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Tuesday, 30 September 2014

In which One refuses to be Thelma…

Trailers for sale or rent
Rooms to let...fifty cents.
No phone, no pool, no pets
I ain't got no cigarettes
Ah, but..two hours of pushin' broom
Buys an eight by twelve ……  bla bla bla


That’s me that is, Dear Reader…


Just because One is all ‘loved up’ and waxing lyrical about the A of the F, you fiendish hoards have deserted One in your droves.

See if One cares (holding breath until sick)

Any road up, One and the A of the F are of the same stock and a pay cheque away from the gutter.

‘Twould appear One is going to be victorious in this particular race and be in a shop doorway to ring in the New Year.

One favours the ‘going out in a blaze of glory’ approach to this particular dilemma.  Well, One favours that in any dilemma actually.

This is One’s plan…

1     Flog One’s homestead and get hands on cash

2     Buy a boat/van/Winnebago/tent/backpack

3     Clear off and see the world. One is reliably informed that there is one out there, despite One only viewing it over the top of an easel.

4     Have FUN

‘Where will I/we live when we get back?’ enquired the A of the F.

‘Blimey,’ said BF, ‘At least he’s  more sensible than you, but then, next door’s cat is more sensible than you!’

One opined, to the A, that since both he and One are really rather ancient we might get housed in one of those ‘over 55’s’ bungalows.

One, however favours the ‘Thelma and Louise’ approach.  Shearing off a cliff in matching mobility scooters would suit One.

But One refuses to be ‘Thelma’, it’s such a God-awful name!


Monday, 29 September 2014

In which One invents a remedy for world peace…

And then I go and spoil it all by saying something stupid like "I love you"

Frank and Nancy

Well alright then, Dear Reader, One doesn’t actually use the ‘L’ word.  In One’s experience a word that gets used far too soon and far too often.  And what is it anyway? Won’t somebody tell me? 

One, rather a reticent being in the declaration of devotion stakes, prefers to show One’s deepest feelings by undertaking kitchen duties and to that end has inadvertently happened upon what, might just be, the salvation of mankind.

The A of the F had opined, a while back, ‘I quite like a toad in the hole,’ apropos of nothing.

So, One feeling the lurve for some snorkers suspended in a stodgy goo, One had a bash…

Delia decreed ‘one egg’

Nige ‘three eggs’ and to skin the snorkers. (Life’s too flippin’ short for that, Caruthers!)

Some other unknown cookery cove on Recipes UK decreed ‘four eggs.’

One was bemused by all this and opted for three.

The resulting culinary delight was a showstopper/heart stopper/general ballast type creation.

‘I don’t think I can eat all this,’ said the A. A sentence not previously heard by One from him, and One would suspect, never uttered afore!

‘Me neither,’ countered One, already weighed down by the sheer volume of the thing.

‘There’s not much chance of the toads getting out of that hole,’ said the A of the F as he bounced his knife off the single-bed mattress sized pudding.

‘It’s a flamin’ good job I didn’t eat that before manning the safety boat.  It would have capsized!’ he continued, knowing full well that One couldn’t heave Oneself off the sofa and exact an awful revenge.

Further uses for One’s soggy bottom were suggested throughout the search for a packet of Rennies, but the best one of all was…

A Lovely One ‘Toad in the Hole’ drop behind enemy lines.  Imagine, if you will, Dear Reader, the awful consequences of the consumption of such fare by the ne’er do well terrorist bod.

The odd exploding Eastern cove would simply bounce around indefinitely.  One is contacting Downing Strasse as we speak to off the receipt (free of charge, of course) in order to bring about world peace.

There wasn’t, however, much world peace in the chambre de coucher last night as the pair of us simply lay there groaning, unable to move, even snuggling was off the menu, as T in the H will be henceforth! 


Sunday, 28 September 2014

In which One is a cream tease...

One has devised a new measurement of time.
Each of One's journeys shall henceforth be measured in songs.
As you are aware, Dear Reader, The A of the F waited four and a half hours for One on One's first foray into North Deepest.
The A A calculated the journey at one hour (20 songs) but One didn't actually read the email from th a A with the directions, so One fecked it up monumentally.
Any road up, the actual length of the loveliest drive of all is 23 songs.
One sings at the top of One's lung capacity, beginning with 'Something Stupid' and usually ends with
My Funny Valentine' or something of that ilk.
One longs to hurl Oneself into the arms of the A, but is currently playing it cool in the manner of a grown up, so a punch in the kidneys has to suffice.
The A is currently wowing the great unwashed in a speedboat, whilst ackled up in his wetsuit and, flipping' 'eck, does he look hot, or what!
Aren't chaps who don't know how delicious they are completely irresistible?
Then again, maybe it's just One who could lightly poach him and swallow him whole.
With that thrilling supper in mind One biffed off for some accompaniments this very a.m.
Over reaching to the top shelf, One upset an entire display of cream cartons all over the shop floor and Oneself.
Liberally coated with more than a sufficiency of clotted, One hastily clarred toward the exit, got One's bondage shoe stuck under the safety mat and sprawled headlong into the path of an unsuspecting cove.
The A has expressed his fondness for a Devon Cream Tea. Perchance he'd like to lick the cream off a Somerset Dumpling?

Saturday, 27 September 2014

In which One ain't got a vase...

It may surprise you to hear, Dear Reader, That One is an'over thinker'
This has been decreed by the A of the F
'Blimey' One hears you chorus, 'How long has he known you?'
Aren't you the eejit who, when asked by the Bank Manager to sign a form 'where indicated in pencil' actually signed it in pencil?
Yes, Dear Reader, c'est moi.
Still, tis fab that One is perceived as a thinker on any level.
One shall repay this compliment by behaving in the manner of a Geisha for the entire weekend.
One has been schooled in the art of Geisha-ing by BF, who has been attending to the whims of BFP for the passing of many a moon.
'Shame I haven't met him yet' opined BF, we could moan about him as well as BFP while we're up the garden smoking fags.'
'I'm not saying one single word against him', countered One, 'he bought me a massive bunch of roses yesterday. Still, that means I'll have to have me legs open for a week.'
'Why?  Ain't you got a vase?' BF replied.

