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Tuesday, 31 March 2015

In which One is temporarily displaced…

over salcombe

Apropos of nothing, Dear Reader, here’s a picture of Salcombe where One briefly resided a couple of winters ago.

Now, to One’s eternal surprise, One is unhappily ensconced in the Underground Lair. One is lonely of the company of a cat.

Can’t even be bothered to regain One’s superb collection of eclectic antiquities back from Vile ex Husband.

What’s up?  Who knows.  One feels displaced in the extreme and has the distinct feeling that One has wandered inadvertently into someone else’s life.

Was happy as a pig in poop all weekend despite our ailments various, but am having a degree of difficulty re-joining the workplace.

All will be well in time, One knows, as One is, and has had to be adaptable in One’s chequered life. 

I know, I know, Dear Reader, we all have our crosses to bear, but One is definitely getting into a Good Friday frame of mind re: cross bearing.

No matter, One shall biff on regardless and tend to the needy with a smile on me gob and look forward to the weekend when One shall be liberally coating Oneself with Cadbury’s Creme Egg filling and luring the A of the F into the boudoir.

Trouble is, it’ll probably look so yummsville, I’ll eat it all before he creaks out of the elderly gentleman’s moss green velour recliner and struggles into his nightshirt and cap.

Monday, 30 March 2015

In which One is reprimanded…


With the A of the F suffering from Man Flu and the weather inclement, we opted for a pootle off to the seaside instead of a seventy three mile hike up the Matterhorn.

Obv., One had recovered from One’s brief sojourn of major illness caused by the shock of an entire week’s work.

The Admiral, as you know Dear Reader, looks after One in the manner of a mother hen, but woe betide should One enquire as to his wellbeing.  In fact One was put firmly in One’s place following the enquiry…

‘Are you sure you’re Ok?’

One had only enquired upon the subject a mere three thousand and twenty six times preceding and been met with the reply…

‘I’ve only got a cold. Shit happens.’

As you are aware, Dear Reader, when One has given birth to another human, One has to enquire about subjects various until One gets the reply One requires.

For example…

‘Do you want anything to eat?’

‘No thanks’

‘Not even a piece of toast?’

‘No, thank you.’

‘What about a sandwich?’


‘I’m having one, it’s no trouble.’

‘What part of NO do you not understand?’


‘Fer Feck’s sake woman, I DON’T WANT ANYTHING TO EAT.’

And so it was thus with the health and wellbeing enquiry.

The A of the F may be exasperated with One, but One’s Aged Mama would be proud in the extreme!

Sunday, 29 March 2015

In which One is chipper again...

One was seriously under the doctor yesterday. There is deffo something in One's place of employment that One is allergic to.
So much so that the A of the F has had to administer first aid in the form of tiny spoonfuls of Bolly and pre masticated Beluga, whilst One has been reclining in the withdrawing room on the Louis Cans.
Sustenance has been totally in the hands of the A, which, as you know, Dear Reader, means only one thing: The proffering of The Pie of the Sheep Herd followed by a catering pack of fruit cake.
It warms One's heart to see the Admiral in the galley wearing nothing but his Delia Smith pinny and his DSO.
God bless him, he does his best, but it's not really a delicate culinary display, it's more a case of the assembled ingredients surrendering.
What is it with men and mince?
The minced up moo cow can begin in any state of plumpcious pinkness, but in the tender care of a bloke it always ends up battle ship grey.
One dragged Oneself into the galley to offer advice, and was dismissed unceremoniously with several expletives. Even his delicious bottom looked indignant as One repaired to a lounger on deck.
Any road up, it seems to have done the trick as One is fair chipper this morning and if he ever stops watching the Grand Prix One shall diddle him to death's door.

Friday, 27 March 2015

In which One’s boat is swollen…

swollen eye 

That’s me, that is, Dear Reader. (see above) Well  not actch me as One is a v girly girly, not one of them ‘Sheeza Geezer’ types, but that poor bloke’s boat* shall suffice as suitable example of One’s current dilemma.

‘Each morning I wake up, before I put on my make-up’  bla bla fecking bla

Dionne Warwick (it’s pronounced Worrick! Get over yerself you daft bat)

I digress…

Before One puts on One’s make-up One has been swabbing One’s entire fizz* with icy water.

‘Why so?’ One hears you collectively chorus, darlings.

Well, it’s like this ‘ere – One would appear to be allergic to something in the workplace that makes One’s face swell up as plump as a lil ol’ podget.  (Blanche DuBoir to Steeeeeeeeela)

Could it be one of the many air fresheners sprayed so liberally about the gaff?

