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Sunday, 31 January 2016

In which One isn't One's usual sunny self...

Me and the Aged P, see above, Dear Reader, who is threatening to come and visit this month.

'Will you be at work in the day?' came the telephonical enquiry.
'Yes. I've got a full time job.'
'Will the Admiral be at work during the day?' 
'Yes, he's got a job too.'
'Oh, well I'll have to see what the weather's like then,' came the odd retort, 'and that bloody Eileen's getting on my nerves.  She never even told me that she wasn't coming to the pub.  I expect she's down the town eating sausages.'

One would dearly love to be at home all day polishing me toenails and such, (or down the town eating sausages)  but due to an unwise marriage and insufficient pension provision, and a shed load of debt, One is shackled to the shit-face for the foreseeable.

Ho Hum, such is the life of the Lovely One.

Off in a minute to begin the new working month/week and all for the privelige of not actually earning enough to meet One's meagre requirements.

Income two shillings and sixpence - outgoings two shillings and fivepence - happiness

Income two shillings and sixpence - outgoings two shillings and sevenpence - misery

so said Charles Dickens, and One would have to agree.

One inadvertantly watched that nonsensical Dickensian thing on the telly...
What a load of bolliocks that was, Dear Reader.

Putting together all of the characters from all of the books was a mistake of gargantuan magnitude.
It's like making a story out of all the current soaps.

Any road up, One can't sit here all day moaning...

Places to go...
Pennies to earn...

Friday, 29 January 2016

In which One is very, very good...

That's me that is, Dear Reader...
And, trust me, when I am good I am very, very good
and when I am bad I am HORRID!

Apropos of nothing...
One showed that very school photograph to someone the other day expecting them to say...
'Mmmm, I see there the fine bone structure, sultry, hooded baby-blues, straight noble nose and plumptious lippage that led you to the glorious, flawless beauty that you are today.'
But they said...
'Ooooo's 'eeee?'
PEASANT! Still, the general populous of Dear old Wiv are a mish mash of inter-family creations with webbed feet and lazy eyes and One would still win Miss Wiv at One's great age.

Any road up I digress...

One could have been horrid yesterday, but One remained calm in the face of adversity and breathed into a Co-op carrier for a minute or two.  (More on that story later)

One took the Aged BF out for a lunchtime scoff and a meander round the Charity Shops of Welly as a birthday treat.

Off we biffed to the Bear, which has become something of a foodie haven.  No more does one find poor unfortunate souls sitting in the corner drinking tomato sauce out of the bottle and picking their bare feet.  Oh no!  Now the great Wivey unwashed are treated to Mezze, Pulled Pork (whatever the feck that is) and a plethora of culinary delights that one would previously have had to go all the way to Exeter to sample.

We homed in on 'Ena and Minnie' corner and plonked our pints of Guinness down on the table in a proprietorial manner lest anyone steal our chosen spot and flolloped outside for a rollie.

One, marvelling at the delights of the aforementioned menu, had chosen whitebait, a particular fave of One's and BF went for the chicken ceaser salad (obv with a bowl of chips as a chaser)

The scoff duly arrived...

What the feck!  One's whitebait were precariously balanced in a heap upon what looked like a discarded chopping board.
What's the matter with having yer dinner off a plate, fer feck's sake?
The Ceaser salad arrived in what looked like an old washing up bowl and as fer the chips (or fries as they now call them) they were in a tin bowl like the ones you used to flob in at the dentist!

No wonder the locals are a-feared to go in there for a scoff!  
The definition of sophistication in Wivey is taking yer fish and chips out of the newspaper and eating them off a china plate, fer feck's sake!  And that didn't come about until recently, so getting the blighters to eat off bloody planks of wood is a definite no no!

Any road up, tasted alright, so we duly paid up and sheared to Welly.

'Shall we 'ave a gander in 'ere?' enquired One as One pulled up outside the St Margaret's Hospice shop.

With a nod of agreement BF dangled her short fat legs out of the Hummer and belted across the road as quick as one of such advanced years can manage.
One, spying a couple of picnic hampers in the window, opined...
'Oooh I like them.  I'm having them.'
'No you're not,' hissed BF, 'I saw 'em first,' and with that she dived into the window display, grabbed the aforementioned items and biffed up to the till, but not before swiping poor darling Lovely One with her 'Widow's peak' that was menacingly visible through her Evan's Outsize beige wind-cheater.
'The little shit!' thought One and made off in hot pursuit...
'I wannem!' cried One, making a grab for the baskets...
The crowd of little old ladies parted and fell silent...
I tell you what, Dear Reader, her stubby little fingernails ain't half sharp since she's been taking them calcium tablets, and One backed off, licking One's bleeding wounds.
'I wannem for me paints and brushes,' simpered One, attempting to diffuse the violent situation before a passer-by became collateral damage.
'Well I need the small One for me No-No and me hair removing creams and the big one for me medication, AND YOU'RE NOT 'AVIN 'EM,' she hollered drawing herself up to her full three foot six.
One, being a lady, capitulated and let the little bastard have them.  Well it is her birthday, after all.

