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Friday, 31 July 2015

In which One snags me cardi again...

'Careful!', hollered the Admiral, but it was too late, One had somehow managed to dislodge the antique lace antimacasa from the rear of the Louis Cans settle, get it hooked on the arse of me poplin Capri pants, (I'm still in Dozzer Day holiday mode) and swipe a crystal tumbler of Cuba Libre all over the marble-topped occasional table that was, rather unfortunately, home to a Dickens first edition and the Amirals New deep sea diving Rolex.
'Fer fecks sake' said he, as the Amber raindrops plip-plopped onto the Persian rug, 'that fecker is waterproof to 100 metres and practically unbreakable, but it still can't withstand being within a hundred yards of a clumsy great Biffer like you.'
' A Tale of Two Cities' was busily soaking up half a pint of rum and coke...
A look of abject horror fleetingly crossed the Admirals moosh...
'Well,' said One in a breezy manner, 'it'll look like an antique now, all Brown and that.'
'It already was a fecking antique,' snarled the A, 'and I don't think Sothebys has a Coca Cola soaked first edition section in their Antiquarian Book Catalogue.'
'I know,' thought One, 'I'll nip in the khazi and trim me Twinkle into the shape of a map of Spain. That'll take his mind off it while Consuella runs the Bex Bissel round.
One flounced off in the general direction of the bog, but not before snagging me cardi on a Meissen figurine that hit the deck with some force.
'No matter, thought One, I've still got half a tube of super glue in me handbag for when me nine quid ebay, all terrain, bondage gladiator sandals give up the ghost.
One turned neatly on a sixpence to impart this valuable information to the Admiral, but he'd fainted clean away in his elderly gentleman's moss green velour recliner and One thought it unwise to revive him...

Thursday, 30 July 2015

In which One hyperventilates...

'Feck me, it's freezin' opined One as we clumped down the Ryanair steps into a cloudy Bristol airport.
A slight delay had ensued as One forgot about One's hand luggage containing fluids.
'Open!' ordered the stern Official Espana personage.
Obv One's not 'Worth it' as One's Loreal Miscella water was flung with some fervour into an adjacent trash can.
What the feck did he think One was going to do: deep cleanse the other passengers into submission?
As he foraged deeper into One's Louis V, One feared for what might be turned out onto the conveyor belt and the image of the sherbert lemon clinging manfully to the used Tena Lady that BF unearthed loomed large.
Fortunately One had removed One's Tweezerman super sharp tweezers and slung 'em in me big case or they'd have been jettisoned with aplomb and One would have taken on the appearance of a Sasquach within hours having no means of harvesting me super-floo-us hairs.
All that could have been endured without too much hyperventilating, but when the bastardo alighted upon me catering pack of Chanel No 5, as yet unopened, One fell into a swoon as he shook his head and gave One a fiendish hard stare.
Although, by this time, One was breathing into a brown paper bag, One couldn't help but notice that the Chanel, far from being flung, was secreted beneath the desk and, no doubt, later that evening, would be squirted up the gusset of his leathery Senora ensuring a night of unbridled Umbrian pash.
'It's yer own fault, you daft tart,' opined the A of the F, 'if yer case wasn't full of fecking shoes you could have put it in there.'
Through the mist of fat tears that rolled down One's Sun-blushed cheeks One was able to discern that the A was steering One into the general direction of the Chanel counter, and with his spare hand, delving deep into the inside pocket of his Dress Uniform for a wad of readies.
So, Dear Reader, all was not lost and One has been able to return to Blighty bearing:
A ceramic bull
17 pairs of leather sandals, various
5 lace fans
2 bejewelled hair combs
A hand crafted mantilla
Three hand embroidered fringed shawls
An 'I love Valencia' fridge magnet
A further two litre bottle of No 5
And
Calf muscles like Bradley bleedin' Wiggins from all the walking he made me do.

And all without delving into me 'arse-wiping' wages!



Tuesday, 28 July 2015

In which One has a blockage...

'What do you want to do for our anniversary? Anything you like: eat out, go to Cartier for a diamond ring, fish finger sandwiches and a BJ? You decide.'
So sayeth the A of the F...
'Well,' countered One, 'I'd like to cut out your verruca with me Swiss Army Knife.'
It has to be said: he wasn't expecting that, and returned to his book with a shake of his beautiful head.
One returned to One's toilette.
'If One doesn't take on board at least three litres of Aqua Congas today there's a distinct possibility that One will be returning to Blighty with that barn load of animal/human flesh on board,' said One, to break the silence, 'and When that offloads into the system it could upset the delicate eco-balance of the entire UK. We might all end up with Mad Cow Disease.'
'Well, you've already got Extremely Silly Cow disease, ' said he, disappearing beneath the covers and leaving One to wipe on a slick of Apricot Amour...

Sunday, 26 July 2015

In which One has a meat sweat...

'Ooooh. Let's go to the place round the corner tonight' said One, after seeing locals scoff massive trenchers of sizzling meat...
And so off we Biffed at nine o'clock. One in One's diaphanous New length Norman Hartnell ballgown and the Admiral in full dress uniform.
Possibly a tad ackled up for the 38° heat and visibly moist when we arrived.
Slabs of unidentifiable flesh, some of it revivable by a decent vet, were plonked down in front of One AND the A.
The Admiral, being a refined sort of chap with a delicate constitution, took One look and decided against it, but One, being of peasant stock and with the constitution of a Great White, manfully tore into it.
This morning, outside on the fag bench, the A of the F remarked that it was enough to turn him vegetarian, watching One chowing down on the pulsating pile of flesh.
'That's nothing' said One, 'some of it said hello there on it's way out at 5.00 am.
'Too much information' retorted he ' and if you keep bloody talking while I'm trying to read the paper, I'll fill yer gob full of that foam stuff the Mafia use on torture victims.'
'Ah, but I'm a maestro of the Armenian Nose Flute,' threatened One.

