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Tuesday, 30 June 2015

In which One and BF are moist in the midday sun...

I don't want you to be no slave
I don't want you to work all day
I don't want you to be true
I just want to make..............


Muddy Waters

And so, there we were, me and BF in the Beer Garden at The Bear...
I know, I know, I said it had gone a bit 'Brioche Bun' for Wivey,  but BF has got a 'Pulled Pork' problem at the moment and she needed a fix.
One is rather unnerved by the term 'Pulled Pork' what with it conjuring up all sorts of ghastly images, but,  no matter, the tiny hedge-forager must be sated, so there we were...
One had opted for the Mezze, not that anyone in Wivey has any fecking idea what Mezze actually is, but the ultimate 'girl food' hummus was part of the deal, so that was what One opted for.
Jolly decent of BF and BFP to attend to One's victuals now that One is in a permanent state of poverty.
Any road up, there we were minding our own bees-tiddly-wax when a tractoring device began hurtling toward the garden wall...
Then, to the visible alarm of a couple of sorts enjoying a fag in the smoking area, two v large fork lift truck type prongs were lowered over the wall into the garden in order to remove a super-floo-us ploughing device that was cluttering up the drinking area.
The sorts shot off down the garden whilst the rest of the great lunch-time drinking unwashed looked on in amazement as the dozy great oafs effected a sling with which to secure the plough to the tractor.
No thought had been given to asking anyone to move, or indeed to move their ve-hickles, or, for that matter, the removal of any of the benches and sun-umbrellas...
Chaos ensued...
With the plough swaying alarmingly over the heads of a brace of tattooed types (female) a bronzed Adonis shouted...
'Anyone know who's car that is?' pointing to One's Aston Martin DB7
'Mine,' shouted One, 'And I've got me eye on you!'
'You might like to move it darlin',' says he as the plough swung perilously over the top of me car.
'I am smokin' A fag!' said One indignantly chucking me keys in his direction, 'if yer wannit moved, move it yerself!'
'Oooooh' squeaked up BF, twisting her finger in the leg of her knicker elastic and visibly moist, 'she'll move it if you take your T shirt off.  Tee Hee.'
'I had a job moving that,' opined he upon his return 'you ain't got no wing mirrors.'
'One can't have everything darling,' simpered One batting me remaining eyelash. (Useful hairs like eyelashes drop out when one is of advancing years and are replaced by super-floo-us hairs in unfortunate areas)
The bronzed Adonis visibly recoiled in horror at the terrifying sight of One and BF in a menopausal miasma of moisture.
Eventually with much 'to me. to you' going on, the debacle ended and was given a rousing round of applause by the tattooed ladies who lunch.
'Let's go back to mine for a coffee and a fag,' said BF, but One, having taken an Orlistat, had to decline afore a hungy hippo type fart escaped and shot the Extra Virgin Olive Oil from the Mezze all over the arse area of me white linen, Doris Day, capri pants...


Monday, 29 June 2015

In which One inflames the passions of all and sundry...

Those fingers in my hair
That sly come-hither stare
That strips my conscience bare
It's witchcraft

And I've got no defense for it
The heat is too intense for it
What good would common sense for it do?


Ole Blue Eyes

Any road up, Dear Reader, that, One is sure, is what the Pinkster is: a witch...
A fully paid up, broomstick riding, cauldron stirring witch...
A witch with a bitch, all her very own...
How else can One explain the indulgence afforded to her by the excellent Beardy-Boy hubbster?
'Ooh, I don't half fancy leaving planet earth,' opines the Pinkster, and before you can say jack knife, he's out there in the garden building a moon rocket out of mud, spit and organic courgette flowers.

Anyway, One can but dream of such devotion.  Why, only this morning One was lying dans le truckle bed harvesting me super-floo-us hairs to the mantra, 'he loves me, he loves me not,' ending up with 'he loves me' when it hit One like a sock full of steeped semolina...
The bastards just keep on growing back, so One shall never, ever know...  Shall One?

                                                                            ~

Iyt in the grinds this very a.m., One was marvelling at the fabulous, frivolous, fat pink roses swaying in the summer breeze and nodding earthward with the weight of their blowsy blooms, looking all 'Ma Larkin'
Just as well, since the Peonies have gone over.  Still big, fat and pink, but a bit rusty round the edges.  A bit like your very own Lovely One.

