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Saturday, 31 January 2015

In which One sniffs men...

Good morrow, Dear Reader...
You find One recumbent in the truckle bed, resplendent in One's second best fluffy what now wraps around One twice, thereby insulating One against the biting chill blowing through the A of the F' s boudoir.
Last evening was spent with the Lovelies, whilst the A and Mr Lovely and son spent hours planning their springtime voyage around the high seas of somewhere or other.
Mrs Lovely and One stroked kittens, drank gin out of cracked cups and watched Corrie.
'I'm not paying all that for luggage in the hold!' Opined the A, almost spilling his breaker of 20 year old single malt on his sausage roll.
'I'm only taking hand luggage.'
The trip, Dear Reader, is 'men only' fortunately, since Mrs Lovely and One would doubtless require fourteen Norman Hartnell ballgowns and several sets of control foundation garments that wouldn't fit in a duffel bag.
Aren't chaps stinky, revolting articles?
One recalled the first holiday the brother took with his spotty, smelly chums...
'Where's all your clean pants?' enquired Aged P.
'Don't need any' replied the brother, ' I've got me budgie smugglers on under me Levis.'
He was seventeen. The Cruising Crusties are all over 60 .
They grow no better, nor sweeter smelling with age...

Thursday, 29 January 2015

In which One develops flappage…

if one

If One were a geezer, that is what One would look like, see above, Dear Reader.

That would be me, that would.

Thus, One is on the horns of a dilemma…

One shares this with you, Dear Reader, in order to spread a little titter, or in One’s case a little envelope flap (or two)

One knows One has been deep in the mire of misery since One upended in the ditch of life and grew Boy’s twin in the womb of doom…

No more, my darlings, One is back in the land of make-believe everything will be alright.

One digresses, as is One’s wont…

‘Twould appear that One, being rather past One’s prime (there One has said it at last) and following significant weight loss due to not being able to afford food (fags and Pinot don’t count) One has grown One’s own, what appears to be, a pink crepe paper packaging.

Where once troops of yomping Boy Scouts could meander for days across One’s undulating, pink, luscious mounds of flesh, now One could be skinned and turned into fanciful Christmas decorations for all sixteen flats in the block.

So, the dilemma is thus…

Should One scarf down the contents of the A of the F’s fridge and freezer this weekend?

Or should One struggle into his wet-suit and remain thus ackled up until death?

Obv, at some stage, a Swiss Army Knife shall have to fashion a chuff-box entry passage for the removal of One’s football sized tumour.  One expects that will release another flollop of super-floo-us flesh upon an unsuspecting unwashed public…

The proposed scoffage does unleash the possibility of lassa fever at the very least, since there are items of food in the A’s fridge that are old enough to vote.

What is it with men and fridges?

Any road up, there you have it, Dear Reader, bingo wings with such a powerful flappage factor, that should One wave Boy off to Art College on the bus in the morning, the momentum is still active when he gets off the bus in the evening.

No matter, in One’s head (still of normal proportions) One remains the saucy sex kitten One ever was.

Hold that thought, Dear Reader, as One is fully intent on spread-eagling a little happiness as soon as the A of the F arrives.

Best moisturise the mass…

 

In which One is an accident waiting to happen…

me one

That, Dear Reader, would appear to be the crux of the matter…

One has been told, in no uncertain terms, that One requires tumour removal without delay…

One has also been informed that One is ‘too ill’ to have said operation…

The A of the F has stated that One ‘WILL’ be following doctor’s orders and ‘being kind to Oneself and resting’ until One is deemed fit.

BF, the Pinkster, The A of the F et al, are all insistent on One doing the aforementioned.  Even the Aged P of the Pinkster has expressed concern for One’s predicament.

Don’t even waste one minute worrying for One.

One is a resilient old bat and shall prevail.

One has got it covered…

Today One shall be confined to the day bed and eating mainly calves liver and spinach whilst reading poetry.

Going for a kip now…

But not before One records a slight incident that One was involved in last weekend…

One accidentally trapped Oneself in the kitchen of the Underground Lair.

‘How so?’ One hears you chorus, Dear Reader.

Well, it’s like this here…

One generated so much smoke whilst knocking up the supper that One shut the kitchen door to avoid setting off the alarm and having to watch all the octogenarian occupants assembling in the car park for fire drill.  Behind the kitchen door is stored the supersized clothes airer that slammed down across the door and rendered One trapped.