Could it be the latex gloves?

Could it be the general miasma?

Could it be the washing powder etc etc etc…

Or, could it just be actual WORK

*  Boat Race – Face – Cockney rhyming slang, Michael

* Fizzog - face

Wednesday, 25 March 2015

In which One would appear to be old…


Very well, Dear Reader, One has been attempting to learn stuff for a whole week.  One is currently being stored during daylight hours in Sir’s office, so as not to be too distracted by the sensory overload of the goings on all around One.

One was horrified in the extreme yesterday when trawling through a tome on ‘Discrimination in the Work Place’ and One discovered the ‘Ageism’ chapter: the example woman was YOUNGER THAN ONE.

‘Tis a salutary lesson for One and later on today One shall be building a bonfire in the back yard to set fire to all of One’s inappropriate clothing i.e. leggings, short tie-back dresses, Uggs, in fact, everything One owns.

In future One shall mostly be wearing high-necked acrylic sweaters with sensible knee length check skirts and Hotter shoes. 

One’s topics of conv shall revolve around grandchildren, crochet and sweet sherry.

One shall cease, forthwith, rolling One’s own fags and getting rat-arsed every Friday night.

One shall ditch the hair straighteners and the ‘Lightest Baby Blonde’ L’Oreal and revert to a short grey bubble perm.

One shall immediately stop behaving in a manner unsuitable for a woman of One’s age and lead a quiet, spiritual life of moderation.

Off to buy a copy of Woman’s Own to read at break time.


In which–What’s One to do now?…

like your eyes I’m indescribably blue…

Matt Monroe or Andy Williams, or some other vertically challenged crooner of the day…

Any road up, Dear Reader, One has awoken from a most uncomfortable kip on the Futon (they may be fine for the tiny Oriental sort, but for a Biffer like One, they’re a tad basic) ‘Tis sort of like a Bullafo kipping in a pallet – it don’t work!

AND, One is ‘in one’. A blue mood.  Don’t know why…

Could it be that One is lonely in the Underground Lair? Yes that’s it!

One has been attempting to acquire a bod for the spare room on Easy Room Mate (which should be re-named Difficult Room Mate.

‘Would you like to renew your subscription?’ came the enquiry…

‘No, I fecking wouldn’t!’ countered One.

Thus far, One has had three curious sorts come for a gander.

‘Oh yes, I’m really interested,’ they say and then biff off into the ether never to be heard from again.

Perhaps due to One’s advancing years One isn’t considered fitting company.  Or maybe One has grown too odd over the years.  Spect that’s it.

Oh for the company of the Wood Nymph.  She was a charming housemate and I miss her.

Anyway, for whatever reason, One just can’t seem to lure anyone in and One is now in grave danger of losing the Underground Lair, since One can’t afford the mortgage.

One is now earning less than One did thirty five years ago and can’t meet One’s needs.  What’s to do?  Dunno!

Tuesday, 24 March 2015

In which One reminds you, Dear Reader, of the care of your Lovely One…

laundry label

You, Dear Reader, are the proud owner of the deluxe ‘One Nine Five Seven, soft-covered, catering-pack sized Lovely One.’

They are rare.  Occasionally there’s an ‘Amazon’ ‘used’ One available, but not currently.

Yours has lost it’s ‘care’ label and so here is advice on it’s capabilities and it’s handling requirements to prolong it’s useful life.

The Lovely One will perambulate, unaided, in the direction of anyone in urgent need of it’s help, on weekdays.

It’s performance is slow but reliable.

If it overheats, put it outside with a fag and a small teacup full of filter coffee, leave for ten minutes and plug it back in.

When it’s battery is low it will perambulate, unaided, back to it’s empty box and re-charge (see fag detail, but replace coffee with Pinot)

Once a week, remove it from it’s box and relocate it to a rural setting whereupon it’s LCD (limpid cornea display) will alert you to it’s immediate needs.

Gently remove it’s packaging at night and manipulate all areas in need of attention.

Rinse and repeat…

‘All it needs is love… ta-da, da da da’


It will operate to it’s fullest when homed in a box with another similar device.


Monday, 23 March 2015

In which One just wants a chocolate egg…

easter hedgehog

One made a flying visit to Tesco in Ilfracombe in order to acquire victuals for me and ‘im on Friday night  and One’s world has been turned upside down.

Following the severe trauma of doing three actual full days of work last week One has now had to re-think One’s entire holiday product purchases.

