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Tuesday, 30 December 2014

In which One’s twinkle is the place to spend New Year…


‘We have made an appointment for you at two fifty on Friday’, came the instruction from the hosp. 

‘Flippin’ ‘eck,’ thinks One, they might as well have hired a charabanc (see above) and invited David bleedin’ Bailey and Cecil Beaton up there with their box Brownies, fer fecks sake.

Roll up, roll up, Dear Reader, and get your ticket for the magical mystery tour of the womb of doom. Bring yer polaroid swingers, belt out a couple of choruses of ‘I’ll be up your flue in a minute or two,’ and we’re off…

They must have liked it up there, because now they want yet another fecking trip!

I’ve got an excellent idea…

When you were up there in the first fecking place, why not do all you’ve got to and let One get on with what’s left of One’s sojourn on planet earth, having a high old time with the A of the F.

Any road up, One will be there, legs akimbo, yet again with a team of students perusing me pudenda.


‘What have you to say in your defence?’ enquired One of Vile ex Husband when One finally caught up with him regarding his no-show on removal day.

‘I completely forgot. I was at D’s (she’s not as good looking as One, by the way OBV) I’ve had an upset tummy for a couple of days.’

HA HA methinks the new object of desire must be a serial killing poisoner.  AND she wants Boy over there with Vile ex Husband to celebrate the New Year.


‘I liked him, he’s alright,’ came Boy’s opinion of the A of the F having met him on Christmas Day.

When One was ordered to the galley to make sausage rolls One heard Boy say to the A…

‘Blimey!  I wasn’t expecting to have a conversation about philosophy at Mum’s.  She usually only talks about shoes and handbags.’

So – ‘He’s alright,’ as opined by Boy is tantamount to ‘you  may marry him forthwith and I shall call him Dear Papa evermore.’

Any road up, I’m off now to seek out a clean pair of shreddies and a catering pack of Femfresh since half of Somerset appear desp to get a shot up me twinkle…



Monday, 29 December 2014

In which One is full of the seasons goodwilly…


The speed with which One packed and vacated the Manor yesterday, and the state of One’s Vile-ex-Husband (see above) are doing little to show One in a favourable light as a life partner to the A of the F.

I know, I know, Dear Reader, One is a seasoned bolter, a notorious numbty in the relationship arena, and a really, really hopeless judge of character…

BUT One simply ADORES the A of the F, who appears to accept One with all One’s flaws and imperfections (haven’t got any really, obv, but for the sake of the story let’s assume I have)

Whatever we do or say to one another it doesn’t change a thing and we are a tiny team of war-wounded warriors against the world.

Speaking of wounded…

One favours the ‘Chinese burn on the willy’ as a suitable punishment for Vile-ex-husband’s misdemeanours but One hasn’t unpacked the Marigolds as yet, so had to punch him in the face.

One, never having encountered a situation that violence couldn’t solve, is sore afraid that One may have tainted Boy’s view of womankind.  The Christmas card he sent One had the greeting…

‘May your Christmas be filled with peace and happiness’

BUT, Boy had crossed out ‘peace’ and replaced it with ‘beating the shit out of everyone’

As if a fragrant confection of loveliness like One, all ackled up in me chiffon tea-dress and Manolos would bash anyone up?

Well maybe the odd one or two…


In which One is hot on the tail of Vile ex Husband…

‘Deck the halls with Hubbster’s bollicks, fa la la la fecking la’

And so, Dear Reader, me and the A of the F slipped and slid back to Wivey at some ungodly hour (with him moaning about One’s directions and pointing out that his route would have been both quicker and more sensible)

As previously arranged with Vile ex Husband, One arrived with the Wivey Man with a Van at his gaff to collect One’s fablious antique furniture and splendid Persian rug, and, guess what, THE FECKER WASN’T IN



Fortunately, the ‘man with the van’ is a regular employee of One, given the frequency with which One bolts in directions various, and so he didn’t bat an eyelid, didn’t charge One extra and even offered One a monthly charge plan to facilitate One’s frequent changes of address.

The remainder of One’s possessions were acquired from the Bung of Doom and One sincerely hopes never to cross the path of the SSS ever again.

