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Thursday, 17 December 2015

In which One pokes One's oar in where it's not required...

Instructions for getting the tea when your partner is late home from work
This recipe is for men only

Pour large Scotch
Light a fag

Open freezer
Search (among the easily prepared items) until you find some meat
Preferably some diced beef that hasn't been well enough hidden and was being saved for SLOW COOKING in a stew

dice an onion, being careful not to soften in oil, and chuck it in a frying pan with the non-sealed beef
pour in half a bottle of Worcestershire sauce
Boil to feck

Pour another Scotch
light another fag


place some pasta in cold water in a saucepan and leave

Enter sous chef

Sous chef, attempting to help places the assembled ingredients into a casserole dish, adds some stock, herbs and tomato puree and puts it in the oven throws the cold flaccid pasta in the bin and gets out some rice.

Man, sitting in the lounge with a face like he's chewing a wasp, gets the hump since he was 'cooking the supper' and he 'doesn't come in and start messing about with stuff when you're cooking' adopts hurt demeanor.

Ok, maybe One should be grateful to have such a kind and thoughtful Admiral in the galley...

One is!  One really is!

Pass the Gaviscon

Tuesday, 15 December 2015

In which One is absolutely fecking fed up...

Through the years
We all will be together,
If the Fates allow
Hang a shining star upon the highest bough.
And have yourself A merry little Christmas now. 

One received a seasonal greeting in the form of a final solicitor's letter demanding One pay the best part of eight thousand pounds for the 'damage' caused by One's inoffensive butt.
Failure to comply will result in court proceedings.
Obv a load of nonsense.
Today One will be sad and a little bit scared, but One has the help of many previous victims so although the protagonist is no doubt rubbing her gnarled hands together with her customary fiendish glee, One shall prevail.
One's long list of previous harassment incidents have been deemed 'irrelevant' by the trainee solicitor acting on behalf of the 'person' in question, who incidentally isn't using her usual solicitor (they probably have had enough) but, each and every incident recorded is a fact and will be proven.
Today One shall be copying all the correspondence and mailing it to every flat in the block, because, 'a pound to a pinch of shite' I'll bet the residents are unaware of the large amount of our maintenance fees are spent on litigation.
Any road up, One shall have to grin and bear it until such time as I can sell my lovely home and escape...


On to matters amusing...
A rather strange headline appeared in the Daily Mail last week, the premise of which was that 'Obesity in women is more of a threat than Terrorism.'
It has always been thus that a large woman is vilified simply for taking up space, but One was blissfully unaware of the threat us biffers cause to national security.
Are we likely to explode without warning?  Will one more sausage roll cause a random ignition of a fat girl, taking out innocent passers-by?
Who knows?
Police are currently abroad on the streets breaking up groups of more than three fat girls hanging around outside Greggs, luring them into black Marias with the promise of sugar-dusted mince pies.
What a load of old bollioks!
As if One hasn't got enough to worry about without the fear of being water-boarded and interrogated by the plod, just for being a biffer.

Tuesday, 8 December 2015

In which One carries a heavy load...

Little donkey, little donkey
On a dusty road
Got to keep on plodding onwards
With the precious load.
Been a long time little donkey
Thro' the winter's night.
Don't give up now little donkey
Bethlehem's in sight.

That's me that is, that little donkey...

One shan't have to worry about who's going to carve the Turkey Twizzler, since One is working Christmas-fecking-eve, Christmas-fecking-day and New-fecking-Year day an' all!

So, life at the shit-face goes on... and on... and on...

No matter, One shall prevail.

A call yester-eve from Aged P...

AP    'Have you seen Vile ex Husband? (obv she doesn't call him that, but for the purposes of this diatribe that's what he's known as) I just wondered how he is and what he's doing?'

LO    'Why would I have seen him?  I'm not married to him and for all I care he can go and boil his fecking head.'

Anywho, such is One's odd little existence...

Christmas is hereby cancelled in the Underground Lair and as for the New Year, it will go and come without herald.

Still, the tree's up and there's a couple of empty fag packets and a wine bottle underneath it and just to put the tin fecking hat on it, some bastard's parked in me space.

Ho Hum, deck the halls with soiled wet-wipes, fa la fecking la la bolliocks!

Tuesday, 1 December 2015

In which One's got the hump...

'Share if you love your daughter/mother/grandmother/dog/cat/son' on Facebook.
is One at odds with the world at large...
One is busy actually loving personages in real life and not on Facebook with the rest of the great unwashed.

Any road up, One is at odds with the general populous, since One

a     doesn't like chips
b     absolutely abhors popular culture
c     haven't put me Chrimbo Tree up yet

What is it with all that Strictly Come Dancing stuff?
One couldn't give a rat's fat who wins, or who dances at sodding Blackpool Ballroom.

One is at one with some, however, since is watching 'I'm a Celeb, shoot me in the head' or whatever it's called.

What's next?  Celebrity Amputations?

Anyway, back to the Chrimbo Tree...

Where to put it?  What to hang on it?

Since the Underground Lair is in 'special measures' yet a fecking gain, there will be a turkey twizzler and a length of tinsel draped over the unpaid debts/bills, 'twill be a severely cut down Festive Season, as per...

There won't be twenty quid for the homeless/sad donkeys/stray pussies or anyone for that matter, since One is on the bones of One's arse again.

Woe Woe Woe is the Christmas mantra from down in the Lair.

No matter, maybe next year will bring some good luck...

Monday, 30 November 2015

In which One is told of ghostly things...

'He followed me home from the graveyard. He absolutely loves dogs,' said One's co worker upon receipt of a query from One as to how the ghost took up residence in her gaff...

'He pokes his fingers up my nose,' she continued as One backed toward the exit, carefully avoiding One's charges who were intent on disrobing One...

Now, let me explain, Dear Reader...
One is an observer of the oooman in all it's forms and willing to accept all our little idiosyncrasies since we are all v different and that's what makes us what we are BUT even One has to draw the line somewhere...

'I am a very spiritual person and want to help people,' she ploughed on.

Don't get me wrong, Darlings, I really like the personage in question. In fact I like 'em all, being a happy person and loving One's fellow man.  The Admiral says it's because I'm a bit simple.  So be it, nobody's perfect, except him, of course.

In fact, One's Auntie Doris was a fully paid up, table lifting medium and One's Nanny Cooper was a regular at the Spiritualist Church, when she wasn't charging onto football pitches whacking referees with her clip-top handbag.  BUT, One is a little bothered by persons who put faith into things that are clearly just that, matters of faith.

In fact, an odd looking bloke once sidled up to One in a smoky nightclub and opined...
'I think you've got the gift.  Would you let me put you under and investigate?'
One exited stage left in a flurry of fag smoke and gin fumes, knowing full well that all the aforementioned cove was actually interested in was a bit of gusset foraging.

'Tis true, One has had a number of unexplained happenings in One's life, but haven't we all and One is very definitely NOT a spiritual being.

Any road up, One listened intently to the co worker and suspended disbelief until she began a diatribe regarding her bezzie mate who is regularly abducted by aliens.

What with that and a twelve and a half hour shift of TV watching, One was very nigh prone in a corner breathing into a brown paper bag.

'Bung the Asda Prosecco in the fridge.  I need it,' read the text One sent home having previously vowed not to sully One's interior with fags and drink.

'Tis an odd life and One is fairly certain that this mortal coil is all we have until we are planted and continue the circle of life.

BUT, yesterday, having received v sad news regarding the secretary of the Lovely One fan club, One can't help but hope that there is a divine afterlife where she can lay comfortably on a fluffy cloud and regard us and our ridiculous doings for time immemorial.

Saturday, 28 November 2015

In which One is visited,,,

Arriving home from One's day of toil, One nasally detected the aroma of cooking, the sounds of Man Music and a wicker work bath chair jauntily propping open the front door...
Upon entry to the Underground Lair One was met by the sight of the Admiral, supported by two of his three nubile young carers, stirring a cauldron of wildly boiling pie of the Sheep Herd...

A box of wine, opened and ready for One, a tin of extra chocolatey bisquits and a complimentary pack of wet wipes were displayed for the use of One.

Mmmm, thought One, a man in the gaff...

One, having been wrestling with a v small person for twelve hours was dishevelled and none too aromatic, so One hopped into the shower having placed all of One's garments into a red bag with a skull and crossbones on it.
One, having changed into One's bri nylon negliggy re-appeared shortly and slipped One's beautiful feet into One's marabou, kitten heeled slippers and flolloped down on the Louis Cans to await the pie of the Sheep Herd.

A v pleasant evening was spent in the company of the Admiral, who, it has to be said, is a splendid old gentleman in every respect.

What a lovely way to spend an evening
Can't think of anything I'd rather do...

Friday, 20 November 2015

In which One is bereft in the Lair...

In a little while from now
If I'm not feeling any less sour
I promise myself to treat myself
And visit a nearby tower
And climbing to the top
Will throw myself off
In an effort to
Make it clear to whoever
Wants to know what it's like When you're shattered

Gilbert O'Sullivan

Any road up, there we have it, The Admiral is currently ensconced in a secure unit for retired sea-faring coves and One is 'home again, home again, jig a jig jig.'

One glanced a final backward gaze and saw the sun twinkling off his silver beard as he was wheeled away by three Philippino Nurses who, weight for weight, he swapped for the comely curves of One.

Ah, no matter, 'tis better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all.'
What a load of old bollocks that is!  One was intending to live the life of Lady of the Manor, sashaying forth in me Norman Harnell ballgown and wellies to tend to the orangery, but, as per, it wasn't meant to be.

One gave serious thought to killing off Lovely One and no longer recording her escapades of derring do, but she's not quite ready for the scrap yard yet...

