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Thursday, 31 March 2016

In which One stinks...

'It's probably an no,' read the email regarding a viewing of the underground lair, 'several visitors to the block have been perturbed by the smell of cigarette smoke in the block.  Is it possible to address this so as to give a more favourable impression.'

This, from someone One used to work for, and incidentally, whilst there, sold numerous houses that had occupants that smoked.  One can just imagine him stamping up and down the office getting in a right old paddy.

If he'd said 'your flat stinks of fags and it's putting buyers off,' One would have taken that on the chins, but no, small bloke, small town bla-de-bla...

He's right, of course, and short of parking the Admiral outside under one of those push-chair covers over his bath chair on his visits, One can do nothing.  Anyway, One would hope that prospective purchasers (it's a proper bargain, Dear Reader) will be savvy enough to realise that One won't be leaving me fags behind.

Anyway, after considering paying a visit to tell the blighter he always was a bumptious little twerp, One sashayed to the Supermarket and acquired some of those plug in things that waft out more acceptable aromas.

I know, I know, no one should smoke inside anymore.  It stinks. It makes yer clothes stink. It makes everything pong. One has just been hanging on to life with the help of the odd fag and pint of Pinot anyway!

Now that the buy-to-let market is suddenly in the frame to make a nosedive, the prospect of getting shot of the Underground Lair, paying off One's sodding debts and biffing off into the sunset is looking exceedingly unlikely.

What a drag it is growing old...

Especially when One can't even have a drag without the smell police arresting One.


Tuesday, 29 March 2016

In which imaginary trains are racist...

One turned on the pooter at 5.30am.  One is an early riser even on One's day off...
One had intended to wax lyrical about the Art Club Knitting Circle. Not exactly a feather in One's cap yet, but perchance a knitting needle...
And, what pops up to incense One on the rolling BT news, but an actual headlining story about Thomas the Tank Engine...

Apparently Thomas is to 'meet Engines from other races to make him more culturally aware.'
What the actual feck?  He's a sodding imaginary talking train for feck's sake!
One is a bit puked up by having all this old toffee rammed down One's throat!
Whilst not being keen on the exploding variety, One has always had not the slightest interest in where One's fellow oomans originate from.  After all, One is from Luton which is one of the countries most diverse melting pots.

Ok, Ok, I know I moved down here to the West Country to regain the flavour of Olde England in the 1950's.  Personal choice, Dear Reader, and a safe and countrified place to raise Boy, but really?

One, being at school in Luton in the sixties and seventies had chums from many a country and never gave it a thought.  

One's aged P isn't, however, of the same mind and still talks very slowly and loudly to all the marvlious and various hued doctors/nurses/surgeons at the Luton and Dunstable Hospital.
'He's really good at English,' opines she.
'He's from bleedin' Stockport!' replies One.
Why, only the other day AP called with the enquiry...
'I've got Egyptians next door and they've got a table cloth up at the front bedroom window instead of curtains.  Do you think I should go round and give them some of my old ones?'
'Only if you want a punch in the gob,' replied One to the daft old bat.

Any road up, another strange anomaly has reared it's ugly on the telly last night...

'Why do all the adverts have animals in them instead of people?' enquired the A of the F upon viewing for the first time the B&Q ad with some kind of rat/mouse/hamster type thing buying pots of paint.

'My theory,' began One, 'Is that they're so fecking scared of offending one race or another is that they daren't use actual people anymore and have resorted to animals.

Think about it, Dear Reader, Zebras, Meer-sodding-cats, bears, the list goes on..............

Here in Dear old Wivey, if we are in the least suspicious of incomers, we hack their arms off and make gates out of them.
See The Jubilee Gardens Gate, below, Dear Reader.
What the feck is that all about?

In which One was at Well's Cathedral....