‘Help!  I’m trapped in the kitchen!’ One cried and the A of the F dutifully appeared to rescue One.

‘Fer Feck’s sake what would you have done if I wasn’t here,’ opined the exasperated man.

WHAT INDEED,,,

 

Wednesday, 28 January 2015

In which One’s butt broke the camel’s back…

straw

The straw that broke the camel’s back, see above, that’s me that is, Dear Reader.

Off to see the Doc, although I don’t know what he can prescribe for me, apart from a bullet through the head.

You find One sitting here in One’s fluffy, contemplating One’s next move…

No sales for the past three months

Not able to even go arse-wiping since One has been tumoured up/upside down in a ditch/coughing up bits of lung

What’s to be done?

‘Sort out all your stuff and go to see the Citizen’s Advice people.  They’ll know what to do,’ said BF, and of course, she’s right, but I can’t help feeling that I am old/big/ugly enough to sort myself out.

Spitting it all out on here is ridiculous since no one, unless they read this, would have the vaguest inkling that One wasn’t chipper in the extreme.

The answer to, ‘how are you?’ is always ‘jolly fine’ even if One had a limb hanging on by a tendon.

But – today One feels every day of One’s fifty-seven years and looks it too.  One’s poor, battered old bodkin just wants to climb back into the truckle bed, go to sleep and never wake up.

Oh, and by the way, the straw that broke the camel’s back was yet another missive from the solicitor regarding One’s water butt in the back garden.  Apparently the downpipe has been damaged by One’s butt and One has fourteen days to replace it otherwise One shall be prosecuted.

One’s butt has a lot to answer for…

Tuesday, 27 January 2015

In which One isn’t quite defeated yet…

dole queue

Somewhere in that queue is One…

Later that day One shall be sleeping on a park bench or hanging from a tree in aforementioned park.

‘How so?’ you chorus Dear Reader.  Well it’s like this here…

Yesterday’s petite panic situations began with the refusal to refund One’s washing machine. 

‘Hey Ho’ thought One, ‘can swerve round that at the launderette until sanity is, if it ever is, restored at the Bung of Doom.’

Later that day, having Jeyes Fluid-ed and polished to within an inch, the bloke who wanted to rent the spare room, cancelled,

Then, to finally put the tin hat on a shite day a letter arrived from the Working Tax Credit agency that stated along the lines of…

‘Even though we gave you some dosh to top up your meagre earnings the year before last, we shouldn’t have, so we want it back please.’

‘Ah’ thinks One a tad difficult there, given One spent it on food and rent.

What nasties will today bring…

Losing a limb in a freak accident at the checkout in the Co-op?

Being flattened in the square by a runaway tractor?

Coughing Oneself to a collapsed lung?

All of above One suspects.

Any road up, not quite defeated yet, so am now choosing between the dole queue, see above, or care work (if I can get it)

Monday, 26 January 2015

In which One’s washin mashin is being held…

washin mashin

One’s washin mashin – see above – currently being held hostage in the Bung of Doom by the chatelaine.

‘Why?’ you chorus Dear Reader, ‘Why indeed,’ One replies through gritted teggies.

‘I am too ill to let anyone collect it,’ was the excuse for continuing to horde One’s possession.

One has been away for a whole month recuperating at the Manor with the A of the F tending to One’s needs in the manner of a person devoted to One…

Doing One’s laundry

serenading One in the evenings (when there’s bog all on the telly)

delivering delicious victuals and vino (we never made the ‘dry January’ after the car crash)

and just generally making One feel as spesh as One obv is!

So, Dear Reader, since One has come back to the Underground Lair and been here for four days, One now has mountains of washing to be done and One’s machine is being held hostage.

Still, One expects it won’t have had much use…

Let’s think…

One month – that’ll be four pairs of shreddies and one set of sheets at that gaff!

 

Sunday, 25 January 2015

In which we get six numbers...

One joins you this morning, Dear Reader, on the occasion of  US getting six numbers on the lottery.
'Hurrah' One hears you chorus, 'it couldn't happen to a more lovely Lovely One.'
Sadly three of the numbers are on One's ticket and the others are on the A of the F' s.
One feels sure that given our dire need, One shall but have to inform the head girl at Lottery HQ and special dispensation shall be granted.
Failing that One intends to re commence arse-wiping since the bottom has fallen out of the world of painting and the A of the F will be pootling off into the sunset to attend to the PPI claims of the great unwashed.

