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Sunday, 30 August 2015

In which One has a further injury to report...

Injuries thus far...
One addresses you, this morning, from the Spanish bed, having been involved in a serious Pasa Doble incident yester-eve.
Oh, who am I kidding, Dear Reader...
The Admiral, having imbibed one too many tumblers of Wincarnis, rose from his elderly gentleman's moss green velour recliner, approached an unsuspecting One, minding One's bees-tiddly-wax and deeply involved in a tricky piece of intarsia, ripped me knitting out of me clutches, flung it aside and bent me over backwards on me hostess trolley.
Expectation: unbridled elderly pash...
Result: shagged back...
There was One, clacking away to the end of a seriously complicated pattern row and dreaming of the impending verucca removal with some freeze spray and me quick-unpick and, blow me, One is jumped by an elderly gentlemen.
Verucca still in situ, the Admiral is now reclining next One and chortling merrily each time One attempts to heave Oneself into a vertical stance.
Doesn't bode well for tomorrow night's arse wiping duties...
Especially since One can barely reach One's own, let alone the arses of poor unfortunates.
One feels that the next couple of days may test the Admirals devotion...

Friday, 28 August 2015

In which One gets trolley rage...

There's me thinking: 'oooooh, I'll do nights. I can write me book.'
One imagined doing a bit of masterpieceing, paint-wise, of an afternoon and then snuggling down on a wipe-clean sofa, at work, having dispatched the inmates to their slumbers, and then knocking out the long promised comic novel.
Instead, One has been elbow-deep in do-do throughout the night and attempting to sleep through the random demolition of The Malthouse during the day.
Result, One is a zombie.
Anywho, now in the Spanish bed at the Manor, having kipped through an entire day and night, with a brief sojourn to Tesco for proper scoff, having spent the last week eating cereal (every time I wake up it seems like breakfast time) One is exhaling at last.
'You didn't think it through, did you?' One hears you admonish, Dear Reader.
Does One EVER 'think it through' - NO!

Speaking of Tesco - yesterday afternoon in their Ilfracombe branch, that seems to have been stocked with the holidaymakers in mind, (buckets and spades, Sun block, pubic lice powder,  etc ) One had a severe attack of trolley rage...
Do these selfish bastards think everyone's on holiday?
They saunter round in their ghastly shorts and their flip-fecking-flops cluttering up the wine aisle, hollering stuff like: 'git over 'ere Shaniqua, or you ain't getting no Turkey Twizzlers fer tea,' whilst loading their trolleys with E numbers and generally pissing One off.
Still, at least after this weekend, they'll have all fecked off back to Birmingham in their vans (laughingly called 'people carriers') (the ingenious marketing man who coined that phrase should get the Legion D'honour)
Only to be replaced by late middle-aged twerps, driving nifty little sports numbers at 26 MPH, having cashed in their pensions, and towing cara-fecking-vans that they are unaware of the width of, bunging up the lanes and braking every time a tractor approaches.
Any road up, One has now imbibed three Espressos whilst constructing this petite missive, and now must bid vous adieu, Dear Reader...
Fags to smoke, Admirals to lick...

Wednesday, 26 August 2015

In which One is in dire need of a kip...

No, really, Howeverdiditcometothis?
Just done my first waking night, get back to the Underground Lair and there is a brace of oiks up some scaffolding outside me boudoir fenetre (with radio fecking One blaring out) bashing the shite out of the back wall with a hammer.
Oh joy, oh bliss.
Toying with the idea of fashioning a noose from three or four Hermes head scarves and hurling Oneself to oblivion from the top.

Monday, 24 August 2015

In which One develops a further malady...

In a ghastly turn for the worse in the health stakes, One has developed a further mysterious medical malady...
To go along with ARM (yes Dears, arm is still technically off sick) broken finger, scabs, bites and bruises various, One has acquired a thunderous guffing problem and One itches all over.
Despite furious googling, One has been unable to identity this phenomenon.
Since One is on the cusp of a permanent move to the Manor, One thought One ought to slip silently from the Spanish bed and biff off to guff in the Orangery.
The slumbering sailor might think twice about throwing his lot in with such a ghastly example of womankind.
Hence, One is currently lolling about in a Lloyd Loom lounger emitting thunderous farts and scratching me twinkle with me good hand.
Tonight One will be working, so turning One's sleep pattern around is not a bad thing.
Every cloud, and all that...
One's current cloud, however, is a tad fetid.