LO     'Hello Aged P, I'm sitting outside...'
AP     'Eileen!'
LO     'No, it's me, I'm sitting...'
AP     'Eeeeeiiiillleeeeen!'
LO     'It's not bloody Eileen!'
AP     'Huh, you don't look like her thank goodness!'
LO     'You can't even see me!  Look, I'm...'
AP     'That bloody Eileen eats two enormous cooked dinners a day, you know!'
LO     'Oh does she.  I just thought I'd give you a call because we are in.....'
AP     'I thought something had happened to you.  I haven't heard from you for ages.'
(A week, at most Dear Reader)
AP     'Where on earth have you been?'
LO     'At work and then at home.'
AP     'I don't like to ring you in case you're not there.'
LO     'Well, if you don't, you won't find out if I am there or not.'
AP     'I'm going to have a glass of wine in a minute. I'm fed up, Eileen has gone to Folkstone.'
LO     'Didn't you want to go with her?'
AP     'NO I DID NOT.  She's visiting that bloody cousin of hers who thinks he knows everything.'
LO     'You should have gone.  It would have been a nice day out.'
AP     'Do you know what he said to me?'
LO     'Oddly enough, no I don't.'
AP     'I can't stand women in trousers!  How do you like that?'
LO     'You should have offered to take them off for him then.'
AP     'They went at 7.00am in the morning.  I can't get ready for then, I've got to have my new acid tablets that we're all taking.'
(Draw a discreet veil over that one, Dear Reader.)
LO     'Anyway, I'm sitting outside...'
AP     'I can't bloody stick him, that cousin of hers anyway.  Boring old shit.'
LO     'I'm...'
AP     'Allo, Allo, I can't hear anything and Jackie's at the door with me dinner...'


Monday, 28 March 2016

In which One is put off Scotch Egg acquisition...

'What are you going up there for?' enquired the Admiral upon being delivered the news that One, with One's 'country lady' basket was heading up the local market, 'It's blowing a hooley and peeing down.'

'Well,' began One, 'I wanted to get you an Easter Egg.'
'Chocolate is not an expression of love, and in your case,in particular, given the magnitude of your arse, is highly unwise,' went on the blighter.

'Shows what you know!' opined One, cut to the quick, 'I'm actually getting you a smoked salmon scotch egg or even a pudding noir one, so fecking there!' 

'There are certain things in life that shouldn't be messed around with,' opined the Sea-faring cove, 'One is tea.  Blackcurrant Tea isn't fecking tea!  Beef shouldn't have bleedin' garlic on it and as for Scotch eggs, THEY DO NOT REQUIRE BLACK PUDDING OR SODDING SMOKED SALMON.'

'Oh well, I'll go and have a chat to H in the Clotted Cream Emporium then. Sod yer!,' said One and huffed off through the gate.

This One duly did after getting a few bits of home-grown vegetation from some unwashed blighters and having a quick look at the hand-knitted offerings of the Pickled Egg Mafia in the Community Centre...

'Oh, you've had your lovely hair permed,' exclaimed H, viewing One's dishevelled mane from the wind and rain.
'Actually,' said One, 'I have really curly hair like you.'
'Blimey!' exclaimed H, 'How long does it take to straighten it every day!'
'About half an hour,' retorted One.
'Well, at least you're a natural blonde,' went on she.
'Ah, well,' began One, but thought better of it and drew a veil over the four hundred and twenty thousand pounds, and counting, that it actually takes to maintain the mystery.


As One was being given a little Easter treat One's mind kept wandering to Monty Don planting early potatoes in a dustbin.
'I could do that in my virtual butt!' thought One.
But then, just as One was feeling a little un-loved and taken for grunted, One heard those three little words every girl longs to hear...

'Here's yer egg.'

Saturday, 26 March 2016

In which One has lost One's allure...

That's me, that is, Dear Reader...
Not actually Eureka. No, but her neckage...

One uses this scraggage to illustrate the stchoopiness of One...

One has always wanted a Bewitched Heart Necklace like the one Elizabeth Montgomery wore in the sixties series of the same name.

