informed One of the existence of these fabric devices actually expected One to be gullible enough to believe that the FEMALE of the species goes beddy-byes in them!

Where is the bath/wet-room/make-up mirror/place to plug in straighteners/fridge/aga/bed etc.?

Where would One hang One’s Chloe Tea-Dresses (assuming they have tea at 3.00pm in the middle of a field)

Any road up, One is breathing into a paper bag at the mo having brought on a panic attack at the very thought.

Although, dans Wivey. there is a particular breed of woman: short grey hair, glasses, beige trousers, who go about the place WITH BACKPACKS

When One first alighted in Somerset, One wondered where all these articles went every day as they biffed past No 1 Golden Hill with a muscular, Sapphic stride and a determined look upon their moustachioed upper lips.

One imagined there to be some gathering taking place, afore the sprightly blighters biffed off for a day’s hill-walking, bashing the earth with those silly walking-poles as their furry legs picked up speed.

Alas no!  Turned out that this odd attire is de riguer in Wiveliscombe.  Even for a trip as mundane as to collect a bottle of Scotch/Vodka/Pinot/Milk, the determined, late middle-aged Amazon warrior don this bizarre attire!

There is a group, sometimes to be seen gathering in the square, called The Wiveliscombe Walkers.  These, make-up free, crop-haired, anorak-wearing adventurers clear off at a pace really rather regularly! 

To what end? 

One knows not, and cares even less…

This epistle is in order to inform you, Dear Reader, that One intends to eschew the luxuries of modern life next week and clear off to the Pinkster’s Summer Gathering…

The Pinkster has informed One that the doings may not meet with the approval of a personage with the high maintenance requirements of One.

Much merry-making and mirth was issued forth just because One informed SIT that One expects the winter curtains to be put up in the Underground Lair at the end of September.

‘She has winter curtains,’ they all screamed, roaring with laughter and clutching their tummies.

HOW RUDE – doesn’t everyone?

One may as well shear in the gen direc of the middle of nowhere since…

‘Hello Sweetheart, I’m going to send you a lovely long email later,’ was yesterday’s promise from the MG

NOTHING

NADA

ZIPPO

‘How soon the flame of love can die’   Henry Mancini

 

Thursday, 17 July 2014

In which One wonders if it will stain…

fitzhead church

Fitzhead Church, Dear Reader…

Henceforth a v spesh place indeed…

Never mind all that J and G stuff, One was worshipped there (well on a bench outside anyway)

Let One set the scene from earlier in the day…

One, resplendent in One’s favourite white linen shirt, did something previously unknown in the history of Lovely One…

One ordered a glass of Merlot with lunch…

One never ever consumes alcohol during the day in case One needs to pop out for a new pair of shoes/handbag/frock/lipstick etc…

One required a spot of lubrication since One was primed to question the possibility of the ulterior motives of the MG regarding Lovely One.

With the historical ‘Bloke’ debacle in mind, One’s chums were keen to assess the cut of MG’s jib on behalf of Lovely One, who as you know, Dear Reader, is something of an eejit in rose-tinted spectacles concerning matters of the heart.

Actually, One is fully aware that One’s chums don’t want a repeat performance of the wailing and grinding of teeth that followed that particular ghastly error of judgement…

One actually had an itemised list from BF setting out matters in their level of importance…

1       Will he come and live in Wivey?

(One doubts that)

2       Does he want to marry you?

(how can One tell)

3     Do you want to marry him?

(how can One tell)

4     Does he know exactly how many pairs of shoes you buy each year?

(this information is offered on a ‘need to know’ basis)

Obv, One, not being quite the twit that One’s chums think One is, One had the situation well under control, and prepared to batter the MG into submission with Ones eyelashes, when…

THE ABSOLUTE OAF BEHIND THE BAR SHOWERED ONE FROM HEAD TO TOE WITH MERLOT

‘Oh dear,’ says he ‘do send me the dry-cleaning bill.’

THE DRY FECKING CLEANING BILL

‘White linen and red wine,’ was all that One could whisper in utter disgust.

And there One stood resembling an Angel with the measles, positively incandescent with rage..

