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Sunday, 30 November 2014

In which the memory foam tries to forget...

'You really must go to Padstow,' said the diminutive Mar as she swilled a quart of Chardonnay to wash down the six pack of cheese and onion.
One merely mentioned this in passing to the wonderful A of the F, and in a trice, One was on One's way wrapped snugly in One's beaver.
Despite the darling man having been at the wheel of his ve-hickle for the entire week, and hanging on to the arse end of a bout of man flu that would have hospitalized a lesser cove, he demonstrated his unwavering devotion by immediately whisking One off.
Where has he been whilst One's been frog snogging all these years?
No matter, he's here now.
We espied a gallery that could do with an immediate injection of Claire Rice Art.
As if anticipating One's desires, he then took One to Port Isaac, which proved to be a damp and dingy little destination.
'£10 Doc Martin tours' were advertised in the harbour. A bit stchoopid, since One could see everything from where One was loitering.
Each place was beautifully captured on film for One, to the level of perfection that left One considering jettisoning One's camera into the briney and using the case as a handbag.
One would obv NEVER admit it, but One is just a tiny bit in love with him.
No, Dear Reader, not like the school girl, knicker twisting, mooning about love so oft referred to in this diary, but proper, being quiet while he's reading, letting him watch the football, doing the washing up, love.
'Well try not to feck it up,' ordered BF as she shot up the top of the garden for a fag, looking like Tiny Tim, on her crutch.
One shall do One's level not to, especially since the darling man is going to install a normous truckle bed in the underground lair, complete with one of them 'memory foam' mattresses that's thicker than the lining of One's uterus.

Friday, 28 November 2014

In which One is losing One's magic touch...

Fled to Plymouth to sort out work for the Christmas show.
Me and Mar saw off a box of Lidls finest and grizzled about our nearest and dearest.
One displayed a macabre sense of the ridiculous regarding the womb saga.
What an absolute bore that all is.
Best not start any long books or indulge in an advent calendar in case One isn't here to open all the doors.
Took the new paintings into the gallery where One was met with scorn.
No matter, One is deffo losing One's magic touch.
Nestling into the green velour, elderly gentleman's recliner whilst the A of the F speeds around Deepest.
Can't wait to see the curmudgeonly blighter and shower him with kisses.

Wednesday, 26 November 2014

In which One's handbags are full..

Today, Dear Reader, we will be having a game of...
What's in your handbag Lovely One?
One has chums who play this game regularly.
One's oversized, overpriced handbags (some worth more than One's car) are a veritable cavern of curiosities.
Only yesterday, One found a large baking potato, uncooked, nestling alongside a partially masticated crunchie.
One oft recalls the look of abject horror on BF' s face when, on thrusting her tiny hand into One's cavernous Kelly bag for something or other, she accidentally retrieved a soiled panty liner.
Ah well, it did have a sherbet lemon stuck to it, so it wasn't a complete disaster.
Last Friday at the radio show, One curiously had a black lace brassiere and a bottle of Pinot dans le sac.
Pinot - no surprise there, One hears you chorus, Dear Reader, but a black lace brassiere?
The same manner of delights are to be found in One's coat pockets.
On retrieving One's padded country jacket from the boot of the Bentley last weekend, after it had been thrust in there months ago following a day out with the A of the F, One discovered in the pocket, a Swiss army knife and a pot of Vaseline. That must have been an interesting day out.

Tuesday, 25 November 2014

In which One is resolved...

One is feeling severely displaced. Back from the A of the F' s gaff and incarcerated in the bung of doom as a reluctant companion.
'I was looking forward to having someone to talk to' said One's mistress as One went early to One's cell.
Odd that she is casting One out then, wouldn't you say, Dear Reader?
Thereby making SIT, One's tenants homeless into the bargain.
Ah well, such is life.
One has a job! Will be starting that apres the Festive Season, which still hangs in the balance.
Will it be Turkey Twizzler for One sans womb?
Who can say, Dear Reader?
Off to Mars for wine/moaning/giggling tomorrow and to set up the apres biopsy exhibition.
Pray non, Dear Reader, One Shan't be displaying One's scrapings in a jar, it's just that everything, by then will be, 'before I had' or 'after I had.'
Or just possibly 'when I thought I had.'
Gosh, that's Gloomy for One!
Where is One's Pollyanna positivity?
Fear not One shall draw on a smile and biff on regardless.

