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Wednesday, 30 September 2015

In which he hasn't said it...

'Cor have you seen this?' enquired WITT, thrusting her mobile under my nose, 'there's loads of spot squeezing on YouTube.'
Just as One suspected, another prospective Picky Picky Nurse in the making.

'There's no such thing as a Picky Picky Nurse, Mummy',  Boy used to holler as he shot off up the garden with One in hot pursuit with a cotton bud or just One's claws.

The disappointing specimen didn't get acne like the other boys so One had to  content Oneself with a forage into the murky depths of his ears.  To be fair, he did once have the decency to get a boil: removal, a speciality of One's.

'I used to squeeze the spots on my ex boyfriend's back,' continued WITT, 'do you do that to the Admiral?'

One had to report that the silky smooth Admiral is utterly zit free, more's the pity.

Nonetheless One has informed One's employers that One is leaving and going to live with the old blighter.

A little disconcerting that he is still to utter the required three word sentence...

'Remove my verrucca.'

Tuesday, 29 September 2015

In which One is mainly eating cereal...

Should One be unfortunate enough to meet with an untimely demise and One's adorable abdomen be sliced asunder by that delightful little forensic floozie, Emilia Fox, in the manner of an autopsy, she would be aghast at the contents of One's interior, since One has scoffed only cereal for the passing of many a moon.

'How so?' I hear you chorus, Dear Reader.

Well. Tis like this...

When on nights, every time is breakfast time.

Wake up early afternoon - breakfast time.

Finish work early morning - breakfast time.

Tonight is the last night- HURRAH!

Dawn has just broken and One is watching a sliver of dark cloud drift past and grow larger and larger.

'Look at that' said the Admiral, the other day, pointing to a cloud, 'that weighs about five ton you know'.

Silly old sea faring sausage, thought One. Gravity would pull it down if it weighed all that and anyway, if that were the case, Lovely One, even having larded up a smidge, would surely be wafting on high. At least until the imminent precipitation of Waitrose Granola.

Monday, 28 September 2015

In which One is stressed...

Here's One utterly bereft at the thought of spending the next ten days exclusively in The Underground Lair...
AND not to feast my beadies on the smiling face of the Admiral, for he is off up the smoke with his dear Mama and thence to visit his his progeny.

One shall be wining and dining with Lord B and the Woodnymph, who require One to design panels for an item of bespoke furniture.
Oh, and eat loads of scrummy supper and drink lashings of ginger beer, since One is partaking in Stoptober (fags and wine)

One is on the horns of a potential dilemma...

One has been presented with a bill in excess of seven thousand pounds, three of which are for solicitors letters, sent from the flat next door but one, for the repairs to the rear wall of the block.

One has resigned Oneself to fighting my corner, but to tell the truth, Dear Reader, One is awfully tired of the shenanigans of daily life at the mo.

One won't even be able to sell the festering flat with a court case in progress.

'Chuck yer job in and come live with me' says the A of the F.

So, before stress kills me, I might just do that.

Friday, 25 September 2015

In which it would appear there is malice in the air...

'Where have you been, dear Lovely One?' I hear you enquire, as one Dear Reader.

One has been working nights and snuggled up in the truckle bed all day.
Tis true, the night shift at the poop mine has given One a shed load of comedy material for this little missive, but One has been disinclined to fashion it into any little stories for you.

One, whilst maintaining One's beatific aura for the sick and needy has been cowering neath the patchwork quilt breathing into a brown paper bag for the remainder of the day.

'We thought you were going to fashion a fabulously stylish noose from a brace of Hermes scarves and hurtle your dear little self into oblivion from the scaffolding in the grounds of The Underground Lair' I hear you comment as you light your penny candles on your alters to Lovely One.

One, downcast and doom laden has been buoyed by the advice and good sense of Ones stalwart chums and urged to fight for truth and justice.  And so, with me pants over the top of me jeggings, One shall enter the fray to go into battle for butts in general and One's in particular...

One has had One's golden locks cut in the style of Joan of Arc...
One has knitted a four ply chain mail onesie...
One's sword shall not sleep in One's hand...

And One shall endeavour to defend One's corner and hope that the proceedings don't lead to another sojourn in the high dependency stroke ward, or worse...

Tuesday, 22 September 2015

In which it just isn't funny...

Sometimes, even for one as optimistic as One, it's awfully difficult to find anything funny in a day.
One doesn't feel even remotely amusing at present.
Here One sits in the middle of the night watching Nicole Kidman shaving super-floo-us hairs off Robert Juney Downier, in a really weird film called 'Fur' or something, and I'm sure, given a different mindset I would be able to embroider amusing fur related tales. But not today.
One isn't up to much.

