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Sunday, 31 August 2014

In which One is happy...

Lying in bed on a Sunday morning is divine. Lying in bed with the A of the F on a Sunday morning is thrillingly divine.
In fact sans Farting and Match of the day, 'Twould be perfection. But he'll get used to One's habits eventually.
Obv he lives only to make One happy and thus an Espresso and a fag materialised on One's bedside table.
' Gawd feck me, fecking coffee? Can't you 'ave tea? AND I'll have to wash the fecking pot'
Similar curmudgeonly mumbling ensued throughout the operation.
BUT ONE KNOWS he lives to bring sunshine into the life of One.

Saturday, 30 August 2014

In which One has fur round One's bottom...

One has soggy bottom difficulties due to a splendid paddling session in Coombe Martin Rockpools.
One  is awfully keen on paddling and removes One's unsuitable footwear at the drop of a chapeau.
The A of the F expressed the opinion that One should acquire, without delay, some 'sensible' shoes.
You may recall, dear reader, the fate of the last suitor who opined such a ghastly suggestion
However, One is suitably enamoured with the cut of the A of the F' s jib to the degree that One is giving careful consideration to the suggestion.
One already owns a pair of delicious and fairly robust diamante encrusted Mary Jane's, but these were met with a hard stare.
One's raincoat was given a similar reception.
No matter, other weekend activities don't require such sturdy garments. Indeed since the burial at sea of the brown pyjamas, One is cutting a dash in a long sleeved wynciette nightie with fur round the bottom.
'Fur round the bottom?' One hears you enquire dear reader.
Yes indeed - how else would One keep One's neck warm?

Thursday, 28 August 2014

In which One shouts ‘Ahoy there friendly vessel,’…

jeremy

This, Dear Reader, is One’s chum…

Determined to live the life of a tragic heroine, he lies on the sofa, fag in gob, tumbler of Scotch in hand sighing sighs louder and longer than Greta sodding Garbo doing the death scene in Camille.

One has offered to biff round and make him fish finger sandwiches (the Lovely One cure-all) to tuck him up and sing to him and even to seek out me nurses uniform from the dressing-up box, take his temperature and administer syrup of figs until it’s all out of his system.

But no, he’s determined to die from love…

So be it…

One can’t hang around here all weekend ministering to the afflicted, One has bigger fish fingers to fry…

The A of the F is in dry-dock for a spot of shore leave and One is off to shiver his timbers.

One, a lover of long laborious and flowery wordage, oft has to delete vast swathes of One’s emails to the A of the F afore One presses ‘send.’

Let me explain…

One may begin with…

Good Morning my Darling,  I miss you dreadfully and can’t wait to see you, fall into your arms and surrender to your ardent kisses.  I long to reach out when I awaken and find you next to me etc., etc., etc… (I’m sure you can imagine the rest, Dear Reader, you know how One goes on)

This will be condensed into…

Good Morning,  Have a good one.  Speak later.

Himself being a reticent cove calls One ‘mate’ and a biff in the kidneys is what passes for affection.

BUT WAIT, DEAR READER…

The other evening, One having had a particularly trying day, shot one off that said…

‘I miss you.’

‘Me too,’ came the reply.

‘What’s so exciting about that Lovely One?’ you may enquire Dear Reader.

Well, One would opine…

In A of the F speak that is akin to…

1  I want to have your babies

2  I shall die if I have to pass another day without you

3  If you need a kidney you know where to come

In short, Dear Reader, a friendly vessel on the horizon of One’s otherwise doomed existence.

Wednesday, 27 August 2014

In which One is perfectly capable…

lamb

‘There’s a somebody I’m longing to see,  I hope that he turns out to be,’… bla bla baa baa fecking baa…

(George and Ira Gershwin)

Any road up, that’s me that is, that little lamb what’s lost in the woods, gambolling about knowing I could always be good…

Not that One requires ‘watching over’ One is quite capable of being a ‘watcher’ as well as a ‘watchee.’

                               ~

News reaches One that Uncle Bert has encountered a slight blip in proceedings. 

One has offered up a chant to Gaia upon the smoke of a burning Tena Lady light in the back garden, that things resolve themselves to harmony afore the new moon.

                                  ~

One is off to acquire gainful employment this very day, since you selfish blighters aren’t purchasing enough of One’s art to nourish a sparrow, let alone a booby like what One is.

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

AND

Only one more sleep until One gets to see the O of D, in the shape of the A of the F.

Come on, Dear Reader, One isn’t writing that in full.  One is reliably informed he reads this drivel and you know how easy it is to scare off the teenage boy with declarations of devotion.

In which Love is all around…

IMG_2287

Here are my lovely neighbours J and J.  So in love.

Oh how One misses the call over the fence…

‘Claire, ‘ello, could you just take us to Taunton/Wellington/Bogota/The Azores…’

And, of course, One did, even if One were up to me ears in, say, splitting the atom/reciting swathes of Shakesperian sonnets or baking bread that could be used as house bricks.  One is always keen to oblige.

Love…

‘Tis a funny thing.  It has always eluded One but has chosen to dump itself in enormous truck-loads on some of One’s chums   (see above)  …

Take for instance the debonair, educated and really rather wonderful JK.  There his is mooning about like an undernourished wraith over a simply dreadful old harpie who doesn’t deserve even a fraction of the pash he harbours for her.

Then there’s BF and BFP pashing about the bung for thirty-eight years of unbridled doings to the extent that BF now needs new body parts.

Even frightfully posh C at the ripe old age of seventy-thank you very much, is skipping around the world as if a she’s got a feather trapped up her gusset.