The A of the F has come out fighting One's corner regarding what we consider too low a price on One's doings.
One is thrilled that he has embraced One's world with such vigour.
Let us just pray that he embraces the assembled throng at the art sale and doesn't biff anyone up the bracket.

in which One is on a mercy dash...

'Wear braces, fer fecks sake' opined the A of the F, upon catching One lugging up One's strides again.
So I did. Dear old BF bought me some off ebay. She's obv Fed up with it too.
A lovely day for the A's birthday.
Went off with him to work and had a lovely meander around the coast.
Came home and had a lovely meander round one another.
Off now on a fag mercy dash to BF' s.

Sunday, 23 November 2014

In which One is googling shoes...

Good Morning Dear Reader, and what a divine bonus today is. One is sanguine in the extreme regarding the twinkle traumas to come.
'What are you doing at Christmas?'enquired One, of the A of the F.
'Let him decide. I'm sure he'll want to spend some, if not all of it with you,' She had wisely advised as she limped up the top of the garden for a sneaky fag, looking seasonally like Tiny Tim.
BFP and the A of the F are a similar type of sea faring cove, and as such, One has undertaken an intensive training programme at the feet of BF in the management of such fellows.
34 successful years of BFP control are not to be sniffed at.
At the Manor everything is being sniffed at by the A, who still has man flu.
One is administering lemon juice with everything in order to effect a rapid recovery. However, One's sympathetic nursey skills are at about the same level as One's ability to keep One's gob shut.
One opens said GOB and anything on One's mind just comes charging out. An attractive quality in a three year old but not, sadly, a Lovely One of a 1950's vintage.
So, Dear Reader, everyone is too well informed regarding the thoughts of One, AND, if that's not bad enough The Government's now decreed that service providers must hand over personal information about internet users.
SO, now, not only will everyone know that One talks a load of nonsense, but that when One isn't, One is googling shoes.

Saturday, 22 November 2014

In which One is forlorn...

The A of the F has a cold/man flu
Much snuggling and sighing has been endured by One during the night as One lay contemplating One's future.
Obv One is loathed to accept that the future may be bleak 're: twinkle excavation results, but One is feeling forlorn this morn.
Life comes to an end for us all, but it's preferable not to have a programme of events.
One will know more when further excavations have been undertaken.
'It's slightly uncomfortable' said the medical piece.
'Yer telling me!'thought One 'the last time One of you types shot up there with a sharp instrument it was like the flamin Texas Chainsaw Mascara.
Hopefully if anything is located it'll be in the 'baby-growing' division, since One can dispense with that department.
After all One loves the A of the F but One doesn't want to have his babies.

Thursday, 20 November 2014

In which One is jiggered...

Today One shall be delivering 'The Rice Papers' on 10 Radio. The subject for discussion is 'Barefoot Running.'
One foresees the conversation being something like this...
'So, what is Barefoot running?'
'It's running with bare feet.'
I'll be jiggered if One can think of any further enquiry.
Any road up the barefoot bod is a v talkative little blighter, so hopefully she will blather on nicely for half an hour and leave poor dear Lovely One to contemplate the next round of twinkle excavation.

Wednesday, 19 November 2014

Inwhich One deploys the Birthday Suit...

Suddenly realised that Christmas is hurtling toward One at breakneck speed round the bend in hot pursuit of the a A of the F' s birthday.
Upon enquiry as to what the inscrutable blighter does to mark his particular passage of time, One was informed...
'It's just another day.'
One has spent the passing of many a moon seeking a curmudgeonly, inscrutable and adorable companion such as he and One is here to inform you that ...
One perused to the max over the interweb to find the perfect gift with change from a fiver.
Should One opt for the catering pack of Raid?
Let me explain, Dear Reader, The A has an on going fued with flies that are hell bent on invading his abode.
The North Devon fly is a persistent and hardy specimen that appears to be invulnerable to all but an aerosol canfull of Raid per fly.
One has oft found Oneself surrounded by the moist mist of a recently emitted Raid cloud to the extent that One is now so toxic to airborne critters that upon entering a ten foot exclusion zone around One the blighters drop down, stone dead.
Best not get that then!
Perhaps a subscription to a photography magazine?
Or, perhaps not, since that would involve such demonic diatribes as...
'Ere, just listen to what this twat says about': (insert any action/camera part known only to photographers) This generally is delivered from neath the snuggliness of the quilt where the barely awake Lovely One is doing something really important like looking at shoes on the internet.
Won't get that then.
One generally knits all One's gifts, but the A of the F was brought up in an atmosphere of fag smoke and clicking knitting needles like One was, and has vetoed the woollen love token.
That just leaves an eighty foot ocean going yacht, but even if One had the spons in One's pussy purse, he'd say...
'Yeah, it's alright but I'd have got the blue one.' ( the curmudgeonly cove)
So it'll just be One leaping out of a Dundee cake, singing Happy birthday, wearing nothing but a dab of Cilit Bang about One's decolletage and wearing, of course, One's birthday suit.