Christmas – Chocolate Father Christmas - check

Mother’s Day – Box of Chocolates - check

Easter – Chocolate hedge-bleedin-hogs

Eggs!  They worked for me.

Fluffy chicks on me Simnel cake – I can handle that…

But, what the feck do hedgehogs have to do with Easter?

The world has gone bonkers thought One and biffed off with me trolley to be confronted by an Easter Frog. An Easter Frog? I’ve turned over two pages at once.

Kin Ada, Dear Reader, One was that shocked, One accidentally bought a bottle of Vodka.


As if that wasn’t enough One encountered a display of half price Easter fayre.

A whole pile of Easter Hedgehogs with their faces bashed in.

If One was traumatised by the Hedgehog oddities, imagine the perplexed face of the small child upon receipt of one with it’s face bashed in.

Sunday, 22 March 2015

In which One can’t seem to rekindle…

Last night he died in my arms, Dear Reader, and I can’t imagine how I shall go on without him. 

Since he came into my life and changed the world I have taken him everywhere with me. 

He is the keeper of all my secrets and has taken them to his watery grave.

Who will come willingly to the truckle bed and play backgammon with me until I fall asleep?  Who will be the recipient of all my innermost thoughts and feelings?  Who shall light my way across the boudoir floor when the lights go out?

I know, I know, he’s the third one and the former two didn’t last very long, but when he came along I thought we’d be together forever.

But when I reached out for him in the dark his battery light was on and it doesn’t seem to matter where I plug him in, he just won’t recharge.

I was going to buy him a fancy new leather jacket when I get paid to replace his purple polka dot one, but now I shall bury him under the willow just as he is.

I wanted an ipad anyway.

Saturday, 21 March 2015

In which One is tucking it all in me Doreen…

That’s it, Dear Reader, am fully paid up, wrinkly, old wage slave.

Biffed up at the A of the F’s at the same time as he did, both having done a full day’s work.

The gaff was exactly as One had left it in One’s dash to the coal face.

Better get him sorted out this weekend or he’ll be pootling the highways and byways in the buff and One doesn’t want him loitering about being handsome in One’s absence.

Why is that chaps get more handsome as they grow older and women look like they need ironing and they’ve got their faces on inside out?

True, One has lost a truck full of lard these past months, but is left with enough spare skin to totally recover a burns unit.

Oh well, One’ll just pull up One’s kelp infused control leggings and tuck them in One’s Doreen.

Thursday, 19 March 2015

In which One isn’t having a laugh…

Day two completed…

A strange experience, Dear Reader, being back in the saddle.

Copious amounts of reading required and further training to be done next week.

‘You’ll ‘ave a laugh,’ said one of One’s workmates.  One thinks not judging by the story so far.

An eclectic mix of staff and residents certainly make for an unusual working day.

Any road up, One has no choices in One’s life at the moment and One shall persevere with a grimace in order to pay the rent.

It is rather comforting, however, to know that One shall be financially rewarded for One’s toil, albeit in a very small way, rather than painting stuff that I don’t want to paint and waiting for someone to buy it and then have someone else take 50% of the sale price.

So this is life now, and it’s flipping wearing One out big time!

Not that One will be excused from charging up hills and down dales with the delicious A of the F, who incidentally is threatening to take One out for supper on Saturday night.  I’ll mange me chapeau if that happens.  Once he’s taken up residence in the elderly gentleman’s moss green velour armchair and got a scotch in one hand and a fag in the other there’s  no shifting him!

One shall be wearing One’s new frock, however, a large checked garment that One has marked with grid references in order that One may instruct the A in which direction to ‘let his fingers do the walking.’


Wednesday, 18 March 2015

In which One is v worn out...

And so to bed, Dear Reader, after a long day at work as a wage slave once again.
The stringent regime will play havoc with my social life, but One will be as fit as a flea, since One is perambulating to the office daily.
Tomorrow One shall tweak One's departure time sufficiently to avoid running the gauntlet of beastly, short trousered, bicycle riding school children cluttering up the pavements.
Horror of horrors, One's four day weekends are now a thing of the past and all for the pleasure of being supportive and caring for seven hours a day for less than the Government's decreed living wage.
Ah well at least One has the delicious A of the F on the horizon...

Tuesday, 17 March 2015

In which One agrees with Frank…

Heddons-Mouth-1 (1)

Heddons Mouth again, Dear Reader, as seen by the A of the F.  Mean, moody and magnificent, just like the cove himself…

Those of you paying attention to One’s doings will recall that’s where we went on Sunday to cleanse our souls in the clean sea air.

