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Monday, 30 November 2015

In which One is told of ghostly things...

'He followed me home from the graveyard. He absolutely loves dogs,' said One's co worker upon receipt of a query from One as to how the ghost took up residence in her gaff...

'He pokes his fingers up my nose,' she continued as One backed toward the exit, carefully avoiding One's charges who were intent on disrobing One...

Now, let me explain, Dear Reader...
One is an observer of the oooman in all it's forms and willing to accept all our little idiosyncrasies since we are all v different and that's what makes us what we are BUT even One has to draw the line somewhere...

'I am a very spiritual person and want to help people,' she ploughed on.

Don't get me wrong, Darlings, I really like the personage in question. In fact I like 'em all, being a happy person and loving One's fellow man.  The Admiral says it's because I'm a bit simple.  So be it, nobody's perfect, except him, of course.

In fact, One's Auntie Doris was a fully paid up, table lifting medium and One's Nanny Cooper was a regular at the Spiritualist Church, when she wasn't charging onto football pitches whacking referees with her clip-top handbag.  BUT, One is a little bothered by persons who put faith into things that are clearly just that, matters of faith.

In fact, an odd looking bloke once sidled up to One in a smoky nightclub and opined...
'I think you've got the gift.  Would you let me put you under and investigate?'
One exited stage left in a flurry of fag smoke and gin fumes, knowing full well that all the aforementioned cove was actually interested in was a bit of gusset foraging.

'Tis true, One has had a number of unexplained happenings in One's life, but haven't we all and One is very definitely NOT a spiritual being.

Any road up, One listened intently to the co worker and suspended disbelief until she began a diatribe regarding her bezzie mate who is regularly abducted by aliens.

What with that and a twelve and a half hour shift of TV watching, One was very nigh prone in a corner breathing into a brown paper bag.

'Bung the Asda Prosecco in the fridge.  I need it,' read the text One sent home having previously vowed not to sully One's interior with fags and drink.

'Tis an odd life and One is fairly certain that this mortal coil is all we have until we are planted and continue the circle of life.

BUT, yesterday, having received v sad news regarding the secretary of the Lovely One fan club, One can't help but hope that there is a divine afterlife where she can lay comfortably on a fluffy cloud and regard us and our ridiculous doings for time immemorial.

Saturday, 28 November 2015

In which One is visited,,,

Arriving home from One's day of toil, One nasally detected the aroma of cooking, the sounds of Man Music and a wicker work bath chair jauntily propping open the front door...
Upon entry to the Underground Lair One was met by the sight of the Admiral, supported by two of his three nubile young carers, stirring a cauldron of wildly boiling pie of the Sheep Herd...

A box of wine, opened and ready for One, a tin of extra chocolatey bisquits and a complimentary pack of wet wipes were displayed for the use of One.

Mmmm, thought One, a man in the gaff...

One, having been wrestling with a v small person for twelve hours was dishevelled and none too aromatic, so One hopped into the shower having placed all of One's garments into a red bag with a skull and crossbones on it.
One, having changed into One's bri nylon negliggy re-appeared shortly and slipped One's beautiful feet into One's marabou, kitten heeled slippers and flolloped down on the Louis Cans to await the pie of the Sheep Herd.

A v pleasant evening was spent in the company of the Admiral, who, it has to be said, is a splendid old gentleman in every respect.

What a lovely way to spend an evening
Can't think of anything I'd rather do...

Friday, 20 November 2015

In which One is bereft in the Lair...

In a little while from now
If I'm not feeling any less sour
I promise myself to treat myself
And visit a nearby tower
And climbing to the top
Will throw myself off
In an effort to
Make it clear to whoever
Wants to know what it's like When you're shattered

Gilbert O'Sullivan

Any road up, there we have it, The Admiral is currently ensconced in a secure unit for retired sea-faring coves and One is 'home again, home again, jig a jig jig.'

