Google+ Followers

Follow by Email

Thursday, 30 October 2014

In which One has a perfect specimen…

My head keeps spinnin',
I go to sleep and keep grinnin'
If this is just the beginnin',
my life is gonna be bee-yoo-tee-ful

Dean Martin and Robbie Williams (who doesn’t get on my nerves as much these days)

Any road up, One is chipper in the extreme this very a.m.

‘Why ever is that darling Lovely One?’ One hears you chorus as one, Dear Reader, ‘When your life is such a heap of horse shite?’

Well, dears, it’s like this…

One spent yesterday incarcerated with Boy in his lair.  Sans Vile ex Husband who sheared to UP’s for the majority of the day.  But not before sharing the news that he has, what he amusingly referred to as ‘a new girlfriend.’

‘If you want to find a suitable partner, a great deal of groundwork has to be done and many an unsuitable bint has to be trawled through on many a website,’ instructed One following the failure to launch of the last love affair.

‘Twould appear that the cove has done just that and unearthed a buxom dollop from over near Watchet.  AND…

‘Twould seem she has some influence in the housing of homeless old rural sirens such as your very own Lovely One.

‘No, no, no!’ squealed V ex H, ‘I am not asking her if she can find accommodation for my homeless ex-wife!  We’ve only had two dates!’

Date numero trois is happening this weekend (well, it begins on Friday.) Boy having been despatched elsewhere shaking his head in wonderment.

Reverting to housewife/mummy/superstar mode One offered…

‘Would you like me to clean your flat?’ having just visited the bog which required One to have a scrub down with a Brillo pad and a quart of Cillit Bang.

‘No thanks, I’ve got a plan,’ countered Vile ex H.

One would hesitate to guess at this plan, but suffice it to say that unless it involves throwing a hand grenade through the front door and starting from scratch, One foresees doom in the ‘staying the night (let alone the weekend) department.’

‘Do you remember when we first met and I wouldn’t use your bathroom until I’d cleaned it?’ recalled One, ‘You were surprised that I unearthed a pale peach bathroom suite underneath the brown one you’d been used to.’

He agreed.  The penny didn’t drop though.

Let us hope the new ladylove is ackled up in rubber gloves upon her arrival and doesn’t mind getting down and dirty!

And so here, Dear Reader, the reason One is so hop, skip and chipperish in usual Pollyanna fashion…

Upon receipt of a missive reading…

‘I am armed with me mould and mildew spray for the bathroom.’

The A of the F replied…

‘Bathroom done.’

How could One not love such a perfect specimen of manhood as that, Darlings?


Wednesday, 29 October 2014

In which One cries ‘Let me in-a your window 0w ow ow

Misery, miserable people, unhappiness, gloom – BE GONE

If poor dear, darling Lovely One can remain chipper in the face of impending doom, so should others who are much better placed than One.

Obv.,  not counting all the desps who have real probs under the same sun, just the warm and cosy secure ones who snuggle into their misery like a comfort blankie.

One’s comfort blankie shall come with One on this, the most unpleasant (weatherwise) day to have been dismissed from One’s cell to wander, wraithlike upon the moor.

Shall One huddle in a doorway and make a shelter from a couple of Hello magazines and an empty fag packet? 

Shall One disguise a bottle of Pinot in a brown paper bag and slump, vagrant-like upon a damp park bench?

Shall One seek sanctuary with Boy?

Shall One push One’s luck at BF and BFP’s yet again?  If One does that there is likely to be a change in the Heinz slogan to ‘56’ varieties, given the amount of Tomato soup BF has fed to One over the last couple of maudlin months.

The A of the F was obscured by a blanket of fog on his homeward journey yesterday.  Would that One could be lost in that fog with he.  Just like Kathy and Heathcliffe we’d be.

‘I don’t know what our souls are made of, but they are the same.’

Katherine Earnshaw – Wuthering Heights

Tuesday, 28 October 2014

In which One definitely thinks too much…


‘When she was good she was very, very good, and when she was bad she was horrid’…

By the time this photograph was taken the damage had been done and One was already raising Oneself on a diet of Hollywood Saturday Afternoon double bills, having spent the morning in the library learning about the Old Master Painters.

One was astonished to learn at the age of eleven that one’s parents were actually supposed to love one another and not hurl items various in each other’s direction.

It all came about on a visit to my friend Debbie’s house, where her Mum and Dad were larking about whilst washing up and actually kissing.

Subsequent further investigation unearthed this phenomena in the homes of other friends and in due course the truth came hurtling into the face of the adolescent Lovely One in the manner of half a house brick in a handbag.

Did this colour the objectives of Lovely One?  Did it feck!  In fact, rather the reverse, and off sauntered One into the valley of the shadow of the pursuit of love from which One is yet to emerge.

A catastrophic failure in that direction, One biffs on regardless with the optimistic glee of a geriatric Pollyanna, hoiking me control leggings up with every other skip and jump.

As a diametric opposite to this tale…

One knows one who’s parents were blissfully happy and so was brought up in an atmosphere of love. 

Yet this person (a chum of One’s, don’t even try to guess) is suspicious of luuurve and purports not to know what it is.

What an awfully odd little species we all are.  How much simpler life would be if we all lived in the manner of Mayflies: Born, boff, snuff it – result!

I digress…

Back to the chum…

The chum knows what it is and poor Darling Lovely One isn’t quite sure.

Maybe we could advise One another?

Monday, 27 October 2014

In which this one’s for One…

Harbour blue painting

The Barbican.  We went there on Saturday.  One driven across the moor to admire the scenery by the wonderful A of the F, who really is the most fabulous man.  For a vocally reticent cove, his actions are those of one who rather likes One.