Well, this is it, Dear Reader, One’s last day of ferkling about being an Artist, for tomorrow One begins, once again, life in the world of paid employment.

No more waking up on a Monday and throwing a hand grenade in the withdrawing room at the Manor to tidy it up a bit…

No more tenderly ironing himself’s shirts and folding his shreddies and socks…

One shall be up at the crack and then walking the mile to the new place of incarceration for the foreseeable…

AND, since One shall be the grateful recipient of the minimum wage (not even the living wage) One has been having a little rekky about which of One’s vile habits One shall be able to continue…

One hour’s hard labour won’t even pay for a packet of fags, so that’s out.

Similarly, an hour won’t afford a bottle of Pinot, so that shall be a distant memory, or at the very least, confined only to the weekends (when One isn’t working, of course)

We have agreed, the A and me, that we shall both adopt this stringent regime, since we are both given to excess or nothing…

All or nothing at all, half a love never appealed to me’ so says Frank Sinatra, and One must agree…


Monday, 16 March 2015

In which we actually get out of the sack and go for a walk…

heddons mouth

There you have it, Dear Reader, Heddons Mouth, where we actually went for a walk…

Sadly not one of the A of the F’s fablious photographs since One’s pooter is refusing to accept them.

We biffed off into the wilds, the A with his camera, looking eminently edible in his waxed jacket and One with no make up, two pairs of strides and a walking stick, looking absolutely ghastly.  Heaven only knows what he sees in One, but ‘tis obv to all he lives to serve.  Similarly, One would give him my last Rolo, or anything else, come to that.

One attempted to go off piste but was dragged back by the A who is still traumatised by One sinking into the bog last week and is taking no chances.

‘You’re going to have to learn to tie your own bootlaces eventually,’ says he securing One into the blighters to minimise the chances of One tumbling over the cliff edge.

There were indeed, many many, opportunities for tripping over, but One remained upright all day much to the relief of the Darling A of the F.

This morning One rose early and biffed off to the JobCentre to ‘sign on’ having earned feck all from painting for so long now that One is deeply in the do-do.

Bugger my Hat – when I got home there was a message on the answering machine giving me a start date for a job I applied for about six hundred years ago.

The thing is, Dear Reader, One shall be working every other weekend and shall therefore have to forbid the A of the F to leave the Manor.  One can’t risk him wandering about the moors being handsome and getting picked up by some other middle aged desperado like One.

Sunday, 15 March 2015

In which One is going shopping...

We are still dans le chambre de coucher and it's approaching eleven thirty.
'I woke up feeling a bit arsey' said the A of the F, apropos of nothing.
One was abruptly awoken from a dream in which One was enquiring of Elton John exactly what he was doing in our bath. Now I'll never know for sure.
A walk in the biting air would buck us up I'm fairly certain, but here we are again: me writing this nonsense and he playing backgammon against the pooter.
'Happy Mothers Day' Came the greeting from two retail emporiums, via email.
All is strangely silent on the 'Boy' front, however.
So, there you have it, Dear Reader, One is, as we speak, a reluctant rambler, cast aside in favour of a computer game and just to put the tin hat on it, an ignored Mother.
Sod the lot of them, One is going shopping.

Saturday, 14 March 2015

In which we are still in bed...

At this present moment we are at Heddons Mouth, high above the crashing waves, with the wind in our hair and the weather set fair for a day's brisk biffing about...
A trusty thermos filled with espresso, some Kendall mint cake and a catering pack of Bazooka, for bazookering veruccas, is strapped to the A of the F's back...
Or, we would be, if we could be arsed to get out of bed...

Thursday, 12 March 2015

In which One wonders what it really tastes like…

Still, still to hear his tender-taken breath, And so live ever—or else swoon to death.

One’s gone all John Keats…

Well, it is 4.22am and following a brief sortie into the kitchen cupboard, there’s nothing to scoff, so One’s thoughts drift to luuuurve in the absence of that and alternative sustinence.

Well, that’s not strictly true, Dear Reader, there is a six year old Morrison’s Christmas Pudding and three tins of Anchovies.

Make a ‘fifteen minute meal’ out of that Jamie bleedin’ Oliver.

When One was a student One always kept Birds Eye fish cakes in the freezer, because One absolutely hated them.  The fish cake of One’s youth wasn’t the sophisticated Thai-style starter of today.  Oh no, Dear Reader, it was a spongy, Fairy Snow flavoured, toxic orange, radio active breadcrumb coated landmine that could be relied upon to remain edible when One had completely run out of money and fell upon it with the glee of sated starvation.