Sunday, 20 September 2015

In which One flounces...

'Where are your hoover bags?' One had previously enquired of the A, having grown weary of wading through toast crumbs and super-floo-us hairs, verrucca trimmings and the like.
'What do you mean, Hoover bags?' Replied he with a quizzical look pervading his handsome brow.
'You know', ploughed on One, 'the disposable bags that catch the dust inside the Hoover.'
'I didn't know there were such things. I've only vacuumed twice before I met you,' continued he feigning ignorance.
And so it came to pass that One traveled the highways and byways of Ilfracombe in search of the blighters.
Just as well, since upon arrival on Thursday evening there appeared to have been some manner of snowstorm in the galley for every surface including the linoleum, was ankle deep in tiny particles of black grit.
Following the trail to it's source, in the manner of Nancy Drew, the offending article appeared to be a Poppy Seeded Bloomer loaf, now nakedly bereft of a goodly amount of it's seeds since they had been liberally distributed about the abode in it's entirety.
Later that evening upon presentation of a yummy supper, he requested, 'Can I have a couple of slices of that lovely loaf?'
One, always anxious to oblige, produced the required bread and butter.
'Blimey!' Says he 'what happened to the poppy seeds? I like them.'
'Well' explained One, 'most of them are nestling within the Hoover bag, but I think there might be a few stuck to the soles of me bare feet if you'd like to lick them off!'
And with that One flounced indignantly off.

Saturday, 19 September 2015

In which One is temporarily subdued...

We both woke up feeling a little disheartened...
Mainly the old Dickensian 'income two bob, outgoings two and six' situation, but not exclusively.
One feels a bit panicky about the ongoing butt dilemma...
'You can choose not to think about it', said the Admiral.
But One is not as smart as the A of the F and therefore is in a perpetual state of inner turmoil.
'Last time you got in this sort of state you ended up in a high dependency stroke ward, didn't you?' One hears you opine Dear Reader.
Yes, One did and then, of course, there was the tumour issue to contend with.
One attempts to soldier on through these stormy skies. After all, everyone has a modicum of shite in their lives.
Maybe One is just not as resilient as One should be?
Six days out of seven One still manages to skip through life's adversity in the manner of Pollyanna.
Any road up, what with it being a beautiful day, we biffed off to Westward Ho! to take the sea air, and dip our toes in the rock pools.
A rather uninspiring place it was too. With it's exciting name One expected a swashbuckling kind of seafaring place awash with weather beaten coves loitering on the sand knitting lobster pots and roaring 'ah ha me he hearties' and 'shiver me timbers' and other piratical platitudes.
After all it was 'International Talk like a Pirate' day yesterday.
But, instead there were little gangs of straggling holidaymakers reaching out to grasp the last morsel of summer before we all drift inexorably into the clutches of autumn and winter.
On our way back we strolled the charming lanes of Appledore, passing tiny cottages with romantic names like 'Mermaid's Haven' and 'The Admiral's Place'
The long narrow lanes that divided the little houses gave out to balconies overlooking the sea.
A plethora of blue plaques informed the curious passer by of the previous occupants and their tales of derring do.
Behind the unfortunately named pub 'Beaver's Rest' on the wall of a white washed cottage some wag had attached a blue plaque that read: 'In 1784 nothing happened here'
That made us laugh and we biffed off back home, thinking how jolly lucky we are to have one another, and spent the rest of the afternoon snoozing on the sofa.

In which One can't take much more...

One feels relatively normal this morning...
Following three consecutive night's work, One felt like, and it has to be said, looked like a zombie yesterday.
'Give it up immediately and come to live with me,' said the A of the F on feasting his ice blue eyes upon One.

A further fellow worker, upon discovering Ones web site, and indeed, this daily missive, had opined...
'Why are you working here when you can do all this stuff. You must be mad.'

Fair comment, Dear Reader, but One needs the company of other humans to maintain One's tenuous grip on sanity.

And it is indeed a tenuous grip...

One really must get a grip and start painting again.

Or, with the upcoming maelstrom of butt related events, One might just fashion a noose from a couple of Hermes headscarves, secure them to the scaffolding and leap into oblivion...

Friday, 18 September 2015

In which One is a fifty-quidder...

The Admiral is miffed...

He arrived home yester-eve to a missive from his landlord, The Lord of the Manor, informing him that he 'considered the Apartment to be in dual occupancy' and therefore the rent is to be increased.
One had assumed that rental amounts were set according to the property.

 Clearly One has been misinformed.

This has obv come about due to the frequency that One's Bentley Mulsanne has been observed lingering overnight in the grounds.
But the really irritating thing about the whole issue is that it's only gone up by fifty quid.

