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Sunday, 31 May 2015

In which One is subject to a Spanish Omlette Inquisition...

'What the feck have you done with fifteen eggs?' enquired the A of the F upon delivering One's Espresso.
'There's one left,' replied One indignantly.
' OK. What the feck have you done with fourteen eggs?' he went on.
'That Victoria sponge would have won a prize in any village fete,' opined One, avoiding the question.
'Indeed it would, but that accounts for three, what did you do with the rest?', he continued.
' Four, actually,' scoffed One, 'and I made a frittata.'
'With ten eggs?' Says he adopting a kind of Spanish Omlette inquisition attitude.
It was far too early in the day to start recalling the egg usage situation...
'Ha ha!' says One triumphantly, ' I glazed the chicken and mushroom pie with one on Thursday'
'What about the rest?' he ploughed on.
'I dunno, I must have lost them' said One, turning over and  burrowing under the covers.
One tends to get a bit churlish when One's catering prowess comes into question.
Any road up, Frittata shall henceforth be removed from the menu, since One was required to hermetically seal the A of the F in the quilt during the course of the night, to avoid the gaseous fallout that resulted from One over egging the supper.

Saturday, 30 May 2015

In which it always happens to One...

'Quick get in the car' panted One as One eventually found the ve-hickle, complete with the A of the F, in Mozzers car park.
'Oh feck. What have you done now?' says he, clambering down off the bonnet of the Bugatti.
(He always stands there since One can never remember where One has parked.)
Well, it was like this Dear Reader....
One, desp for a wee, had despatched the A of the F back to the car with the week's supply of fish fingers and jellington bambinos, and One had biffed off to find the bogs.
In One's indecent haste to 'go' One had inadvertently dashed into a heavily populated MENS lavatory.
Just as One had realised the error of One's ways, a voice, from the 'Thomas the Tank Engine' children's ride outside piped up: 'Hello. What's your name? Do you want to climb on and take a ride?'
This greatly amused the line-up of winkle-brandishing inhabitants, and One shrieked, turned tail to dash out, running straight into a seven foot tattooed article, who grabbed One by the shoulders, opining, 'Wrong one eh Darling'
In a frenzied rush to exit the store One mistakenly tried to go 'OUT' of the 'IN' and with no one coming in the 'IN', One was captive, with an ever expanding audience who were tittering and pointing at One.
One espied the ' OUT' on the other side of a couple of advertising hoardings, so squeezed through to make One's escape.
Sadly, One obv hasn't lost as much bulk as One thought One had, and got One's 'jeggings' arse pocket hooked on the arm of  a large cardboard cut- out of 'Cap'n Birdseye' thereby bringing us both to the ground.
One struggled to One's feet as elegantly as a person of advancing years with their arse hanging out of their trousers can, and beat a hasty retreat.
Upon deliverance of the sorry tale, ending as per with: ' Well, it could have happened to anyone', the A of the F opined, 'perhaps. BUT IT ALWAYS HAPPENS TO YOU'

Friday, 29 May 2015

In which One has an Antipodean arse...

Absolutely lashing it down here in North Heaven. Doesn't Gaia know One's on One's hollerdays?
Woke up this morning farting the first verse of Waltzing Matilda. Fortunately the A of the F had repaired to the lavatory.
Unwilling to 'break the sound barrier' as it were, thereby quashing the ladylike illusion, One NEVER emits bodily function noises.
However, on this occasion, One felt suitably secure to share news of this farting phenomenon, and, well, suffice it to say, that the A of the F was obv so impressed, he was struck dumb.

'When passions over
It soon reveals
The faint aroma
Of performing seals.'

One must bear that soubriquet in mind. After all One doesn't want to be farting 'I wish I were in love again.'

Wednesday, 27 May 2015

In which One looks like a gin soaked old dear...

The love of One's life, see above, Tigerboy, apart from the Admiral, of course.
Anyway, that was apropos of nothing, One just came upon the picture and wished to share...

'Do not throw that cigarette in my garden,' said One adopting a stern stance and  giving a hard stare to the young person leaning out of her window two floors above.
Well, I say adopting a stern stance.  As stern as One can look when wearing sugar pink baby doll jim jams and sporting wet curly hair giving one a sheep like quality.
'I'm fed up of sweeping up your fag ends,  bottle tops and sweet papers,' continued One getting into me stride.
'I'm sorry, I won't do it again,' said the suitably admonished looking sort.
Any road up, the only fag ends out there now are One's!

