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Saturday, 31 October 2015

In which I am NOT BETTER...

That's it! It's official!
I've lost me looks.

Whilst I've been cowering beneath the antique quilt on the truckle bed spitting up spent gobbets of lung, AND NO, I don't feel any better (thanks for not asking you selfish bastards) my looks have gone for good.

My lovely face looks like a peeled King Edward topped with spun sugar.

Super floo us harvesting has gone for a burton and by the time the Autumn growth is addressed it will be blown hither and thither in the manner of tumbleweed abroad the Wivey byways.

'An acute bacterial infection of the lungs' just in case yer interested!

But no, why should you miserable goons concern yourselves with such things? You sit there on your sweaty backsides, squeezing your blackheads, not giving a Tinker's cuss for the working One, while I languish at death's door and the world's arse goes unwiped.

And what shall keep the Admiral wedded to One? Now that One's looks have gone and One has gone completely Sylvia Sims, all that binds us together is our shared love of stationery.

On a brighter note:
An ever burgeoning queue of previous victims are jostling for seniority in the butt defence stakes...

Friday, 23 October 2015

In which One is sick...

One has been languishing in bed for two days with a horrid virus...

We went for a long stomp around a nearby reservoir and I think the shock of movement combined with fresh air has but done One in.
The Admiral is also laid low with it too now.  We are so close we even get sick at the same time. One drew this phenomenon to the A's attention and he gave One a hard stare, feigning a theatrical vomit in me handbag.

During One's sweaty confinement under the duvet, One has been catching up on the doings of One's chums on Facebook...

An arty type of One's acquaintance has been off on his hols to America with his girlfriend...

The adventure culminated in the arty type presenting his lady love with a diamond solitaire ring at the top of the Empire state building...

As he slipped it on her wedding finger she gasped 'does this mean we are engaged?'

'No' says he 'it is a Promise ring and means that we promise to love each other for ever.'

He was surprised when she cried.

What did he expect, Dear Reader?  The poor girl, wearing an engagement ring on her wedding finger will now have to explain to all and sundry what the feck  a 'promise ring' is.

Cry?  I'd have punched him in the face and pushed him off the top of the building.

Wednesday, 21 October 2015

In which One's future is uncertain...

Tis the season of mists and mellow fruifulness in the Manor...

Shortly, One shall be bounding from the bed in the Blue Room and harvesting the mushrooms from the walls in order that Consuella can fashion them into an omelette for the Admiral's petit dejuener.

One shall henceforth have to deploy the Norman Hartnell, fur-lined onesie, complete with me Gertrude Shilling balaclava (with the front knitted in) just to survive through the sub-zero nights.

Yesterday One spent another day of One's hols on One's hands and knees chipping the remains of centuries of fois gras off the inside of the Aga.  The gaff must be returned to it's former state afore departure.

No matter, very soon the Admiral will be packing his ocean-going trunk and relocating to home for retired sea-faring coves.

'What will happen to you, dear Lovely One?' I hear you enquire, Dear Reader.
I know not. Perchance he can sneak me in on an occasional basis to shiver his timbers.

Today One shall be herding the enormous spiders and setting them free in order that the Miss Havisham kebwobs can be sucked up the Dyson.

'You eat eight spiders in your lifetime,' informed the Romany Barbie at work last week.

One wonders if that's the odd one now and then or all at once in a sandwich.

It's given One an idea for a low-cost supper though.

In which One very nearly ran off to join the circus...

We exited Aged P 's with a promise of further delights to follow at Christmas...

We both have Aged Mamas who will need to be accommodated throughout the Festive Season. The Admiral's Mama is not the frivolous type, whilst mine is off the frivol-scale.  Therefore a joint 'put 'em up at my place' is a no no.

That little extravaganza requires further thought and since One is constantly being reminded that there are but nine Fridays until Christmas, I'd better get on it.

Memories of Christmases spent with the Mother of Vile ex Husband loom large.
Sprouts put on to simmer at the end of August, the miserable faces around the table and the feigned delight upon being the lucky recipient of yet another beige, turtle-neck sweater feature greatly

'We never bother with things like that,' the Mother-in-Law said when One, upon the occasion of One's first Christmas with them, enquired as to the festivities.

And indeed they didn't.