Thursday, 25 September 2014

In which One prefers things to be Nautical but Nice…

Now that you're gone, all that's left is a band of gold
All that's left of the dreams I hold
Is a band of gold and the memories of what love could be
If you were still here with me…

Freda Payne

Halfway through!  Halfway through, One was, of the wheedling speech One had concocted to lure Vile ex Husband into 10 Radio so One didn’t get in trouble with Princess P for not having a guest…


That was the stern reply One got from V ex H. 

One ploughed on with the same schmaltzy furrow until One realised he had hung up and cleared off!

Hmmm!  That’s what One gets for devoting a massive chunk of my glorious youth and beauty to that great long streak of reptilian oikerage.

That’s it! One is never, ever getting married again.  One doesn’t care how many tears and tantrums are emitted from the A of the F, it’s ‘in sin’ or zippo!

Any road up what a wedding day that was…

One had decreed it should be at a Register Office on a drizzly Friday 13th in December, with no guests, save UP, Boy and CBF.

With little time to spare and no sign of CBF, One was biffing about Bletchley in me shot silk embroidered coat getting soaked, attempting to lure/beg/plead/bribe ANYONE to come in and be a witness to the gory doings.

Eventually, a member of staff took pity on us and, dripping wet, shot silk completely fecked and clinging to wherever it could get at, One and V ex H were pronounced ‘one.’

By this time One was in a monumental huff with CBF, wouldn’t be placated, so everyone else went to the reception without me!

One went to Tesco and bought a Christmas tree, if One recalls the day correctly, whilst everyone else, CBF included, who had finally appeared, went of and got legless.

No one ever mentioned the lack of bride at the reception. Was it through politeness, or actually not even noticing One had biffed off in a huff?

Ah well, ‘tis all soap under the wedding ring now, Dear Reader.

Wednesday, 24 September 2014

In which One considers an apology…


Yesterday, Debo, The Dowager Duchess of Devonshire died, aged 94.

With her died the Mitford sisters, so column-filling of the twenties onward. And so instrumental in the conviction that One had been secretly swapped at birth and denied the lavish lifestyle for which One hankered, and hankers still…

‘Whenever I see the words Peer’s Daughter in the newspaper my heart sinks,’ said their Mother, Lady Redesdale.

‘Twas Diana, the widow of Oswald Mosley, upon whom One attempted to model, without much success, Oneself.

Any road up, that glorious manner of speech, to include such words as ‘rind’ (round) and ‘hice’ (house) shall leave us forever…

But One has more pressing problems to attend to today than the sad demise of a world full of fine-boned debutantes all clamouring for the hand of a gentleman in possession of a sizeable fortune/stately home/title etc…

One has been told in no uncertain terms by Princess P that One requires a guest to interview on One’s radiogram programme tomorrow  AND One is to have said guest nailed by mid afternoon today in order that he can be included in the running order of the show.

Due to the fact that One is a complete eejit and went to choir practise last night, it is in fact tonight, intending to snare an unsuspecting vocalist, One is a guest-free zone…

Ah, One has it, Vile ex Husband…

Mmmm, or has One been too insulting to the onerous cove over the years on this blog to even go there?  Oh, what the ****

Prospective opening gambit…

‘You know how when I carried that great lummox son of yours around for nine long months my figure never got back to normal?

(note to A of the F – One doesn’t give a shit what Angelina Jolie’s arse looks like)

And no doubt you will recall my horror at espying the actual size of a frozen 12lb Christmas Turkey in Iceland and the thought of squeezing it out of my Twinkle?

And the way my ankles swelled up and never actually returned to the tiny little delights that snared you in the first place?

The long, long nights of actually feeding the ravenous monster MYSELF whilst you were pushing out the zeds in our pied a terre in Hampstead village.  (try as One might, One couldn’t secure a wet-nurse)

The never ending search for a suitable nanny was conducted by One, in order that One could lie down in a darkened room until Boy was nine.

All those visits to Oilily and Baby Gap weren’t a breeze you know!

Well, it’s payback time…

Get your scrawny, ne’er do well arse over to 10 Radio and tell all about your marvellous inventions…

‘Talking Translator, Routefinder, some thing that measures the velocity of bullets etc’


Maybe One should just apologise/beg/say please?

Tuesday, 23 September 2014

In which One hangs out the flags…


Nearly finished, Dear Reader.  A black and white ink drawing taken from one of the A of the F’s magnificent photographs. 

The finishing touches shall be a smidgeon of red hither and thither, taking the form of a line of red flag bunting.

Shall One hang out the aforementioned flags or nay?  A dilemma that One has stewed up in One’s fertile imagination since returning from the A of the F’s gaff on Monday.

‘Do you think there is a Bunnage verb?’ enquired One, reclining with an espresso and a fag, having received the first of the day’s Bunnage invitations from lonely, toothless, retired gigolos.

‘What? Like: I bun, you bun, he buns, she buns, and all that,’ enquired the spectacle attired, Sudoku fiddling A.

(see what fun the elderly have under the quilt of a Sunday morning, children?)

One proceeded to inform the A of the F that One’s bunnage invitations had dropped off rather sharply of late.

‘I don’t even bother to reply now,’ says One, ‘I just delete them straight away.’

‘Oh I think you should reply,’ said he, ‘Just a polite one line refusal should suffice.’

So, One set about Bunnage deflection for the next two or three hours (takes ages, One’s irresistible)

By the time One had pondered this instruction, which on the face of it seems fairly reasonable, since the poor old saps online have probably had their fair share of shite thrown at them over a long, solitary existence, One had grown the instruction into a ghastly, fiendish plot.

What if the A of the F is secretly planning to throw One back into the Bunnage pot?

He did opine, at the weekend, that he is partial to a cream tea.  That’s the slippery slope, that is, Dear Reader.