The MG, who, in One’s opinion should have leapt the bar in a single bound and wrestled the offending landlord to the ground, took the incident in good humour, having been caught in the fallout himself.

One, undeterred, put forth all the items in BF’s list and the MG grew pale in the bright July sunshine.

Any road up, following a leisurely pootle through the glorious Somerset countryside, we alighted in Fitzhead to cast our beadies over the Church.

Upon an ancient bench outside the locked Church the MG issued forth the three little words every girl wants to hear…

‘WILL IT STAIN?’

Wednesday, 16 July 2014

In which One isn’t wearing any…

seagull pic

The vile creature that pooped on One’s latest masterpiece…

Any road up, One, following a long and involved conv with BF, concerning the benefits of M&S laser-cut pants (with pictures on her Kindle) tore home and launched another search for One’s missing Sloggis.

Nobody move, someone has got One’s pants and One is, in the manner of Nancy Drew, intent on revealing the culprit before One reveals One’s twinkle.

One needs One’s pants quite desperately since One has been trawling the internet sniggering at chaps posing next to motorbikes/boats/dogs…

One, being a polite sort of a sort, always answers any communique from any old codger, what with not wishing to offend or put them off the female race entirely.

But One has revealed an amazing lack of self-control amongst the over sixties…

BF was informing One that there is, on the televisual device, a broadcast concerning the lewd behaviour of the pensioner…

AND ONE IS HERE TO REPORT IT DOESN’T END THERE…

One, sending messages of the ilk ‘thank you so much for your kind message, but I have met a lovely gentleman…’ is then, more often than not, in receipt of another missive in the manner of….

‘What’s your favourite sexual position.’

(One can’t remember)

‘Do you like your ****** being *******’

(flippin’ eck’)

One only hopes that with the remaining hand, these articles are holding on for grim death to their walkframes!

One is on the cusp of not responding further to even the most innocent of enquiries, but One was brought up to be polite and always say ‘thank you’ etc…

One does have rather a dilemma though, being a girl who never tells an untruth…

For when one of the balding/toothless/desperate/revolting old articles enquires…

‘What colour are your panties?’

One simply has to reply…

‘One isn’t wearing any.’

Tuesday, 15 July 2014

In which One calls Aged P for assistance…

huts

One shall be dwelling within a beach hut forthwith…

Conv with Aged P regarding the funding of repairs to One’s Bugatti…

(please bear in mind that Lovely One was the sole breadwinner in the house from the age of nineteen until One’s escape)

LO      Oh hello, hope you’re ok I need a favour

AP       That Jackie hasn’t been up here to cut the grass for ages and she hasn’t hoovered, if you can call it hoovering.

LO       Perhaps she’s busy with her new foster child.  Anyway, I need you to help me pay for some repairs to the car.  I’ve just sold a painting but I haven’t got quite enough.

AP       The council are re-surfacing the road and no buses can get up here so we can’t go out.  It’s not fair they gave the community centre to the Muslims.  When are you coming?

LO       I can’t come until I get the car repaired.  Can you fund the repairs on your credit card and I’ll pay the bill each month please?

AP       Bloody Eileen has sausage, egg and bacon WITH BEANS every day at that cafe you know!

LO       I expect she likes sausage, egg and bacon then.  Do you think you could help me out of a jam?

AP       I’ve just booked up three days in Folkstone and I need new glasses and Delphine needs two new knees and John can hardly get in the car so they’re having a downstairs toilet put in. Everywhere we go we have to find out where the toilets are for that bloody Eileen, I’m sick of it she always wants fish and chips outside and I like going in and sitting down.  What’s the point of spending all that money on the new road?  No one want to go on it.

LO      Have you seen Richard?

AP     Huh!  The doctor said I should forget about him and that I’ve got the biggest bladder he’s ever seen.

LO     Perhaps you could donate a piece of it to that bloody Eileen then.

AP      Sainsburys haven’t got any more of those trousers you bought me.

LO     Well they were winter clothes you wont find them in the shops at this time of the year.

AP     That bloody woman next door keeps bringing me Polish cakes and she always talks Polish.

LO     She is Polish Mother. 