Almost, but not quite.  Having hoiked up most of a blackened lung these past few weeks, One has earned no wages and is looking forward to a Turkey Twizzler Yuletide, yet again, but One sallies forth with all the determination that a discarded, flollopy old dollop can muster...

As a parting shot to the Admiral's previous gaff, One tumbled down the twenty stairs on the ghastly slime that gathers in damp abodes and left a massive arse-shaped dent in the slate at the bottom of the aforementioned staircase.

'Are you injured, darling Lovely One?' I thought I heard you chorus Dear Reader.  Who is One kidding? You selfish bastards haven't even bothered to enquire after One's wizened lungs, so a general enquiry after the state of me arse is hardly likely.

No matter, now One is home for the foreseeable until the Lair goes under the hammer, One shall steel Oneself against all-comers, legal or otherwise and sally forth to Art Therapise the poor and in need.

It isn't quite so lovely being Lovely, Lovely One, these days. (Diana Mitford) (well, sort of)

Thursday, 12 November 2015

In which One sees a hare...

'I need to get some double sided sticky pads' said the A, proudly holding aloft an in car charger that he'd acquired from the Pound Shop.

One repaired immediately to One's charity shop Edina Ronay red leather bag and there, nestling beneath a tin of anchovies, was the very thing.

'Blimey! The contents of your bag would bamboozle a psychiatrist' said he, snatching the aforementioned sticky pads and securing his new device to the dash of the Morris Minor.

Now all One needs is a personage in dire need of a tin of anchovies and One's true worth shall become apparent to all and sundry.

Re: Buttgate, One is currently steeling Oneself for the seemingly inevitable trial.
Oh for a quiet life!

One is surely helpless against the might of the aggressor who has already spent four thousand pounds sending One solicitors letters.
Ah well, One shall doubtless be the world's first butt martyr.
I thought it was a good thing to do, but what do I know.
Nuffink it would appear.

Last night, being taken for a drive to get some fresh air into One's knackered lungs, One espied a hare (the first live one One has ever seen)
There it was leaping alongside the Morris Minor in the squally Cornish evening.
It made One's day!
I can't remember if they are good or bad luck.
We shall see...

Wednesday, 11 November 2015

In which One bids farewell...

One has been v v ill.

In fact One is still under the doctor with a mysterious chest.
Although One's physical symptoms are lessening day by day, One's mental state is seriously questionable.

'But One?' I hear you lament, Dear Reader, 'your mental state has long been questionable. In fact, to put none too fine a point on it, you are A MAD OLD BAT.'
Sad but true...

One is set fair for a lean festive season since One has been unable to tend to the sick and needy for weeks and has earnt nothing.
'Ho Ho Ho' shall be replaced with ' Woe Woe Woe' in the underground lair.

Although One is without doubt not guilty of the now infamous 'Great Butt Incident' it would appear that One's protestations have fallen on deaf ears and the matter seems to be hurtling toward the abyss, with alarming speed.

One is supremely disadvantaged in the defence arena since One can't even afford the bus fare to the Citizens Advice office, let alone the services of a defence lawyer.

The anniversary of One's stroke is approaching. Perhaps One will have another and just let that be an end to it.

'What's happened to your irrepressible Pollyanna spirit?' I hear you cry, Dear Reader.

Along with my looks, it has gone. Everyone has a limit and I have reached mine.

Somewhere, in a dark corner, there is an unpleasant person rubbing their gnarled hands together with their customary fiendish glee.

Farewell, dear friends, One's had enough.

Saturday, 31 October 2015

In which I am NOT BETTER...

That's it! It's official!
I've lost me looks.

Whilst I've been cowering beneath the antique quilt on the truckle bed spitting up spent gobbets of lung, AND NO, I don't feel any better (thanks for not asking you selfish bastards) my looks have gone for good.

My lovely face looks like a peeled King Edward topped with spun sugar.

Super floo us harvesting has gone for a burton and by the time the Autumn growth is addressed it will be blown hither and thither in the manner of tumbleweed abroad the Wivey byways.

'An acute bacterial infection of the lungs' just in case yer interested!

But no, why should you miserable goons concern yourselves with such things? You sit there on your sweaty backsides, squeezing your blackheads, not giving a Tinker's cuss for the working One, while I languish at death's door and the world's arse goes unwiped.

And what shall keep the Admiral wedded to One? Now that One's looks have gone and One has gone completely Sylvia Sims, all that binds us together is our shared love of stationery.

On a brighter note:
An ever burgeoning queue of previous victims are jostling for seniority in the butt defence stakes...

Friday, 23 October 2015

In which One is sick...

One has been languishing in bed for two days with a horrid virus...

We went for a long stomp around a nearby reservoir and I think the shock of movement combined with fresh air has but done One in.
The Admiral is also laid low with it too now.  We are so close we even get sick at the same time. One drew this phenomenon to the A's attention and he gave One a hard stare, feigning a theatrical vomit in me handbag.

During One's sweaty confinement under the duvet, One has been catching up on the doings of One's chums on Facebook...

An arty type of One's acquaintance has been off on his hols to America with his girlfriend...

The adventure culminated in the arty type presenting his lady love with a diamond solitaire ring at the top of the Empire state building...

As he slipped it on her wedding finger she gasped 'does this mean we are engaged?'

'No' says he 'it is a Promise ring and means that we promise to love each other for ever.'

He was surprised when she cried.

What did he expect, Dear Reader?  The poor girl, wearing an engagement ring on her wedding finger will now have to explain to all and sundry what the feck  a 'promise ring' is.

Cry?  I'd have punched him in the face and pushed him off the top of the building.

Wednesday, 21 October 2015

In which One's future is uncertain...

Tis the season of mists and mellow fruifulness in the Manor...

Shortly, One shall be bounding from the bed in the Blue Room and harvesting the mushrooms from the walls in order that Consuella can fashion them into an omelette for the Admiral's petit dejuener.

One shall henceforth have to deploy the Norman Hartnell, fur-lined onesie, complete with me Gertrude Shilling balaclava (with the front knitted in) just to survive through the sub-zero nights.

Yesterday One spent another day of One's hols on One's hands and knees chipping the remains of centuries of fois gras off the inside of the Aga.  The gaff must be returned to it's former state afore departure.

No matter, very soon the Admiral will be packing his ocean-going trunk and relocating to home for retired sea-faring coves.

'What will happen to you, dear Lovely One?' I hear you enquire, Dear Reader.
I know not. Perchance he can sneak me in on an occasional basis to shiver his timbers.

Today One shall be herding the enormous spiders and setting them free in order that the Miss Havisham kebwobs can be sucked up the Dyson.

'You eat eight spiders in your lifetime,' informed the Romany Barbie at work last week.

One wonders if that's the odd one now and then or all at once in a sandwich.

It's given One an idea for a low-cost supper though.

In which One very nearly ran off to join the circus...

We exited Aged P 's with a promise of further delights to follow at Christmas...

We both have Aged Mamas who will need to be accommodated throughout the Festive Season. The Admiral's Mama is not the frivolous type, whilst mine is off the frivol-scale.  Therefore a joint 'put 'em up at my place' is a no no.

That little extravaganza requires further thought and since One is constantly being reminded that there are but nine Fridays until Christmas, I'd better get on it.

Memories of Christmases spent with the Mother of Vile ex Husband loom large.
Sprouts put on to simmer at the end of August, the miserable faces around the table and the feigned delight upon being the lucky recipient of yet another beige, turtle-neck sweater feature greatly

'We never bother with things like that,' the Mother-in-Law said when One, upon the occasion of One's first Christmas with them, enquired as to the festivities.

And indeed they didn't.

In fact, they went off en mass to Cornwall for the New Year leaving One and baby Boy in London without a car.

Anyway, that's all over now and One shall shortly retrieve One's splendid decorations from the shed and polish them in readiness for a fun-filled Festive Season.

No need to make a cake, as One's new chum is so doing.

One is knitting Christmas again this year...

In fact, the fabulous wooly-pully that One is fashioning for the Admiral is so divine that if it doesn't fit him One shall bin him off and find a bloke that it does fit.

That shouldn't prove too difficult as One pulled again on Saturday night at the bar in the Hungry Horse...

A be-suited diddicoy sidled up to One and made a lewd suggestion over me Merlot...

To think, Dear Reader, One could, at this moment be running away with the roustabouts...

Still, I expect he took one look at One and was sizing me up to be the fat, bearded lady that gets knocked into the water by a coconut.

Monday, 19 October 2015

In which One goes outside and may be some time...

You gotta accentuate the negative
And eliminate the positive
Memorize the obituaries
And don't mess with around with Aged P

'My friend had a fatal accident there,' indicated Aged P with a gnarled digit, on one of her 'Wallis Arnold Guided Tours of Doom' as One ferried her around the hotspots of Luton.


'Where would you like to go?' enquired One, as The Admiral took refuge behind The Telegraph in a comfy armchair.

'I'd be young if it wasn't for me bad leg,' she replied, 'I've got a Sainsbury voucher.'
'Do you want to go to Sainsbury then?' asked One.
'I like Asda.'
'We can go there then.'
'I've got a Sainsbury voucher.'
'We can go to both.'
'Not bothered,' said she indicating displeasure.

We climbed into the Admiral's car...
(At the eleventh hour One had remembered that One's MOT had run out)
Failed - of course and currently languishing in a garage in Barnstaple awaiting brake pads, and the means to pay for them.

'You'll have to tell me the way. It's all different round here,' said One, ' do I turn right at the bottom?'
'Doesn't the Admiral ever wear socks?' Aged P replied, 'he's got lovely feet. I can tell where he lives from his feet, they're really brown.'

An interesting phenomenon, thought One, being able to tell a person's origin by the colour of their feet. Not quite sure how this gift has manifested itself, or how it could be deployed in the wider world. One thing was for sure: it didn't tell me the way to fecking Sainsbury!