And anyway, having been polite with One’s refusals the ‘bun’s out of the bakers’ so to speak and they’re coming in thick and fast.

‘Cast such vile thoughts from your mind,’ Lovely One, I hear you chorus, Dear Reader, ‘The A of the F won’t chuck away the chance of having his buns buttered on both sides by you, you fool!’

Very well, red flags it is then.

After all…

‘You’re the bun that I want.  Ooo Ooo Ooo’

Olivia Newton John 



In which One tells all, but only to you, Dear Reader…

I'd do anything for you dear
for you mean everything
to me
I know that
I'd go anywhere for your smile
for your smile
everywhere I see
Would you climb a hill?

Lionel Bart

One regularly moons about winding One’s frock round One’s finger whilst standing on one leg, head on one side just surveying the delicious A of the F as he rants on about item 27 on the list of his most annoying things in the world. (which is cyclists riding two abreast in case yer interested)

Any road up, One did indeed climb said hill, (see above) and apparently One is now required to go ‘body boarding,’ whatever the feck that is.

‘What was it in my profile that attracted you to me?’ enquired the A of the F.

One feigned memory loss and didn’t commit to a sensible reply, but One will tell you Dear Reader, and it was thus…

Obv One has been on the lookout for over ten years for a cove that could get on with BFP so that me and BF can shear to the shops.  Thus far One keeps getting blighters that ‘want to spend more time with Claire’


Claire will still be here when you get back from the pub/boat/wherever it is that boys go

Obv is wasn’t just that…

Devastating good looks

Ability to remember song lyrics

Playing the guitar

Smoking the occasional fag



Now, prior to actually spending a substantial amount of time with the A of the F, One had defined ‘out of One’s comfort zone’ as, say, changing One’s mascara brand, going in The White Hart for a pint instead of The Bear and massively significant things like that.

Following the draggage of One up a cliff-face this weekend the A of the F decreed that ‘we should get fit again, so we can go body boarding. We’ll get you a wetsuit and while we’re at it some sensible shoes and a pair of waterproof trousers.’

He’s at it again with the ‘sensible shoes’ malarkey, Dear Reader.  Obv so confident of his place in One’s affections that he’s willing to risk the fate of others who mooted such a possibility.

One has now ‘Googled’ body boarding and it has nothing to do with having a quick kip on the ironing board in the middle of doing his shirts.

However, the wet suit option looks as if it might be a runner.  Not dissimilar to One’s Gok Wan control leggings in gripping power One imagines that One’s entire acreage would be held in check by one of those.

Any road up, have had a little practise in the bath with the ironing board, whilst wearing said Gok Wan control leggings and a size twelve Matalan vest that’s a bit tight round the nellies. So far, so good…

But, and this is a secret Dear Reader, the actual hook was the words of the song and the song was…

‘All by Myself’

He could blow it though if he mentions the waterproof trousers again…


Monday, 22 September 2014

In which Champers is inhaled...

How can the weekend be over already?  Surely if all was correctly aligned in the universe, persons of advanced years, such as the A of the F and One, should be lying around in a truckle bed built for two deciding what to do with our long and carefree day.
As it is we are condemned to toil until we shuffle from this mortal coil.
Yesterday we pootled to the coast to look upon a far flung lighthouse. Down and down we wandered for fecking miles meeting persons of a similar vintage on their way back up. Crimson faced, glowing, short, chubby-thighed dollops like One and still One scampered downward like a mountain goat with nary a thought for the return journey.
What a foolish wench, dear reader. No sooner had One taken up residence on a comfy bench overlooking the sea, than The A of the F leapt to his sensibly shod feet and demanded 'Come on gel, let's get back up this hill and go to find you somewhere to have a paddle.'
At this juncture One should point out that One was, ill advisedly, as it turned out, wearing a gurt big, albeit extremely attractive new, Autumn weight Gucci sweater.
The only saving grace of the entire ensemble, were the bondage walking boots that allowed a billowing Santana to caress One's perfect feet.
Trouserage came in the shape of a pair of v expensive Box Two, in the sale, of course,
Tapered leg strides that, when purchased, wouldn't pull up past One's chubby knees, but now, require hoisting up every few steps.
'Shove yer 'and down 'ere.' Demanded One 'and feel my teenage sports bra. I am hot!'
'Not likely!' Countered the A of the F, 'Come on woman, the car will be around the next bend.'
' Fer gawds sake stop pulling those fecking trousers up. I'm going to get you a pair of braces!'
Any road up, we repaired to a beachside caff, downed a couple of coffees, thought better of it, went to Weatherspoons outside, rooftop bar, inhaled a brace of pints, went home and cracked open the Champagne.
Imagine the rest, Dear Reader.

Sunday, 21 September 2014

In which One behaves in the manner of an acedic...

Last evening in an attempt to attone for the previous evening's gen debauchery, we snuggled down to renew a sufficiency of brain cells.
An informative televisual delight concerning the construction and purpose of SoneHenge was the order of the day.
A rake of hirsute, unwashed, hand-knitted coves blathered on 're: The moveage of Sarsen stones and other pre B & Q building materials for the construction of the aforementioned hence.
Usages various were mooted, explored and given credence by the grisly academics who preened themselves to within an inch of their miserables for the passage of an hour or so.
One spits upon their academically manufactured theories, however.
Given the historically sound and universal knowledge that the female of the species is frightfully adept at revealing a smidgen of cave-dwelling cleavage and or offering a come- hither grimace in order to spur the male into action, One would like to offer an alternative theory...
'You insisted we move to Salisbury Plain, Ug, so you could go out raping and pillaging with that brother of yours, and I can't get these sodding fur frocks dry in this flamin drizzle. What you gonna do about it? My mother said I should never have married you! That Og from number 4 had a much bigger cudgel than you. She was right I should have married him.'
One therefore offers up an alternative theory to the one about religious usage and all that sacrificial bollicks...
It seems obvious to One that Ug, following a serious thrashing from Ugzilla, alighned the gap in the stones to maximise the morning Sun on a lineful of freshly laundered stone age shreddies.
Gonads to all that human sacrifice nonsense, nothing would ever have got done if they was all sashaying about with damp ferret-fur trollies clinging round their Bronze-Age bollicks.