In which One goes all scientific...

Medieval and barbaric in the extreme, the bullfighting was thrilling.
First a big brass band entered the arena, oompahed it up a bit and then repaired to the shade of the upper tier.
A bull was released and the Torreadors whipped it into a frenzy with their pink capes, followed by the Pickadors, horses blindfolded and armoured against the bull and then the posturing Matador.
'Are you alright?' said the Admiral, 'we can leave whenever you want.'
One, who apparently looked close to tears, was deemed too delicate a creature for such entertainment, but alarmingly quickly, One was baying for blood with the rest of the crowd.

And tonight - the Flamenco, in a hot steamy room full of Spaniards ( this is not a package deal destination.)
Old and cheaply dressed they danced in controlled frenzy, their sweat flicking into the audience, and our table was at the front.
Mesmerizing.

One has conducted a couple of interesting scientific surveys whilst One has been par Espana:

The Spanish fly is far smaller than the West Country fly, is easier to swat and clears off with the minimum of flickage.

Spaniards don't neuter their dogs.

Upon sharing this exciting news with the A of the F he opined,
'Only you could come to One of the most beautiful cities in Spain and stare at dog's bollocks.'




Friday, 24 July 2015

In which One becomes familiar with a Spanish fly...

Last night, purely by accident, we stumbled upon a restaurant used by locals.
The air was fresher and so we thought it might rain and storm like the previous night, so instead of going into town, we wandered round the corner from the hotel and sat outside what appeared to be a rather dubious looking establishment.
Locals trickled in at a steady pace, so, since the venue appeared popular and advertised local music, we went inside.
The stage was set with all the requisite items and a v large acoustic guitar leaned expectantly against the wall.
Following a vino tinto fuelled wait, a puny little hombre wearing stay-presseds and a look of sheer terror, arrived on stage.
An eclectic mix of songs was delivered, accompanied by the odd pluck of an electric guitar, but in the main, a laptop supplied the words and a pre recorded track, the rest.
On closer inspection the acoustic guitar had obviously lain unplucked for the passing of many a moon.
Judging by the less than impressive performance, the old hombre hadn't read to the end of his 'Teach yourself to play the Bert Weedon way' manual.
Now, call me old fashioned, but I always prefer my musical entertainment to have had a little practice afore they take to the stage. Not so the hombre Espanol. He had a cursory pluckette and a quick read of the words before masaccarring many a much loved song.
One could have forgiven all of that for the splendid atmosphere, but invariably when One glanced up from noshing me nachos, he was scratching his willy.

Thursday, 23 July 2015

In which One has run out of clean pants...

A massive thunder storm last night has reduced the humidity but it's still scorchio.
Went to the Oceanographic yesterday. Weird seeing sharks swim overhead.
Had a scoff in one of the many restaurants and cleared off to see the dolphin display.
A flolloping about day today as we hit the ground running on Sunday and haven't stopped since.
Waited ages, with a large, sweaty crowd, outside the Cathedral to see the ancient ceremony of the water board blokes getting together to make sure all the market gardens get a share of the water. (Since 13th century)
A few bored looking old chaps sauntered across the road, a bloke with a stick and a park keepers hat  who shouted for around a minute, they got up and Biffed off and that was it.
Tapas and beer for lunch and then back for a kip as its too hot to go outside until nightfall.
Laundry service has got all me shredders so it's commando tonight.

Tuesday, 21 July 2015

In which we catch the bus...

Upon One's return to Blighty, One shall be carrying out a ritual slaughter of the M&S handbag purchased for the hols.
It is perfectly dreadful.
Not enough pockets and too heavy with a horrid slimey lining.
'Whyever did you purchase aforementioned bag' One hears you enquire Dear Reader.
' Twas a gift from an admirer and therefore seemed churlish in the extreme to deny it it's proper place in the scheme of things.

Biffed off to the beach...
A splendid seafood lunch in a beachside cafe...

'Let's walk to the tourist bus stop and ride to the Marina' suggested the A of the F, clearly wishing to play with the other salty sea dogs.
Why, only yesterday, he'd had a fourteen and a half hour conversation with another armed policeman about shooting baddies and had come away with a Valencian policemans helmet with the promise to send a Metropolitan one to him.
Any road up we got well and truly lost in the port and eventually caught the bus to the old town.
'Inglese!' exclaimed the bus driver in a non too friendly manner when One proffered   a 100Euro note.
'Inglese Politcia' exclaimed the Admiral, 'problermo?'

Monday, 20 July 2015

In which One is hot..

'I want you to choose it,' said the Admiral as we perused the cigarette cases.
Off One biffed, suitably Euroed up and came back with, what One thought was a suitably Spanish case as on the front was a smidgen of engraved wording.
Sadly, due to the fact that One has brought an empty glasses case with One to Espana, One couldn't decipher aforementioned text.
'I'm sure you acquired this with love in your heart,' said he, 'but is says: smoking, rolling, papers, on it and me fags won't fit in it.'
I don't know, Dear Reader, some people are soooo ungrateful when you buy them a gift with their own money.
Today I have been mostly moist.