In fact, they went off en mass to Cornwall for the New Year leaving One and baby Boy in London without a car.

Anyway, that's all over now and One shall shortly retrieve One's splendid decorations from the shed and polish them in readiness for a fun-filled Festive Season.

No need to make a cake, as One's new chum is so doing.

One is knitting Christmas again this year...

In fact, the fabulous wooly-pully that One is fashioning for the Admiral is so divine that if it doesn't fit him One shall bin him off and find a bloke that it does fit.

That shouldn't prove too difficult as One pulled again on Saturday night at the bar in the Hungry Horse...

A be-suited diddicoy sidled up to One and made a lewd suggestion over me Merlot...

To think, Dear Reader, One could, at this moment be running away with the roustabouts...

Still, I expect he took one look at One and was sizing me up to be the fat, bearded lady that gets knocked into the water by a coconut.

Monday, 19 October 2015

In which One goes outside and may be some time...

You gotta accentuate the negative
And eliminate the positive
Memorize the obituaries
And don't mess with around with Aged P

'My friend had a fatal accident there,' indicated Aged P with a gnarled digit, on one of her 'Wallis Arnold Guided Tours of Doom' as One ferried her around the hotspots of Luton.


'Where would you like to go?' enquired One, as The Admiral took refuge behind The Telegraph in a comfy armchair.

'I'd be young if it wasn't for me bad leg,' she replied, 'I've got a Sainsbury voucher.'
'Do you want to go to Sainsbury then?' asked One.
'I like Asda.'
'We can go there then.'
'I've got a Sainsbury voucher.'
'We can go to both.'
'Not bothered,' said she indicating displeasure.

We climbed into the Admiral's car...
(At the eleventh hour One had remembered that One's MOT had run out)
Failed - of course and currently languishing in a garage in Barnstaple awaiting brake pads, and the means to pay for them.

'You'll have to tell me the way. It's all different round here,' said One, ' do I turn right at the bottom?'
'Doesn't the Admiral ever wear socks?' Aged P replied, 'he's got lovely feet. I can tell where he lives from his feet, they're really brown.'

An interesting phenomenon, thought One, being able to tell a person's origin by the colour of their feet. Not quite sure how this gift has manifested itself, or how it could be deployed in the wider world. One thing was for sure: it didn't tell me the way to fecking Sainsbury!

One tried again...
'Are we heading in the right direction?'
'You should have turned left back there,' said she.
One took a deep breath and a U turn...

On the previous evening we checked into our budget room for the night and biffed off to The Hungry Horse for a scoff.
'What would you like?' enquired One of Aged P who was 'treating' us.
'Eileen has sausages every day' came the reply.
'Never mind what Eileen has. What do YOU want?'
'I can't eat a big dinner. It's the steroids,' said she lifting up her sweater to show all and sundry her stomach.
One made the enquiry again (through gritted teeth)
'Ooooh look what he's having,' mouthed Aged P pointing to a Cuban-heeled diddicoy (I think the fair was in town) ' I couldn't eat that.'
'Well don't order that then, what do you want?'
'I have two squares of 80% cocoa dark chocolate every night,' she continued.

'See if you can find out what she wants,' said One to the A, 'I'm going outside for a fag.'

Sunday, 18 October 2015

In which One shows the Admiral a good time...

'Is that your boyfriend?' asked the v small Northern Dancer as he placed a v sweaty palm on the back of One's neck, 'I think you're lovely.'
'Get me coat. I've pulled,' said One to the Admiral as One extricated One's bodily parts from the moist clutch.
'Wanna dance?' continued the unidentified cove.
One made One's excuses to avoid standing up next the article and towering head and shoulders above him.
Nonetheless, it does One's heart good to know that One, at One's advanced vintage can still stir the animal instinct of even the smallest of members of the opposite.

One and the A were honoured, indeed, to have been invited to the party.  One surveyed the assembled throng and not many bods from the Shit-Face were there and since One is a relatively new arse wiper, One was chuffed to little mint balls to have been included in the celebrations.

We arrived bang on time to see the happy couple recreate the first dance at their wedding and it did One's heart good to know that there are people out there in the great beyond who have been together for ages and still love each other.

One, as you know, hangs on to pairs of shoes longer than husbands.