Saturday, 20 September 2014

in which it's all for under a tenner

For future reference, Dear Reader, The over sixties shouldn't...
A.    Consume gin and tonic immediately following two bottles of red wine
B.    Wait until ten past two in the morning before deciding to teach a drunken woman to play the guitar.
C.     Sing sixties pop songs very loudly, and out of tune, when living in such close proximity to the Big House.
D.     Repair to the boudoir with the ardent fervour of a teenager when in fact a chubby old dollop wearing Matalan Jim jams is all that's waiting under the quilt.
All in all a most satisfactory evening and just the beginning of a thrilling weekend of unbridled pash with fish finger sandwiches thrown in
 And all for under a tenner.

Thursday, 18 September 2014

In which Everybody’s messin’ with fire…

You call me Satins other child, and said I’d burn in hell
Well, Sugar Plum I know you’re just a liar
'Cause God gave me his blessing to keep you people guessin’
‘Bout everybody messin’ with fire

Messin’ with Fire – Claire Teal

News reaches One of a number of injustices abroad in our quiet little market town…

Somewhere in a darkened cellar are the cadavers of vile old care-worn, grey skinned, buttoned-up women.  

They hang on giant meat hooks awaiting their activation back to humanity to keep order and stamp out any innovation or fun.

Like a washing line hung with grey, boiled mice they dangle in quiet solitude until the High Priestess cuts one down into the copper and boils it back to life.

The finishing touches are added…

A lump of black Withey slate for a heart, a pre-permed, grey acrylic wig, a pair of awfully unattractive spectacles, a hideous grimace and enough loose change for a cup of tea…And they’re off…

There is a special division for assaulting and general aggression.  They are reserved for the removal of anyone making music of any kind.

The one’s with faces like slapped arses are put the closest to the entrance of any gathering to put off the young/young at heart/happy/carefree/socially acceptable and their offspring.

And then there’s the Panza division.  Brought into active service when a member of the community attempts to book the Community Hall and thereby come into active competition with ‘The Pickled Egg Mafia’

What utter, ridiculous rot!  We all pay for the, in this instance, poorly named, ‘COMMUNITY’ centre, yet ‘twould appear not all persons are able to avail themselves of it’s advantages.

The boiled mice have all and sundry in a strangle-hold.


It should be noted by all that a certain Painter of this Parish has been deployed to capture the true likeness of the good burghers of Wiv on the outside wall of aforementioned community centre…

Mrs Holier than thou, look who’s got the matches now!

Everybody’s Messin’ with Fire   -   Claire Teal ( OH and Claire Rice)



Wednesday, 17 September 2014

In which land mines are consumed in Lyme…


Whizzed off for a day’s R and R with the Pinkster yesterday.

Lyme Regis…

No Streryl Meep mooning about like a damp flannel on the end of the Cob (French Lieutenant's Woman) but a herd of Americans dressed in Georgian attire biffing along the prom.

‘What’s occurring?’ enquired the Pinkster as she delicately ripped off a layer of clothing to reveal her plumptioiusness in the sunshine.

‘They’re Americans,’ came the reply, ‘They do it every year.’

This was deemed explanation enough and the buttoned-up British looked away to leave the blighters biffing up and down the front like a bunch of eejits before clearing off for a scoff.

Any road up, them shops are loverly there and we sauntered about oohing and aahing at stuff we couldn’t afford to buy.

We both bought cards from a gallery.  Pinkster because she liked them and One because we all get ideas from one another, don’t we?

Note to A of the F…

Women buy loads of cards, just as One said (even though you scoffed at the suggestion)  Oh, and One assumes the A has been abducted by aliens and replaced, since upon receipt of one of One’s soppy email endings (read ‘miss you’) back came the reply ‘and you.’

AND YOU – sentiment previously unheard of in that gen direc. 

Fortunately One is from Luton, where a punch in the kidneys is akin to a proposal of marriage so One’s gob dropped open as One fell out of the truckle bed.

I digress, Dear Reader…

What a splendid place Lyme Regis is to plonk Oneself down on a bench and inhale a pasty.  We even had some of that Pellegrino water (the poshest fizzy water in the world)

Following a cursory biff about the numerous galleries (to see what all the other painters are doing) we repaired to a wholefood cafe for afternoon delights.

One, a tad wary of the hirsute vegan and his doings, opted for a standard cup of tea, whilst the Pinkster had a ‘hippy delight’.  We both consumed an eccles cake that had been modelled on the size and general explosive qualities of a land mine.

The ‘Hippy Delight’ came in a suspiciously long and sustainable looking tea bag.  Stuffed up one end was what looked like the contents of a flymo grass box. 

No matter, the Pinkster, a devotee of all things green and sustainable glugged it gleefully down, even though One had perused it long enough to ascertain that it’s proportions made it look like a sustainable, vegan condom.

Tuesday, 16 September 2014

In which One LIVES…


A B, C D Goldfish?  That’s One that is, that goldfish.  Running out of time…

(incidentally, the A of the F accused the cerebral One of having ‘the attention span of a goldfish.’  Cheek! One thought about him for seventy three seconds all in one go once)

Or, as the case may be, NOT… (re running out of time) see lost it there already!

Unbeknownst to you, Dear Reader, One has been having a life and death struggle with, well, life and death.

One is a very brave soldier and had only informed a v few of One’s adoring public that One may be shuffling off this mortal coil at the positive peak of One’s prime…

Having finally grown into One’s looks and that three sizes too small Chloe tea dress what One got in the sales, that’s been moth-scoff in the back of the fabulous Edwardian wardrobe forever, One thought One was going to croak.