But wait…

A glimmer of hope on One’s horizon…

Will the anchor go down in One’s harbour or will it be ‘set sail Mr Hornblower’ afore One’s had the opportunity to meander up his crows-nest and splice the mainbrace…

 

Monday, 25 August 2014

In which One refers to Dozzer Day…

dozzer day

‘When One was just a little girl,

Ones asked One’s Mother ‘what will One be,’  bla bla fecking bla…

Well Dozzer Day…

‘Here’s what she should have said to me,’

‘Nothing lovely is ever going to happen to you and no one will ever love you,’…

Woe, woe and thrice woe is One on this monsoon morning.

One was abruptly disturbed from One’s ridiculous reverie the other morn…

‘Eau Helleau Daaarling,’ (One of One’s posh chums) ‘I want your opinion on a matter Daaarling.  If you were me would you spend ten thiysand piynds on teeth.’

(Actch.  If One had ten thousand pounds at this very mo, One would shear to EDM and spend a year licking the A of the F)

I digress, Dear Reader…

‘Of course I would,’ One replied ‘and no doubt that’s why you sought my opinion!’ One retorted, ‘and further more, should these teeth come into nibbling contact with a member of the opposite, I should clearly lay out how much will be charged for nibblage various!’

‘I thought that’s what you’d say Daaarling,’ came the reply.

                                   ~

And so it has come to pass that One shall be in charge of a plethora of wares, come market weekend (6th and 7th September)

One chum shall be toothless and one a hip-free zone.

However, the A of the F has said he’d like to come.  One knows One keeps on about it, but gadzooks, of all the markets in all the world he wants to walk into mine…  Not even V ex H, who had the privilege of being actually married to One, ever did that!

One has One’s very own assistant!  Or should that be ‘bitch’

One wonders if One were to acquire a T-shirt stating ‘I am Mrs Rice’s Bitch’ he would wear it.

Any road up, there it is, One’s chums are having new body parts and One is manning the lifeboats, when really One should be having a new heart fitted: one made of jet in order that it doesn’t yearn for the impossible…

In which One is a Bored Bard…

shakespeare

‘Summer’s lease hath all too short a date.’

Too bleedin’ right it does, WS, old chap!

Since One remains in the bung in Somerset, the A of the F is required elsewhere, One has been working like a Trojan on projects various.

Today, having deployed the ‘Things to do on a wet Bank Holiday in the West Country’ book One is taking J to Sainsburys. 

See, One knows how to live, live, live…

One may even park slightly over two spaces and be a real rebel.

Afore One makes the progress into Taunton, One feels thus inspired to be a bored bard…

Sonnet Number Eighteen and a  Half…

Shall I compare One to an autumn day?

Thou art all gone over and turned to russet:

Cool breezes shake your petals far away,

But there’s a hint of life about your gusset.

For many years the hot eye of heaven shined,

And dimmed your complexion fair

But luckily with L’Oreal lightest ash

you’ve still got lovely shiny hair.

But your eternal summer shall not fade

Nor lose possession of that fair thou ow’st

Nor shall Botox brag thou wander’st in it’s shade

So long as Admirals breathe and sail the briny sea

So long lives One and this gives life to me.

Anon

Flippin’ eck One has to get out more. 

Sunday, 24 August 2014

In which One awaits the insertion of a carrot…

IMG_2128

Isn’t it all too lovely for words…

Well, obv not too lovely for Lovely One’s words, since One has words, legion, charging about One’s brain, queuing up and jostling one another to tumble forth from One’s fingertips.

And thus they shall…

Imagine, if you will Dear Reader, a rather enormous carrot, in the shape of a North Devon Manor House containing within an Admiral of the Fleet, being tantalisingly dangled before the open gob of Lovely One…

Back and forth it sways, holding within it, a plethora of delights that may, or may not, be consumed this very weekend.

One shall continue with the Lynmouth masterpiece but really…

One should commence the deep grooming session that is required before encountering delights, plethora of…

Gone are the days when One slicked a swipe of Vaseline across One’s plumptious lips and legged it for the weekend.

The list of repairs various is as long as Twizzle’s arm these days…

Complete sandblast of One’s filthy tootsies (have been scampering around the back yard barefoot all weekend)

Deep cleansing Egyptian Mummy Goo face mask: bung on, leave for twenty mins til hardened, lever off in chunks with any appropriate garden tool.

Deploy ‘edge trimmer’ to all accessible areas.

Tweezer, pluck, wax and polish all undulating surfaces.

Place gusset floss to steep in a bucket of Dettol

Update Ordnance Survey Map of One (As you know Dear Reader, One is the smallest and most picturesque of the National Parks) and since One has lost a couple of ounces One’s hillocks need re-assessing.

Steam and press all Norman Hartnell, vintage 1950’s ball gowns.

Glue twelve quid shoes back together AGAIN

Take a deep breath…

And trip the light fantastic about the kitchen in the manner of a chubby Isadora Duncan, twirling the tea towel about One’s head, with One’s luscious lips parted, awaiting the insertion of a carrot…

 

Saturday, 23 August 2014

In which One finds Ramsbottom…

jazz barbican

Apropos of nothing – Barbican Jazz

Well it cheered One up anyway.  One has just emerged from One’s truckle bed, having spent the night with friends and being slept on by their cat. 

One meandered home in lachrymose mood to tip into truckle with an, as yet, undiagnosed complaint.

ONE IS ILL

‘How can we help oh Darling Lovely One?’ One hears you all chorus whilst wringing your careworn, wrinkled, manual laboured hands.

‘You cannot,’ sighs Lovely One unless you have a spotty dog concealed about your person with which you can entertain One.

Let me explain…

The A of the F and One were mooching about the Manor of a Sunday a.m. like one does, when we fell into conv about ‘Watch with Mother,’ an early 1960’s televisual delight concocted to entertain the under fives.

No one ever owns up to remembering ‘Tales of the Riverbank,’ but we both waxed lyrical regarding the shocking nakedness of ‘The Woodentops.’

Whereupon the A of the F launched into the most marvellous impersonation of ‘Spotty Dog’ – The biggest most friendly spotty dog in the world.