Sunday, 19 July 2015

In which One is in Valencia...

So here One is in Valencia...
A rather unusual drive to the airport given that One of the many things overlooked by the garage when fixing the car was the headlights, or lack thereof.
Needless to say ONE shall be paying them a further visit upon One's return to Blighty.
Went for a stroll into the old walled town. V splendid! V hot! You could poach an egg on my gusset.
Hotel Kramer' s rooms are rather Spartan and defence de fumer. The Admiral is currently out in the street having a fag.
Off to further explore.
Bullfight tomorrow.


Saturday, 18 July 2015

In which One's cardigans are culled...

'When in Spain,
For reasons I don't explain
I remain enjoying a brew.
Don't deplore my fondness for fundador,
You know how a fundador can lead to a few.
It's just that
When in Rome I do as the Romans do'

Claire Teale


Do you know what, Dear Reader, One's acreage is so silky smooth this morning One might just stay prone for a while and stroke Oneself.
But, no, 'Get us  cuppa tea,' Came a grisly voice from neath the satin counterpaine.

Upon arrival in the galley One espied the Formation Flock of Furry Feckers (sheep) in the field opposite form seamlessly into an effigy of a giant cock.
Perhaps they'd heard the real reason why Vile ex Husband had ended up in hospital and were showing solidarity (or not, as in his case)

Anywho, One can shear to Spain without worrying about Boy, as his foolish Papa is due for discharge this very morn.

The A of the F has done his back in. One feels fairly certain that this is a dastardly plot in order that One shall wheel him across Espana in a comfy bath chair with a blankie over his knees.
Not fecking likely.
One is expecting to be ravaged to within an inch of One's life on a daily basis, pausing briefly for dou cuba libre and a fag, followed by a Tupperware container of tapas.

One shall be attending a bull fight.
I know, I know, Dear Reader, barbarism in the extreme, but, when in Rome I do as the Romans do.

'What the feck!' exclaimed a voice from the back bedroom, 'There's nine fecking cardigans in 'ere and the case weighs more than you! It's 34 fecking degrees where we're going you won't need a sodding cardigan!'

Oh dear, One feels a suitcase cull coming on and perchance a quick scamper to M&S for a couple more floaty frocks.


Thursday, 16 July 2015

In which One is in the thrall of CT the master shite-meister...

Of a winter's eve, Shite-Meisters, young and old gather around the log (geddit) fire and discuss the vagaries of poop.

CT, a member of the elite 'Golden Turd Club', due to his long and devoted service in the field of arse wiping, holds us in his thrall with his tales of derring do, gloved up and wet wipes at the ready.
'I remembers a time when you could walk up the stairs and be fair choked by the fetid cloud of shite gas,' says he picking his fingernails with a cocktail stick and flicking the clarts into the flames.

'Them days is long gone,' he continues, a salty tear rolling down his pink, fat cheek and nestling to rest in his hoary beard, caked with the remnants of an Asda 'three for four quid' ready meal.
The youngsters, wide-eyed and, as yet, hardly bearing a set of bite marks between them, pull their chairs a little closer...

'You'd be amazed at the yardage one small amount of shite can cover,' continues he, playing to the crowd...
'The only part of the place not smeared with poop was the actual bog itself,' he went on, 'the sink was so full it had developed it's own tidal rhythm, ebbing and flowing like a great Chocolate Lake Eerie. Three yellow buckets and a catering pack of  buy one, get one free Disinfectant it took to scratch the surface.'

One of the young followers was chosen to repair to the kitchen for tea and Chocolate Digestives...
A ghostly silence fell as young and old slurped their tea.  The only sound to be heard was the crunching of a Digestive...

And then, leaning forward in his vinyl wipe-clean armchair, CT's gaze fell upon a wide-eyed young apprentice arse-wiper who was enjoying his Chocolate biscuit...
'You don't lick anything brown off yer fingers in 'ere sonny,' he declared and leant back into the shadows...

Wednesday, 15 July 2015

In which One shall be flute tooting soon...

So, there's One sitting in the Bear garden with a Wood Nymph and a Peer of the Realm scoffing onion rings...
'What do you want?' enquired the WN.
'A pint of Thatchers Gold,' said One rolling a fag.
Upon her return, bearing an alternative beverage she imparted, 'They've run out of Thatchers Gold but said this is similar.'
FOR FECKS SAKE
First we get 'The Bear Mezze, pulled sodding pork and burgers in bleedin' brioche buns - Now, Gawd help us, NO FECKING THATCHERS GOLD.
The good burghers of Wiveliscombe can't be doing with posh scran, but the lack of Thatchers has to be reason enough alone to start the revolution.
And if anyone can be bothered or stays sober long enough, do give me a shake...
Alright, alright One was with the landed gentry but most of the indigenous population are tractor driving, fag rolling luddites AND WE DON'T WANT TO CHANGE.
Nonetheless, I bet a few hearts fluttered when Lord B's card went behind the bar to run a tab.
The kitchen, no doubt, are busy broiling larks tongues in truffle oil.