                                                                            ~

And here sits One, gone over, all 'Sylvia Sims' with the odd and patchy hue of Michael Jackson...
Vitiligo, where the feck did that come from?
But, undaunted by yet another ghastly result of the passage of time, One acquired some 'in shower' St Tropez fake tan.
Not having One's spectacles in the bathroom, One sort of guessed the instructions...
That would probably explain why One has the brown and muddy appearance of a caravan dwelling traveller.
No matter, One shall just take to the road with One's newly acquired gyppo chums and be done with it.

                                                                             ~

'I thought that might happen,' said Aged P upon her enquiry as to the devotion of yet another young chum.
'Tis a curse as much as a delight, that Lovely One appeals in equal measure to the young, old, male and female persuasion.
Why, only yesterday, One was accosted by Lovely Gordon and Vera from the barge sitting up the passage awaiting the return of One, in order that One could cast One's fairy dust upon them and brighten up their dull little existences.
Have got to nip up the Co op in a mo for some bog rolls, so must go in disguise so as not the inflame the passions of the good burghers of Wiv, both male and female, young and old...

In which One is unsure of the correct attire for a field trip...

I wanna be loved by you, just you,
And nobody else but you,
I wanna be loved by you, alone!
Boop-boop-a-doop!

Marilyn Monroe (Helen Hope)

What a day, Dear Reader, slept in and then flung straight in at 6.45am.  How fit One must be for an elderly person to do such things!
However, 'tis a boon to be paid to wander around a splendid garden all the live long day.
Have had a song biffing about in One's head all day, see above...
Any road up, despite One being sans hot water in the Underground Lair and One's pussy purse being empty, One is chipper in the extreme due to the wonderful sunshine on One's aching bones and the thought of the delicious Admiral pulsating in his pied-de-terre awaiting the tender machinations of your very own Lovely One.
Tomorrow - a day off - and meandering to Milverton to see the Pinkster who, apparently, is making good to begin the life of a raggle-taggle-gypsy-Oh...
Now have a number of gyppos in One's circle.  How thrilling!
'You must come and visit us in the field,' said the Pinkster.
'Tis but a thought...
One doesn't have the required credentials for such a visit...
No dog on a bit of string...
No bearded divine hubbster...
No luxuriously appointed caravan....
No chest of drawers with a hole cut into the top to pooh in...
Now then, Dear Reader, what manner of tea dress would suffice for such a visit?
One does own a pair of designer wellies, however, and One is fairly sure they'd look good with the vintage Norman Hartnell ball gown.



Sunday, 28 June 2015

In which One has gone all soppy...

There is no one compares with you
And these memories lose their meaning
When I think of love as something new
Though I know I'll never lose affection
For people and things that went before
I know I'll often stop and think about them
In my life, I love you more

Beatles

So, there you have it, Dear Reader, One has awoken in a v soppy frame of mind...

Absence makes the tart grow fonder, which is just as well since One's rota is divided up into days off followed by half days in which renders an extended visit to the Admiral at the Manor, something of a no no.
How on earth shall One get One's regular fix of unbridled bliss and as many fish finger sandwiches as One can scoff?

'I've got all my days off tagged onto the weekend' said Witt, who has been given this dispensation since she has a new boyfriend.
Elderly persons have boyfriends too, but appear not to be given the same consideration even though their time on planet earth may be short and therefore we need all the pash we can get our hands on before we turn our toes up.
Oh how foolish the young are when they assume they invented it all and we who grow weary with the passage of time have hung up our thoughts of love and all it's splendour...

A horrid day yesterday...

One of those rushing about and getting absolutely nothing done to One's satisfaction, AND, a day that ended with a further set of teeth marks upon One's acreage.
What's the point of slathering Oneself with Almond Oil and Lavender on a daily basis to retain the baby's bottom feel of One's largest bodily organ if persons various sink their teeth into it and spoil the undulating velvet hills and valleys?

Am currently listening to Steve Wright's Sunday Love Songs on Radio 2 which is prolonging the soppiness of One's current state, so why does One feel the deep and desperate longing to get hold of Steve Wright and shake him warmly by the throat until he shuts the feck up?

Had a strange dream again...
An odd little Goth of One's acquaintance popped up in the dream to tell One that One should be embarrassed in the extreme to have the pleasure of being the Admiral's squeeze since he is clearly a 10 whilst One is a 4.
Cheeky bint! She herself has the grey, waxed pallor of a cadava, but still, I spect it takes it out of yer, shovelling six foot of earth off yerself every morning.