No matter, One shall cling to the Admiral until the end and we shall shuffle from this mortal coil together fag in one hand and drink in the other.

Off to Luton now to see Aged P.

I know how to show the Admiral a good time!

Saturday, 17 October 2015

In which willies loom large...

Just woke up thinking about Frank Middleton's willy...
'Pray, who is Frank Middleton, and why were you pondering his penis?' One hears you collectively enquire, Dear Reader.
Well, One has been party to a 'Willy related' tale this week and what with going home to Luton tomorrow and that little escapade bringing back memories of One's misspent youth, One dreamt of the first willy One ever saw.

There was the fourteen year old One, down the 61 Club, with Suzanne Neale and Vivien Rayner dancing round our clutch bags to 'Rockin' Robin' when FM sidled up to One and asked One to go outside for a Number Six.
Nothing salacious there, Dear Reader. A Number Six being a favourite fag of the underage smoker.

One, being a trusting sort, biffed off to the car park only to be clutched in an acne addled embrace and have a teenage todger thrust into One's unsuspecting hand.
One, fearing that the nasty instrument might brush up against One's brand new, smock topped, Miss Mouse, mini dress and render One with child, shot off at a pace, with the unsatisfied FM in hot pursuit.

'We accept all that: the willy tale, the going home, the seeing Vivien and all that,' I hear you opine Dear Reader, 'but surely the only willy that should be uppermost in your mind is the elderly duffel bag, sea faring dangler of the Admiral.'

Well, it surely is, but even he has betrayed One.

(How soon the flame of love can die) - Henry Mancini.

Why, only last night he sauntered into the galley with what, in the half light, looked like a massive bogie, and said...

'Ere, I thought you'd like to see this.'

And do you know what, Dear Reader? The selfish bastard had picked out his own verucca when One was in the kitchen.
That just left One with the onerous task of filing off the surrounding skin with me Scholl battery powered foot smoother, and do you know, there was so much of it that One could hardly make out the divine silhouette of the Admiral through the cloud of minced skin and fag smoke.

Friday, 16 October 2015

In which me and BF are crap at pootering...

'What are we going to do about the sleeping arrangements?' asked Aged P when One informed her that I was bringing the Admiral to meet her before one/all of us snuff it.
'You can sleep with him if you want' replied One, 'he's a bit of a tart.'

'You're fifty eight and she still won't let you share a room!' opined One's chum incredulously when One recounted the tale.

But that's nothing in the Dozzer Day world of Aged P...

When One told her One was up the duff with Boy she shouted down the phone...

DON'T YOU DARE TELL ANYONE! (Like nobody would notice)

'I'm thirty fecking five Mother' replied One 'I have had sex a couple of times you know'

One never let the grass grow under One's gusset in me youth, Dear Reader.


An interesting day was spent with BF yesterday...
We spent all fecking day attempting to attach two photos to an email to begin the defence of One's entirely innocent butt.

BFP had cleared off with some other sea faring pensioners to mess about on the beautiful briney sea and left us to it.  We were shite!

'I really love the Admiral' said One to BF,  'but I couldn't exist without you and BFP.'

Wednesday, 14 October 2015

In which three little words are finally spoken...

'I went shopping,' said the Romany Barbie upon being questioned as to the activity undertaken during her day off.
'What did you buy?' enquired One.
'Seventy quids worth of lipstick and a dog,' said she, 'look I'll show you a picture,' she continued thrusting her phone in front of One.
One, leaning forward to observe what One thought would be a picture of the dog, was a little surprised when confronted by a picture of the aforementioned lipsticks, neatly lined up.  However, what was even more of a surprise was that the lipsticks were all practically the same colour - dark brown.
'Ooooh, I used to have one like that,' said One, 'Biba.  Have you heard of Biba?'
'No. Wassat?' enquired she and the conversation was over.

Who can't of heard of Biba?  Someone who's thirty eight years younger than me - obv!

'My sister said she wants a baby, so I said: get a dog and see how you get on,' she went on.
One, anxious not to spoil the moment, thought it unwise to point out that caring for a dog is rather different to the care and attention required to nurture a small human being.


The Admiral has finally uttered those three little words every girl longs to hear...

'Remove my verruca.'

Just as well, Dear Reader, because One couldn't possibly live with yet another male of the species who wouldn't commit to verruca removal.