AP     When are you coming?  There’s lots of things I need you to do.

LO     When I get the car fixed.

                                                                                                                        ~

Biffed off to BF’s who was in dire need of a new hip and a fag up the top of the garden.

‘Tis my opinion that the hip is the result of curtseying to BFP for thirty-eight years as is the fag requirement.

Then…

He sneaked up the garden path and almost caught us hiding fag ends in the hedge next to the Scout Hut…

Wiveliscombe Messenger headline…

Scout pack narrowly escape fire started by two fat birds up the top of the garden.

Such is life…

option one      pay for car and go to live the life of a beach bum in a hut…

option two      don’t pay for car and manacle Oneself to the Rayburn until One shoves One’s lovely head in it and ends it all…

 

Monday, 14 July 2014

In which One loses One’s heart and One’s pants…

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Dear old Wiveliscombe…

So near and yet so far…

Although One is only now camped a mere three quarters of a mile outside the hustlington and bustlington of the square, One is displaced in the extreme.

The poor old car with it’s selotaped window announced to all that it had ‘Reduced Engine Performance’ as One was wending One’s weary way back from a day with the MG.

At least One assumes it was declaring it’s own dilemma and not One’s, for One is acutely aware of how it feels.  One is in need of a complete service or at the very least an oil change…

‘Twas a day of loss – yesterday.

There surely is a poltergeist at work as losses so far are:

One crystal tumbler (One is the main suspect in this heinous crime, and One is INNOCENT)

One garden chair

All of One’s pants!

One of One’s bondage walking shoes

The mysterious disappearance of One’s pants is complete puzzle.  Did the MG distract One and squirrel away 23 pairs of Sloggis for his own personal pleasure?  One should warn him that all is not as it seems in the Sloggi department and one or two pairs are actually inferior Tu at Sainsbury copies with vastly inferior gussetage.

Do we have a neighbour like the one that One had when One was residing in Gladstone Terrace: That ghastly individual sneaked into One’s garden and removed three lace teddies, a suspender belt, four pairs of fishnet stockings and an irreplaceable balcony bra.  (and I bet he didn’t just look at them)

The disappearance of One’s shoe, however, has resulted in serious injury to One’s lovely left foot.

One was biffing about like an un-tethered bison and dropped a cut glass bon-bon dish on One’s poor little pinkie.  All to no avail, since the bondage shoe was nowhere to be found.

Is there a foot fetishist at large?  A one legged cross dresser? A perverted poltergeist wearing 23 pairs of Sloggis and one bondage shoe?

One is a little dubious about accompanying the MG on a day’s outing ‘going commando.’  Should a gentle Santana waft up One’s skirtage, One should reveal One’s twinkle to the the assembled throng of dawdlers up the Quantocks.  

AND THAT WOULD NEVER DO

One shall deploy a modesty device in the manner of One’s Gok Wan control leggings, known for their ability to crush the digits of the elderly should they stray up One’s chubby thigh.

Any road up…

Be aware and on constant look out for 23 pairs of pants, one tumbler etc. etc.

Oh, and One’s mind, and heart, which also appear to be lost AGAIN

Sunday, 13 July 2014

In which ONE IS NOT JUMPING IN…

My old school…

The MG and me were reminiscing about school whilst having an impromptu picker-nick in the middle of a cricket pitch.

The MG, having actually been a Headmaster (ooooh One loves it when he gets all strict) had oodles of tales to tell, actually rather a lot of them concerning other girls called Claire.  One has taken to bending over regularly, but he hasn’t taken the hint and spanked One yet…

There’s obv something in a name…

One, however, being on a field where sport takes place, had horrid visions of the two games mistresses at Luton Girls High School, Miss Stokes and Miss Muckslow.

Miss Muckslow married Mr Ball, who also taught sport and Art.  One wasn’t a fan of either of that odd pair. Mind you, with a name like that One would have married ANYONE

There was another art master, Mr Cooper, who One adored and who adored One.  One being a pneumatic young colt and awfully good at art, Mr Cooper used to let me draw in his special book…

In the days before ‘indecent assault’ had been invented and inappropriate behaviour was de riguer, One would oft catch a delicious glimpse of what lay in store, courtesy of the lovely Mr Cooper…

Mr Tanswell (there’s a super dooper teacherish name) gave One a whole pile of Elvis records apropos of nothing AND made One form captain on One’s first day in High School.  He was rather keen on One as One recalls…

Other girls, who used to come into his classroom and write ‘we love you Sir’ on the blackboard were awfully envious of One and One’s place in Mr T’s affection.