Off to chuck out all me greying, baggy pants as have discovered the seamless, Tesco pant...


Friday, 26 June 2015

In which One comes to 'eat Caesar' not to 'praise him'...

'Hoot hoot' hooted One at some ungodly hour, having shot up in bed after remembering One hadn't put the chicken in the fridge.
'Hoot' was followed by 'hoot' for such a goodly amount of time that One began considering a further career change, and having an Attenborough-ish biff through the undergrowth in pursuit of furry and/or feathered blighters.
Midway through an imaginary interview with Michael Parkinson, accompanied by a representative of a newly discovered species, One opted to bring One's head in from outside the open window and attend to the uncovered chicken, that by then must have been thick with bacteria various using it as an amusement park.
Plonking Oneself delicately upon the Spanish bed, so as not to disturb a slumbering sea faring Admiral, One became aware that the hooting sound was, in, fact, the dear old Admiral' s wheezing chest.
One has resolved to remain an arse wiper/painter extraordinaire at least until such time as an enlightened newspaper editor stumbles upon One's musings and offers One a daily column with which to amuse the nation.
                                                         ~
Yesterday One was escorted to luncheon atop an Ilfracombe Weatherspoons by the Admiral, and sat basking in the sunshine, on the Asrroturf, surrounded by shiny pink holidaymakers enjoying the view and a pint or three.
One opted for a Caesar Salad, in remembrance of the many such salads enjoyed by One and BF in 'Ena and Minnie' corner in The Bear before it went all 'Brioche bun bollicky'
The subsequent outer Cos lettuce leaves that arrived, topped with a few chunks of stringy meat, obviously from a chicken that had died from old age, floating in watered down salad cream and garnished with soiled shards of Parmesan, that had obv been swept up off the floor, not to forget the cubes of fried bread, masquerading as croutons, left over from a previous encumbants 'all day breakfast' that must have been hurled across the galley, did little to enhance the rep of dear old Caesar.

Upon our return to the Manor One resolved to construct a salad worthy of the name 'Caesar' for supper.
Upon One's proud emergence from the galley, bearing the offering aloft to the dining hall, One expected 'Hurrah' or, at the very least a smallish round of applause.
Instead, upon alighting his beadies on the offering, the Admiral opined...
'How the feck did you set the smoke alarm off? You've only made a sodding salad.'

Wednesday, 24 June 2015

In which One is agog...

'Well he is a Traveller', said One's twelve year old work chum as we hurtled through the winding Somerset lanes, with her at the wheel of the big blue bus.
Let me explain, Dear Reader...
One, One's work chum and a brace of uninhibited charges had been dispatched to 'go out for tea', whereupon, let's call her WITT (where's it to Tor) took it upon herself to launch into the gory details of her, as yet, very short life story.
'Twould appear that WITT came from a dynasty of fully paid up, dancing round the camp fire, caravan dwelling gyppos.
Her immediate family had forsaken life on the road for a semi in Somerset and eschewed the fairground dwelling, dog on a bit of string lifestyle, but this hadn't dulled the allure of a raggle taggle, Mercedes driving, devil May care Amour.
Aforementioned Amour had 'done her wrong' by marrying into his own kind and broken her heart to the extent that her current squeeze was falling under suspicion merely because he'd biffed off to Glastonbury with six assorted sorts and she was afeared he'd jump the broomstick with one of them in her absence.
'What would you do if you were me?' enquired she.
Clearly One's attire of marabou kitten heeled dancing shoes, Chloe Tea Dress and afternoon paste tiara, hadn't alerted the daft bint to the likelihood of One being rodgered by a Romany, as fairly slender, and expected One's counsel on such matters.
One, Dear Reader, was agog, especially since she'd already found it necessary to recount, in explicit detail: an ingrown hair on her twinkle, an infected (self inflicted) belly button bar hole, and her possession of a 'vagina that was so small she'd never be able to squeeze a baby out' and all with offers of a viewing, which One politely declined.
Upon our return, One had to be de-briefed and sent for a lie down in a darkened room.
Clearly thinking One too elderly and posh to absorb such salacious information, a minion was despatched to One's side with a cup of hot, sweet tea.
Little do they know that, as we speak, Dear Reader, One is propped up upon swans down pillows in the Spanish bed at the Manor being spoon fed Beluga by a stark bollock naked Admiral of the realm.


