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Friday, 30 December 2016

In which I hate it here ...

One is now fully informed of all the illnesses/medication various/eating/sleeping habits of each and every 'chum' of Aged P...

'Eileen sleeps on a two-seater sofa every night, you know and goes down Debenhams for one slice of toast with beans on and one with egg. What do you think of that?' she hisses with vitriol.

As with so many of her other statements, there is simply no adequate reply.

The child in the adjoining house starts running up and down, thereby diverting the flow of bile, briefly in her direction and affording One a handy get-out from Eileen bashing.

'Have you seen Boy?' she enquiries, knowing full well that I haven't.

This enquiry is an attempt at solidarity, since her son, my brother, has ceased all communication with her.

I briefly leave the scene, to be informed, on my return, by my companion, that she 'thinks this is disgusting because I used to buy him anything he wanted when he was little. It must be his Father's fault.'

And there we have the problem, Dear Reader: Everything has to be someone's fault. Though not hers.

The brother gave up with her and cut her from his life as 'she ruined his childhood.'
I do have a certain sympathy for that view, but I am too much of a coward to do likewise and simply prolong the agony with bad-tempered visits making any companion I have, uncomfortable in the extreme.

The real truth of the matter is that I am terrified of any comparison between she and me.

Sometimes when I'm particularly ill humoured I hear her bitter spite in my own voice. Or I catch a glimpse of her pinched, sour face in my own reflection and I want to put a gun to my temple.

Thursday, 29 December 2016

In which it's all bollicks...

That's it! Four fecking days off after the festivities are over...

'Stop moaning, Lovely One!' I hear you chorus Dear Reader, 'you can have a lovely rest and put yer feet up, watch a bit of telly.'

You'd like to think so wouldn't you? But no, a delicious visit to AP and then on to others.  Soon as I get back it'll be off back to work humping boxes of fecking shite that nobody wants, up and down the sodding stairs at the Purveyor  of Fine Grocery Items.

'OH STOP COMPLAINING, LOVELY ONE,' you cry, 'at least you've got your health'

GOT MY HEALTH!  I'm a fat, flollopy dollop with dangerously high blood pressure, diabetes, elephantine, varicose legs, loose teeth, knackered knees, a comedy stomach and a hacking cough worthy of 60 Woodbine a day AND enough super- floo-us hair to stuff a kind sized mattress.

And as for watching a bit of telly: what a load of bollicks that's been. Every crappy Christmas film has had fecking dogs in it, 'saving Christmas' or some other bleedin' nonsense. This morning hit an all time low with 'Herbie goes Bananas' Don't these blithering eejits know that cars do all that 'thinking for themselves' now?

The Christmas  tree is shedding all over the sitting room floor, shitty water is seeping up through the khazi floor, there's no hot water, can't afford to put the heating on, the oven's shagged and I'm growing a goatee.

Happy fecking New Sodding Year, one and all.

Monday, 26 December 2016

In which Christmas is over...

Back to work today...

But, what a day off...

The turkey twizzler was a triumph and was followed by an Asda Smart Price pudding for one, slathered in custard.  Obv, had a bit of a nap after all that and then resumed mopping shite off the bathroom floor.

Amazing really, since an emergency plumber, who turned up 26 hrs late, fiddled about, charged £130 for 20 mins work and cleared off saying he'd fixed it, had been on Christmas  eve.

Rather fitting really that the end of a shitty year should be actually submerged in poop.

Still have no hot water in The Lair, but there's plenty of cold water sloshing about to paddle in.

Crap on the telly too.  Not even a decent rendition of A Christmas  Carol to indulge in.  Lots of festive adverts showing nuclear families enjoying over consumption of festive fayre and drowning in expensive presents though.

The best gift One can hope for in the new year is some likely cove fronting up to purchase what's left of the crumbling Lair.  Not a great deal of hope for that scenario though.  After all, if the Estate Agent's blurb were to reveal the truth, it would say: Crumbling, damp Lair for sale, complete with undulating wooden floor seeping sewage.

Anyway One shall not be cowed, One shall rise above it all, paint a No 7 smile on One's angelic face and skip up the road in my worn out shoes to hump beer crates up the stairs and sell fine grocery items to the great unwashed.

Sunday, 25 December 2016

In which the Christmas conversation is had with Aged P...

LO    Merry  Christmas Mother!

AP    That bloody Polish girl next door was running up and down until quarter to twelve. Don't Polish children walk?

LO    I don't know. I expect they were having their Christmas celebrations. They celebrate on Christmas  eve.  Anyway, did you get your parcel?

AP   It's white! I wanted a colour. I can't wear that it's too heavy and its got a hood and its fluffy on the outside.

(The requested bath robe has clearly not been well received)

LO   I thought you wanted a bath robe.

AP   Yes, but not a white one or a fluffy heavy one with a hood. I'm not wearing that so I'll give you the money for it and Kate only bought me a mug with sachets in it. Everyone got me the wrong wine and the Egyptians next door are still in bed.

LO   I don't want the money for it. It's your Christmas present.  It's from Marks and Spencer and it was the nicest one I could afford.

AP   Well I can't wear that with my arm and bloody Eileen bought me two tops I don't like and I'll have to come home early because she drinks Lambrusco and watches Eastenders.

LO   I thought you liked the soaps. If you don't like the bathrobe take it back and change it.

AP   Oh I can't be bothered with that now the Muslims have changed the busses. Have you got chicken?

LO   No I've gone for the individual Turkey Twizzler dinner for one. I won't be doing much anyway I've got to work tomorrow.

AP   I've got two bloody pairs of slippers and a load of chocolate and I can't even wear me best trousers because bloody Eileen's rescued a cat. I'm not eating sprouts or I'll be on the bog all day. I'm putting the radio on loud to wake them Polish people next door.  Do you know, there were thousands in Asda yesterday with trolleys piled six foot high and I only wanted a pork pie. Oh, Ange is here, I'll give her that pink wine, bye.

Friday, 23 December 2016

In which Christmas is shite, quite literally...

Oh goody! Just when I thought that my one day off for Christmas might be a little bit of a relax, it would appear that I shall be knee deep in shite.

Yes, after the last drainage debacle, when One spent thirteen weeks holed up in a sumptuous residence in Salcombe, while some shit stirrers dug up the underground lair, it's all begun again.

The splendid wooden floor is lifting, the bog is overflowing and One is pissed right off.

Who is it that sees fit to shove items various down the khazi and render the last flush (One's bog) jammed to feckery?

Deck the halls with floating pooh pooh, fa la la la la la fecking la...

Thursday, 22 December 2016

In which One narrowly evades a grisly end...

One is in a slightly better festive frame of mind this morning, having actually been abroad in daylight hours.

Have come to the conclusion that beginning One's working day in the late winter afternoon and being incarcerated in the Purveyor of Fine Foods until the dead of night is not conducive to a lightness of being.

The Admiral, in a sterling effort to bring One some festive cheer, biffed up on his tinsel adorned mobility scooter and bore One off to the Christmas Tree farm...

Arriving back at the Underground Lair, One was deposited, with tree, at the top of the stairs down to the lair whilst the A cleared off in the direction of the Co op to acquire Egg Nog.

'I can get this tree down the stairs on my own' thought One, forgetting that One is a washed up, weakened by disease, varicose old dollop...

The exercise began well and One dragged the tree down the first step without issue...

'Probably best if I go down backwards' thought One and performed a pirouette type movement whilst embracing the tree, clutching it to One's bosom with me free hand. (The other grasping a bag of life's essentials: Pinot and gusset liners,)

Unfortunately the netting, applied to restrain the branches of the tree, became entangled with the buttons on One's Barbour, rendering One spread-eagled against the wall in a bizarre crucifixion pose.

The tree, with it's stump wedged at the top of the stairs and it's tip across One's throat, was an irresistible force and rendered One an immovable object.

Just as one's life flashes before one's eyes as one succumbs to the briney and drowns, so it is thus when falling prey to 'death by Christmas Tree.'

As a myriad of failed suitors/careers/marriages/liaisons danced before my eyes, I realised the futility of my existence.

One could envisage the headline of The Wivey Messenger: 'Remains of obese Christmas Tree Fairy found impaled upon Nordman Fir' or even worse, being consumed by passing hounds who then, adding insult to injury, pee up the tree.

In the nick of time One was liberated by the A who manouvered the bastard tree into the sitting room still attached fast to One.

There it sits, menacing One, dropping needles and seemingly unable to support the flimsiest of baubles on it's droopy branches.

No matter, it will be a fitting back drop to the sad spectacle of a solitary One as One carves the Turkey Twizzler on the big day.

Tuesday, 20 December 2016

In which the season's joys evade One...