One needed the sit down, however, having been out bowling in the big blue bus with a fellow prole and a trio of charges.
One was well and truly trounced by a disinterested challenger who, despite rolling the bowling ball down the stand backwards and returning to the bench to sit, scowling, arms folded before the ball got to the end of the lane, still managed to get a higher score than One.

Ah well, off for a twelve and a halfer now, but not long before One shall be singing ...

Come fly with me
Let's float off in the blue
In Llama land there's a one man band
and he'll toot his flute for you...

Ole Blue Eyes  (I've got one of my very own and One shall definitely be tooting his flute)

Tuesday, 14 July 2015

In which One and BF are considering becoming bank robbers...

'Twas  One's day off yesterday and One had been despatched by the A of the F to get his Zippo repaired, so off One, and BF, biffed to Wellington.
Well, Dear Reader, turns out that Zippo lighters have a lifetime guarantee and are fashioned by hardened criminals in a penitentiary in Pensylvania.
One learns something new and exciting with every passing day.
Apparently one has to send the thing back and 'twill be rebored and conditioned and returned to it's rightful owner in three months.
'Seems a lot of bother for a lighter,' said the A.
No no no, 'tis an important family heirloom acquired by the A's devoted daughter so One shall wrap it in gossamer and despatch it forthwith.
Any road up, following the Zippo errand, we repaired to the bank on business of One begging and crying not to be biffed out as a n'er do well and become one of those bods who exist with that archaic currency of real cash instead of one of those lovely plastic cards that make you feel like you're not actually spending spons.
The bank teller, a gentleman of ordinary demeanour and of middling years, has always been off hand and most business like with One.
With BF in tow, however, things took on a whole different flavour.
As soon as her little hedge-forraging head appeared above the counter he went all unecessary and even winked at us.
'Flippin' 'eck', thought One, 'better bring her with One every time One is begging.'
BF being a tiny little article, unlike One who is a Biffer Extraordinaire, clearly gets financial fellows all a-quiver.
When she was 'in insurance' BFP had to make her a special step to stand on so as to see over the counter, and she captured many a beating boy's heart with her little face bobbing up over the desk.
She definitely hasn't lost this useful power as the Bank Bod was visible moistening in her presence.
In fact, when One was unable to furnish him with One's updated mobile number, he said...
'Well, it's not really allowed, but if you want to ring my mobile I'll get it from that,' giving BF a longing stare.
Oooooh, thought One he's attempting to give BF his mobile number.
Fancy, a fancy man on the inside of a BANK
We could embark upon a new career as the Bonny and Clyde of Wivey!
One, or BF for that matter, couldn't cut it as cat burglars, we'd never get through the fanlight.  They'd have to leave the double doors open for us.

In which One recalls rather odd gifts of yesteryear...

You're just too marvelous, too marvelous for words
Like "glorious", "glamorous" and that old standby "amorous".
It's all too wonderful, I'll never find the words
That say enough, tell enough, I mean they just aren't swell enough.

Ole Blue Eyes

One has awoken in an Admiral inspired reverie of affection, see above...
After all what can One say when One is in receipt of an email stating 'only five more sleeps,' referring, of course, to the whisking away of One to Valencia...

One returned to work yesterday with One's malfunctioning arm hanging limply at One's side, quite expecting to be put out to grass by One's employer, but they seemed really rather joyous to see One and so One lives to wipe another arse...
'Jolly good!' say I, as One rather likes working there.  Not just for the daily workout of crocodile wrestling and tiger taming, but the chance to converse with the likes of WITT, who delivered a monologue to One...

'I had my hair in ringlets,' said she, and all he said was, 'Oooh we'll have to do something about that.  And then, he BOUGHT ME SOME FRIZZ EASE.'
One sympathised in the extreme as real men (like my darling Admiral) don't even know Frizz Ease exists.

example:
One, more or less chatting away to Oneself, opined, 'Oooh I must get some more of this mascara, it's really good.'
'And you're telling me this because?' replied the A peeking out from behind The Times.

Now, WITT, take note, that is the response of a real man.  They don't know, and don't wish to know about Frizz Ease, lipstick, eyelash curlers etc.
'Yeah, and then he said to me that I should wear less foundation and more lipstick,' she continued.
'Bin him.  That's my advice,' said One.
'That's what my Mum said,' retorted she.

It did get One thinking of strange gifts that One has received from chaps over the years though...
Frizz Ease hadn't been invented in One's youth but doubtless One would have been in receipt of some if it had, given One's frizzy Bette Middler hair.
One, however, was once presented with a 'Ladyshave' as a Christmas gift.
One obv took this to mean One was coated liberally with Super-floo-us hair and duly harvested One's legs afore casting the offending gift-giver back into the pond.

The year One was sharing a flat with The Borilla (too big to be a bear.  Too ugly to be a gorilla) One was in receipt of what One assumed was a cylindrical container of bubble bath.
Turning the screw cap to get a whiff of what was inside, One shot up in the air when it began vibrating in One's tiny hand.
The Borilla, obv more of a woman of the world than One, knew exactly what the device was and plummeted off the sofa giggling her head off.
One, being a v girly girl, the viewer of too many Saturday afternoon matinee romances, and listening to too many Elephant Gerald songs, cried real tears to think that an admirer saw One as the kind of girl that knew what a vibrator was, much less actually deploy one.
Another one back in the pond.

The Admiral knows just how to handle One and delivers gifts of fags, wine and chocolate on a weekly basis.

And he wonder why One adores him...

Sunday, 12 July 2015

In which One's Butt has a gaping hole...