Boy biffed up yesterday evening sporting long black hair and a beard, giving him the look of Jim Morrison shortly before he shuffled off this mortal coil.
One tried to tap him for a couple of bob until One gets paid but One's pleas fell on deaf ears.
Let's hope when he's finished this flaming politics degree he will be Prime Minister and keep One in the manner to which One would like to become accustomed.

The Nectar card saga continues...
CANNOT BE USED IN THIS STORE - ONLY LOCAL STORE  came up the message in Barnstaple.
So, One biffed off to Taunton expecting to feed Oneself via One's Nectar points, having no dosh.
Customer services said One couldn't use it there either, so we phoned an Indian called 'Christopher' (yeah right) and following a long and involved conv were none the wiser.  One was losing patience and the Customer service sort gave One a gift card to get rid of One.
'Here you are Dear,' she said 'put that towards a bottle of Gin.'

In which One goes on a mercy dash...

The admiral had woken up in a huff, but One couldn't stay and mop his fevered brow as a more pressing engagement had occurred.  BF had emailed to say that BFP was off biffing about the briny and 'was I around for a trip out or something.'
This sounded alarm bells in the manner of a person who hadn't been able to get outside for a fag in One's absence.
Just as well One turned up as BF was trawling the interweb looking at 'pencil-sharpener' comparisons.  A moment later and she was in grave danger of hoovering or entering into a long involved discussion on the merits of washing powders various with the W.I.
One bundled her into the ve-hickle without haste and made off to ponder pre-loved frocks in the local charity shop.
She must have been slightly under the weather as she only managed to acquire sixteen tops and nine pairs of super-control, kelp-infused leggings that apparently 'eat' your thigh fat as you perambulate.
One, of course, being skint came home sans frocks, but not before we had shared a Ploughman's Platter for two, which would have generously fed a party of six hungry hod carriers.
Any road up, we attacked it with fervor and then sped off to our respective lairs for an afternoon kip.

Tuesday, 26 May 2015

In which One is too cheerful for the grumpy old A...

'For goodness sake SHUT UP' said the A of the F as One was effusing 're: The Meemster's fiftieth birthday bash that we'd just been invited to.
A Gatsby party - how thrilling!
Better dash home forthwith and shut BF in the shed to sew sequins on me best Norman Hartnell flapper frock.
Yesterday we valiantly attempted to join in some sort of Bank Holiday doings and failed miserably...
Coombe Martin were collectively attempting to capture The Earl of Rone, chase him with a Hobby Horse, shoot him, biff him off his horse and Chuck him in the sea, due to some ancient misdemeanor.
Trouble is: we got there at half past four, having been informed on the sparsely informative website, that villagers were gathering at the top of the High Street at five.
Mmmm, thought us, we'll get a vantage point at the pub, thereby viewing the doings with a pint or three.
Overhearing a villager informing a grockle that 'We don't chuck him in until about nine' our eyes met, 'We're not sitting here braving Hurricane Herbert' says we, as one and cleared off to find something else of no cost to do.
Happening on The Museum of Coombe Martin, we dashed inside.
'Are you senior citizens?' enquired the fat bint on the desk.
'No we're fecking not!' Screeched One as One wrestled her to the ground.
'That'll be two quid each then' said she spitting molars all over the shop.
This little escapade followed an aborted mission to Braunton Fair that consisted of a bouncy castle and a donkey that looked like it needed to urgently retire to Sidmouth Sanctuary and a car boot sale that we went to at eleven that didn't start til one.
Feeling crestfallen, we repaired to the local and it was SHUT.
By the time The Earl of Rone was being hurled into the briny, we were abed with our Ovaltine.

Saturday, 23 May 2015

In which One is ravaged...

I've done my first twenty-four hour shift, Dear Reader.
'She won't be able to cope with it' was the word around town, 'the noise will keep her awake all night.'
But no, One can kip through anything as demonstrated by One's surprise at finding the devastation following the 1986 hurricane that One slumbered through.
And now One is on holiday for two weeks.
Not actually going anywhere since One is penniless, but given what occurred this morning that may change...
Let me explain, Dear Reader...
The A of the F was flicking through a Teach yourself Spanish book when One awoke.
Thus far we shall be alright if we...
1.  Ever want to converse with a vacationing dentist about engineering.
2.  Require a fish head to make some soup.
3.  Encounter a pack of stray dogs and be required to ascertain whether or not they are vicious.
One shall very likely swerve the engineering conversation with the dentist, but will throw the fish head to the dogs and biff off to the multogrande frock shop.