One and Boy would watch our boxed sets regularly when we got up in the wee small hours when we couldn't sleep and Boy would promise to acquire one for One should he ever have the means available.

When One is not looking at shoes on the internet, One searches in vain for such a thing.  A search that has proven in vain, until earlier this week...

Aged P, unable to accept that One is bashing down the gates of Pension City, sent One a tenner for an Easter Egg with the strict instruction that One actually spent the spons on Oneself.
Since it is many a moon since One bought Oneself anything that hasn't been previously owned, One was frittering away another hour of One's life that One'll never get back and trawling ebay for the aforementioned heart...  ONE FOUND ONE

Not, you understand Dear Reader, a diamond one, but a cubic zeppelin, or diamonette or whatever the current wordage is for a bit of old glass.

Yesterday it arrived and One bunged it on forthwith...

It looked like a shiny little piece of heaven dangling off a portion of tripe...

Stupid One!  One should have acquired a scarf or a sweater that covered One's neck what's gone all Sylvia Sims.

That's it!  One has gorn 'ome!

It's official, I've lost me allure.

Friday, 25 March 2016

In which One is a spider...

As we traverse life's highway we meet many others...

Some bump into us and travel alongside for some of our brief, meaningless little lives.
Some are so absolutely lovely that one wishes to keep them manacled for all time and some repel us to the point that we scamper off into the sunset, brushing ourselves down with one of them Ajax sponges that remove stubborn stains.

There are, however, some that we simply cannot avoid and who bleed their insidious bile all over us and others about us.

They must be drawn into our pink and cuddly webs to be disposed of at a time of our choosing.

Wednesday, 23 March 2016

In which One is restrained...

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

You find One fresh from the shower having brillo-padded Oneself to within an inch of One's inner epidermus with carbolic soap and Cillit Bang grime and lime...

Let One explain...

There's One minding One's own bees-tiddly-wax, biffing up and down the corridors doing what required doing and toying with the idea of ripping the Admiral's incontinence pants off with me remaining stable tooth, when...

'Lovely One, are you doing anything at the moment, I need to borrow you for a minute,' came the order from one of One's youthful leaders.

We duly ascended the stairs and opened the door of the staff room...

To One's abject horror, lying under a sheet on a bed in the middle of the room was a fellow worker that One goes to unimaginable lengths to avoid on a daily basis.

Any road up, it transpired that One was required to lie on the bed, unaccompanied fortunately, but being restrained by what One can only describe as v clammy hands.

One being the restrainee, and two others being the restrainers.  One of which, One wouldn't mind being restrained by and the other, well, we'll draw a veil over that one!

'Pull the blinds down,' instructed the photograper.
'Flippin' 'eck' thought One, what the divil is gooin on 'ere?'
'You've got a light halo around your head,' continued he.
'That's always there,' quipped One and we all had a brief titter.

And so, One expects to see One's three chins (I hate photographs taken pointing from the bottom up) in a medical journal sometime soon.

Upon reflection, One hasn't appeared in such a compromising position since long, long ago when One was on a Riviera Swingers holiday in the South of France, with One's BF of the time, The Animal.  Family moto: 'If you can't feck it or eat it. Kill it.'  One appeared in the holiday brochure the following year, obv before One's thighs went home.

Monday, 21 March 2016

In which One is a miserable old dollop...

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

Twelve and a half hours of uninterrupted inane, meaningless twaddle filtered through One's darling little shell like lugs, and One can take no more.

Some idiots think that silence is a space that needs filling with any old verbal shite, and boy, were they abroad yesterday!

One hid in the light room, One volunteered for stints in the silver service restaurant, One sat in what is laughingly called the 'quiet area' (that was even infiltrated by the loud, chalk down the blackboard, irritating guff that poured forth all fecking day.)

Any road up, One cannot put up with it a moment longer.
I don't care if the position you hold yer fag makes a difference to how stained yer fingers get...
I care even less about how much you drank last night...
Nor do I care how many times you have to bleach your hair to get it completely white..
hang on a few years, darlin' (oooh how I hate that word) and it'll go fecking white on it's own...