One tried again...
'Are we heading in the right direction?'
'You should have turned left back there,' said she.
One took a deep breath and a U turn...

On the previous evening we checked into our budget room for the night and biffed off to The Hungry Horse for a scoff.
'What would you like?' enquired One of Aged P who was 'treating' us.
'Eileen has sausages every day' came the reply.
'Never mind what Eileen has. What do YOU want?'
'I can't eat a big dinner. It's the steroids,' said she lifting up her sweater to show all and sundry her stomach.
One made the enquiry again (through gritted teeth)
'Ooooh look what he's having,' mouthed Aged P pointing to a Cuban-heeled diddicoy (I think the fair was in town) ' I couldn't eat that.'
'Well don't order that then, what do you want?'
'I have two squares of 80% cocoa dark chocolate every night,' she continued.

'See if you can find out what she wants,' said One to the A, 'I'm going outside for a fag.'

Sunday, 18 October 2015

In which One shows the Admiral a good time...

'Is that your boyfriend?' asked the v small Northern Dancer as he placed a v sweaty palm on the back of One's neck, 'I think you're lovely.'
'Get me coat. I've pulled,' said One to the Admiral as One extricated One's bodily parts from the moist clutch.
'Wanna dance?' continued the unidentified cove.
One made One's excuses to avoid standing up next the article and towering head and shoulders above him.
Nonetheless, it does One's heart good to know that One, at One's advanced vintage can still stir the animal instinct of even the smallest of members of the opposite.

One and the A were honoured, indeed, to have been invited to the party.  One surveyed the assembled throng and not many bods from the Shit-Face were there and since One is a relatively new arse wiper, One was chuffed to little mint balls to have been included in the celebrations.

We arrived bang on time to see the happy couple recreate the first dance at their wedding and it did One's heart good to know that there are people out there in the great beyond who have been together for ages and still love each other.

One, as you know, hangs on to pairs of shoes longer than husbands.

No matter, One shall cling to the Admiral until the end and we shall shuffle from this mortal coil together fag in one hand and drink in the other.

Off to Luton now to see Aged P.

I know how to show the Admiral a good time!

Saturday, 17 October 2015

In which willies loom large...

Just woke up thinking about Frank Middleton's willy...
'Pray, who is Frank Middleton, and why were you pondering his penis?' One hears you collectively enquire, Dear Reader.
Well, One has been party to a 'Willy related' tale this week and what with going home to Luton tomorrow and that little escapade bringing back memories of One's misspent youth, One dreamt of the first willy One ever saw.

There was the fourteen year old One, down the 61 Club, with Suzanne Neale and Vivien Rayner dancing round our clutch bags to 'Rockin' Robin' when FM sidled up to One and asked One to go outside for a Number Six.
Nothing salacious there, Dear Reader. A Number Six being a favourite fag of the underage smoker.

One, being a trusting sort, biffed off to the car park only to be clutched in an acne addled embrace and have a teenage todger thrust into One's unsuspecting hand.
One, fearing that the nasty instrument might brush up against One's brand new, smock topped, Miss Mouse, mini dress and render One with child, shot off at a pace, with the unsatisfied FM in hot pursuit.

'We accept all that: the willy tale, the going home, the seeing Vivien and all that,' I hear you opine Dear Reader, 'but surely the only willy that should be uppermost in your mind is the elderly duffel bag, sea faring dangler of the Admiral.'

Well, it surely is, but even he has betrayed One.

(How soon the flame of love can die) - Henry Mancini.

Why, only last night he sauntered into the galley with what, in the half light, looked like a massive bogie, and said...

'Ere, I thought you'd like to see this.'

And do you know what, Dear Reader? The selfish bastard had picked out his own verucca when One was in the kitchen.
That just left One with the onerous task of filing off the surrounding skin with me Scholl battery powered foot smoother, and do you know, there was so much of it that One could hardly make out the divine silhouette of the Admiral through the cloud of minced skin and fag smoke.

Friday, 16 October 2015

In which me and BF are crap at pootering...

'What are we going to do about the sleeping arrangements?' asked Aged P when One informed her that I was bringing the Admiral to meet her before one/all of us snuff it.
'You can sleep with him if you want' replied One, 'he's a bit of a tart.'

'You're fifty eight and she still won't let you share a room!' opined One's chum incredulously when One recounted the tale.

But that's nothing in the Dozzer Day world of Aged P...

When One told her One was up the duff with Boy she shouted down the phone...

DON'T YOU DARE TELL ANYONE! (Like nobody would notice)

'I'm thirty fecking five Mother' replied One 'I have had sex a couple of times you know'

One never let the grass grow under One's gusset in me youth, Dear Reader.


An interesting day was spent with BF yesterday...
We spent all fecking day attempting to attach two photos to an email to begin the defence of One's entirely innocent butt.

BFP had cleared off with some other sea faring pensioners to mess about on the beautiful briney sea and left us to it.  We were shite!

'I really love the Admiral' said One to BF,  'but I couldn't exist without you and BFP.'

Wednesday, 14 October 2015

In which three little words are finally spoken...

'I went shopping,' said the Romany Barbie upon being questioned as to the activity undertaken during her day off.
'What did you buy?' enquired One.
'Seventy quids worth of lipstick and a dog,' said she, 'look I'll show you a picture,' she continued thrusting her phone in front of One.
One, leaning forward to observe what One thought would be a picture of the dog, was a little surprised when confronted by a picture of the aforementioned lipsticks, neatly lined up.  However, what was even more of a surprise was that the lipsticks were all practically the same colour - dark brown.
'Ooooh, I used to have one like that,' said One, 'Biba.  Have you heard of Biba?'
'No. Wassat?' enquired she and the conversation was over.

Who can't of heard of Biba?  Someone who's thirty eight years younger than me - obv!

'My sister said she wants a baby, so I said: get a dog and see how you get on,' she went on.
One, anxious not to spoil the moment, thought it unwise to point out that caring for a dog is rather different to the care and attention required to nurture a small human being.


The Admiral has finally uttered those three little words every girl longs to hear...

'Remove my verruca.'

Just as well, Dear Reader, because One couldn't possibly live with yet another male of the species who wouldn't commit to verruca removal.

One has traversed that particular life path before and it's ended in tears.  Need I remind you of the ill-fated bolt to Plymouth.  What an unmitigated disaster that little debacle was.

Any road up, One is now quite secure in One's thoughts and shall bolt forthwith.


'When are you coming back to work?' enquired One's delightful leader.
'26th,' said One,  'I remember that because it's the day my divorce came through and the date of Vile ex Husband's birthday.'
'Oh dear,' says he, 'that must be sad.'
'Not really,' replied One, 'being divorced from me on his birthday is the gift that just keeps on giving.'

Tuesday, 13 October 2015

In which One favours the full burka for a night out...

And so...
Yet another much needed day off will be consumed by One defending One's entirely innocent butt from the evil machinations of the Head Girl of the Block.
'Take legal advice, darling Lovely One,' I hear you chorus as one, Dear Reader.
Not an option, dears, since as One is being prosecuted using One's own money (the maintenance charges) One would be paying to prosecute and defend Oneself.
Bonkers isn't it?
Anyway, it's keeping One awake at night, stopping One from selling the Underground Lair and generally praying on One's mind to the point of madness.
FYI - persons who have to work nights in a care home to survive don't have cash lolling about for legal fees.


'Stop putting on your make-up and go and sort out the laundry,' said one of the many leaders at the shit-face to the Romany Barbie.
Why do lovely young girls slather two inch thick layers of goo all over their lovely faces anyway?
Oh, shit, I'm starting to sound like (and look like) Aged P.
Anyway, the Romany Barbie, huffed off shouting to One, 'Bye Mummy. Love you!' the silly girl.

One, almost going off in a huff from the shit-face this week, has been offered a much more suitable work regime, for one as aged as One - RESULT

One does, for unfathomable reasons, actually enjoy One's rather odd occupation and certainly enjoys fraternising with the other wage slaves.
'You're alright for a posh bird,' is the general summary of One, and One is ok with that.


Off to a party this weekend to show off the rather lovely Admiral of the Fleet.
'Do I need to wear a suit?' enquired the A.  Frankly it wouldn't matter what the old buffer wore, he'll still be the handsomest man in the room. One simply does love a chap that doesn't realise how absolutely edible he is.  One could consume him in a single sitting, One could!

One, having not been stomping around the highways and byways for the passing of many a moon is larding up again and so shall have to wear something in the manner of a bell tent.
'I tried on me dress last night and it don't fit,' said one of One's work chums last night in the Co-op as we loitered by the 'two for three quid Teasers bars.'
'Oh, go on, we might as well have one we won't loose three stone by Saturday anyway,' opined One.

One's figure is currently leaning toward the yashmak and full burka look, but One shall get ackled up in me massively marked down in the 1647 sale frock and a pair of leggings.
'You've got legs like a footballer,' One's dear Papa used to say, which in our house was considered a compliment by all but One, as One tottered about on me Timpsons three quid, mock suede ankle straps.

Any road up, I can sit here regaling you, Dear Reader, with me many woes, I've got to go and pick up a chum and biff off to Sainsburys.  We know how to have a good time,

Saturday, 10 October 2015

In which One seals up One's twinkle...

'Shut up, you irritating lump,' said the Admiral to One, as One lay prone on the settle, having completely shagged Oneself at the Shit-Face, yet again.
One, even though One was suffering and bunged up with a cold, was still 'helping him watch the football', and that's the thanks One got for it.
'No matter' thought One, 'I'll go and render meself a fragrant flower for the evening' and biffed off to the bathroom.
Following a prolonged shower and a super-floo-us harvesting session, One opted for a relaxing essential oils massage, administered by One's own fair hand, of course.
Fumbling about in the steam-filled room One inadvertently alighted upon a small bottle. Thinking it to be One's Ylang Ylang, One administered a couple of drops to me twinkle.
'Mmmmmm, that feels a bit odd' thought One and slathered a goodly amount of almond oil all over me acreage.
By this time the steam had cleared  and One was mortified to find that One had not, in fact, doused One's twinkle in Ylang Ylang, but had sealed it up with a bit of that Germoline plastic skin I got to repair my cut finger.