Unfortunately the doors on One's advent blog have remained closed.  Stuck in place with snot.
Yes, Dear Reader, once again One has been struck down with a chest infection that has lain One low in both body and spirit.

I fear I may actually be a curmudgeonly, sour old bat. The Christmas spirit has evaded One completely and all One wants to do is crawl into the truckle bed, pull the counterpaine over One and kip the fecking festive season away.

Still, it won't actually be a holiday for One, since One is required to hump crates up and down the winding staircase at the Purveyor of Fine Foodstuffs, on both Christmas Eve and Boxing day.

One was, in fact, in line for the same depressing fate at New Year, but has been let off the hook due to the fact that One is required to visit Aged P and a gaggle of the Admiral's relations.

'Oh how lovely' I hear you chorus, Dear Reader. Maybe so, for someone who has the spirit of Christmas coursing through their veins, but at this present time One has icy water flowing through One's and is spitting humbugs.

Like a Grinch, I have all the company I need right here under the quilt in the solitary truckle bed.

Bah Humbug, go and boil yerself with yer own pudding.

Friday, 9 December 2016

In which One's barfing...

Behind today's door is a box of Maltesers...

In the Purveyor of Fine Grocery Items there are more boxes of the suckable little spheres than there are people in Wivey.

One and One's colleagues are expected to ask each customer if they'd like to buy some, along with fruit jellies and some miserable looking Christmas Cookies.

One can't bring Oneself to utter the word 'cookies'  One is British, and they are biscuits, not cookies.

Any road up, One, being an arch manipulator, has been on fire, in the flogging of fruit jellies, since they are an acceptable Chrismassy delicacy.

Frankly if I ever see another confectionery item I shall barf in me Birkin.

Thursday, 8 December 2016

In which there is more than a sufficiency of sprouts...

Behind today's door is the transcript of a conv with Aged P..

AP.  Did you get it then? And if I get any more brussels I shall be ill.

LO.  Get what? And what about brussels?

AP.  That picture of Nana Harris. She had bright red hair you know and that bloody Eileen has sausages every day. Every time we go out she wants fish and chips and a wee. I'm going to The Old Palace Lodge for a Christmas Dinner and I don't want any more brussels, I've been in the bog all day.

LO.  Well don't eat them then, and yes, I did get the picture it's lovely and I'll put it in Boy's album.

AP.  Have you got me that jumper for Christmas yet because I've changed my mind to a towelling bath robe.  What do you want?

LO.  I'd like a surprise.

AP.  Well I am paying for you to stay at The Premier Inn.

LO. Well don't then if it's a problem.

AP.  I'm bloody Fed up of them next door. They talk Polish through the wall.

LO.  Well they are Polish so it's hardly surprising.

AP.  You can't get in up the surgery any more because of all the Muslims and they've changed the bus timetable. The Egyptians have still got a tablecloth up the bedroom window and Bloody Eileen goes to bed at seven every night.

LO.  I've got to go to work in a minute so I'll say goodbye. Have a nice time at the Christmas lunch.

AP.  The Mayor's Muslim you know. I bet it's him what changed the busses and Nana stole the Christmas club money and spent it on a new hat and that bloody Eileen can't make gravy to save her life. Oh, Ange is here so I'm going for lunch and they'd better not give me brussels.


Tuesday, 6 December 2016

In which One is served...

Six and seven are a set of double doors, Nana, in answer to your enquiry!

This phenomenon is required to house an image, see above, of a roast dinner cooked by the dear old Admiral.  OK, so it didn't look exactly like that, but that's what he was aiming for presumably.

Bouyed by his recent experience of dumpling creation, the old thing once again tottered toward the galley muttering about a roast beef extravaganza.

'Oh shite!' thought One, 'I'll need to get a few pints of Pinot down me neck afore I attempt the mastication of that fecker.'

Having been ushered, rudely, out of the galley upon One's attempt at help/offering advice, One flolloped down on the sofa to await the feast.

Hours passed, the air thick with smoke and profanities, and eventually he staggered in with the offering.

Having been a devotee of dear old Delia, One is now a dab hand at the creation of sumptuous Sunday roasts, but One's small attempts at assistance were batted off and the old thing went it alone.

Should any other persons of the male persuasion feel the need to attempt such a feat, I have written the Admirals instructions below...

Under no circumstances allow the oven to warm up to the correct temperature.

Put the beef in...

Under no circumstances season, or add any oil, making sure the plastic bit under the meat stays intact.

Cook the meat until it resembles a recently mined nugget of anthracite.

Set aside on the kitchen counter without covering so that it dries to feckery and gets cold.

Put the par-boiled potatoes onto a cold baking tray and smother with any old oil you find in the kitchen cupboard.  Don't bother turning the oven up to the correct temperature, after all, 'you know best and you never come into the galley telling me what to do, do you!'

Having put the vegetables on to boil last Thursday, check that they are on their way to resembling slurry.  Ensure the veg are stirred regularly with an expensive wooden salad server, leaving it in the water so that it is rendered 'fecked.'

Mix the Yorkshire batter.

Pour batter into a cold bun tin, making sure not to add any fat so that the puddings will adhere to the tin in the manner of shite to a blanket.

Having mixed your instant gravy earlier, set aside to congeal and get cold.

Don't bother warming the plates.

Keep  on opening the oven door to check that the Yorkshire pudding don't rise and shout into the sitting room: 'I can't understand why the potatoes are taking so long to cook.'

Ignore One, when One enquires as to the temperature of the oven, but turn it up anyway, mumbling something like...

'Oh shut up you fat tart!'

Eventually, serve with a triumphant flourish.


Well, One did 'enjoy' actually, after all it's wonderful that the dear old thing had a go.  Let's just hope it's got it out of his system for the foreseeable future.

Sunday, 4 December 2016

In which One reminisces...

Behind door number five on the SAdvent Calendar is a winter afternoon memory...

We were living on the Holly Lodge Estate, gated, of course, in Highgate. 

Many of the long, foggy winter afternoons were spent in the elegant sitting room in front of the fire watching snow fall.

It was the North London standard sitting room: stripped wooden floor, central gas log fire, ornate looking glass above, with proper library shelves, holding appropriate literature, above low storage cupboards housing the must watch films of the day...

This picture of One and Boy, see above Dear Reader, was taken by Dawn, One's erstwhile work chum who would make the journey from Cheltenham to see us on a regular basis.

One met Dawn when we were both head-hunted by a Radar Console Design Company to work on the Dover Port Control system.  It wasn't long before we realised that both of us had been promoted way beyond our actual capabilities and we became firm friends.  After all it was the 1980's and if you wore massive shoulder pads, drank cocktails and stamped about issuing orders, anything was possible...

But I digress,  back to the winter in Highgate...

Many a winter's day saw us walking miles across the Heath or all the way to Camden market and then back to the cosy sitting room.

There really is nothing quite so lovely as having a delicious, well behaved, beautiful baby as a constant companion. 

Where has all that time gone, and when did that exquisite creature turn into a six foot four, hairy barn door?

In which door number four reveals the allure of One...

Behind door number four, Dear Reader, is the angelic face of your very own Lovely One...

For in amongst the toothless, weather beaten, in-bred, back-pack wearing female population of this sleepy backwater, One's everlasting, natural loveliness shines like a Christmas Tree star...

'Steady on, ' I hear you scoff, Dear Reader, 'surely you must realise you've gorn orf with the passage of time?'

Well, you'd think so, wouldn't you?

Maybe it's the failing eyesight of the septagenarian customers in The Purveyor of Fine Grocery emporium, perhaps it's the result of years of over indulgence of Thatchers Finest Cider, or even the light glinting off the bar-code reader as One scans twenty fags, but One has clearly still 'got it.'

Well, got it for at least two of the local ne'er do well drunkards, who, One has just been informed, are in fact, brothers.

One, who One first encountered shortly after arriving in town, was draped over a dog pooh bin outside a local hostelry, and upon espying Lovely One, hollered 'Oi, you're lovely, you are, will you marry me?'

One, still retaining the Hampstead Village yummy mummy air, shot off as quickly as One's sturdy little legs could carry One.

The other, whom One had hired to clean One's chimney when One lived in the Big House, upon hearing that One rather liked the aroma of soot, replied...
'Ang on Missus, I'll just smear me naked body with it.'

Since One has resided in the Underground Lair One has managed to swerve the sweep, but still lights the fire of the other brother, for, tis he who makes a nightly visit to the Purveyor of Fine Grocery items merely to gaze upon One.

'Ere, you're lovely, you are, standing there with your blonde, curly hair,' says he as he staggers over to the hot food counter to purchase a 'marked down to 10p' pasty for his tea.