So, here is One back in Wivey on the dreaded Monday, and yes, a double blog day.

Just for One, this one as One can’t seem to shake the awful low feeling with yet another week of displacement, nowhere to belong and general unpleasantness stretching out afore One.

No, no, Dear Reader, One isn’t depressed.  One isn’t yearning in the manner of a fourteen year old, for the A of the F (though One obv would wish him with me) One is displaced in the grand scheme of things.

One has no home to call One’s own.  ‘Tis a strange and disturbing feeling in the extreme. 

Tomorrow One will be chipper and ready to face whatever is thrust afore One, as One always is when Tuesday comes along.  So why is Monday such a god awful, stomach knotting, little-bit-of-sick day?

One would cheerfully trade a not to often used limb for a bit of stability and security, One would.

It’s a scary place to live, my life.  But, One shall be escaping on Thursday this week to thrash out a masterpiece. 

Shame it won’t be Wednesday though, since One is required to vacate the premises for the day.  Oh well, maybe take a little exploratory mission to the Citizens Advice Bureau.  After all One is rather old, maybe a nice over fifties bung is out there awaiting One’s occupation.

Sunday, 26 October 2014

In which the weekend is over...

Oh please, Dear Reader, it can't be Monday again already.
Cinders, following a weekend of glass slipper removal, with the handsome Prince, has got to take up position with the wicked stepmother again.
'I'm smouldering passionately,' informed One to the A.
'No you're not, you're having a hot flush,' counters he.
One felt that might be a cunning ruse to prolong the morning by say, fifteen years or so.
But no, anxious to transfer temporary custody of your very own Goddess, all protestations regarding a lengthier sojourn are being ignored.
I know, I know, Dear Reader, One has a catastrophic record in the longevity of ooman relationships, but hey, the A of the F must surely be due some sort of long service award.
One busily Geishas One's tits off on a daily basis at the mo.The first half of the week in not such a sanguine fashion, it has to be said, but come the weekend, One would cheerfully prostrate Oneself in the ultimate surrender, just for an extra three minutes of snuggling, before the ghastly whiff of reality pervades the atmosphere.
One's life is a v scary place to live, Darlings.
One needs to be rescued before it's too late and One's youthful charms are but a distant memory.
Oh well, spect I'll just smoke a fag and worry about that later. There's AGES yet.

In which One is skint...

Off we biffed in search of payment for a long ago delivered masterpiece.
Next week One shall be sashaying up to the checkout in Waitrose and saying
'Is it ok if I pay for these groceries next month?'
One received the grand total of fifty two quid this month, with monies hundreds multiples outstanding.
One has come up with a radical plan. And here it is...
I paint the feckers
You, great unwashed public, take them home

At this rate, when One is summarily dismissed from Ones 'ladies maid' position, one shall have had One's gaff repossessed, so One and SIT will be in a tent in the Pinksters jardin.

Friday, 24 October 2014

In which One snogs to victory...

One has made a v important discovery in the field of cognitive therapy, Darlings.
Going to work with the A of the F, which entails being driven along the winding Deepest Heaven roads at warp speed, is the ultimate stress buster.
Should one be lucky enough to begin one's journey in late Autumn afternoon, one can experience the breathtaking beauty of the A's profile in the golden hour just afore sunset.
Darkness swiftly falling, one can grip, white knuckled, to the FM handle, and thoroughly negate the need for the ex lax.
One jests, of course, as One trusts the A implicitly, and would gladly place One's life, or indeed any body part selection, in his capable, exquisite hands at the drop of a chapeau.
He does however, remain an enigma.
One, who operates on the premise of opening One's gob and allowing everything to  just come charging out without prior organization, is fascinated and flummoxed by the measured and considered A.
But beware my darling A, the enigma code was broken eventually by the brilliance of Alan Turin.
Obv, One isn't capable of such lofty brain powered feats, but One feels fairly confident that this particular enigma code shall be broken by softly lingering kisses.

In which One paints with words…


Nothing even remotely amusing has occurred this week, Dear Reader…

Therefore, kindly allow One to paint a portrait of the A of the F in words…

Yester-evening, fuelled by the general euphoria of finishing work for the day/having a scoff and a scotch/football on telly, the A sent One a cheerful message…

Back and forth they went.  (messages various)

One, reclining on the truckle bed with a ‘manuka honey peel-off face mask’ graamed on, wearing me special thermal socks and with a hot water bottle stuffed down the arse of me leggings, made like a skittish sex kitten, secure in the knowledge that One wasn’t visible.

‘Come over now if you want,’ came one missive.

‘Twas growing dark, One required extensive grooming in all departments and so elected to remain a vision of loveliness in his mind’s eye…

Just as he is in mine…

And here he is…

Resplendent in the moss-green, elderly person’s reclining armchair and, no doubt, sporting the cargo shorts, t-shirt and body warmer, he sits with scotch in one hand, fag in the other shouting at the football on his i-pad.

And with bare feet.  Mmmmmm

A veritable force-field of items various will be displayed, barrier-like, about the perimeter of the A of the F docking station…

1     Cheesy biscuits

2     photography magazines

3     fag packets

4      books he keeps meaning to read

5      TV guide

6      newly acquired tripod (that gets more attention than One!)

Occasionally the guitar shall be deployed and an obscure 1960’s dirge will drift out the open window to bemuse the nearby field of sheep.

Grimacing and shouting (see above) at regular intervals at any perceived irregular decision made by some poor referee type is de rigeur.

Any road up…

A vision of loveliness indeed, with just one item missing – One (minus face-mask, hot water bott and socks of course)



Wednesday, 22 October 2014

In which all stories have a beginning, middle and end…


And so it was thus, Dear Reader.  (see above)

Matters of the heart and One are a bit of a ninepenny dinner, as per.

