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Saturday, 25 June 2016

In which 3 five minute breaks in a twelve and a half hour day is not enough...

Flippin' 'eck! Yesterday was a v tiring day.
It would appear that the shift leader was conducting an experiment to see how many times an elderly person (that's me, that is, Dear Reader), could run up and down the stairs before her stressed knees gave out.
One's first charge of the day has a propensity to do unspeakable things when left to his own devices, so One formulated a plan to stick to the little blighter like shite to a blanket. Actually that's a rather appropriate analogy, since shite to a blanket would have been the result had One left the little dear unattended.
He tried everything to shake One off including a dash around the grounds, but One was on fire and kept up the pace like a dollop of half One's age, and weight.
One was duly rewarded with a trip to the swimming pool with another pair of delicious del
One, having previously informed One's leader that 'I don't get me kit off at work' was relegated to changing room assistant and poolside attendant, spent an hour of me life, that I won't get back, being stifled in the extreme temperatures (the little dears feel the cold) and attempting to avoid being splashed by the primordial soup they were floating about in.
Following our return 'home' One was then presented with a naked man to chase up and down the stairs whilst ensuring that he didn't eat his slippers.
Yes, Dear Reader, it was a twelve and a half hour shift.
Finally slumped on the wipe-clean sofa, One was intimidated by a further article intent on tearing One's clothing from One.
'If the little fecker comes near me again, I'm going to punch him' said One, only partly in jest.
A look of fleeting horror passed across the face of one of One's cerebrally challenged co workers, so One is expecting a 'significant discussion' on the morrow.
But then, if you farm these alarming creatures for profit you must expect the farm workers to live on the edge.

Wednesday, 22 June 2016

In which One is indisposed...

Huh! Here's One languishing in me truckle bed that's v fortunately adjacent to toiley boiley, and that flamin' loud-mouthed bint that's just moved in over the back starts up.
I have no interest whatever that..... 'ooooh look Roger, there's a red hot poker coming up here.'
I don't give a rat's fat where it's coming up but I can tell you where it'll be going if you don't shut yer yak.
And I'm willing to bet the occupants of the other fifteen flats can't give a shite either.

I tell you, Dear Reader, it used to be so quiet up here that you you could hear me clematis being nibbled.

Not no more!  I'd never given much thought to the anal couple (he had a pop up barrier at the end of his driveway) who resided quietly in the coach house.

They'd cocked a snook at One and One's male companions various over the years, but then One has run the gamut of reputation from Lolita to Elsie Tanner over the passage of time.

But, you never heard a peep out of the blighters. Then the selfish bastards moved and in slid Gobby Gertrude and the long suffering Roger.

They've obv come from the sale of some ghastly 'right to buy' sarf lundun council flat as each weekend we're invaded by inappropriately dressed for the country types who all take tea in the garden and are enthralled by GG who has discovered a hole in her head that she has to use all fecking day long.

Any brief interlude of silence has to be filled by a shrill squawk of exciting information regarding the doings of the hollering banshee.

So, here's One, head in bucket, listening to the boring bint yet again.

Pray for rain, Dear Reader. Pray for rain...

Tuesday, 21 June 2016

In which One can't unsee the naked man...

I tell you, Dear Reader, if I wasn't so fecking knackered I'd hunt that sodding Bill Gates down and give him a Chinese burn on the willy...

All fecking day long One has been chasing a naked man up and down the stairs (don't ask!) and One gets home, turns on the pooter and attempts to purchase, or otherwise acquire, a lottery ticket in order that there is a vague hope of ever being able to pay off me gargantuan debts, retire to a home for the bewildered and eat something other than Asda Smart Price meatballs, and ...
I cant get into me lottery account because that be-spectacled tit has seen fit to update me pooter to Win-fecking-dows fecking 10 THAT I DIDNT EVEN BLEEDING WELL ASK FOR

Locked out of every sodding thing, even, I might add, the precious blog, that it took me forever to get back into.

Any road up, having been so bleedin' busy chasing, or being chased by, persons who require more looking after than One does, One simply wants One's devices to work first time without any issues.
Why, only the other sodding day One received a message to inform One that One is yet again locked out of One's pooters as 'someone has been accessing your information.'  Yes IT WAS ME you blithering eejit!

Anway, what with working all the effing time, One doesn't even have time to see dear little BF.  I bet without my direct shopping input she's sauntering towards beige clothing items in Matalan and not no-no-ing her upper lip.  Rumour has it she's even stopped smoking!  Ghastly behaviour, and all because One is Shit-Faced up to the eyebrows.

Not that One has a full set of eyebrows anymore...

'ere' said a fellow hirsute workmate suffering from super-floo-us, 'ave yer seen this?' brandishing a pink device (why is it that marketing types think that razors are an acceptable handbag item if they're pink?)
Any road up, it was a neat little thing that looked fairly capable of removing me soft white downy grow yer own balaclava, so One shot off to Argos to acquire same.

Foolishly attempting a smooth surface without reading the instructions One began ploughing through the fur and hoiking it off like tumbleweed when One got blasé and attempted an eyebrow shape. 
Only got one now.  And, me face looks like a peeled King Edward.

Sunday, 12 June 2016

In which double denim is never a good look...

One didn't want it. One didn't ask for it. But, 'twould appear One's fecking got to 'ave it anyway.
Windows Fecking ten.
There it was nestled into me pooter and flashing up views various accompanied by the enquiry 'like what you see?'
No! I fecking don't!
If I want to see a fecking great tree I'll look in the back garden. If I want to peruse a pond I'll nip down the duck pond at the Shit-Face!
What I want to see on me screen saver is ferzackerly what I put there: a picture of boy and his mate!
AND stop sending me messages telling me someone just signed into my account. It was meeeee you over-zealous American busybodies.
Then, to put the tin fecking hat on it, I can't fecking sign in.
Just when I realised that funny things are actually happening that should be blogged without delay, my pooter 'doesn't recognise me'
The Kindle does though! Ha ha, scuppered you Microsoft meddling, annoying fecking unwashed, beardy-boy bastards.
Any road up, One has come to realise, as aforementioned, things amusing are actually happening, but One has evolved into a short-tempered, morose old harridan.
'How so?' One hears you enquire, Dear Reader, 'when you lead such a glamorous life, knee deep in snot and shite.'
Whatever was One thinking when One eschewed the bohemian world of art for the frustrating, underpaid, filthy world of 'care'
OK, it is a regular wage, such as it is, but a month's money only lasts two weeks.
So, there One was, minding One's own bees-tiddly-wax, counting loose change in the bottom of me satchel yesterday in the Co op, seeing if I'd got enough for a pint of pinot to drown me sorrows.....
One looked up and caught sight of Lovely Gordon pondering the £9.99 bottles, and sporting.....
Never a good look. Particularly in the over 65 category.