Friday, 9 October 2015

In which One is utterly exhausted...

'That is the last flight of stairs I run up today unless there's a shag at the end of it' opined One to the Romany Barbie who had eventually fronted up at the shit-face, three and a half hours late.
'At least you get shagged' retorted she, 'I'm thirty eight years younger than you and I've got tumbleweed falling out of me vagina. I hope I'm still up for it when I'm as old as you.'

One, having just worked a fourteen hour shift followed by a sleep-in, followed by another day's work was then required to load up the big blue bus with a small ugly crowd and transport them, with the Romany Barbie, to an eating establishment.

Traumatic for all concerned, but where else would you get to use the sentence: 'NO! Don't eat that! It's bird shit.'
And, for that matter, hear someone say,'Yeah, I really love that one. She's really sweet, but sometimes I could just club her to death.'

One shall miss these intellectual exchanges when One biffs off to pastures New next month.

'How so?' I hear you enquire, Dear Reader, 'We thought you loved it there.'
Yes, it's been a veritable hoot, but the long, long days and nights are too strenuous for a delicate bloom such as One.
'Can't they even budge an inch with the hours?' I hear you cry.
Apparently not, so, One is budging more than an inch and clearing off.

Tuesday, 6 October 2015

In which One lobs a further bit off me finger...

I suppose on the face of it, One must look slightly, if not completely, bonkers...
One has just had to repair to the grounds at this ungodly hour in the morning to smoke a fag...

What's that you say?
'what happened to Stoptober?'
What indeed.  For One has had another life-threatening injury befall One.

AND, it's just the finger One needs for poking people in the eye, which will be coming into it's own very shortly...

This time in the construction of cucumber sandwiches when One was serving afternoon tea to the Aristocracy.
'My, but you move in exhalted circles,' I hear you opine, Dear Reader.
'Tis true, One replies as One biffs a bead of Beluga off me ballgown.
Any road up, One is now required to collaborate with the Right Honorable in the production of bespoke items for an exclusive emporium in Mayfair.
More on that story later...

'And you expect me to let you loose on my verruca with your Swiss Army Knife,' exclaimed the Admiral upon hearing of One's latest misfortune, 'I remember what happened to BF's ear when you trimmed her hair!'
'That's not entirely fair,' countered One, 'ears do bleed a lot when cut.'
But 'twas to no avail and One is utterly forbidden to operate on any part of the Admiral.

Back to working days this week...
One had remained virtually unscathed during working on the dark side, but as soon as One put in an appearance in the hours of daylight, One was spat at, kicked and pinched all in the space of one particularly grueling bath time.

One must abandon this life forthwith and repair to the Manor to soothe the Admiral's fevered brow and biff about visiting old ladies on the Moor again.

'Why do you do it, Dear Lovely One?' I hear you chorus, 'when you can make a month's arse-wiping salary in an hour if you'd get off yer fat arse and start painting again?'

One is at this very moment asking Oneself the self same question.  One has had One's fill of 'meeting new people and wiping their arses.'

One does find the whole thing fascinating though, not only the incumbents of the house, but the persons who work there.

Just not quite fascinating enough though...

Sunday, 4 October 2015

In which One writes an ode to One's much maligned old butt...

Atilla the Hun has got nothing on One
Who pulls limbs off discarded old suitors for fun
and like swatted flies
One watch as they dies
and broils their entrails
and serves them with fries.

Joan of the Arc
had a walk in the park
compared to what passes
round here for a lark.
As One enters the fire
Fuelled by malice and ire
just like Joan one relies
on a power that is higher.

And dear Ghengis Khan
who's life spun a yarn
fades into the shadows
Of dear Lovely One
As One rides to the fray
like a huge Valkyrie
One really just wishes
'twould all go away.

But try as One might
One must stand up to the spite
and carry the banner
of truth, justice and right
To defend One's dear butt
'gainst malicious old mutt
with a case that's so tight
it's both open and shut.

Even though One's old butt
is nowhere to be found
there are still growing puddles
outside on the ground.
'How so?' you do mutter
'does it leak from the gutter?'
Do you know I just think that it might.

Saturday, 3 October 2015

In which One is wandering aimlessly about the town...

And so, here One is in Wivey 'All by myself' and it is weird...

It's the first weekend I've spent here in over a year and One can quite see why the Admiral is reluctant to up sticks and move to Wiv.  When one lives here full time one rather forgets how utterly odd everyone is.

I don't half miss the Admiral who is probably at this moment playing Chase the Ace with his delightful grandchildren.  One had planned to go on a crash diet and appear sylphlike and youthful upon his return, but having mucked out some old handbags, found enough loose change to acquire a Tandoori Mixed Gorilla last evening.  'Twas passable as a treat of a scoff, but the ensuing guffage was enough to choke a skunk.  The Admiral would have been proud of emissions like that.  One should acquire one of those devices currently shagging Voltswagon.

Biffed up the town to the Saturday morning market...

I'd forgotten quite how odd the great Wivey unwashed actually are...

An elderly lady was abroad ackled up in a spangled ballgown and the family jewels.  Not the traditional wear for a trip to Spar, but no one bats an eyelid here.

The Post Office spewed out the most bizarre looking gentleman, who stared about him as if he didn't know quite where he was. One swerved round him only to encounter the Tiny Temptress who'd just arrived back from Andalucia and was charging off to Dubai with her elderly amour.  My how the other half live!

Brand new Range Rovers disgorged elderly gentlemen in brightly coloured trousers.  What is it with the rich man of the outlying villages?  They all seem to wear extraordinary kecks: pink cords, frightful checks, in fact, anything that screams 'I am a rich person and therefore can be trousorily odd.'  Their ash blonde, bobbed wives disembark daintily in their cashmere coats and make straight for the Court House where they mwa-mwa their mates and drink Cappucino.

The Artisans market sits uncomfortably outside the Community Centre...

Inside, the indigenous population flog odd bits and bobs, hand made pies and cakes various wrapped in clingfilm. whilst outside the 'Artisans' proffer sour dough loaves, goat's cheese fashioned into items various and the kind of food I'll wager isn't high on the list of must haves for the local populous. (Squid curry, I'll mange me chapeau if they sold any of that to the locals!)

Any road up, saw BF and snuck off to the Bear Garden for a fag.  She gave me some sage advice re the butt dilemma.

One's new haircut was given the heads up by the woman in the Hardware Shop, who is the general arbiter of taste about these parts.  She is a bit biased though, given it's her daughter who is the mobile hairdresser.


One would just like to say a heartfelt 'thank you' to the blighters one flight up...

They have the most extraordinary disagreements (with the windows open)  She is a very theatrical type who hollers 'I need help' and 'you promised me you wouldn't go' and interesting stuff like that. I must say, given my staid and quiet life, I am entranced by their Tennessee Williams style flouncing about.  Not the traditional kind of behaviour One would associate with the Malthouse, given that cauldron stirring and spell incantation is the favoured past time of the matrons therein.

One sat out there last night fully expecting something, or someone to come hurtling out of the window, but it wasn't to be. Shame.

Anywho, this evening One shall be making a v hot chilli and scoffing things that the Admiral doesn't like.  It's not the same though.

Thursday, 1 October 2015

In which One is pissed, although unfortunately, not literally...

In the land of One it is still yesterday, having worked an extremely traumatic night at The House...

Oh, and just having returned from A and E with a damaged digit in a sling...

Let me explain, Dear Reader...

What with it being 'still yesterday' One thought 'I know, I'll nip to Lidls and acquire a couple of bottles of cheap plonk' after all, Stoptober for One shall begin on Monday.

'Remember when you get home to phone up the shop and tell my manager how well I'm doing,' said the trainee on the till.
One really would have, were it not for the fact that he's assembled the free wine carrier for One and when One removed it from the car the bastard collapsed shattering four of the bottles in the fecking porch of the Malthouse.

Never mind, thought One, I've still got two (to last the entire fecking month) and biffed into the kitchen, only to find that a previous tenant had taken my fecking corkscrew!

No matter, thought One, shan't need any until the sun's over the yardarm and proceeded to make a sandwich.

Distracted in no small part by the trauma of seeing the Pinot all over the porch One sliced a large chunk out of One's previously damaged digit.

There really wasn't that much of the tip of that particular finger left since it had been consumed in a sandwich making incident of One's youth, following a particularly riotous night.

So, there you have it...

Not only is One all alone for the weekend, but One now has a massive dressing holding together what's left of the damaged digit and no access to the remainder of the fecking Pinot.

Wednesday, 30 September 2015

In which he hasn't said it...

'Cor have you seen this?' enquired WITT, thrusting her mobile under my nose, 'there's loads of spot squeezing on YouTube.'
Just as One suspected, another prospective Picky Picky Nurse in the making.

'There's no such thing as a Picky Picky Nurse, Mummy',  Boy used to holler as he shot off up the garden with One in hot pursuit with a cotton bud or just One's claws.

The disappointing specimen didn't get acne like the other boys so One had to  content Oneself with a forage into the murky depths of his ears.  To be fair, he did once have the decency to get a boil: removal, a speciality of One's.

'I used to squeeze the spots on my ex boyfriend's back,' continued WITT, 'do you do that to the Admiral?'

One had to report that the silky smooth Admiral is utterly zit free, more's the pity.

Nonetheless One has informed One's employers that One is leaving and going to live with the old blighter.