One was immediately won over and the A of the F’s feet slid a little further under One’s table.

‘Tis fairly clear to One that having been ‘Spotty Dogged,’ fairly regularly (he doles it out sparingly lest One should embarrass Oneself whilst guffawing)  One requires said administration on a fairly reg basis.

                                      ~

Whilst on the topic…

One enquired as to whether The A of the F remembered ‘Ramsbottom’ the snake from the Sooty Show.

He looked askance and questioned as to whether the young LO may have been concealing a buried childhood abuse scandal.

(One did have an Uncle C and it was very unwise to accept an invitation to sit on his lap)

But NO…

AT LAST FOLLOWING YEARS OF RAMSBOTTOM DENIAL

One googled him and there he was a one-eyed snake from Yorkshire…

Or was that Uncle C?…

 

Friday, 22 August 2014

In which One just can’t play the ‘Glad’ game…

mad cat

Now, Dear Hearts, just for a moment, imagine that your very own Lovely One were Alice…

This is necessary since One appears to have meandered through the looking-glass and ended up in a fecking nightmare!

One has always been a carefree Pollyanna, viewing the world through One’s rose-tinted spectacles and skipping through life casting cares aside. 

But One is having severe difficulty in finding topic with which to play the ‘Glad’ game…

Let me explain…

Pollyanna would come up with a positive to counter every negative.

Say, for instance, the cat died.  ‘Well, just be glad you won’t have to scrape it’s shite off the dining room carpet.’

No, maybe that’s not a good example.

Anyway One is at present moving silently about the bung like a mouse and unfortunately One has no sanctuary this weekend AND it’s a long one!

Not that One views the A of the F as mere sanctuary, oh no, One is bereft in the extreme to have to go an absolute age without being Spotty Dogged into oblivion.

One shall repair to the studio and create something beautiful…

Wednesday, 20 August 2014

In which One deploys the entrenching tool…

lovely one me

‘Isn’t it lovely being lovely, lovely One,’ Diana Mitford.  (see above)

One, obv, is deploying Uncle Matthew’s entrenching tool (The Pursuit of Love) to hew away at the earth until One finds true love.

Yes, yes I know Nancy Mitford wrote ‘The Pursuit of Love’, but Linda, the tragic heroine was based upon the divine Diana.

Whatever did that glorious creature see in Oswald Mosley?  One has always favoured a gentleman in a white shirt anyway.

Not that your very own Lovely One is even remotely sim to Linda/Diana.

One is very definitely more in the manner of ‘The Bolter.’ One having bolted from more sitches than you could shake a shooting stick at.

One will invent all kinds of ghastly scenarios where the beastly object of One’s desires is a mustachio twirling villain and off One jolly well shoves.

One is hereby declaring that bolting is off the agenda henceforth.  One shall no longer talk Oneself out of sitches and shear, One shall behave in the manner of a grown-up from today onward.

‘Can’t you accept that you may never find love?’ opined Posh J as she went back to her errant hubbster.

‘Well, no, actually,’ there is someone out there who could put up with One and One’s odd doings and habits…

AND ONE KNOWS WHERE HE LIVES

In which One will hurl Oneself off the nearest cliff…

off a cliff

One’s choice of demise, in the manner of a heffalump (and it’ll serve one or two of you right if you’re underneath when One lands!)

You selfish b******s, Dear Reader, not only are you not spending all your spons on One’s doings, you aren’t even hanging on One’s every word any more.

For the first time ever, One loggingtons on and sees a big fat 0 in the readership figures for today.

What’s occurring?  Is there something more exciting in your unwashed little lives than the doings of your very own goddess Lovely One?

How so?  What can be keeping you from me? 

Any road up, One can’t be sat sitting here all day in the manner of Hilda Baker.  One has to get out into the great big world today and seek gainful employment.  No, not paintressing, something that actually pays the bills and leaves a little over for scoffing neccessities.

One has been working out how much painting needs to be done in order to acquire a packet of snout.

Snout is now out.  One would be better employed just painting the crap and then setting fire to it, thereby cutting out the middle man.

Hey Ho, off to be a wage slave again…

Monday, 18 August 2014

In which One’s bottom needs scraping soon…

Harbour 4

One’s new assistant is shaping up a treat.

(see above pic)

One’s very own Norman Porkinson.

One, however, is permanently in dry dock, ‘twould appear. 

One wonders if One is floating the Admiral’s boat.  One feels the tide coming in and lapping over One’s perfectly pedicured toes and hope to feck it fills up the dry dock afore One’s bottom needs to be taken out for scraping.

Meanwhile……

Back at the pooter….

One is locked into a never-ending narrative with a cove One doesn’t even know, offering advice, succour and solace regarding his femme who is very near fatal, since she appears intent on doing him in.

‘How so?’ One hears you cry in anguish, ‘we all thought you were snogging up a storm in North Dev.’

One is, believe One, One is, at every available opportunity, but One is a complete sucker for a crippled canard, as per…

‘Tell him to sod off and sort out his own problems, Darling Lovely One,’ One hears you chorus as one from your garden shed shrines, ‘You should be devoting all your attention to the A of the F and the biggest, friendliest Spotty Dog in the World.’

Ah, ‘tis true, Dear Reader, One has died and gone to Devon when One ascends the wooden stairs to Bedfordshire, but, One is required to biff back to Wiv in order to paint views various in order to placate the gas man etc.

‘Tis the lot of the Lovely One to be handed tiny slivers of bliss and then to be dragged kicking and screaming back to reality on a regular basis.

Ho Hum, pass the Pinot (but no fags, we’re giving up)

 

In which One is a fluttering fat bird…

little fat bird

That’s me that is – a little fat bird all a-flutter…

Not actually quite sure what’s occurring at the mo. One hasn’t been in a sitch like One’s in for the setting of many a moon.