Back again after a further kip during which One dribbled on the A of the F's pillow.
One appears to have acquired a rather upside down, inside out look to my face complete with massive bags under me eyes.
The trouble is, Dear Reader, One can't be entirely certain that they will disappear throughout the day or they are yet another unwelcome addition to the ravages of time.

Wednesday, 20 May 2015

In which One is on a twenty four hour shift…


That’s me that is, Dear Reader, see above…

One has grown a tad grubby since the water tank/indoor pool/no hot water incident…

Hope of a nice bath is on the horizon however…

Much tittering and ‘Oooh she’s not going to like it!’ remarks have been overheard at the pit-face, as One is on a ‘sleep-over’ tonight.

One’s Louis Vuitton is packed and ready in the hall…

Carol Baker Baby Doll jim jams – check

Marabou kitten heel slippers – check

Mrs Robinson negligee – check

thirty seven moisturisers for different body parts – check

knitting – check

ear plugs – check

Catering pack of Berocca – check

stun gun – check

One cheeky blighter said, with a fiendish grin on his moosh: ‘You’ll be in the house for a full twenty four hour shift.’

Quite why every man and his dog think that One is a delicate critter and shall be floored by a day/night/day shift is beyond One.

One may look like a scraggy old housewife with One’s face on inside out, but One is in fact a Herculean Harpie with the strength of three of those young snipper-whappers – SO THERE!


I may move in! 




Tuesday, 19 May 2015

In which One is a curio…


‘I’d love to take you out with my mates and get you drunk,’ said One’s young co worker, as One sat in the corner like a fossilised curio listening to her tales of alcohol consumption and the ghastly scenarios that follow.

Do these young persons imagine that One and the A of the F sit about in our bath chairs squabbling about who is going to make the bedtime Horlicks?

No, Dear Reader, we most certainly do not!

Then, another young passer-through biffed up enquiring of a further co-worker…

‘How many times a week do you do it?’

Obv, One was completely ignored during this exciting exchange, since One, being clearly too old to boff, would have no input.

Imbibing the information, One has realised that One and the A of the F have rather an exciting life in most departments.

Why, only this morning when One repaired to the grounds to breakfast on Espresso and fags, One couldn’t help but notice that something had been nibbling away at One’s Clematis all night long.


Monday, 18 May 2015

In which it’s raining in my flat…


The Boiler’s out

The water’s cold

The new wood floor

Looks warped and old

and it’s raining

Raining in my flat.

The plumber says

it’s not insured

and further costs

must be endured

cos it’s raining

and he is a twat.

He is, Dear Reader, Oh, and by the way please sing the above as indicated by the accompanying picture.

Any road up, it’s not insured because he omitted to tell me it needed servicing every year and he didn’t sign and register it.  AND he charged me fifty quid call out fee for that information.

Well, One can’t afford to get it fixed, so no hot water EVER…

A completely shagged floor…

Not exactly a selling point for the dear old Underground Lair…

On a more positive note…

Exit stage left the lodger, but not before doing One a small service…

‘Before you leave would you see if you can fix my printer?’

‘Plug it in,’ says he, and lo, it worked.

Smart Arse!

In which One is up shit creek without a paddle–AGAIN…


Ha ha, Dear Reader, One bets you thought One had shuffled off this mortal coil since One has been silent for the passing of a couple of moons…

Hell, no, darlings, One has been toiling at the pit face and simply too plum tuckered to record One’s doings at the close of play.

No, matter, One has a much needed, and may One opine, a much deserved day orf, this very day, so One shall fill you in on One’s derring do’s of the recent past.

Following the unfortunate ‘chandelier/lighting system’ incident at the Manor, One has temporarily left the Darling Admiral to return to his fleet and come back for a paddle around the Underground Lair.

If only the Admiral could see the benefits of having One permanently in residence…

Oh, forget that, there aren’t any from his point of view, given the carnage that One causes even from the briefest of visits.

‘The Man in the Cupboard’s’ arrival is imminent and should One’s insurance cover the eau everywhere, hot water shall be re-instated in order that One may languish dans le bain for a mo or two.

