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Wednesday, 24 February 2016

In which One is embroiled in 'Faggot-gate'...

Of all the wars begun of late
There's none compares to Faggot-Gate.
A singularly bloody war
Not lately seen upon our shore.
Awash with severed limbs and gore
And fueled by naked hate.

Dear Reader, let One take you back
to where the conflict starts...
A tale of broken oven doors
along with broken hears.
For without our dual capacity
it's toast for breakfast and for tea.
'So what?' you cry, 'we all love toast'
But wait - What of our Sunday Roast?

Silence descended on the room
along with it an air of gloom,
The Cook went to the freezer room
and flung the lid asunder
There, nestled 'neath the frozen peas
and low-fat cauliflower cheese,
Found Faggots, 'guaranteed to please'
'What goes with these,' she'd wonder.

'I won't eat Faggots!' shouted J
'I want a roast. It is Sunday!
I need chicken served with roasted veg!'
'Strueth!' thought One, 'He's on the edge!'
But as the 'Faggot' news got round
One heard low-level murmur sound
That very sharpish gathered ground
and drove 'tween the teams a wedge.

And then with forked tongue like a viper
up stood a new apprentice wiper...
'Last weekend's team had roasted beef,'
said she, then snuck of like a thief.
Left in her wake an air of grief
and a further wound up sniper.

'Get the menus!' ordered she
'what did they get for lunch and tea?
You're messing with my Human Rights
by serving up offal and lites.
We'll none of us eat single bites
We'll down our buckets and wet-wipes
We'll strike!  You wait and see!'

In an all pervading air of gloom
The Faggots reached the dining room
were met by harbingers of doom
Tight lipped with nostrils flared
'I ain't eating them!' One heard a shout
'Well don't! And bloody go without!'
said Cook, as Faggots shared.

Now, One, long past first flush of youth
Upholds the Universal truth
Regardless, preference or taste
It is a sin, good food to waste.
So, when presented with One's dinner
One is a grateful Tucker Inner.

But in this war
One has a hunch
There's no such thing
As a Free Lunch!

Monday, 22 February 2016

In which One is utterly non-plussed...

One is still suffering the chest infection/cold/mammoth snot production that has blighted One's charmed existence for the past three months or so...
This, One believes, is a direct result of being sneezed and coughed upon and generally having One's personal space infiltrated by One's delightful charges.
Don't misunderstand One, Dear Reader, One is acutely aware that this is not the result of some dastardly plan to infect One on the part of aforementioned charges.  Oh no, not all.  'Tis but the nature of the beast.

One, whilst being shouted at and mauled, fell into a reverie yesterday and pondered upon the state of things, and One is non-plussed in the extreme...

The length and breadth of this septic isle is peopled by workers such as One who are paid a wage that affords none of the luxuries of life.  Indeed, not even enough to have that staple of the British way of life: an annual holiday, where One can re-charge and subsequently  re-enter the fray with a renewed sense of purpose and a slight bloom of health glowing on One's sun-kissed skin.

One is unable to pay off the mountain of debt accrued simply by existing.

Not that One would wish to live the life of One's charges, nor would One wish their difficulties upon them, BUT, how safe their lives are...

Living in a warm, comfortable place with no worries about paying bills or where the next hot meal is coming from.  Having a seemingly endless supply of poorly paid robotic workers to tend to their every need.

'Tis a conundrum, is it not, Dear Reader...

It's a mark of a civilised society that we look after, to the best of our abilities, those who are unable to look after themselves, but at what cost?

An immesurable cost to those who do the job, probably,  mostly not by choice, but due to the fact that 'care' would seem to be the default job of those who can't get employment elsewhere, and the massive financial cost to the public purse.

One doesn't wish to come across as a mean-spirited and un-caring individual, but for goodness sake!

Not only are all the needs of the less fortunate met, but they are met in a manner that One and One's co-workers can but dream of.