Saturday, 24 January 2015

In which One wonders...

Home at last...
The Underground Lair is a welcoming cave of warmth with the distinct aroma of cheesy feet wafting from the kingdom of spare oom.
The A of the F is recumbent in the truckle bed watching the cricket and One is catching up with Corrie.
The chesty, hacking cough is still reverberating about and One is obv NEVER GOING to get better.
BF shot up the hill yesterday as fast as she could with her tiny little legs and her walking stick.
Many fags were enjoyed as she cast her discerning beadies over the A of the F for the first time.
He looked magnificent, as he always does, in a pale blue satin smoking jacket that matched his steely eyes.
BFP arrived to catch BF smoking and brought with him a Christmas present for the A.
There Sat BFP and the A of the F like handsome sea-faring twins separated at birth whilst BF and One looked on in awe at the satisfying sight.
BF has had her' s for ages. One wonders how long One shall have One's.

Thursday, 22 January 2015

In which BF must be dying for a fag...

One is sitting up in bed propped upon six swans-down pillows. One is atop seven mattresses all filled with cygnet feathers, yet One can still feel the discarded pea beneath them all. It must have dropped out of me fish finger sandwich.
Yesterday One, rather misguidedly as it transpired, left the building for a brief sojourn to a used car merchant in order to acquire transport for the A of the F.
One should be, at the very least, confined to bed and very probably in some kind of rest home for consumptive middle aged ladies.
One, of course, has the palest complexion and the dishevelled locks of a pre Raphaelite heroine as One struggles for breath through a lace handkerchief.
But today, One shall be returning to the Underground Lair and the welcoming bosom of Wivey.
How shall One fare when abandoned by the A of the F?
Who can say, but home One must dash. BF must be dying for a fag.


In which One doesn't like Wolf Hall...

In a further cruel twist of fate, One is to house the womb of doom tumour for a few more weeks.
'You've got a chest infection and we won't do it' informed the medical type.
'Oh kin Ada' methinks, 'when will it end?'
Not yet, it would appear.
Attempted to appease Oneself by having a mammoth snuggle under a cosy blankie and watch the long awaited Wolf Hall.
The A of the F was, of course, attending to One's every whim and spoon feeding One Beluga and medicinal Bolly.
'This Wolf Hall's a load of bollicks, innit?' Opined he.
'Yeah. Let's go to bed with a hot water bottle and some fish finger sandwiches' offered One.

Wednesday, 21 January 2015

In which One is chilled to the bone.

What's to be done with a super-floo-us Lovely One?
Still can't seem to shake the never-ending virus and it's accompanying cough.
Nothing has really changed...
Sales are still poor, it's becoming more and more difficult to survive, but it all looks much more bleak in the throes of a biting January.
What to do next?
If One was an old Eskimo, One would have been put outside the igloo to perish in the snow.
But until One is able to fend for Oneself, One remains captive in the Manor, which is pretty much like an igloo, temperature wise.

Tuesday, 20 January 2015

In which One is a jibbering mess…

On One’s first foray out in the remaining ve-hickle what we have to our name, One was tentative with One’s tiny foot on the accelerator. 

‘Twas night time and One was required to repair to Tesco in Ilfracombe to obtain essential supplies: Jellington Bambinos, Hobnobs and nail polish remover for the hospital visit etc.

Behind the trepidatious One, an oik chose to drive as if his front bumper were attached to One’s rear of same.

One was pootling at the optimum speed for safety and the fact that One was unsure of the route. 

This caution following the up-turned ve-hickle drama of last week clearly engendered anger, impatience and frustration to the driver of the car directly up One’s chuffer.

On a suitably straight and uncluttered stretch of road the blighter overtook, shot into the distance and then, with stupidity borne of ignorance and venom, took it upon himself, for One feels fairly certain ‘twas a ‘he’, opted to slow down immediately in front of One to around fifteen miles per hour.

This ridiculous behaviour was clearly designed to ‘pay One back’ for holding up his speedy arrival at wherever he was going.

What a prize dick!  One is aware that middle aged ladies driving Volvos are fair game to the indestructible male driving youth, but pulease, spare a thought for the recently up-turned jibbering mess that is Lovely One.