One is never, ever, ever going to help anyone ever again!  Anyway, BF will punch me in the gob if I attempt so to do.

In fact, One has finally accepted that One is a right looking eejit of the highest order.

And with that thought I’m off outside with a catering pack of fags and a bucket of wine.

Saturday, 27 December 2014

In whish One is boiling in me Christmas jim jams...

Meanwhile, back at the Manor...
'We need to go back to my gaff' said the A of the F, 'your printer won't work.'
And so within 17 minutes we were in the car and slithering through driving snow on the top of Exmoor.
'You're lucky, you are', opined Lovely One.
'How do you work that One out?' Came the retort.
'Well' says One, 'how many women do you know who could pack and leave with everything they need in ten minutes?'
'Only you,' Came the reply, 'and that is why we won't be moving in together just yet.'
Sad, but true, Dear Reader, as One has rather a rep for bolting.
'Come live with me and be my love and we shall all the pleasures prove.'
A John Donne mantra that One has lived by thus far with varying degrees of success.
And so it is thus that One is currently seeking a roomie.

Any road up...
The festive season has been a riot of carrot sharpening and tying things up with string. (See ref to BF' s Xmas gifts)
Telly is shite and the only info gained thus far by One is that One is 'sofa poor'
Loads of needy souls worldwide want One to send them at least two quid a month.
Sad donkeys, Indians who can't see, chilly snow leopards, men who kip in doorways and Middle Eastern types who lost their cardigans in conflicts...
I tell you what, Dear Reader, they can have these sodding fleece Christmas pyjamas! It's fecking boiling in here! And anyway the A of the F says I look like an enormous, mutant four year old...

Friday, 26 December 2014

In which One got rather wet…


The hounds, as seen by One and photographed by the A of the F, yesterday in the square as the Chipstable Hunt biffed off to frighten foxes (not kill them, of course, in case it upsets anyone living in Islington)

Any road up, One, resplendent in the de riguer uniform of the countryside, the Barbour and the Hunters) sashayed up the square at around ten o’clock, having levered the A of the F off the futon with a pick axe handle) to be informed by S in the pub that ‘they don’t leave until 11.00am’)  One had forgotten that in the passage of the moons that had taken place as One systematically bolted to places various and eschewed Wivey.

We repaired to a settle with a couple of lukewarm cappuccinos and had a peruse through a comic someone had left on the table. One believes it was called the ‘Sun’ and it sported pictures of young women in their vest and pants and more than a sufficiency of information regarding football, and whether persons various were ‘gutted’, or it’s apparent polar opposite, ‘over the moon.’

We took up the position to get the best shots outside the Courthouse and braved a veritable deluge of precipitation which in the shake of a lamb’s tail had turned One’s otherwise sleek and perfectly coiffed bob into a big, curly mop that dripped seductively down me face and streaked me non-waterproof massacre. Fortunately One is congenitally gorgeous, what with One appealing in equal measures to both Man and Woman, and One was still the belle of the bollicks.

The turnout of followers was rather sparse. Even Princess P was nowhere to be seen.  As for the participants, apart from the Master and the other posh blokes on big horses the assemblage was entirely female, mounted on beasts varying from beautifully groomed mounts to scraggy little ponies.

Whilst One isn’t entirely sanguine about the ripping apart of one of God’s critters (unless it’s for pie filling) One finds the sight of the hunt in flight a wonderful and peculiarly English sight.  As they galloped off into the distance that other peculiarly Wivey phenomenon took place: a massive queue in the Co-op for bottles of scotch and fags.

We. of course, made up the numbers and then biffed off down Silver Street to put our feet up and moan about what was on the telly…

Thursday, 25 December 2014

In which One disgraces Oneself…


It must have seemed like a good idea at the time, but when One woke up and found Oneself and the A of the F had been kipping on the floor, One needed the help of our Lord (see above) to attain the vertical.

It could have been attributed to the bottle of Prosecco One necked in celebration of reaching Christmas Day with all of One’s internal organs still internal and with nary a tumour in sight. 

Or it could have been the second bottle of Prosecco that One inhaled at the sheer bliss of being in the Underground Lair with Boy and the A of the F.