And with equal fervour, One falls upon the romantic poets to nourish a soul starved of true love…

Blimey, O’Reilly, One has simply got to stop getting up at this ungodly hour and pontificating on matters of the heart.

I wonder what Christmas pudding and anchovy tastes like… 

In which One is fed up with it all…

clarks sandals

‘Based upon the CV you sent us, we will not be progressing your application any further,’ said the polite rejection email.

Sadly, since One has applied for seventy two thousand jobs this week, One can’t recall what the feck that one was.  However, whoever you are, thanks for the one and only acknowledgement One has had!

So, there you have it, Dear Reader, One has no transferable/useful/up to date, skills of any kind and is taking up valuable space on the planet.

Here One is at an advanced age, albeit with the attitude of a teenager, scraping about for gainful employment and being cast aside like an old sea boot.

One is a child of the 1950’s when all little girls, especially in my household, were expected to leave school, bash out a few letters on a manual typewriter for a lascivious boss, nab a bloke down the youth club, marry and start squeezing out the next generation whilst making sure hubby’s ‘tea’ was on the table the minute he walked through the door.

‘Hey little girl, comb your hair, fix your make-up, soon he will open the door,’ went a popular tune of the day…

Nothing would give One greater pleasure than to biff about the galley all day making yummy dinners for the A of the F,  but, for us, that boat has sailed and he is as ‘up the creek without a paddle’ as dear old Lovely One.

Are we downhearted?  Course we fecking are!  Will we be defeated?  Not fecking likely, Dear Reader.

Around this time of year, and at the very latest, Easter, One would be taken out by Nanny Cooper for One’s summer sandals, see above.

Would that One could be transported back, One would bung ‘em on and perambulate down a different road entirely…

Wednesday, 11 March 2015

In which One licks the scullery floor…


Next weekend’s perambulation has already been planned, Dear Reader. (see above – me and ‘im)

A ‘coastal views’ special, as ordered by Lovely One.

One’s up for a bit of mooning about on the cliff top twisting me knicker elastic and biting me bottom lip. (Been watching that Poldark bloke) It should be illegal to be that handsome, Dear Reader.

‘You pick the walk,’ said the A of the F as he flung the ‘Best Walks on Exmoor’ tome in One’s general direction and settled back in the moss green velour, elderly gentleman’s recliner to pick his verruca.

One is becoming adjusted to the great outdoors as One nas complained pas last week – AT ALL – even when One tipped over and sunk into the sheep shite filled bog.

Unlike the A, who manfully stumbled along whilst being given jip by the Verruca-ca-ca…

‘Pain is a sensation and all sensations should be enjoyed,’ said the great Oaf.  This directive, however, doesn’t extend to the delicate administration of a verruca removal operation performed by One.

‘You are not a Picky Picky Nurse!’ as Boy used to squeal when One attempted operations various on ailing body parts, ‘there’s no such thing!’

Sadly, even though One has researched Verruca-ca-ca removal on YouTube (incidentally always by fiendish girlfriend upon quivering boyfriends) The A has eschewed the offer of surgery. Upon sage advice from Boy, he has chosen to suffer rather than book an appointment with One’s Swiss Army Knife.

It must be some ghoulish gene in the female of the species that enjoys the gouging out of splinters/sebachious cysts/verruca-ca-cas, as all the informative YouTube clips feature squealing girlies performing the operations.

‘Twould appear that One shall be hanging One’s Nurse’s Uniform up for good as Boy hasn’t even had the decency to have acne like all the other boys.

Any road up, One did get to perform a small surgery upon Oneself, when, a couple of bottles of Cider acquired for the pending visit of Boy this evening, fell through a hole in me carrier and smashed on me foot.  A v pleasant afternoon was spent gouging glass out of me foot and licking Thatcher’s Gold off the scullery floor.


Tuesday, 10 March 2015

In which One screws up...

Well, Dear Reader, One's not quite sure how it happened, but One thought One had arranged a viewing of the spare room with 'a hard working young mum whose two small children visit every other weekend.'
'Get on!' thought One.
Since One shall be gainfully employed every other weekend and holed up at Le Manoir licking the A of the F the other weekend, should work out a treat., with One never actually encountering the two small children.
Turns out, upon further investigation that another sort with the same name was messaging One at the same time and One has inadvertently set up a viewing with'fun loving, housing benefits, single female' .
Just how 'fun loving' is 'fun loving female?
Not that One isn't 'fun loving' Oneself. Pray, no, Dear Reader, One is always in the front line when it comes to fun, but 'fun' One and the A of the F style, now involves a thermos flask and a strenuous biff through a bog, followed by an evening of Pinot quaffing and a Captain Birdseye Fish Fingering.
Tis many a long year since One shared with the Borilla (too big to be a bear, too ugly to be a gorilla) and would meet strange naked men in the hall on the way to the lavatory.
That road should remain less travelled these days, methinks.