In which One is a thirteen and a half year old show-off…

knitted treepic A (relevant)IMG_2401Pic B (showing off)

Firstly, Dear Reader, as One is sure you’ve all been pacing the floor in anticipation of good/bad/indifferent news regarding the excavation of One’s chuff box area, let me allay your fears of the worst and tell you: One is likely to survive in the immediate future, although the intruder may be cause for later concern.  No matter, pass the fags and Pinot, Darling.

‘Hurrah’ One hears you chorus collectively, ‘Don’t desert us Lovely One, especially so close to the season of goodwill to all men.’ (Although it has yet to be determined whether this extends to all/some women.)

Goodwill to all men, indeed, and with that in mind One playfully suggested to the A of the F that we should biff forthwith to Arlington Court and peruse the Christmas Fair.  A more sombre gathering of seasonal stallholders ‘twould be difficult to imagine and One and the A tiptoed through the marquee, whispering, so as not to disturb their slumber.

The application of a smidge of mulled wine/carollers/ho ho ho ing wouldn’t have gone amiss and so we perambulated into the main hice.

‘Twas the ancestral gaff of Sir Francis Chichester, although you’d never have guessed, given the distinct lack of info regarding the seafaring cove.  Not a problermo for Lovely One though, since wherever we go or whatever we do the uber well informed A of the F is literally awash with further information. 

‘Did you know he flew around the world before he circumnavigated?’ enquired the encyclopaedic A.

‘No,’ said One who was busy admiring the shell collection and the felt mice distributed about the gaff. Not to mention the knitted Christmas Tree (see above)

Sensing One’s disinterest the A cleared off looking at models of boats whilst One marvelled at the various woollen crafts.

Espying one of those old birds what stand about in stately homes looking cross, One enquired,

‘Can you tell me the significance of the felt mice?’

‘Oh they are part of a children’s trail around the house,’ came the reply.

Mmmm thinks One, that about sums up Moi entirely.

‘Come on,’ says One to the A, ‘I want to go and have a look at the Bat-Cam.

When we got there, that too was a children’s attraction.

The A has a special look for One when he gets exasperated and he adopted it without delay.

‘Come one you,’ he huffed, ‘before you find any other ‘things to do before you’re thirteen and a half’ activities.’

So we biffed off to Tesco, got some chocolate and snuggled up in front of the fire.

Tuesday, 18 November 2014

In which One is pissed off...

How to get through today?
There's an interesting conundrum.
Stay here, work and be silently alone in splendid isolation?
Return and soak it up again?

Any road up, yesterday brought rather a splendid painting to life and today One will complete it ready for The 21 Days of Art in Sutton Harbour with Kaya Gallery.
More on that story later...

An unusual weekend, with the welcome added bonus of Monday in Deepest Heaven with the A of the F.

Back to reality...

Monday, 17 November 2014

In which One is a bit scared...

Good morrow fair readers and may your day bring joy unbounded.
Mine won't, as One is rigid with trepidation regarding the twinkle/chuff box/Polaroid swinger incident marked on One's dance card for tomorrow night.
Yes, that's right, 7.30pm is the rather unusual time of night earmarked for twinkle excavating. Let's hope the polaroids got a built in flash.
Any road up, One very nearly didn't live to see this morning dawning as according to the A of the F, One was conducting a brutal punch up with an unknown assailant whilst emitting snores of such magnitude that upon inhalation One sucked open the wardrobe door and brought the carefully laundered contents ceiling-ward.
He had biffed One up the bracket a few times and was on the cusp of shearing to the spare room, when One ceased and desisted and snuggled down in a more ladylike fashion.
So, at the time of night when any self respecting lush would be half way down a catering pack of Pinot and sucking the last puff out of a dog end, One will be entertaining a medic up me business end.
This time last year, couldn't have given a flying feck what happened to One, but now One does and shall be doing One's darndest to keep the A of the F awake in more thrilling ways for the passing of many a moon.