A little disconcerting that he is still to utter the required three word sentence...

'Remove my verrucca.'

Tuesday, 29 September 2015

In which One is mainly eating cereal...

Should One be unfortunate enough to meet with an untimely demise and One's adorable abdomen be sliced asunder by that delightful little forensic floozie, Emilia Fox, in the manner of an autopsy, she would be aghast at the contents of One's interior, since One has scoffed only cereal for the passing of many a moon.

'How so?' I hear you chorus, Dear Reader.

Well. Tis like this...

When on nights, every time is breakfast time.

Wake up early afternoon - breakfast time.

Finish work early morning - breakfast time.

Tonight is the last night- HURRAH!

Dawn has just broken and One is watching a sliver of dark cloud drift past and grow larger and larger.

'Look at that' said the Admiral, the other day, pointing to a cloud, 'that weighs about five ton you know'.

Silly old sea faring sausage, thought One. Gravity would pull it down if it weighed all that and anyway, if that were the case, Lovely One, even having larded up a smidge, would surely be wafting on high. At least until the imminent precipitation of Waitrose Granola.

Monday, 28 September 2015

In which One is stressed...

Here's One utterly bereft at the thought of spending the next ten days exclusively in The Underground Lair...
AND not to feast my beadies on the smiling face of the Admiral, for he is off up the smoke with his dear Mama and thence to visit his his progeny.

One shall be wining and dining with Lord B and the Woodnymph, who require One to design panels for an item of bespoke furniture.
Oh, and eat loads of scrummy supper and drink lashings of ginger beer, since One is partaking in Stoptober (fags and wine)

One is on the horns of a potential dilemma...

One has been presented with a bill in excess of seven thousand pounds, three of which are for solicitors letters, sent from the flat next door but one, for the repairs to the rear wall of the block.

One has resigned Oneself to fighting my corner, but to tell the truth, Dear Reader, One is awfully tired of the shenanigans of daily life at the mo.

One won't even be able to sell the festering flat with a court case in progress.

'Chuck yer job in and come live with me' says the A of the F.

So, before stress kills me, I might just do that.

Friday, 25 September 2015

In which it would appear there is malice in the air...

'Where have you been, dear Lovely One?' I hear you enquire, as one Dear Reader.

One has been working nights and snuggled up in the truckle bed all day.
Tis true, the night shift at the poop mine has given One a shed load of comedy material for this little missive, but One has been disinclined to fashion it into any little stories for you.

One, whilst maintaining One's beatific aura for the sick and needy has been cowering neath the patchwork quilt breathing into a brown paper bag for the remainder of the day.

'We thought you were going to fashion a fabulously stylish noose from a brace of Hermes scarves and hurtle your dear little self into oblivion from the scaffolding in the grounds of The Underground Lair' I hear you comment as you light your penny candles on your alters to Lovely One.

One, downcast and doom laden has been buoyed by the advice and good sense of Ones stalwart chums and urged to fight for truth and justice.  And so, with me pants over the top of me jeggings, One shall enter the fray to go into battle for butts in general and One's in particular...

One has had One's golden locks cut in the style of Joan of Arc...
One has knitted a four ply chain mail onesie...
One's sword shall not sleep in One's hand...

And One shall endeavour to defend One's corner and hope that the proceedings don't lead to another sojourn in the high dependency stroke ward, or worse...

Tuesday, 22 September 2015

In which it just isn't funny...

Sometimes, even for one as optimistic as One, it's awfully difficult to find anything funny in a day.
One doesn't feel even remotely amusing at present.
Here One sits in the middle of the night watching Nicole Kidman shaving super-floo-us hairs off Robert Juney Downier, in a really weird film called 'Fur' or something, and I'm sure, given a different mindset I would be able to embroider amusing fur related tales. But not today.
One isn't up to much.

Sunday, 20 September 2015

In which One flounces...

'Where are your hoover bags?' One had previously enquired of the A, having grown weary of wading through toast crumbs and super-floo-us hairs, verrucca trimmings and the like.
'What do you mean, Hoover bags?' Replied he with a quizzical look pervading his handsome brow.
'You know', ploughed on One, 'the disposable bags that catch the dust inside the Hoover.'
'I didn't know there were such things. I've only vacuumed twice before I met you,' continued he feigning ignorance.
And so it came to pass that One traveled the highways and byways of Ilfracombe in search of the blighters.
Just as well, since upon arrival on Thursday evening there appeared to have been some manner of snowstorm in the galley for every surface including the linoleum, was ankle deep in tiny particles of black grit.
Following the trail to it's source, in the manner of Nancy Drew, the offending article appeared to be a Poppy Seeded Bloomer loaf, now nakedly bereft of a goodly amount of it's seeds since they had been liberally distributed about the abode in it's entirety.
Later that evening upon presentation of a yummy supper, he requested, 'Can I have a couple of slices of that lovely loaf?'
One, always anxious to oblige, produced the required bread and butter.
'Blimey!' Says he 'what happened to the poppy seeds? I like them.'
'Well' explained One, 'most of them are nestling within the Hoover bag, but I think there might be a few stuck to the soles of me bare feet if you'd like to lick them off!'
And with that One flounced indignantly off.

Saturday, 19 September 2015

In which One is temporarily subdued...

We both woke up feeling a little disheartened...
Mainly the old Dickensian 'income two bob, outgoings two and six' situation, but not exclusively.
One feels a bit panicky about the ongoing butt dilemma...
'You can choose not to think about it', said the Admiral.
But One is not as smart as the A of the F and therefore is in a perpetual state of inner turmoil.
'Last time you got in this sort of state you ended up in a high dependency stroke ward, didn't you?' One hears you opine Dear Reader.
Yes, One did and then, of course, there was the tumour issue to contend with.
One attempts to soldier on through these stormy skies. After all, everyone has a modicum of shite in their lives.
Maybe One is just not as resilient as One should be?
Six days out of seven One still manages to skip through life's adversity in the manner of Pollyanna.
Any road up, what with it being a beautiful day, we biffed off to Westward Ho! to take the sea air, and dip our toes in the rock pools.
A rather uninspiring place it was too. With it's exciting name One expected a swashbuckling kind of seafaring place awash with weather beaten coves loitering on the sand knitting lobster pots and roaring 'ah ha me he hearties' and 'shiver me timbers' and other piratical platitudes.
After all it was 'International Talk like a Pirate' day yesterday.
But, instead there were little gangs of straggling holidaymakers reaching out to grasp the last morsel of summer before we all drift inexorably into the clutches of autumn and winter.
On our way back we strolled the charming lanes of Appledore, passing tiny cottages with romantic names like 'Mermaid's Haven' and 'The Admiral's Place'
The long narrow lanes that divided the little houses gave out to balconies overlooking the sea.
A plethora of blue plaques informed the curious passer by of the previous occupants and their tales of derring do.
Behind the unfortunately named pub 'Beaver's Rest' on the wall of a white washed cottage some wag had attached a blue plaque that read: 'In 1784 nothing happened here'
That made us laugh and we biffed off back home, thinking how jolly lucky we are to have one another, and spent the rest of the afternoon snoozing on the sofa.

In which One can't take much more...

One feels relatively normal this morning...
Following three consecutive night's work, One felt like, and it has to be said, looked like a zombie yesterday.
'Give it up immediately and come to live with me,' said the A of the F on feasting his ice blue eyes upon One.

A further fellow worker, upon discovering Ones web site, and indeed, this daily missive, had opined...
'Why are you working here when you can do all this stuff. You must be mad.'

Fair comment, Dear Reader, but One needs the company of other humans to maintain One's tenuous grip on sanity.

And it is indeed a tenuous grip...

One really must get a grip and start painting again.

Or, with the upcoming maelstrom of butt related events, One might just fashion a noose from a couple of Hermes headscarves, secure them to the scaffolding and leap into oblivion...

Friday, 18 September 2015

In which One is a fifty-quidder...

The Admiral is miffed...

He arrived home yester-eve to a missive from his landlord, The Lord of the Manor, informing him that he 'considered the Apartment to be in dual occupancy' and therefore the rent is to be increased.
One had assumed that rental amounts were set according to the property.

 Clearly One has been misinformed.

This has obv come about due to the frequency that One's Bentley Mulsanne has been observed lingering overnight in the grounds.
But the really irritating thing about the whole issue is that it's only gone up by fifty quid.

One can't help but wonder that should One have been a young nubile wench spending nights at the Manor, the rent would have been increased by a more significant amount.

Clearly the Fuedal Fecker has observed the aged, decaying One and thought , 'there goes fifty quids worth.'

'Exactly what does fifty quid entail?' I hear you collectively enquire, Dear Reader.
Three big boys breakfasts, two shags and a back tickle, I reply. Oh and the occasional morsel of verrucca maintenance.

One most certainly doesn't reside full time at the Manor. One is still very much in residence at The Underground Lair.
One puts in an occasional appearance, ackled up in me second best Norman Hartnell ballgown, knocks up a yummy dinner, set off the smoke alarm, hurtles off the top of the Chippendale wardrobe in the direction of the Admiral, (to the strains of the Coldstream Guards playing 'I'll be up your flue in a minute or two') , give the Admiral a good seeing-to and biffs off to wipe the arses of the less fortunate.

One has suggested that the Admiral, who is unable and unwilling to meet with this extra expense, should enquire what he could get for an extra twenty quid.

One has set out below a sliding scale of benefits:

Fifty quid - see above

Forty quid - one shag, two hot dinners and a spot of vacuuming

Thirty quid - a pyjama bottom fumble, excavation of all super-floo-us hairs from the bathroom plug holes and a packet of cheesy wotsits

Twenty quid - one overnight stay, a frenchie and a pint of Wincarnis

A tenner - an afternoon of unbridled pash and a marmalade sandwich

Or, for the deluxe, fiver bargain break - a blow job and a fish finger bap

Can't say fairer than that, Dear Reader!