'Forsooth, Lovely One, it seems to us that you are a grumpy old woman!,' One hears you cry Dear Reader.

Maybe so,  but nonetheless One has had it up to here (imagine One with a beautifully manicured digit pointing skyward, Dear Reader)

It's not that One expects the New Year Lectures on a daily basis, nor does One mind a titter now and then to alleviate the long, grim hours.  No, Dear Reader, as I hope you realise from this daily missive, One lives to chortle and make others so do.

On previous long weekends at the Shit-Face, One has been entertained by the more senior (in years) of the eclectic mix that makes up the Support Workers.

'Well, then, Lovely One, where where they?' I hear you inquire, Dear Reader.

One eventually found them sitting in the laundry, shouting la-la and mopping themselves down with ragged towels since their ears were bleeding, the lightweights!

'Oh get over it you miserable old dollop!' I hear you cry darlings.


Friday, 18 March 2016

In which One's yellow plastic pinny may be rustling for the last time soon...

'I'll start with a Lemsip,' opined the Admiral, hoiking himself to a sitting position in his 'little old gentleman's adjustable bed.
'Your not in the bleedin' Savoy now you cheeky git!' replied One.
'Ayl start with a Lemsip my good man,' One chortled in a silly voice.
'Get back in the kitchen woman, you've got delusions of grandeur,' came the stern reply.
I tell you, Dear Reader, I'd have biffed him one on the strawberry nose if I hadn't been dying for a poo.

Any road up, that's what it's come to: beginning the day with a fecking Lemsip!
One hasn't taken a foothold just yet on that particular slippery slope, and still starts the new day with a Berocca.  'One, but on a really good day.'

One's three poo-free days are all but at an end and One shall be fronting up at the Shit-Face bright and early tomorrow.


Yesterday dear little BF clawed her way up the hill for a cup of tea, sans fag, she's actually given up, and arrived at the door wilting and out of puff with a face like a boiled beet artfully arranged on the top of a pile of charity shop garments.

We partook of a slice of the Larder's finest coffee and walnut cake and a cup of rosy whilst we exchanged gossip about the great Wivey unwashed.

One passed on the story of a stchoopid customer One had encountered on One's day in the shop:
Just like when One was the painter in the gallery on the Barbican and persons used to biff in with their pathetic offerings for One to appraise and plonk them unceremoniously on top of whatever One was painting at the time.

'I am a painter,' they would say, 'I've brought some work in for you to sell,' they went on, 'what can I get for them,'

'A can of oil and a match,' was One's stock reply, 'How long have you been selling your work?'

'Oh I've never sold any,' they always say, 'I've retired from teaching/delivering the milk/coal-mining etc., and I am an artist now.'

'Let me give you a piece of advice,' One would begin,' before you barge into a gallery and deposit your offerings on the top of the resident artists work, have a cursory glance around at the other paintings.  You will observe the work of artists who have spent a lifetime perfecting their art and living a life of penury whilst they wait for a gallery owner to agree to hang it on the wall and then take fifty per cent of the takings should the work be sold.  You will observe that you are not, indeed, an artist, but a retired teacher/bog snorkeller, whatever.'

One's boss, the gallery owner, upon hearing this diatribe on a regular basis would opine.
'There'll be people hanging themselves from trees outside after an appraisal from you!'

And so they fecking should be.  Marching in and expecting to get the same amount of money for one of their pathetic attempts as Lovely One does!

And with this in One's mind it wasn't a surprise when in biffed a customer yesterday, waltzed up to One who was drawing yet another view of the Baribican (commissioned, you understand, Dear Reader) and plonked her prospective purchases down, smack bang in the middle of it.

One toyed with the idea of berating the blighter, but as it's not One's emporium, but One's chum's, One merely removed the offending items with something of a distained flourish and completed the transaction with me face on inside-out.