‘Blimey Mum,’ opined Boy when the A of the F went off on one at the serious lack of phone signal and high speed broadband in Wivey, ‘he’s just like you only a bloke.’

Any who, One digresses, One had assumed that One was snugglerised in me spesh fluffy Christmas jim-jams looking like a cuddly Marilyn Monroe as One slid seductively neath the quilt, but upon closer inspection in the harsh and unforgiving light of day, One was found to be sporting One’s v old, faded jim-jam bottoms with the shagged elastic waist, teamed with a Matalan vest that is old enough to vote, with a fecking great lump of toothpaste stuck to the right tit area.

‘Why did you let me sleep on the floor,’ enquired One of the A of the F.

‘Have you ever tried arguing with a drunken woman?’ came the exasperated retort, ‘and anyway you were giggling and farting so much you wouldn’t have heard me.’

One might still have One’s organs in tip-top and in original packaging but One’s girlish, feminine allure appears to have left the building.

In which One gets some fabuloso giftage…

knitted tree

That’s One’s tree that is, Dear Reader…  One knitted it yester-eve whilst listening to the Carol concert.  Yeah right, One could well have done some serious damage with One’s hand-turned, designer, bamboo knitting needles following the inhalation of a bottle of BF’s finest Mulled rocket fuel.

Any who, a joyous Noel to every last one of you what hangs on One’s every word.

What Christmas stocking would be complete without a carrot sharpener and a ball of string?  Two of the many gifts, gratefully received, from BF. (She’s still on the strong pain killers)  One can’t let her stop taking them in order to get the disabled parking ticket so we can park right outside Primarni.

Another delightful gift came in the shape of the recently published ‘Vinegar and Brown Paper’, written by the Pinkster’s uber cool and talented Dear Mama, Mary Baker.  One shall treasure it for the continuation of One’s visit to planet earth.

(Available to download from Amazon.) Get it now!

As you may be aware, Dear Reader, One doesn’t have a Christmas Cancer, so Boy won’t be receiving the gift of a Womb of Doom in a jar this year.  One shall be loitering about annoying everyone well into One’s dotage if One doesn’t have cirrhosis of the livington following the neckage of many a box of the Co-op’s finest in the four-fecking-teen week wait for the results of the biopsy.

‘There’s absolutely nothing to worry about,’ came the message on One’s phone, ‘but call me on *****’

Like feck One will.  If there’s nothing to worry about they’re not plunging anything else up me chuffer in the near future!

Any road up, One must adjourn to the galley and make ready the fatted calf for the visitation of Boy and the A of the F…

Monday, 22 December 2014

In which One is chesty...

The fags and wine have got to go.
Not only can One not afford such ridiculously expensive pastimes, but One has developed a deep chesty hacking cough worthy of a user of 40 Senior Service per day.
The remains of the A of the F' s man flu has settled down for the winter on One's chest.
As you know, Dear Reader, with the generous proportions of One's chest to adhere to, any ailment could prove fatal.
Any road up, One shall be meandering toward The Underground Lair on the morrow to make ready the festive season and shall be welcoming the A of the F into One's natural environment for the first time.
How shall he react to the ways of the One?
There is no moss green velour elderly gentleman's recliner for him to snuggle down into.
Shall he find sufficient comfort in the Louis Cans settle?
As far as One is aware, football isn't on girl's T. V' s at all. Will this test the blossoming love story?
Will he develop a liking for the boxed sets of Bewitched? (One's absolute fave)
Shall he follow the 'No bare bottoms on the antique throw' rule?
Will One be forced to embark upon a training programme the like of the one Vile ex Husband failed miserably afore he fled screaming into the arms of the Snaggle Toothed Troll?
Who can tell, Dear Reader.
One shall warmly embrace the blighter neath the mistletoe on the portcullis and issue him with the Underground Lair do' s and don't's dossier upon his arrival.
We may then repair to the truckle bed until spring creeps over me window sill.

Sunday, 21 December 2014

In which One breathes through One's ears...