One has implored One's teenage work colleague to head him off at the pass, but the little dear merely guffaws as he considers this nightly spectacle 'entertainment.'

Last evening, expecting a visit from One's unwanted amour, One nipped down the back of the shop to mark down the almost out of date fish, hoping the aroma of moist tuna might mask the heady aroma of One, but to no avail.

One's colleague, for once, shouted, 'Oi, mate, you can't come in here harassing the staff!' But 'twas no good, he staggered past him, weaving in and out of the Bawdens cake delivery, hollering, 'You can't keep me away from her. She's my baby!'

So there you have it, Dear Reader, One hasn't lost One's legendary allure with the passage of time.

Saturday, 3 December 2016

Behind door number three...

Behind door number three...

Is a complete idiot. That's me that is, Dear Reader...

Why did I give up painting? How did I end up being a sixty year old woman working in a sweet shop?

Anyway, with these pertinent questions ringing in me good ear, and having salted away enough money to buy some mounts for 'Storybook Wivey' I hailed the omnibus and limped off to Wellington.

'No, no, no,' said the bloke in the art shop upon One's request for a quote for ivory picture mounts.
'No. You want green,' he ploughed on.
'I don't want green. I always use ivory and that's what I want,' said One through gritted tooth. (I don't grit them too hard these days as I've only got three that aren't loose.)

Eventually the fool realised that One does actually know what One wants and said...
'You only want one then? You don't want backing board as well.'

One actually wanted one hundred and fifty, in lots of ten, but it seemed pointless to pursue the transaction further when the fool quoted seven-fecking-fifty for a single, back-free mount.

Might as well paper the khazi with the 'Storybook Wivey' prints for all the chance One has of affording that.

Ah well, off to sell chocolate and cider to the great unwashed, with just a solitary Turkey Twizzler to look forward to at Christmas.

Friday, 2 December 2016

In which One wants presents...

Behind door number 2 on One's SAdvent calendar is an email from BF saying that she's so skint, we should stop exchanging Christmas presents.

In fact, things are so bad down the hill that she's been harvesting pubic hair from the plug hole for months and crocheting antimacasas as gifts for family.  BFP will be the fortunate recipient of a balaclava, constructed solely from the super-floo-us facial harvests courtesy of the No-No he gifted her last year.

Not only that, Dear Reader, I heard the Admiral on the phone telling his offspring that 'we're too old for all that. Don't get us anything.'


What's the matter with these curmudgeonly old humbugs?

I want presents and lots of them.

Thursday, 1 December 2016

In which One is a snot machine...

So, here we are, Dear Reader, at the end of a complete shite year, at the beginning of advent and behind door number one...
A snot filled Kleenex.

Yes, One has a cold in der doze...

A tad difficult to get any time off the Emporium of Fine Groceries, but wheedled two days in bed, no pay of course, and am holed up on the sofa watching stchoopid American Christmas films and hacking up lumps of lung into a bucket.

If One is in this sort of state now, approaching sixty, what will One be like when One reaches the new retirement age of sixty-fecking-seven!

What's that all about, Dear Reader? 
Correct moi if moi is wrong, but wasn't it those city bankers who dropped the country in it with their risk taking, for which not a single one has been brought to book?  Yet it is the poor sod at the bottom of the heap:  Moi et al who are fecking paying for it.

Every woman who would have retired next year, like me, has had thirty thousand pounds stolen from them.  And that is thirty thousand as of now.  A figure which will surely rise as the retirement age goes up and up.

One doesn't mind doing One's bit work-wise, but pay is so bad now that it doesn't even add up to enough to meet basic bills, let alone have any left for luxuries like heating and hot water.

I kid you not, Dear Reader, I still haven't got a hot water tank.  Oh well, perhaps I'll get pneumonia and die.

Thursday, 24 November 2016

In which the Admiral turns chef...

One, now arriving home at some ungodly hour, on a nightly basis from the Purveyor of Fine Grocery Items, has afforded the Admiral a key to the Underground Lair in order that he can pursue his love of turning fine ingredients into unpalatable gunk...

Having been party to the hissy fit that ensued, upon One and the wife of one of his chums, offering our advice on the manufacturing improvement of his legendary Shepherd's Pie, One feels it unwise to offer further gems of wisdom re any fecking foodstuffs actually, One has taken to leaving notes containing explicit instruction and then legging it, tout sweet.

Having previously prepared and part cooked a sumptuous beef stew, One left instruction as to the addition of the, two ingredient, dumplings to be flopped in before One's return.

Leaving out the Atora suet and self raising flour, One imagined the instruction: 'make dumplings' would suffice.

Like feck it did!

Upon entry into the outer foyer, a delicious aroma wafted under the door of the Lair.

'Mmmmm, all is well,' thought One, but no, upon entry, One found the Admiral staggering about the galley with grey slurry dripping from the front of his spectacles...

Upon further investigation the aforementioned slurry was dripping from the walls, the ceiling and covering sundry items within a two yard residence.

'What on earth are you doing?' enquired One, lugging off me Uggs.

'Making the dumplings,' countered he, brandishing a balloon whisk that had been beating the be-Jesus out of the slurry being concocted in my painting-water jug.
At least the fact that he'd used my paint stained water container explained the other-wordly, blue hue of the dumpling slurry.

'You only need to lightly mix the suet and flour with enough water to form little balls,' offered One.
'Well, I didn't know that,' huffed he, returning the balloon whisk to the vessel and continuing the massacre of the ingredients.

One retired to the drawing room with a fag and Vodka laced Red Bull.

Tuesday, 8 November 2016

In which chips are consumed...

That rarest of occasions...

Lunch out!

The Iron Duke: a Wetherspoons in Wellington.

Previous experience of such venues have been the roof garden in Ilfracombe, overlooking a curious construction, purporting to be a theatre, but resembling a giant pair of nellies, quite incongruous with it's surroundings.

I digress, Dear Reader, back to the present day and the impromptu luncheon with The Admiral.

'Tis a value for money establishment, if you like chips and burgers. As you know, One is at odds with the great unwashed and favours neither.

Rude not to though and scoffed same anyway.

'Ave yer finished' enquired the sturdy thighed waitress. Oddly, since One was still masticating the reasonably priced item.

'No' said One and buried One's nose in the Arts section of the times.

One did sympathise with the type though, since she was visibly keen to see the arse end of One and the A, since, for some obscure reason, he kept whistling Torreador and beating time on the table with his telescope.

One, used to the peculiar behaviour of the cove since he tipped over the edge, sometimes forgets that the assembled populous may not be familiar with such erratic behaviour, attempted to divert his attention by pointing out a vast tapestry of The Duke on his mount Copenhagen.

All to no avail, since the A was intent on capturing the eye of the thick thighed waitress.

He proffered a toothless grin in her gen direc as she fled toward the kitchen and he was either extremely pleased to see her rear view or he'd stored the remains of his Cornetto on his lap under his blankie.

Wednesday, 2 November 2016

In which One can't be bothered...

When I left The Shit-Face I fully intended to expose the shameful waste of tax payers money on the ghastly inmates, whose own families can neither be bothered to look after them or pay others so to do.

Similarly, I was once of a mind to tell the story of my time incarcerated with that vile old harridan at Langley Cross, exposing her manipulative, self proclaimed, victim status.

Instead, I just can't be bothered.

Suffice it to say that the horrible old woman completely cured me of my propensity to  collect lame ducks.

The ghastly inhabitants of the Shit Face, closely followed by the equally dreadful and ungrateful old women being cared for in their own homes, have put the tin hat on my time in 'care.'

No, it is with a tremendous sense of relief that I now wipe down shelves instead of arses various.
I can shoot the breeze with persons acquiring pints of milk (no one ever buys anything else), bid them farewell and forget about them.

As yet not one has bitten me or shit themselves and expected me to clear it up.

However, the SFO had a severe farting problem last night, which is hardly surprising since he stuffs his fat face from the moment he gets to work, interspersed only by trousorial dipping, playing on his phone or reading the newspaper.

The distribution of labour is interesting to say the least: 95% in my direction.

I'm sorely tempted to tell him which way 's up but it's difficult when breathing through one's ears.

Thursday, 27 October 2016

In which One very nearly vomitted...

A strange and ghastly phenomenon appears to be sweeping the indigenous male of the Wivey species, Dear Reader...

In particular, those of One's recent acquaintance...

One has observed that the males appears to have significant tackle distribution worries...

Let me explain...

An, 'Evenin' all,' (a la Dixon of Dock Green) posture is adopted at the most inopportune moment.  They stop, mid saunter, in the middle of town to perform the 'Dixon Dip' which, can mean only one thing: tackle re-distribution, unless of course attired in the garb of Her Majesty's law enforcement officers, which they simply are not.