Sunday, 16 November 2014

In which One is a dico diva...

An unusual evening spent with unusual persons at the village hall disco.
Obv One and the A of the F were the most glamorous couple in the room by a country mile. Just as well, since most of the others owned all the country miles thereabouts.
No matter, One wouldn't trade a single second spent with the A of the F for a lifetimes country mileage.
The young hooded article delivering the sixties through eighties musical accompaniment to the evening's beer and wine guzzling event wasn't born when any of the music made it's first foray into the wireless and the listening booths of F L Moores where a young Lovely One spent Saturday afternoons. He looked distinctly unimpressed with all the dad dancers and their post menopausal partners.
Unaccustomed to the rituals of our age, he didn't play a slow dance at the end and One was denied melting into the warm embrace of the A of the F so we biffed off outside for a fag instead.
One rather overdid the Latvian laughing water and rather embarrassingly, in the cold light of day, recalls necking it straight from the bottle when One temporarily mislaid One's wine glass.
No matter, given the ragged milkmaids shimmying about, One remained the fabulous, fragrant confection you all know and love, Dear Reader despite One's lack of decorum.
You can take a Lovely One out of Luton, but you can't take Luton out of a Lovely One.
'Get in the car, stupid' hollered the A of the F charmingly.
One did and was transferred to bed via a further couple of pints of Pinot.
Upon waking rather late we discovered that our houseguests had fled without so much as a fond farewell, kiss me arse nor nothing.
Was it the spag boll?
The Latvian laughing water induced behaviour?
But wait, Dear Reader, a furtive tap on the portcullis reveals the pair bearing a dozen red roses and a thank you note for a lovely evening.

Saturday, 15 November 2014

In which One knits The Season of Goodwill...

'Don't bite my bum, I'm not a baby' and 'I'm not paying thirty fecking quid to see a fecking knitted Christmas Tree.'
Two sentences One didn't expect to hear upon waking, Dear Reader.
Very likely, two sentences the A of the F didn't foresee ejaculating immediately upon opening his ice blue eyes.
Let me explain...
'Don't bite my bum' requires no further dwelling upon, Darlings, but One feels an urgent need to elucidate further regarding the knitted Christmas Tree.
Tis apparently the highlight of the decoration at Arlington Court, where we are visiting a Christmas Fair today.
It got One thinking...
One feels an urgency to create garments with One's bamboo number sixes.
Last year One began knitting Christmas in August, and all One's chums were the thrilled recipients of such woollen delights as, fingerless mittens, fairisle weskits, socks, scarves and even a knitted companion in the shape of a black and white pussy for Lovely Gordon.
The A of the F, however, shall not be in receipt of even the smallest woolly delight, as he has issued an edict thus...
'I was brought up to the sound of clicking, fecking, knitting needles, and I don't want anything knitted!'
'My needles don't make any sound' replied an indignant One 'they are handmade, designer, bamboo knitting needles.'
He then  threw me one of his looks, leapt from the bed, and wearing nothing but his spectacles, about faced and left the room.
One couldn't help mentally sizing up his delicious bottom with a view to perchance knitting him some seasonal shreddies.

Thursday, 13 November 2014

In which One introduces the foundation garment…

foundation 3

Once the sound barrier has been broken and ‘tis useless to coyly pretend One never guffs, ‘tis time to introduce the foundation garment into the relationship with impunity.

I know, I know, Dear Reader, the poor dear A of the F had first hand knowledge of the brown pyjamas on One’s very first foray into his gaff, but to be fair he did promise ‘no funny business’ and One thought One would be safe with the ‘brownies’ and me baggy legged, grey sloggis and that they’d not see the light of day.

Any road up, BF and One biffed off in the Bugatti to Matalan to acquire some of their finest foundation wear (see above)

As you know, Dear Reader, One already deploys the control vest with me Gok Wan control leggings but upon any sudden movement the vest shoots up like a sodding roller blind whilst the leggings are gripping below the waist resulting in the escapage of a goodly amount of acreage in the manner of a Titanic sized life belt about the midriff.