In which bones are broken...

It is with great pleasure that One can inform you, Dear Reader, That One is not deceased. One has been unavailable for comment, via this medium, since One has broken One's blogging digit.
'Gasp' you cry, clasping your hand to your collective gob, 'how did that happen?'
Not entirely sure since One's current calling involves a plethora of injuries various.
It was when a co worker grabbed One's hand crying, 'Blimey, wassup wiv yer 'and?' and One noticed that it was swollen to the size of The Isle of Wight.
The main issue has been the inability to hold a glass of wine in one hand and  fag in the other.
Oh, and the excruciating pain.
So, Dear Reader, One contacts you from the Spanish bed at the Manor where One awoke to find the delicious Admiral cleaning his shoes with his pants. (Come back Consuella, standard are plummeting)
One should have been doing the following:

Saturday - twelve and  half hours
Sunday - fourteen hours, sleep in House
Monday - eight hours
Tuesday, Wednesday and Thursday night - eleven and  half each.

Oh dear, One is absolutely exhausted.

Thursday, 20 August 2015

In which One wonders how to get wee stains out of suede...

'Would you like to hear about how I weed myself in McDonalds on Saturday?' Enquired WITT, at work yesterday.
'No I wouldn't. You are a troublesome child,' replied One as One disentangled a goodly portion of bingo wing from the demonic grasp of one of One's charges.
'Well, it was like this,' continued she, oblivious to the fact that One had, by this time, bunged One's fingers in One's ears and was shouting la, la, la.
'I was doing a dinosaur impersonation and the bouncer told me to calm down and be quiet or I'd have to leave...'
'Let me just stop you there' interjected One, 'A bouncer in McDonald's? Please tell me he was chucking people in.'
'No. They always have one in Taunton on a Saturday night' continued she without seeing One's jest, 'They know me in there. I just kept on doing it and got me shoe stuck under the door mat and fell over. Then my friend rolled me up in the mat and I was laughing so much I weed all over me suede skirt. Do you know how to get wee stains out of suede?'
Now, One does work alongside rather a lot of young people who see One as something of a mother figure, but upon this occasion One was quite at a loss, never having weed on a suede skirt, to offer any sage advice.
The work may be stressful and tedious, but One's workmates are a source of pure joy.

Tuesday, 18 August 2015

In which One wakes up in the Underground Lair...

My story is much too sad to be told,
But practically everything leaves me totally cold.
The exception I know is the case
When I'm out on a quiet spree,
Fighting vainly the old ennui,
And I suddenly turn and see your fabulous face...


The Fabulous face is that of the Admiral, of course, who is one of those rare and delicious men who has no idea how gloriously handsome he is.

When biffing round Tesco with the trolley One oft encounters ladies of a certain age visibly swooning into the crinkle-cut chips.  He doesn't even bat a long curling eyelash and simply perambulates in his 'allo, allo, allo, wos goin' on 'ere then' swagger toward the white sliced. (can't get him off that yet)

One reached out for him as One awoke this morning and stubbed me little fat finger on the bedside table.  Oh!  The disappointment, One was in the Underground Lair, alone and crestfallen.

Instead of the darling Admiral to admire One opened One's baby-blues and One's gaze fell upon a seven-times magnifying mirror (a nasty shock at the best of times), a tube of cracked-heel cream and a bottle of Miscella water along with a screwed up lump of cotton wool harbouring yesterday's face.

'Tis One's day off in One's hokey cokey rota...

Monday - in for five hours
Tuesday off
Wednesday - in for five hours
Thursday off
Friday off
Saturday - twelve and a half hours
Sunday - in from 8.00am until Monday at 2.30pm (that takes some doing, I can tell you, Dear Reader)

Any road up, One, up at five as per, thinks to Oneself...
Mmm, I'll sit out in the grounds and wake meself up with an Espresso.
Shock, Horror, One opened the French doors to yet another socking great tower of scaffolding up the back of the building. Still, it's something to hang the washing on, I suppose.

Today, One shall mostly be wandering about in me jim jams dreaming of the day in which One shall wake up next the Admiral every morning...

Sunday, 16 August 2015

In which One may encounter the ARSE CEILING...