Even The Admiral, long since retired from The Metropolitan Police has a Romanian nineteen year old Care Worker, suitably gloved-up, of course, to dip 'neath the tartan rug over his knees to rearrange the contents of his Tena Man pant.  Anyway he always had the excuse of manouvering his firearm.

But, I digress, Dear Reader...

One, feigning the aversion of One's eyes, can't help but be drawn to the observation of this new and terrifying phenomenon...

One can only surmise that what with the reluctance of the indigenous populous to venture forth past the Totem Poles on the edge of town (see above) the strapping young coves are still 'ackled up in Trutex age nine Y-Back shreddies, for as anyone who resides in the sleepy hidey-hole in Deepest Somerset will inform you, you can get almost anything in Wivey, except undergarments.

But, that is not all, Dear Reader...

A further development has occurred which has left One struggling not to barf up me marked down sausage supper...


This redistribution activity usually occurs when they are under the impression that they are not being observed, but, One, a keen observer of one's fellow man, has encountered this phenomenon on one too many an occasion...

Why only yesterday, one such revolting specimen rent aside his combat trousers, went in for the full handful, shifted it to the required position and then, bold as brass, commenced fingering One's Pink Lady, if you please!

That put the kibosh on One's ten minute break snack I can tell you.

I very nigh vo-mited in me till!

Tuesday, 25 October 2016

In which there is but one One...

One has received a missive from a personage calling herself 'one' and having named her blog ' However did it come to this' Dear Reader.

Well, I'll go to the foot of our stairs!

There is only one 'One'

'We should form a group' went on the other 'one'


One, having retired to the truckle bed to breathe deeply into a brown paper bag, has now recovered from the shock and accepted that imitation is the sincerest form of flattery.

However, One, being a curmudgeonly old harridan, eschews 'groups' of any flavour, preferring the solitary existence of the tomb deep in The Underground Lair.

One now only emerges to perambulate to the purveyor of fine grocery items and biff up and down the stairs with items various.

It did actually look like someone might purchase the aforementioned lair the other day, thereby freeing One to honour One's debts and shove off in  a raggle taggle gypsy van, but no.

I expect that's it for the winter now, so One soldiers on hoping to avoid eviction.

But wait, Dear Reader, the 'one' from across the pond wants to form a group.

Perhaps One should sally forth and 're-group at her gaff.

SHUT THE FRONT DOOR, I believe they're fond of saying.

Sunday, 23 October 2016

In which One must endure a fetid nob...

An unusually scented evening's toil in the purveyor of fine grocery items, Dear Reader...

One, winding down into retirement, has washed up in the company of a less than desirable co worker.

One, biffing up and down the winding staircase with crates of Wivey laughing water was met at the shop floor by a fetid miasma that One could have sewn a button on.

One's co worker, who, on most evenings commences the proceedings with the line...
'What can I eat tonight?' had clearly overloaded his system and was intent on blasting the excess gas into the aisles for all to enjoy.

One, too ladylike to comment, took to breathing through One's ears. Sadly a talent not shared by the passing customers, who, in their droves, opened the shop door, were met with the foul stench, and sheared to the other sustinence emporium.

Did he think no one would notice, did he not care a jot, is he just an ignorant foul smelling oik?

If there's one thing that would make One eschew this handy little painting top up income, it will be the mind numbing hours One must spend in the company of this Neanderthal Nob.

As he stands in too close proximity to One, awaiting the smallest of slip up or error on One's part, he makes One feel uber uncomfortable.

One, having to endure the company of the eejit, has, thus far, resisted the urge to tell the idiot which way is up.

One shall remain steadfast in the knowledge that he is a sad, sorry individual, who appears to believe he is One's superior.

'Have that one on me eejit.'

I maintain a dignified silence, knowing that the last time I found it necessary to engage in social intercourse with someone that far down the food chain, it was to intone...

'You're fired,' or 'start upstairs.'

Monday, 17 October 2016

In which One is reclining...

One is feeling uber gloomy today, Dear Reader...

One should be reclining on a comfy beach somewhere, fag in one hand, cocktail in the other.

Instead One is making ready to perambulate in the gen direc of the purveyor of groceries, where One shall be humping boxes of essentials up the stairs to feed the great Wivey unwashed.

Don't misunderstand One, Dear Reader, One is quite keen on One's little simple occupation, but, in dire need of a break.

Yesterday was an odd day in the store as the Square's electricity was out for hours.

All transactions were in cash as the tills and scanners were down. When power came back we were required to decipher our long lists of shorthand transactions and scan the lot.

One can't deal with anything out of the norm these days and is currently reclining breathing into a brown paper bag.

The other grocery emporium shut it's doors, chucked out all it's chilled and frozen produce, whilst we, with our 'can do' spirit soldiered on with the aid of a torch and One's lightening mental arithmetic abilities.

Perhaps some of the infrequent visitors to our store, the store of preference being shut, will favour us with their custom again.

One would hope so, since we were selling our chilled goods for half price, while the other store chucked theirs out. When questioned as to the possibility of donating the produce to the poor and needy, they replied, 'it's not company policy.'


Saturday, 15 October 2016

In which One is in hiding...

A splendid time of year, Dear  Reader...

Just nippy enough for a hot water bottle to shove down me leggings during a delicious afternoon nap, AND, the 'special socks' are out for the season.

'Oh my gawd!' exclaimed the Admiral as he parked his mobility scooter in the hall and One appeared wearing a baggy-arsed Tesco Home and Wear tracksuit and the aforementioned special socks.

Having, over the years, now farted seven times in his presence, One felt secure enough in his affections to introduce the tracksuit accompanied by the socks.

Above the neck, however, One sported the face of an angel, fully made up and coiffed, since One had been up since sparrow's fart presenting the Community Show on 10 Radio with Dear Old A.
103.5fm or is it 105.3, anyway it's online on 10

A few hours in the company of D
 old A does wonders for an old one like One and we met some interesting coves.

Who would have thought that sleepy old Wivey played such a part in the Monmouth Rebellion?
One of our guests mesmerized One with an account of three Wivey articles having been hung drawn and quartered and their tarred remains being hung in the town to deter others from traitorous doings.

Serves ''em right for passing the totem poles at the edge of town!

Stay in the village. That's my advice, Dear Reader, feast on marked down sausages from Central Stores, wack a couple of pints of Thatchers finest down yer neck of a Friday pm and hide from the cruel world in deepest Somerset.

Tuesday, 11 October 2016

In which One's ankles ache...

Saturday's child works hard for a living...
Ain't that the truth, Dear Reader.
Why didn't One do something sensible when One was young?
A transferable career. Say, hairdressing or some such.
Instead One chose engineering drawing and in the dim distant past we used mapping pens and linen.
After One had nurtured Boy the world had moved on to pooter aided design and left One behind.

Woe is One.

Don't get One wrong, Dear Reader, One actually likes shop work. After all no one bites, punches or poops themselves thus far.

But One hadn't envisaged a life of humping crates of beer at the cusp of retirement.

Stoptober definitely hasn't come to Wivey.

One's poor old legs look like they've been knitted out of bobbly wool. After eight hours standing up One's feet are v tired and One's creaky ankles about to give way.

Must ramp up the painting on One's days orf.
Got a couple of hares on the easel facing to be painted at the mo.

Even thoughts of being a 'lady in a van' are seemingly out of reach since The Underground Lair appears impossible to sell.

One, however, is not melancholy in the least, but striving to prevail.

After waking up thinking 'oh shit. I'm still alive' the world looks a better place after the administration of a snorker sandwich and three espressos.

At the end of the month when One gets paid, One shall acquire some fresh seasonal vegetables though, since living off marked down snorkers has rendered One something of a Buddha.

Maybe that's why me ankles ache.

Monday, 10 October 2016

In which One has acquired cheesy feet...

'What are you going to do this evening?' enquired One's co worker as One finished for the day at six pm instead of One's usual ten pm, not to forget the extra ten/twenty minutes spent cashing up...
Yes I know I moaned about it yesterday, but it's worth a minute or two's moaning monologue per day...

So, One replied...

'I shall be squeezing sausages.  What are you doing?'

Let me explain, Dear Reader...

When darkness falls in the purveyor of fine grocery items, One marks down perishables and flogs 'em off at ridicliously reduced prices.  If the Sausage Truffler from Milverton hasn't been in and bought the fecking lot, One, living in dire reduced circs, wacks 'em in a basket and perambulates them, forthwith, to the freezer in the Underground Lair.

Being, utterly 'snorkered up' One came upon the idea of knocking up a rake of pastry and fashioning some sausage rolls to ring the changes.