Any road up, One digresses, as is One’s wossname…

It’s the beastly Miss Stokes One wishes to tell of today…

Sapphic in deed and nature, Miss Stokes was a fiend of the highest order.

‘Claire Harris, I’ve never known a girl have as many periods as you!’ she would holler as One presented her with an expertly forged letter from Mummy to excuse One from Hockey/athletics/swimming etc.

ALL GAMES MISTRESSES ARE FIENDS

Anyone actually finding one attractive must be perverse, with their lingering whiff of plimsolls and navy blue gussets…

One, having such lovely long legs was regularly forced to leap over those stupid hurdle things, with One’s tiny gym skirt flying in the breeze.

‘Run Claire Harris, run!’ would come the cry across the playing field from Miss Stokes.

Eight times round that ghastly hockey pitch she made us run, BEFORE A GAME

One would have dearly loved to have ‘bullied off’ round her unattractive head.

‘Jump in Claire Harris!’ would be the hollered instruction from Miss Stokes when we had a swimming lesson.

‘I am NOT jumping in,’ One would retort, ‘I am going down the steps!’ And One would daintily submerge into the revolting chlorine and teenage pee soup…

We had to waltz through some ghastly footbath filled with verruca killing slime like a load of cattle before being forcibly dunked in the pool.

Oh how One hated Miss Stokes with a passion!

Then came the life-saving debacle…

‘Put on your pyjamas and jump in,’ came the order.

Fer fecks sake!  In all One’s long life, One has NEVER EVER had to rescue anyone and anyway, WHAT THE FECK WOULD ANYONE BE DOING IN THE SEA WEARING SODDING PYJAMAS?

In which One is surrounded by disinterest and blithering eejits…

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Dartington Hall, Dear Reader, where the gen pub couldn’t get enough of the doings of Lovely One…

Each month for the past four years One has delivered around thirty-five pieces various for the delectation of One’s adoring public…

In the shopping centre and the Hall alike, originals, prints framed/unframed have positively taken flight from the shelves.

Each month the adoring public generated enough money for the luxury of: paying the mortgage/gas bill/trolley-loads from Waitrose and the occasional pair of shoes/handbag/essentials etc…  (not to say that shoes and handbags aren’t essentials, for indeed they are!)

For the past two months: no order and dwindling sales…

One, who is quite used to contributing artists at the Hall being given the treatment a piece of dog pooh on the bottom of one’s shoe would receive, waited for a goodly amount of time before making contact.  After all, when One’s direct contact was off sick/on holiday/out of the building, One received neither order nor remuneration.

However, One’s mortgage company, being a selfish, money-obsessed gathering of bandits, became a thorn in One’s side and action had to be taken…

One fired off an email to the tune of…

‘Is there a problem with my work?  I haven’t had an order for two months and my sales have plumetted.’

THERE CAME A NOTHING LESS THAN FECKING STAGGERING REPLY..

Apparently One’s contact had left the building permanently and the new eejit in place had come up with the most insightful revelation…

‘I think that your sales figures may have dropped as we have run out of stock.’

RUN OUT OF STOCK

RUN OUT OF STOCK

You blithering eejit!

WELL ORDER SOME FECKING MORE THEN

How different from the grateful recipient of ‘Over Totnes 2’ who spent a marvellously decent amount of time practically licking Lovely One with delight.

However, some persons, who know who they are, are completely disinterested in the doings of Lovely One and can’t even be bothered to get out of bed to listen to One in One’s debut ‘Rice Papers’ on 10 Radio.

THIS PARTICULAR REVELATION HAS SPOKEN VOLUMES

 

Saturday, 12 July 2014

In which One’s broadcasting career is completely ignored…

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Off to Brixham, yet again, and this time to be relieved of One’s seafood luncheon by a pair of dive-bombing seagulls.