One can't help but wonder that should One have been a young nubile wench spending nights at the Manor, the rent would have been increased by a more significant amount.

Clearly the Fuedal Fecker has observed the aged, decaying One and thought , 'there goes fifty quids worth.'

'Exactly what does fifty quid entail?' I hear you collectively enquire, Dear Reader.
Three big boys breakfasts, two shags and a back tickle, I reply. Oh and the occasional morsel of verrucca maintenance.

One most certainly doesn't reside full time at the Manor. One is still very much in residence at The Underground Lair.
One puts in an occasional appearance, ackled up in me second best Norman Hartnell ballgown, knocks up a yummy dinner, set off the smoke alarm, hurtles off the top of the Chippendale wardrobe in the direction of the Admiral, (to the strains of the Coldstream Guards playing 'I'll be up your flue in a minute or two') , give the Admiral a good seeing-to and biffs off to wipe the arses of the less fortunate.

One has suggested that the Admiral, who is unable and unwilling to meet with this extra expense, should enquire what he could get for an extra twenty quid.

One has set out below a sliding scale of benefits:

Fifty quid - see above

Forty quid - one shag, two hot dinners and a spot of vacuuming

Thirty quid - a pyjama bottom fumble, excavation of all super-floo-us hairs from the bathroom plug holes and a packet of cheesy wotsits

Twenty quid - one overnight stay, a frenchie and a pint of Wincarnis

A tenner - an afternoon of unbridled pash and a marmalade sandwich

Or, for the deluxe, fiver bargain break - a blow job and a fish finger bap

Can't say fairer than that, Dear Reader!

Wednesday, 16 September 2015

In which romance is sodded...

Here I am Watching Hope and Glory...
'Don't kill love. You'll regret it for the rest of your life,' said Sarah Miles.'
That line always makes me cry because it's true.
Sometimes it's shot and dies in an instant, but sometimes it's stabbed to death over a long period of time with tiny barbs.
Even in the sterile darkness of The House, One shed a tear for love.
One is but a fool.
How utterly ridiculous it is have such a romantic soul shut in a flollopy middle aged body.
But I can't change. It's far too late for that and anyway I rather like living in my dream world.
'Sod Romance' somebody said today.
So be it. Romance isn't love.
But I'm fecked if I know what  is.

In which One is rudely awoken from One's slumbers...

Inch by inch, row by row, I'm gonna make this garden grow
All it takes is a rake and a hoe and a piece of fertile ground
Inch by inch, row by row, someone bless these seeds I sow
Someone warm them from below 'til the rain comes tumbling down...
Peter, Paul & Mary 

One of the great pleasures of living in the Underground Lair has been the garden...
Not a garden in the proportions of some of One's chums: manicured lawns stretching as far as the eye can see etc., but nonetheless, One's own little plot and a piece of heaven.

So, it is with great sadness that One shall leave the lair (eventually) and it's eclectic planting, uneven lawn and criminally damaged fence. (see previous entries for information, Dear Reader)

Currently One is playing host to a fecking great scaffold in order that the stonework can be repaired and a new downpipe put in place.

The scaffolding has come into it's own as a kind of 'rustic conservatory' under which One has been able to shelter from Hurricaine Herbert throughout the summer and partake of One's Espresso and fag.

The charming builders, complete with ghastly Builder Bum Syndrome, have inadvertently filled up the drain with some kind of resin and a rake of brick dust, thereby creating a delightful lake upon the patio.

'Dint yer put no water in it the thin it out?' enquired one builder of the other.  'No' came the reply.
'Well that's why the drains blocked.'
Ho Hum - Blame that on One's tiny butt if you dare.

The little dears are currently wire-brushing the shite off the newly painted rear wall.
Obv a flow chart of events was never constructed since it would have been rather sensible to:
1     Get the building work done
2     Paint the building
and not vice versa as has been the case.

No matter, One shall deploy a pressure washer since a cursory wipe won't cut it.

The little darlings have been active throughout much of One's current night shifts which has been a trifle irritating I can tell you.

One wonders if tis possible to shove an eighty foot length of downpipe up a builder's arse?

Tuesday, 15 September 2015

In which One is retiring to the truckle bed...