  1. Coffee: Saint Drogo. Saint Drogo, born the son of a Flemish nobleman in 1105 in Flanders, was the original multi-tasker—he could reportedly “bilocate” and was seen simultaneously working in the fields and going to Mass on Sundays.


A v tragic start to the day...
NO FECKING ESPRESSO IN THE UNDERGROUND LAIR
Shock! Horror! Had to imbibe a cup of TEA

'Serves you right for bossing the Admiral about yesterday,' I hear you chorus Dear Reader, 'Good old Drogo, see above, is looking out for him and you've got yer comeuppance.  Anyway', you continue, 'what are you doing in the Underground Lair, we thought you were going straight to work from the Manor?'

Let me explain...
There's One, in the Spanish Bed, in the weekend, blue, bedroom suite, devouring the last few chapters of Gone Girl, with the delicious Admiral next One, reading a Boys Own Shoot-em-up by candle light, minding me own bees-tiddly-wax, when a communique plops into the iPhone from the ether with a frantic message from Boy.
'Twould appear that V ex H has had a turn and ended up hospitalised and Boy needed the sturdy comforting presence of his Dear Mama.

V ex H was deemed a mystery by the medical profession (One could have told them that) so Boy escorted Mama out for a supper scoff at the Orchard in Hillcommon.
Apart from an average luncheon, one sunny day, with BF One hasn't darkened the door of the Orchard since One was Bunnaged there almost exactly a year ago.
Yes, yes, I know, Bunnaging is generally an afternoon activity, but on this rare occasion (B.A.) 'Before Admiral', One actually got Bunnaged* a couple of times in the evening.

Overall Deliciousness             10
Service                                   6  (waiter lost marks for being horrid to Boy at school)
Unusual order of scoffing       10  ( they served coffee before pudding)

Any road up, 'twas a sterling scoff, sadly finding it's way to the evening shift of 'shit-stirrers' at Pooh Corner, just as last weekends scoff-out did.

One has arrived at the inevitable conclusion that One's system, having been deprived of Restaurant scoff, due to poverty for so long, that One can only digest the simplest of fare with maybe the occasional £3.99 with a drink thrown in from Wetherspoons.

No matter, enjoyed it as it went in, even though it wasn't on board for long.

The waiter, observing One about to explode midway through the cheese, offered One a doggy-bag and so One duly arrived home with today's scoff in me handbag.

'But why is today off to such a disastrous start?' One hears you chorus, Dear Reader, as you twist yer finger in yer knicker leg in distress.

'Butt', is the operative word, Dears, One has been abroad in the grounds with a cup of FECKING TEA and a fag, and there, forlornly with it's gaping black hole pointing skyward is One's Butt.  A thunderous gush of rain is making it's way down the drain (only because One cleared it out as the gutters haven't been done since feck knows when.)  Rain that should be filling up One's redundant Butt sitting there with a length of black pipe poking out of it's hole.

With a tear welling, One made One's way into the sitting room.  Would that One were able to Bilocate, like Saint Drogo, (see above) One would be sitting here penning this and be up the Co-op buying some Espresso.

* 'Bunnaging' is the act of taking afternoon tea and buns with any elderly gentleman that One may have met on an internet dating website.

The verb to Bunnage

I Bunnage
You Bunnage
He Bunnages
She Bunnages
They Bunnage.

Example:  'I have been Bunnaged, but NOT NO MORE, now I've got an Admiral I stay out late and drink Pinot.  Sod Tea and Buns!'





In which One is sure 'it's just NOT cricket' ...

One felt it necessary to accompany the A of the F as he announced, post coitally, 'I'll put the kettle on.'
Aware that One's intervention may result in a galley-based fracas, One simply had to offer advice, as he had failed to warm the cafetiere and only deployed one pack of Canderel.
You see, Dear Reader, One has one pack in which there are whole candarel tablets and One pack in which One keeps the ones that have been broken in half.
Seems perfectly simple to One. One requires one and a half in One's special, only to be used for One's morning Espresso, cup.
He hadn't warmed my special cup either.
One took the A through the routine slowly, so as he could, once and for all time, get it fecking right.
He bashed his tea bag against the side of his utilitarian mug in a most aggressive manner throughout One's instruction.
'Have you quite fecking finished?' enquired he, just as One was instructing him in the exact amount, and manner in which the Coffee Mate Light should be administered.
With that he huffed of in the direction of the master bedroom suite.
One, on sticking One's head round the galley door, couldn't help but notice that even his delicious bottom was clenched in 'devil May care' manner.
One, with a correctly constructed Espresso in One's grasp, repaired to le chambre de coucher.
Himself had already assumed the position and was making a not dissimilar satisfied purring noise as he had emitted throughout the pre Espresso activities as he read the cricket score.
Incapable of following the simplest of instruction, he was clearly indicating that One's importance is on a par with the cricket.

Saturday, 11 July 2015

In which ARM enjoys being off sick...