Collected ‘Over Totnes 2’ for a customer and a delivered three little 1960’s children's book illustrations (paintings of Brixham, Michael)

Sat for a while perusing the harbour and now have quite a splendid tan. One’s d√©colletage is positively pink in the extreme and One’s famous feet are striped, since One was sporting the bondage walking boots.

This, of course, followed One’s first ‘Rice Papers’ on 10 Radio.org (listen online, Dear Reader) where One’s first guest was the Peddling Pinkster…

A ranting diatribe about the inadequacies of our current Government, with which One entirely concurs, was followed by a very interesting monologue about Permaculture.

Unusually, One hardly got a word in and contrary to our imaginings we actually had rather a splendid turn-out listener-wise, since we were accosted in the square by satisfied customers.

Ah well, step aside John Humphries, Lovely One is in town!

The MG couldn’t even be bothered to set his alarm in order to catch One’s first ‘Rice Papers’

note to self:  be otherwise engaged when required to front up at the love nest with One’s feather duster.

Don’t  these men realise they are charged with following One’s meteoric rise to fame lest they get left behind in One’s stardust wake?

Ah well, ‘twas ever thus with the MG who is incapable of following even the simplest of instruction and who charges along whilst all the compartments of his life fill neatly up with whatever he desires.

How removed from the maelstrom of One’s transitory existence.  Still, One chose this life and One is fully intent on sashaying through it at One’s own pace and with the lightest of step on the world.

Today One must don One’s ‘Andy suit’ and be the artist, when One delivers the painting.  The lucky recipient has two big ones now (oooh Matron) and has been informed that one more shall render him a collector.

Please note:

One has been approached to paint a mural on the side of a building in town…   Oooh the possibilities!

AND

The pinkster only got one on the cheek, BUT One got one on the LIPS from the delicious A 

 

 

Thursday, 10 July 2014

In which One isn’t pining, One is yearning…

the sawdust flush loo

A magnificent sawdust flush loo for the Summer Gathering at Rivercross Meadow…

One is rather hoping there might be screens/walls/something of a modesty arrangement…

One is still in a two and eight about whether or not One could manage without One’s electrically charged grooming equipment/make-up/looking glass/comfy bed/Masterful Gentleman/etc., etc., etc.,  for an entire week.

One shouldn’t really pontificate regarding One’s need/desire for the MG, since yesterday, when One wasn’t as chipper as One generally is, the MG opined…

‘I don’t want to think of you sitting at home pining for me.’

SITTING AT HOME PINING FOR ANYONE IS NOT A LOVELY ONE PASTIME.

One does, One admits, sit at home pondering how long it would take to remove all of the MG’s garments with One’s hands tied behind One’s back, using just One’s three teeth, that aren’t loose…

One ponders how One would entrap the MG in the lovely cottage and deploy him as One’s love slave for the foreseeable future…

Or how One would slather One’s body in Waitrose lemon and ginger yoghurt and ring the lunch bell for the MG…

But PINING is not on the agenda…

One was once again thrilled with the MG’s rendition of ‘There I was diggin’ this ‘ole,’ which, it has to be said, isn’t the most romantic of ballads along with a plethora of salacious suggestions (Heaven alone knows what was in that orange juice he had with lunch!)

Any road up, One can’t be sat sitting here all day thinking/pining for anyone, One is off to the seaside again!

Wednesday, 9 July 2014

In which One goes to the seaside…

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We went to the seaside for an ice-cream, the WN and me, following a visit to The White Post Nursery for lunch where the V posh people from 10 The Square have washed up with their ‘wood fired’ pizza and their gravadlax brushcetta (and jolly nice it was too)

Lunch in a shady nook overlooking the splendid countryside.  Just what the doctor ordered for the battered Lovely One who is, as we speak Dear Reader, resplendent with enormous bruises peppering One’s silken skin following One’s multiple tumbles.  One shall issue the MG with a quill and some ink, that he might like to join up the dots to see whence they lead.