It's a grand night for singing...
Maybe it's more than the moon, Maybe it's more than the birds, Maybe it's more than sight of the night, In a light too lovely for words. Maybe it's more than the earth Shiny in silvery blue. Maybe the reason I'm feeling this way Has something to do with you!
It wasn't actually 'A Grand Night for Singing', it was more of a grand night for farting...
There was precious little to do upon One's Birthday Night apart from mopping the floors 
and sweeping up food particles various... and farting (One is fair bloated from the
consumption of marmite sandwiches made with cheap bread: the kind that you can
roll into nasty little balls.)
Oh, and attempting to hide the remote control, lest One was treated to channel hopping on a grand scale.
Although maybe that would have been preferable to watching those ghastly American 
women on Celebrity Big Brother.
Yes, Dear Reader, One has been subjected to the entertainment of the great unwashed
masses, against One's will.
One of One's co workers decided to 'help One out' when One didn't require any help 
with a fractuous inmate.
Methinks One is viewed as a pathetic old person who can't command the room.
Ha! I think not!
Granted twas many a long moon ago that One was a Captain of Industry, but One 
likes to think One still has the power to take control of a situation.
Anywho, One mustn't grumble, a pleasant visitation from BF was the order of the day and
we batted current gossip about the Underground Lair for an hour or two.
One shall now retire to the truckle bed and push out a few zeds afore One has to do
it all again, and again...
Roll on Thursday morning when One shall fire up the Ferrari and biff over the moor
on One's twenty three song long journey to heaven...

Monday, 14 September 2015

In which it makes you pooh...

Frank Sinatra – Young At Heart
Fairy tales can come true
It can happen to you if you're young at heart (young at heart)
For it's hard, you will find
To be narrow of mind if you're young at heart (young at heart)
You can go to extremes with impossible schemes
You can laugh when your dreams fall apart at the seams
And life gets more exciting with each passing day
And love is either in your heart or on it's way…

Happy Birthday to One….. bla bla
(please sing ‘Happy Birthday’  collectively, Dear Reader, in the manner of Marilyn Monroe singing ‘Happy Birthday Mr President)

Well it’s in One’s heart…  Let’s hope, fer feck’s sake, it’s also on it’s way, or One’s up shit creek without a paddle… I’m not entirely sure I could live with anyone else who doesn’t love One.
Any road up, here One is, fifty eight years old today and I don’t mind telling you, One is looking a tad boffable this morning.  Shame there’s no fecker here to oblige.

What shall I do with my SPECIAL DAY?…
Go out and buy BIG pants (Aged P sent me twenty quid)  or pick the snails off me Petunias and chuck ‘em in next door’s van?

Perchance phone up BF and go and sit in Ena and Minnie corner at The Bear and get rat-arsed?
Got the ACTUAL DAY OFF, but due in The House to AW this very evening… Cinders – or what!!

One, like the last of the summer flowers, has lost One’s bloom and is a straggly, over-blown blossom still waiting to be picked…

One has resolved to take better care of Oneself…
And is resolved not to ‘put on two pounds’ (reference to One’s big night out)…
Not quite ‘gone all Sylvia Sims’ One thinks One can hang on like grim death, to the residue of One’s extraordinary good looks for perhaps another year or two and with that in mind opted to consume all the scoff that’s not good for one, last night, before embarking on the five-two diet (although scoffing for two days and starving for five would be a better plan)

Pinot at the ready, One approached the fridge…
Ok – a ‘proper dinner’ of chicken and vegetables… although Waitrose’s three for a tenner have gone right off.  I’ll wager those chicken thighs were stuffed with gravel and bogies.
scoffed that…

another Pinot…

two of the ‘four for a quid’ C0-op rustic bread rolls (no butter, fattening)

another Pinot…
small packet of microwave popcorn…

another Pinot…
watch Coronation Street (flippin’ ‘eck there’s hope for us all… That piece playing Roy Cropper’s bird used to be MARRIED TO SEAN BEAN – fer feck’s sake!)

another Pinot…
A packet of Coarse Grain Oatcakes and most of a box of Camanbert.
Oh feck! seem have scoffed a bit of the plastic covering…. hic, never mind …

another Pinot…
Cor! Dun arf fancy something sweet…
Result!  two brown and black ones and a fluff covered Bertie Basset in the bottom of me ‘andbag!…

another Pinot…
better ‘ave somefing savory…. hic!
Mmmmm. two scabby Ryvitas and a swipe of peanut butter…. Oh bollicks!  just eat it straight out of the jar with a spoon…  Can’t get the soup ladle in the jar.   Note to self…  Must wash up more often.

another Pinot…
Mmmm wonder if that sherbert lemon is still stuck to the used Tena Lady in the bottom of me satchel.  BF never did eat that. Fussy bint!
Result!  Tasted alright once One’d licked the unidentified pubic hair and fluff off it…

another Pinot…
I know.  I’ll ‘ave a quick look in the freezer…
BEN AND JERRY’S CARAMEL CORE – how the feck did One forget that…  AND the big spoon fits in it (no need to wash up after all) RESULT!

another Pinot…
getting all sentimental now, but not opening cards until the morning – BAD LUCK will ensue.  Will probably ensue anyway, refer to previous blogs, Dear Reader.
Watch Ray Winstone getting all romantic with that blonde piece who’s name One can’t quite recall…

another Pinot…
bedder ged in truckle bed and ‘ave a kip…
Who put that fecking weekend bag  in One’s path, trip, fall into bed…  Oh yeah, it was me.  I NEVER unpack.