The time is right for One to run away from home again.
One has informed the A of the F that he shall have to kill One should he ever wish One to leave, since One has run off/gone home with such alarming regularity that One should have been born with a handy spool of elastic attached to One.
One's previous convictions in this matter are legion, the last one being some six years ago when One was deep in the throes of a period of menopausal madness. It seemed like a good idea at the time, but was ill advised in the extreme, and that became apparent around twenty minutes after One landed.
That was a mistake of mammoth proportion since One, and the lucky recipient of One, were I'll matched in every respect.
At present, however, One is of sound mind and body and has taken the time to fully ascertain the suitability of a permanent liaison between One and the Admiral.
Together we shall take to the high seas and discover new lands beyond the horizon.
(Well, we will when he's not taking statements and One's not wiping arses.)
One, of course, shall have to continue One's current rise to the top of the arse-wiping tree, since One must pay for the Underground Lair, until One of you selfish bastards buys it and releases One from it's burden.
Just think, Dear Reader, as long as One doesn't encounter the 'arse ceiling' the possibilities are endless.
So, it is with great expectation, that One embarks upon a new adventure.
'Please, Lovely One, let it be the last' One hears you implore, Dear Reader.
One shall do One's best, darlings, and if One fails, One's getting a cat and being done with it!

In which One journeys down culinary memory lane...

One's Pollyanna positivity has returned, Dear Reader.
The Admiral has cherished One and cuddled One into submission.
However, One must give serious thought to the manner in which One is earning a living since it would appear to be far too stressful for a delicate flower such as moi.
One has acquired some really rather splendid new chums in the House, but the endless charging up and down the stairs, defending Oneself against the constant battery of scratching, biting, kicking and spitting is rather more than One can bear.
'People don't realise what we have to endure,' opined One of One's co workers, and they don't.
The British press are all too intent on 'exposing' poor care standards and in particular inadequate care workers, but One has never encountered any such problems. In fact, quite the reverse. Private care companies appear intent on exploiting their workers and show a blatant disregard for their wellbeing.
One has kept a diary...
Watch this space...

Anywho, returning to matters more frivolous...
The Admiral piped up, whilst regarding his nine hundred and seventy two Facebook messages of the morning...
'Ere look at that - that's Flannigans in Walthamstow.'
It got One thinking about when One's dear Papa used to take One to a Victorian themed restaurant called Flannigans, up the smoke.
They served boiled beef and carrots followed by spotted sick and custard, which Papa used to tuck into with gusto.
One, being a sweet-toothed and unsophisticated diner of around eleven years old was in One's Beans on toast, followed by Knickerbocker Glory phase, and shovelled down the Victorian fare under protest.
Similarly, upon weekly visits to an establishment in The Edgeware Road One eschewed the offer of strawberry cheesecake in favour of the Glory of the Knickerbocker, imagining nothing more ghastly than a cake made of cheese.
These culinary delights were generally preceded by a visit to a gallery, or on one occasion a seven hour queue to be herded unceremoniously past The Tutankaman exhibition.
What do Dads do with their daughters now, One wonders?
McDonald's, I'll wager.
Even more ghastly than boiled beef and carrots, or cakes made of cheese.

Friday, 14 August 2015

In which One's spirits are a tiny bit low...

A person of One's great age should be wandering, barefoot around a stone-floored kitchen with a flute of chilled Bolly in One's gnarled old hand with narry a trifling thought beyond One's mind than what to prepare as a light supper for One and a wrinkly old gentleman who adores One.
Instead, One has spent the tail end of a ghastly week caring for persons who seem intent on harming one another and One before biffing across the moor to prepare yet another supper in someone else's house.
One is perfectly capable of enduring all that life hurtles in One's direction, Dear Reader, but just sometimes One would rather like to be scooped up and cherished.
No matter, One shall prevail.
Nothing even vaguely amusing has happened this week and that is One's problem.
Or maybe it has and One was just too tired to notice it.
One's favourite part of each day is the very early morning when One sits in the cool silence of the back yard at the Underground Lair with nothing but an Espresso, a fag and the incessant drip-drip of the overflow from the bog in the top floor flat for company.
But even this must be denied One as the Lair must be sold.
'Where shall you go?' One hears you chorus, Dear Reader, 'and what will you do?'
Feck knows, but you can bet it will be far from One's heart's desire.
Any road up, today brings body-boarding. An, as yet, unknown delight and that brings with it further risk of humiliation and harm, because should One be sighted in Ones wet suit on the beach, persons might attempt to 're-float One in the manner of a beached whale.