Tuesday, 23 June 2015

In which One is marooned in the mire...



Surely someone, somewhere would like to purchase the Underground Lair, see above, Dear Reader, and allow Lovely One to acquire some sort of caravanette type of ve-hicle with whatever is left to One following the settlement of One's gargantuan debts.
One could biff off into the blue and live the life of a travelling sage dispensing wise, knowing advice to one and all before washing up on persons various driveways to seek succor and a wee in a proper bog.
Granted, the block does resemble some sort of reform establishment and has, at times, felt as such, but, step inside and meander through the massive sitting room to the french doors leading out on to the vast walled grounds, which, as we speak are a heaving mass of seasonal blooms...
Great swathes of Peonies have burst forth like huge unruly roses that don't give a feck and are leaning toward the Devon red soil as their stems can't support their fecund lusciousness.
The Jasmine scents the air heavily as evening falls and the Pippistrels come out to soar and dip in the twilight.
Climbing roses wander up through the trees pushing their scented heads through the branches and bursting with the smell of summer...
It's enough to off set the lack of hot water, the mildew, the damp, the darkness and the sodden and buckled wooden floor, isn't it?

Monday, 22 June 2015

In which One is an eejit...

The utter absurdity of what One does to earn a crust hit One like a sock full of cement in the gob the other day.
'You are clinically insane' said the Admiral, 'if I could do what you can do there's no way I would be a--e wiping on a daily basis.'
He is , of course, absolutely correct, but One is at a strange place in One's life at the mo. One just can't get to grips with anything.
The mere fact of being in the company of other persons is a draw that led One away from drawing, and anyway One isn't a 'proper' artist.
'Do you feel compelled to paint?' enquired some posh sort in the shop one day.
'No I feel compelled to pay the gas bill,' said One, leaving the old bint speechless.
But it's true, One isn't the sort who suffers for One's art. It's true, One gets an immense amount of satisfaction when One sells a painting, but it's in a gleeful way that someone has crossed One's palm with silver.  After all, as Boy opined when One first embarked upon One's career change...
'Oh mum, who's gonna want that!'
But they do and they just keep on coming back for more.
One is a writer in One's soul.
If only One could be as prolific with the brush as One is with the pen One wouldn't be on the cusp of homelessness and living in a freezing cold flat with no hot water, would One?
No doubt One's creditors will be forming an orderly queue at the door upon One's return home tonight, but since the minimum wage isn't the living wage One shall be disappointing them all again until One either wins the lottery or sells the Underground Lair.
But where shall One go then?
Who knows, Dear Reader, but, hey ho, places to go, arses to wipe...

Sunday, 21 June 2015

In which One thinks only of fluffy bunnies...

'I can't understand people who need to talk first thing in the morning' said the admiral, as One launched, headlong into a soliloquy regarding One's peculiar dream involving One being on a touring holiday of Italy with a coach load of Vicars.
Suitability admonished, One turned over and kept One's cheery disposition to Oneself.
'He's in one' thought One. Much like the touring Vicars, who were sullen companions of the night.
No matter, One shall continue to Biff through life cocking a snook at adversity and saying a very loud 'huh' to the disasters that befall One.
Many moons ago One was a silent morning person, being a moody young thing. One's Dear Papa, upon being taken his morning cup of Rosy, used to say, 'what's the time Claire?' finding it hilarious that he was forcing One to answer. One took to taking One's alarm clock with One and simply holding it up upon the enquiry.
With the passage of time, One has grown to be a rather cheerful, patient and kind sort, seemingly unlike others who grow grumpy and disillusioned by the ravages of life.
'Are you going to change, Lovely One?' I hear you chorus, Dear Reader.
'No, I'm fecking not!' says I, 'and shall continue to skip through life thinking only about fluffy bunnies and kittens.'
SO FECKING THERE.

Saturday, 20 June 2015

In which One acquires a super-floo-us Spa Tula...

