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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.


Friday, 29 July 2016

In which One isn't Mrs Danvers...

That's me, that is, Dear Reader...
Following my aborted mission to get a more suitable means of employment, thereby returning to the painting.

Off One biffed to the Rock in Waterrow for an interview regarding a job as 'Housekeeper'.
'Ooooh, could be quite fun', thought One, imagining One as Mrs Danvers (Google it you morons) gazing menacingly out over the countryside.
But, no, 'twas not to be...
One had been prior warned by One's chum at the Shit-Face that the proprietors were rather dour, miserable old so and so's but One prefers to determine the cut of another's jib Oneself.

But Nana was indeed correct and the pitiable piece that ushered One over the threshold was indeed a sour-faced article.

She regarded One with immediate suspicion, viewing One in the crisp morning light rather than the fairground, Vaseline smeared looking glass One uses,   asking things like...
'Can you lift heavy bags of laundry?'
'How is your back?' (A lot more pleasant to regard than her front, I can tell you!)
'Are you fast?' (Well, I have been in the past, but me gusset's in retirement now!)

Any road up, she grabbed some keys in the manner of a chatelaine, and we ascended the stairs to view the rooms.
One was suitably underwhelmed by the place.  Not the rooms, exactly, but you know how sometimes a place is just dead, completely devoid of atmosphere and the air thick and fetid as candyfloss, well, that's the impression One had.
Nothing flowed.  The entire place had the feel of random showrooms attached to each other.
Why, even the residents' lounge (yes, only airports and hotels have lounges, you ill-educated twonks)
that was set up for shooting parties had a moist and sticky miasma clinging to it.
Shooting parties?  The only evidence for this was the scattering of Courthouse, Wivey cushions with prints of random game on them, the smaller, low cost ones, of course.

'This is where The Daily Mail stayed,' says she, opening the door to a pretty average sort of space.
'Until you work in hospitality, you don't realise how rude the public are,' she went on.....and on.....
'Twould appear that some ungrateful coves had had the temerity to criticise a 'bathroom' for not having a bath in it.  One would have thought that made it a 'shower' room, but no matter, One shan't be lathering One's twinkle up in there in the near future.
One was nonplussed by the venom with which these criticisms were recounted.  One, instead, might have thought, 'hang on a mo, maybe they've got a point,' but, hey, some people are never in the wrong.

'Is there anything you'd like to ask?' queried she when we got back to the uninviting bar.
'Yes,' countered One, 'Are you a happy team?'

And that put the tin hat on it really, Dear Reader.

One could feel their beady eyes boring into One's departing back as One left the scene....

Wednesday, 27 July 2016

In which One rabbits, rabbits, rabbits...

That's me, that is, Dear Reader...
Or, with any luck it will be in about three hours...
More on that story later...


There he stood, Lovely Gordon, peering through the locked gates, brandishing a half eaten Tesco Finest lasagne, looking like a partially ironed Greek God, summoning One to the crack with his free hand...
'Oh fer feck's sake!' intoned One under One's breath, 'what the feck does he want?'
After all, One had just dragged One's crumbling torso up the 1:2 slope to the Underground Lair following a twelve and a half hour shift at the Shit-Face...
'It's still warm,' said he proffering the fayre, 'I wondered if you and the Admiral, if he's visiting, might like it for tea.'
One flolloped toward the gate bemoaning One's fate and churlishly spurning the scoff and telling the cove that One had a portion of the Co-op's finest (marked down and 'still fresh') of course, breaded mushrooms and spicy wedges, thank you very much!
The rejected blighter about-faced and slunk off up the passage, calling over his shoulder...
'remember there are people who love you,' causing One to feel like a curmudgeonly old bint.

One has made amends by offering the cove to make free with One's herb pot on One's day off.


Yesterday was an amusing interlude by anyone's standards...
The 'Music Man' visited and off we all shuffled to the walled garden.
A sprightly looking octagenarian, wearing the shiniest shoes One has ever seen, appeared brandishing a ukulele and transported us all back to the 1940's with a medley of George Formby songs.
Who the feck would remember all that old toffee is quite beyond One.
The assembled throng shrieked, charged back and forth and generally went wild for the blighter: flapping, rocking and bouncing etc...
One of our more able and mobile charges who has a penchant for having a bit of a tidy thought she'd nip in the summerhouse and unplug the blighter's amplifier.  So there, he stood bereft of his backing track and looking a tad confused.
Every time he looked away she tidied his sheet music back into his back and shot off over the grass looking rather pleased with herself.
This set the tone for the afternoon...
Halfway through 'Run Rabbit Run' One observed One's only vocal charge sporting a gravity defying dewdrop on the end of her nose and a veritable river of tears cascading down her wizened cheeks.
'Whatever's up gel?' enquired One.
'I miss my rabbit,' cried she.
One, looking bemused, turned to One's colleague for explanation.
'Oh she had a rabbit and broke it's neck by cuddling it too hard,' explained she.
One, who can be a vicious, brutal old bint, thought this to be highly amusing, but comforted the poor old stick nonetheless with a concerned look hovering about One's face.
Eventually, calm returned...
But then...
'We're going to have a Chaz and Dave singalong now,' announced the Music Man.
'Oh feck a duck,' thought One and as if it were written in the wind, off he went with...
'Rabbit, rabbit,rabbit, rabbit,'....
One deemed it best to wheel the distressed damsel out of earshot...