Bonjour fellow travellers upon life's lovely highway.
One is in fine fettle and seasonal of spirit this divine dawning of another sensational day in Deepest Devon, at the Manor.
Biffed off to Barnstaple yesterday with the A of the F to acquire some festive frippery and a couple of vats of Pinot to accompany the pie of the sheep  herd that was threatening to be dished out for a TV supper.
We called in to present the LF (lovely family) with a seasonal token of our esteem in the shape of One of the A's shots of their rural gaff taken last Monday when a morning mist cloaked the grounds.
'Want to stay for supper?' Asked Mrs Lovely.
'A is cooking tonight' said One, and thus embarked upon the great shepherd's pie debate.
'That will be ready in half an hour tops,' announced the A of the F.
'Oooh no' chorused One and Mrs Lovely.
'You need to leave it simmering for at least an hour. Go out and ride your horse or something.'
The A gave us one of his 'looks' accompanied by a snort and folded his arms, which is a declaration of ensuing battle.
Upon our return to the Manor a slight adjustment was made in the cooking time, observed by One, but sadly not enough.
'I can't sleep' moaned the A, ' I've got terrible indigestion' says he necking a catering pack of Rennies.
'Huh' huffed One and spent the rest of the sleepless night listening to him groaning and bottom burping, whilst attempting to perfect the art of breathing through One's ears.

Saturday, 20 December 2014

In which One sucks a brazil...

Good Morning world it's a brand new day, I'm packing my bags and I'm getting away...
One is definitely not a servile, ladies maid type and entirely unsuited to the world of being a 'companion of the bosom' in the manner of 'the girl' in Rebecca - Daffers Du Mozzer.
One, too, has One's own Maxim de Winter in the shape of the A of the F.
He even resides in a gaff not dissimilar to Manderley.

In fact, One is, at this very juncture, reclining on a brass day bed being drip fed Bollinger and cracking open oysters between One's muscular thighs.
The Christmas Tree lights cast a festive glow about One's naked acreage as One ponders what to do with 'panic Saturday'
Shall One perambulate into town and return flushed and sated by a day's retail therapy? Or just stay here and suck all the chocolate off the A of the F' s brazils.

Thursday, 18 December 2014

In which One does a bit of glee wee…


That’s me, that is, Dear Reader, upon One’s liberation from the bung of doom…

On Tuesday, ably assisted by Boy and Vile ex Husband, One shall be once again returning to the Underground Lair.

The irresistible lure of the lair takes hold of One once again…

Bloke’s massive Christmas tree is still on loan and due to be laden with One’s scary Gothic Crimbo decorations….

Please Mummy!  Not the scary snowmen again!’ pleaded Boy in Christmases of yore, upon the deaf ears of fiendish mummy One.

‘I want to spend Christmas Day with you Mumuz,’ opined Boy yesterday, ‘I don’t want you to be on your own, especially this year.’

HUH, methinks, the blighters have already decided that One will snuff it from the womb-of-doom disease.

Not fecking likely…

Or as the delightful chatelaine of the bung of doom whined…

‘You’re too evil to die.’

What a lovely old lady.  To think One is almost doing a bit of wee with glee at leaving her.


‘What did you think of Dad’s new girlfriend?’ enquired One of Boy.

‘It was really creepy,’ says Boy, ‘She’s got the same hair as you.’

‘Bet she’s not as good looking as me though, is she?’ countered One to a terrified looking Boy who could offer no response.

‘What did you buy her for Crimbo?’ says One to Vile ex Husband.

‘Chanel no 5,’ counters he.

Read next bit in ‘The League of Gentlemen’ voice, from Royston Vasey…


Wednesday, 17 December 2014

In which One is a great warrior Queen…

warrior two

That’s One, that is, Dear Reader,

Atilla the Hunny

great warrior Queen, resplendent with me hoooj thighs…

Any road up, One has just such a great warrior spirit as the fiery-haired, ginger girly warrior queens of yore. 

In fact, if One leaves One’s ‘L’oreal Ash Blonde’ on a tad too long, One too is a ginger for the passing of a brace of moons.

‘It came to me in the night,’ said BF, ‘I was lying there awake and it just came to me.’

‘What?’ enquired a curious One.

‘Well. How to say ‘I love you’, or anything in fact with flags,’ went on she.

And so a morning of Blue Peter type workshops ensued, monitored on a far too frequent basis by BFP, to the point where we were sorely in danger of not being able to sneak up the bottom of the garden for a fag.