'Mummy, what is a Spa Tula?' enquired the inquisitive Boy as One unwrapped another curious Christmas gift from BF, many years ago.
'It's a 'spatula', replied One, making a cake-bowl scraping movement to indicate the usage of the pink piece of kitchenalia.
Boy, approximately nine at the time, May be excused his ignorance at kitchen implement information. Not so, the A of the F, who, when accosted in the Pound Shop by One brandishing a lilac coloured spatula endorsed by the delightful Jane Asher, opined...
'I've been baking cakes for years before I met you, very successfully, I might add, WITHOUT the aid of a spatula. I scrape the bowl with a spoon. What's wrong with that? AND if you think I'm having a fecking pink one, think again,' says he biffing off to the book department.
One, always keen to 'advise' the male of the species in house-wifey matters hot-footed it after him brandishing the offensive item and pointing out it's benefits for the princely sum of a quid.
One snuck it into the basket amongst the lens wipes, tea lights and various other 'must have' bargains and cleared off to look at the spectacles.
The spa tula has remained discarded on the kitchen work top, still tie-wrapped to it's packaging brandishing a picture of a beaming Jane Asher, wearing a spotless pinny.
One recounted the sorry tale of un-heeded sterling advice to BF, only to hear that BFP is similarly ungrateful in the advice-acceptance department.
Why, only recently, BF had innocently informed BFP that 'sloshing a baking tray around in luke warm water diluted with less than a thimblefull of Fairy Liquid won't get the grease off and will mean she would have to wash up again' was met with a derisory comment and the tea towel being flicked aside, before biffing off to watch a sodding Norman Wisdom film.
The similarities between BFP and the A of the F are legion, to the point that, when they cast off sailing together, we are either expecting them to swap tales of their measley exsistences and make off into the sunset, never to return, or for them to have a massive punch-up and only one of them return to port.


Wednesday, 17 June 2015

In which One mourns the loss of the Bear chip...

And so it came to pass that One, formerly being a social outcast (not hankering after the chipped potato) fell into line with the rest of the great Wivey unwashed, and developed a taste for the Bear chip...
Boy, see above, took his Dear Mama to the licensed establishment the other night for supper.
Shock, Horror...
The menu had changed and the Bear chip is no more...

'I think I'll have the lasange,' opined Boy, who, without fail, has had a bacon burger, chips, NO SALAD, for the passing of many a moon.
One, not being a major fan of change in the scoff department, went for the Thorne's (the fablious butcher) burger...
The lasange turned up on a big wooden board (what's happened to plates these days?)
AND AS FOR THE BURGER...
In a fecking Brioche Bun... WHAT THE FECK and with those horrid little french fries...
Accompanied by a poncy little baby leaf salad, not the bog standard lettuce, tomato and grated carrot that looked like it had been resident in the galley for many a moon and rendered a visit to the lavatory asap.
The good persons of Wivey are not Brioche Bun Burghers fer feck's sake!
AND...
Where have the plastic sauce bottles gone?  With their congealed goo around the squirty end bits.
Well One remembers watching a particularly challenged Wivey resident sitting in a corner sucking the contents straight from the tomato sauce bottle.
There are many such persons who couldn't live in wider society but yet meld into the eclectic mix of oddities that exist side by side in our little diverse community.
And that, Dear Reader, is why the 'Brioche Bun' is a grave error...
Cast your minds back to when the new incumbents of the 'other' licensed establishment went all 'up market' with their menu and shipped in new and uncomfortable furniture.
'Twasn't long afore the place had reverted to the sticky carpet, second-hand chair look.
We don't wannit!!
Strueth!  They'll be putting umbrellas in me pint of Thatchers next!

Tuesday, 16 June 2015

In which One is splattered...



That's me that is, Dear Reader, doing me 'proper job' ...
Must get back to it asap...
Trouble is...
Am so completely cattle-trucked upon One's return from the day job that One just wants to collapse into the truckle bed and kip.
Any road up, tis a strange and unsavory phenomenon that there are times in One's life where the deep and meaningful discussion of poop is de riguer...
One is when one has babies and is dependent upon the company of other mothers for one's social situations and the other is when one takes up a job in the 'caring' profession...
As a mother of  young offspring many conversations centre around nappy contents: the amount, therein, the ghastly hue, thereof, and the frequency of the deployment of that miracle of science 'the wet wipe.'

Similar conversations now pepper One's days...

Suffice it to say that a recipe for disaster is..

Ingredients

One small human
One fully loaded Tena Lady pant
A bath full of tepid water
A pair of fleecy pyjama bottoms

Method

Remove all coverings from small human
Dispose of aforementioned coverings
Insert small human into bath
Leave to steep

Not (as occurred)

Turn One's  back for nano second...
Small human enters bath, fully loaded

Result

Brown Windsor Soup

Later that day...