Wednesday, 16 September 2015

In which romance is sodded...

Here I am Watching Hope and Glory...
'Don't kill love. You'll regret it for the rest of your life,' said Sarah Miles.'
That line always makes me cry because it's true.
Sometimes it's shot and dies in an instant, but sometimes it's stabbed to death over a long period of time with tiny barbs.
Even in the sterile darkness of The House, One shed a tear for love.
One is but a fool.
How utterly ridiculous it is have such a romantic soul shut in a flollopy middle aged body.
But I can't change. It's far too late for that and anyway I rather like living in my dream world.
'Sod Romance' somebody said today.
So be it. Romance isn't love.
But I'm fecked if I know what  is.

In which One is rudely awoken from One's slumbers...

Inch by inch, row by row, I'm gonna make this garden grow
All it takes is a rake and a hoe and a piece of fertile ground
Inch by inch, row by row, someone bless these seeds I sow
Someone warm them from below 'til the rain comes tumbling down...
Peter, Paul & Mary 

One of the great pleasures of living in the Underground Lair has been the garden...
Not a garden in the proportions of some of One's chums: manicured lawns stretching as far as the eye can see etc., but nonetheless, One's own little plot and a piece of heaven.

So, it is with great sadness that One shall leave the lair (eventually) and it's eclectic planting, uneven lawn and criminally damaged fence. (see previous entries for information, Dear Reader)

Currently One is playing host to a fecking great scaffold in order that the stonework can be repaired and a new downpipe put in place.

The scaffolding has come into it's own as a kind of 'rustic conservatory' under which One has been able to shelter from Hurricaine Herbert throughout the summer and partake of One's Espresso and fag.

The charming builders, complete with ghastly Builder Bum Syndrome, have inadvertently filled up the drain with some kind of resin and a rake of brick dust, thereby creating a delightful lake upon the patio.

'Dint yer put no water in it the thin it out?' enquired one builder of the other.  'No' came the reply.
'Well that's why the drains blocked.'
Ho Hum - Blame that on One's tiny butt if you dare.

The little dears are currently wire-brushing the shite off the newly painted rear wall.
Obv a flow chart of events was never constructed since it would have been rather sensible to:
1     Get the building work done
2     Paint the building
and not vice versa as has been the case.

No matter, One shall deploy a pressure washer since a cursory wipe won't cut it.

The little darlings have been active throughout much of One's current night shifts which has been a trifle irritating I can tell you.

One wonders if tis possible to shove an eighty foot length of downpipe up a builder's arse?

Tuesday, 15 September 2015

In which One is retiring to the truckle bed...

It's a grand night for singing...
Maybe it's more than the moon, Maybe it's more than the birds, Maybe it's more than sight of the night, In a light too lovely for words. Maybe it's more than the earth Shiny in silvery blue. Maybe the reason I'm feeling this way Has something to do with you!
It wasn't actually 'A Grand Night for Singing', it was more of a grand night for farting...
There was precious little to do upon One's Birthday Night apart from mopping the floors 
and sweeping up food particles various... and farting (One is fair bloated from the
consumption of marmite sandwiches made with cheap bread: the kind that you can
roll into nasty little balls.)
Oh, and attempting to hide the remote control, lest One was treated to channel hopping on a grand scale.
Although maybe that would have been preferable to watching those ghastly American 
women on Celebrity Big Brother.
Yes, Dear Reader, One has been subjected to the entertainment of the great unwashed
masses, against One's will.
One of One's co workers decided to 'help One out' when One didn't require any help 
with a fractuous inmate.
Methinks One is viewed as a pathetic old person who can't command the room.
Ha! I think not!
Granted twas many a long moon ago that One was a Captain of Industry, but One 
likes to think One still has the power to take control of a situation.
Anywho, One mustn't grumble, a pleasant visitation from BF was the order of the day and
we batted current gossip about the Underground Lair for an hour or two.
One shall now retire to the truckle bed and push out a few zeds afore One has to do
it all again, and again...
Roll on Thursday morning when One shall fire up the Ferrari and biff over the moor
on One's twenty three song long journey to heaven...

Monday, 14 September 2015

In which it makes you pooh...

Frank Sinatra – Young At Heart
Fairy tales can come true
It can happen to you if you're young at heart (young at heart)
For it's hard, you will find
To be narrow of mind if you're young at heart (young at heart)
You can go to extremes with impossible schemes
You can laugh when your dreams fall apart at the seams
And life gets more exciting with each passing day
And love is either in your heart or on it's way…

Happy Birthday to One….. bla bla
(please sing ‘Happy Birthday’  collectively, Dear Reader, in the manner of Marilyn Monroe singing ‘Happy Birthday Mr President)

Well it’s in One’s heart…  Let’s hope, fer feck’s sake, it’s also on it’s way, or One’s up shit creek without a paddle… I’m not entirely sure I could live with anyone else who doesn’t love One.
Any road up, here One is, fifty eight years old today and I don’t mind telling you, One is looking a tad boffable this morning.  Shame there’s no fecker here to oblige.

What shall I do with my SPECIAL DAY?…
Go out and buy BIG pants (Aged P sent me twenty quid)  or pick the snails off me Petunias and chuck ‘em in next door’s van?

Perchance phone up BF and go and sit in Ena and Minnie corner at The Bear and get rat-arsed?
Got the ACTUAL DAY OFF, but due in The House to AW this very evening… Cinders – or what!!

One, like the last of the summer flowers, has lost One’s bloom and is a straggly, over-blown blossom still waiting to be picked…

One has resolved to take better care of Oneself…
And is resolved not to ‘put on two pounds’ (reference to One’s big night out)…
Not quite ‘gone all Sylvia Sims’ One thinks One can hang on like grim death, to the residue of One’s extraordinary good looks for perhaps another year or two and with that in mind opted to consume all the scoff that’s not good for one, last night, before embarking on the five-two diet (although scoffing for two days and starving for five would be a better plan)

Pinot at the ready, One approached the fridge…
Ok – a ‘proper dinner’ of chicken and vegetables… although Waitrose’s three for a tenner have gone right off.  I’ll wager those chicken thighs were stuffed with gravel and bogies.
scoffed that…

another Pinot…

two of the ‘four for a quid’ C0-op rustic bread rolls (no butter, fattening)

another Pinot…
small packet of microwave popcorn…

another Pinot…
watch Coronation Street (flippin’ ‘eck there’s hope for us all… That piece playing Roy Cropper’s bird used to be MARRIED TO SEAN BEAN – fer feck’s sake!)

another Pinot…
A packet of Coarse Grain Oatcakes and most of a box of Camanbert.
Oh feck! seem have scoffed a bit of the plastic covering…. hic, never mind …

another Pinot…
Cor! Dun arf fancy something sweet…
Result!  two brown and black ones and a fluff covered Bertie Basset in the bottom of me ‘andbag!…

another Pinot…
better ‘ave somefing savory…. hic!
Mmmmm. two scabby Ryvitas and a swipe of peanut butter…. Oh bollicks!  just eat it straight out of the jar with a spoon…  Can’t get the soup ladle in the jar.   Note to self…  Must wash up more often.

another Pinot…
Mmmm wonder if that sherbert lemon is still stuck to the used Tena Lady in the bottom of me satchel.  BF never did eat that. Fussy bint!
Result!  Tasted alright once One’d licked the unidentified pubic hair and fluff off it…

another Pinot…
I know.  I’ll ‘ave a quick look in the freezer…
BEN AND JERRY’S CARAMEL CORE – how the feck did One forget that…  AND the big spoon fits in it (no need to wash up after all) RESULT!

another Pinot…
getting all sentimental now, but not opening cards until the morning – BAD LUCK will ensue.  Will probably ensue anyway, refer to previous blogs, Dear Reader.
Watch Ray Winstone getting all romantic with that blonde piece who’s name One can’t quite recall…

another Pinot…
bedder ged in truckle bed and ‘ave a kip…
Who put that fecking weekend bag  in One’s path, trip, fall into bed…  Oh yeah, it was me.  I NEVER unpack.

Fall asleep thinking…
Oh might as well do it anyway, after all One loves the Admiral enough for both of us… hic

don’t get up the next morning and finish the dregs of the Pinot.  It’s not big and it’s not clever (Admiral) and it makes you pooh.

Saturday, 12 September 2015

In which the novelty has worn off...

Here I am in The House...
I've just spent eleven and a half hours mopping up puddles of pee and being screamed at by a banshee.
What the feck is that all about?
One must be 'certifiably insane' in the words of the Admiral, who thinks that anyone who can do what One can do (paint pictures AND ACUALLY SELL THEM) who chooses to take up arse wiping is bonkers.
Fair point, my darling, given that tomorrow One shall be arse wiping, mopping floors and generally being a Wivvy Skivvy in the manner of Cinderella, on my birthday.
I think I'll go home, sleep on it and conclude that the novelty has worn off.

Friday, 11 September 2015

In which it is unwise to challenge One...

Yesterday, prior to One's birthday treat, One biffed off to Sainsburys to squander One's Nectar points on a supermarket ballgown.

One wanted to look One's best, as One was being taken, by horse and carriage, to a mystery destination to be wined and dined and showered with lavish gifts in celebration of One's special day.

One took One's place in the queue and handed over One's size 18/20 outfit to the checkout bint.

'Oooooh', says she, 'this is the second one of these I've sold this morning.'
'Oh no!' replied One, in a jolly fashion, 'don't tell me someone else has got the same dress as me.'
'Her's was a size eight. Sorry,' and, with her head cocked to one side gave One a faux sympathetic glance, before turning her attention to One's remaining purchases.