When we finally escaped, BF accidentally set fire to the fag-end dump and subsequently to the stick with which she pokes it. Luckily, by this time, BFP had been distracted by daytime tv and we were in the clear.

‘Blimey,’ said One, ‘You’re a bit reckless today!’

‘Actually,’ replied BF ‘I also came to the unavoidable conclusion in the middle of the night that you get yourself into such horrendous scrapes because you are absolutely fearless.  In fact you would have made an excellent extreme sports person, or a soldier, or an astronaut, or a tightrope walker, or a crocodile wrestler etc etc etc.’

‘Hmmmmm’ replied One, ‘Fearless, or very, very stchoopid.’

In which One tears out One’s hair…


That’s me, that is, Dear Reader…

Not that One actually needs to tear out One’s glorious (natural) blonde, satin smooth, silky tresses.  Oh no, the feckers are coming out in sodding handfuls at the mo with the stress of One’s current swathe of insurmountable predicaments.

What the feck is it with One?  One biffs about minding One’s own bees-tiddly-wax and a veritable maelstrom of chaos and carnage buffets about up me gusset.

One won’t bore you with the details, Dear Reader, as One’s probably bored the tits clean off the lot of you over the years with One’s tales of derring-do and disaster…

Suffice it to say that One shall be rather chuffed in the little mintball department to see the arse end of this year and all it’s current woes.

BUT, it has to be said the year has delivered, in the shape of the A of the F, the most delightful, delectable, de-lovely, Detective Chief Inspector One has ever been inspected by…


Monday, 15 December 2014

In which One does a Dozzer...

In order to have a weekend that couldn't be blighted by bad news, One turned off One's phone and remained incognito for the duration.
The plan worked a treat until last night, One couldn't sleep for the proliferation of ghastly imaginings, so at 5.30 a.m. One pressed the button of terror.
Silence prevails. Obv, when they said 'two weeks' they actually meant 'two weeks'
One really does feel that ten weeks of torturous waiting for the definitive answer is rather too long.
The vast quantities of Pinot that have been consumed and the overflowing ash trays will render One, and indeed, the A of the F, the lucky recipients of at least one lifestyle disease, by the time the verdict is read out.
One was distracted by the marvelious man of the moment by the acquisition of some gloriously tacky Christmas decorations.
'I don't dismind the blue fairy lights' says he bunging them in the basket afore One could tell him that 'Christmas is red, green and gold and New Year is silver, purple and blue.'
No matter, obv years of flashing blue lights have coloured his life.
When the decorations were up One went all Dozzer Day and repaired to the kitchen in me pinny to knock up a pot roast for supper.
There were no complaints, tips for future visits to the kitchen, or otherwise unfavourable comments...
Until the A cleared off to make a cup of tea, whereupon, One heard him shriek...
'What the feck happened in here?'
One supposes it does look a bit like someone threw a hand grenade in, but hey, One can't make a pot roast without cracking pots, can One.

Sunday, 14 December 2014

In which One makes a wish...

A magical night of shooting stars...
In the starlight of a frosty night, standing at the front of the manor with the darling A of the F, One made a wish...
By Wednesday One will have the answer.

Friday, 12 December 2014

In which One and BF discover the truth…


The A of the F is BFP’s evil twin.  ‘Tis a dead cert.  They must have been separated at birth. (See above)

‘It’s impossible to watch TV with BFP,’ complained BF, ‘He always knows who dunnit, and remembers everything if he’s seen it before.’

‘Tell me about it!,’ agreed One, ‘The A of the F is like a sodding Police Inspector. Oh, hang on, he is a sodding Police Inspector.’

‘If it’s not bloody Sharpe, it’s Hornblower,’ moaned BF.

‘Noooo, you’re kidding me,’ countered One, ‘The A has the boxed sets of both.’

‘And,’ went on BF, ‘for laughs it’s Norman-sodding-Wisdom!’

I don’t believe it,’ shrieked One, ‘They are exactly the same. Sunday afternoons just aren’t complete without Mr Grimsdale impersonations.’

One has always indulged the male of the species with their curious comedy choices, since, being male, the bar is set that much lower.