Ergo...  Sausage squeezing.

Any road up, One snuggled down on the Louis Cans with aforementioned sausage rolls and feasted One's beadies upon Ross Poldark rolling a silk stocking up the leg of the v fortunate Demelza,
'Flippin' 'eck,' thought One, 'I could go a portion of that on a Sunday night,' and immediately telephoned the Home for Retired Seamen to enquire the whereabouts of the Admiral.

Fortunately the Admiral had just been administered his Sanatogen, and thus, he set forth on his motability scooter for the Underground Lair.

One, wishing to waste no time, had assembled One's elastic stockings, lit an incense burner and lay back on the Louis Cans awaiting his arrival.

'Blimey!  I'll never get them up your fat thighs,' opined the Admiral as his gnarled digits fought in vain to roll the American Tan stockings up One's shapely calves.
One, who could detect the snagging of One's surgicals by the fungal fingernails of the Admiral, sought not to have One's reverie rudely interrupted and closed One's eyes to conjure up the image of Ross Poldark.

'Flippin' 'eck, what's that pong?' enquired he, recoiling as fast as an arthritic frame will allow, 'You ain't arf got cheesy feet!'

One, by now struggling to maintain the illusion, was mortally offended, but to be honest he did have a point.

Casting aside the stockings, blowing out the candle, One slipped the offensive plates of meat into me tartan zip up cozee booties and put the light on.

'It's Athletes foot if you must know,' huffed One, 'I have to stand up for eight hours at a time in the shop.'

'Athletes Foot! Athletes bleedin' foot!,' shrieked he, 'how the feck did you get anything athletic?'

Well, Dear Reader, that about put the tin hat on the proceedings.  One repaired to the bathroom to administer some Scholl foot cream and left the blighter to let himself out.

Saturday, 8 October 2016

In which we are short changed...

One, having been a captain of industry in One's youth, (well, a Drawing Office Manager) enjoyed a productive, lucrative and respected working life. Having spent time out rearing Boy, doing feck all and then many years self employment as a jobbing painter, it has come as something of a shock, upon One's return to the workplace, to encounter what can only be described as Victorian working practices.

In the world of 'Care' workers are routinely expected to work fourteen hour days, sleep in their place of employment and endure a twelve hour day to follow. If your day off coincides with a 'sleep in' you wake up, on your day off, in your place of work.
A twelve and a half hour day has three five minute breaks and no lunch break as workers are expected to eat with their charges who routinely run off/spit in your food or physically assault you.

I now hear of one hour's notice extra working hours in packing warehouses for which workers are not paid until the end of the financial year.

But my favorite scam of the moment, being directly involved, is the practice of cashing up at the end of a shift, if you are a shop worker.
Upon questioning this practice, One was told...
'Well, it only takes ten minutes.'
Not so. It takes at least twenty, and those minutes are MY TIME.
Imagine, Dear Reader, the thousands of hours of unpaid work that goes on in this country.

Working practices in this country have fallen well below an acceptable standard.
Who will address this new and unacceptable practice.
Not me. I need a job.

Thursday, 6 October 2016

In which it's almost a three penis day...

Today was almost a three penis day, Dear Reader...

Let me explain...

Have you ever noticed, when watching Countdown, how many times a 'Penis' pops up?

Sometimes, even when the appropriate letters don't present themselves, One just shouts 'PENIS' anyway, and being One's day orf, One had a devil-may-care attitude about One and almost did a bit of wee One chortled so much.

The Admiral, on one of his rare visits from the home for retired sea-farers, opined...

'Steady on old girl, next door will hear you yelling! In fact, the blighters in Taunton can very likely hear you.'

One, undeterred, continued in One's paroxyms of glee, when the letters popped up yet again, by this time, snorting in the manner of a truffling pig.

P E N I ......U

Just the two penises today then and not a three penis day at all, but then, the night is but young, Dear Reader, and One has just taken a freshly baked batch of sausage rolls out of the oven...

Monday, 3 October 2016

In which One is resigned to One's fate...

Reports of my demise have been greatly exaggerated, Dear Reader...
However, One has undergone a metamorphosis of such epic proportions of late, that One is discombobulated in the extreme.
One, having begun the month of September in the gainful employ of The Shit-Face, moved on to be 'Claire in the Community' and ended the month as a supervisor in a delightful little establishment flogging scoffage to the great unwashed.
'What happened to your little 'Nurse on Wheels' car and your desire to help those in need?' I hear you enquire, Dear Reader.
Well, it's like this..
One, being unable to get up at five each day, dash from one distressed article to the next, until ten at night, and, after returning home at eleven, doing it all again day after gruelling day, though...
One has done One's bit for the poor and needy, so they can go whistle for a Romanian teenager next time they need shopping/arse wiping/lunch/wee/poo bags emptying etc...
One drove the little car back, ripped of One's uniform, flung the inadequate phone in the boot, discarded the aprons and gloves and legged it back to the Underground Lair pretty sharpish.
Yes, One is now without a ve-hicle, but One doesn't give a rat's fat...
And, even though One isn't even earning enough to keep body and soul together, let alone pay the mortgage, One is relieved to have eschewed the world of shite/bite/kick/punch/clothes ripped off etc...
Not that any of the old persons physically assaulted One, but a goodly amount of them were rude, ungrateful, unpleasant old harridans and and they can all feck right off as far as One is concerned.
One, not knowing what manner of gutter One shall ultimately end up in, is resigned to One's fate.
After all, One has been a captain of industry, a fair to middling painter, lived high on the hog afore plummeting down the food chain to end up here, unlike the majority of the eejits One has recently encountered whose tiny little lives will stagnate in the West Somerset miasma since they give themselves credit for more intelligence than they have and fail to recognise their limitations.

Wednesday, 14 September 2016

In which One is likely to expire on Sunday...

'Tis One's birthday today, Dear Reader, and look what arrived by courier from the Admiral's Rest Home for Senile Sea-Farers...

The most scrum-diddly-umptious Birthday cake just pour moi!

The sugar-craft roses were whittled by his gnarled old digits out of sugar paste.  Apparently Mary Berry pops in of an afternoon and holds a baking masterclass for those inmates who are still reasonable compus mentos. 

Any road up, One is chuffed to little mintballs with it and it's lovely diaphanous bow fashioned from the feathery light outer covering of a Tena Pant (unused of course)

Can only show the front view, since the poor old dab fell face down on the back having exhausted himself to the point of double incontinence trying to get the tasty treat ready for One's big day.

'Tis a v large cake and One has no chance of finishing it all since, as you know, Dear Reader, One is all alone in the world so shall be singing 'Happy Birthday to One,' all on One's little old lonesome, then scarfing down a slice or two.

One likely shan't even finish the blighter afore One shuffles off this mortal coil as One has inadvertently accepted a new position whereupon One is required to work two fifteen hour days one after the other this week.

'Why do you want the job?' they enquired.
'I'm fed up with twelve and a half hour shifts,' replied One.

Can it be that they thought One wanted even fecking longer days?

One is of a mind to think that the blighters are all the fecking same!

Friday, 9 September 2016

In which One farts...

Long, long ago when One had known Vile Husband for but a short while he enquired of One...
'Don't you ever fart?'
Well, of course, Dear Reader, One hadn't broken the sound barrier, One is of a mind to eschew bodily emissions for as long as possible, when beginning a new coupling.

Obv, having married the blighter and issued forth progeny, One ripped off a fair few over the decades.

Similarly, having spent a goodly amount of time with The Admiral, on his frequent visits from the home for retired sea-farers, One has emitted the occasional parp, following the consumption of a polystyrene cup of curry sauce all over me chips.

Three farts in 27 months, in fact.  Making the gestation period of each, that of a human child.

Obv, their piquantcy, fermented over the passing of many a moon, has rendered them paint strippers.

'Kin Ada!' snorted the A, 'That bastard's got claws!'
Granted, One could have readily sewn a button on it, but, Dear Reader, The Admiral is the source of many an inhuman emission from both ends.

One is regularly to be found hot footing it down the Anderson Shelter of a night, when One realises that 'twas not an Ack-Ack gun in the boudoir, but a shell-shock rendering farty-bottom from the salty old sea-dog himself.

Why, just last night, One had to put a wet hanky over me face to avoid choking, and as for the snoring...

Some nights he can suck the drawers clean off me Armoire.

Thursday, 1 September 2016

In which One is sick of the inequality in society...

'Twas but last week I believe, Dear Reader, that One likened the Support Worker to a worker bee dancing attendance on the Queen...

Upon further procrastination, One has settled upon the analogy of the Indian untouchable worshipping the goddess with multiple limbs, for we, the ordinary of the people are wont to wait on the odd, hand, foot and fingernail.