‘Don’t get your ex-husband involved in any way with your new partner!’ exclaimed the Pinkster in utter horror when One told her that One was having the A of the F’s pooter repaired by Vile-ex-husband.

She was, of course, correct, given that the first iteration of the maintenance had gone well enough to induce a ranting diatribe worthy of One herself from the A.

Back went One to the lair of the V ex H with pooter between legs for ‘stage two.’

‘It’s not your fault,’ repeated the A, each time One looked crestfallen and guilty.

Which indeed it was really, because One is a ridiculous old Haddock who sloshes about wearing rose-tinted spectacles expecting everyone to get along famously like we’re all living in sodding Trumpton.

But we’re not are we, Dear Reader?  In fact, One doesn’t know where on earth One will be living soon.

Any road up, Vile ex H asked One a favour whilst One was in situ awaiting the festering pooter.

‘Would you take some pictures of me for a dating website?’ came the enquiry (One having remarked upon the dour expression of the cove on said website)

‘Oh flippin’ ‘eck!’ opined Boy, clearly bemused by his divorced parents playing the field at such an advanced age.

‘Wossup with you, Boy?’ said One

‘Well, it’s riddicurous, you two having dates and stuff,’ came the retort, ‘and you keep moving in with ‘em after thirty-seven minutes!’

Which is, of course, plainly a filthy lie!  It was at least forty-two minutes last time, and it lasted for hours!

Tuesday, 21 October 2014

In which the Count disgraces himself…

black cat

The male of the species, any species in fact, can prove to be rather demonic at times.

One can treat them with tender care and love them with an unselfish love that requires nothing in return, but they still end up peeing in your handbag.

And so it was thus this very morning…

Us gels awoke to the rustling of the Count in a large carrier bag full of newly purchased garments relieving himself on a rose-pink cashmere sweater.

Lovely One, having taken BF out yesterday to acquire another sixty-three long jumpers to wear over her leggings, had purchased, fortunately, the full compliment of laundry items and so, placing One’s room-mate in the lifeboat, set about swabbing the decks.

The Count, clearly aware that his actions weren’t acceptable, miaowed in a plaintive fashion and sat so prettily on the stone floor that only the most vicious of harpies could have exacted any revenge at all.

(This, in One’s vast experience is fairly similar to the stance of the guilty boyfriend/husband/lover) 

Is it because they need to test us gels as to how far our love can be stretched?  Do they have a innate inability to accept our devotion?  Can they not just take it, pack it in a little satin-lined box and take a tiny, fragrant pinch of it when they need succour? 

Or are they hard-wired to piss in our handbags?


In which Pollyanna prevails yet again…


Masses and masses of stuff to worry about this week, Dear Reader.  What shall One devote One’s angst to first?


  I know, let’s forget the fecking lot of it and have a lovely time instead!

After all, One has such divine things happening in One’s life that anything horrid is merely batted away like a troublesome gnat.

Painted toenails featured rather highly on the weekend’s agenda, see above.

‘Long painted toenails and serious walking whilst wearing walking boots don’t go together,’ lectured the A of the F as he strode into the distance, hopping over crevices various like a young gazelle.

‘Well, I’ve still got me summer feet on,’ answered One, in One’s defence as One ‘oohed and aaahed and ouched’ One’s merry way.

‘Cut them by next weekend if we’re serious about getting fit,’ barked the blighter, by return.

Now, Darlings, One has lots of ‘issues’ to be addressed in One’s bohemian life at the mo, but One hadn’t foreseen anything as ghastly as the removal of One’s beautifully polished toenails.  (Not in their entirety, of course.)

Any road up, ‘women’s issues’ loom large over One.  What an absolute bore/snore/bore.  One is a vile and demanding patient, so let’s hope, for the sake of the medical profession there’s nothing to detain one in a hospital bed.

According to an interested bystander, ‘the seriousness has diminished following one tour of duty up the twinkle with no enemies found behind the lines.’

  Huh, wouldn’t say that if you were getting a Box Brownie up the chuff box, would you?!

‘Hello Lovely One.  How are you?’ enquire passers by in Wiv.

‘I am jolly fine,’ Lovely One always replies (being British, unless one has a limb hanging on by a tendon, this is the stock answer)

But then One recalls that One writes it all down for all the world to see…

So now everyone will know the appalling and sad tale of the required removal of the red toenails…

Monday, 20 October 2014

In which One falls for the A…


One, accompanied by the A of the F, walked…



That, to those of you un-initiated with Ordinance Survey maps, like what One is, is Five fecking hundred feet above sea-level.

I know, Dear Reader, I couldn’t believe it either! But there you are, One did it.  Not, it has to be recorded, without a lot of ‘comment making’ which the darling A of the F calls ‘moaning.’

One is not quite the scampering little mountain goat yet as One tripped over and fell, narrowly missing a tumble down the v steep approach to the water.

This ungainly splat wasn’t attributable to the fact that One’s keks are constantly falling down, One has a new pair that fit.  No, more because of One being a clumsy, galumphing great oaf.

It wasn’t until One espied the darling A limping upon our return that he owned up to having twisted his ankle and being in sharp pain.

‘Why didn’t you say something?’ enquired One.

‘There wasn’t anything you could do about it, was there? Shit happens,’ replied the inscrutable cove.

One, being the sort who allows EVERTHING  to charge out of One’s gob without thinking it through, couldn’t get to grips with that at all.

In fact, One has very probably said too much about a lot of things this weekend.  But, if you don’t say what you feel and think the other person will never know, will they?

So, it seems likely that One will continue to blurt out all manner of stupid things whilst the A will continue to keep it all to himself.  That really just makes me adore him all the more!!