One’s poor little fluttering spirits go up, in the manner of the Lynton and Lynmouth funicular railway, and then plummet earthward in the next min or so, so unused to emotion rearing it’s ugly is One.  Incidentally One and the A of the F biffed up and down on that this very weekend.

Well I’ll go to the foot of our stairs.  One never imagined in a month of Sundays that One would actually ‘like’ any of the prospective bunnage partners.  Not that the A of the F is heavy on the bunnage, thankfully, One finds Oneself feeling really rather chipper in the company of the blighter.

‘Tis possible to sit undisturbed whilst reading the papers and not be expected to speak/allow fondleage/expect constant reassurance/be force fed buns and cream or any other unwelcome advances on a Sunday afternoon.

‘Tis then on the agenda to pootle off to stare into rock pools, smoke fags, go home for a cup of tea and watch TV whilst the only bodily contact is the fleeting touch of foot against foot.

Not that One is against the delicious feeling of another’s flesh against One’s on a daily basis, no, Dear Reader, One is ooman after all, but…

These long forgotten delights take a bit of getting used to and get used to it One could.

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

Well, maybe not God, but something really rather lovely for once…

 

Sunday, 17 August 2014

in which One is smug, smiley and sleepy...


Now then, Dear Reader, That giant Myra Hindley pic is the only one One has that displays a sufficiently lewd expression to convey One's innermost thoughts and feelings on this delicious morning.
However, you don't need to know that, Dear Reader, suffice it to say that today when you lay a single red rose on the shrine I know you all have in your  sheds,One has woken up and smelled them.

Any road up, One leapt to the defence of VX (incidentally a poisonous gas) upon viewing a less than flattering review of the AA Routefinder on YouTube. Being miffed in the extreme at the smart arse who was dissing the device One fired off a reply to the tune of
'have you ever invented anything you smug fecker?'
'What's it to you?' Came the retort.
' My husband invented it' says One.
'Shoot him in the face' said another cove.
WHY DIDN'T ONE THINK OF THAT.

Anyway One can't sit here all day entertaining you unwashed oiks, I feel a song coming on.

'Don't tell me not to live
Just sit and putter
Life's candy and the sun's
A ball of butter...

NOBODY'S GOING TO RAIN ON MY PARADE.


Saturday, 16 August 2014

In which One's Mainbrace is spliced...

Following affirmation that One and other's jibs, the cut of, were thoroughly liked, the mainbbrace was spliced at 6am this very. One, in a state of soft silky grace, is at this mo awaiting the gentle attention of the A of the F who is keelhauling the entire subs bench lest one should attempt capture of One. 'Tis unlikely in the extreme since One is freshly oiled and in the event of any attempt at grabbage should slip through the prospective captors grasp in the manner of a Pepperami. All is silent but for the gentle ticking of an ancient timepiece and a murder of crows aloft in the grounds. In fact, all is so well in Lovely Oneville that One is giving serious consideration to the employ of the A of the F as a companion of the bosom. Previously unheard of entry into One's rose-tinted spectacled world was accessed yesterday evening and Chet Baker was deployed whilst One prepared a light supper. Should this state of bliss continue One shall deploy all three versions of A Streetcar Named Desire. If all are received with enthusiasm and accompanied by suitably Stella and Stanley doings an immediate opening shall become available. Failure will result in One dying from eating an unwashed grape and being buried at sea.

Thursday, 14 August 2014

In which One is in sombre mood…

IMG_2218

Part of the reconnaissance team setting off to find a suitable resting place for the brown PJ’s…

Yes, Dear Reader, ‘tis the burial at sea and Memorial Service for said brown bottoms all at once.

Their sad demise shall be felt across The West Country, if not the world.  For they have been in active service snuggling up to Lovely One’s twinkle for many a frosty night.

In fact a sliver of gusset shall be buried in a lead lined casket, in the manner of a Blue Peter time capsule, in order that ‘Man’ in years to come may ponder the doings of the 21st century strumpet.

The gossamer thighed baggy botts shall be held aloft on a deep red, golden tasselled cushion by a blonde haired, curly eyelashed youth, the kind with which One would dally in days gone by.

An arch of Police Truncheons shall be held on high above the boy as he perambulates toward the seas to the plaintive cry of an Albatross on the wing.

A lone piper shall announce to all that the PJ’s are no more as they slip into the briny ocean to be pondered upon by mermaids before being devoured by little fishes.

A two hour silence shall be held from midday.  Yes, Dear Reader, One is aware that the norm is two minutes, but, hey why miss an opportunity for a kip in the middle of the day…

                                 ~

One is off to the Manor, for which a key has been left by the A of the F.  Is it to the front door or to his lonely heart…

 

Wednesday, 13 August 2014

In which One bins the brown jim jams …

me in jim jams

That’s me, that is, Dear Reader…

Except One’s unflattering jim jams were brown.

BROWN – Whatever was One thinking? 

One, having been offered sanctuary with outings and scoff thrown in, and, having agreed and assumed the deployment of One’s companion’s spare room, took the option of packing BROWN FECKING PJ’S THAT HAVE BEEN IN ACTIVE SERVICE SINCE GOD WAS IN SHORT KECKS.

The bottoms in question now have to be actively secured in One’s hands during any, even short, perambulation lest they should plummet and the inner thighs are worn to gossamer…

HAS ONE LEARNT NOTHING FROM THE GENTLE ADVICE OF BF AND J…

Not a diaphanous whisper of a Yves St Laurent gown for One, not a fetching satin robe loosely tied with promises of undulating silky flesh beneath, not even an M&S onesie with feet in and a hood, oh no, Tu at fecking Sainsburys, BROWN pyjamas.

AND NOT EVEN a full set (the vest straps having long since pinged off following years of hauling up One’s ample bosom.)  And so, the offensive Brown bottoms were teamed with a black Matalan vest complete with toothpaste stain on the front.

Here is a very easy sum, Dear Reader..