Monday, 19 January 2015

In which One's survival instinct is gone...

One isn't getting better.
One is chilled to the marrow and severely down in the dumpletons.
All road signs are pointing to hardship and penury.
Pollyanna has left the building.
One must reinvent Oneself without delay, but that would require One to get out of bed and One cannot remain in an upright position just at the mo.
One is bobbing about in a sea of despair and the delicious feeling of abandoning hope and sinking without trace is too attractive to ignore.
The tumour removal is set for this Friday.
The most favourable outcome would be to give the tumour a new identity and throw the rest of One away.

Sunday, 18 January 2015

In which One is wheezing...

Oh woe is One...
Still feeling dire with the flu, a twenty Woodbine a day hacking cough and a baby sized tumour still intact.
Even by One's standards, the past week has been grim in the extreme.
Upside down in a ditch takes the prize for the worst event, but finding the A of the F collapsed on the bedroom floor comes a close runner up.
We should be in a comfy little home for poorly elderly persons.
And speaking of comfy little homes, One shall have to buck Oneself up and acquire some permanent employment, or One will end up in the gutter.
But, of course, even in the gutter, One shall be looking at the stars.
With One's irascible, undimmed, and some would say, entirely misplaced optimism, One continues to greet each new day with unfettered glee.
'You're just like your Father' said Aged P, 'things always happened to him'
If One sat about being fifty seven, I dare say nothing would happen to One, but One intends to squeeze every last drop of fun out of life, so there you have it, Dear Reader.
Chesty, soggy, beginning to resemble a sausage skin with inadequate filling and a scraggly neck 'like a vagina' as the Pinkster so delicately put it, One shall put on One's face and play to One's adoring public.

Friday, 16 January 2015

In which One Doesn’t want to dress like an 85 year old…

One, reclining in the manner of a consumptive, Pre-Raphaelite artist’s muse, had One’s contemplative reverie shattered by the pring pring of the hice phone…

‘Twas Aged P…

‘Where are you?’ came the enquiry.

‘Well, you just phoned me, I answered, so I’d guess I’m still here,’ countered One.

‘Was it your car you were in?’

‘No.  The A of the F’s, as I said yesterday.’

‘I’ve just taken two paracetemol and I’ve run out of red wine,’ continued the Aged P.

‘Oh dear,’ opined One, ‘I’m still off the Pinot,’

‘Jackie will be round in a minute,  She’s got a really loud voice you know, and a load of tattoos but she’s got a heart of gold,’ said the Aged one.

‘Oh that’s nice,’ answered One, ‘What can I do for you?’

‘Angie wants to know where you got your man from.  She wants one, but she’s a bit worried about her back.’

One felt it wise to delve no further into the requirements of Angie or her ailing back.

‘Bloody Eileen is still going down the town for sausages every morning even in this weather, and they expect me to wait up until eleven for them to bring me my Tesco shopping. How did you get out of the car then?’ came a further enquiry.

‘We climbed out,’ informed One.

‘I’ve got loads of clothes that are too small for me, do you want them, they’re modern,’ she blathered on.

‘No thanks,’ declined One.

‘Why not? I said they’re modern,’ continued the indignant Aged P.

‘Well I don’t really want any of your old clothes thank you,’ says One.

‘Huh!’ huffed Aged P, obv in one now, ‘ I’m really modern and the woman in the Post Office wouldn’t believe I’m eighty five.’

‘Good for you’ countered One, ‘but I still don’t want any of your old clothes.

‘I’ll have to go now, there’s someone sitting in my privet’…

Thursday, 15 January 2015

In which One has another adventure…

In a week filled with disasters of ‘epic’, nay, ‘biblical’ proportions, you find One, Dear Reader, in bed at the Manor having recently clambered out of an upturned vehicle that was sinking rapidly into a water-filled ditch…

This morning, having settled from the adrenaline rush that caused One, upon One’s return to the Manor, to set about spring cleaning, One opined to the A of the F…

‘We’ve almost had the lot now… Plague, flooding etc., all we need is the fire!’

‘We had that last week when you set fire to the kitchen,’ says he.

Let me explain, Dear Reader…

We biffed off across the top of the moor yesterday to deliver One to the comfort and warmth of the Underground Lair in order to recover from the flu so that One can be de-tumoured without delay.