Wednesday, 12 August 2015

In which One says 'yes' to a No No...

The Admiral and One were having a deep and meaningful discussion regarding the vagaries of growing old...

'Did you know that your ears are the only part of the body that keeps on growing?' enquired he.

'And your nose,' countered One, 'Are you sure it's not just that yer head shrinks?' went on One.

One, of course, having to deal with the harvesting of super-floo-us hairs on an hourly basis was alarmed in the extreme to hear that One's ears are likely to be massive in the near future, what with them being like delicate little pink shells at the mo.

Imagine, Dear Reader, One shall resemble a hirsute prune with massive great ears.

Isn't it enough that One has to hold a Harvest Festival on a daily basis and then vacuum up the tumbleweed of super-floo-us?   Obv not, as now One has an ear issue and possible a nose dilemma with which to contend.

Any road up, following this deep discussion One biffed off to work...

Throughout the course of the day One became more and more moist and hot enough to boil a monkey's bum, so One tidily tucked One's golden locks behind One's ears (now they're massive they can hold One's thick golden tresses back indefinitely)

One couldn't help but notice that persons various appeared transfixed by One's ears, the left ear in particular.

'Is it because they are so huge?' thought One, 'No. It must be envy due to the fact that they are so soft, pink and shell-like,' and One didn't think much more about it, until...

In the process of re-tucking the glorious locks behind the left ear One encountered a massive, and sensitive zit that was the size of a football.

OMG thought One: super-floo-us hairs, massive ears, huge nose and now fecking great zits!

Have you ever tried to squeeze an ear zit without a mirror, Dear Reader?

I'll wager not.

It was like the extra head that the bloke grew in 'How to get ahead in Advertising.'

Any road up, One dealt with the blighter and soldiered on.

And, it would appear that having held off for the passing of many a moon, despite the endorsement of BF, One is going to have to say yes to a NO NO and be done with it.

Tuesday, 11 August 2015

In which the Admiral treads on One's cracks...

It's grand
When you're dancing on the sand
Each glance
Bubbles over with romance

It's lovely, bobbing along
Bobbing along through the water where we get along swimmingly
Far from the frenzy
Of the frantic world above
Two beneath the blue
Could even fall in love


One has been tending to One's cracks in the most delicate manner all summer long...

One has violets, creeping sage, and all manner of sweet scented, low growing delights peeking out at all angles...


Along biffs the Admiral, having run aground on rocks, whilst Bobbing along on the beautiful briny sea, (see above) and tramples across me cracks without a bye your leave.

One, reclining and breathing into a brown paper bag, following One's lengthy sojourn dans le House, was on the cusp of going apoplectic with rage...

When the Admiral announced that his vessel was up on the ramps in dry dock with extensive barnacle damage...

One really does appear to have found another being who attracts disaster in the way that One does. There's us minding our own bees-tiddly-wax and socking great maelstroms seek us out and rock our boats.

We are, in fact, a disaster looking for somewhere to happen...

One has it!

We must have both spent our lives treading on the cracks...

Monday, 10 August 2015

In which One is a mad old bat...

It's still a little on the Medieval side in the Underground Lair what with there being no hot water and One is currently bathing in a hip bath, having boiled numerous kettles, in front of the range in the manner of a Victorian housemaid.

Sadly, what with One having a gargantuan arse, so big it has it's own postcode, One is firmly wedged within the device and has been wearing it as a fashion accessory for some days.

Every cloud (and all that) since One no longer has to find a water closet when One needs a poo and simply evacuates into the aforementioned hip bath.

At some point One shall have to visit A and E to have it surgically removed...

Any road up, One can't afford to replace the boiler, what with there being fripperies to spend One's pay on, such as: food and leccy an' 'at...

Today is One's day off and One shall mostly be wandering about in me jim-jams eating peanut butter out of the jar, harvesting me super-floo-us and watching the telly.

'How so?' One hears you enquire, Dear Reader, 'since you are a most industrious Lovely One and never waste a single moment of time.'

Well, it's like this...

One is absolutely shagged following the utterly inhumane use of One over the past few days.

One was called in to see 'sir' following One's toddler tantrum (where One did everything expected of a toddler apart from laying on the floor and holding me breath until I turned blue) but not a word was spoken about One's antics of the previous day.