Add one One…

An attractive, engaging male companion…

An aromatherapy massage…

Four bottles of Pinot…

Music and moonlight

Answer

Hankington Pankington

But please, Dear Reader, if you should find yourselves part of a similar equation…

SUBTRACT THE BROWN PYJAMAS from the equation forthwith

 

Tuesday, 12 August 2014

In which One is invited back…

hounds

Hounds, Dear Reader.

Hounds not dissimilar to those that will undoubtedly devour the remains of the solitary Lovely One.

Or, so One, and indeed you, Dear Reader, would have thought.

A v tiny glimmerette of hope has reared it’s ugly on the horizon…

ONE HAS BEEN SUMMONED BACK TO THE MANOR THIS VERY WEEKEND.

As you are all aware, Dears, One is rarely, if ever, invited to put in a second appearance.  This has been a source of mystifying amazement to One for the passing of many a moon.

However, One feels One must report that on a visit to a male chum some moons ago, he said…

‘Blimey, woman, you’ve only been here ten minutes and I feel like I’ve been married to you for twenty five years!’

One had merely pointed out a number of slight failings in the kitchen cleaning department, a deficiency of actual food items in the fridge, sticky work surfaces, inferior bog rolls,  no cotton wool/tissues/wet wipes/essential oils/Almond Oil etc.  Oh, and colonised the bathroom, cleared out a wardrobe for One’s ball gowns, put One’s shoes outside the door for cleaning and filled out a card for One’s petit dejeuner requirements.

The aforementioned cove had been married afore, twice in fact, so should clearly have been au fait with the requirements of a middle maintenance type such as One.

Yet, as they do, the male of the species slips inexorably back into slovenly habit at the earliest possible opportunity.

One, on a rare visitation to Vile ex Husband pointed out that One’s button-holes in One’s v kindly donated Chesterfields were full to brimming with hair/fluff/cat fur/shed skin and slivers of unsuitable female flesh, and One was told in no uncertain terms to…

‘Piss off.  It’s got feck all to do with you!’

I ask you, Dear Reader, One goes all Martha Stewart for the blighters, and that’s what One gets!

Not so dans le Manoir, Dear Reader.  A beautifully organised and neatly presented gaff.

But, on the positive side, the A of the F does have one or two deliciously decadent habits that One approves of in the extreme!

 

Monday, 11 August 2014

In which One deserves to be put out with the rubbish…

verity

Well I’ll go to the foot of our stairs, Dear Reader, One is a blithering eejit…

In the manner of Verity, (See above)  One’s flesh has been peeled back to reveal the beating heart of a seventeen year old…

Fuelled by more than a sufficiency of alcohol One ventured into the distant past and trawled up the insecurities and heightened emotions of the partially formed One…

That is until catching sight of Oneself in the looking glass and realising One is a chubby old has-been who ought to know better.

Fer fecks sake, One shall soon be sidling up to tooth-free octogenarians saying…

‘My mate fancies you,’ before retreating as seductively as one can whilst perambulating atop a wheelie-walk-frame.

Let me explain…

The A of the F and One, having stayed up far too late for persons who should have been pushing out the zeds long since, were planning an ocean voyage in the manner of a couple of seventeenth century explorers, whilst listening to v loud music and smoking fags…

Purely by accident One appears to have alighted upon another ooman (The A of the F) who, despite being several fallen petals past the flower of his youth, is still labouring under the misapprehension (as is Lovely One) that he is in the first flush thereof…

‘Result!’  One hears you cry, Dear Reader…

‘True enough,’ One counters, but apprehend those equine beasts a mo!

The A of the F was the first to hit terra firma with a resounding thud (pray for his poorly ankle and back) Dear Reader…

The general gist of the conv was thus…

‘We are a pair of drunken eejits and on no account should be foolish enough to take to the high seas together without paramedics, a defibrillator, four dementia nurses and a mortician.’

One, still in seventeen year old mode, retorts…

‘Does that mean you don’t want to see me any more?’

DOES THAT MEAN YOU DON’T WANT TO SEE ME ANYMORE…

WHERE THE FECK DID THAT COME FROM?

On the Blithering scale, so favoured for measuring eejits, One scores rather highly at the mo and ‘twould serve One right if One were binned in the manner of, say, an empty Cheesy Wotsit bag…

 

In which One had died and gone to Devon…

east down manor

Now, Dear Reader, given the accommodation, see above, for the weekend, all competition is hereby knocked into a cocked chapeau.

‘Twould seem a tad ridiculous not to clear the subs bench, and indeed, the first team with a hefty swipe of One’s beautifully manicured, satin smooth mit.

Thank Gawd for the Norman Hartnell ballgowns, although it has to be said, the super-glued twelve quid shoes were a bit of a let down in the Manor’s Ballroom where we tripped the light fantastic until dawn.

One was fortunate in the extreme that the Admiral of the Fleet was a patient cove, given that Lovely One’s perambulation from Langley Cross to Blackmoor Gate was via Barnstaple, Bideford, South Molton, Clovelly, Linton and Lynmouth and a magically named place, ‘Fairy Cross’ and not necessarily in that order.

‘Why are you in Barnstaple?’ came the enquiry when One found Oneself so placed, ‘Didn’t you read the instructions I sent you?’

In One’s defence, One had biffed off to Manor Garage and had One’s head turned by the Bazzer…

‘Oooooh your hair looks lovely, Claire,’ opined the B, obv notching up another twenty's worth of his finest un-leaded.  ‘Where are you going?’  

One informed the cove…

‘Noooo you don’t wanna go that way.  You wanna go…’ and he proceeded to direct One for the journey.

Three hours later a small, ugly crowd had formed a welcoming committee on a grass verge to pipe One in with the Admiral at the helm, sporting a large vessel of Pinot that One downed in one.