One, whilst not in the first, heady flush of youth, or not, for that matter, a dainty piece, is always perfectly groomed and generally the most beautiful woman in the room, was miffed in the extreme by this stupid remark.

Should I just let that pass me by, thought One, but the damage had been done and, despite the burgeoning queue, opted to verbally demolish the cheeky bint.

Whilst One would certainly be at a disadvantage in any form of mortal combat, it is unwise in the extreme to enter into a war of words with One, as defeat is certain, what with One's acerbic wit and masterly command of the Queen 's English...

One drew Oneself up to One's full five feet eleven inches and begun the inevitable slaughter...

'Sorry? Exactly what are you sorry about? Are you sorry because she was a size 8? Or are you sorry because I am a size 18/20?  Pray tell, because I am perfectly happy in my own skin and require neither your sympathy nor your unsolicited inane remarks.'

At this point she began to look sore afraid, but One was 'on one' and not about to let her off unscathed.

One recalled a similar incident, of which there have been legion over the years, when an over made up trollop thought she would be spiteful about the ,then, young One's Amazonian proportions...

One, busy being chatted up by a fellow office worker at a 'do' was rudely interrupted by aforementioned trollop, who opined...
'Some men like big women' and turned to her fellow typing pool chums sniggering.
'Never mind' countered the young One, 'I expect some of them like menopausal old hags' and turned back to One's slathering companion.

What is it with small women?  Why do they assume immediate superiority just because they take up less space on the planet?

Anyway, I digress, back to the Sainsbury slattern...

'I require neither your approval nor your commisseration' continued One, 'and I most certainly don't need any comment from a dollop such as you who looks like something that's been dragged from the wreckage of a plane crash having taken the full impact on her face.'

With that, One gathered up One's gargantuan frock, turned tail and huffed off triumphantly.  Well, as triumphantly as one can when one has got fifty pence worth of one's two quid Tesco pants stuck between the cheeks of one's chubby arse.

In which it's sad, innit...

Just pack your troubles in dreams
and dream all your troubles away....


That's what One was doing last night following the inhalation of one too many Pinots.
Sadly One was snoring and bouncing (according to the Admiral, One bounces in One's sleep) and disturbing the senile seafarer.
'Why can't you just turn over like a normal person?' he enquired, through gritted tooth, 'why do you have to levitate, spin around and then come crashing down like an untethered bullafo?'
'Dunno,' countered One, 'I was asleep.'

Any road up, One regained a little status by tickling the soles of his feet (they were sticking out the bottom of the bed) as One skipped off to the galley for an Espresso (me) and an Earl Grey (him)
'Oooooh I'll give you til next Wednesday to stop doing that' mumbled he.
A risky business, foot tickling the Admiral, given the Veruccerage.

Sadly, given that One took pity on a co worker and swapped a night's work, One won't be here next Wednesday, or even at all for a whole week after tomorrow. Thereby, One has rather stupidly ended up working Monday night which is me sodding birthday.
One won't get to see Boy before he biffs off to Exeter University.
One did offer a splendid birthday lunch to Boy, who replied...
'Do you mind if we do it another day Mum?'
Another day won't be his birthday though, will it?
So, suitably crestfallen, One shall be spending today, me day off, filing the rough skin off the bottoms of me feet and waxing me super-floo-us fur off me face.
Not that anyone will get to see the glorious results on me Birthday as One shall be all alone kipping in the Underground Lair in preparation for a long and boring night of tending to the sick and needy.


Thursday, 10 September 2015

In which One regrets One's choice of husbandage...

Due to One's inadequate, well non existent pension arrangements, One finds Oneself in an eminently unsuitable occupation when One should be sitting soaking me feet (with me stockings on) in a washing up bowl full of lavender water.

One espies the younger members of the House staff regarding One with curiosity and horror and hoping that they too won't end up like One.

Poor choice of Husbandage has resulted in this dilemma, along with the pension negative.

When One was a gel, we were all expected to marry and give up work secure in the knowledge that our hubbsters various would provide all.
That worked out well dinnit?

Any road up, short of a lottery win (and as One oft recites to the Admiral 'you'll have to be content with winning the lottery of love') One shall be arse wiping until One croaks.

No matter, darlings, today is payday - Hurrah!

And when One has paid the mortgage, complete with arrears, and all the other necessities One had enough left for a small bottle of the Co op's finest Pinot.

It is just eight forty in the morning Dears, but to One, it's evening and therefore One shall repair to the grounds and scoff a pint before falling, completely shagged, into the truckle bed...

Tuesday, 8 September 2015

In which One is windy...

So, here One is at work.
It's almost six in the morning and One is tired out and yearning for the truckle bed.
Twenty three years ago One was awakening in The Royal Free Hospital in Hampstead to find Oneself under observation by Boy, who had emerged the day before.
One and Boy were something of a sideshow in the hospital, he being twice the weight of the other newly emerged infants and One being an Amazon. We were also, without doubt, the most beautiful Mother and baby combo they had ever had the privilege of serving.
Boy didn't howl and holler like his contemporaries, but continually farted so loudly and with such force that he was in grave danger of blasting himself out of the peculiar, plastic, fish tank-type container that all the new babies were housed in.
His farting prowess continues to  develop apace and One became sore afraid to take the blighter out lest he performed in public.
Little old ladies who approached the pram to get a close up view of the divine child, recoiled in horror as he let rip.
One always got the feeling he was doing it on purpose, and indeed being on the receiving end of some hard stares, One is fairly certain anyone in close proximity to his perpetual guffing actually thought it was me.
Anyway, One having scarfed down a suspect morsel of Roquefort for One's lunch has been botty-burping like a good-un all night.
I wish Boy were here now, I could blame it on him!

In which One gets all lavatorial...

Isn't it annoying, Dear Reader, when your fluffy dangles down the lavatory?
It's even more annoying when it's yer new fluffy and you inadvertently wee on it.
Let me set the scene, Dear Reader...
One, having saved up One's Tesco vouchers, acquired a splendid new pink fluffy to replace One's ancient and fluffy-less fluffy.

Appearing silhouetted in the drawing room doorway, assuming One looked all shiny, newly-bathed and good enough to consume in a single sitting, One was met with the response...
'Kin Ada, you look like a par-boiled hamster! It's a bit PINK!'

One, suitably crest-fallen, huffed off to the lavatory, and plonked down on the ancient Thomas Crapper (blue and white porcelain, with a high wall-mounted cistern) and promptly peed on me fluffy ties that were dangling down the bog.

'How so?', I hear you chorus as One, 'surely you adjust your garmentage in a manner that avoids such ghastly results?'
Let me explain, by recanting a little story about Marilyn Monroe...

Having been taken to meet Arthur Miller's parents, MM, needing to have a wee, was mortified to find the bathroom located just above the dining room where the assembled family were partaking in the welcoming lunch. In order not to be audible whilst doing aforementioned wee, she ran the taps at the basin to disguise her doings.
The following day, Arthur, anxious to have his Father's approval re MM, enquired as to his impression of the actress...
'Nice girl,' opined his Aged P, 'pees like a horse!'

One deploys this well known tale in order to illustrate how difficult it is to do a silent P (as in bath) when poised over an ancient and very deep toiley-boiley.

And that is how, Dear Reader, One managed to wee on One's lovely new fluffy.

No matter how One positions Oneself on the luxurious lavatory, One can't help but mimic the roaring gush of the Tallulah Falls.

And as for a number two...

One is fairly certain that Barnes Wallace came up with the idea for the bouncing bomb following a trip to the bathroom at the Manor.

Monday, 7 September 2015

In which One is like a young colt again...

Today One virtually leapt from One's slumber like a person in possession of youth and vitality.
Almost all of One's current ailments have vanished overnight.

'Hurrah!' I hear you cry Dear Reader, 'shall you be fit for arse wiping and herding jellyfish this week?'
Do you know? One thinks One might.

Checking One's diary, One has completely shagged the following couple of weeks due to the fact that One swapped a day with a fellow worker.
One felt sorry for the blighter who is unable to coordinate his days off with his wife's days off, and rashly agreed to help him out without taking One's own needs into consideration.

'Silly old dollop!', I hear you comment, ' look what happened to you last time you took pity on a fellow human. You ended up incarcerated in The Bung of Doom with a septagenarian horrid old would-be lesbian.'
True! And let's not forget her smelly old scraggy moggy.
Do you know, Dear Reader, That whole house smelt of cat food and cat crap.
Not to mention the ghastly spectacle of her emerging from the bathroom, naked and looking like an un-ironed cadaver, squealing, 'we're all girls together', rendering One a quivering wreck in One's Asda jim jams.
Stupid One!

I digress...
Back to the shagged diary...
Wouldn't normally be a problem of mammoth proportion, but tis the anniversary of One's birth next Monday and One should have liked to spend it in the arms of the darling Admiral.
'We'll sort something out' says he upon receipt of the news, without looking up from his latest 'shoot-em-up.'

Tomorrow is Boy's birthday.
He will be off to Uni and One shall be drifting about Wivey with absolutely no reason to be there anymore. Well, apart from One's latest mode of employment, that is.

'Why don't you start painting again and then you can live anywhere?' I hear you enquire, Dear Reader.
Why indeed?
Do you know, I think I just might do that. One's current mode of paying the bills is sorely inadequate and the novelty of the new has worn off.

'Can't you stick to anything?' I hear you cry, with exasperation in your collective voice, Dear Reader.
No! One is a free spirit (well, apart from One's deep, passionate need to cling to the Darling Admiral)
One has formally had pairs of shoes that have lasted longer than One's husbands various, but One feels that the divine Admiral has the qualities of a pair of Birkenstocks: never wears out and grows more comfortable each time One slips them on.

Sunday, 6 September 2015

In which we are binned off...