'Oooh, I think you've got chocolate on your nice new white cardigan,' opines a fellow worker, 'and what's that in your hair?'







Sunday, 14 June 2015

In which One is fighting a losing battle...

'Move up. I'm nearly as fat as you,' said a co worker who is clearly nine times the size of One.
Isn't it interesting, Dear Reader, how persons delude themselves regarding their girth?
Obv., One is 'I haven't gained an ounce since the day I was married,' (Blanche DuBoir, Streetcar) yet others, who have clearly 'gone home' are delusional in the extreme.
No matter, One expects the tightness of One's Jeggings is due to the boil wash.  The flollopy upper thigh is as a result of a strange, as yet unnamed virus and the triple chinnage is a trick of the light.
It hasn't, however, gone unnoticed by the Admiral, who, when reclining in the moss green, elderly gentleman's recliner, is at eye level with the football sized tummy of One as One wafts by to the galley to create a sumptuous supper.
The Admiral, the epitome of sartorial elegance in his 'leisure trousers' (who's he kidding - they're pyjamas) can scarf down whole cow with the hooves snapped off with a catering pack of chips, never gains an ounce and is really rather delicious in every way.
Poor dear One who, as you know Dear Reader, has gone all 'Sylvia Sims' is fighting a losing battle with the ravages of time.

Tuesday, 9 June 2015

In which light eludes One...

Should One ever wish to eschew the fortunes of the 'caring community' or to chuck in the vast wealth of the fine art world, One shan't be taking up a new career as a pyromaniac.
Are you aware, Dear Reader, that it is practically im-fecking-possible to set fire to any fecking thing EVER!

Let me explain...

Yesterday, sick and tired of feeling sick and tired, One decided to mount one last health campaign to avoid the certain fate of dropping down stone cold dead in the next couple of years (obv from overwork and not enough TLC) so One embarked upon a 'no fags' - not even O.P.'s campaign) and deffo no Pinot.(can't afford it anyway what with those unreasonable blighters threatening to reposses the Underground Lair if One doesn't pay the mortgage)

So, no espresso fag in the morning before going back to work...

Later that day...

Having spent a goodly amount of time chasing a large chap up and down the stairs, in and out of the lavatory and retrieving his kecks from the back yard (having been hurled from an upstairs window) One was in dire need of a puff.

Upon returning to the Underground Lair with 10 fags in me sweaty little mitt, One COULDN'T FIND THE SODDING LIGHTER
So, what with only a box of used matches, One thought sideways, ripped up a copy of The Lady, (yes, I know Dear Reader, 'The Lady' WHAT THE FECK WAS I THINKING)  and repaired to the kitchen to 'make fire' from the cooker.

Did it burn?  Did it Feck!

Envelopes don't burn, they only singe...
Printer paper won't ignite...
How the feck is the professional pyromaniac supposed to go about his bees-tiddly-wax?

Any road up, following a sink full of singed papier One embarked upon a bit of cardboard under the grill and hey presto!  FIRE

By the time One got a snout it was dark outside and One required the candelabra in the back yard...

OH FECK can't light the candles!

And - guess what One put One's hand on in One's handbag first thing ?  THE FECKING LIGHTER

In which the hols are over...

And there it was gone...
Two weeks annual leave spent mooching about in the sunshine of North Devon.
The A of the F was up and out in five minutes flat leaving One snuggled up. It was ten a.m. though, time having slipped by whilst One was in dreamsville and the A was devouring a Boy's Own punch up type novella.
One shall be at One's desk at three thirty today, going in for tea and bathtimes.
Even BFP will be back from his 'Boy's doing boring stuff' holiday rendering B F's chain smoking, gin swilling afternoons a no no.
Back to the Underground Lair with no hot water and a mountain of unpaid bills.
Had meant to spend yesterday on the beach but got a massive migraine so spent the last day of the hols in bed, ALONE.
How boring is that!

Sunday, 7 June 2015

In which One's still got it...