One has resolved to take to the high seas with the aforementioned Admiral, assuming his bravado wasn’t moistened by four bottles of pinot, a bottle of Rioja and all but the arse end of a bottle of Southern Comfort.

Watch this space…

One certainly will be…

 

Sunday, 10 August 2014

In which One has high tease

Thank heavens  I brought the Norman Hartnell ballgowns and me second best tiara.  Lovely One is at this mo shacked up in a 16th century manor in Deepest Devon with an Admiral of the Fleet.
Biffed off in the Bentley to see Damian Hirst and Verity yesterday. Edgar Degas would just about recognise his fourteen year old ballerina.
It blew me away.
One is on another interviewing mission and is making tip top progress. Shall prob run something up the mast and indulge in a spot of timber shivering this very afternoon.
Since the sacking of BF, One is personally fingering through the possible contenders Oneself.
A more substantial subs bench has had to be deployed in order to accommodate the ever increasing cream tea and bunnage hopefuls.
Shall most prob deploy some manner of point scoring system...
Tips for hopefuls...
1.  Offers of cream teas and afternoon excursions a no-no
2.   Gallery/Public Art visits - ten points
3.   Cooking for One and/or providing pints of Pinot - twenty points and a snog
4.   The impromptu purchase of handbags and/or shoes - fifty points and a weekend of unbridled pash.
5.    Any of the acceptable above plus a visit to the beach - 150points and a box of matches to set fire to your Jim jam bottoms. You won't need them any more.
Off now to hoist the main sail and take to the high seas and maybe a spot of
high tease.

Thursday, 7 August 2014

In which One is in Buffy zone one…

buffy onebuffy two

Lovely One’s world falls into two time zones:

The ‘Buffy’ zones…

One must try to remember that One is in zone one:  Buffy St-Marie

And lots and lots of other people One knows are zone two: Buffy the Vampire Slayer

‘Tis a salutary tale: The Pinkster has a hound by the name of Buffy (Buffy the Vampire Slayer) obv., but One falls into the St-Marie time-zone and must try to remember that (especially when buying shoes)

One, however, is known in the world of Buffster the Vamp Murderer, because…

ANTONY HEAD ACTUALLY PHONED ME UP – HE KNEW WHO I WAS EVEN IF I’M NOT BUFFED UP.

Any road up, that’s all apropos of nowt, Dear Reader, today shall be spent packing for a weekend away…

Tiara    -     check

74 pairs of shoes    -    check

34  Chloe Tea Dresses      -    check

17 Vintage Norman Hartnell new length ball gowns     -     check

waders     -    check

champagne    -    check

wet wipes     -    check

fags           -       check

Aroma therapy oils    -   check

Carol Baker style baby-dolls   -  check

Swiss Army Knife     -    check

That should cover all eventualities…

Before all that, and slathered in Almond Oil, One shall be biffing off to 10Radio to spend a jolly a.m. in the company of the delicious A.

Would that One had one like A on One’s subs bench…

One would usher him to the end forthwith and make him One’s with immediate effect.

As a little practice run for this a.m. and indeed p.m. One fronted up in One’s best Matalan vest, seductively rolled up sweat pants, a come hither smile and with tempting little smudges of paint strategically placed about One’s sun-blushed person sauntered up to the builder digging up the path at the side of One’s gaff…

‘Can I get you anything?’ enquired One.

‘Yeah, cuppa tea, no sugar.’

Note to self:

Definitely Buffy Zone One

 

 

Wednesday, 6 August 2014

In which One is a murderous mademoiselle…

lovely one

Here is Lovely One looking ‘all cute and innocent’ as stated by the Pinkster.

Yeah right!  One IS cute and innocent and don’t any of you lot ever forget it!

Despite a number of enquiries as to my propensity for murderous thoughts, One remains the fluffy little darling you all know and love.

ONE HAS BEEN PROVOKED…

A v severe telling off from Boy…

In One’s defence, even though Boy sees One’s doings as indefensible, One’s intentions are pure and honourable, at least where he is concerned.  Still, One can appreciate his lack of desire to commune with One since One would do almost anything to avoid One’s own Dear Mama…

Any road up, another Cumulus Nimbus appearing on the horizon in the shape of a Malthouse Matriarch who is putting the frighteners on SIT.  Apparently they have been approached in a most mellifluous manner…

NEVER TRUST A SMILING CAT – is One’s advice

One shall be making a surprise appearance at the meeting of yet another builder to ascertain why there is a massive damp patch on the outside of the block.

Never having been awfully keen on massive damp patches, One shall sally forth and chuck a few ‘Fs’ about should the need arise.

Or, One could be One’s deliciously ill informed self and just batter the b*****d into submission with me eyelashes.

Note to self…

Wear something that shows off a bit of d├ęcolletage and don't forget to fish out the toast crumbs before setting off.

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Here’s one what One done yesterday…

 

Tuesday, 5 August 2014

In which One is a permanent Pollyanna…

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Ah, would that One were still in the land of bards and baritones next the swirling waters…

One would hurl Oneself, without delay, into the deep, be at one with the fishes and surrender to the trident of Neptune.

‘Why, oh why, Darling One?’  One hears you collectively chorus, Dear Reader.

Well, it’s like this…

The paramedics arrived, shortly after the police had talked One down from the highest part of the Coffee Bar.

One’s afternoon companion, oblivious to the obv distress of Lovely One simply continued with his monologue, undeterred.

Following the aborted suicide leapt next the Espresso Frappe, One began gnawing at the handles of One’s Paddington and fashioned a passable noose which One was in the process of hurling over a beam when the aforementioned paramedics arrived…

Let One explain…

One, still in full Pollyanna mode, even though One is wacking on a bit, biffed off to an assignation with a likely looking cove.

The ‘cove’ in question had been selected by BF as a possible Mr Rice 2nd (looked respectable, suitable hobbies to keep him out of the house on an almost daily basis etc)

Note to self:

Dismiss BF from the selection process.  Pain is clearly clouding her judgement.