But no, One has been entirely investigated from the top of One’s beautifully coiffed head to One’s shiny, pink pedicured toes, One is in fine fettle/perfect shape/positively brimming with life and full of natural goodness.

Upon the receipt of this news One immediately took to some serious exercise to maintain this state of perfection and has been in front of the seven times magnifying mirror ever since.

‘Why?’ I hear you chorus as one, Dear Reader, ‘would you want to exercise in front of your make-up mirror.’

Let me explain…

Having hastily shoved away One’s heartrending farewell notes/last will and testament/instructions for the sale of unfinished masterpieces etc., One shall resume the rest of One’s life forthwith.

And, since upon the hour of One’s birthday, One decided to spend the remainder of One’s life snogging the A of the F, One’s lips (that have been quivering of late) need some serious aerobic puckering practise.

Thus far One is developing perfect puckerage and a suck so powerful that One could remove the fag from the A of the F’s gob from the foot of our stairs!

AND, do you know what, Dear Reader, One probably shall!

In which the cat’s out of the bag…

like the beat, beat, beat of the tom tom
when the jungle shadows fall
like the tick,tick, tock of the stately clock
as it stands against the wall
like the drip, drip drip of the rain drops
when the summer showers through
a voice within me keeps repeating
you, you, you
Night and day you are the one…

Cole Porter

One pootled across the moor to One’s current abode and hastily unpacked, leaving the Gucci weekender open upon the truckle bed.

The Count sauntered in having consumed his body weight in the Co-op’s finest Mouse Fricassee flavoured cat scoff and espying the open luggage thought, ‘mmm that looks cosy, think I’ll nip in there for a kip.’


One, obv, thinks hourly of the A of the F, see above, but One’s time has been consumed with mopping his fevered brow this weekend, when One should have been being pampered to within and inch…

One put on One’s most concerned face, tipped One’s lovely head to one side, poked him in the ribs and said ‘Oi, you alright, or are you putting it on?’

‘Shut up,’ came the charming reply and he shuffled further down in his awfully attractive, moss green velour, adjustable arm chair.

‘Huh, I’m only being concerned,’ huffed One.

‘No you’re not, you’re an unfeeling fiend with an evil glint in your eye,’ says he flinging his foot onto One’s lap, ‘if you want to do something, rub the back of my leg, it hurts.’

Now, try as One might, One can’t seem to recall the scene in Now Voyager when Paul Henreid flung his stinky foot on Bette Davis and demanded she rub the back of his leg.

‘Why ask for the moon, when we have the stars?’ wouldn’t have been as romantic if PH was whipping off his sock and shoving a size ten up BH’s gusset, would it?

See, Dear Reader, that’s the trub, throughout the week One slaves away in One’s studio dreaming romantic dreams of the A of the F and all the pulsating pash that the weekend will bring and what does One get?  One will tell you, Dear Reader,

One gets feet flung on One’s lap,

demands for ‘make us a cuppa tea,’

Threats as to being flung from second storey windows should One not be sympathetic enough.

etc., etc.

Does One care?  Not a jot.  One would gladly tear out and donate any required organ the A of the F might require.

So there you have it, Dear Reader.

Oh, and the cat’s out of the bag. 


Monday, 15 September 2014

In which One is a tear stained old dollop...

Another birthday over.
Another year gone.
An unusually windy weekend in 'died and gone to Devon.'
Entirely the responsibility of One, since One went all up market and bought wine that not only didn't come in a box, but wasn't half price either.
Clearly One and The A of the F have become acclimitised to The Co ops three for a tenner Vino Collapso since wailing and grinding of teeth has been the order of the day thus far.
Officially now the oldest teenagers in the world we repaired to the bedroom, nestled our teeth together in the communal Steradent bucket, clasped wet hankies over our gobs, snuggled under the blanket and watched Saving Mr Banks.
One disgraced Oneself by howling virtually the entire length of the doings.
No longer a tear stained angelic confection when One skrikes, but a red faced, mascara stained dollop, One hid neath the quilt, quivering like a distressed hippopotamus until a hot flush required One to hurl off the blankie and fan Oneself furiously with 'Fly Fishing for Beginners.'
Casting aside One's wincyette Jim jams One flung Oneself in the gen direc of The A of the F with a come hither grimace on One's gob, and whispered 'is there anything I can do for you?'
With a cursory glace at One's blotchy tear stained face, he replied,
'Yes darlin, turn the light off'

Sunday, 14 September 2014


It is One's birthday.
One will be spending it in bed with Chet Baker.

Friday, 12 September 2014

In which One has Admirals to snog…

What are you doing the rest of your life?
North and south and east and west of your life?
I have only one request of your life…


So, just in case you were wondering, Dear Reader, here is what One could do with the rest of One’s life…

As One is sure you are aware, One has a birthday tomorrow. 

The ex-husband memorial bench has been swabbed down with Cillit Bang Grime and Lime to accommodate the sagging, festering, hairy arses of those lucky enough to have been married to One.

Any road up, they can commiserate with one another all they wish, they’ve had their innings and failed miserably.

One is making plans as to how to spend the estimated time One has at One’s disposal.

Now, Dear Reader, assuming One has twenty-three years left to live, One has decided to spend most of it snogging the A of the F…

Assuming the snog length of each individual snog to be three minutes, or thereabouts, One has calculated that, excluding bathroom breaks/work/painting/singing in the choir/smoking fags etc., that should be twenty three thousand, nine hundred and twenty snogs.

It could actually be loads more or loads less since One hasn’t actually figured out how to utilise the calculator on One’s pooter.

No matter, Dear Reader, you get the gist of One’s thinking, don’t you?

Obv, One shall run it past the A of the F before snogging commences, Oh what the hell, One’ll just get him in a Gok Wan legginged lock and let him out when he stops breathing…


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

Mwa-Mwa-ed One’s way around the Barbican yesterday picking up cheques/commissions/adoration/hugs and general all round bonhomie, before being brought crashing down to earth by Dear Little S, who, upon commenting on One’s new hairstyle, staggering weight loss and general all round gorgeousness, opined…

‘Forget it!  You can’t have me, you’ll always be Nana to me, Lady Rice!’