On a particularly treacherous hairpin bend we encountered compacted ice covered in slush and very elegantly slid over the edge in what seemed like slow motion, to rest, vertically, with One’s window and door pressed deep into a water filled ditch.

‘Are you alright my darling?’ said the A as he dangled precariously above One.

‘Yep,’ said One, ‘shall we get out?’

One, having been the recipient of arduous training in hill climbing, walking and generally losing a shed load of blubber, courtesy of the A of the F’s stringent fitness regime, scampered like a mountain goat out of the upturned ve-hicle and scrambled up the icy bank like a snow leopard.

After a long very cold walk and a couple of lifts from strangers we ended up in a cosy pub.  The A of the F was outside having a medicinal fag when in came a couple telling the story of a little blue car they’d come across that was filling with water.

‘We looked inside to see if there were any bodies,’ recounted the chap, ‘goodness knows how they got out of there.’

‘I refer you to the lady over there,’ said the Landlord pointing at One, ‘ she just climbed out of that very vehicle,’

One took a small bow and returned to One’s coffee.

Footnote…

May the couple who drove around us in the Range Rover ignoring our waves for help, always find the milk of human kindness dispensed to them in the very way they obviously mete it out to others.

And the twat who posted a picture of our car on social media saying ‘less on the right foot old boy’ consider the fact that several people died yesterday in those conditions.

Sunday, 11 January 2015

In which One is a problem...

And so, with One's usual impeccable timing, One has come down with the flu, rendering the twinkle excavation extremely unlikely.
One was in the queue in M and Co in Minehead, clutching a greatly reduced silver grey leopard print woolly pully when One came over all unnecessary.
By the time we got to the Manor One was completely incapacitated and had to be blankied up on the settle.
The A of the F was, quite rightly, concerned for One's wellbeing, as he pointed out that One was being very quiet.
'Every cloud, and all that' says he settling down to watch the football.
'They won't give you a general anaesthetic if you are ill and you have breathing probs' opined he.
'Oh, kin Ada' says One, 'when will it all be over? I've been nothing but problems for you, have I?'
'Pretty much' says he.

Saturday, 10 January 2015

In which the A of the F is reading…

reading 2

‘Are you reading?’ enquired Lovely One as One sat up in  bed and required an ear to take in One’s thoughts that come charging out of One’s gob.

‘There’s a slight clue,’ replied the A of the F, ‘when someone has their reading spectacles on and they are holding an item covered in the printed word directly in front of them, it would occur to most persons that they are indeed – reading.’

‘Oh, shall I stop talking then?’ asked One in a comradely and very sweet (if One may say so Oneself) way.

‘Yes, you twonk!’ countered he, ‘shut the feck up. I must have read the last bit seven times!’

Suitably admonished One repaired to the bog and leapt into the shower.

One, expecting to spend the weekend in the Underground Lair had created some culinary delights with which to tempt the A of the F…

‘It would make more sense if we went back to the Manor for the weekend  bla bla bla, work, work, comfy bed bla bla etc.,’ said the A

Quite what is up with the Wood Nymph’s old truckle and the futon shoved together is beyond the comprehension of One, but being an obliging sort, agreed, as long as One is back on Monday to meet the Ecological Vegetarian, pool playing bird. (More on that story later)

Any road up, all is well wherever we are, apart from one tiny (in every sense of the word) problermo, and that is…

BF was due to come and cast her bespectacled beadies over the A of the F as she’s fed up with listening to One blathering on about him and not having a mental picture of his loveliness.

Note to BF – We shall be back sometime on Monday and it would be rude of you not to come up and wish me luck for the twinkle trauma operation, wouldn’t it?

He’s still in bed reading, by the way…

Thursday, 8 January 2015

Solidarity

je suis charlie

One has a telephone…  Ta Da

The Pinkster rocked up with One’s antique quilts, bog mats, bedding etc that Sit had soiled.…

Fortunately, she had her ‘bitch’ with her in the shape of the marvlious  Hubbster.

One had spent two whole fecking days attempting to connect One’s phone…

Three seconds after the Hubbster’s arrival, it’s all tickety boo.

‘I flippin’ love him!’ opined One.

‘I know!’ says the Pinkster ‘He’s fab isn’t he? And he’s all mine’

You see, Dear Reader, that’s what happens when One hasn’t got a man on the permanent staff – stuff doesn’t get fixed!

The A of the F is a frequent visitor, and darned handy he is too, in departments various,  but One hasn’t been able to entice him into permanent occupation.