One has traversed that particular life path before and it's ended in tears.  Need I remind you of the ill-fated bolt to Plymouth.  What an unmitigated disaster that little debacle was.

Any road up, One is now quite secure in One's thoughts and shall bolt forthwith.


'When are you coming back to work?' enquired One's delightful leader.
'26th,' said One,  'I remember that because it's the day my divorce came through and the date of Vile ex Husband's birthday.'
'Oh dear,' says he, 'that must be sad.'
'Not really,' replied One, 'being divorced from me on his birthday is the gift that just keeps on giving.'

Tuesday, 13 October 2015

In which One favours the full burka for a night out...

And so...
Yet another much needed day off will be consumed by One defending One's entirely innocent butt from the evil machinations of the Head Girl of the Block.
'Take legal advice, darling Lovely One,' I hear you chorus as one, Dear Reader.
Not an option, dears, since as One is being prosecuted using One's own money (the maintenance charges) One would be paying to prosecute and defend Oneself.
Bonkers isn't it?
Anyway, it's keeping One awake at night, stopping One from selling the Underground Lair and generally praying on One's mind to the point of madness.
FYI - persons who have to work nights in a care home to survive don't have cash lolling about for legal fees.


'Stop putting on your make-up and go and sort out the laundry,' said one of the many leaders at the shit-face to the Romany Barbie.
Why do lovely young girls slather two inch thick layers of goo all over their lovely faces anyway?
Oh, shit, I'm starting to sound like (and look like) Aged P.
Anyway, the Romany Barbie, huffed off shouting to One, 'Bye Mummy. Love you!' the silly girl.

One, almost going off in a huff from the shit-face this week, has been offered a much more suitable work regime, for one as aged as One - RESULT

One does, for unfathomable reasons, actually enjoy One's rather odd occupation and certainly enjoys fraternising with the other wage slaves.
'You're alright for a posh bird,' is the general summary of One, and One is ok with that.


Off to a party this weekend to show off the rather lovely Admiral of the Fleet.
'Do I need to wear a suit?' enquired the A.  Frankly it wouldn't matter what the old buffer wore, he'll still be the handsomest man in the room. One simply does love a chap that doesn't realise how absolutely edible he is.  One could consume him in a single sitting, One could!

One, having not been stomping around the highways and byways for the passing of many a moon is larding up again and so shall have to wear something in the manner of a bell tent.
'I tried on me dress last night and it don't fit,' said one of One's work chums last night in the Co-op as we loitered by the 'two for three quid Teasers bars.'
'Oh, go on, we might as well have one we won't loose three stone by Saturday anyway,' opined One.

One's figure is currently leaning toward the yashmak and full burka look, but One shall get ackled up in me massively marked down in the 1647 sale frock and a pair of leggings.
'You've got legs like a footballer,' One's dear Papa used to say, which in our house was considered a compliment by all but One, as One tottered about on me Timpsons three quid, mock suede ankle straps.

Any road up, I can sit here regaling you, Dear Reader, with me many woes, I've got to go and pick up a chum and biff off to Sainsburys.  We know how to have a good time,

Saturday, 10 October 2015

In which One seals up One's twinkle...

'Shut up, you irritating lump,' said the Admiral to One, as One lay prone on the settle, having completely shagged Oneself at the Shit-Face, yet again.
One, even though One was suffering and bunged up with a cold, was still 'helping him watch the football', and that's the thanks One got for it.
'No matter' thought One, 'I'll go and render meself a fragrant flower for the evening' and biffed off to the bathroom.
Following a prolonged shower and a super-floo-us harvesting session, One opted for a relaxing essential oils massage, administered by One's own fair hand, of course.
Fumbling about in the steam-filled room One inadvertently alighted upon a small bottle. Thinking it to be One's Ylang Ylang, One administered a couple of drops to me twinkle.
'Mmmmmm, that feels a bit odd' thought One and slathered a goodly amount of almond oil all over me acreage.
By this time the steam had cleared  and One was mortified to find that One had not, in fact, doused One's twinkle in Ylang Ylang, but had sealed it up with a bit of that Germoline plastic skin I got to repair my cut finger.

Friday, 9 October 2015

In which One is utterly exhausted...