No matter, Dear Boy, One has Admirals to snog…


Thursday, 11 September 2014

In which One is Oooohing and Aaaaahing…


That’s One that is, that Angel…

One is now officially a member of the Wiveliscombe Community Choir.

Last evening One took possession of the sheet music for ‘Danny Boy’, ‘Autumn Leaves’ and ‘Somewhere over the Rainbow’ (weigh a pie)

One encountered a fellow singist on the way in who grabbed One for the Alto section. 

Much OOOOOHing and AAAAAAAhing later One came to the swift conc that One is a Soprano.

Note to self:  sit up other end next week

‘Twould appear that only the sopranos get to sing the actually words to the actual tune.  One was a trifle confused as One can’t remember how to read music.

Note to self:  learn to read music by next Wednesday at 7.00pm

Showing off alert:

One new member of the choir was a customer of One.

BF said he’d been round their gaff, espied their Claire Rice Art collection and opined, ‘Oh I see you have a Claire Rice.  I just bought one.  One has to have at least one Claire Rice in one’s collection.’

Now, far be it from One to blow One’s own wossname, but ‘What d’ya think of them there cans of Heinz 57?’

One is off to the Barbican to mwa-mwa One’s adoring public as soon as One’s ironed One’s face and got ackled up in me Gok Wan control leggings.

And tomorrow…

Shall be soothing the furrowed brow of a certain Admiral, peeling him grapes and singing him the Desert Song, or Somewhere over the Rainbow.


Wednesday, 10 September 2014

In which One gives a Masterclass…


Today, Dear Reader, One is going to walk you through a day in the life of a jobbing painter…

6.30a.m.     Leap from One’s truckle bed and immediately switch on pooter. Check out the thousands of offers of ‘bunnage’ and politely decline.

Consume an entire pot of Espresso in a single bound. 

Feed the Count.

Now then, Dears, we are assuming clement weather, which means any work will be done dans le jardin. 

Having put on One’s face, spent twenty-three hours drying One’s fabulous hair and twenty minutes staring at seventy eight pairs of shoes before opting for the bondage walking boots, repair to the outdoors…

check list


Tonic water


paints, paper, pens

11.00a.m. start work

‘What were you doing between 6.30a.m. and 11.00a.m.?’ One hears you chorus, Dear Reader.


One has to go up the town, sit outside the caff, drink coffee, smoke fags and shoot the breeze with all the other ne’er-do-well middle-aged sirens what hang about in the square.

Any road up… Painting…

What to paint?  Dilemma!

What sells well? The Barbican!  Paint that! (see above)

‘How can that be?’ One hears you politely enquire Dear Reader, ‘When you are sitting in a garden in Wivey.’

But wait…

Need a fag and a tea break.  Oh and I should check out the price of a replacement pair of bondage shoes, the sales must be on now. 

Size, fecking three in red!  What good’s that to One who originates from up the Amazon?

Have another fag in disgust and accidentally dip paintbrush in tea.

Mmmm, I fancy something…

Well, if you don’t eat the whole packet of Hobnobs they go soft.

Feel a bit Uncle Dick now, better have a lie down.

1.30p.m.  Better get some lunch…

A lovely bit of left over cold pizza from sometime last week.

2.00p.m.  better listen to the Archers and see if that ridiculous Helen has figured out Rob is a shit yet.

Got indigestion now, better have a couple of Rennies.  Where are they?  In One’s room. Truckle bed looks inviting.  Well, a little nap won’t hurt.

4.00p.m.  Better check Kindle for emails and have a quick look at facebook to see what everyone’s up to.

Blimey! Missed tea break at 3.00pm

Leave it!  Leave it!

Paint a boat.

5.00p.m. Turn up Rayburn to cook supper.  Best nip up the Co-op for some fags and maybe a half price bottle of Pinot.

6.00p.m.  Not too early for a glass of wine is it?

Have two.

Sling painting, paints and brushes up the ladder to the studio.

Smoke fags.

Rinse and repeat…



In which One has all the right words, but not necessarily in the right order…

two cigs

The untold want by life and land ne'er granted,
Now voyager sail thou forth to seek and find.

“Leaves of Grass (The Untold Want )” by Walt Whitman

Now, One imagines, Dear Reader, that those of you who have stuck with One through fat and slim, have a fairly immoveable view that One is a ridiculous, head-in-the-clouds, rose-tinted spectacle wearing, romantic old dollop…

And you would be correct in your assumption.

But to be fair to One, One brung Oneself up on a lavish diet of Bette Davis movies, see above, and really, really thought that One was going to ‘fasten One’s seatbelt and have a bumpy night.’ (All about Eve) Which, indeed, One did, just not in the manner One was anticipating.

One almost puddled the Axminster when Paul Henreid lit those two fags in ‘N.V.’

Any road up, One has learned a valuable life-lesson of late…

One has been seeking in all the wrong places and obv not finding…

You know how they say that whatever you’re looking for will be found in the last place you look?  That’s always seemed a bit stchoopid to One.

One has been seduced by bounders various with their, ‘I can’t imagine my life without you in it,’ nonsense…


All that other flowery stuff that rendered One all a-quiver…

One finally gets it..

‘A good man is hard to find’ Mae West (all the right words, but not necessarily in the right order.)





Monday, 8 September 2014

In which threats are issued…

new shoes

‘If you don’t get rid of them I will set fire to them AND they will really go up considering the amount of super-glue that’s holding them together,’ came the threat, issued through gritted teeth, from the A of the F, following the foot/shoe/dining room chair/super-gluing incident.

Let One explain, Dear Reader…

One’s most favourite of all shoes, and let’s face it, there are many, many pairs that have been loved more than any man (well, almost any man) throughout One’s long and illustrious existence, the much favoured, ‘bondage walking boots,’ (see above) have almost come to the end of their useful life.