'I've been asked to write a blog for the Guardian,' said One to One's co-worker, showing off to the enth degree.
'And leave all this behind,' said she motioning to the wet-wipes, Tena pants and disinfectant.
'Yes indeed-ee,' said One and flounced off with me yellow plastic pinny rustling.

Wednesday, 16 March 2016

In which One revels in three poo-free days...

Today One shall be mostly painting a masterpiece in One's chum's distressed furniture emporium and attempting to think up a supper that doesn't involve chicken...

Let me explain, Dear Reader, One did the grocery shopping: lots of easily digestible and soft food stuffs that the Admiral can imbibe upon his visits here from the Home for Retired Sea-Faring Folk, and on investigation into the Fridgidaire, all One could find was chicken.

Chicken in all it's guises: Chicken tit fillets, boned chicken thighs, chicken coujons (whatever the feck they are), in fact all but chicken having been 'nuggetted' (even the deserving poor in the Underground Lair eschew those nasty little bogies of botulism.)
Although, having said that, One did partake of a Chicken something-or-other from a fast food outlet (I think it was called McDuffs, or somesuch) and 'twas indeed a flavoursome morsel, along with some stringy looking yellow things.  Chips I believe.  This was during a visit home for a charge and not an actual choice, you understand.

Any road up, I digress...

Back to the painting...

One shall be producing yet another view of sodding Plymouth.  Shouldn't say that really, what with the parochial Plymothian positively foaming at the gusset in anticipation of another Lovely One offering and after all, the little blighters have kept the wooluf from the door of the Underground Lair for the passing of many a moon.  Thanks Awfully!

Have three days off in a row this week! Hurrah!
Should really be biffing off to Charity Shops various with the tiny little BF, since news reaches One that she is suffering cabin fever, having been holed up with BFP throughout the winter.
One imagines she's dying for a fag by now, since with the absence of One from the top of the garden means that the piquant aroma of fag smoke can't be blamed on moi.

One can but hope that she's not resorted to self harming again (biting holes in the sleeves of her best cardi from frustration)

Still, One shall be thankful for three poo-free days, unless of course the Admiral breeches his Tena Man invisible incontinence pants...

Tuesday, 15 March 2016

In which One is a scaredy cat...

Off we went with a couple of charges to the sea...
Unfortunately it appeared just to be 'a nice day through glass' and the little dears, following an hour's drive to find an appropriately quiet location, didn't want to get off the bus.
Anyway, we were out of the office, so to speak, see above.

'Tis a strange life, isn't it, Dear Reader...

In the grand scheme of things One should be availing Oneself of whist drives, luncheon clubs and the W.I., but, as you know, failure to secure a decent pension, an unwise marriage and the fact that One's chosen career path (electronics) has led One to be something of a dinosaur in the employment stakes, One is shackled to the Shit-Face for the foreseeable...

'WHY AREN'T YOU PAINTING?'  I hear you cry in frustration, Dear Reader.
Why indeed!

Well, One is happy to announce that One shall indeed be 'painting' in an establishment in dear old Wivey this very week.

AND, One has sold two pieces and got two commissions this week, and One hasn't even had to sharpen me pencil.


One had a visit from a neighbour just the other day who is currently being taken to court to re-claim four and a half thousand pounds to cover the cost of solicitor's letters sent from our Management Company.  That, added to the four and a half required from One and the other four to cover the re-pointing of the back wall of the block is really rather a lot of money.

One naively assumed that the maintenance charges collected from the sixteen flats in this block went toward the upkeep of the building.

Sadly it would appear that the monies are destined to fund the litigious proclivities of our great leader.

All that and there is still water running down the back wall and pooling outside One's chambre de coucher which now has an interesting black growth under the window.

'Tell her and get something done about it!' One hears you cry Dear Reader.

Do you know what, Dears?  One daren't!  One is something of a violet of the shrinking variety these days.