Any road up…

One settled Oneself prettily at a rustic table, making sure that just the required amount of d├ęcolletage, nicely browned by hours in the BG, was on display, hinting at the acreage that lay beneath the Matalan vest…

‘Do tell me about yourself,’ One made the fatal error of uttering…

What seemed like fourteen hours, and three aborted suicide attempts later, One raised One’s beautifully soft and manicured hand to halt the diatribe…

‘Let me stop you there,’ said One in a forceful manner, ‘I have people to interview (for the radio) May I email you later?’

‘How could you be so cruel?’ I hear you chorus.

Cruel?  He began the story when he was five and One bailed in the 1980’s when he was being ‘done wrong’ by wife numero duex.

What is it with these chaps?  Why not go forward into the unknown?  Why cling on for grim death to all the ‘she done me wrong’ times.

Chill, lighten up, have fun, snog, sex –even, LOVE etc…

JUST DON’T TRY TO SNEAK YOUR RAFFLE TICKET INTO THE DRAW TO BE MR RICE 2nd

 

Monday, 4 August 2014

In which One shears for bunnage in a buggy…

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The Mumbles lighthouse…

One’s relations, obv you recall that, Dear Reader, hail from Wales and the Mumbles in particular.

A deep Welsh voice boomed down the telephone line last evening and Lovely One shrieked with delight. 

‘Twas One’s fishing instructor calling to ascertain whether One was chipper or not.

This kind of devotion to all things ‘One’ may well render his ticket in the lottery to become Mr Lovely One the second.

One is delighted to report that One is chipper in the extreme when One is overflowing at the gunnels with Pinot Grigio and/or fag ash.

Apart from that, with the rainy season setting in and One likely to be incarcerated in One’s studio until next spring, One is gloomy from One’s immaculate coiffure to One’s shiny pink toenails.

‘Why?’ One hears you all chorus, Dear Reader, clutching the quilt until your little knuckles turn white.

One’s charge is low in spirit and One, in the manner of a pet or a toddling offspring, imbibes the vibes and One’s spirit plummets forthwith.

A sensitive creature, Lovely One, so One shall be…

1    Nipping up the hairdressers

2    Clearing off for tea and buns with an old codger.  One is a little apprehensive regarding the tea and bunnage, since the communique from aforementioned bunnster has involved much chat about the acquisition of parts for a ‘buggy.’  One dismissed the ‘buggy’ being a perambulatory device for a child due to the age of the codger. A golfing device seemed more fitting.

But then…

What if it’s an INVALID BUGGY

But, hey, the management of an immobile hubbster should prove a doddle…

Wheel it on, Caruthers…

One has received a list of ‘do you likes?’…

One, not wishing to appear a complete eejit shall be googling all the one’s One has no idea of, in order to appear clued up, switched on and in the zone…

One’s usual literary and musical universe tends to centre around…

‘She died from eating an unwashed grape’ Blanche Dubior (Streetcar)

and

‘Once I had a secret wossname.’  Dozzer Day.

One feels a baptism of fire into the present looming…

Sunday, 3 August 2014

In which One’s life is ruined in the manner of Neath Abbey…

 

 

 

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Ruins – like One’s life…

 

"This morning the Wiveliscombe Ambassador in Sidmouth handed the Devon Government a
final Note stating that, unless we heard from them by 11 o'clock that they were
prepared at once to withdraw their troops from Langley Cross, a state of war would
exist between us.

I have to tell you now that no such undertaking has been received, and that
consequently this village is at war with Sidmouth.

Neville Chamberlain and Mrs Claire Elizabeth Rice (divorced and unlikely to ever re-marry)

 

It is with great regret, Dear Reader, that One is resolved to remove the MG from the running for the hand of Moi.  Not even a relegation to the subs bench for he, no siree, he is gorn, sheared, bogged off, swerved One, skidaddled, cleared out and is HISTORY

The ‘cream tea’ shares in Somerset/Devon shall plummet until he lures in another unsuspecting maiden to stuff full of baked goods.

One merely required some siring in the evening instead of being taken out in the manner of an elderly relative in a bath chair for jolly super afternoons and then delivered back in time for Countdown and a strip wash before bedtime.

(BF and J and the Wood Nymph are convinced he is married)

One may be in the late summer of One’s years but there’s plenty of life in One.  Far too much to be treated like an OAP.

Any road up…

One’s subs bench shall be deployed without delay (One noticed a tiny puffiness under One’s left eye this morning) and One is intent on lassooing a likely suspect afore the Autumn sets in.

And to that end, One, so recently back from interviewing in Wales, shall be

1      Taking tea (fer fecks sake, what is it with all this fecking tea?) with a gentleman on Tuesday

2      Lunching with a reprobate on Thursday

3      Then, wait for it, sashaying off to Barnstaple for a weekend in a stately home.

One has had quite a lecture from the Pinkster in the manner of a Mother:

‘The problem with you is, Claire, you mistake the excitement of ‘the new’ for being in love.  Then you bolt, set up camp with a man, get bored after three months and want to do it all again.’

And your problem with that is?…..

One has lived One’s life pretty much on those terms for the passing of many a moon and left a rake of chaps quivering in One’s wake.

One would like one chap and one only to boss about/cook and clean for/snuggle up to/moan about and generally live LIKE EVERYONE ELSE

AND

ONE IS NOT GIVING UP UNTIL ONE FINDS ONE

SO – FLAMIN’ – THERE

ps

last night I dreamt I married David Bowie

note to self

lower expectation slightly

In which One runs over Big D…

market

To market to market to buy a fat pig…

Here are The Pinkster, The Pinkster’s darling Hubbster and Annie with their eclectic mix of marrows, beetroot, peacock feather head dresses, fudge, felted chickens and Morticia and Uncle Fester dolls made from paper mache.