‘Do you know what my Darling,’ opined One, ‘I reckon I could get another day out of these blighters!’

And so it came to pass that One super-glued One’s fabulous foot to the dining room chair. 

It seemed like an awfully good idea at the time to hoist up One’s tube dress, fling One’s Gok Wan controlled leg up on the chair and attend to the fabulous shoe repairs with the super-glue.

Sadly, One was away the day they done physics at my tech and hadn’t allowed for the, now obvious, seepage that would occur when One applied some weight to the delicate foot/shoe/chair/glue scenario…

And as One flung One’s leg in the gen direc of the A of the F as we set off to Mwa-Mwa our way to freedom, the chair came with One.

An incident report was immediately filed and the fabulous footwear found guilty as charged and condemned to spend eternity in a land-fill site.

But wait…

Fear not, Dear Reader, The A of the F went to work afore One.  Could it be that One secreted the darling dancing shoes in One’s Gucci trunk and spirited them away to trip the light fantastic under the light of the moon on another magical weekend?


Sunday, 7 September 2014

In which One is fish fingered....

It is official fish finger sandwiches are the nectar of the Gods.
One spits upon 'things happen after a Badedas bath.'
Stay grubby and 'ave a fish finger sandwich. That's my advice.
After a slow and dismal start, the weekend proved to be really rather lucrative.
Lovely Gordon was perambulating the highways and byways of Wivey looking for a suitable receptacle within which to fly tip his Gentleman's Relish tins and out of date larks tongues.
One was sashaying abroad with The A of the F, like a cat with a catering pack of clotted and all was pretty fecking alright with the world.
A of the F was given the heads up by LG and indeed all of One's chums, especially One's female chums and most especially as he walked away from us.
The good burghers of Wiv made it possible for One to tax the Ferrari and buy Boy a tome on Interior design for his birthday, which is today.
How can it be that 22 years ago today One became two?
The only brush One had with natural childbirth was not wearing any lipstick.
One and Boy had a private room in the Royal Free and One was awfully surprised when a Nurse informed One that One would be required to actually change Boy's nappy Oneself before putting One's face on.
No matter. When One arrived back at the Hampstead pied a terre the uniformed Norlands nanny was in situ and One was able to put One's fabulous feet up for three years.
How times have changed.
Boy, no thanks to One, is a splendid chap. Vile ex Husband is free and One is...
Well, One is simply beyond mere words...

Friday, 5 September 2014

In which One suffers a detached gusset…

big pants

Here’s One with One’s big pants…

An alarming medical emergency has presented itself in the pantage department…

Detached Gusset.

‘Tis similar to the condition ‘Detached Retina’ of the eye, but afflicts the gusset.

One, having been painting up a storm of late, set about flinging a few items into a vintage Gucci trunk for the weekend in Devon (yes, I know, I know, Dear Reader, I’ve got a two day exhibition here in Wiv.  I shall biff back and forth)

1     seventeen Chloe Tea dresses

2     four Birkin bags, colours various

3     Cilit Bang Grime and Lime

4     stanley knife

5      pantage

But wait…

One has been shedding the odd ounce or two of late and One’s massive, Mummy-style Sloggi pants are now big enough to tuck into One’s brassiere.  This action has resulted in the condition known as ‘detached gusset’ and rendered all pants useless.

Henceforth One shall be exhibiting and marketing whilst ‘going commando’

‘Tis a bit nippy this a.m. though so shall deploy the Gok Wan control leggings until the sun breaks through.

In which One is a big old show-off…


My story is much to sad to be told
But practically everything leaves me totally cold
The only exception I know is the case
When I'm out on a quiet spree, fighting vainly the old ennui
Then I suddenly turn and see
Your fabulous face

I get no kick from champagne, mere alcohol doesn’t thrill me at all…..

Cole Porter

Actch not strictly true, One does occasionally enjoy the odd Jeroboam of fizz.

Any road up, a message in a bottle washed ashore to give One permission to put the latest portrait up for all the world to see exactly who has been uppermost in the thoughts of One, of late.

Enough of that…

One scored a major coup yesterday…

One has been given a massive commission to paint a pastiche of all things Plymouth for the front cover of the premier Estate Agent darn there.


And – not only that but they are sponsoring the Regatta and USING ONE’S DOINGS SO TO DO.

‘Result,’ came the reply from the A of the F upon hearing the glad tidings, ‘Free passes, hospitality, well done!’

Mmmmmm, methinks he’d better be kissing up to the official artist, don’t you, Dear Reader.

Wednesday, 3 September 2014

In which One’s deepest desires are unlocked…


One’s chums Kate and Alan aka ‘The Permaculture Pedlars’


One had intended to begin todays drivel with a video of Marlon Brando shouting ‘Stella,’ up the stairs in A Streetcar Named Desire.

One needs someone to show One how to attach stuff off YouTube.

Yes, yes, I know, Dear Reader, One is very slightly obsessed with aforementioned Tennessee Williams incomparable masterpiece, but hey, it is just about the most moistening movie ever.

Any road up, One has taken to waking up at the precise time that BBC4’s repeat of a series of thrilling progs on cities and years that changed the world.  Last night was New York in 1951: Jack Kerouac, Jackson Pollock and of course the debut of Marlon Brando in Streetcar.

Well, what a calamity!  There’s Marlon, torn T-shirt, rippling muscles, dripping wet all over, yelling up the stairs to Stella…


One simply will not come to harm, as

One’s wearing One’s old brown pyjam-as’

One imagines the thrilling reunion, all dripping wet at the bottom of the stairs, wouldn’t have been so delicious if Stella had been wearing her brown PJ’s

One is prob a bit too old to put Oneself in the role of Stella as the moment might also loose some of it’s pash if One descended the stairs in a Stannah Stair Lift.

Ah well…

One, being seduced by Saturday Matinee Idols on the big screen, used to deploy rather an unreliable method of selecting One’s amours…

If they looked like they might scrub up as a potential Heathcliff (that’s how Vile ex Husband slipped through the net) they were in.