If, however, One’s insurance doesn’t cover it, One shall remain slightly soiled for the passing of many a moon, since One is, as ever, completely negative in the spondoolicks department.  Yes, Dear Reader, in spite of the long laborious hours One spends tending to the needy, One still doesn’t earn enough to cover One’s daily bread, let alone the aftermath of famine/fire/flood etc.

One is in a state of shock, see above, That’s me that is, Dear Reader.





Thursday, 14 May 2015

In which nobody's perfect. Not even One...

'Well what happened was...' began One, upon re-entering the withdrawing room and, not dissimilar to the shepherds, he was sore afraid.
He has acquired, of late, a sort of resigned look of horrified bewilderment when One appears looking sheepish, following the kind of accident that could happen to anyone, Dear Reader.
'What the feck have you done now?' Says he clutching the antimacasa on the back of the elderly gentleman's moss green velour recliner until his knuckles were the same ghostly shade as his moosh.
'Well, what happened was' continued One, bringing the shattered remains of an Eighteenth century chandelier that had, until recently, illuminated the long gallery,  out from behind One's back.
'How the feck did you manage that?' says he looking ashen.
One explained that One had inadvertently got the stand of the studio light, that had been erected in the gallery for photographic reasons, hooked between One's toes as One biffed in the general direction of the bog and brought it crashing down on the aforementioned chandelier.
It was fairly difficult, at the time, to make out exactly what he was saying, as the smoke alarm had started to go of, indicating the imminent arrival of a charred offering that we laughingly refer to as 'supper.'
'You really are a fecking liability,' he went on, listing the week's accidents that could happen to anyone, but happened to One.
'You boiled my favourite cashmere sweater, broke the door chimes,' etc etc
And so he went on, and on...
One got to the bit where One was being admonished for some culinary misdemeanor, when One turned tale and huffed off in the direction of the galley.
But not before inadvertently kicking over a glass of Red on the Persian rug...
Honestly, Dear Reader, it could happen to anyone.

In which One invents The Toffee Onion...

One has inadvertently invented a new culinary delight: The Toffee Onion.
'Let's go down the pub,' said the A of the F when One biffed in, all soggy and moist from mopping up in the Underground Lair.
'Ok' agreed One ' but I just want to assemble a caramelized onion and goats cheese tart for when we get back.'
'Off you go then' says he and sunk back into his moss green velour elderly gentleman's recliner.
One, tart assembled, applied a swipe of Apricot Amour lippy to One's gob and off we biffed.
'I'll have some of that' says One, indicating toward the Cloudy Cider pump and the barman poured One a pint, obv not noticing that One was the fine boned Aristocratic type that required it in a Georgian tear-drop glass.
Any road up 'twould have been churlish in the extreme to complain, so One dutifully inhaled it.
Upon our return to the Manor, One bunged the tart in the Aga and settled down on the Louis Cans in the withdrawing room.
Falling under the spell of Sean Bean who was Sharping it up on the telly, One forgot the tart.
Well, for goodness sake, Dear Reader, if One woke up to find Sean Bean unbuttoning One's shimmy-shirt, like the gormless bint on the telly, One wouldn't have screamed me tent down.
'Oooh that smells nice' said the A of the F when One finally remembered to rescue the charred offering from the At a.
Sadly the aroma of the aforementioned tart belied the flavour and its adhesive ability in the cementing together of the top and bottom molars.
Hence, the birth of the 'Toffee Onion' a delicacy One would advise to be consumed by persons in possession of tip top teeth.

Wednesday, 13 May 2015

In which One lives in interesting times…


That’s me that is, Dear Reader, that duck (see above) floating about the Underground Lair on a newly installed indoor pond courtesy of the exploding water tank…

There One was, googling frozen shoulders, which apparently One has and bemoaning One’s fate and the current uselessness of One’s painting arm, when One thought…

I know, let’s go and make a pot of Espresso and have a fag (whilst One can still hold a drink in one hand and a fag in the other.)  Apparently the old frozen shoulder will get worse and render One useless in the ‘lifting fag to mouth’ department.

‘Mmmmmm’ thinks One, ‘tis lovely and warm in here this morning.  Don’t these newly installed, v expensive, real wood floors hold the heat well,’ when One heard a mysterious squelching from underfoot.