As One has droned on about before: it is a mark of a civilised society that we look after those who are incapable of looking after themselves, plus the ones that have families who either can't, or choose not to look after their challenging offspring.

BUT  and it's a huge BUT, we appear to have, as a society gone completely bonkers.

One can no longer remain party to a system that allows the less fortunate to lead a better life than those looking after them.

The less fortunate have champions galore and woe betide anyone who should question the enormous amount of taxpayers money that goes to support their never ending supply of new clothes, iPads, trips out to lunch, cinema/theatre visits, massage therapies etc etc

And let us not forget the Motability vehicles which their families keep for their own use. (Replaced every three years at the expense of the tax payer)

The poor old support worker, One included, works their collective arses off for little more than the minimum wage, gets assaulted on a daily basis, cleans up excrement from all over the shop and still doesn't earn enough to meet their commitments.

One is out of it from Sunday, and not a moment too fecking soon.

Sunday, 28 August 2016

In which One works for One's chum...

That's where I'm going to jump in, Dear Reader...

After all, what's the fecking point?  I don't know.  One more week at the Shit-Face and then, without time to turn around and smell the contents of a yellow bucket, off to tend to the Demented and the Dying.

'Oh, go on, it won't be that bad, will it?' I hear you chorus.  Maybe not, but One should be cosied up in a little home for the bewildered and have done with it, shouldn't One?  After all, One has varicose veins, wrinkles and thinning hair (only on me 'ead, not on me face)

Yesterday, by way of a change, One biffed off to the Previously Owned Stuff Emporium to help out a chum. 

'But it was your day off, Lovely One!' you shriek.  Yes, I know it was work of a fashion, but it was a splendid departure from One's usual 'earning a crust' day.  Nobody bit/kicked/spat at/grabbed/scratched or hollered at One. - Result!

AND - One was suitably adored by One's public in the manner of a proper artist, with all and sundry oooohing and aaahing at One's offerings.  One was even visited by a collector of One's work and it did One's black heart good!  Didn't sell anything of One's though.  Oh well, can't have everything can One?

One's chum has a plethora of charming chicken garden ornaments on sale...
'got any butterflies?' came an enquiry from a prospective purchaser.
'No.  Only chickens.  Sorry,' replied One.

Then in waltzed a trio of sorts who hovered about a particularly desirable, rustic table and four chairs being practically given away.  (One had One's in-progress new masterpiece on the table)
It never ceases to amaze One, the blatant flamin' cheek of the public, they proceeded to caress aforementioned table, actually placing their chip-fat covered digits on ONE'S DRAWING.
And then, one of them picked up One's watch, gave it the once-over, mumbled something to a companion and slapped it back down on the table!
Fer feck's sake!  One and One's doings are not actually public bleeding property, I'll have you know!

Nana and Lovely Gordon came in at various points throughout the day to chat to One and lift One's spirits.
Lovely Gordon had been bottoming his gaff and appeared to be taking object d'art to the charity shop, one by one, in a Co-op carrier.  One appropriated a posh looking corkscrew and is currently saving up for a bottle of wine to deploy the item.
One lay in wait throughout One's shop work in case he ambled up the square with one of his saucepan collection which One could divert to One's own kitchen in the Underground Lair, but it was no good, the handsome hoarder obv couldn't bear to part with such items.

'Got any real antiques?' enquired a cove.
'This isn't an antique shop,' countered One.
'I know, but have you got any real antiques?' continued he.
'No.  This isn't an antique shop,' repeated One.
'Well, when it was a different shop I bought real antiques in here,' he went on, 'are you sure you haven't got any real antiques?  Like maybe a carriage clock or something under the counter.'

One gave up and biffed off down the road to the Underground Lair to espy Lovely Gordon sauntering down the hill with a saucepan in his hand.
Following a surreptitious observation of the hill, and obv not noticing One bringing up the rear, he took off the saucepan lid and proceeded to empty the contents down someone else's drain.

'Oi! I saw that,' shouted One, 'Whatever are you doing?'

'I've just boiled up some beets that someone left on my doorstep,' says he, 'but they don't look awfully good, do they,' he went on, shoving the gnarled items under One's nose.

'You are positively odd!' said One and shut Oneself behind the gate that keeps out oddities from the Malthouse.

Friday, 26 August 2016

In which we've all gone mad...

This week the Shit-Face has been the scene of another bloody and brutal battle: The Scone Skirmish.

'I want to make the scones'
'No. I want to do it.'
'Why can't I do it?' came the cries from the worker bees.
As long as nobody expects One to pinny up and get baking!
They can bollicks!

Why the feck are they bothering?
A Garden Party.
What a ludicrous waste of time and effort. The inmates would rather be inside shitting in the sink anyway.

'Come and look at my bunting,' called a recently shipped in Polish shite-shifter.

Look at her bunting.
Look at her fecking bunting!


It's going to piss down anyway.

Sunday, 21 August 2016

In which I'm still pissed right off...

I think I'll move...
Into the pages of a Rosamunde Pilcher book...
I'll probably turn up around chapter three carrying a smart red leather weekend bag, be wearing a silk blouse and pale pink jeans.
I'll be on holiday from my job in publishing and meet, by chance, a retired Wing Commander, who will marry me and whisk me off to a life of chintz, supper parties and sweeping lawns with no weeds in them.

Alternatively I could spend the next two weeks shoving shite down a sink plughole (call me old fashioned, but if you can poop in a sink, you could use a lavatory) and then move seamlessly into the community to do more of same, without the aid of a safety net or, indeed, a fecking holiday.

Misery reigns...

Saturday, 20 August 2016

In which I'm pissed right off...

Still reeling from the utter devastation of not being able to kiss the life of shite goodbye.
I know, I know, I was happy about getting the other job, but I wasn't really. Who, in their right mind, would welcome getting up at five in the morning to go, alone, to someone's house to tend to the sick and dying for under eight pounds an hour.
Each day consists of working seven a.m. to two p.m. and then four p.m. until ten p.m. and every other weekend.
'But you get a car,' I hear you chorus.
Whoopee! They take it off you if you're off work for more than three days.
'But you won't get bitten/punched/scratched/spat at/kicked every day will you?' I hear you exclaim.
If that's all I've got to look forward to I'm off to jump off Beachy Head.
Oh, that's right. I can't get there I don't have a car any more.
And I must try not to complain. I gave the Admiral a horrible day yesterday.

Friday, 19 August 2016

In which One is doomed to wipe arse forever ...

That's me, that is, Dear Reader...

For a few brief, but wondrous days, it really looked like One could hang up One's wet-wipes for good.  No more shite!

'How so?' I hear you chorus...

Well, as you will be aware, should you be following One's doings with great interest, One was invited by the assistant Manager of the Albemarle Centre in Taunton (a life skills organisation for the person of needs special) to nip in for a bit of a go at life-skilling and ingratiating Oneself with the persons therein, and an interview. 

All went swimmingly and One was led to believe that One was, indeed, the one that they want oo oo oo honey!

Following an interview with the actual manager One left with a spring in One's step and the promise of an application form to be forwarded, and returned by One, that very day and a formal interview on Friday.

The deputy manager phoned One and told One to attend at one of the clock for a half hour formal chat and a half hour on the floor with the service users.

'All I'll say,' says she, 'is just do exactly what you did the other day.'

One, realistically One thinks, assumed this to he the heads up, so you can imagine what a shock it was when One received a phonecall telling One that the position had been filled internally and to not attend the interview. 

The phonecall wasn't even from the manager or the deputy but the girl on reception and was made to One not two hours before One should have been there.

One is crestfallen and pissed right off at the mo...

Wednesday, 17 August 2016

Fer Feck's sake...

That's me that is, Dear Reader, a burro collopsing under the burden of what you bastards expect of One...

Not even one of them three quid donkeys off the telly that you send yer money to so Gideon Cholmondley-Smedley-Botham can spend his gap year filing donkey's toenails in between rogering Tamara Brown-Gusset...

Oh no, One is merely a beast of burden...

It's not enough that One gets up at sparrow's fart to tend to sick and needy at the Shit-Face, One has to constantly supply works of art for your ungrateful delectation.

And lo it was thus...

Some sort contacted One through One's website asking if One had perchance painted a seaside village (population 7) 

One did get mildly animated when aforementioned sort enquired re a commission of Second Homesville by the Sea...

One informed the sort that commissions start at two hundred quid.  A small one mind, with a bespoke frame.

Sort couldn't possible pay more than that and 'what exactly would she get for it?'

'Perhaps we could meet to discuss the possibility of a commission?' she went on.


Oh, I just had a thought...