Then, One went through the ‘if they brutally grabbed One by the shoulders and closed in for a snog,’ method, One generally moved in with them.

Obv the Marlon Brando T-shirt/muscles/soaking wet routine was a sure fire thing…

These days, a pulse, lighting One’s fag for One and the ability to knock up a passable shepherd’s pie of a Friday night unlocks One’s deepest desires…


Tuesday, 2 September 2014

In which One is given advice…


Kiss them goodbye, Dear Reader, this year’s fave shoes. 

‘I know they only cost you twelve quid,’ said the A of the F, ‘but you’ve spent four hundred and eighteen on superglue!’

Sadly, despite being on active duty climbing Quantocks, rock-pooling, beach-combing, tripping through puddles and generally looking divine through all weathers, the bondage walking boots are beyond repair.

On with the Uggs until next spring…

‘Your just like my Mum,’ opined one third of SIT, ‘she goes off on long walks without a coat and wearing flip-flops.’

Where’er One goes lately One gets unsolicited advice/lectures/orders from all and flamin’ sundry…

For example…


(upon meeting with his Dear Mama for a coffee outside Whelans in the square)…

‘Don’t run off and don’t move in with anyone Mum!’

‘What? This weekend or ever?,’ replied One.


‘You’ve got to stop doing stuff for other people and get your own life sorted out.  Stop concentrating on having fun and find somewhere to live.’

One had One’s fingers in One’s ears by this point and was La La La-ing.


‘Get to bed, get some sleep and don’t keep playing on that computer my girl!’

To be fair, J is 77 to my 56 so One is the wayward teenager of the gaff.

Vile ex H

‘To be fair, Claire, you are difficult to live with and erratic, so think before you do anything this time.’


That man had the great pleasure of being married to One for about twenty minutes some years ago. He’s out of therapy now though.

Any road up, he’s got a woman in his life.  I hate that!  I like all my ex husbands to shuffle through lonely lives, not eating properly and not washing their pants enough, just mooning about after One.

Still, shall soon be time for them to gather on the Lovely One ex-husband memorial bench in Jubilee Gardens. They do that each year upon the approach to the anniversary of One’s birth.  They swap stories and trade Prozac/Diazepam/Absinth etc. before returning to their secure accommodation.

I digress, Dear Reader…

Posh C

‘Eau heau appslutely lovely dahling… Isn’t it just wonderful having a divine man in one’s life.’

Good old (78) posh C.  No advice there apart from do it, do it, do it… AND THEN DO IT AGAIN

I’ll do that then!


I think I can get one more day out of them there shoes.


In which One is a bit of a we…


pronoun \ˈəs\

—used to refer to the speaker and another person or group of people as the indirect object or direct object of a verb

: people in general


pronoun, plural in construction \ˈwē\

Definition of WE


:  I and the rest of a group that includes me :  you and I :  you and I and another or others :  I and another or others not including you —used as pronoun of the first person plural — compare i, our, ours, us

Above are two words recently introduced into the life of your very own Goddess, Lovely One.

Usage as follows:  ‘we could bla bla bla etc.’

‘Us’ the collective noun for a chubby, barely solvent old has-been, (with the remnants of exceptionally good looks) and a devastatingly handsome Admiral of the Fleet.


One is in serene mood this very a.m. with things slotting into places all over the shop to One’s satisfaction.

1    Have collected all One’s ladies goods for markets various, to the chorus…

‘You do all the pricing, labelling and display Darling, you’re so much better at it all than we are.’

2    Organised Vile ex Husband to store said stuff in his gargantuan hall.

3    Strong-armed a guest for ‘The Rice Papers’ on Friday (9.30 – 10.30 am in case yer interested on 10 radio)

4    Checked up on BF and her hip and posh C and her teeth.

5    Fronted up to One’s new place of work.  Yes, Dear Reader, One has a job!  One has laid One’s cards sur le table, and informed the blighters that One doesn’t want to be tied down to a specific hour/day/time regime since One is a flighty type and is well known for bolting.


All is well with the world and One is like the proverbial porker in the privvy.


Monday, 1 September 2014

In which One is all heaving bosom…


Here, Dear Reader, are One’s Wellington boots.

‘I bet your wellies aren’t black, I bet they’re pink!’ scoffed the A of the F during a heated exchange re: sensible footwear/coatage…

‘Huh!’ says One.

Here are the Wellington boots in all their designer/buckle to fit various trouserage glory.  ‘So, flippin’ there.’


One has got a quilted sensible jacket.  I know, I know, I’d forgotten I bought that in a sale and just found it in SIT’s big cupboard under the stairs, but, hey, I’ve got one!


One has got a Lands End Squall Parka.  You remember, Dear Reader, the one with the double zip, the purpose of which had remained a mystery until One was severely fumbled by a Scot’s Guard in the car park at the Orchard one wet and windy night.

Any road up, One did remind the Admiral of the ghastly fate of the last prospective suitor to opine the requirement for waterproof articles.

(He’s now back to the ready meals for one)

‘I’m willing to take that chance,’ says he, (all brazen in the absolute knowledge that ONE ADORES HIM in the manner of a wide-eyed, chest heaving, 1950’s starlet,) ‘in order that you get some sensible boots and a waterproof coat.’

One doesn’t mind telling you, Dear Reader, One was very nigh in a puddle on the floor with that sort of mastery being displayed.

In fact, One is fairly certain that the A of the F has some kind of powers of enchantment as One found Oneself, soon after, ironing 379 shirts and then cooking a traditional Sunday lunch. 

One’s roast potato quality was called in for examination and found wanting.  One simpered in a suitably chastised manner and repeated the instruction for future reference.

Vile ex Husband was foolish enough to make a slightly similar remark many moons ago and he still has to have regular check-ups on the scar.

‘WHAT IS OCCURRING LOVELY ONE,’ One hears you chorus as one, Dear Reader.

And the answer is – One’s not entirely sure, but it’s awfully lovely!