Any road up, the Rivercross Meadow gathering this year shall have a Right Hon in it’s midst for the WN and LB are intending to partake of the Pinkster’s summer gathering.  One has long dreamed of being a spirit free enough to take to a Yurt, leave One’s face behind in a box and let One’s curls have free reign for a week.

This year, since One rarely has a distraction, One might just do it…

One should get used to the great outdoors as One’s permanent home as ‘twould appear to be the next stop on One’s journey, if One hasn’t fashioned a suitable noose from One’s Hermes and flung it across a nearby rafter before then!

No matter, Dear Reader, One shall have pleasant company today…

 

 

Tuesday, 8 July 2014

In which One falls for the MG…

IMG_2138

From this little lighthouse One shall hurl Oneself into the ocean and be carried away by Neptune…

‘She died from eating an unwashed grape and was buried at sea,’ Blanche DuBoir (Streetcar)

One is clearly not destined to meet One’s demise in that glamorous manner…

‘Tis far more likely that One shall inadvertently stove One’s head in. 

One has rendered Oneself unconscious on three occasions now by standing up too quickly in One’s loft.

The problem is…

One is a ‘Biffer’ according the The Brother.  A ‘Biffer’, Dear Reader, is a refuse truck! A large, ungainly, lumbering device…

Mmmmm, maybe he has a point!

Any road up, One’s erstwhile flat-mate was known as ‘The Borilla’ (too big to be a bear and too ugly to be a gorilla)

We were what one would refer to as ‘buxom, healthy girls.’  All pink-cheeked, chubby-thighed and always up for a swim or a game of tennis! (Or anything for that matter.)

We must have been a bit ‘Joan Hunter-Dunne,’ (John Betjeman)

Many a puny suitor met with an untimely end in our shared flat.  One recalls the day when one poor sap was being ushered out down the fire-escape as the next ardent admirer crossed the threshold of the creaky front door.  An accountant, as One recalls, and One actually nodded off in the pub!

Anyway I digress…

One has always put One’s accidental plummets to terra firma down to clumsiness, but as One charges hither and thither in the manner of an un-tethered Bison, One has to admit that One is never actually paying any attention to what One is doing…

Wherever One is, One is wishing One was somewhere else…

Whatever One is doing, One is thinking about the next thing One will be doing..

And so it was thus when…

All of the communication devices in the palace went off at the same time…

One was knocking up a home-made tagliatelle for her Ladyship when both landlines and mobiles went off.

Espying that One’s had the MG denoted as caller there was no contest, and One shot up the top of the garden in order to acquire a signal…

Wivey, being in the dark ages (we were still painting ourselves with wode in 1972) the landline had to be deployed…

One scampered down the garden in the manner of a spring lamb and promptly fell into the Orangery, bashing One’s head upon a stone obelisk and landing with One’s frock over One’s head, on One’s bottom.

Little did the MG know that as One’s girlish chatter mesmerised him, One was actually prostrate on the stone floor with a cold compress on One’s fat bum.

 

Monday, 7 July 2014

In which One lays a wash…

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The Ancient Mariner, of Samuel Taylor Coleridge fame, on Watchet Marina (where Contains Art is)

Anyway, for once he didn’t have a holidaymaker draped across him, having a photograph taken and not even bothering to read the plaque to see what it was there for.

Yesterday One began a new painting outside in the garden.  One became quite adept at flinging the tools of One’s trade into a basket and dashing for the Orangery every time the heavens poured forth. 

One lay a first and second wash in One’s new studio for the first time too.  A tranquil and light place for One to create.

Following the worst trading month in history, One sold a massive original yesterday!  The person who bought the ‘Clovelly’ original has requested that his long service award from his place of employment should be delivered in the form of a Claire Rice original. How fabulous is that, Dear Reader!

One is poised for a flange to fall off the Ferrari, that’s where One’s meagre earnings usually go…

And…

Whilst we’re on the subject of fabulous news…

THE WOOD NYMPH IS STILL AMONGST US, CAPTIVE IN A LOFT APARTMENT SOMEWHERE IN SOMERSET

A chair fabuloso, was sold at the New Designers Exhibition, the airline reduced the cost of changing the ticket home and the Lord did the rest…

So… One and the WN  are poised for a luncheon engagement on the morrow – Can’t wait to hear what’s occurring in the loft apartment.