Sunday, 19 October 2014

In which One biffs on regardless...

One has been informed by One's heart's desire that One is a curious hybrid of Margaret Rutherford and Mary Poppins.  How so? When One has spent many a long year affecting the ways of Pollyanna and Dozzer Day.
No matter, Dears, One shall plough on regardless.
Any road up, One has more pressing matters to attend to, such as One's life being a scary place to live at the mo.
My rose tinted spectacles have gone awol and I see all clearly and it's not pretty.
Will One be cowed and defeated?
Fortified by a cuddle, two bits of toast and a fag, One biffs on regardless in pursuit of love and lodgings.

Saturday, 18 October 2014

In which One is indisposed...

Good Afternoon darlings.
One has been unavailable for comment until now as One has been indisposed and prostrate upon a truckle bed in the spare room so as not to disturb the A of the F.
Having been drained of the greater part of One's life's blood, One resolved to scoff a v large slice of lightly broiled moo cow, that lay like a paving slab dans One's delicate constitution until it resolved to 're-enter the world at some ungodly hour.
Last weekend One had to be administered to by the A since One had a migraine. This weekend's ailment, as yet undiagnosed, has been met with the same loving care.
The most saintly of coves would get sick of One fairly sharpish if this continues, so One is resolved to break out a catering pack of Berocca.
Any road up, the A is watching the football and I am helping him by interjecting with interesting and acutely observed observational comments.
'Isn't it lovely how the audience wear colour coordinated outfits?'  Opined One.
'What did you say, you stupid woman?' Came the reply.
One thinks this may be the ideal time to nip out and do a bit of painting.

Thursday, 16 October 2014

In which One is being slowly drained of life’s blood…

black pudding

That’s One’s arm that is, Dear Reader…

Holed up at BF’s smoking fags up the garden as BFP had gorn orf sailing about on the briny.

But, not before going to the apothecary yet again and them syphoning off another armful of Lovely One’s finest blue blood.

What the feck are they doing with it all?  Making a special Halloween Lovely One black pudding and flogging it at the award winning butchers.

And, get this, Dear Reader, now, not content with an armful of One’s finest, now they want to deploy a Kodak Instamatic and take some holiday snaps UP ONE’S TWINKLE, fer fecks sake!  I blame YouTube! 

I can see it now…

The main feature, ‘Fantastic Voyage up Lovely One’s Gusset’ starring…

Mmmmm  let’s think!  I know, Johnny Depp.  Mmmmm maybe do it after all!

Any road up One has got to shift into warp drive today regardless.

Unless One is off sharpish after the interview with a ‘Dog Psychologist’, whatever the feck that is, and does a rake of masterpieces One and the A of the F are never going to take off on our own fantastic voyage.

One, never actually having figured out the workings of the human male shall be hanging on the Doggsters every word and deploying a few of the dog control tactics on the A of the F.  After all he loves rolling over and having his tummy tickled.


Wednesday, 15 October 2014

In which One shall be hoop-la-ing a policeman’s helmet…


That’s me that is, Dear Reader, Pollyanna…

But ‘Oh oh, I’m in trouble, someone’s come along and burst my bubble.’

Following on from yesterday’s miserable little dirge, One is resigned to One’s fate.

One doesn’t do altercation/spite/pettiness so One is orf.  Who knows where?  Fecked if One does.

‘Slap the focking beetch,’ as the Wood Nymph would say, but no, One shall remain serene (One can’t risk frowning and growing another wrinkle)

One knows One’s butt has to be removed, but not yet, Dear Reader, One must preserve the evidence lest One end up in Holloway.

The Underground Lair, having fulfilled it’s primary objective of providing a safe haven for Boy to turn into Boy/Man, has to go.

Tis a shame for SIT who had turned it into a peace haven/commune/dreamscape, but there we are.  

One shan’t be boomeranging back in there unless it’s absolutely necessary.  For, ‘tis for sale to the highest bidder.

Any road up that miserable fact shall be thrust to the back of One’s mind as tomorrow, following One’s radiogram broadcast (9.30 a.m. One shall be sashaying forth to North Heaven for a weekend of unbridled bliss and fish finger sandwiches with the A of the F.

An Oasis of limpid desire lies deep in those ice-blue eyes, to counter the arid beastliness of the barren desert of the week.

Sophisticated evenings of lolling about on the sofa smoking fags and drinking Vodka lie just beyond the horizon awaiting a feverish One with,  no doubt, the A of the F pinging One’s braces (BF got them to stop me keks falling down) and One hoop –la- ing onions rings around his policeman’s helmet until the early hours.


Tuesday, 14 October 2014

In which One’s bubble is burst by a butt…


That, Dear Reader, is someone bursting One’s bubble.

As you know from your slavish devotion to One’s doings, One is an ever-hopeful Pollyanna of a poppet, skipping and dancing through life with One’s rose-tinted spectacles perched upon One’s upturned, perfect retrouss√© nubby…

AND, even though One has removed Oneself from the lair of the white worm, One is still to be hounded, hunted, tortured in the manner of Diana.

‘Twould appear that One is now guilty of heinous crime involving One’s butt. 

One’s butt is hereby charged with the ruination of the back wall of Stalag Homestead, due to it’s supernatural powers.

Delving deeper into history…

‘Tis an accepted fact that Adolf Hitler was the primary cause of the outbreak of WW2 by his invasion of Poland.

Wrong…  Obv was entirely the fault of One’s illegal butt.