'That is the last flight of stairs I run up today unless there's a shag at the end of it' opined One to the Romany Barbie who had eventually fronted up at the shit-face, three and a half hours late.
'At least you get shagged' retorted she, 'I'm thirty eight years younger than you and I've got tumbleweed falling out of me vagina. I hope I'm still up for it when I'm as old as you.'

One, having just worked a fourteen hour shift followed by a sleep-in, followed by another day's work was then required to load up the big blue bus with a small ugly crowd and transport them, with the Romany Barbie, to an eating establishment.

Traumatic for all concerned, but where else would you get to use the sentence: 'NO! Don't eat that! It's bird shit.'
And, for that matter, hear someone say,'Yeah, I really love that one. She's really sweet, but sometimes I could just club her to death.'

One shall miss these intellectual exchanges when One biffs off to pastures New next month.

'How so?' I hear you enquire, Dear Reader, 'We thought you loved it there.'
Yes, it's been a veritable hoot, but the long, long days and nights are too strenuous for a delicate bloom such as One.
'Can't they even budge an inch with the hours?' I hear you cry.
Apparently not, so, One is budging more than an inch and clearing off.

Tuesday, 6 October 2015

In which One lobs a further bit off me finger...

I suppose on the face of it, One must look slightly, if not completely, bonkers...
One has just had to repair to the grounds at this ungodly hour in the morning to smoke a fag...

What's that you say?
'what happened to Stoptober?'
What indeed.  For One has had another life-threatening injury befall One.

AND, it's just the finger One needs for poking people in the eye, which will be coming into it's own very shortly...

This time in the construction of cucumber sandwiches when One was serving afternoon tea to the Aristocracy.
'My, but you move in exhalted circles,' I hear you opine, Dear Reader.
'Tis true, One replies as One biffs a bead of Beluga off me ballgown.
Any road up, One is now required to collaborate with the Right Honorable in the production of bespoke items for an exclusive emporium in Mayfair.
More on that story later...

'And you expect me to let you loose on my verruca with your Swiss Army Knife,' exclaimed the Admiral upon hearing of One's latest misfortune, 'I remember what happened to BF's ear when you trimmed her hair!'
'That's not entirely fair,' countered One, 'ears do bleed a lot when cut.'
But 'twas to no avail and One is utterly forbidden to operate on any part of the Admiral.

Back to working days this week...
One had remained virtually unscathed during working on the dark side, but as soon as One put in an appearance in the hours of daylight, One was spat at, kicked and pinched all in the space of one particularly grueling bath time.

One must abandon this life forthwith and repair to the Manor to soothe the Admiral's fevered brow and biff about visiting old ladies on the Moor again.

'Why do you do it, Dear Lovely One?' I hear you chorus, 'when you can make a month's arse-wiping salary in an hour if you'd get off yer fat arse and start painting again?'

One is at this very moment asking Oneself the self same question.  One has had One's fill of 'meeting new people and wiping their arses.'

One does find the whole thing fascinating though, not only the incumbents of the house, but the persons who work there.

Just not quite fascinating enough though...

Sunday, 4 October 2015

In which One writes an ode to One's much maligned old butt...

Atilla the Hun has got nothing on One
Who pulls limbs off discarded old suitors for fun
and like swatted flies
One watch as they dies
and broils their entrails
and serves them with fries.

Joan of the Arc
had a walk in the park
compared to what passes
round here for a lark.
As One enters the fire
Fuelled by malice and ire
just like Joan one relies
on a power that is higher.

And dear Ghengis Khan
who's life spun a yarn
fades into the shadows
Of dear Lovely One
As One rides to the fray
like a huge Valkyrie
One really just wishes
'twould all go away.

But try as One might
One must stand up to the spite
and carry the banner
of truth, justice and right
To defend One's dear butt
'gainst malicious old mutt
with a case that's so tight
it's both open and shut.

Even though One's old butt
is nowhere to be found
there are still growing puddles
outside on the ground.
'How so?' you do mutter
'does it leak from the gutter?'
Do you know I just think that it might.

Saturday, 3 October 2015

In which One is wandering aimlessly about the town...

And so, here One is in Wivey 'All by myself' and it is weird...

It's the first weekend I've spent here in over a year and One can quite see why the Admiral is reluctant to up sticks and move to Wiv.  When one lives here full time one rather forgets how utterly odd everyone is.