However, in the case of BFP and the A of the F, who are both wildly intelligent coves, One does wonder awhile.

Any road up, the mild mannered, quiet, logical, analytical perseverance of BFP is matched and exceeded by the A of the F who brings to the duo: the veiled threat of violence (to be deployed only when necessary),competent firearms usage, steely determination, an aura of authority, dangerous charm, and of course, drinking, smoking and swearing…

Imagine the carnage when the twins are unleashed upon the Sister Ugly as they victimise poor darling Lovely One upon her return to the underground lair…

Thursday, 11 December 2014

In which One ponders…

Here One rests in One’s small room

Pondering One’s sickly womb

One can but lie here, still, and wait

Until One learns it’s grisly fate

Through a small hole will they winkle

or drag the blighter out me twinkle?

I’ll save it as a gift to give

and mark it ‘where I used to live’

To bring a little Christmas joy

To that great big lummox Boy.


‘You go too far’ I hear you chorus Dear Reader.  Nonsense, One is merely laughing in the face of adversity.   Well, One should always stick with what One does best, shouldn’t One?

One went a visiting yester-eve to Vile ex Husband and Boy’s gaff.  Together, as a dysfunctional family we watched  a skeletal Father Christmas being dragged around Wivey in a rather fetching sleigh, by a flatbed truck.

There were no revellers abroad that evening and save for the Council workers in their High-Viz jackets (and us at the window) the only by-standers were the blokes having a fag outside the pub.

A strange ritual then ensued…

Father Christmas was presented with an aluminium step ladder, looked awfully chuffed, and shot off into the distance to the sound of sleigh bells.

Obv a strange Somerset tradition…

Or, maybe it’s just Wivey.  That’s more likely.

Wednesday, 10 December 2014

In which Pollyanna temporarily left the building…

glad game

That, Dear Reader, is One (see above) perpetually offering a smiling, cheerful (and obv flawlessly beautiful) face to the world.

Yesterday, and temporarily over the weekend, Pollyanna left the building.

The thing is this, Dears, Christmas appears to have been cancelled in all of One’s ports of call this year.

‘There isn’t room for a Christmas Tree in here,’ opined the A of the F when One began mentally measuring up for decking the hall with boughs of holly. (and, by the way, how does he know what I’m thinking?)

Back at the Bung of Doom ‘I hate Christmas’ is the preferred mantra of the chatelaine.

As for One’s eclectic collection of Seasonal baubles: they are packed away with the rest of One’s life in a big wooden chest in the Underground Lair.

When One and Boy went to look at the Underground Lair prior to purchase, One said to Boy…

‘Where shall we put the Christmas Tree?’ (that being the first consideration for One on any home acquisition.)

‘Mumuz, it’s only April!’ countered Boy.

One recounts this story merely to share with you,Dear Reader, the importance One places on this time of year and the keeping of all it’s traditions.

Surely there is nothing in the world nicer than sitting in the firelight with the twinkly glow of the Christmas Tree lights sharing a Tesco Winebox of Pinot with the One you love? Chuck in a three quid box of Tesco Collection chocolates and yer luck’s in!

Any road up, One is back to normal this very a.m. and ready to take on the womb of doom…

Tuesday, 9 December 2014

In which One has a gloomy day, as does everyone else…

A gloomy day, weather-wise, and frankly, most other things wise.  One is desp attempting to ‘live in the day’ but ‘tis difficult sometimes, to remain positive.

When at the A of the F’s gaff, all is well and wonderful.  Lovely company and oodles of cosy cuddles sustain One through One’s darkest hours.

And, lets not forget the darling A, for he is worried for One.

Just to trounce yesterday’s ‘red eye’ One received a missive from the solicitor acting for the Malthouse Management company demanding One pay for the restoration of the stone work on the back of the block since One’s water butt caused the problem.

One has been versed in what to say to them, but frankly, One has bigger poisson to fry at the moment.

‘Whatever will be, will be…’

Dozzer Day.

Monday, 8 December 2014

In which One is pissed...

As if poor darling Lovely One hasn't got enough to put up with...