Monday, 9 March 2015

In which One is the outdoor type…

7th March Exmoor sheep
Sheep, see above, Dear Reader, are compulcated and intelligent animals.  Far more so than One had previously thought.
For examply, there is the lesser known ‘lookout sheet’ what stands atop a dry stone wall and biffs off, shitty arse-wool billowing in the breeze, to warn the others that danger is approaching in the shape of ‘me an’ ‘im’
This happened regularly upon our lengthy perambulation across the moor. 
One is a regular little David Attenborough now…
One can identify, sheep, other than in an attractive package at Waitrose.  One is fully knowledged up re: birds and ponies and even frogspawn.  One has Aged P’s old bird identification book what One refers to on a regular basis. 
One feels at one with nature, even when perched on a suitable arse-sized outcrop of rock smoking a fag and having an espresso out of our new thermos.
I can’t believe we’ve got a sodding thermos flask!  What next?  Sitting in the car staring at the sea, eating white bread, fish paste sandwiches with our matching hats on.
AND One has identified the, previously unknown Duck Tree.  Let me explain Dear Reader, One has begun a collection of tree branches that resemble the neck, head and even the eye of a duck.
Presently the damp and shitty Duck Tree branches are drying out atop the radiator with the A of the F’s shreddies.
In the future, when One has brushed all the sheep shite and mud off the ducks and varnished them, One shall bequeath them to a grateful nation in the manner of that Chichester sort who left her shells for everyone to ponder on.

Sunday, 8 March 2015

In which One is covered in mud...

One awoke to the strains of the Trumpet Voluntary being emitted from sur le quilt.
'Do you do any other instruments?' enquired One, I am particularly fond of a French Horn at the crack of dawn. They do need a lot of blowing though.'
Continuing in the same lascivious manner, One queried, 'What would you prefer? A cup of tea, or having a crumbled up Cadburys flake licked off the inside of yer left thigh?'
'Steady on Petunia,' says he 'I've just got to check the cricket score.'
And they say romance is dead.
Not so, Dear Reader, tis alive and kicking in deepest Devon.
One biffed off kitchenward for an Espresso...
'Don't forget the chocolate' called the A of the F.
As One limped toward the galley One pondered that One may have proven a little rash with One's proffered pandering, since One is suffering in the extreme following the four hour dawdle up to Pinkery Pond.
All was going tickety boo until One wandered briefly off piste and fell face down in a slimy bog.
One, sporting a liberal coating of sludge and sheep shite was escorted back to the car by the still pristine A of the F, who simply shook his head in horror as One chortled.
However, One can still suck the foam off the top of a Cappuccino on the counter in Costa Coffee from the entrance door, so I might give it a bash in a minute.

Friday, 6 March 2015

In which One is off to the bog...

I tell you, Dear Reader, The A of the F is a mind reader, or, at the very least, a reader of this tome...
He appeared in the withdrawing room, yester-eve, wearing a head torch and brandishing a coil of rope.
'I'm going in' shouts he 'and securing meself to yer left knee in case I have trouble emerging.'
One very nigh spilt me cracked tea cup of gin down me jamas.
He guffawed and slumped down into his elderly gentleman's moss green velour recliner and, with the theatrical flourish of a Magician producing a rabbit from a hat, whipped a thermos flask from a Tesco carrier.
'We're going to Pinkery Pond tomorrow' says he 'and we can stop along the way for coffee and a kitkat.'
At this precise mo, a 'Walks on Exmoor' tome was launched in One's general direction.
Upon investigation, the Pinkery Pond region was invitingly described as 'a very boggy area best walked when rain is but a distant memory.'
Pondering upon Tuesday's 'boot breaching' incident in the muddy terrain of the Fourteen Acre Wood, One ventured to suggest an alternative route, say, a stroll around the lingerie section of Barnstaple Marks and Spencer, but no, there's no reasoning with the blighter when he's on a 'get fit' extravaganza.
'Would you get into these?' Enquired the A, brandishing a ghastly pair of elasicated waist waterproof trousers in One's general direction.
'They'd fit, if that's what you're asking' countered One, 'but I've got a very Doris Day pair of black and white gingham cigarette capri pants that I plan to wear tomorrow.'
'I give up you stupid woman' says he and repaired to the galley to fill the thermos.