That's good, since One likes to draw a line under things and not fester and frankly, there isn't much that could be reviewed, but One could most certainly have sold tickets for that performance.

Nonetheless, One imagines that they are fully acquainted with the fact that One is a 'mad old bat' now.

No matter, One has now resolved to work nights in the House...

This should allow One to have the week's work done and dusted in three days and spend the other four 'Admiral worrying.'

So, Dear Reader, everybody's happy...

In which One is a toddler and the Admiral goes Body Boarding...

It was with some trepidation that One entered the building housing the Underground Lair...
One was 'Hanging' (pronounced 'angin') as One believes the current vernacular to be, having spent thirty hours 'in the house' (most of them awake) following a twelve and a half hour day previously.

'Please don't let anyone lean over the fence requiring a chat/pilfer of One's stuff/lift to Outer Mongolia' One thought...

But all was well and One was able to enter un-molested and repair to the bog (everyone at the House has a bug) and spend a happy five minutes or so squealing in agony in the midst of a v unpleasant  miasma.

One had disgraced Oneself in the extreme and had something akin to a 'toddler tantrum' during the extended stay at the House.
The trouble is when One starts, One can't stop...

One, being a mild mannered Pollyanna, is hardly ever subject to a dip in general mood.
The Admiral thinks it's weird that a person can be as cheerful as One on a general basis.
But, there you are, Dear Reader, One is human after all and not the angel you thought One was (although One has an angel face ).

One, being miffed in the extreme, had challenged One's superior regarding the hours One was supposed to work...

One had promised Oneself not to get involved and just to do One's job, take the money and biff off, but One simply couldn't and therefore One went off on one big time.

'If you tell anyone, they won't believe you,' said One, having ranted and raved and even deployed tears.
'I know they won't' said the poor blighter on the receiving end.

Any road up, One is forgiven and lives to wipe another day...

With this in mind One thought, 'One's body is a temple' albeit a 200 seater and biffed off to get vegetables with which to nourish aforementioned body.

So, One has fresh peas, broad beans and cabbage for tea...
followed by ice cream, biscuits and chocolate...
with, of course, a pint of Pinot to wash it down.

The Admiral has gone 'body boarding' whatever the feck that is.

Saturday, 8 August 2015

In which One is changed, and not necessarily for the better...

Long, Long ago, when One was a single Mother with a hungry Boy to feed One embarked upon life as a 'carer' or 'support worker' as we are now known

At the end of the first day, and do bear in mind, Dear Reader, that at this time One didn't even arse-wipe, but merely offered the calming and serene craft of 'Art Therapy', One came back to the Underground Lair and fainted dead as a Do-diddly-oh-do, on the Chesterfield, weeping uncontrollably.

One stuck it out as One said, Boy to feed and clothe, gas bill to pay, mortgage to acquire etc etc etc...

Then One's artistic efforts took off and One danced gaily through life as an 'artiste' for many a moon.

'Tis more than likely that One would still be earning a crust in aforementioned manner if One got off One's fat arse and began painting again, as One has just been biffing about like a fart in a Martini bottle since One had the 'Evil Twin of Boy' (Tumour) removed.

However, One must pay One's debts and bills, so One is biffing out masterpieces at a rate of knots again...

I digress, Dear Reader...

Back to One's current career of arse-wiping...

There's One: biffing along the corridor yesterday, hands full of half-eaten toast and half drunk coffee cups when One espies a brown mass on the lino...

Mmmm, thought One, 'I'll wager that's not chocolate buttons,' and indeed upon further investigation it was, indeed, a large mass of poop.

It didn't take long to discover the culprit who was reclined in an ungainly manner upon their bed and covered in a thick layer of poo-diddly-oop...

Meanwhile, lunch had been delivered...

One could have eaten a scabby horse by then, but mindful of the needs of those who can't take care of themselves, found Oneself on the cusp of a dilemma...

Lunch? Poop? - Poop? Lunch?

And this is where One found Oneself changed by One's current lifestyle of choice...

One stuffed a handful of spicy potato wedges into One's gob and whilst masticating, hauled the offending poopster into the bath and set about gathering the widely flung pooh...

In which One's pipe is plugged with priceless wallpaper...

'Ah' said One, in a most apprehensive manner...
'What the feck have you done now,' came the retort from the Admiral.
'Well, it's like this' said One...

Let me set the scene for you, Dear Reader...