Eve washed the apple in my butt…

9 11 was a butterfly effect directly attributable to me having my butt turned on…

The Ebola virus was born and mutated in my butt…

and so it goes on, Dear Reader…

Not that One is against removal of aforementioned butt, oh no, One forgot about it and shall address the sitch asap, but now One has to enter into all the nastiness of butt retribution and the like, when all One wants to do is paint, kip and scamper off to North Heaven…


Monday, 13 October 2014

In which One is Trilby to the A of the F’s Svengali…


That’s me that is, Dear Reader, that Trilby.  And that’s the A of the F, that is, that Svengali bloke.


‘I think he’s met his match with you!’ opined BF1 on our second visit to their gaff.

One was obv showing off and playing to the crowd.

HA! if only they knew the erstwhile thuggish Lovely One is mere putty in his hands…

And what lovely, divine hands they are, Dear Reader…


‘the very thought of you, and One forgets to do, the little ordinary things that everyone ought to do,’….bla bla fecking bla…

Elephant Gerald

Any road up, EXPLAIN TO ONE IF YOU CAN, Dear Reader, exactly how did he get One to purchase, and indeed wear, Walking fecking boots?

And then, to put the tin hat on it, Darlings, he had One in agreement to go beating for a shoot, not to mention the threat of body-boarding, whatever the feck that is!

Fortunately fate has intervened and decreed that this weekend will be dry, warm and sunny, so One’s off the hookette for the week at least in favour of shearing to the Barbican to be schmoozed in galleries various, take pics and scoff lobster.

‘You needn’t think I’m falling all over you and treating you like Lady Rice,’ came the threat from the A when he’d learnt of One’s legendary status in those parts.

We’ll see about that, mon capitan!

Any road up, it might not actually be the hypnotic power of the ice-blue eyes gazing deep into One’s soul.  It could be the application of seventeen vodka and tonics that gets One agreeing to all these alien activities.


Bonjour to Dear Readers Francais.  For the first time in the history of this little record of One’s time on Earth, France has more readers than the USA. Who are vous?  Do tell!



In which One is a killing machine...

Good Morning Darlings.
A splendid weekend of love in a mist has been embraced in all its forms by Lovely One and the A of the F.
'Could you despatch the prey?' Enquired the A.
One is fairly sure this enquiry has little or no involvement with the Post Office, but rather the snappage of a slender throat.
'Of course' Countered One, having always been something of a brute.
'Well, we'll do it then!' Announced the A with regard to us spending the day beating for a local shoot.
Now, Dear Reader, One is finely tuned killing machine when it comes to the acquisition of a morsel of free scoff, but a slight niggle is suspended over One in the transportation department.
One is fine with the thrashing through the undergrowth. One is resigned to a day without One's face on. One is even OK with One's splendid hair getting damp and dishevelled. One scoffs at the blood, mud and guts that the day shall surely bring.
BUT, ONE is anxious in the extreme regarding the ascent and descent from the rear quarter of of farm vehicles various.
One need only refer you, Dear Reader, to the ghastly spectacle that is One when attempting to mount/dismount the rear seat of the Pinksters Land Rover.
In fact, last time this feat was eventually accomplished, the great Wivey unwashed had enjoyed full visual access to One's nether regions, since One was compelled to tuck One's frock firmly into me Gok Wan control leggings in order to complete the procedure.
You see, Dear Reader, One is the possessor of, albeit astonishingly shapely, very short little legs.
One can hear the A of the F now yelling...
'Get yer arse in the fecking truck woman!'
Will One cut it with a truck load of hairy arsed farm hands? One is rather a daring, devil May care sort, so One shouldn't disgrace Oneself entirely, but only if One gets a shove up the chuff box to assist One's tiny little legs in the heavage of One's delicious little spherical self into the back of the aforementioned truck.

Sunday, 12 October 2014

In which One is a cherub...

Off we went at some ungodly hour to take photographs of the view over the river in Bideford. One, henceforth referred to as The Cherub, by One's new patron, has been given keys to said patron' s gaff in order that the A of the F can chauffeur One back and forth to paint aforementioned view.
'You can ask him as much as you like, but he will never let you paint him' said the A, of his BF 1
'You would appear to be doubting my extraordinary powers of persuasion,' countered One.
'See this soft, well manicured tiny hand?' Continued One, 'people eat out of that.'
'Yeah right' went on the A, 'you'll never get him AND you'll never ever get me doing your colouring in!'
Gauntlet thrown down, One went into charm overdrive and within two minutes and earshot of th a A of the F One had BF 1 in the palm of One's tiny hand.
One immediately passed on the glad tidings to Mrs BF 1 and sashayed forth to claim One's wager cash 're: painting BF 1
'Two hundred and fifty of your Eath pounds methinks' said the smiling cat that is Lovely One.
'I don't think so!' Countered the A, ice blue eyes glinting with mesmerizing mischief.
'I think you'll find the 250 was the bet that I would never do the colouring in and the portrait bet was for seven squillion quid.'
The thing is, the A, even if he wins the lottery won't pay up because he plans to shear with Cameron Diaz.
Well, let me tell you, Dear Reader, she hasn't got anything that One hasn't got more of and had longer.

Friday, 10 October 2014

In which One is under Johnny Depp…

my coat

One could die from the cold of late…

‘Have you actually GOT a coat?’ came the stern enquiry from the A of the F as it became clear that the mists of Autumn were upon us.

‘Of course I have, you silly!’ countered Lovely One.

And, here it is, Dear Reader, One’s Norman Hartnell winter coat. 

‘Viva la Vintage!’ hollers One.

One ventured ‘neath the truckle bed yester-eve in order to retrieve One’s winter attire and the results didn’t bode well.

‘Fer Feck’s sake stop lugging yer strides up every three steps and bring ‘em round ‘ere for me to alter!’ demanded BF

Sadly, the winter woolly saga shall prove much the same since each massive woolly pully appears to have been constructed using an entire Welsh hillside-full of sheep covering.