Thursday, 5 March 2015

In which One is a fat, flollopy dollop…


That’s me, that is, Dear Reader, having a V Bad Hair Day…

It all began so well…

BF positively scampered up the hill without the aid of drugs of any kind, twirling her walking pole like a teenage cheerleader.

One, having been at the pooter attempting to obtain gainful employment was still in One’s jim-jams and so leapt into the shaaaar and never bothered straightening One’s hair upon alighting.

Bunging the unruly, sheep-like Barnet * into a lazzy band, we commenced, or rather One commenced, bleating on about the injustice of life in general, and One’s in particular.

Poor, Dear, BF must be sick to the summit of One moaning on about stuff, but she manfully takes it on the chin as the Underground Lair is her fag smoking hidey hole.

‘BFP nearly caught me yesterday,’ says she dragging on a Capstan Full Strength like her life depended upon it.

‘You two must think we’re a pair of right looking eejits,’ says the A of the F, ‘of course he knows you smoke!’

Any road up, the day progressed with One bunging all of One’s ball gowns on EBay in order to afford food in the coming weeks before One gets shoved into the gutter when the Underground Lair is repossessed for non payment of the mortgage.

A tad sad to see some of the frivolous, chiffon and lace creations go to a loving home, but One has shrunk a bit of late, what with all the being dragged screaming around fourteen acre woods.


One discovered half a box of wine in the bottom cupboard and fell upon it like a Hyena on a carcass…

Having eaten v sensibly throughout the day things rapidly deteriorated…

Pre wine box


small chicken salad

During and Apr├Ęs wine box

Half a packet of cream crackers (without butter)

(washed down with wine)

a handful of crushed nuts (left over from the Valentine’s truffle  making extravaganza)

A bag of microwave popcorn

(brief sojourn in scoffing to pick the bits out of me teeth)

An enormous slice of Jamaican Ginger Cake (baked by One to a Delia recipe) I bet that smug moo’s ginger bits never all sunk to the bottom like One’s.


When the cupboard was completely bare, One scoffed the syrup preserved stem ginger straight out of the jar.


One now looks like a fat, flollopy dollop.


One had to cut the lazzy band out, see below…


* Barnett Fair – Hair

Cockney rhyming slang – Michael

Wednesday, 4 March 2015

In which One is ‘Pooh’ …

me leaving wood

That’s me that is, Dear Reader, galumphing off into the ‘Fourteen Acre Wood.’

I kid you not, darlings, that’s what it’s really called.

‘What does it make you think about?’ enquired the Admiral, ‘the name, Fourteen Acre Wood?’

‘Winnie the Pooh,’ replied One.

‘Oh no,’ says he, ‘Rupert Bear, surely.’

‘What’s Rupert Bear’s middle name?’ asked One.

‘How the feck would I know?’ answered the A.

‘The,’ said One, charging off up the lane.

And there you have it, Dear Reader, One has inadvertently  stumbled upon the opposing camps that persons fall into, in life, in general…

He: The Rupert Bear Camp

One: The Winnie the Pooh Camp

Were the A of the F a fictional bear, he would be Rupert: All sensible and upstanding, alert, clever, beautifully proportioned and effortlessly smart in his check trousers and pure new woolly.

One, however, would be ‘Pooh’: simple, round, hand forever stuffed in the honey-pot, flolloping around the wood in a day-dream being cuddly and chasing dreams.

Should, however, the A of the F be a dinner, he would be a Sunday Roast: Pork, with crunchy crackling, crispy on the outside potatoes, perfectly risen Yorkshire puddings, and a sensible selection of green vegetables.

One would be an enormous confection in the shape of a fresh cream and summer berries Pavlova, tumbling off a cake stand in a frivolous manner and leaving a trail of sugary crumbs all over the dining hall carpet.

Were we two cars: He would be a top of the range, Range Rover, with all the ‘extras’ and shiny leather seats, whilst One would no doubt be a Mini Cooper (the old model) towing one of those tiny ‘one person’ caravans, stuffed to the gunnels with Norman Hartnell ball gowns and paintbrushes.

‘Is this a deal-breaker?’ One hears you ask, Dear Reader.

‘No, of course not,’ replies One with a mischievous glint in the eye, ‘It’ll just make for a very interesting ride.’