Consuella had biffed off to the Motherland to nurse her mama who was in the throes of a ghastly death, so One had attempted, in vain, to replace her tender machinations regarding the cleansing of the Manor.

One had acquired some 'hoover bags' and was immensely proud of this as One is not normally known for One's domestic prowess.

With aforementioned hoover bags in situ, One endeavored to mimic the workings of Consuella and clean up the Manor.

All went well with the vacuuming of the Persian rugs...

All was as One would expect, cleaning the bogs various...

Dusting the irreplacable objets d'art was a breeze...

And then One became blase about the whole thing and thought...

'I must hoover the dust off the walls'...

Sadly the vacuum cleaner could suck the froth off a pint of Guinness at three hundred yards and so, sadly, One hoovered up about two thousand pounds worth of hand painted, priceless wallpaper along with the dust.

Still, it'll give the blighter something to do whilst One is on a thirty six hour, arse wiping shift...

Friday, 7 August 2015

In which One is pulsating in me pyjamas...

A sleeping sailor in a Spanish bed lies next One.
One is 'Letting sleeping Admirals lie' and biffing about in the early morning mist regarding the grounds.
Tis a tad chilly for the time of year, but, no matter, One is ackled up in One's onesie and wellies against the chill wind.
In fact One closely resembles the mutant offspring of Dawn French and Andy Pandy.

One's muse has resurfaced and One knocked off a masterpiece yesterday. Duck broken, One shall continue the good work today.
Not that One has any option given that the Admiral is currently holding One hostage in the Manor until One paints again.

Back from One's traverse of the terrace, and feeling romantic in the extreme, One clambered back under the counterpane into the Spanish bed hopeful for a bit of a.m. amour...

Pulling out all the stops One went on a sailor safari neath the sheets...

Mustering all the allure One can, when One is past the heady first flush of youth, One's hot breath rasped romantically about the back of the nautical neck...

All to no avail, as the A was pushing out the zeds and farting.
Not to be defeated, One applied a wet hankie over One's face and soldiered on...

Blimey! I'd even taken me wellies off and loosened me eighteen hour corsellette, but One's sterling efforts were in vain and the slumbering sea faring Admiral remained secure in the arms of Morpheous until the alarm went off...

Whereupon he intoned: 'cease and desist, tart-slapper', farted loudly, put the cricket on,  said, 'it's just NOT normal to be as cheerful as you at this ungodly hour and be bouncing around like a geriatric Tigger,' shot out of bed, into the shower and biffed off to work, leaving One pulsating in me pyjamas.

Thursday, 6 August 2015

 A v strange email popped up the other day...

'Hello friend, you are my VIP customer, being not to sending the device back at eBay....'

Mmmmmm, thinks One, I wonder if it's anything to do with the Tom Tom One is awaiting on behalf of the Admiral?
Allow One to set the scene, Dear Reader...
One was tasked with acquiring a Sat nav off eBay since the A (who pays for everything with gold Doubloons from a treasure chest at the bottom of the Spanish bed) doesn't have a PayPal account.

Fast forward to yester-eve, and the Admiral regarding the item...

'What the feck is this?' says he holding aloft a navigational tool the size of a two berth caravan,'and what the feck is an XGody?'
'Weeell' began One, in One's defence, 'I was on the Tom Tom page.'
'Well this isn't  a Tom Tom. It currently locates us in darkest Africa, and isn't on British Summtime.'

Upon further investigation it proved to be the purveyor of many a super-floo-us function and, in fact, was tip top at showing movies, acquiring take aways, accessing clothing, shoes and handbag sites, crushing candies and generally being a thoroughly entertaining companion.

One, despite a couple of large VAT' s, felt fairly certain One wasn't in Darkest Africa, and nipped over to the window in order to ascertain the presence, or not, of herds of Wildebeest.

No, just the flock of formation sheep fashioning themselves into a lover's knot in honour of One and the A.

As One reclines on the Spanish bed, the Admiral is road testing the device as he biffs about acquiring statements from the unwashed  n'er do wells of the West....

One's iPhone pings...

'I don't know where we are Toto, but we're not in Kansas anymore,' comes the missive from the 'missing in action' Admiral.

Tuesday, 4 August 2015

In which One is 'ere 'ain't One...

If they asked me I could write a book
About the way you walk and whisper and look
I could write the preface on how we met
So the world would never forget.......

attributed to Harry Connick Jnr (that's bollicks, for a start - google!)