‘Are you surprised Lovely One?’ One hears you chorus, ‘with your reputation for bolting?’

Well, I guess you’re correct, Dear Reader, One has been a notoriously unreliable life partner in the past, but that’s just it – THE PAST.

Any road up, met The Artisan’s Friend up the town who imparted information even more terrible than the ‘no nail polish in hospital’ rule that BF came up with.

THEY MAKE YOU TAKE YOUR MAKE UP OFF

Forage up me twinkle

deploy the box brownie

bung me feet in the stirrups

confiscate me phone and me tablet

ATTEMPT TO TAKE OFF ME FACE AND ME NAIL POLISH and you’ll get a Chinese burn on the willy – at the very least

‘Blimey!’ said the Doctor, ‘I can’t believe you’ve had two hysteroscopies without an anaesthetic! You must be a tough old broad!’

Tough old broad – bollicks!  Pain, One can handle, but One will deffo require a general anaesthetic to have One’s make up removed!!!!!!

Wednesday, 7 January 2015

In which One is counting One’s blessings…

going mad

That’s me that is Dear Reader, see above, going over the edge…

Joan Crawford (see above) had all her back teeth taken out in order to change the shape of her face for the better.  One won’t have to go to those lengths since One can’t afford to go to the dentist and One’s gnashers are dropping out as we speak.

Anyway, that’s by the by…

‘In order to see how we can help you we need to assess your finances,’ said the Mortgage woman.

Income - £181 (plus the staggering December sales of £17.50)

(One would appear to have had One’s ‘moment in the sun’ re: painting.)

Outgoings - £896, before food etc.

A veritable ‘Charles Dickens’ of a situation, invoking extreme misery.

One, with One’s usual ‘Pollyanna’ head on is struggling a tad to find something to be ‘glad’ about.

But, One is still chipper in the extreme.  One is obv. bonkers.

In the usual run of matters for One, One has secured a job to start on January 12th…

One is repairing to hospital for surgery on January 13th…

Now that’s what you call poor timing, Dear Reader.

‘You’re a survivor,’ says BF

‘Maybe so,’ counters One, ‘but I’d never make a comedian with my timing.’

What exactly would One make?  Now there hangs the eternal question.

Let’s assess One’s skills…

Knitting – not a lucrative career choice

Writing- blogging isn’t real writing

Vacuuming – One could be a cleaner?

Making people laugh – ok, but poor timing rules that out

Arse wiping – v good at that (sadly One is to have One’s own arse wiped for the foreseeable)

One heard yesterday of the very sad demise of a local business man.  A good, decent, hardworking pillar of our little community – gone forever.

That certainly puts everything into perspective, doesn’t it, Dear Reader.

We only have today.

So, today, One will count One’s blessings and get on with it…

Tuesday, 6 January 2015

In which BF imparts some truly dreadful info…

nail varnish

‘Do you have any objection to a blood transfusion?’ enquired the Pre Operative Nurse.

‘You do whatever you need to do to save Moi,’ countered Lovely One.

‘Would you like to see a picture of the tumour?’ asked the Investigative Nurse.

‘No thanks.  Just vacuum it out,’ says One.

One is sanguine in the extreme regarding the anaesthetic, the Dyson attachment pipe up the twinkle for excavation, having strangers fiddling about up me flue etc etc etc…

BUT…

Yesterday BF imparted the most horrendous of pieces of information that One has had to deal with re: the womb of domb…

ONE SHALL HAVE TO REMOVE ONE’S NAIL POLISH

As you are aware, Dear Reader, when One delivered into the world the great lummox that is ‘Boy’, One’s only brush with natural childbirth was not wearing any lipstick.  One lay there like a Rueben’s Madonna, resplendent in One’s full make-up and even though surrounded by a rake of  nine year old students, One was still the most fabulous woman in the room.

One is utterly horrified that One shall have to remove One’s nail polish.  What a fecking disaster! 

Obv, One assumes that there is a special nurse on hand to perform an emergency pedicure upon One’s re-awakening into the cruel world, otherwise One shall have to seriously consider swerving the entire debacle.

One has always spent a goodly amount of time fussing about with One’s fantastic feet and flings them about William Nilliam at any available opportunity.

One is always, Barefoot in the Park, the back yard, etc., in fact, anywhere that doesn’t involve the possibility of treading in dog pooh.