So, Dear Reader, there we were at the Sheepdog Trials in Challacombe...
I have to admit One was a little disappointed as One imagined those lovely long haired big teddy-type dogs that advertise Dulux and it turned out to be those pointy-faced slobbery ones like Vile ex Mother in law had. Hers always seemed to have something Brown and horrid clagged on it's undercarriage, but then, so did she.
Turned out to be rather mesmerising, given that One doesn't actually like dogs.
One won a Body Shop beautifying device on the Tombola and it set One on a rabid gambling spree: indulging in 'guess the weight of a pile of sheep shite', 'pin the tail on the ferret', the raffling of a bottle of Pomagne and a brace of pasties etc....
The excitement mounted when the family dog show started and it all became too much for the still injured Lovely One and so One was bundled unceremoniously onto a flat bed truck and taken back to the Manor to be de-briefed before tea.
The Admiral had to be in situ in the moss green velour elderly gentlemen's recliner by four thirty to watch the football...
One usually likes to 'help him watch the football' by interjecting with intelligent comments throughout the game, but One had been fore warned that any vocalising would be rewarded by a smack round the ear with a Fender Stradacaster, so One had a kip on the chaise lounge instead.
We had been invited to sup with the Admiral' s brother and his wife earlier in the day, but were binned off at the eleventh hour due to a polo playing related injury. So rather than getting ackled up in me second best Norman Hartnell ballgown and dining on larks tongues in aspicwe stayed in and ate fish finger sandwiches and peas off One another's naked bodies in the Orangery.

Friday, 4 September 2015

In which One squeals like a stuck pig...

It's quite difficult to find anything funny when One is lying prone in the Spanish bed...
Usually One alights with the speed and natural grace of a young gazelle and skips with a light step to the galley to acquire a steaming beaker of Earl Grey for the grumpy old Admiral, but at the mo, One, listing badly to starboard, can but dream of such a feat...
One delicately and very slowly lowers One's legs to the exquisite Persian rug, accompanied by the squeal of a stuck pig, and shuffles in a lop-sided lope towards the kitchen.
There is no respite, so it would seem and One is struck low of spirit.
Is this what it's like to grow old, Dear Reader?
If it is, One's not awfully keen.
One is seriously considering doing a 'Thelma and Louise' off the harbour at Ilfracombe if this is it.
'Buck up One!' I hear you cry Dear Reader, 'Where has your Pollyanna spirit gone?'
Alright, One'll give The Glad Game a go...
What is there to be glad about when One can't get out of bed?
Well, the Admiral' s still here, maybe One could entice him to tear me Jim jams off with his remaining tooth and nibble me better.

Tuesday, 1 September 2015

In which One is on the horns of a dilemma...

You find One on the horns of a dilemma...

Those of you who are lucky enough to catch sight of the lovely Lovely One on a regular basis, or those of you who have caught a fleeting glimpse that has coloured your otherwise drab and meaningless existence, will, no doubt have marveled at One's sleek, golden tresses.

One is, as you know, Dear Readers no longer in the first flush of girlish youth.
'Nonsense, Lovely One, you are as youthful and peaches and creamy like the English Rose you ever were,' I hear you chorus.

Nice of you to comment, Dear Reader,  but as I sit here at my bespoke Byron and Gomez (yes actual Lord) desk gazing into the baroque looking glass on the wall of the Underground Lair, I can't help but notice that either someone has stuck a picture of me mum on the mirror or me face needs a fecking good ironing!

But that's  not the dilemma, after all we all go 'Sylvia Sims' eventually.
It's me golden tresses that are the current problem...

One has been manfully applying the 'Lightest Ash Blonde' for the passing of many a moon (because I'm worth it!) and straightening out One's Jane Austen-ish ringlets with me HD's in order to maintain the sleek look.

In the delightful words of 'er from the Estate Agent's office, 'Everything dries up after the menopause, y'know, we 'ardly ever 'ave sex without a catering pack of Castrol GTX next to the bed just in case.'
Mmmm, thinks One, I've seen your husband and I'd need a Jeraboam of Bolly and hard cash to contemplate boffing that ugly bleeder. (he looks like Pob)

Any road up, I digress...
It's One's sleek locks that are the current dilemma..
One can't help but recall the fleeting glimmer of horror that passed across the face of the Admiral upon One's first emergence from the shower, all dripping wet, and with the curly locks of a fine breed sheep.
Yes, there you have it, Dear Reader, One is a curly top after all.
The merest hint of moisture and One reverts to a ghastly Raggedy Ann doll.

'Your 'air looks like ginger pubes,' Full Frontal Sister puts it so succinctly.
One prefers to call them golden curls, but no matter.

The thing is...
Should One continue to iron out me ringlets on a daily basis or should One just go curly and be done with it?

In which One suffers yet another set back...

By Christopher Marlowe 1564–1593 Christopher Marlowe

Come live with me and be my love,
And we will all the pleasures prove,
That Valleys, groves, hills, and fields,
Woods, or steepy mountain yields.

And we will sit upon the Rocks,
Seeing the Shepherds feed their flocks
Bla de bla bla fecking bla...

and all that...

So, it has come to pass that One and the Admiral shall, most probably, set up in a yurt/hut/underground lair/Manor House...

'How so?' I hear you chorus, Dear Reader, mindful of the heap of shite One usually makes of the human relationship.

Well, 'tis like this...
One has, at last, after a long pursuit (The Pursuit of Love - Nancy Mitford) found IT.
'But does the blighter love you, Lovely One?' I hear you cry whilst wringing your collective hands.
'Dunno', would have to be my reply.

Any road up, One shall v prob only last a brief sojourn wherever I hang me chapeau...

One has been involved in a serious nail polishing incident (the Chippendale chair One was balancing me foot on was obv too high) that has rendered One listing badly to starboard and emitting high pitched squeals upon any movement.
The only respite to be found is in the elderly gentleman's moss green velour adjustable arm chair, with legs out on the footrest and a hot water bottle shoved down me leggings.

One, mindful of the younger members of staff calling in sick every Bank Holiday, shuffled manfully off to the House to tend to the sick and needy, only to be dispatched with alarming speed back home to lie prone on the truckle bed until such time as One can run towards/away from aforementioned sick and needy at a speed that doesn't render One a liability.

One fears that One's blossoming career in the Support Sector may be biffing toward an inevitable conclusion.

'So, what's next in the catalogue of careers to keep up the payments on the Underground Lair until such time as one of us selfish bastards buy it?' I hear you enquire.

Well, it won't be painting, what with ARM and broken finger.

Fat is the new 'black' according to popular myth, so One is busy making 'selfie' films of Oneself doing ordinary, everyday tasks, such as cleaning the bog, macramaeing plant pot holders from super-floo-us hairs lugged out of the plughole etc., and bunging them on YouTube to tantalise Chubby Chasers.

I'll let you know how it goes...

Sunday, 30 August 2015

In which One has a further injury to report...

Injuries thus far...
One addresses you, this morning, from the Spanish bed, having been involved in a serious Pasa Doble incident yester-eve.
Oh, who am I kidding, Dear Reader...
The Admiral, having imbibed one too many tumblers of Wincarnis, rose from his elderly gentleman's moss green velour recliner, approached an unsuspecting One, minding One's bees-tiddly-wax and deeply involved in a tricky piece of intarsia, ripped me knitting out of me clutches, flung it aside and bent me over backwards on me hostess trolley.
Expectation: unbridled elderly pash...
Result: shagged back...
There was One, clacking away to the end of a seriously complicated pattern row and dreaming of the impending verucca removal with some freeze spray and me quick-unpick and, blow me, One is jumped by an elderly gentlemen.
Verucca still in situ, the Admiral is now reclining next One and chortling merrily each time One attempts to heave Oneself into a vertical stance.
Doesn't bode well for tomorrow night's arse wiping duties...
Especially since One can barely reach One's own, let alone the arses of poor unfortunates.
One feels that the next couple of days may test the Admirals devotion...

Friday, 28 August 2015

In which One gets trolley rage...

There's me thinking: 'oooooh, I'll do nights. I can write me book.'
One imagined doing a bit of masterpieceing, paint-wise, of an afternoon and then snuggling down on a wipe-clean sofa, at work, having dispatched the inmates to their slumbers, and then knocking out the long promised comic novel.
Instead, One has been elbow-deep in do-do throughout the night and attempting to sleep through the random demolition of The Malthouse during the day.
Result, One is a zombie.
Anywho, now in the Spanish bed at the Manor, having kipped through an entire day and night, with a brief sojourn to Tesco for proper scoff, having spent the last week eating cereal (every time I wake up it seems like breakfast time) One is exhaling at last.
'You didn't think it through, did you?' One hears you admonish, Dear Reader.
Does One EVER 'think it through' - NO!

Speaking of Tesco - yesterday afternoon in their Ilfracombe branch, that seems to have been stocked with the holidaymakers in mind, (buckets and spades, Sun block, pubic lice powder,  etc ) One had a severe attack of trolley rage...
Do these selfish bastards think everyone's on holiday?
They saunter round in their ghastly shorts and their flip-fecking-flops cluttering up the wine aisle, hollering stuff like: 'git over 'ere Shaniqua, or you ain't getting no Turkey Twizzlers fer tea,' whilst loading their trolleys with E numbers and generally pissing One off.
Still, at least after this weekend, they'll have all fecked off back to Birmingham in their vans (laughingly called 'people carriers') (the ingenious marketing man who coined that phrase should get the Legion D'honour)
Only to be replaced by late middle-aged twerps, driving nifty little sports numbers at 26 MPH, having cashed in their pensions, and towing cara-fecking-vans that they are unaware of the width of, bunging up the lanes and braking every time a tractor approaches.
Any road up, One has now imbibed three Espressos whilst constructing this petite missive, and now must bid vous adieu, Dear Reader...
Fags to smoke, Admirals to lick...