Off One pootled to the AGM of 10Radio yester-eve and spent a ponderous couple of hours gazing at the rear view of dear A who is just as delicious and handsome from behind, although the lascivious smile couldn’t be seen.

One has chosen to change One’s profile at the top of One’s blog.  This has only occurred Once before, but will be altered on a more regular basis henceforth since One has been sailing through multiple changes in circumstance of late and is constantly re-evaluating One’s existence.

After all, if One finds what One desires, One should stop looking.  Shouldn’t One?

 

Sunday, 6 July 2014

In which One is alone on Exmoor…

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Here, Dear Reader, is one of our perfect trees, completer with the world’s most attractive sheep having their afternoon nap…

One spoils you people!

Any road up, off One perambulated following a splendid lunch at the local hostelry, to take some photographs whilst the moor was still.

Apparently there were a couple of chaps playing bat and ball in a boring outer London suburb and the little blighters had all and sundry in their thrall in front of the TV for the entire afternoon.  One expects the Masterful Gentleman was amongst their number.

Not One, however, One went off to the seaside for a walk along the prom, prom, prom…

‘Contains Art,’ a permanent art display in disused shipping containers was in full throb in anticipation of the influx of summer grockles…

One sauntered casually inside and was immediately accosted by an over enthusiastic ‘girl in charge’'.’  One really hates that!  One likes to think that One is an astute reader of body language and knows when to retreat.  Not so dans Contains Art.

One was halfway through gnawing One’s right arm off in order to batter Oneself to death with the bloodied end (having failed to perfect an adequate noose from One’s Hermes scarf slung over a rafter) when attention was, mercifully, removed from One by a loud-voiced irate prospective customer.

‘Is that MM here?’ enquired the red-faced cove. ‘I gave her a commission months ago and have heard nothing since April.  Don’t bother calling her, she obviously doesn’t want, or need, the work!’ he continued and stamped off with a beautifully shod young colt of a wife cantering in his wake.

One encountered the pair again repeating the story to another suitably contrite Container Dweller etc etc until he had upset the c’art de pommes of everyone.

One happens to be a chum of the artist in question and would like to point out that a nicer, kinder more jolly bon oeuf, One couldn’t wish to encounter!  One is sure that there is a perfectly adequate explanation for the delay in delivery of one of her exquisite masterpieces.  One can’t possibly name the girl here as One is at great pains to never divulge anyone’s true identity, but suffice it to say should there have been a sharpened axe in close proximity, One would have cheerfully cleaved the red-faced cove’s head in two!

One digresses again…

Inside the Container with the ‘head girl’ was an exhibition of suggestions, accompanied by numerous drawings, plans etc as to what to do with empty shipping containers.  From the information available One would suggest:  continue to use them as shipping containers.

One escaped by sneaking out whilst Head Girl was mid-accost another unsuspecting Sunday afternoon wanderer.

One spent a goodly amount of the rest of the sunshine, partially clad in the grounds, occasionally repairing to One’s electronic device to read the promised billet doux from One’s Gentleman admirer.  One imagines he is still polishing his teardrop and has completely forgotten One…

In which One has a teardrop inside…

glass

This, Dear Reader, is a Georgian Teardrop Wineglass…

It has a tiny bubble of air left inside it’s stem that resembles a teardrop.  Hence the name, and it is the object of desire that Lovely One was thrown over for…

Allow One to set the scene in the manner of a Shakespearian play…

Scene One…         Lovely One is in the wet room luxuriating in the toiletries left by the Wood Nymph and pondering the day ahead during which One thought One would be hand-feeding plump, red, luscious strawberries to the Masterful Gentleman as he reclined upon One’s chaise in the studio whilst watching Wimbledon (and being painted by One)

Scene Two…         Lovely One, with nothing on but the wireless and lashings of Almond Oil, had her reverie interrupted by the telephone…

‘Only drugs and rock’n’roll today Sweetheart.  Can you meet me at 9.00am in Wellington?  We are going to the Antiques Fair at the Bath and West Showground.’