Meandering into the kitchen ‘twas awash with eau.

‘Fuck a duck’ thought One and went to the airing cupboard to investigate…

The entire fecking tank had emptied all over the gaff.

Enter the lodger…

Manfully he began mopping like a good ‘un whilst One shot up the path to get advice from Head Girl of the Block.

Obv One’s cock had to be in a different place from every other cove in the block…

Enter BFP: having been called at an ungodly hour by One…

‘I’m on me way,’ says he – the good old egg. (The poor blighter might as well be married to One as well as BF)

Of course he found One’s cock straight away and stemmed the flow (not that there was any water left in the tank. By this time it was busy forcing up the very expensive, brand new, real wood flooring.)

Enter ‘Man in the Cupboard’.  Those of you Dear Readers who are wedded to One’s little missive will recall that when One first arrived at the Underground Lair the previous water tank exploded in the cupboard ruining all One’s artwork.

Any road up, ‘tas happened a-fecking-gain!  Would you Christmas Eve it?!


Some time ago BF forced One to sort out One’s paperwork and One came upon the ten year guarantee for the work and the tank and lo, One has had a smidgeon of good luck for once – IT’S STILL UNDER IT’S TEN YEAR GUARANTEE

Hence – Man in the Cupboard has returned.

If it can happen it will happen to One and One is fairly certain that some Chinese Cove must have leant over One’s cot upon One’s arrival on planet earth and opined….

‘May you live in interesting times.’

Tuesday, 12 May 2015

In which One has an unusual way of supplementing the meagre earnings of the painter…


What a bizarre and feudal work life One has endured over the passing of many a moon…

That’s me, that is, Dear Reader, see above…

From the care of Lady M in the castle, the administering of Pifco massages to the chatelaine of the Bung of Doom to the general assisting of One’s current charges.

Lady M, still under the impression that she had a houseful of servants, One being one, would require a cup of tea delivered to her in bed.  Not any old Matalan cup, no Siree, a bone china cup, thin as paper, with the sugar bowl and milk jug on a lace cloth covered tray. 

One would stand dutifully at the foot of the bed whilst the tea was slurped and await One’s instruction.

Upon heaving her out of bed One would assist the Victorian Lace Nightie clad Aristocrat to the cavernous bathroom, avoiding the trail of Maltesers that would be liberally sprinkling out from under the night attire.

‘Is that you Diana?’ she would ask every day as One biffed into her boudoir.  One would have dearly loved to have been able to feign being the fine boned Diana that Lady M so wished to see,  but, as you know Dear Reader, One is a flolloping great Farm Girl of a biffer.

Any road up, Lady M was a breeze compared to the Chatelaine of the Bung of Doom, who took to appearing from the bathroom starkers opining ‘well we’re all girls together aren’t we.’

One shuddered upon entering the sitting room of an evening to find the Pifco Massager (circa 1952) on prominent display with the Chatelaine poised and ready for some full ‘hands on’ from One.

But yesterday has to one of the most unusual tasks.  One’s ears were on the point of bleeding from the ear-drum shattering noise that met One upon entering One’s place of work and One spent most of the day charging about with a pocket full of Cheesy Wotsits attempting to nourish a very, very small noisy person.



Monday, 11 May 2015

In which One is a Penguin Classic…

me in a book

That’s me that is, Dear Reader, in me new night attire…

That should inflame the passion of the Admiral.

‘How so?’ I hear you chorus, Dear Reader…

Well, it’s like this…

He is an avid reader and spends an inordinately long time twixt the sheets devouring his ‘two for seven quid’ Boy’s Own bash-em-up books and completely ignores One.

One has tried numerous ruses in order to get a look in…

Wearing me best Asda pyjamas on a weeknight…

Not wearing me best Asda pyjamas on a weeknight…

Having nothing on but a squirt of Chanel ‘Chance.’  Should be called ‘Fat Chance’ where One is concerned…

Granted, Dear Reader, One is not in the first flush of youth any longer, but One is still up for it.  After all, One’s formative years were a pash-free zone and One has a lot of wasted gusset attention to attend to.

‘Spose it’s nice that the A is now so comfortable with One that he can sit farting and reading in bed, oh and, demanding cups of tea and fags, but nonetheless, One does require the odd forage under me book-jacket.

Why only this morning One had to wait until the end of a chapter to even get a snog, but it was worth it…


Sunday, 10 May 2015

In which One is a tiny bit of pooh stuck on the Admiral' s bum...