Ah well Marks and Spencer had to start somewhere…

Lovely One biffed up to the Community Centre at the desired ungodly hour of 8.00am and unloaded One’s wares onto a delicious sari that One was using as a tablecloth. 

‘Where are you parked Claire Rice?’ came the bellowed enquiry from Big D, the geezer in charge.

‘Out the front, why?’ One responded.

‘There’s a space out the back, I’ll see you in.’

Any road up with fear and trepidation One squeezed the Bugatti into a space with not a sheet of Bronco between One and the car next One.

‘Did you feel that, when you ran over my foot?’ squealed Big D.

‘No,’ said One thinking ‘twas a jest.

‘Well I bloody did!’ opined the poor chap with tyre marks all over his plimsol.

‘Twas the start of a day in which many physical exchanges took place…

A party atmosphere pervaded the hall and everyone, us all being rather alternative and unwashed, had a wizard wheeze whether we sold loads or not.

Obv One wiped the floor with everyone and flogged oodles of pics and cards.

Ah, the bliss of realising One and One’s charge will scoff next week!

Outside the brace of Jocastas selling olives marinated in rocking horse shit, hand pummelled bread and scotch eggs made with Ostrich eggs etc…, were mesmerising the great Wivey unwashed so we deployed S (of SIT) with his guitar to lure the punters in.

A ghastly woman demanded that S stop busking. 

Busking – performing in the street for money

S wasn’t taking money.  S continued.

Not content, the vile old harridan physically attacked the beautiful, dreamy, peace-loving S and ripped his guitar from his grasp.

REVOLUTION IS COMING – NO NEED TO WAKE ONE – ONE IS ON THE FRONT LINE

Please note all vile harridans…

A Community Centre is funded by ALL of the Community for ALL OF THE COMMUNITY

A military Junta will be in place afore tea-time.

AND…

Whilst in a war-mongering frame of mind, (in the manner of Asquith or whoever it was)

‘Unless One hears from the Masterful Gentleman before supper time Wiveliscombe will be at war with Sidmouth.’

Friday, 1 August 2014

In which One is a little over dressed for the occasion …

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‘Do not go gentle into that good night

rage, rage against the dying of the light’

Dylan Thomas

And there is his lovely Boathouse in Laugharne.

Lovely One has abs no intent of gently going into any good night, One is out to rip up a storm and throw wassnames to the breeze.

‘Twas hot enough to boil a monkey’s bum the day we went to Laugharne. A steep climb to the top of town, past the castle and on to the little writing shed where the bard drank and created his masterpieces.

How strange that it has taken until almost the centenary of his birth for the infamous ‘they’ to renovate the writing shed in all it’s shambolic glory.  It is as if he has just stepped out to the pub: jacket on the back of the chair, crumpled writing paper cast to the floor, empty whisky bottle flung aside and all the detritus of a genius at work.

We didn’t explore inside the boathouse, but sat melting in the sunshine with a coffee served by a lithe, curly haired, red headed boy who must surely have got that job by looking like Dylan himself.

Any road up, we surmised that there is a uniform worn abroad by the holiday maker:  shorts, polo shirt, back pack, glasses, beard (even the girls) and sensible wakkin bwts.

Lovely One, it has to be said, was a little over dressed, as per, in a chiffon and lace over shirt covering a black tube dress, all set off with a Gucci clutch and a pair of Manolos.

‘Well I’m a holiday maker and I don’t dress like that,’ opined Lovely One

‘Indeed you don’t’ came the approving reply, ‘but then you’re not quite the ticket now are you!’

Ah well, ‘if you can’t be with the one you love, honey, love the one you’re with.’  Some seventies band – Google it and let One know

 

In which One is a hunter gatherer…

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Before and After in the life of my supper…

Lovely One was taken fly fishing, HURRAH, at last One thought, the river rushing through One’s thighs and One’s supper on the end of the line.

BUT…

Having been party to the blundering clumsiness of Lovely One, in the usual manner of an untethered Rhino-saurus,  for a couple of days and observed the bruises from One falling down/up the stairs, out of the Mercedes Sports (have to keep putting that in, Dear Reader) on One’s bottom in the sea and generally battering Oneself upon the roof garden railings, ‘twas deemed unwise to plonk One in the middle of a flowing river.

And so it was thus that One was taken to a trout pool where One could cast (fishing talk, Dear Reader) One’s line upon the waters from a soft grassy bank where One could land upon One’s bottom with complete safety.

One selected the appropriate fly, with the help of One’s tutor, and biffed off to the bank.

‘Don’t get that close!,’ came a bellowing Welsh voice, ‘ I’m not dragging you out of there!’

Up close and personal, One was enveloped in the enormous Welsh muscles of One’s companion and with One’s knees quivering suitably, One flung One’s line back in the correct manner and got One’s fly stuck in a tree.

‘Oooooh shit!’ (read that in a Welsh accent, Dear Reader)

One was then moved to a different location where One couldn’t create havoc, the fly was ripped from the tree, and One begun again, and again, and again etc….

‘You are a natural,’ complimented One’s companion after a six hour tutorial.

AND THEN…

We caught one!  TA DA!

One shrieked, leapt in the air and generally created a diversion for the other fisher-folk who looked upon One with astonishment, disgust and envy.

‘Look at that Dai.  A bloody woman! AND she’s caught one!’

‘Take no notice of them,’ ordered One’s tutor, ‘you’re a better fisherman that they are after one day.’

One swooned and had to be led to a nearby bench where One took up One’s paints and recorded the day for posterity (and the September market in Wivey)

Upon One’s return to base, One sashayed up to Spar and begun the search for salad items, herbs etc to consume with One’s catch (the fish)

In that part of Wales the consumption of salad and fruit is looked upon as an oddity.  However One acquired a lemon etc and set about baking the blighter.

Another first for Lovely One and Boyo was it fantastic or what!!