NOT NO MORE, Dear Reader, some clever cove has come up with the ‘control slip’ AND it’s got sticky stuff round the hem so that roller blind activity is completely removed.

One’s Nana used to deploy a fearsome contraption referred to as the  ‘roll-on’. It remained mysterious until a dear little Lovely One actually encountered the Nana rolling herself into the rubberised grey device.  I bet it was choice in there on a warm summer’s night!

‘It’s all got to come out somewhere!’ opined BF as we fought over the last one and bunged it in the trolley with some control pants and comfy, Peggy Mount style brassieres.

Upon deployment of aforementioned garment with the obligatory Gok Wans, One was immediately transformed into the hour-glass Lovely One of yore.

Movement, however, is severely restricted and One now has a seductive Marilyn Monroe shuffle, only being able to move One’s legs from the knee down.

One must monitor the inhalation of cocktails various at Saturday’s disco in the village hall, for should One embark upon a significant Shimmy-Shake and the ensemble rolls up, One’ll take out the front row of the queue at the bar.

In which One is seeking a quiet corner…


‘She loves you, yeah, yeah, yeah’…

One painted the above whilst waiting for a further masterpiece to dry.

‘Not bad’ thinks One, ‘The A of the F might like that’.

‘It’s not a ‘Red Crane’ or a ‘Minehead’, came the dismissive and disinterested reply when One had emailed it for approval.

Just in case you are unaware, Dear Reader, ‘Red Crane’ and ‘Minehead’ are two much dissed  (by the A) former masterpieces.

Should you wish to add your disinterest, please visit where you may ‘not buy’ them at your leisure.

The website is, of course, hopelessly out of date (presided over by vile ex H)  and the only place to keep one step ahead of One is to visit the rake of galleries that stock One’s doings, or ‘friend’ One on facebook, whereupon you will be automatically frogmarched to ‘Claire Rice Art.’

Any who, back to me preev complaint…

‘Red Crane’ is constantly referred to by the A of the F, since it is one of only three (yes, three) paintings One has ever done that didn’t sell. 

Even ones that One has biffed over One’s shoulder in disgust have been carefully picked out of the pile of fag ends and sweet wrappers by Dear Little S and sold.

But the poor old ‘Red Crane’ much maligned by the A remains in the studio festering.  As do the 150 limited edition prints, of which feck all has been shifted.

One must find a lonely little corner for the storage of ‘Red Crane’ prints, ‘Minehead’ placemats, ‘She love you’ and One, apparently…

‘Minehead’ on the other hand was sold to some cove who’s Ma lived there.  It also lives on as a placemat (yes One does homewares and is a regular little Martha Stewart) a massive crate of which are currently residing in the sitting room of the A of the F.


Tuesday, 11 November 2014

In which One fixes One’s hair and make-up…


‘I’m a bloke,’ came the reply to the question…

‘Did you know that your machine is a dryer as well as a washer?’

One unloaded the washin mashin and enquired as to why the towels were hot.  Upon further investigation One ascertained that the machine included a tumble dryer, thereby removing the problem of the trail of damp shirts on hangers that greet One on a weekly basis like a trail of breadcrumbs in the manner of Hansel and Gretel and the bitter aroma of damp towels pervading the otherwise fag/wine/scotch atmosphere.

One, being a 1950’s production, cannot meet with such a scene without the uncontrollable urge to Geisha.

Having been brought up in an era where women were urged to …

‘Hey, little girl, comb your hair, fix your make-up, soon he will open the door.Don’t think because there’s a ring on your finger, you needn’t try any more…’      Andy Williams

And while we’re at it.  What’s all that ‘little bit of giggle’ that’s attached to the end of any vocal ejaculation made to a chap, so favoured by the women of that era.  Aged P still does it at the ripe old of 84 in the manner of a moist-gusseted teenager, the daft old mare.

AND – the seeming inability to say ‘NO’ to any-fecking-thing. AP does that, and always has, and then incessantly moans on about not wanting to do whatever it was she willingly agreed to.


Let’s not forget, Dear Reader, that One was a captain of industry afore One squeezed that great lummox ‘Boy’ out of me twinkle.

Bearing this in mind One hollered…

‘Get in here and have a look at these controls,’ to the A of the F.