Fall asleep thinking…
Oh might as well do it anyway, after all One loves the Admiral enough for both of us… hic

don’t get up the next morning and finish the dregs of the Pinot.  It’s not big and it’s not clever (Admiral) and it makes you pooh.

Saturday, 12 September 2015

In which the novelty has worn off...

Here I am in The House...
I've just spent eleven and a half hours mopping up puddles of pee and being screamed at by a banshee.
What the feck is that all about?
One must be 'certifiably insane' in the words of the Admiral, who thinks that anyone who can do what One can do (paint pictures AND ACUALLY SELL THEM) who chooses to take up arse wiping is bonkers.
Fair point, my darling, given that tomorrow One shall be arse wiping, mopping floors and generally being a Wivvy Skivvy in the manner of Cinderella, on my birthday.
I think I'll go home, sleep on it and conclude that the novelty has worn off.

Friday, 11 September 2015

In which it is unwise to challenge One...

Yesterday, prior to One's birthday treat, One biffed off to Sainsburys to squander One's Nectar points on a supermarket ballgown.

One wanted to look One's best, as One was being taken, by horse and carriage, to a mystery destination to be wined and dined and showered with lavish gifts in celebration of One's special day.

One took One's place in the queue and handed over One's size 18/20 outfit to the checkout bint.

'Oooooh', says she, 'this is the second one of these I've sold this morning.'
'Oh no!' replied One, in a jolly fashion, 'don't tell me someone else has got the same dress as me.'
'Her's was a size eight. Sorry,' and, with her head cocked to one side gave One a faux sympathetic glance, before turning her attention to One's remaining purchases.

One, whilst not in the first, heady flush of youth, or not, for that matter, a dainty piece, is always perfectly groomed and generally the most beautiful woman in the room, was miffed in the extreme by this stupid remark.

Should I just let that pass me by, thought One, but the damage had been done and, despite the burgeoning queue, opted to verbally demolish the cheeky bint.

Whilst One would certainly be at a disadvantage in any form of mortal combat, it is unwise in the extreme to enter into a war of words with One, as defeat is certain, what with One's acerbic wit and masterly command of the Queen 's English...

One drew Oneself up to One's full five feet eleven inches and begun the inevitable slaughter...

'Sorry? Exactly what are you sorry about? Are you sorry because she was a size 8? Or are you sorry because I am a size 18/20?  Pray tell, because I am perfectly happy in my own skin and require neither your sympathy nor your unsolicited inane remarks.'

At this point she began to look sore afraid, but One was 'on one' and not about to let her off unscathed.

One recalled a similar incident, of which there have been legion over the years, when an over made up trollop thought she would be spiteful about the ,then, young One's Amazonian proportions...

One, busy being chatted up by a fellow office worker at a 'do' was rudely interrupted by aforementioned trollop, who opined...
'Some men like big women' and turned to her fellow typing pool chums sniggering.
'Never mind' countered the young One, 'I expect some of them like menopausal old hags' and turned back to One's slathering companion.

What is it with small women?  Why do they assume immediate superiority just because they take up less space on the planet?

Anyway, I digress, back to the Sainsbury slattern...

'I require neither your approval nor your commisseration' continued One, 'and I most certainly don't need any comment from a dollop such as you who looks like something that's been dragged from the wreckage of a plane crash having taken the full impact on her face.'

With that, One gathered up One's gargantuan frock, turned tail and huffed off triumphantly.  Well, as triumphantly as one can when one has got fifty pence worth of one's two quid Tesco pants stuck between the cheeks of one's chubby arse.

In which it's sad, innit...

Just pack your troubles in dreams
and dream all your troubles away....


That's what One was doing last night following the inhalation of one too many Pinots.
Sadly One was snoring and bouncing (according to the Admiral, One bounces in One's sleep) and disturbing the senile seafarer.
'Why can't you just turn over like a normal person?' he enquired, through gritted tooth, 'why do you have to levitate, spin around and then come crashing down like an untethered bullafo?'
'Dunno,' countered One, 'I was asleep.'

Any road up, One regained a little status by tickling the soles of his feet (they were sticking out the bottom of the bed) as One skipped off to the galley for an Espresso (me) and an Earl Grey (him)
'Oooooh I'll give you til next Wednesday to stop doing that' mumbled he.
A risky business, foot tickling the Admiral, given the Veruccerage.