And, not only that, we meet some of the cost ourselves from the taxes we pay.

What's the answer?

I don't know...

Most of these unfortunate souls live in homes owned by private, profit making companies.  How can that be right?

Each is given a car, courtesy of the 'Motability' scheme run by the government.  Why aren't these vehicles parked outside the homes, in order that they can be used by the workers to transport the residents to their family homes or to their daily outing venues?

Why indeed?

Supposing that we are a civilised society, it would appear to be time to re-evaluate all these things and shine something of a light on the plight of the care worker.

After all, we don't go on strike, like doctors.  And if we did, the country would surely grind to a shuddering halt in minutes.

Saturday, 13 February 2016

In which One is more bereft than One should be...

Vile ex Husband, who was indeed ex, but not as vile as One would have you believe, Dear Reader, has died.
He maintained a dignified demeanour throughout the parting of our marriage and was as stoic and silent as One was a hollering banshee.
He inhabited this world with a charming, graceful ease and, no doubt, exited it with an elegant swoon.

Thursday, 11 February 2016

In which One is sick of being sick...




That's me, that is, Dear Reader, ending it all, once and for fecking all...
Just how much snot can one little button nose generate?

As One previously alluded to, yesterday was One's day off...

Even though One has been struck down by yet another flaming virus thing, One has been manfully soldiering on and fronting up at the shit-face on all the days that One can drag One's diseased body out of the truckle bed.  The day's in between, One's days orf, are spent under the quilt generating enough snot to refloat the Mary Rose. All this has resulted in One letting down all those who are counting on One for visits/paintings/scintillating company etc.

'She can't be ill again, can she?' comes the enquiry from directions various.  Well, it must look that way, since, surely One should have been called to One's maker after all this never ending palava.

Yesterday, One had grand intentions to do all the stuff that's been building up whilst One has been languishing in the manner of a pre-Raphaelite heroine on the chaise lounge.
It wasn't to be...
One shoved the Dyson about a bit, washed the kitchen floor and then fell in an exhausted flollopy dollop back into the truckle bed to await the blessed relief of the Grim Reaper.

But, against all odds, here One is again, this morning, snotted up and bravely attempting to charge like a pink fluffy bull elephant into the day ahead.

Wednesday, 10 February 2016

In which One feels One ought to like Linda McCartney and fish pie...




Me and Boy, who One shall see, hopefully, in the fullness of time...

'Fish Pie!' One hollered, as One awoke from a fitful slumber.
'What the feck!' snorted the Admiral as he turned toward One bringing with him the quilt that had been erstwhile coiled around the old blighter in the manner of an Egyptian Mummy.

'Fish Pie!' repeated One. Fish pie being one of those things that One always feels One ought to like, like Linda McCartney.
'I was thinking about what to make for supper when I woke up,' retorted One, and I haven't got any prawns.'

'Well think about it quietly!,' snuffled he, rolling away and taking with him the only means of coverage that One had enjoyed throughout the night in it's entirety.

'Well! My giddy Aunt!,' mused One. After all, it had been de riguer to disturb One's utter absorbsion in One's jolly interesting book with the fascinating information that...
'In 1986, 2 million C.D.'s were purchased, and by 1996 several squillion were aquired by the general populus.'
Prior to the divulgence of this seemingly important fact, One could quite easily have been buggered through me raincoat and not batted an eyelid due to One's deep reverie.

Any road up, today, having been paid a meagre sum for the month's devotion at the shit-face, One shall repair to a cut-price super market and gather together the ingredients to sustain life for the foreseeable.

Following that, this being One's day orf, One shall set to and paint the Honourable B's sideboard panels in the sure and certain hope of a further minted toff purchasing the aforementioned sideboard from a posh gaff in Mayfair and affording One the means to offload One's gargantuan debt and end this sorry life of penury, that has, ofcourse, the added joy of the 'Butt of Damaclese' hanging over One's darling head.