Today, however, One’s perfect pieds are a rather grubby grey hue due to the fact that when One was being frogmarched along Woolacombe beach, One inadvertantly fell in a hole in the sand full of sea water.  One’s Ugg fur was breached and the black dye soaked into One’s tootsies.

One can remedy this awful situation with a jolly good soak in some fabulously expensive foot product, but…

REMOVING THE NAIL POLISH?

The first law One shall pass should One ever be crowned Queen is…

It is illegal not to polish One’s toenails.  Failure to comply shall be deemed a grave misdemeanor and shall be punishable by ‘Death by a thousand Cuts’ (with nail scissors, of course) 

 

In which One shares a cookery tip...

One has awoken with a ghastly headache.
It could be the howling wind on the beach yesterday, or smoke inhalation from when One set fire to the kitchen at the Manor...
Let me explain...
We braved the biting winds of Hurricane Herbert, who was howling along Woolacoombe Bay and walked all the way to Croyde along the sand.
One is an avid shell collector and many a rainy afternoon is spent questioning the A of the F as to whether he can recall the exact location in which each individual shell was acquired.
One sees any failure in this task as a clear indication of the dying of the flame of love and as such metes out harsh punishments.
The A of the F,  being a clever cove, plays along foreseeing fish finger sandwiches and a BJ as just deserts for humouring One.
Any road up, I digress...
One was occupied picking bits of broken glass out of the bottom of One's tiny foot, having swiped a crystal tumbler off the dining table with One's arse, when One became swathed in a cloud of thick black smoke.
As the butler ushered the tweenies up the back stairs to the safety of the grounds, the alarms rung out across the estate and the grill shot out furious licks of Orange flame.
'What the feck have you done now?' Enquired the A of the F clutching a wet hankie over his face.
One, magnificent in a crisis, flung the flaming pan, complete with snorkers, into the sink, and restored order into the blackened kitchen.
The A of the F repaired to the smoke free zone of the sitting room muttering into his wet hankie.
All in all, an eventful day and One in which One learnt something that One shall happily share with you, Dear Reader...
Tesco finest snorkers taste even better when marinated briefly in washing up liquid.

Monday, 5 January 2015

In which One is in deeper...

And so One was introduced to the family in it's entirety...
A tad overdressed in me Norman Hartnell 'new length' ballgown, when One repaired to the back yard to have a go on the trampoline, One shoved me tiara in a Mozzers carrier and bunged it in the boot.
'I think that's grandads girlfriend, Lovely Claire' whispered a small child.
A discerning girl, thought Lovely One.
Grandad, resplendent in a circa 1982 waistcoat, gave an enigmatic grimace and repaired to the garden for a fag.
'Tis the passing of many a moon since One was in the warm cuddle of a family, given One's airbrushing from One's own and the dismissal thereof.
The sojourn on the trampoline may have proven something of an error re the current internal goings on.
No matter, One is positively glowing with assumed acceptance.
One is oft in error, however, and shall await the verdict.
                                               -
One must now await the call of the surgeon's knife.
Still, when the offending mass is removed One will very likely 're enter the fray looking sylph like and glam to the extent that Vogue will be clamouring to bung One on the cover.
Obv One shall have to decline, since One is duty bound to sashay off in the morning mists to wipe octogenarian arses for the foreseeable, or at least until Easter when One can commence flogging views of Padstow to campers from Birmingham.
But, as for the present...
One is stuffed to the gunnels with luuurve and tumours...

Sunday, 4 January 2015

In which One is to be inspected...

Feeling pretty much as if someone has beaten One up from the inside out. Which, of course, they have.
Off we biffed to see the Lovely Family.
Much hilarity was enjoyed when the A of the F said...
'Tell them what BF bought you for Christmas'.
Immediately upon hearing the tale of the carrot sharpener, the Lakeland catalogue was googled and items various, such as the mushroom brush, were perused and tittered about.
'A peanut is not actually a nut' opined the A of the F, Apropos of nothing.
Well to be fair we were all playing Logo and a peanut did feature in one of the questions.
'Of course it flamin' is' countered One, 'otherwise, why is it called a nut?'
Googling was entered into again and the peanut was deemed to be a 'legume' ,which One pointed out is a 'bean.'
Anyway 'girls' won.
One was in pussy cat heaven with two sitting upon One's LBD that got covered in fur.
'Oh, by the way,' dropped the A of the F into the conv, 'we're going out to lunch with my Mother and my daughter's family tomorrow.'
'So let's just get this right' enquired One, I am being presented to the family on mass, and you didn't think to tell me to bring something spesh to wear?'
Fortunately One always carries an emergency Chloe Tea Dress and a mink stole in the glove compartment, so One won't look too shabby.
Which is just as well since me LBD
 is covered in pussy hairs and me Uggs are muddy.
One has acquired the heads up from the chums...
Now, One is to be presented at court to the family...
Where is it all leading?
Who cares? 'Tis a regular, delightful, wizard wheeze.