Following One's saunter around Sainsburys yesterday, One's gone all up market. You see, Dear Reader, One actually had a trolley instead of a basket for the week's victuals.
Not one of them normous ones, merely the shallow variety, but, nonetheless A TROLLEY.
'Have you won the lottery?' I hear you enquire, Dear Reader.
No, sadly not, but One was in possession of  seventy five quid BT voucher  as a gift for signing up for their outrageously expensive broadband.
No 'marked down' scoff for One this week.
Next week, however, austerity shall resume, especially since One can't seem to hang on to a lodging male even.
What is it with One and the male of the species?
The A of the F appears to be able to tolerate One, but then he did inform One very early on that he believed the best one could aspire to, partner-wise,  was someone you got on with and who didn't go into a massive sulk following a disagreement.
One always yearned for a little more than that, say, life long adoration with as many fish finger sandwiches as One could eat.
No matter, the non- committal cove does appear to be a keeper.
So, now One is all posh, what with me trolley full of Sainsbury food, One has decreed that we are now an official celebrity couple in the manner of Branjelina.
Henceforth, we shall be known as Clartin.
A tad unfortunate, however, Dear Reader, since according to Nanny Cooper, a 'clart' was a tiny bit of pooh stuck on one's bum.

Saturday, 9 May 2015

In which One is excited in Sainsburys...

Blimey, Dear Reader, didn't awaken until nearly 10 o`clock,  and, the A of the F is wearing nice little old gentlemen's pyjamas.
Wos goin on?
One, of course, is ackled up in me best Carol Baker babydolls. Not quite so alluring now the ravages of gravity and the passing of many a moon have left their indelible marks on me thighs, but nonetheless still a comely cherub.
'Wanna cup of Earl Grey?' enquired One, twirling the Admirals pyjamas cord and expecting to be clutched into a warm embrace.
'You still here?' says he reaching for yet another one of his 'two for seven quid' Boys Own silly war books.
'How soon the flame of love can die' thinks One (and Henry Mancini)
Back with the tea....
Obv feeling a little guilty for taking One for granted, he pipes up...
'What's it to be today then? A trip to Sainsburys?'
'Don't you try and get round me with yer offer of trips to up market supermarkets'  said One, huffing off to the lavatory.

Please note, Dear Reader...
As one typed in the beginning of the sentence, 'A trip to...' The predictive text on me Kindle offered a two word choice: 'Tesco' and 'Barnstaple' thereby confirming that we lead a very dull life.
Better grasp the opportunity of a visit to Sainsburys. Obv the most excitement One'll get this weekend.

Thursday, 7 May 2015

In which One pays the Mortgage–hurrah…..


Hurrah!  One has drawn out the mortgage bill from the hat and paid it!, thereby, hopefully, not having to take up residence in One’s new home, see above, that’s me that is, Dear Reader.

Let us pray that it is enough to halt the seemingly inevitable repossession of One’s Underground Lair.

‘As one door closes, another door closes’…

‘It’s  not you, it’s me,’ sayeth the lodger as he informed One that it takes too long to get to work from here.

Well, he didn’t actually say the ‘it’s me’ bit, but it sounds so much more dramatic, doesn’t it, Dear Reader?

Any road up, have received what appears to be one week’s wages for a month’s graft…

When One was a captain of industry in One’s youth, One would have laughed at the pittance that One now gratefully grabs with both hands.

Such is life, Dears, and One shall sally forth with a grimace on One’s face to confront another day.

Off in search of another incumbent of the Kingdom of Spare Oom, but not before One has biffed off to smother the Admiral in kisses for an entire 48hour period.

All that frog kissing has finally paid off and One is in possession of a Handsome Prince at last…

‘He loves me, he loves me not, he loves me, he loves me not’ etc etc…………

Can’t think of a single funny thing that’s happened this week.  Early yet though, isn’t it Darlings…

Wednesday, 6 May 2015

In which One is the one what ate all the pies…



Went to a birthday party…

Ate a load of party food…

Walked rind and rind the grinds…

This has got to stop!

One was all set up to walk to work, consume a bag of salad leaves at lunchtime, walk home, scoff something fruit-based and go to bed early.

The whiff of pies and chips and party food has taken One into it’s fiendish grasp and One is consuming fuel of a unsatisfactory nature.