There is something rather liberating about being 'an old broad' ...
One surely is one now. One has developed a 'self-seal plastic pot' dependency problem. (as found in pound shops)
The large cylindrical ones are One's absolute fave, got two now, but as yet not actually found anything to store in them.
A further indication of the condition has emerged with the purchase of a three magazine bundle, competitively priced, Woman's Own, Women's Weekly and Woman's Realm.
One was perusing the magazine shelf in Tesco and alighted upon this splendid bargain after visibly recoiling at the price of Cosmopolitan, Hello and other such cerebral tomes of One's youth. Anyway, I've got no fecking idea who all the 'plastic-nellied' nonentities are who Grace the Twenty-first century covers.
In particular, the knitting patterns have gained One's attention, so with a spring in One's step, One biffed off to the knitting cafe in Ilfracombe.
Have you seen the price of wool, Dear Reader? Feck  a deck! You could get two lambs legs for the price of a handful of fecking fleece. AND, unlike the legs, it sodding well grows back!
One made One's excuses and left, repairing to Superdrug for some Rennies and moist toilet tissue, wishing to be as 'clean as gold pants' like that aggravating little shite in the Andrex advert. (I'd shut that irritating little snot in his bedroom until he was at least thirty seven, if he belonged to me.)
Any road up, following an altercation with an annoyingly offhand dusky type who daned to cease tablet counting for a while to attend to the ever growing queue, (who the feck do these jumped up bleeding prescription fillers think they are) One sloped off to the beach.
Arm benefited from being uncovered in the sunshine of a stacked Coombe Martin beach.
A plethora of middle-aged ladies, some with fat hubbsters in tow, were busily bathing their bulbous bottoms in the briny, so One got One's kit off, secure in the knowledge that One is now almost entirely invisible to the naked eye of man.
Arm soaked up the sun for a couple of hours and benefited from so doing. So much so, that upon One's return to The Manor, One could successfully grasp a large Pinot and release it with ease instead of ending up with One's hand frozen into a hideous claw-like device.

Thursday, 9 July 2015

In which One'll start tomorrow...



Blimey! Me and BF were REALLY fat then! (see above)
We were such Biffers we got our clothes on prescription and were signed off as 'too fat for work.'
We weren't really, Dear Reader, no one is ever too fat to sew (BF) or paint (me), but we should have been.
Anywho, it does explain why One has got vast swathes of spare skin flolloping about on One's bodzilla now One has shed enough lard to roast the potatoes for the Queen's street party.
One is giving serious thought to publishing One's blog and having it bound in One's own hide. There's enough for the first run of 10,000.
One must have been pondering just that as One slumbered into the arms of Morpheos last night as One had a strange and curious dream.
'Hello, this is Steven Spielberg' said the voice on the other end of the phone, 'I want to turn your blog into a film, 'it's way more interesting than Bridget Jones Diary.'
One left the phone dangling and cleared off sharpish, to find someone, ANYONE, to 'show off' to.
Upon encountering Vile ex Husband and passing on the news, he enquired, 'when's it all happening then?'
'Ah' replied One, 'I was in such a rush to show off about it that I didn't get that information and I left him hanging.'
That, Dear Reader, just about sums up how deeply shallow One is. One is far too keen on showing off.
The dream progressed with the Admiral insisting One biffed off in the Bentley to find Steven Spielberg' s gaff.
Obv, the Bentley wouldn't start, so the A of the F fashioned a temporary ve-hickle from a comfy sofa and an outboard motor and off One sped.
In the manner of Sigmund Freud, One has deduced from this that One is, in fact, a v lazy old dollop who lolls around on the sofa too much.
The moral of this sad and sorry tale is thus...
One shall, henceforth, reform One's 'Slack Alice' attitude and turn the blog into an interesting, illustrated, tome, forthwith.
However, 'tis a glorious day, so maybe One'll just nip down to Coombe Martin for a bit of a sunbathe by the rockpools.
I'll start tomorrow.
After all, Arm IS off sick.

Wednesday, 8 July 2015

In which they say ONE is bonkers...

'Nurse, she's ready' said the A of the F into an imaginary phone, 'No, I'm OK but hurry.'
'Well, think about it,' said One in One's defence, 'The Bermuda Triangle, crop circles, alien abduction, all things that can't be explained.'
Let me explain Dear Reader, One, currently under Manor House arrest waiting for One's arm to get better, unable even to wield a paint brush, let alone haul the sick and needy out of bed and into the bath, has been sitting by the arched window surveying the grounds.
One has paid witness to the newly discovered phenomenon of a flock of formation dancing sheep.
At first One thought the fact that they had assembled in the shape of Pilton Man (he of the fertility symbollish big cock), see above, but following a brief shuffle-ette they re-grouped into stellar constellations.
This display was followed by The Chiltern White Horse, then an uncannily accurate depiction of Stonehenge.
Not visible at ground level, only from the lofty heights of the Manor or a passing helicoptering device, One has Cleary discovered a previously unknown phenomenon.
By the time the Admiral had docked the flock had tired of their synchronized sheepish antics and returned to their preferred pastime of scoffing the lawn, so obv the A assumed that One had lost the plot.
'Well you watch them' said One, steering a course to la fenetre, all to no avail as the A of the F had already assumed the position in the elderly gentleman's moss green velour recliner and lit a fag.
Is One bonkers? Or has One made a significant and important discovery of how all that unsupervised lunch spends it's days before ending up covered in mint sauce, next to a goodly pile of Jersey Royals?
Who knows?
Who gives a flying feck?
Anyway, meanwhile, somewhere in a deep, dark Devon wood...
The Pinkster prepares for the nuptials of her eldest offspring...
'They've having a hand fasting ceremony in the river,' announces she, 'The local Vet's doing it.'
'They're having a WHAT in the RIVER, and the sodding VET'S doing it' replied a shocked and stunned One.
'Well, he is holistic,' retorted the Pinkster.
And they say ONE is bonkers...