FLIPPIN’ ‘ECK, THINKS ONE, TWENTY MINUTES TO GET READY.  DON’T THESE EEJITS KNOW HOW LONG IT TAKES TO LOOK THIS FABULOUS!

‘Oh yes, of course, I’ll just throw something on and be with you in a trice,’ countered One.

The ensuing eighteen minutes (yes, Dear Reader, that is how much notice One was given) were conducted at the speed of an silent movie, with One finishing off One’s delightful outfit with One’s Uggs Noir.  (‘Wear sensible shoes,’ was the instruction.) 

The MG has more than a passing interest in One’s footwear, don’t you think, Dear Reader?

One spent the day silently observing the doings of the MG.  His quiet determination to completely ignore any advice given by Lovely One is quite wonderful.  All suggestions are given a sage, furrow browed, nod accompanied by  the shadow of a smile or the squeeze of a hand and then tossed overboard with reckless abandon and One is dragged firmly in the direction of his iron resolve.

ONE IS IMPRESSED IN THE EXTREME. 

Having verbally battered most of One’s previous amours into regular submission, One is really rather enamoured by a firm hand on One’s tiller.

Any road up, One did pick out the Kitchenalia object for the Love Nest and indeed the teardrop glass.

‘You have a good eye,’ opined the MG 

‘Indeed One does,’ thought One.  I CAN RECOGNISE QUALITY AND I ALWAYS KNOW EXACTLY WHAT I WANT!!

The MG cradled the glass with the loving care generally reserved for one’s first-born.  One brought up the rear with the Kitchenalia object and was given a hard stare when One balanced it on the bonnet of the Bentley whilst One scuffled about for One’s keys.

Purchases protectively clutched to his bosom, the MG directed One to Montacute for tea.

As One pootled off, One caught sight of the MG, a tender smile playing upon his soft lips, as he stroked the days purchases and lovingly wrapped them inside his jacket for the journey home.

One sped away, bereft and with One’s own teardrop inside…

Friday, 4 July 2014

In which One is choosing between Wimbledon and Exmoor…

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Here is Lovely Gordon all alone on a bench…

Henceforth he shall require a bench pour une.

What will he do now Lovely One is not just up the passage and available for Snorkers Suppers?

Ah well, One is now far too busy conquering the foibles of the Rayburn and conjuring up tasty treats for Her Ladyship, whilst the Count sleeps on One’s crumpled white (600 threat count of course) linen.

Already on this overcast Wimbledon Ladies Final day, One has produced a litre of carrot/apple/cucumber/lemon juice to titillate the titled.  AND of course One is drying the lemon peel in the bottom of the Rayburn so a fresh and lovely scent pervades the Servants Quarters when the MG arrives.

One received the following veiled enquiry yesterday…

‘I hope the grass stays dry.’

Furrowing One’s brow as to the meaning of this message, One replied…

‘Wimbledon or Exmoor?’ (Meaning: dry grass for the Ladies Final or dry grass on Exmoor for purposes other)

‘You choose.’ came the response.

Flippin’ ‘eck thought One – One’s not against having One’s bodice ruffled on Exmoor, but quite frankly a tumble on the turf at Wimbledon is beyond the pale, Dear Reader!  Although, there is a lid on centre court so One wouldn’t need to worry about rain ruining One’s lustrous locks.

One had already replied…

‘We might get court. Ha Ha’

before One realised that the choice was ACTUALLY WATCHING THE TENNIS or BEING FROG MARCHED UP A MOUNTAIN IN ME BEST SHOES!

                                                                                                                                      ~

One beetled orf to Wellington to peruse the purveyors of shoes and frocks…

A book shop carrying such titles as ‘The art of Leni Riefenstahl,’ ‘Design classics of the 1950’s’, ‘Collected poems of Phillip Larkin,’ and other such thrilling (to One) tomes, had arrived on the High Street.  Having been the purveyor of Fine Art in the town on a previous occasion One wished the proprietor well in a whole-hearted fashion, as One is sure the poor dear can’t be aware that Wellington is a cultural wasteland filled with legging-wearing, chain-smoking single mothers and Polish plumbers picking through the charity shops!