‘I’m watching the football!’ came the indignant reply, closely followed by a personal appearance from the A, mumbling and huffing…

‘Well I don’t know how it works.  Can’t you set it for me so that it washes and dries? There’s a manual somewhere.  Have a little read of that while the football’s on,’ he concluded and shuffled off back to the elderly gentleman’s, moss green, velour, recliner.

And try as One might, One simply cannot ignore such a plea and did just that.

However, One is a flippety-gibbet as you know, Dear Reader, and completely forgot to move the controls from ‘dry to wardrobe condition’ to ‘wash and dry’, so if the A bungs his shreddies in, all that will happen is that they’ll be warmed up to keep his entertainment area cosy until One arrives with a VIP pass to all rides.


Monday, 10 November 2014

In which One fears the ‘turkey twizzler for One’ Christmas…

me at x

That’s  me, that is, Dear Reader…

A forlorn, unwanted, lonely creature wandering the streets seeking a smidgeon of seasonal succour.

‘What are you doing at Christmas Boy?’ enquired One.

‘Dunno. Don’t care as long as I see Doctor Who,’ came the glad tidings.

‘That bloody Eileen can’t make gravy, you know. I’m going to tell her and offer to make it for her when I go round there on Christmas Day,’ came the ill-advised mantra of the Aged P, ‘What do you think?’

‘I think that if I’d been kind enough to invite you into my family and home and give you Christmas dinner and you complained about anything, I’d punch you in the gob!’ One replied.

Anyway, that pretty much summed up the doings of One’s nearest and dearest and rendered One a bit of a verruca at a pool party in the invitation stakes.

Ah Ha! thinks One.  One has a ‘boyfriend’ currently, surely he’ll want to spent the festering season with One?

Or will it be a turkey twizzler for One.


Sunday, 9 November 2014

In which One is hoping to dance round me handbag...

Can't believe it, Dear Reader, it's Mon-fecking-day AGAIN.
Think positive! That's the way forward.
This week, following a few days of unbridled bliss, One shall be working v v hard and preparing to conquer Padstow.
The plan is to knock out four masterpieces, shear to Mar' s gaff to hole up, and biff into Cornwall to be suitably adored.
Works for me, Dear Reader.
The A of the F is lurking about in Somerset being delicious whilst all this is occurring.
Any road up, the wondrous one cooked supper for One since One is sadly indisposed yet again and waiting patiently for a Polaroid swinger to be wanged up me chuffer to ascertain whether or not One will survive long enough to attend next weekend's 60's disco at the village hall.
One does hope so since One has a genuine Biba outfit to dance round me handbag in.

In which the A of the F is advised to hang on to One...

One just got so over excited that a tiny bit of wee came out and soiled me otherwise spotless Georg at Asda Jim jams noir.
The reasons were twofold, Dear Reader...
Reason 1.      Whilst pondering the interweb One happened upon a smidgen of information that leads One to deduce that One's most favourite artist in the whole flamin universe, Martin Procter, is READING MY BLOG.
Reason 2.       Some unknown cheeky bint is attempting to lure MY A of the F, via Skype, away from my tender grasp!
Granted, he did alert One to the uninvited bints communication, but, let's face it Dear Reader, she might be young and nubile and a wobble free zone.
Any road up, upon a fag retrieval visit to the sitting room, One ascertained that some form of punch up must have occurred yester-eve since the zone is littered with clothing various and the general detritus of a ten-rounder.
Maybe he mentioned her last night and One showed him which way was up?
Maybe One biffed him up the bracket when he likened One to the ghost of Jacob Marley when One tried on One's new knitted head band?
No matter, the blighters feeling a bit the worse for wear this morning, so One shant shove an umbrella up his chuff box and open it just yet, but only if he heeds the advice of his bezzie mate...
'Hang on to that One,' he said.

Saturday, 8 November 2014

In which One is a damp dog...

One's pussy purse is positively bulging with used tenners this very a.m. following the successful delivery of a freshly painted masterpiece.
Hooray, One hears you chorus, Dear Reader.
Hooray! Indeed, for now another couple of creditors can go into the monthly draw for payment.
Some of the blighters, like The Mortgage Works, have even been kind enough to offer to take some, or all, of One's worldly chattels in lieu of payment.
Sadly One is even deficient in the chattel department of late.
Speaking of the underground lair, One has successfully undergone the removal of One's offensive butt, with the able assistance of BFP, who is positively essential in the damsel in distress department.
What on earth would One do without One's marvellous chums? One would be frantically perambulating up shit creek, sans paddle. That's what!
Any road up, One threw caution to the wind and spent ten quid on Oneself this week in the charity shop. One is now the proud owner of a fur coat and One felt obliged to go commando neath it on its first foray abroad.
Sadly, the current level of precipitation left One emitting the malodourous scent of damp dog.
Should One venture abroad today One will welly up and deploy the gaberdine raincoat as it's very nigh twinkle deep in Devon.