In which One tries to get the Bentley fixed...

'The engine warning light is still on and the driver's side window is stuck open' complained One as One stepped back into The Car Care Centre.
Having just come into possession of One's meagre salary, One simply had to attend to the ailing Bentley Mulsanne in order that One can take to the highways and byways with One's wet wipes and examination gloves shoved up me knicker leg.
A very irate husband and wife combo were busy telling the mechanic which way was up regarding their ve-hickle.
'Mmmmmm, this doesn't bode well' thought One as One went outside for a fag whilst the car went back onto the ward and the shouting continued.
One, having been subjected to more than a sufficiency of shouting and unpleasant behaviour throughout One's long and varied life prefers to avoid confrontation.
The gutters of the West Country are littered with redundant rouees that raised their voices to One once too often.
Any road up, it goes (the Bentley) and should live on to transport One to the sick and needy until such time as you selfish bastards start buying me paintings in vast quantities again.
'How is Arm?' I hear you chorus, as One , Dear Reader.
Arm is giving One jip in the extreme, but thank you for asking.
Arm is off sick so One watched a morsel of tennis.
'We are going to Wimbledon and staying in the London house,' announced the Wood Nymph, and so One was scouring the crowd for a comedy sock wearing, beer swilling small person accompanied by a Peer of the Realm.
Had One been in the audience, One would of leapt the barrier in a single bound and shut that noisy Sharapova sort up with a bit of Gorrilla tape over the Gob.
Come to think of it, the Wood Nymph and Lord B, can't have been at that match because their was no one shouting: 'shut up you focking beeetch' in a Spanish accent.
Or, maybe, Lord B had taken the precaution of deploying his own Gorrilla tape to his excitable little companion.

Tuesday, 7 July 2015

In which One is extremely fortunate...

'Give me your passport. I need the number and the dates of issue and expiry to book Arm's recuperate stay in the sun' ordered the Admiral, holding out his hand.
'Ah, well, it's like this' said One, shifting awkwardly in One's Lloyd Loom recliner in the Orangery.
'Don't tell me you've left it in The Underground Lair,' said he with a pained expression clouding his lovely face.
'Yes' said One, sheepishly, frantically trying to think of a way of acquiring said information without the aid of the Ferrari, that was still languishing dans le garage.
'I know,' exclaimed One, 'I'll phone the Specials, they've got a key. They can find it for me.'
Sadly One then remembered that their number is in One's old phone and One's new phone is in the car at the garage.
BF and BFP to the rescue, yet again.
BF, being a fearless little blighter, was unafraid to venture into One's desk drawer, she having been the lucky finder of the sherbert lemon stuck to the used Tena Lady the time she was searching for something in me handbag.
'Mission accomplished' messaged B F, with the required info.
The Admiral duly booked the Spanish excursion.
One is fortunate in the extreme to have such people in One's life who leap into action every time One is in the shite.
Arm needs a break...
Admiral could do with a holiday and BF and BFP could most certainly benefit from One being removed from Blighty by the generous and tolerant Admiral.

Sunday, 5 July 2015

In which One gets an iPhone...

'Fer fecks sake!' exclaimed the A of the F as he snatched the iPhone out of One's hand, ' it's like being at me Mother's. Do you want me to empty the Hoover and take the bins out?'
One has proven to be something of a technophobe with regard to the Admiral' s gift of an iPhone.
One was biffing through life with nought but an indestructible Builder's phone that Boy got for One as it would withstand the inevitable scrapes it would endure in One's tender care, but the A decided it was time for One to update and enter the twenty first century.
One's young work chums snigger when the aforementioned iPhone in it's pink leather case is retrieved from the depths of One's handbag, snatch it from One and perform whatever action is required as if One were a resident in their care.
'Fer fecks sake' continued the A, 'do you have to shriek and levitate EVERY time it goes off?'
It does make a funny noise though, Dear Reader, and One is usually dreaming about all the shoes and handbags One will buy when One wins the lottery, so it's bound to make One jump a bit.
'What's your mobile number?' Enquired the dear little mechanic upon our visit to get the Mazerati and it's many anomalies fixed.
'What's my phone number?' Asked One of the Admiral.
'It's a fecking smartphone. It will tell you what it's number is' says he through gritted teeth, and then to the mechanic: 'she's a fecking nightmare.'
'I'm not getting involved' said the dear little mechanic, 'you can bring the car in on Monday morning.'
Later that day...
'We should take the car in tonight and put the key through the letterbox' said the Admiral passing One an envelope in which to put the key and write One's details on.
One duly put the key inside the envelope and sealed it.
'Do you see what you did wrong there?' enquired he leaning menacingly over One. 'You've got drive it down there, you eejit' said he ripping open the envelope.
Purse, spectacles, fags, phone, One mentally noted as One scampered along behind the A of the F in the direction of the stable block.
'Oh Blimey, you'll never guess what' said One with trepidation, 'I've forgotten the envelope.'
A quivering hand appeared through the car window bearing the keys of the Manor, and not a word was spoken.
'Well' opined he on the way home from the garage, 'that was easy, EVENTUALLY. Now they can phone you when it's ready.'
'Well they could,' replied One with a definite note of fear creeping into One's voice, ' but I think I left the iPhone in the car'


In which One's delicate balance is upset...