Sadly, given that One took pity on a co worker and swapped a night's work, One won't be here next Wednesday, or even at all for a whole week after tomorrow. Thereby, One has rather stupidly ended up working Monday night which is me sodding birthday.
One won't get to see Boy before he biffs off to Exeter University.
One did offer a splendid birthday lunch to Boy, who replied...
'Do you mind if we do it another day Mum?'
Another day won't be his birthday though, will it?
So, suitably crestfallen, One shall be spending today, me day off, filing the rough skin off the bottoms of me feet and waxing me super-floo-us fur off me face.
Not that anyone will get to see the glorious results on me Birthday as One shall be all alone kipping in the Underground Lair in preparation for a long and boring night of tending to the sick and needy.


Thursday, 10 September 2015

In which One regrets One's choice of husbandage...

Due to One's inadequate, well non existent pension arrangements, One finds Oneself in an eminently unsuitable occupation when One should be sitting soaking me feet (with me stockings on) in a washing up bowl full of lavender water.

One espies the younger members of the House staff regarding One with curiosity and horror and hoping that they too won't end up like One.

Poor choice of Husbandage has resulted in this dilemma, along with the pension negative.

When One was a gel, we were all expected to marry and give up work secure in the knowledge that our hubbsters various would provide all.
That worked out well dinnit?

Any road up, short of a lottery win (and as One oft recites to the Admiral 'you'll have to be content with winning the lottery of love') One shall be arse wiping until One croaks.

No matter, darlings, today is payday - Hurrah!

And when One has paid the mortgage, complete with arrears, and all the other necessities One had enough left for a small bottle of the Co op's finest Pinot.

It is just eight forty in the morning Dears, but to One, it's evening and therefore One shall repair to the grounds and scoff a pint before falling, completely shagged, into the truckle bed...

Tuesday, 8 September 2015

In which One is windy...

So, here One is at work.
It's almost six in the morning and One is tired out and yearning for the truckle bed.
Twenty three years ago One was awakening in The Royal Free Hospital in Hampstead to find Oneself under observation by Boy, who had emerged the day before.
One and Boy were something of a sideshow in the hospital, he being twice the weight of the other newly emerged infants and One being an Amazon. We were also, without doubt, the most beautiful Mother and baby combo they had ever had the privilege of serving.
Boy didn't howl and holler like his contemporaries, but continually farted so loudly and with such force that he was in grave danger of blasting himself out of the peculiar, plastic, fish tank-type container that all the new babies were housed in.
His farting prowess continues to  develop apace and One became sore afraid to take the blighter out lest he performed in public.
Little old ladies who approached the pram to get a close up view of the divine child, recoiled in horror as he let rip.
One always got the feeling he was doing it on purpose, and indeed being on the receiving end of some hard stares, One is fairly certain anyone in close proximity to his perpetual guffing actually thought it was me.
Anyway, One having scarfed down a suspect morsel of Roquefort for One's lunch has been botty-burping like a good-un all night.
I wish Boy were here now, I could blame it on him!

In which One gets all lavatorial...

Isn't it annoying, Dear Reader, when your fluffy dangles down the lavatory?
It's even more annoying when it's yer new fluffy and you inadvertently wee on it.
Let me set the scene, Dear Reader...
One, having saved up One's Tesco vouchers, acquired a splendid new pink fluffy to replace One's ancient and fluffy-less fluffy.

Appearing silhouetted in the drawing room doorway, assuming One looked all shiny, newly-bathed and good enough to consume in a single sitting, One was met with the response...
'Kin Ada, you look like a par-boiled hamster! It's a bit PINK!'

One, suitably crest-fallen, huffed off to the lavatory, and plonked down on the ancient Thomas Crapper (blue and white porcelain, with a high wall-mounted cistern) and promptly peed on me fluffy ties that were dangling down the bog.

'How so?', I hear you chorus as One, 'surely you adjust your garmentage in a manner that avoids such ghastly results?'
Let me explain, by recanting a little story about Marilyn Monroe...

Having been taken to meet Arthur Miller's parents, MM, needing to have a wee, was mortified to find the bathroom located just above the dining room where the assembled family were partaking in the welcoming lunch. In order not to be audible whilst doing aforementioned wee, she ran the taps at the basin to disguise her doings.
The following day, Arthur, anxious to have his Father's approval re MM, enquired as to his impression of the actress...
'Nice girl,' opined his Aged P, 'pees like a horse!'

One deploys this well known tale in order to illustrate how difficult it is to do a silent P (as in bath) when poised over an ancient and very deep toiley-boiley.

And that is how, Dear Reader, One managed to wee on One's lovely new fluffy.

No matter how One positions Oneself on the luxurious lavatory, One can't help but mimic the roaring gush of the Tallulah Falls.