I don't half miss the Admiral who is probably at this moment playing Chase the Ace with his delightful grandchildren.  One had planned to go on a crash diet and appear sylphlike and youthful upon his return, but having mucked out some old handbags, found enough loose change to acquire a Tandoori Mixed Gorilla last evening.  'Twas passable as a treat of a scoff, but the ensuing guffage was enough to choke a skunk.  The Admiral would have been proud of emissions like that.  One should acquire one of those devices currently shagging Voltswagon.

Biffed up the town to the Saturday morning market...

I'd forgotten quite how odd the great Wivey unwashed actually are...

An elderly lady was abroad ackled up in a spangled ballgown and the family jewels.  Not the traditional wear for a trip to Spar, but no one bats an eyelid here.

The Post Office spewed out the most bizarre looking gentleman, who stared about him as if he didn't know quite where he was. One swerved round him only to encounter the Tiny Temptress who'd just arrived back from Andalucia and was charging off to Dubai with her elderly amour.  My how the other half live!

Brand new Range Rovers disgorged elderly gentlemen in brightly coloured trousers.  What is it with the rich man of the outlying villages?  They all seem to wear extraordinary kecks: pink cords, frightful checks, in fact, anything that screams 'I am a rich person and therefore can be trousorily odd.'  Their ash blonde, bobbed wives disembark daintily in their cashmere coats and make straight for the Court House where they mwa-mwa their mates and drink Cappucino.

The Artisans market sits uncomfortably outside the Community Centre...

Inside, the indigenous population flog odd bits and bobs, hand made pies and cakes various wrapped in clingfilm. whilst outside the 'Artisans' proffer sour dough loaves, goat's cheese fashioned into items various and the kind of food I'll wager isn't high on the list of must haves for the local populous. (Squid curry, I'll mange me chapeau if they sold any of that to the locals!)

Any road up, saw BF and snuck off to the Bear Garden for a fag.  She gave me some sage advice re the butt dilemma.

One's new haircut was given the heads up by the woman in the Hardware Shop, who is the general arbiter of taste about these parts.  She is a bit biased though, given it's her daughter who is the mobile hairdresser.


One would just like to say a heartfelt 'thank you' to the blighters one flight up...

They have the most extraordinary disagreements (with the windows open)  She is a very theatrical type who hollers 'I need help' and 'you promised me you wouldn't go' and interesting stuff like that. I must say, given my staid and quiet life, I am entranced by their Tennessee Williams style flouncing about.  Not the traditional kind of behaviour One would associate with the Malthouse, given that cauldron stirring and spell incantation is the favoured past time of the matrons therein.

One sat out there last night fully expecting something, or someone to come hurtling out of the window, but it wasn't to be. Shame.

Anywho, this evening One shall be making a v hot chilli and scoffing things that the Admiral doesn't like.  It's not the same though.

Thursday, 1 October 2015

In which One is pissed, although unfortunately, not literally...

In the land of One it is still yesterday, having worked an extremely traumatic night at The House...

Oh, and just having returned from A and E with a damaged digit in a sling...

Let me explain, Dear Reader...

What with it being 'still yesterday' One thought 'I know, I'll nip to Lidls and acquire a couple of bottles of cheap plonk' after all, Stoptober for One shall begin on Monday.

'Remember when you get home to phone up the shop and tell my manager how well I'm doing,' said the trainee on the till.
One really would have, were it not for the fact that he's assembled the free wine carrier for One and when One removed it from the car the bastard collapsed shattering four of the bottles in the fecking porch of the Malthouse.

Never mind, thought One, I've still got two (to last the entire fecking month) and biffed into the kitchen, only to find that a previous tenant had taken my fecking corkscrew!

No matter, thought One, shan't need any until the sun's over the yardarm and proceeded to make a sandwich.

Distracted in no small part by the trauma of seeing the Pinot all over the porch One sliced a large chunk out of One's previously damaged digit.

There really wasn't that much of the tip of that particular finger left since it had been consumed in a sandwich making incident of One's youth, following a particularly riotous night.

So, there you have it...

Not only is One all alone for the weekend, but One now has a massive dressing holding together what's left of the damaged digit and no access to the remainder of the fecking Pinot.