One's first keyboard lesson began at 11.15 pm. It went rather well, as far as One could assess considering One should have been pushing out the zeds.
One was in dire need of a kip as we had been breathing deep of the sea air in Ilfracombe and watching the commissioning of the new lifeboat.
One, briefly having left the Admirals side, quickly acquired  an elderly 'bunnager' who engaged One in a scintillating conv re 'Lifeboats I have seen.'
On the cusp of an invitation for tea and buns, One made One's escape when the bunnagers chums appeared.
The A of the F, secure in the knowledge of One's utter adoration, never turned a steely grey hair. Not that pistols at dawn is a good idea for elderly gentlemen with failing eyesight.
Still, at least One's still got it.

Thursday, 4 June 2015

In which One has nuffin...

'I'm having pudding' said BF as we sat outside in the Somerset sunshine, 'I feel as if BFP is already on holiday even though he's only gone sailing today.'
' I don't think I'd better' countered One, ' I feel solid today.'
One, however, was led astray and ordered a raspberry muffin.
This was to follow our lunch of goat's cheese souffle and mixed leaves, which had been difficult to acquire given that the dozy dollop of a waitress was unable to recall our order following a mere three steps to the kitchen.
'Excuse me', said One as she flolloped past our table, 'this is an apple muffin and I ordered a raspberry one.'
'Actually it's pear' said the gormless girl, 'don't you wannit then?'
'Well, no' replied One, 'I want what I ordered.'
'Shall I get you a cup of tea then?' She continued.
'I don't want a cup of tea. I want a raspberry muffin' said One beginning to bristle.
The offending muffin was snatched unceremoniously from One's grasp and borne aloft in the direction of the kitchen, with the indignant fat bottom of the girl wobbling away from our table.
Much whispering and banging down of crockery could be discerned before she returned.
'Actually we can't tell what muffin is what' She said in explanation.
'Well', says One, ' If you are unable to discern the stuffin of the muffin, I'll have nuffin.'
One's witty retort fell upon deaf ears and she asked if we'd like the bill, obviously keen to see us leave and concentrate upon the flock of Horay Henrys that had breezed in.
Following a further indeterminate delay she returned to ask us if we had any actual cash as the 'blue tooth' had 'gone down'
Fortunately BF is always fully cashed-up courtesy of BFP.
'Shall we leave a tip?' says she.
'Yes' said One. 'Don't whistle with a mouthful of custard.'

Wednesday, 3 June 2015

In which the Admiral gets everything right, every time...

You've got to accentuate the positive
Eliminate the negative
And latch on to the affirmative
Don't mess with Mister In-Between

Johnny Mercer

And so One did...
One tended to One's roots (and now has blue hair in the manner of v old lady)
One applied a peel off tea tree and witch hazel face mask (One now has face of v young baby)
One harvested the super-floo-us (and is smooth to the touch in all zones)
One mowed the lawn
One fiddled about in the grounds
One begged and pleaded with the mortgage company
One counted One's blessings

And...
Pollyanna is back with a vengance...

Sitting in the sun definitely has an amazing effect and One is chipper in the extreme again, Dear Reader.

BF has sewn a gusset in the 'Ma Larkin' frock to accommodate One's gargantuan nellies and One is fit to grace the world again.  So much so that this evening One shall return to the Manor and Geisha for the Admiral like a good 'un.

'Are you going anywhere exciting on Friday?'enquired One of the A of the F.
'Barnstaple, Oakhampton, Bude, Barnstaple, Barnstaple.' came the reply when One enquired if One should accompany the cove or biff to Ilfracombe to mooch.

Last time One tagged along One wasn't the most entertaining of companions and kipped me way through a great tranche of North Heaven with the A at the wheel.

Needless to say, One never received a reply to One's offer of companionship...

'Yes my darling.  I'd love to have your company on my daily rounds, snoozing fitfully next to me,' (copy and send) was the missive One eventually biffed off into the ether to the A.

'Doh!  I never get it right.' came the reply.

Au contrere, Dear Reader,  the Admiral gets everything right, every time...

In which One starts fat binding...

Spring is here!
Why doesn’t the breeze delight me?
Stars appear,
Why doesn’t the night invite me?
Maybe it’s because nobody loves me.
Spring is here I hear

Hart.

Actually 'summer' is here but it's a bit sub-zero in the grounds, to the extent 
that One can't even inflame the rest of the block by appearing in the garden  
in me jim jams and has had to snuggle into me fluffy.

Inexplicably One feels fairly low on the 'chipper' scale this a.m.  