Anyway, she'd need a sodding laundry hamper for all her prescription medication, the diseased little fecker, thought One as One made sure that the froth on top of her Cappucino wasn't all frothed milk... 

Tuesday, 26 January 2016

In which One's housekeeping prowess falls short...

'I need help!' called One to the Admiral, having managed to mangle a can with a stupid bastard tin-opener into a cuboid.
'What the feck have you done now?' was the enquiry as he sauntered into the galley.
Well, I ask, you, Dear Reader, have you ever encountered one of those ridiccerous tin-opening devices that opens out like a fecking fold-up ruler?
Could One figure out how to attach the fecker to the can?  Could One feck!
'Oh, I've just remembered,' went on One, 'There's another one in the bottom of the laundry basket, but it's  been chewed by a dog.'
'Why, fer fecks sake, is there a can-opener in the laundry basket?  AND, while we're on the subject, you haven't even got a sodding dog!  Oh, I give up, sighed he, burrowing 'neath the soiled shreddies until he encountered the aforementioned device.

Seemed perfectly logical to One, however, since One knew exactly where it was!

Can successfully opened, eventually, One discarded the contents and had to think up something else for tea.  Have you seen that shitty goo that masquerades as 'value' tuna?

One plodded manfully on, searching high and low for sustainence in the various hidey-holes dans le galley...

Pulling out the final drawer, it crashed to the floor...

'Fer fecks sake,' came the cry from the sitting room, 'Yer only making a sodding salad!  What's happened now?'

It could have happened to anyone, Dear Reader, the drawer, that's never fitted properly, has a nasty habit of hurtling itself to the deck, disgorging it's contents various, on the way.

In One's haste to remedy the situation, One suffered yet another blood-curdling wound to One's dainty right hoof.

Pausing briefly in the compilation of dejeuner, One bound the tiny foot with a wodge of kitchen towel and some framer's tape.

The meal went ahead, passing without further incident...

Upon retrieval of the tiny foot from it's tourniquet, 'twas a boon to find that the clotted mass upon the lilly-white skin was, in fact, Piri Piri sauce and not ooman blood!


Meanwhile, the following day...

'Where's the drawer runners?  I'm trying to mend it,' came the telephonic enquiry whilst One was at the Shit-Face.

'Ooooh I wondered what they were,' said One explaining that One had found the aforementioned devices and binned them since One didn't know what they were.

'Oh I give up,' sighed he for the second time in as many days...

Thursday, 21 January 2016

In which One is a loser...

Ilfracombe Lifeboat – see above  –  (ok, imagine it. I can't remember how to attach a picture) launched to rescue One.   One, having hurled Oneself from the top of Verity’s head, into the deep, dark unwelcoming briny in a bid to end it all.  For One is a loser… 
 (google ‘Verity’ you ill-informed dollops)
‘Don’t they know who I am?’ shrieked One, Banshee-like, upon the news that One hadn’t been employed by the same fecking company that One actually fecking works for, as the Activities Organiser at a different house.
‘I imagine they know exactly who you are,’ opined the Admiral, who, incidentally is still on shore-leave from the ‘little old person’s care facility for ancient sea-farers’
‘They are probably fairly young and inexperienced management types and don’t want a fully paid up smart arse like you charging in and organising up a storm,’ he continued, whilst manuovering his bath-chair into a safe space whereupon One couldn’t tip the fecker out.
‘Well, all I can think is that the other interviewee must have been Richard sodding Branson, I believe he’s something of a leader of men like what I is,’ continued One as One marched up and down the sitting room.’ 
(it’s not a ‘lounge’, it’s a sitting room you ill-educated morons.  ‘Lounges’ are found only in hotels and airports.) So fecking there!
‘They didn’t even ask me to take me fecking coat off when I got there,’ One continued, ‘and I was wearing me best Norman Hartnell ballgown and me new leather Uggs!’
To be fair, one of them was a delightful young thing, but the other had a nasty gash under her nose that appeared as if it hadn’t been in the shape of a grimace for the passing of many a moon.
‘They only relented and gave you an interview in the vain hope of shutting you the-feck up!’ he plodded on.
‘Yeah!  Like that’s gonna work!’ hollered One retiring to the lavatory for a nervous poop.
Think back, Dear Reader, to the last aborted attempt to get a fecking Activities job…
That one was at a sodding home for the v elderly AND it was only the fecking Assistant Organiser’s job and One didn’t even get that fecker! 
One was merely attempting to get a position that paid slightly above the minimum wage in order to alleviate Oneself out of the mire of debt and penury what One seems doomed to exist in until One shuffles off this mortal coil. 
‘Fer feck’s sake PAINT, woman,’ ploughed on the Admiral, ‘you know you can do that and make easy money.’
Tis true.  But One yearns for the company of other oomans instead of sitting at One’s easel in One’s jim jams all the fecking day long.
Back to the shit-face, arses to wipe and all that…
One is currently seeking a professional ‘threader’ since One appears to be growing One’s very own pale, soft, downy balaclava…
As if One hasn’t got enough to fecking worry about!