Not unsatisfactory in it’s scoffability, but unsatisfactory for an elderly old moggie like One who really needs to take greater care of Oneself.


‘Legal action Pending’ came the letter from One’s mortgage company.  One is sore afraid that One might be in the gutter rather sooner than One thought due to not earning enough to keep One’s angel face above the water line.

Ah well, with the summer coming and the extra pie and chips layer of fat, One should be warm enough on a comfy park bench.

Tuesday, 5 May 2015

In which One is a slender colt…


Biffed off to be warmly welcomed into the bosom of the Admiral’s extended family…

The female of the species would appear to be a hefty-thighed biffer throughout the generations.

‘Why then?’ you enquire, Dear Reader, ‘did the Admiral select a fine-boned, Aristocratic bint like you, Lovely One?’

Too late to introduce a colt-like offspring into the mix since One is well past child bearing possibilities.

Must be the protrudence of the hip bones he likes, or the slender upper arm that doesn’t wobble when waving goodbye.  Or the waist that can be spanned by the clasping of his calloused, work-worn hands (see above)

Or perchance the long slender neck sans wrinklage.  Or the long, sensitive, tactile fingerage that One brung to the party.

No, Dear Reader, No, tis the Geisha like qualities that snared the blighter.

One ‘Whites up’ with a sufficiency of Malcolm Powder on the fizz, a bin bag tied round me fluffy and me special socks with his flip-flops and tends to his every whim. Add a couple of me bamboo knitting needles in me barnett and we’re off.

After all, One does simply adore him.

Monday, 4 May 2015

In which One is shagged…

ex me

That’s me, that is, Dear Reader, completely cattle-trucked following two back to back twelve and a half hour days…

Am I up to it?  Doesn’t look like it, does it Dears.

The final four hour countdown to escape from the House of Fun was the most traumatic involving challenges that very nigh rendered One and One’s co worker locking ourselves into the safety of the kitchen.

What did we do?  We soldiered on manfully and tended to the needy right to the end.

One, however was so shagged that One forgot to take One’s Pinot to the Manor.

This is bad in the extreme.  No matter how exhausted/shagged/clapped out/kernackered One has ever been, One has never, ever forgotten One’s Pinot catering pack.

The Admiral is also suffering from Croatian Man Flu and is, as we speak, snuggled ‘neath the duvet whilst One does the ironing in preparation for a visit to the child of the Admiral and the children of the child of the Admiral.

No football in the garden for One. If they want to play with Granddad's Girlfriend they’ll have to lay me flat on my back and use me as a bouncy castle.

Saturday, 2 May 2015

In which One deploys the goose grease…


So, off One biffed to the House of Fun and left the Admiral to his own devices…

Well…  With instructions to stick his head under a towel, over a bowl of boiling water and breathe in the steam thereby attempting to alleviate his laboured breathing.

What does he do instead?  He shears off round his mate’s house to look at photographs of the boys sailing trip.

He may be devastatingly handsome, but he’s incapable of following the simplest of instruction, like most chaps.

No matter, One shall be in residence in the Manor at the end of a laborious day and shall attend to the A of the F whilst wearing my Hattie Jacques Matron Outfit, see above, that’s me that is…

Obv there shall be a veruca-ca-ca inspection (he still won’t let me operate on it with me Swiss Army Knife blade)  -   the wuss

And then…

I shall rub goose grease into his chest – with my chest…


Friday, 1 May 2015

In which One is moist and mucussy…


That’s us that is, me’n’im, Dear Reader (see above)  both suffering equally and together…

We are soooo close that we even get sick at the same time.

Of course, One is bearing One’s burden with fortitude and wearing a beatific smile, but the Admiral, who’s suffering is done on a more voluble basis, is gallumphing about the gaff groaning like a stuck pig.

One may be slightly more chipper than the Admiral since One was awoken by a sight for sore eyes:  A naked Admiral, apart from a pair of Poundland spectacles, proffering a plastic spoonful of Benylin Mucus Cough.

Mucus is such an unacceptable word, isn’t it Dear Reader, as is moist. Both words when included in a sentence that reaches One’s delicate shell like ears are liable to result in One doing a tiny bit of sick.

Any road up, here we are in the Chippendale Sleigh Bed, ‘neath the satin sheets all moist and mucussy, snotting our way through a truck load of Kleenex.