Not that I guard my milli-second's time off for R and R at all, so I'll spend my own time walking barefoot (my car is shagged and I can't afford to get it fixed) down to Cornwall and sit outside painting the fecker on the offchance she might like to pay for it.

Fer Feck's sake!

Tuesday, 16 August 2016

In which you, Dear Reader, must ask the universe...

That's me, that is, Dear Reader...

Finally the old ve-hicle has died.  Obv One had no fecking idea what to do, so leant against the thing, trying not to attract too much attention to Oneself, until help arrived.

One had just delivered the Admiral to his bowling club, with his super-charged bath chair in the boot, when the bastard clutch decided to shag itself, leaving One stranded in fecking Wellington on a Sunday afternoon...

With brute force One managed to slam the fecker into third and, without stopping, (feck knows what One would have done if anything had been around each bend) got back to the Underground Lair, parked the bastard, kicked it and had a large glass of lighter fluid in the back garden.

Now I'm just off down the tip
to throw me whole life in a skip...

Or, I was, until, purely by chance, One happened upon One's spiritual home...

One, having had enough of being used as a human punch bag, accepted a job arse-wiping in the community.  For once in One's mis exis, by a stroke of good fortune, the job included use of a company ve-hicle, so no requirement to fix the four hundred year old Volvo, (not that One has the cash so to do)
Not actually looking forward to it though...
getting up at five every day to wipe arse for the minimum wage - yet - a - bleedin' - gain!

One espied an ad for a 'life-skills' tutor  to the challenged.


Yesterday One went for a visit and, lo, One's spiritual home.

Formal interview - Friday

All join hands and ask the universe for One's every whim!

Thursday, 11 August 2016

In which Fluff Freeman rides again...

Good Morning plop-pickers...

Why, just the other morning One and a fellow plop-picker were confronted by a naked man strutting his stuff for all and sundry...

'He's beach-body ready,' sniggered One...

And this set in motion (geddit?) the plop-pickers chart for the week...

 Number two:   They're all number twos actually.    

'Walking on the beaches, picking up the faeces.'

The Stranglers


Oh the Deadhead Stage is coming on over the hills
Where the pasta's soggy and a twit's dispensing the pills
Twenty-three turds we've smothered today
Oh Shit-crap away, shit-crap away, shit-crap away...

Dozzer Day


'Ave a poo poo poo
Drop them bad boys in the sink
Even though we know it'll make the whole house stink.
'Ave a poo poo poo
You revolting mucky pup
Then some poor old sod will come in and mop it up
'Ave a poo poo poo
Seize the moment whilst you can
Then we'll take you out to do wee-wees in the van

Black Lace?


and one for the night shift...

Strangers in the night
exchanging wet-wipes
It turned out so shite
for strangers in the night

'Ole brown hands

Several support workers were harmed during the making of this blog

Monday, 8 August 2016

In which One aquires a saucepan with a handle aching to be clasped...

'How large is your ring?' enquired Lovely Gordon as One macheteed One's way through the holly bushes up his passage.
Not an enquiry that had been made afore, that day, Dear Reader, and then One remembered an encounter with the cove, adjacent to the cash machine at the Co-op (his balance enquiry included six zeros and One's was three, separated by a decimal point: 0.00)  No matter, Dear Reader, 'tis pay day today, hurrah, and One shall have to decide whether to eat or pay the mortgage yet again.

'You remember that sweet little saucepan you admired?' said LG as he secreted a wad into the pocket of his jeans. (Double denim again!)
One had no recollection of aforementioned saucepan what with One having a full and exciting life, but unwilling to offend, uttered some suitable 'saucepan envy' noises.
'Well, it's yours,' said he with a flourish, 'come round at six and we'll see if it fits your ring.'

One arrived on the dot brandishing a quarter of a Victoria Sandwich for the cove and plonked down on the Eames to await the arrival of a chilled flute of Bolly and a dish of Waitrose sweet chilli crisps.  The snacks at LG's are superior to the Asda Smart Price cheesy nibbles proffered in the Underground Lair.

'When I was in Wales I made a complete inventory of my saucepans, with diagrams, completely from memory,' went on he, 'guess how many I've got.'
'Thirty-Severn?' offered One.
'No, but close,' said he, 'twenty-nine. I'd recorded twenty-seven and forgotten about a couple.'
Several of the saucepan selection were displayed on the sitting room rug and One waxed lyrical about the handle of one of the little blighters that was aching to be clasped.
'You shall have it!' said he and hopped over a Wedgewood Lady Godiva to retrieve it from it's resting place.
'How is the dear old Admiral?' went on he.
'Jolly fine, I imagine,' said One, 'I haven't encountered him for a couple of days. He spends an inordinate amount of time at the bowling club these days being given the once-over by the sprightly widow women.'

'I had to visit Matalan with a damaged casserole dish,' said he, with a wounded expression haunting his Greek God fizzog.
'I'm not leaving this shop with this dish,' I said to the girl on the till,' he went on.
'Got proof of purchase?' she enquired.
'I've just eaten the Teflon lining with me Chicken Chassure,' said he indignantly, and flounced off to retrieve the receipt.

Like the time he accidentally imbibed a glass full of non-biological washing liquid, nothing shall stick to his inner tube in the near future.
Quite what a glass of non bio washing liquid was doing on his bedside cabinet, One never did find out.


In which One abdicated...

One was just sauntering down to the Shit Face to abdicate when One encountered a pair of sorts viewing some type on a digger excavating waste ground next the Underground Lair with a view to whacking up a rake of dez rezzes for incoming Polacks who wipe arse for the minimum wage.

'Who's responsible for this road?' enquired a soft.
'Well,' said One 'it's a private road, owned by The Malthouse shareholders and you're standing on my bit.'
They never laughed. There just aren't many funny women abroad are there, Dear Reader?

Any road up, One expects you're curious as to why One is shearing from The Shit Face, Dear Reader.
They've had their pound of flesh from One!
Quite literally, in fact, under the fingernails of yesterday's charge, who saw fit to claw lumps out of me decolletage and rip me favourite frock off me.
That put the tin hat on it and I'm off!
Especially since One got five minutes outside to recover and the perpetrator got a trip to the seaside.
Go figure!

One was on the cusp of organising a viewage of a shiny new Motability vehicle that had appeared in the car park at the Shit Face.
After all it'll be the only fecking time we get to see it, or any of the others owned by the residents yet driven by their parents.
These cars are handed out, at the expense of the taxpayer, for the transport of our delicious charges to their lunch dates, shopping trips and visits to their families.
What a joke! If they see the inside of 'em more than once in a blue moon I'll mange me chapeau.
Instead we ferry them to and fro in a fleet of urine soaked busses

We must be an inordinately wealthy country,  must we not Dear Reader, but seemingly not quite wealthy enough to pay care workers a decent wage.

Friday, 5 August 2016

In which One is bitter...

'It could have happened to anyone,' appealed One.
'No! It fecking couldn't!' exclaimed the Admiral as One dabbed at the chiffon skirt of One's Norman Hartnell ball gown.
'Why don't you look at what you're doing, you clumsy great Bison,' continued he as he tip toed through the broken glass to assist One, 'Now, you'll have to change.  You can't turn up at the Bowling Club for an evening of 'Sing-a-long-a-Snorkers' looking like that!

'Sing-a-long-a-Snorkers,' Dear Reader is the highlight of the month, when a Snorker Supper is held following a sing song during which the more musical of the old codgers sport instruments various and serenade the seniors who can still hear out of one ear or the other.

The Admiral does a turn on his ukulele with a selection of George Formby numbers: obv 'Leaning on a Lamp post,' which it has to be said doesn't have quite the same resonance when performed from a commode.

Bless the old stick, though, he turns up regular as a morning dump following his Fybogel and turns the heads of the more mobile widows who constantly trawl the assembled company looking for an unattached gentleman with an index linked pension.

For, as we know, Dear Reader, a gentleman in possession of a large fortune is in need of a wife.

'How did One get drawn into this life of revelling?' I hear you enquire, Dear Reader, 'why it seems only yesterday that you lived in Hampstead village and drove around in a Bentley.'

Yes, doesn't it just, but an evening out at the opera on a lawn at Kenwood, supping Bolly from a cut glass flute and nibbling on a caviar laden blini is but a million miles away Dear Reader.

How times change.  Not that One is unhappy, oh no.  One is quite content to spend the day delivering One's charges to lunch at locations various, taking them for massages/relaxing soaks in spas/shopping for clothes/horse riding/swimming etc.
Yes, Dear Reader, it is a mark of a civilised society that we cosset the less fortunate. 
Do you know anyone who goes out to eat at least three times a week?  I fecking don't!
Then, home to swat flies with an iPad Air, or to hurtle their new clothing out of an upstairs window in the rain.
An interesting use of tax payers money, don't you think?