Thursday, 6 November 2014

In which One has a fag in a Hacienda…

mar 1

‘That’s quite enough about me!’ barked Mar having summoned One with a shrill order to her bedside yesterday morning. 

‘stop writing about me and let someone else have it,’ she continued, looking resplendent in her faded puce, hand crotched bed jacket over her winceyette nightie. 

A perfect picture of wholesome granny-esque charm, apart from the little bit of sick down the front of her nightie and the gooey stains where she’d picked her nose in the night and wiped it on the headboard.

At the foot of the bed was a small truckle device.  One wonders: was it for the comfort of a grandchild?  Great grandchild? Or merely the bones of another abused and discarded suitor?

Any road up, One, always willing to oblige, shall cease henceforth, writing about Mar (see above) and paint a picture in words of Mar’s gaff…

Yesterday One was banished to the interestingly named ‘smoking room’ for a fag.

Clearly constructed afore the war, in a Hacienda style, the ‘smoking room’ appeared to have been the unlucky recipient of a buzz bomb at some stage of the conflict.

Rickety cast iron seating rocked to and fro upon the application of One’s fat bottom.  One of said chairs had a ragged gash in the seat, clearly the result of either the shrapnel of the German bomb or an enormous guff emitted following the consumption of one of Mar’s Big Boy’s dinners.

The corrugated roofing creaked in the November winds and shifted the thousands of bottle tops and corks Mar had aimed up there on many an evening spent alone in an alcohol fuelled haze. 

Discarded maracas forlornly rolled back and forth across the paved floor invoking many a Mariachi band having passed through.

The sad remains of what was an ornamental pond lay slimy and discarded in the corner with the skeletons of many a goldfish that Mar had stripped bare with her remaining two top teeth when she couldn’t be arsed to go indoors for a packet of crisps.

The calcified remnants of many an exotic plant hung menacingly from the liberally distributed pots and trellis giving the lean-to the feel of a ghostly, long abandoned film set.

One can but imagine the carrying on that has occurred in there, Dear Reader, One shall interrogate and report.

In which Mar bakes a dry stone wall...

One and Dear Little S Sat down to a table positively groaning under the weight of a feast great enough for an invading army.
'Eat some more, eat some more,' squeaked the diminutive Mar, like a demented parrot.
And One did indeed. In fact, this morning One rather looks to have dined upon a Space Hopper, swallowed whole, given the distended view of One's entirety in profile.
No matter, a quick frog March up a couple of steep slopes at the weekend will see that off.
Perchance One and the A of the F shall perambulate Dartmoor where Mar had obv journeyed to acquire our pudding. For twas surely a slab of dry stone walling served with Lidls finest creme fraiche. Dear Little S wisely swerved it in favour of a pre-festive mince pie.
'Have another bit, Lady Rice, It's my own recipe you know.'
One had to decline as One was busily attempting to digest half a sodding Dartmoor Tor.
But it wasn't that that finally rendered One completely shagged, it was the consumption of an entire jar of Haribo mice, four packets of crisps and a corner of the  European wine lake.
'Oh go on, eat it' slurred Mar, waving a partially masticated chocolate Father Christmas under One's nose, you've lost loads of weight, have a day off.'
She then proceeded to wave her skinny little, short legs under me nose and display her gnarled little, tiny feet.
'My little feet always stay the same size and never swell up even if I go up to eighteen and three quarter stone.'
Maybe so, but feck knows how they hold her up!

Tuesday, 4 November 2014

In which One won’t grow up…

dub dubs

‘Are you still loved up?’ came the enquiry from another of One’s chums who speaks/writes/acts in a manner not befitting of her advanced yearage.

Granted, Dear Reader, the gel is not as far over the horizon as your very own delightfully youthful Lovely One, but nonetheless qualifies admirably as a chum by her outrageously ridiculous behaviour. Most certainly not behaviour befitting a mother of three and the wife of an eminent surgeon who live in a house the size of One’s village and mwa mwa with the great and good regular!