Friday, 2 January 2015

In which One is to be looked after in style…

pencil

‘You see the point of the pencil?’ enquired the Medical Bint, ‘I’m trying to get something the size of the other end of it (see above) into a hole the size of the point.’

Oddly enough, One had figured that might be what was occurring up the twinkle end. After all it was a Hurty Bottom grade pencil.

At least when you’re ejecting something the size of Iceland’s best frozen turkey (feeds 12) in the shape of Boy, you’re wacking it out yerself. ‘Tis a whole different ball game when some Medical Type is shoving something up the other way.

None the less, One only squeaked on one occasion when one of the ‘student’ types who were gathered for the twinkle excavation exclaimed…

‘Blimey it’s massive!’

She was given a hard stare by one of the others and immediately sent on a further ‘patient liaison’ course.

Any road up, apparently One’s entire insides are currently occupied by an enormous mass of something or other that will require removal under anaesthetic asap.

That could explain why from certain angles One looks like One’s swallowed a football.

Any road up, following a lengthy sojourn to the Pre Operative bod…

‘Do you smoke?’

‘Not usually, but I have been lately,’ said One.

‘Will you be smoking again?’

‘As soon as my sorry arse is outside your door,’ One countered and received a hard stare.

‘What about drinking?’

‘Well  I would join you but we’re knocking it on the head for January,’ grimaced One.

Medical types are not the most humorous of chaps.

Upon One’s return to the Underground Lair the A of the F was already in situ.

Following the news that One will have to be taken to the hosp, brought back, looked after for at least two days, he immediately begun plans to organise One and take One to the Manor to recuperate.

One was going to utilise the very put-upon BF and BFP for the task, but, ‘twould seem at long last One actually has a significant other who cares for One!

One informed Boy of this phenomenon when One picked him up from the pub and once again his gob dropped open, just as it did when One repaired to the galley upon instruction from the A of the F.

As you know, Dear Reader, One is not to be trifled with by the male of the species and is not against chinning the blighters if necessary, but One is almost tamed by the tender machinations of the fearless lion-taming A of the F.

But…

Hang on, Dear Reader, One is merely following in a long line of Lovely One’s…

In fact Nanny Cooper, who used to throw her handbag into the wrestling ring if she disagreed with a decision or who would think nothing of invading the pitch and biffing the ref with her shopping bag, and who had the loudest voice in Luton Market when on her stall…

would repair to the scullery to get Grandad another cup of tea the minute he rattled the empty one on top of the fireplace.

You see, Dear Reader, we are Amazonian sized, fearless warrior women who melt into little puddles of warm gooey glee given the tender care of the right man…

Thursday, 1 January 2015

In which One is having an oscopy…

dip

Obv, we’ve already been for our first dip of the year in the Wivey outdoor pool (see above)

Attempted to contact Aged P on the mobile this very, and the signal dropped off after a minute or two, blessed be to God…

AP     Oh I was wondering what had happened to you.  I haven’t heard from you and I’ve tried to ring your mobile and nothing happens.

LO     I did tell you that I won’t have a landline until next week and that the signal is very poor in Wivey,

AP     The bloody Eileen can’t make gravy, you know, I offered to do it for her and she wouldn’t let me.  Anyway, her turkey was dry and tough and she has to go to the toilet every five minutes.

LO     I’ve got to go back to the hosp tomorrow for a hysteroscopy. 

AP     Ooooh I’ve had some oscopies.  It’s not that bad if you relax and she has sausages and chips every bloody day you know. She’s bought me another one of them T shirts with sequins on.  I ask you. Do I look like a….

Phone line went dead

One is now reclining on the chaise drinking Moet whilst the A of the F sucks me big toe.