Then, home to the Underground Lair, for an exhausted One, to make ready for a snorker supper and to empty the Admiral's commode.

Bitter?  Who?  Moi?

Monday, 1 August 2016

In which One is a human library...

That's me that is, Dear Reader, requesting silence for One, The Human Library, free to the people, that's you, Dear Readers...


Yesterday One biffed off to a superior home care company to offer One's services, having been worn down to the bone by One's current employment...

'I think you can say, without doubt, that an offer of employment will be with you shortly,' said the delightful person who interviewed One.

'Phew,' thought One, off on the road again for as long as the valiant Volvo can function.

Even so, at present One doesn't earn enough to keep the Underground Lair functioning.  One still has no hot water and, this month, has been utterly unable to pay the mortgage.


On Saturday, One was visiting One's chums emporium when in biffed a pair of Wivey-ites...

'We want to buy Claire's picture,' said the female of the species.
One, being aforementioned Claire, turned to reveal Oneself to One's public.
'Oh, look, there she is,' beamed the prospective purchaser.
'I'll get it out of the window,' said One's chum, and proceeded to clamber over items various to retrieve the masterpiece.

'Oh, not that One,' continued the customer, 'we want the bonkers one with all the bright colours in it.  We've been admiring it for ages and I want to buy it for my husband's birthday.'

The painting in question had been sold a while back.  You people must realise that One's offerings do not hang around indefinitely.  They are specifically priced for the Somerset pocket and their sale represents the removal of the monthly dilemma of whether to eat or pay the bills.

The coves perused the current offering...
'Oh we would have bought it had we not just bought two chairs over the road,' said she.
'I spit upon your chairs,' said One, 'Don't come in here bemoaning your fate when you've been over the road (the competition) buying sodding chairs.'

One delivered this monologue with One's customary beatific smile, but really One meant every word.

'How much would you charge to paint me one like the one that's been sold?' enquired the double-denim husband.  (Double denim is a mistake, especially in the over 55's)
One quoted a figure that was four times less than if One was quoting for one of the high end galleries One supplies.  Still the cove looked nonplussed! 
'I'll think about it,' says he.
What the feck do these stingy blighters want from One?

One positively flounced out vowing to paint the piece, double the price, and hang it tantalisingly in the shop.


So, 'tis with this dilemma in mind that One returns to the fact that One is a human library, free of charge to the people of the world.
Why, if even just the 675 Russians that read about One's doings yesterday, Crowd Funded One, One would be able to sup the Ambrosia of life, pay the mortgage on the Underground Lair and write with one hand and paint with the other...

Sunday, 31 July 2016

In which One slunk back into the shadows...

That's next door, that is, Dear Reader...
The summer months are a dangerous time for your very own delicious Lovely One...

Every fecking time One ventures into the grounds one, or two little mutant heads appear over the fence to deliver some scintillating nugget of information that, frankly, ONE COULD HAVE FECKING LIVED WITHOUT, you eejits!

Even at 5.30am, yes that's when One rises to prepare for the Shit-Face, when One is bidding good morrow to Trevor (a toad that lives in a Le Crueset lasangne dish under the watercress urn) One is scared the beejeebers out of by the male of the pair appearing like a fiendish gnome in One's air space to slash the divine silence in two.

Why, after One has spent twelve and a half hours shovelling shite, dodging punches and being spat at, bitten and pinched for me trouble, One ventures, on tippy-toes, into the garden with a green tea and a mogadon, they fecking appear as if by magic to bore the tits off One.

'We bin 'a Waaws,' says he appearing like a ghoul in One's reverie, 'you bin there?'
'Oh that's jolly nice,' says One, 'we went to look at the Cathedral a few weeks ago.'
'No, not Waaws,' he retorted 'W-a-l-e-s.'
'Ah, yes,' says One, 'many times.'

One firkled diligently with One's climbing rose, in an attempt to inform the cove that One was in dire need of solitude...
The cove bumbled down the steps...
'RESULT' thought One and resumed firkling...
Suddenly, without warning, One's silence was shattered by the sound of Puffing-bleeding-Billy above One's head...
One shot up receiving a thwack upon One's divine head from the Tom Thumb tomato basket...
Gazing up One was confronted by the cerebrally-challenged item brandishing a biro...
'What do yer think of that!' says he, beaming in a satisfied manner, 'it's the sound of a train in a pen!'
'Gosh,' thought One, 'there really is no suitable retort to that.'


But the most intimate intrusion of all happened this very morn, Dear Reader...
There sat One with the French doors flung wide, taking advantage of the natural light to harvest me super-floo-us beard, wearing nothing but me 'Dooreen' brassiere for the coverage of the elderly envelope flap tit, and a pair of Spanx that had rolled down to nestle 'neath a roll of lard into One's Cesarian scar and the bugger appeared again!

One, aghast at the intrusion, expected the cove to exit pretty sharpish, given the unclothed nature of One, was nonplussed to have a broad bean plant proffered to One...

'What do you think I should do with that?' enquired he.

Fortunately One is a lady and therefore didn't give the obvious answer, One simply repositioned One's rolled down Spanx and slunk back into the shadows.  

Saturday, 30 July 2016

In which One really is a nasty old bint...

That's me, that is, Dear Reader, with the Admiral, or at least it will be in about nine hundred years time...

And lo, the evening of pork pulling and giant marbles arrived...

The Admiral biffed up on his mobility scooter just as One was ironing an evening outfit of chiffon trousers, with lining, of course, and a three layer chiffon top with an elaborate tie back to show off me tan from all that gardening.

'Er, you're not wearing that are you?' says he removing his tartan blanket from his arthritic knees to reveal a pair of shorts and flip-flops.
'I was going to,' retorted One, 'It is an evening out after all.'
'Haven't you got anything a little more casual?' went on he, 'It's a pulled pork evening at the Bowling Club.'
After due consideration One emerged from the boudoir sporting cigarette trousers, pink suede sandals and a little black and white blouse.

Upon arrival One was glad that One had been advised to dress down as it was crimpelene and cardigan city out there, Dear Reader.

We opted to sit outside with our incredibly low priced drinks (One couldn't take advantage though since One was driving)
No sooner had we alighted on the bench than we were ordered back in by some hirsute cove who had attempted to kiss One upon One's arrival, to sing Happy Birthday to some aged sort.

Re: the kiss, One recoiled in horror when confronted by the type invading One's space. One doesn't get out much and is at a disadvantage in polite society.  Anyway, in One's burgeoning career at the Shit-Face if someone gets a bit too close they are apt to bite One.

It has to be recorded that pulled pork is scrummy.  However, whacked into an Asda Smart Price white bread roll and eaten with a plastic knife and fork does detract from it somewhat. 

In the distance One could see the party taking off and the old codgers 'Agga-doing' themselves into a frenzy.
'Gosh, it's awfully cold out here,' complained One interrupting The Admiral who was holding forth with a sea-faring tale, having the assembled company in his thrall.
'Do you want to go inside then?' enquired he.
'I don't think I'll ever be that cold,' said One casting a glance in the direction of the Agga-Doers.

But, the time came for the raffle and we were ushered in, carrying our own chairs, and joined the assembled throng.

One took up residence next to the prize table and perused the pickings...
A boot organiser
A glittery knitted hedgehog
A book of funny bowling anecdotes (not a massive tome)
Some tiny scented pillows to make yer drawers smell

Excitement abounded and when the draw was over a group of elderly matrons biffed onto the dance floor and began Rocking around the clock.
'One, two, three o'clock, four o'clock, drop...'
There she lay in a heap of manmade fibres, support stockings and moist Tena discreet pants One gasped with undisguised glee.  (One is a horrible person)
Hauled upright by her chums she was last seen being plonked unceremoniously into a bath chair shrieking about her bad knee.

The Admiral, espying the look of glee upon nasty old One's face, intoned that it might be fortuitous to leave with some haste, but, it has to be said, even though One is absolute shite at making small talk with persons One doesn't know, and even with the lack of Vodishka, One was warming to the throng and requested another J20 (whatever the feck that is)

One and the Admiral's immediate company were all under 65 and rather good sorts, but the wives were all so tiny One felt like an overdressed Bison sitting next to them. One has never been fortunate enough to meld into any crowd what with being able to see over everyone's heads! One stuck out like a sore thumb!

As the evening drew to a close One could no longer disguise One's horror when a v small octogenarian approached One proffering a bag of wine gums and a half chewed pack of mint imperials.  One politely declined, chortling, and was ushered out with indecent haste by the Admiral who stated...
'I think I'll try and sell the tickets to the New Year's Eve do.'
A wise move.