Pity the poor Taiwan-ese bint clicking her needles through flock after flock just to construct a garment for Lovely One.

Any road up, not that the A of the F would notice what One wore.  In fact, he barely notices One at all and having an email conv with him is not dissimilar to a conv with Aged P in the continuity stakes…

One (via email)  bla bla ba… ‘I’ve really missed you this week and am looking forward to seeing you,’

He  (by return)  ‘I’ve got two appointments tomorrow and then I’m going to play snooker AND I’m going to miss the start of the football.’

Miffed in the extreme, One answered a particularly long missive with ‘OK’

Late into the night came…’I’m looking forward to the weekend!’

This must surely be progress. Although not an actual mention of poor darling Lovely One, the underlying message shows promise.

Tentative enquiry into the state of play has met with the response,

‘yer ‘ere ain’t yer?’

As a girl from Luton knows this is tantamount to a declaration of devotion undying, but having been billeted with posh coves for the passing of many a moon One needs a punch in the kidneys to return to terra firma every so oft.

Any road up, One has heard tell that when One and all shuffle off this mortal coil there is a likelihood that coffins shall be stacked four deep.  One has put in a request for One’s three companions to be: The A of the F (obv) Johnny Depp and Ioan Gruffudd.   One’s not entirely sure of the required stacking order yet though.

In fact, maybe a trial run afore One snuffs it is in order…

Let’s start tonight!


Thursday, 9 October 2014

In which One is an amazing dancing Claire bear…

dancing bear 

I may go out tomorrow if I can borrow a coat to wear
Oh, I'd step out in style with my sincere smile and my dancing bear
Outrageous, alarming, courageous, charming

Oh, who would think a boy and bear
Could be well accepted everywhere
It's just amazing how fair people can be…

That’s me that is, Dear Reader, that dancing bear…

More on that story later… (Please read in Kirty Wark)

Me and BF biffed off toward the sea with the express mission to smoke fags, eat cake and visit H in the Clotted Cream Furniture shop.

On the way we reminisced about some of the strange meal combinations that Vile ex H and BFP had served up when either of us has been too under the doctor to cater.

V ex H only ever provided crisps and yoghurt,  but BFP has been more adventurous over the years.  In fact yesterday he dished up Lasange with mixed veg. 

NO NO NO   -     DIRTY

But his piece de resistance was surely the kippers and baked beans.

One can almost hear the thought process…

‘I like kippers.  I like baked beans.  That’s it then.’


There are no such tales of the A of the F who is, after all, perfect in every way…

Any road up, whilst this is all going on The A of the F is regaling half of North Dev with the doings of your very own darling Lovely One.

And not, One hastens to add, any swashbuckling derring do or somesuch, no, all of One’s little mishaps, which as you know are legion.

Last weekend his BF1 was treated to the tale of One’s first v lengthy journey to The Manor via Clovelly and the tale of the walking boots, plus other side-splitting scrapes One gets into on a daily basis.

This weekend One is ordered to meet BF2 who has already been given chapter and verse on One’s general buffoonery and blithering eejit status.

‘Twould appear that Lovely One is being wheeled out in the manner of a dancing bear as a general amusement for the great unwashed of North Dev.

No matter, One shall be taking a cap in which to collect One’s grace and favour offerings following this weekend’s performance.

And to think when BF and me were out One was singing the praises of The A of the F in the extreme, in between fags and cake.

We did have a good chortle about BFP, but he still holds such authority regarding fags etc., that we stopped on the way home and sucked a Fisherman’s Friend.


Wednesday, 8 October 2014

In which the Autumn mists fall gently…


Apols, Dear Reader, for the fuzzy quality of the picture of One’s dear little foot, but One is in such appalling pain that One couldn’t hold still the Box Brownie.  ‘Tis still possible to observe the swollen and bandaged nature of One’s tiny little pinkie, with possibly the largest and most dreadfully painful blister in the world.

‘Don’t come running to me when you’ve got blisters,’ said that heartless brute, The A of the F.

Well, you great big, sensibly shod bully, you, One hopes you’re satisfied now that One is on the cusp of hospitalisation for the coming months.

And all because you couldn’t colour-co-ordinate One’s socks! (which, incidentally came home in One’s handbag, so One has been sleeping with them under One’s pillow)

Nurse J administered one of them there spesh blister plaster devices and that may well hold off the First Responders and Crash Team for a while, but it’s no thanks to you, great, brutish, waterproof jacket wearing, outdoor thug.

Any road up, ‘tis deffo the season of ‘fists and fellow mootfullness’ as One has been deploying the onesie and special insulated, pink, thermal socks of a night time.

‘Oh no, Lovely One,’ One hears your heart rending plea, Dear Reader, ‘Hasn’t the dear old A of the F suffered enough with you in them ghastly old brown jim jams?  Surely you’re not going to risk deploying the onesie on a romantic weekend?’


The north wind whistling through One’s Twinkle Triangle is enough to deploy the Gok Wan control leggings UNDERNEATH the onesie never mind just the onesie its-divine-self!

‘Tis a tad nippy in the Manor of an evening, and, SURELY, One has One’s darling little toes far enough under the table to risk introducing the onesie without the A of the F heading for the hills?

So, in conclusion, Dear Reader, never mind that Michael bleedin’ Fish, One is the true harbinger of the changing of the seasons, for when the onesie is out, the summer is well and truly gone and the Autumn mists swirl gently around Lovely One and the A of the F having a sneaky snog somewhere next a waterfall in North Heaven.