But, Dear Reader, the problem is...
One can't actually remember the exact day that One met the Admiral.
I know, I know, I blog every insignificant moment of my existence, but that, the most significant of after dark bunnaging was overlooked.

'How can this be?' I hear you chorus as one as you light the daily candle on the 'Alter of One' that I know you all have in a secret corner of your hearts.

Well, it's like this...
'What are you doing with him?' enquired a chum, 'He's a ten and you're a four.'

One, upon being bunnaged, in the shape of several large Pinots, was so overcome with the good looks and witty badinage of the A that One dismissed the incident without record, since One felt that such a prize wouldn't want a flolloping great dollop like One.

But, he did, and the rest is history...

Any road up, One records this only to note that on our first anniversary we went to the Birdman Festival in Ilfracombe, as you know.

No candlelit suppers for One...
No Valentines (apparently One is too old)...
No satin card and promises of undying devotion...

'Most blokes would be daunted by you,' said he upon our first meeting.


Anyway, upon subtle enquiry as to the innermost feelings of the A...

He replied...

'Yer 'ere 'ain't yer.'

Can't say fairer than that.

In which almost everyone loves One...

Well, would you Christmas Eve it, Dear Reader...
There's One, minding One's own bees-tiddly-wax, when into One's inbox plops a message...
One's iPhone (kindly supplied by pinged, so natch, One thought, 'Ah there's the Admiral coming in to dock.'

But, twas none other than 'Big.'

'How so?' I hear you enquire, Dears, 'Didn't you bat him off with your eyelashes when he tracked you down to the Armada Gallery all those years ago.'
Yes, One most certainly did, even though he was full of compliments...
'Ooooh, you have such lovely skin, Lovely One.' and 'My, what divine hair you have, dear girl. Won't you tarry a-while with me in the Mediterranean sun and then come be my love in my grand country house?'

'He's a squillionaire,' opined BF, 'Can't you make yourself adore him? Just think, you could buy shoes and handbags every day and take me with you.'

But - No - One's heart was a lonely hunter and quite immune to promises of a life of luxury with all the credit cards One could eat.

One and Lovely One decided to hold out for TRT

One would like to state categorically that One simply ADORES  One's darling Admiral and no amount of top drawer, first class bunnaging dangled before One's baby blues can change that.

But, Dear Reader, they all wash up again like flotsam and jettsum on Lovely One's beach eventually like wrinkled old boomerangs with willies like duffel bags.

They may bunnage other middle-aged ladies for time immemorial but, clearly, none compares to Lovely One.

Why, the pre-Admiral bunnager spent all night extolling the virtues of your very own Lovely One to some grisly old bint that ended up scattering her DNA all over me Persian Rug that's being held hostage by Vile ex Husband until One settles One's debts.  For all I know my antique desk might have been witness to the sordid doings in the erstwhile marital bed that probably hasn't had the sheets washed since he left One, one Tuesday afternoon in 1873.

Does One give a feck?

No, One does not!  For One is constantly being accosted by codgers leaping out from behind bushes with bunches of yellow roses and a fiendish glint in their eyes, declaring their love and vying for a place on the 'Ex Husband Memorial Bench' in Jubilee Gardens.

Why, One's allure isn't just confined to the male of the species and One appeals in equal measure to the dungareed dykes of this Parish and beyond.

Why, Dear Reader, 'tis true, everybody loves One...

Well almost everybody...

Monday, 3 August 2015

In which One is chipper, against the odds...

Back to it today...
The weather is suitably grey and despondent.
No matter, One and the A of the F have resolved to set up camp together in the near future.
'Where will you be residing?' I hear you chorus, Dear Reader.
'Will you be flolloping about in abject splendour at The Manor, deftly dodging the Delft, and swerving the Sevre?'
'Probably not Dears, for One must continue One's high powered arse-wiping career in order not to be a kept Lovely One.'
One has also resolved to take up One's brushes and paint, in order that One can dodge the debt collectors, until such time as the Underground Lair finally sells or is repossessed, whichever is the sooner.
Valencia seems a world away now, which indeed it is.
Why, only last week One was availing Oneself of the bespoke laundry service of a five star hotel, the bill amounting to more than the cost of One's supermarket and charity shop wardrobe, yet today One shall be boiling kettles (One still has no hot water at the Underground Lair) in order to fumigate One's gussettage.
Does One give a Kipper's Dick?
No, One does not.
For life is fan-dabby-dozy in the extreme.
'How so, Lovely One?' you enquire, with genuine concern, 'What with you being skint and in possession of poorly Arm.'
'Well, 'tis like this: tomorrow One shall be raising a plastic beaker of the Co-ops finest low calorie tonic water, with a slice of Orange in it, and smoking a fag up the top of the garden and telling tales of Flamenco and Bullfighting to BF.  To say nothing of the steamy hot siestas that became de rigueur for One and the Admiral, of an afternoon, on our Spanish sojourn.
Hey Ho, and off One goes....
Arses to wipe...
Limbs to get bitten...