Any road up…

‘Yes,’ One is, and with that in mind is off to wax lyrical to Mar’s gaff this very, where we shall partake of the odd quart of Pinot and several hand rolled cheroots, no doubt.

‘What’s wrong with my cooking?’ came the enquiry, ‘and make sure you look at the flamin’ label!’ was the instruction.

This, Dear Reader, since One had the temerity to offer a takeaway scoff in return for being allowed to crash in The Princess Diana Suite at her gaff.  Oh, and the fact that last time One put in appearance, One was admonished in the extreme for not buying wine with a high enough alcohol content…

‘No wonder I’m not pissed,’ came the complaint, ‘this bastard’s only 6% you idiot!’ hollered the very small, yet completely absorbent Mar.

One has never met such a small and delicate creature with the ability to inhale such vast quantities of food and alcohol.

On a trip to a carvery with the little carnivore she loaded her plate so high with a Yorkshire pudding Jenga that One was sore afraid the construction may falter afore we got back to our table. No chance! And she inhaled it in under ten and washed it down with nine pints of Guinness.

Any road up, I digress, as is me wossname, back to the general flavour of today’s missive ‘the inability to grow up.’…

Following the A of the F forcing One to actually work six days on the trot, One is off down Plymouth for a spot of R and R with Mar.

We like to record the moments for posterity (see above) obv One’s not in the pic, being too young and glamorous and not wishing to show the others up.  Oh and taking the pic!

In which One deploys the cannon…

lens caps

An outfit guaranteed to shiver the timbers of the A of the F (see above)

To the right, and left for that matter, are v large lens cap devices that One deploys over One’s deliciously pert dub-dubs…

That leaves the centre device that suffices as both a twinkle cover and a direct route instruction…

Let me explain, Dear Reader…

One awoke to the A of the F with his ipad propped against his knees, speck-tackles deployed and emitting noises of satisfaction that One deffo hadn’t engendered since One had been pushing out the zeds.

‘Flippin’ ‘eck’ thought One, ‘is One inadvertently offering self service throughout the night?’

Not so, Dears, upon further investigation the A was drooling over what passes for porn in the Manor, a camera shop website.

There was a direct correlation between the height that the ipad levitated above the quilt and the size of the lens cap on screen.

One deployed One’s usual distraction tactics.  All to no avail…

But wait…

One nipped off to the bog and deployed lens caps various (see above) to hills and valleys various located about One’s acreage.

One wrapped a shapely thigh about the boudoir door and huskily whispered…

‘Is there anything I can do for you?’

‘Yeah, get us a cuppa tea and a fag darlin’

Sunday, 2 November 2014

In which One doesn't pucker...

Another abs fabs day yesterday.
The A of the F locked One in me makeshift studio in order that One could paint without the distraction of catching a glimpse of his delicious self sashaying back and forth to the printer as he perfected the heron shots.
One rather imagines, however, that he was recumbent in his elderly gentleman's moss green velour recliner watching football and being handsome.
No matter, simply to be within hollering distance of his divine self will suffice to make One positively delerious with glee.
One is, however, seriously considering never puckering up to snog the blighter ever again.
'How so?' One hears you collectively chorus, 'Twas only a fleeting mo ago that you were planning to snog him over the remaining 23 years of your life.' (23 x 52 = oh feck knows)
Suffice it to say, a mere four months of consistent puckering has brought about a new wrinkle on One's top lip.
This cannot continue, lest One begins to lose One's youthful, glowing English rosiness.
Licking probably doesn't require extensive use of the puckering muscleage.
Excuse me....

Saturday, 1 November 2014

In which One is listing...

The most blissful of days was spent yesterday down by the river in Bideford painting the view.
Warm sunshine and a soft Santana bathed Lovely One into a serene trance that was intermittently shagged by some thoughtless bastard hammering the bejesus out of his balcony.
No matter, One already had the embryo of a migraine gestating in me left temple any who.
Three times One drew the view afore One was satisfied with the outcome.
'What happened here?'  enquired the A of the F pointing to the far right of the beautifully executed masterpiece.
Sure enough the eagle-eyed fecker had espied that One must have been listing starboard toward the arse end of the afternoon, as all the buildings were tumbling down the riverbank.