1.  Being chucked out into the cold
2.  Going back, alone, to the underground lair
3.  Not selling enough to keep the wooluff from the door
4.  Waiting FAR TOO FECKING LONG to find out the fate of One's womb

One now has a burst blood-fecking-vessel in One's otherwise beautiful baby blue left eye.

Feck feck feckety feck.

Am fed up, peed off and generally fecking pissed.

Have resolved to remain intoxicated at all times.

Sunday, 7 December 2014

In which One is being brave...

One should be painting for One's adoring public today, but instead One is reclining on a chaise lounge in the A of the F' s magnificent drawing room being fed oysters and champagne by his own fair hand.
One is being brave, and, obv, looking not dissimilar to a gaunt, but exceptionally beautiful Pre Raphaelite painting.
This afternoon One shall be transported via  sleigh and four white steeds to a Victorian Christmas extravaganza.
Carefully wrapped in One's Beaver, One shall recline like a mysterious Festive wraith, coughing gently with a Brussels lace handkerchief clutched in my tiny hand.
Or, if we can't be arsed, we might stay in and have fish finger sandwiches and a snog.

Saturday, 6 December 2014

In which One puckers...

Lying in bed in the starfish position (the A of the F was in the water closet) One was drifting in and out of kip, when One wondered if fish fart.
'How the feck would I know that' said th a A upon One's enquiry, 'and anyway what a stchoopid question to start the day with and what are you doing?'
'I'm looking at sparkly things' countered One 'and then I'm going to have a game of Angry Birds.'
From this, Dear Reader, you will deduce that One is in a non-cerebral zone today.
One shall very likely spend the remainder of One's days in just such a manner.
One had calculated that One had approximately 23 years left to snog the A of the F, but since One may be embarking upon One's festive finale, One had better pucker up without delay.

Friday, 5 December 2014

In which One makes an important discovery…


‘Are you sure you two girls are old enough to smoke?’ enquired the amusing article in the fag shop of One and BF.

One giggled and twisted One’s control knicker leg to such an extent that One inadvertently made a v important discovery by not paying attention and purchasing the wrong fags.

And Lo, the Menthol Fag was discovered. A drag on one of them and One felt positively fragrant and fighting fit.

‘A gurt big pack of green ones?’ went on the flirtatious fag flogger.

If he’d have offered One a five pack of Cubans rolled up a maidens thigh One would have nodded, still blushing and hopping from One foot to another with the ridiculous glee of being flirted with by a real, red blooded, pulse positive male of the species.

One sold One’s wedding and eternity ring to fund the festive season.   ‘Aaaaah’ One hears you chorus Dear Reader,  but, no, sorrow not, for One was married for a mere twenty minutes many moons ago.

With a Barbour pocketful of cash One and BF peeked inside a curiosities emporium and One espied a divine day-bed on which One could re-enact the death scene from Camille should the occasion arise.

‘You’re not getting that!’ declared BF and shot of up the high street in an indignant manner.

One could just picture Oneself, pale, beautiful, in a Victorian lace nightgown, snuggled up in me v expensive shabby chic throw on that there day bed with all you adoring Readers sobbing around my tiny body, racked with pain.

But no, BF the sensible would have One shuffle off this mortal coil in me flippin’ truckle bed, no doubt wearing me brown jim-jams.

Any road up, the top end dealt with, the bottom end is still in question and unless an assistant with a mop and bucket and suitable wipe-clean seating is arranged One won’t be Mwa-Mwa-ing One’s public at the Art Show Opening this evening.

Wednesday, 3 December 2014

In which One swerves the TV…


A small portion of One, see above, was removed for further investigation.

‘There’s a T.V. screen to your left so that you can see inside your womb,’ began the cove nestled between One’s thighs.

‘If it’s all the same to you,’ One countered, ‘unless you’ve got Breaking Bad on there, I’ll swerve it.’

One chose not to go down the ‘Womb with a View,’ joke route, being an inventive sort even with me pants off and me legs in the air.

‘Have you got anyone at home to look after you?’ came the enquiry.

Well we all know the answer to that sad question, don’t we Dear Reader, and so even though One could have done with fifteen pints of Vodka and a sharp blow to the temple to accompany the proposed anaesthetic, One resolved to remain schtum in the face of agony lest they try to ackle One up in One of those disgusting gowns and invite One to stay the night.