Tuesday, 3 March 2015

In which One is a starfish…


Off we biffed with a map, obv in a spesh waterproof shoulder bag, (the A of the F has all the accoutrement required for any outing) up the hill at the end of the interminable drive…

‘Why don’t you wear your wellies today?’ enquired the A afore we set off, ‘you haven’t been wearing the wakkin bwts round the house like I told you to.’

One, ever the accommodating sort, got the wellies out of the car and put them on.

‘They’re not as comfy as the boots,’ complained One.

‘Right, that’s it,’ says he ‘I’m not giving you any more advice.  You do what you want!’

One would have worn the boots then, even if One suffered in the manner of the little mermaid who, trading in her tail for human feet, felt as though she were walking on broken glass, and all to follow her handsome prince.

Any road up, we followed the ‘Public Footpath’ signs and found ourselves yomping across farmlands various, right past people’s kitchen windows.

‘Let’s go down and follow the river,’ says One, and so we did.

Possibly a tad rash, considering the amount of rain we’ve had lately, as One was sucked into the boggy terrain and One’s boots were seriously breached.

Arriving home, covered in mud and precipitation, One enquired of the A, apropos of nothing, ‘do you think we might end up living together one day?’

‘I can’t think beyond the next day, I don’t know,’ said the A helpfully, ‘you might change, and I might not like it.’

Now, since One has been reading ‘Men are from Mars and Women are from Venus,’ One has become aware that this behaviour is atypical, particularly for the older cove who’s been ‘done wrong’ afore.

Anyway, One’s track record in this department is exceedingly poor, but ever the optimist, One would, Pollyanna like, do it all again.

Whilst writing this little entry, One is watching a scientific cove investigating rock pools on the the telly.  Recently, the limpet has been discovered to have the strongest grip in the world, but  One is at this very mo observing a star fish prizing one off a rock.

Take note, Admiral of the Fleet…

Limpet – that’s you that is

Starfish – that’s me that is

One shall prize you off your lonely rock and when One does, you will grumble and complain and say One made you do it, but you will be a compliant limpet to my starfish.

AND One shan’t consume you, well, not in one sitting anyway…

In which One must walk...

The dreaded walk is upon One. Postponed from the weekend by the Duchess' s doings, the A of the F appears hellbent on perambulating One hither and thither.
One attempted to weigh him down with a hefty pie, last evening, followed by a handful of cake with ice cream.
It was, as stated, a portion in the size of a handful as the only way the banana bastard, chocolate muffsters could be prized from the tin was by brute force and fingernail.
You never see that smug sort, Mary bleedin' Berry with her muffins hanging over the edge of the tin, do you, Dear Reader?
And to add insult to injury, the A of the F said they looked like one of ICI's ideas in action.
Anyway, must biff. Hills to climb. Admirals to assault.

Sunday, 1 March 2015

In which One dons the frou frou slippers…


Awoken by the Butler at some ungodly hour to be informed that the Duchess, the Aged P of the Admiral of the Fleet, had suffered a tiara related injury, we sped with haste to her side.

Natch, we had been sitting up late quaffing Pinot and dining on a most curiously flavoured Boeuf dish invented by One.

Not having all the ingredients decreed by Delia, One improvised with items various and ended up with what looked remarkably like a few scrag ends floating in drinking chocolate.

The A of the F manfully inhaled it, in, what is now his customary manner, getting it down speedily enough to minimise the scuffage of his taste buds.

Needless to say, pudding consisted of chocolate covered Rennies and a Gaviscon frappe.

Any road up, lying dans le lit, we groaned in unison until the early hours, when, as aforementioned, we were summoned to the bedside of the Aged P of the A of the F.

We shoved her wicker work bath chair onto the back of the flatbed truck and biffed off to A and E.

Some hours later, a fourteen year old Doctor surgically removed the family tiara, bunged it in a Morrison’s carrier and bade us a fond farewell.

This threw the entire day into flux…

The A had been threatening One with a ‘circular walk’ around the estate and had been insistent on One wearing the dreaded wakkin bwts (with two pairs of socks) in to dinner, so as to further break them in.

There we were, he resplendent in his sateen smoking jacket and evening kecks with One ackled up in an off the shoulder Dior number, positively dripping with Diamonds, and the dreaded wakkin bwts.

Fortunately, what with our current exploration of hospitals various in the past week, the walk was forgotten and One biffed the wakkin bwts in the cupboard under the stairs and donned the frou frou, marabou, kitten-heeled slippers for the remainder of the day.