And as for a number two...

One is fairly certain that Barnes Wallace came up with the idea for the bouncing bomb following a trip to the bathroom at the Manor.

Monday, 7 September 2015

In which One is like a young colt again...

Today One virtually leapt from One's slumber like a person in possession of youth and vitality.
Almost all of One's current ailments have vanished overnight.

'Hurrah!' I hear you cry Dear Reader, 'shall you be fit for arse wiping and herding jellyfish this week?'
Do you know? One thinks One might.

Checking One's diary, One has completely shagged the following couple of weeks due to the fact that One swapped a day with a fellow worker.
One felt sorry for the blighter who is unable to coordinate his days off with his wife's days off, and rashly agreed to help him out without taking One's own needs into consideration.

'Silly old dollop!', I hear you comment, ' look what happened to you last time you took pity on a fellow human. You ended up incarcerated in The Bung of Doom with a septagenarian horrid old would-be lesbian.'
True! And let's not forget her smelly old scraggy moggy.
Do you know, Dear Reader, That whole house smelt of cat food and cat crap.
Not to mention the ghastly spectacle of her emerging from the bathroom, naked and looking like an un-ironed cadaver, squealing, 'we're all girls together', rendering One a quivering wreck in One's Asda jim jams.
Stupid One!

I digress...
Back to the shagged diary...
Wouldn't normally be a problem of mammoth proportion, but tis the anniversary of One's birth next Monday and One should have liked to spend it in the arms of the darling Admiral.
'We'll sort something out' says he upon receipt of the news, without looking up from his latest 'shoot-em-up.'

Tomorrow is Boy's birthday.
He will be off to Uni and One shall be drifting about Wivey with absolutely no reason to be there anymore. Well, apart from One's latest mode of employment, that is.

'Why don't you start painting again and then you can live anywhere?' I hear you enquire, Dear Reader.
Why indeed?
Do you know, I think I just might do that. One's current mode of paying the bills is sorely inadequate and the novelty of the new has worn off.

'Can't you stick to anything?' I hear you cry, with exasperation in your collective voice, Dear Reader.
No! One is a free spirit (well, apart from One's deep, passionate need to cling to the Darling Admiral)
One has formally had pairs of shoes that have lasted longer than One's husbands various, but One feels that the divine Admiral has the qualities of a pair of Birkenstocks: never wears out and grows more comfortable each time One slips them on.

Sunday, 6 September 2015

In which we are binned off...

So, Dear Reader, there we were at the Sheepdog Trials in Challacombe...
I have to admit One was a little disappointed as One imagined those lovely long haired big teddy-type dogs that advertise Dulux and it turned out to be those pointy-faced slobbery ones like Vile ex Mother in law had. Hers always seemed to have something Brown and horrid clagged on it's undercarriage, but then, so did she.
Turned out to be rather mesmerising, given that One doesn't actually like dogs.
One won a Body Shop beautifying device on the Tombola and it set One on a rabid gambling spree: indulging in 'guess the weight of a pile of sheep shite', 'pin the tail on the ferret', the raffling of a bottle of Pomagne and a brace of pasties etc....
The excitement mounted when the family dog show started and it all became too much for the still injured Lovely One and so One was bundled unceremoniously onto a flat bed truck and taken back to the Manor to be de-briefed before tea.
The Admiral had to be in situ in the moss green velour elderly gentlemen's recliner by four thirty to watch the football...
One usually likes to 'help him watch the football' by interjecting with intelligent comments throughout the game, but One had been fore warned that any vocalising would be rewarded by a smack round the ear with a Fender Stradacaster, so One had a kip on the chaise lounge instead.
We had been invited to sup with the Admiral' s brother and his wife earlier in the day, but were binned off at the eleventh hour due to a polo playing related injury. So rather than getting ackled up in me second best Norman Hartnell ballgown and dining on larks tongues in aspicwe stayed in and ate fish finger sandwiches and peas off One another's naked bodies in the Orangery.

Friday, 4 September 2015

In which One squeals like a stuck pig...

It's quite difficult to find anything funny when One is lying prone in the Spanish bed...
Usually One alights with the speed and natural grace of a young gazelle and skips with a light step to the galley to acquire a steaming beaker of Earl Grey for the grumpy old Admiral, but at the mo, One, listing badly to starboard, can but dream of such a feat...
One delicately and very slowly lowers One's legs to the exquisite Persian rug, accompanied by the squeal of a stuck pig, and shuffles in a lop-sided lope towards the kitchen.
There is no respite, so it would seem and One is struck low of spirit.
Is this what it's like to grow old, Dear Reader?
If it is, One's not awfully keen.
One is seriously considering doing a 'Thelma and Louise' off the harbour at Ilfracombe if this is it.
'Buck up One!' I hear you cry Dear Reader, 'Where has your Pollyanna spirit gone?'
Alright, One'll give The Glad Game a go...
What is there to be glad about when One can't get out of bed?
Well, the Admiral' s still here, maybe One could entice him to tear me Jim jams off with his remaining tooth and nibble me better.