One must be suffering from that SAD thing and be in dire need of a bit of sun on me bones.

'How so?' I hear you chorus, Dear Reader, 'you usually biff through life with 
your Pollyanna head on and cock a snook to the world.'

'Don't you sometimes ask: Why me?' enquired BF as we sat outside discussing the latest disaster to befall One.

'No, not really,' says One, 'I try to address each maelstrom as it occurs before limping on to the next one.' (at the time One was opening the latest 'pay the mortgage or we will reposess the Underground Lair and take your one and only
offspring hostage' letter)

Can someone tell me how it can be that the 'minimum wage' is less than the 
'living wage'

This was in response to BF's first view of the buckled and uneven lifted 
floorboards following the boiler explosion.

However, 'tis getting a bit boring not having any hot water.  One must be 
beginning to whiff a bit.  Wonder how many kettles full it would take to fill
the bath?

Have been 'eating' my way through the current crisis situation.  That will never do.  Must shift more lard or the Admiral will clear off with a more shapely sort.I know: I'll start taking those 'fat binding' pills.  There must be some in the 
bathroom cabinet left over from another life.

Yes, that's it!  The world is a much better place when yer thighs don't bash 
together as you meander through life.


Tuesday, 2 June 2015

In which One must destroy the contact lenses without delay...

'What is the name for torrential drizzle?' said one wag calling in to radio two this morning.
North Devon remains soggy and Wivey is moist and blustery.
One's Peonies are battered to the earth and One's Clematis nibbled beyond repair by a four foot slugging device.

When shall One get to wear One's free gratis Ma Larkin frock?  Or step out in last year's six quid elastic gladiator sandals?
When indeed?

One has made best use of being confined to the Manor in the rain and has bottomed the gaff completely.
'Have you washed those new white T-shirts?' came the enquiry from the Admiral.
'No. Why? You haven't worn them yet,' One retorted, briefly looking up from One's kneeling stance in front of the Aga and tucking a stray strand of gold back into me headscarf.
'I like everything washed before I wear it,' countered the Admiral standing to attention in his shreddies and two quid spectacles.*
One pondered upon this strange phenomenon, having been wed to Vile ex Husband, who always gave of the pervading pong of the laundry basket, and phoned BF for advice.
'Well I don't wash BFP's new clothes before he wears them, or mine,' she stated.
As for One: One has never thought of such things and wears any old charity shop item, or purchase from ebay without laundering.
Then...
One got to giving it serious consideration...
Imagine all the shreddies from Matalan that One has just bunged on?
Any old personage might have been handling the gusset with heaven only knows what on their hands.

*The Admiral must be encouraged to wear two pairs of two quid spectacles at all times. (Spare ones on the top of his head)  The sight of him swapping them over is one of the many little quirks that One absolutely adores about him.  The blighter has only gone and got some contact lenses!
'So what?' One hears you chorus, Dear Reader.
Well, One can't have him abroad among the highways and byways casting those smouldering pale blue eyes upon the female populous and inflaming their passions.
Now One's gone all Sylvia Sims, One must hang on to him for grim death.






Monday, 1 June 2015

In which One is always missing the boat...

OK, Dear Reader, so One was channelling Ma Larkin, but the dress was free.
'How so?' One hears you chorus.
Well, what with the gift card from Customer Services, the dress being half price and the money saved on groceries, it worked out FREE.
Fortuitous, since One has no clothes that fit, what with One being half the woman One was last summer.
It is a little short for a personage of advancing years, but no matter, with a suitable pair of super control jeggings and a cardi to cover the 'never to be seen upper armage' of the over fifties, it's a corker.
Not that One is likely to be sporting it in the near future due to the proliferation of precipitation currently rendering One's annual leave a bit of a wash out.
No matter, tis a proper treat to be on leave, well apart from the painting, ironing, Geisha ing and all manner of what have you that needs doing for the Admiral.
What with One's sheer delight in all things 'house-wifey' Tis a sorry outcome that One never really got to play that starring role.
'Twould appear that One, being, one of life's consolation prizes, has missed that particular boat and shall have to content Oneself with being an 'also ran'
No matter, One is destined to front up at the tail end of other people's disappointment and bear the brunt.
Does this render One defeated?
Of course not, Dear Reader.
One shall sally forth in One's Ma Larkin frock come rain or shine, with a beatific smile playing about One's lips and triumph in coming second.