Monday, 6 October 2014

In which One craves a crumb of affection (when One’s finished the hoovering)…


See, Dear Reader, how Geisha-ing for the A of the F has taken it out of One?

Face on inside out, woodbine stuck to a crack in me bottom lip, hair like cotton wool…

One could go on, and indeed One shall…

You could scour out the inside of that coffee pot with them ‘ands, you could.

Does One get a crumb of affection hurled in One’s direction?  Does One, feck!

The A is a particularly inscrutable old fecker.  I know, I know, Dear Reader One said One was up to the back teeth with love-declaring-bunnagers.

‘Well, you got what you wanted then didn’t you?’ One hears you chorus Dear Reader, and yes, One certainly did.

‘Need any help out there Darlin’?’ comes the weak and feeble mantra, whilst Tottingham are having a little game of football with West Hamilton Rovers or somesuch.

‘No yer alright,’ replies One through gritted teeth (not gritted too firmly though as with the lack of nutrition and affection One’s teggies are almost all loose now)

Occasionally the sound of an aerosol can being discharged and the ghastly aroma of a catering pack of Raid fills the air.

The A of the F oft stirs from his delicious moss green velour, elderly person’s, adjustable arm chair in order to massacre the fly population of North Dev.  In fact, so much so, that poor dear Lovely One no longer emits a cloud of No 5 as One wafts through life.  No, Dear Reader, One is permanently coated in a liberal sufficiency of Raid, to the extent that any airborne critter coming within ten feet of One’s person, simply plummets to earth, stone cold dead!

And so, Dear Reader, One shall spend the remainder of One’s ‘time off’ soaking One’s chilblains in the washing-up bowl (support stockings on, of course) and coating One’s callused hands with Swarfega, in order that One can sooth the A of the F’s fevered brow next weekend, when One’s finished the hoovering, obv.


In which One is a devoted puppy…


Scaling the slippery rocks in the manner of a mountain goat, the A of the F took this fablious pickerture of Watersmeet Falls.

‘You are definitely the only person in the world to ever wear walking boots without socks, you stupid woman!’ opined he, ‘You’ll get blisters and don’t even think about complaining to me!’

A tad harsh, since he had proffered RED socks to go with my grey and purple walking boots.  As if, Dear Reader. There’s no excuse for not looking colour-co-ordinated and elegant, even if One is to be dragged up practically vertical slopes again.

Even the way One had done the blighters up was deemed incorrect and the A re-tied One’s  boots whilst One was reclining in a Tea Garden with a Latte.  One is fairly sure the assembled throng perceived him to be my carer.

One then had occasion to biff into a dark corner to retrieve One’s Gok Wan control leggings that had shimmied down below One’s pants, and the two sizes too big outer keks were in grave danger of plummeting to terra firma.  Not a good look for the over 50’s

However, One was spared an indeterminate yomp by the lucky appearance (One spotted it actually) of a Heron strategically placed in yonder tree.  We waited almost an hour for it to take flight and got the desired ‘money shot.’

One didn’t get any shots as One’s camera batts ran out immediately upon arrival.  The A showed off with his spare battery pack and clearly felt One was a complete blithering eejit.

It was an absolutely divine weekend that sped by in the beat of One’s heart and now One is back in Wiv, wiv that funny empty Monday feeling.

Any road up, One shall devote Oneself to One’s paintings until Friday, when One can do it all over again.

‘We can go a bit further each week,’ said the A, referring to our brisk country walks.

One, of course, shall follow along behind like a chubby Labrador puppy, hanging on to the A’s every word and doing his bidding.

‘What the devils up with you Lovely One?’ One hears you chorus, ‘Usually it’s them what does your bidding and worships you in the manner of a puppy dog.’

One is exagerating for the purposes of the blog, Dear Reader.  Obv One only does what One wants to do and One wants to scamper along with the A of the F for the foreseeable. 

Sunday, 5 October 2014

In which One is suitably adored...

Well, Dear Reader, a new regime is in place for this and every weekend, henceforth.
One, wearing One's six quid Tesco brassiere, a sublime pair of chiffon evening pants and a 'come hither' smile, was transported to the A of the F' s chums gaff for an evening of absolute adoration.
Having spent the entire daylight hours Geisha-ing for the A, One was thrilled in the extreme to be immediately bunged on a comfy pedestal where One so obv belongs.
Clearly, the A's chum was in One's thrall from the word go.
One left the gaff with an offer of sanctuary for the duration of time it would take to paint the view over the river at the back of said gaff.
AND compliments various filled the air regarding the general youthful loveliness of One.
Sadly, none of the afore mentioned adoration has had any effect, positive or otherwise, on the undemonstrative A.
He still made me get up to make the tea, whilst he lay neath the quilt farting.
Does One care, Dear Reader? Not a jot! One lives only to serve, and anyway the sooner One gets back under the quilt, the sooner One can take his mind off the walking boots currently festering in the boot of the Ferrari.

Saturday, 4 October 2014

In which One forgets me pants...

The rain dance that One has been doing had paid dividends and suitably monsoon-esque conditions are buffetting about up me gusset to the extent that THE BOOTS ARE STILL IN THE BOX.  Result!
In fact One has only just this minute emerged from neath the duvet
The chances of One getting ackled up in One's walking gear are v v slender.
The A of the F should still be basking in the glory of being the only cove ever to bring his influences to bear upon One's wardrobe.
Today One will be mostly wearing One's trackie bottoms over One's Jim jams and holding a packet of frozen peas over One's left eye. One may, from time to time scoff a banana and chocolate sanger.
'What are you going to do while I'm out?'  Enquired the A.
'Thinking,' replied One.
'Oh no' says he, 'you over think everything as it is.'
Well, Dear Reader, One will be thinking about bras and pants, since One has inadvertently left all One's afore mentioned foundation garments at home airing on top of the Rayburn.
In fact the A had to accompany One into town to acquire a brassiere lest One turn up tonight to be introduced to his chums wearing the Triumph Teenager Sports bra.
Not a good look for the older woman, he says. Particularly with the straps poking out of the diaphanous chiffon evening gown One will be wearing to the local Weatherspoons.