Tuesday, 1 September 2015

In which One is on the horns of a dilemma...

You find One on the horns of a dilemma...

Those of you who are lucky enough to catch sight of the lovely Lovely One on a regular basis, or those of you who have caught a fleeting glimpse that has coloured your otherwise drab and meaningless existence, will, no doubt have marveled at One's sleek, golden tresses.

One is, as you know, Dear Readers no longer in the first flush of girlish youth.
'Nonsense, Lovely One, you are as youthful and peaches and creamy like the English Rose you ever were,' I hear you chorus.

Nice of you to comment, Dear Reader,  but as I sit here at my bespoke Byron and Gomez (yes actual Lord) desk gazing into the baroque looking glass on the wall of the Underground Lair, I can't help but notice that either someone has stuck a picture of me mum on the mirror or me face needs a fecking good ironing!

But that's  not the dilemma, after all we all go 'Sylvia Sims' eventually.
It's me golden tresses that are the current problem...

One has been manfully applying the 'Lightest Ash Blonde' for the passing of many a moon (because I'm worth it!) and straightening out One's Jane Austen-ish ringlets with me HD's in order to maintain the sleek look.

In the delightful words of 'er from the Estate Agent's office, 'Everything dries up after the menopause, y'know, we 'ardly ever 'ave sex without a catering pack of Castrol GTX next to the bed just in case.'
Mmmm, thinks One, I've seen your husband and I'd need a Jeraboam of Bolly and hard cash to contemplate boffing that ugly bleeder. (he looks like Pob)

Any road up, I digress...
It's One's sleek locks that are the current dilemma..
One can't help but recall the fleeting glimmer of horror that passed across the face of the Admiral upon One's first emergence from the shower, all dripping wet, and with the curly locks of a fine breed sheep.
Yes, there you have it, Dear Reader, One is a curly top after all.
The merest hint of moisture and One reverts to a ghastly Raggedy Ann doll.

'Your 'air looks like ginger pubes,' Full Frontal Sister puts it so succinctly.
One prefers to call them golden curls, but no matter.

The thing is...
Should One continue to iron out me ringlets on a daily basis or should One just go curly and be done with it?

In which One suffers yet another set back...

By Christopher Marlowe 1564–1593 Christopher Marlowe

Come live with me and be my love,
And we will all the pleasures prove,
That Valleys, groves, hills, and fields,
Woods, or steepy mountain yields.

And we will sit upon the Rocks,
Seeing the Shepherds feed their flocks
Bla de bla bla fecking bla...

and all that...

So, it has come to pass that One and the Admiral shall, most probably, set up in a yurt/hut/underground lair/Manor House...

'How so?' I hear you chorus, Dear Reader, mindful of the heap of shite One usually makes of the human relationship.

Well, 'tis like this...
One has, at last, after a long pursuit (The Pursuit of Love - Nancy Mitford) found IT.
'But does the blighter love you, Lovely One?' I hear you cry whilst wringing your collective hands.
'Dunno', would have to be my reply.

Any road up, One shall v prob only last a brief sojourn wherever I hang me chapeau...

One has been involved in a serious nail polishing incident (the Chippendale chair One was balancing me foot on was obv too high) that has rendered One listing badly to starboard and emitting high pitched squeals upon any movement.
The only respite to be found is in the elderly gentleman's moss green velour adjustable arm chair, with legs out on the footrest and a hot water bottle shoved down me leggings.

One, mindful of the younger members of staff calling in sick every Bank Holiday, shuffled manfully off to the House to tend to the sick and needy, only to be dispatched with alarming speed back home to lie prone on the truckle bed until such time as One can run towards/away from aforementioned sick and needy at a speed that doesn't render One a liability.

One fears that One's blossoming career in the Support Sector may be biffing toward an inevitable conclusion.

'So, what's next in the catalogue of careers to keep up the payments on the Underground Lair until such time as one of us selfish bastards buy it?' I hear you enquire.

Well, it won't be painting, what with ARM and broken finger.

Fat is the new 'black' according to popular myth, so One is busy making 'selfie' films of Oneself doing ordinary, everyday tasks, such as cleaning the bog, macramaeing plant pot holders from super-floo-us hairs lugged out of the plughole etc., and bunging them on YouTube to tantalise Chubby Chasers.

I'll let you know how it goes...