Wednesday, 9 March 2016

In which One is feeling a little ragged around the edges...

That's me that is, Dear Reader, ready for another day of 'supporting people to live the lives that they choose.'
Not exactly sure who out there is going to support One to live the life that One chooses though...

It cannot fail to capture the attention of us workers that we, through our taxes, pay for the less fortunate to 'live the lives they choose' and pay our own salaries too.

Occasionally, very occasionally, One wakes up and seriously questions the validity of One's own existence.

One's standard of living falls way below the standard of those that One is paying Oneself to look after.

One sat Oneself down and gave Oneself a stiff talking to the other eve...

'Spend your day off painting.' said One to One.
'I'm too tired to do anything other than fall into bed after I've done all the house-worky type things,' One replied to One.

A conundrum then, what does a body do?

One is far too old to be doing all this physical work, isn't One, Dear Reader?
Yes indeed, One is, and doing it for a paltry amount of money that barely keeps body and soul together.

'Stop buying wine and fags,' I hear you cry.

In the not too distant past One would have agreed with that sentiment, but currently One requires the help of substances simply to exist.

Ahhhh, feel better for that short rant (which is more than can be said for the Admiral, who has to listen to One moaning and groaning on his rare visits from the Home for Retired Sea-Farers.)

Onward and upward, or as in One's case: downward...

Today One shall be mostly doing 'Art' throughout One's day and when One gets home, worn out and despondent One shall takes One's cat to the cinema...

Sunday, 6 March 2016

In which One still pokes things with sticks...

That's me that is, Dear Reader, chucking up in disgust.... (see above)

Whilst the rest of the world is busy waking up 'loving each other to the moon and back' on Facebook One is cowering 'neath the shredded quilt sheltering from an imaginary fire engine...
Don't ask, Dear Reader, you really don't want to know.

There would appear to be a massive love-fest party on Facebook that One has cordially not been invited to.  Not that One would sully One's 'miserable old dollop' reputation to partake of the vomit-inducing shite that persons dole out on a daily basis to each other.

'Perhaps she doth protest too much?' One hears you ponder, Dear Reader, 'and she is jealous of the high regard her fellow man/woman/child hold each other in, whilst Boy, sensible offspring of mine, is deep in the Somerset countryside with his amour scoffing lasagne, inhaling scrumpy and generally not giving One a twopenny feck's worth of thought.

No, Dear Reader, One is secure in the knowledge that One is held in high regard and doesn't require a six quid bunch of Lidls finest fecking spring flowers to reinforce the fact.

A catering pack of Pinot might have been nice, but One would have drunk the lot and woken up with me face on inside out and spent the twelve and a half hour day at the Shit-Face trying not to vomit in me handbag. One shall settle for a phone call and a discussion about whether the UK should remain in the European Union.  (How the feck would One know?  One is too busy working One's fat arse off keeping body and soul together and has no time to lend a shell-like to the thin-lipped Bullingdon boys)

Any road up, with reference to One's fat arse:  One is re-enrolling at Slimming World this week, having made a pact with a fellow flollopy support worker One has met on One's art therapy tours of Somerset.  With the the shame of seat-belt extensions looming large in our nightmares and the summer holidays soon to be upon us, we must take action before our arses get their own post codes.

Not that One shall be partaking of anything as exotic as a holiday abroad unless the Admiral pays for it.  One is currently unsure of the wisdom of acting as his respite carer on his regular breaks from the home for retired sea-farers.  One has never known a cove require such a lot of clean shreddies.  One can but conclude that in the past One has been embroiled with the insanitary great un-washed of the species.

And in conclusion, One has un-friended everyone (not that One actually knows many of the blighters) and closed the facebook account.  They can all love one another to the moon and back without sharing it with One.

'Tis not age that has caused One to be such a curmudgeonly, miserable old dollop.  Apparently, according to aged P, even when One was a child One eschewed the cuddles of others preferring to climb trees or poke things with sticks.