Sunday, 2 August 2015

In which we are not entertained...

'Yeah, he's pig ugly', said the delicious little piece sitting on the top of the barrier, 'but he's shaggable when I'm pissed.'
This, and much more sophisticated badinage wafted into the stream of One's consciousness as One and the Admiral waited patiently for the first of many lunatics to hurl themselves into the briny.
The assembled unwashed throng on the end of Ilfracombe pier were an eclectic mix.
Shona and her little chums from Walsall were interspersed with throngs of caravan-dwelling holiday makers, locals and persons like the A and me, who were at a loose end on that cloudy Saturday.
A passing Mothership bearing curious aliens would most certainly have Biffed off into the blue seeking a more sensible planet to colonize had they encountered what passes for entertainment of a summer's afternoon in Ilfracombe.
The extravaganza, due to begin at five thirty, was conspicuous by its absence, at approaching six o'clock.
'Feck me' opined the Admiral, from inside his £3.50 rain poncho, 'they've had a sodding year to organise this and they still can't start on time!'
'Fair comment' thought One, 'how difficult can it be to organize a handful of eejits chomping at the bit to fling themselves into the ocean.'
The crowd grew increasingly impatient and ugly and began to drift away in search of chips and beer.
As the throng thinned a mournful looking, morbidly obese, terrier was revealed, peering woefully through a forest of flip-flopped, Sun-blushed legs.
His resigned expression summed the event up completely.
'Wierd, aren't they?' He woofed to a similarly bemused Labradoodle who'd settled himself down adjacently.
'This is nothing', replied the hound, 'when he's not doing stuff like this, my man follows me around picking up bags of poop and takes them home!.'

Saturday, 1 August 2015

In which a long service rosette is strategically placed...

Gin and tonics were served on a silver salver by Consuella in the Orangery yester-eve  and the staff assembled to raise a plastic beaker of Vimto to mark One and the Admiral' s first anniversary.

A jeraboam of Verve Clicket nestled behind the Admiral' s moss green, elderly gentleman's, velour recliner along with the engraved flutes what we 'ad done special, before our very eyes at Dartington Crystal on an escorted official tour yesterday.

This evening, One has a special treat planned for the A...
One shall emerge, naked, but for a hand-fashioned Mantilla, strategically placed over One's twinkle, from a giant cup cake, to the 'March of the Valkyries' played by a chamber orchestra.
One can but hope that this event doesn't prove too alarming a spectacle for the aged A.

Perhaps a quiet day should ensue with croquet on the lawn followed by cucumber sandwiches, with the crusts cut off, and a jug or two of Pimms.

One had hoped to biff down to Ilfracombe to watch the 'Birdman' Festival where stark raving bonkers individuals ackled up in flying devices leap off the end of the pier and attempt to take flight.
The weather, however, is a tad inclement at the mo, so we are presently still 'neath the satin counterpane in The Spanish Bed.

In a moment of reverie, One fell, briefly, into 'he loves me, he loves me not' mode as One harvested me super-floo-us hairs the other day.
As they formed into a mass upon the marble tiled kitchen floor, in the manner of tumbleweed, One took to wondering if the male of the species is born with a finite amount of love, which, when doled out, however unwisely, can never be replenished, no matter how they might wish it so.
One, of course, still has One's charger fully loved-up in anticipation of spending the rest of One's sojourn on Earth in a passionate frenzy.

Any road up, no matter, One's off under the counterpane shortly to pin the Long Service Rosette onto the Admiral' s skiddies.
Sadly, One's foraging awoke the slumbering sailor...
'Blimey!', says he observing the rosette, 'I don't know where I went last night, but I won first prize.'