‘It’s the best cancer to get,’ said the medical bint, ‘not that it’s definitely that.  We’re just ruling it out at the moment.  Since it’s all contained we can just remove everything.’

‘Oh goody’, thought One, ‘just how the feck am I going to have that, move and start a new job all in the space of a couple of weeks?’

One need to get back into One’s Underground Lair ASAP since One needs One’s own space, and a portion of wall on which to hang a certificate One won at the South Molton Fatstock Show at the weekend.

One is the current ‘Heifer Most Likely to…’

Tuesday, 2 December 2014

In which One is …


‘No longer mourn for me when I am dead, than though shall hear the surly sullen bell’…..  bla bla fecking bla

One never even knew that was a sonnet, One read it in a book by Victoria Holt when One was a gel.

Any road up, that and other miserable missives have haunted One’s dreams…

And then, One woke up in One’s cold, lonely truckle bed in One’s begrudged cell, without the A of the F beside One.

It can’t get any worse than that, can it?


One received an email during the night from the National Lottery…  Sign into your account as soon as you can we have news about your ticket.

‘Oh goody, goody’ thought One, One can have One’s insides scooped out with a silver spoon, in a private hospital, instead of having them hooked out with a spike by an apprentice from Dewhurst the butcher. (Hopefully not the one who hacked through One with a serrated vegetable knife to release Boy into an unsuspecting world)

Speaking of Boy, he who was nestled in the offensive organ of the day, should One pickle the womb in formaldehyde and present it to Boy as a Christmas gift?  No sales figures in for last month, so it looks as if that’s all he’s going to get.

One, however, has been informed that the A of the F will be spending the day of Chrimbo with his Dear Mama.  That is just as it should be. 

‘I thought you could come over on Boxing Day,’ says he.

Well, One is currently all gung ho and blasé about being alone, but really, One would rather spend the day at the A’s than being at the Underground Lair, or even, God forbid, the bung of doom.

In which One is fairly sanguine...

Good Morning world...
The A of the F flew out of the truckle bed at an ungodly hour to minister to his flock of the day, so it's just me and Chris Evans snuggling under the quilt.
It is the best of times. It is the worst of times...
BUT, One is a lucky One, with good friends to gently guide One through whatever happens next, and of course, the A of the F, who is more than a friend.
One's Pollyanna positivity is hanging by the slenderst of threads today, since One has acquired the A's man flu, just to put the tin hat on it.
Obv, One won't be affected to such a grave degree, since One is a girl.
'Don't worry about anything practical,' said he, 'that can all be sorted.'
One has never had a chap do anything much in a practical manner. One has been alone in the world for most stuff.
Little things like a call to say he is on his way home or the sound of his key in the door, or even his huffing and puffing and complaining when he first appears are tiny pieces of Heaven to One.
All One need now is a Christmas Tree and some mistletoe and One's joy will be unbounded.
Well, that, cracking Padstow, winning the lottery, and not having cancer...

Monday, 1 December 2014

In which One uderstands...

Off we biffed up hill and down Dale to the distant farm that we can see from the sitting room window.
We'd been invited to Sunday lunch by friends of the A of the F and what a delightful family they are. One was merely absorbed into the throng and not treated as a minor celebrity/curiosity as per other erstwhile A's BF' s
One had been requested to wear socks inside One's Uggs Noir, as upon removal of the snuggly boots One's feet are Noir aussi.
Does the blighter know nothing?
Nonetheless, One being loved up to the armpits, One obliged, not wishing to display One's feet Noir to the delightful assembled throng.
Joy of joys, not only did they have pussy cats, but puppies too, so One and the wife of the A of the F' s bezzie mate oooohed and aaahed with rapturous glee whilst the chaps looked at us in abject horror and started talking about sport in case they felt obliged to pet the pussies.
How simply divine to be gathered up into a delicious family for the afternoon. One completely forgot about the ghastly goings on that are awaiting One around the corner of this week.
The A of the F has been a complete Angel to One, to the degree that One has silently shed a couple of buckets of tears when One is alone.
Whatever lies over the rainbow, One shall prevail, as One at last understands.