'GO AWAY!' Snarled the Admiral in his bestist gruff voice to the mournful hound that had sidled up to him in the pub hoping for a nibble of his crayfish tagliatelle.
'You know what really fecking annoys me...' he went on as he poked it with his silver topped walking cane.
One felt fairly certain that One was about to find out exactly what did fecking annoy him and indeed it was ever thus.
Whilst One isn't awfully keen on being accosted by beasts during supper in the manner of a Medieval Lord in his Great Hall, One is sufficiently cowardy custard-like to not wish to rock the boat.
Anyway the owner of aforementioned hound was a gargantuan piece hanging menacingly over the sides of a bar stool holding forth with a brace of soiled farmers in her thrall.
She could have benefited from the application of a bar of carbolic and a flannel, but had clearly made what passes for a Saturday night glam -up effort in these parts and was ackled up in a floral ensemble that was stressing it's lycra content to it's limit.
Clearly consructed from a Plumbs stretch setee cover she looked like a human two seater sofa.
Anyway she gave the Admiral a hard stare and summoned the hound to her side.
The waitress had made a mistaken value judgement whilst we were outside smoking' A fag and had put the salmon steak with crayfish tagliattele down at One's place and the massive and bloody steak with more than a sufficiency of 'hand cut, thrice cooked chips' down afore the Admiral.
A mere cursory glance at the fine boned, Aristocratic Admiral alongside the pink-checked, Sun-blushed biffer that is Lovely One should have alerted her to our troughing preferences.
No matter, we swapped bread boards (what the feck's wrong with using plates these days)
Upon our return to the Manor, One spent what seemed like the passing of many a moon ensconced in the water closet.
Rather than darken their doors again, One shall just get the Admiral to order and pay over the phone and then just chuck One's dinner straight down the bog.

Friday, 3 July 2015

In which One's fame goes before One...

Arm is off sick for ten days...
Then arm might go on holiday to recover...
'How so, Lovely One?' I hear you enquire, Dear Reader, 'since you are permanently skint.'
Well, Dears, One does have an Admiral at One's disposal and the pension for such an Admiralling Device is so vast that One's whims can be occasionally pandered to.
'Where is Arm going?' you enquire in a friendly manner, Dear Reader.
Well, Arm fancies going to Spain.  Arm initially wanted to go to Spain in September so as to celebrate arm becoming 58 years old, but arm is required at work for it's wiping/restraining/painting/being bitten qualities and so arm may well go afore September.
Arm is fed up of being awake all night and needs some sunshine.
Arm went into Wivey a minute ago and saw Vile ex Husband who has lured yet another unsuspecting sort out for tea and buns.
'She asked me about my ex,' says he, 'so I told her you were a painter and I didn't expect her to have heard of you.'
Cheek!  One is revered in the extreme hereabouts, and quite right too!
'She had heard of you and asked me if you are the one that has a radio show,' continued he, 'I told her - yes - that was you and she said a bloke who took her for tea and buns on a previous occasion spent the date telling her about One and how wonderful One was.'
THIS IS AS IT SHOULD BE, Dear Reader, One is an icon, a flamin' bon oeuff and exceptionally youthful, glamorous and fabulous in the extreme.
Once licked, never forgotten, that's me that is.
As One said to One's Vile ex Husband...
'You are no longer a person in your own right.  You are merely the Vile ex Husband of Lovely One.'
As are all of One's cast off's.
Perhaps it's time to erect another memorial bench for the blighters in order that they may meet occasionally and reminisce about their brief but wondrous sojourn as One's squire...

Wednesday, 1 July 2015

In which One is watching the football...

Am watching the Women's World Cup...
'How so, darling Lovely One, when you abhor sport in all it guises?' One hears you chorus, Dear Reader.
Well, One has been known to 'help' others watch the football by interjecting intelligent comments regarding the football shoes not going with the little uniforms etc..

Actually hit the truckle bed at 7.45pm this evening but awoken by a monumental fracas involving the Po-leese and the delightful two up neighbours.
Apparently, according to next door, there was something kicking off last night involving the little dears, but that didn't register on the Lovely One horizon.
One can usually sleep standing up on a clothes line at the drop of a chapeau, but am restless in the extreme tonight.

Having just spent eight hours being screamed at and having cups of tea chucked at One in the oppressive heat One was 'hanging' upon One's return to the quiet calm of the Underground Lair.

Expecting Boy for supper, One set about creating kebabs...
Not yer delicious 'shop bought' kebab, Oh no, can't run to that kind of extravagance, merely a bamboo knitting needle spearing lumps of gristle and spam to fester on the Pound Shop disposable barbeque.
Boy was a 'no show' due to feeling a little under the weather, so One overdosed on charred offerings and diet coke and then snuggled up under a pile of Wiveliscombe Messengers.

Am missing the Admiral something chronic this week...
'Are you missing me?' enquired One.
'Couldn't possibly say?' replied he, leaving One scavenging for crumbs of affection yet again.

One's current work rota has something of the Hokey Cokey about it of late, being all 'in-out, in-out' with not enough time for any shaking it all about at the Manor.
THAT JUST WON'T DO DEARS and One has had to assert Oneself.

A prospective buyer is fronting up this week though, so maybe, just maybe, One shall be free of the Underground Lair, pay off all One's gargantuan debts and have enough left to take to the high road in the manner of a raggle taggle gypsy oh, with the Admiral in a van.