Thursday, 2 October 2014

In which satchels are deployed…

holly hobbie

For some obscure reason, BF, at the tender age of sixty, has started dressing like a Holly Hobbie doll (see above)

Not that the mid-thigh length frock teamed with leggings, ankle socks and tiny little red lace-up boots isn’t a good look, but since it took One the passing of many a moon to steer her away from the ‘beige’ One feels that the medication may have taken hold.

She and One, however, eschew the Wivey Woman of a certain age look… Short grey hair, glasses, beige slacks (oooh I hate the work slacks) and the obligatory back pack.

One will be a blonde if One lives to be four hundred and eighty six. 

Someone asked Glenys Kinnock what she would like to be remembered for and she answered, ‘being blonde.’  One’ll go along with that.  Clearly a sound woman!

Any road up, I digress, BF and One also favour the across the body satchel look visa ve handbags.  BF because she’s still deploying the walking sticks and One because, well, just because.

‘You and that fecking satchel!’ hollered the Pinkster as One turned a bit sharpish and cleared the top of a display in a posh shop the other day.

But, in One’s defence, One needs the satchel…

Giving it it’s annual muck-out One discovered the essentials no one can do without…

a mouldy banana

a Swiss army knife

a pair of socks

a steel ruler

nine drawing pens

an eraser

a pencil sharpener

three tena lady lights (one used)

seven lipsticks (four with the tops off)

three five pounds off No 7 vouchers (one expired in 1972)

a fag end

six disposable lighters (all belonging to the A of the F)

three combs

half a crunchie

four hair scrunchies

seventy nine assorted receipts

a passport (well One never knows does one?)


Wednesday, 1 October 2014

In which One is colouring in…


How lucky is One, Dear Reader, to spend One’s days colouring in?

In fact, One’s life is just like a giant, dot-to-dot colouring book.

Sadly, in the past One has joined up all the dots in completely the wrong order and ended up in a two and eight more times than is prudent to peruse.

However, One is sanguine and chilled in the extreme at the mo and going with the flow.

One is, even though on the cusp of homelessness once again, counting One’s blessings, and One tells ya what, Dear Reader, they’re legion!

Last week was spent doing a big colouring (see above) for some posh coves down the Barbican.  The week culminated in a divine day out with the Pinkster.

It doesn’t get much better than that, does it Dear Reader?

This week has been all deliveries, house-breaking, smoking fags, buying walking boots, having lunch cooked for One and BF by BFP…

‘He’s only showing off because you’re here,’ opined BF, but to be fair to the blighter, he made a stonking lunch!


One is going to get fit again.  Remember when One used to do two hours of aerobics every day and then go weight training?

No, neither do I, but I did and was a yummy mummy in the extreme when Boy was a boy.

Any road up, me and the A of the F are suitably booted for the moors this autumn/winter so that when we take our geriatric gap year we’ll be toned and muscular and not look like we’re wearing baggy pink shell suits.


In which a spot of house breaking is done…


There we are, Dear Reader, me ‘n’ ‘er, on the Barbican, just after we’d inhaled a whale and chips.

Check list for the day…

1     Deliver painting to printer

2     Pick up more prints from Dear Little S

3     Nip in gallery

4     Scoff a harbour full of fish

5     Break into a house and steal some money

Let me explain, Dear Reader, at least, if only to draw your attention away from the fact that One appears to have more Chins than the Chinese telephone directory… (And what’s with that massive Jimmy Durante schnozz?)

Any road up…

‘Blimey!  Everyone fusses around you like you’re famous or something,’ opined the Pinkster.

‘Oooh, do they?’ countered One, ‘That’s it!  I’m deffo bringing the A of the F down here to get a slice of that!’

Obv, One biffing about like a fart in a Martini bottle, has never noticed the sheer adoration that One is met with as soon as One’s bondage boots hit the cobbles on the Barbican.

(Ha ha, yes, A of the F, One never bunged ‘em in the bin after all!)

Norm was chipper and intent on paying One outrageous compliments regarding the general sparkle emitted by One and the lovliness of One’s hair.  Woss goin on?  Being an old romantic he insists One is in love, but actch, One is in a fuzzy haze because sales are picking up.  No matter, let the blighters think what they will.  They do anyway.

Speaking of which The Material Girl accused One of behaving in the manner of a teenager when One was last in the gallery. 

One sincerely hopes that One always behaves like a teenager!  So-flippin’-there!

Any road up, the Pinkster was overcome by the general lovliness of the place, we took some pics and sped off to pick up ‘Fingers’ and break into a house…

In the manner of all young persons, SIT had sheared on their hols not having crossed the palm of Lovely One with the rent. 

One, being a demanding sort, was a bit miffed to say the least and anyway, One has been awaiting a cash injection to acquire such things as …

an M.O.T.

Car Tax

Pay the mortgage

Food etc…

With that in mind we resolved to break in and acquire said funds.

As we were entering the window we were conducting a conversation with the bloke next door, who, intent on filling us in regarding the sad tale of his teeth, never batted an eyelid regarding our breaking and entering…

‘First time I broke ‘em on a cake!’ says he, ‘Then a apple! Then on a chip!’ (please read in broad Somerset)

By the end of the conv, ‘Fingers’ had re-appeared at the door with an env stuffed full of cash…

Ho hum pass the Vodka…