One glanced a final backward gaze and saw the sun twinkling off his silver beard as he was wheeled away by three Philippino Nurses who, weight for weight, he swapped for the comely curves of One.

Ah, no matter, 'tis better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all.'
What a load of old bollocks that is!  One was intending to live the life of Lady of the Manor, sashaying forth in me Norman Harnell ballgown and wellies to tend to the orangery, but, as per, it wasn't meant to be.

One gave serious thought to killing off Lovely One and no longer recording her escapades of derring do, but she's not quite ready for the scrap yard yet...

Almost, but not quite.  Having hoiked up most of a blackened lung these past few weeks, One has earned no wages and is looking forward to a Turkey Twizzler Yuletide, yet again, but One sallies forth with all the determination that a discarded, flollopy old dollop can muster...

As a parting shot to the Admiral's previous gaff, One tumbled down the twenty stairs on the ghastly slime that gathers in damp abodes and left a massive arse-shaped dent in the slate at the bottom of the aforementioned staircase.

'Are you injured, darling Lovely One?' I thought I heard you chorus Dear Reader.  Who is One kidding? You selfish bastards haven't even bothered to enquire after One's wizened lungs, so a general enquiry after the state of me arse is hardly likely.

No matter, now One is home for the foreseeable until the Lair goes under the hammer, One shall steel Oneself against all-comers, legal or otherwise and sally forth to Art Therapise the poor and in need.

It isn't quite so lovely being Lovely, Lovely One, these days. (Diana Mitford) (well, sort of)

Thursday, 12 November 2015

In which One sees a hare...

'I need to get some double sided sticky pads' said the A, proudly holding aloft an in car charger that he'd acquired from the Pound Shop.

One repaired immediately to One's charity shop Edina Ronay red leather bag and there, nestling beneath a tin of anchovies, was the very thing.

'Blimey! The contents of your bag would bamboozle a psychiatrist' said he, snatching the aforementioned sticky pads and securing his new device to the dash of the Morris Minor.

Now all One needs is a personage in dire need of a tin of anchovies and One's true worth shall become apparent to all and sundry.

Re: Buttgate, One is currently steeling Oneself for the seemingly inevitable trial.
Oh for a quiet life!

One is surely helpless against the might of the aggressor who has already spent four thousand pounds sending One solicitors letters.
Ah well, One shall doubtless be the world's first butt martyr.
I thought it was a good thing to do, but what do I know.
Nuffink it would appear.

Last night, being taken for a drive to get some fresh air into One's knackered lungs, One espied a hare (the first live one One has ever seen)
There it was leaping alongside the Morris Minor in the squally Cornish evening.
It made One's day!
I can't remember if they are good or bad luck.
We shall see...

Wednesday, 11 November 2015

In which One bids farewell...

One has been v v ill.

In fact One is still under the doctor with a mysterious chest.
Although One's physical symptoms are lessening day by day, One's mental state is seriously questionable.

'But One?' I hear you lament, Dear Reader, 'your mental state has long been questionable. In fact, to put none too fine a point on it, you are A MAD OLD BAT.'
Sad but true...

One is set fair for a lean festive season since One has been unable to tend to the sick and needy for weeks and has earnt nothing.
'Ho Ho Ho' shall be replaced with ' Woe Woe Woe' in the underground lair.

Although One is without doubt not guilty of the now infamous 'Great Butt Incident' it would appear that One's protestations have fallen on deaf ears and the matter seems to be hurtling toward the abyss, with alarming speed.

One is supremely disadvantaged in the defence arena since One can't even afford the bus fare to the Citizens Advice office, let alone the services of a defence lawyer.

The anniversary of One's stroke is approaching. Perhaps One will have another and just let that be an end to it.

'What's happened to your irrepressible Pollyanna spirit?' I hear you cry, Dear Reader.

Along with my looks, it has gone. Everyone has a limit and I have reached mine.

Somewhere, in a dark corner, there is an unpleasant person rubbing their gnarled hands together with their customary fiendish glee.

Farewell, dear friends, One's had enough.