Monday, 25 July 2016

In which One shall be pulling pork...

Five 8.30pm finishes in a row...
Eleven days before I get 2 days off together...

But what's not to love?

Anyway a 'treat' is shimmering on the horizon...
A night out at the bowling club for a 'pulled pork' supper.
Oh let joy be unconfined.
A load of boring old farts 'pulling their pork' with their lovely wives in tow having scintillating conversations about meringue making or shirt washing.

'There'll be music,' whistled the Admiral, through his new teeth.
'Whoop-de-fecking-do,' thought One, 'just what One needs after a grueling day at the Shit-Face.'

One did spend a couple of hours of One's life watching the mind-numbingly boring game of Big Marbles (another few hours of me life I'll never get back) and the only sound to break the stillness was that of a deceased nonagenarian hitting the turf in that dull thud of death.
No more playing with his big marbles or, indeed, pulling his pork.

In which One is wafted to hell...

That's me, that is, Dear Reader...
Yellow-bucketed up and perspiring like a stuck pig...
However, a directive has come that we are not to wear sleeveless tops, shorts, or anything low cut at the front, even on the most hot of days.
As usual this missive was worded in the most offensive of ways.  What is it with these people?
It made reference to people 'of all shapes and sizes' wearing sleeveless T-shirts and 'how would you like someone's sweaty armpit in your face.'

One, as always, exudes the aroma of Chanel No 5 and has never, ever sported a 'sweaty armpit.'

However, One's working hours have been re-jigged as requested...

Now, One can begin work half way through the day, thereby missing lunch, and leave work at 8.30pm, thereby arriving home too late to cook, so missing dinner.

How fortunate is One, Dear Reader?  One can now crawl home at 9.00pm and stuff down a sandwich, fall, exhausted into bed and then do it all again the next day!

'Tis  too much for the ageing and creaky-boned Lovely One...

What to do next?  For One shall doubtless be working for at least another ten years, if One is unfortunate enough to last that long.

One doesn't like the fact that One has become a sour-faced, whingeing old harridan, but there you are Dear Reader...

One generally 'bucks One's ideas up' eventually, but just in case: have the humane killer ready...

Saturday, 23 July 2016

In which One is drifting aimlessly...

Oh woe is One, for One must begin work at 3.30 and cease at 8.00pm, thereby fecking up both ends of the day.
One appears to be required only at the arse end of each day, literally, and One is not joyous.

One has lost touch with One's chums, got all miserable and doesn't even know what day it is.

What to do?
What indeed?

If only someone would purchase the Underground Lair, freeing up One to settle all accounts and take to the highways in a life of sublime freedom.

One could live quite happily in a van with perhaps a cat or an Admiral as companion.

One is adrift on a bleak and lonesome ocean at present with no hope of a lifebelt being cast toward One.

Anyway, even if some passing cove chucked a life jacket to One it probably wouldn't fit.

Friday, 22 July 2016

In which One is baking...

There is nothing quite as delicious as a day off work when the sun is shining.  Even when One feels like absolute shite.

Another chest infection and a forty Woodbine a day cough.

One has taken to biffing down the bowling club to observe the Admiral and his old codger chums hurling their balls across the green, but just at an important juncture, One starts hacking lumps of lung into the mix and it puts the blighters off.

So today One is staying in the Underground Lair and baking a Hummingbird Cake.

One might even spend a moment or two in the garden as One is not likely to be disturbed by One's odd neighbours: they are holidaying at present.

One isn't even safe in the sanctity of One's sitting room from the little heads appearing over the fence.  Why, only the other day One was sitting, partially clad, putting me face on in preparation for a day's arse wiping, when they bobbed up intent on engaging One in a scintillating discussion on whereabouts on the body one might get shingles.

Lucky they didn't get an eyeful of the Admiral sitting in his bathchair wearing nothing but an incontinence pant and a fiendish grimace.

Monday, 18 July 2016

In which One needs another week off work...

Aged P has left the building...
With strict instructions from One to see a doctor.
'You can't get an appointment for three weeks,' said she upon being advised to phone the surgery.
'What!' countered One, 'They must have emergency appointments available.'
'You can't get through,' ploughed on she.
'Well you just have to keep trying. It's like that here.'
'You don't have wogs jumping the queue. I'm going to A & E,' she hissed, and I'm afraid, Dear Reader, there didn't seem much point in labouring the issue.

Anyway, I'd like to think she enjoyed her stay in Somerset. After all, I'm sure the inside of Taunton Marks and Spencer must have been as familiar as the store in Luton.

No soaps went unwatched, no ready meal uneaten...

'Do you want some cake?' asked One on a visit to The Larder.
'Nah,' replied she turning her nose up.
Later that day...
'Claaaaaaaaaaire,' came the cry filtering through One's afternoon nap haze...
'Have you got any cake? I need something sweet.'
'I did ask you if you wanted cake and you said no,' exclaimed an incredulous One.
'Well I meant yes,' hissed she indignantly as though One had fallen short.

Later that evening...
'I need something sweet. Have you got any chocolate?'
'Some Cadbury Wholenut?'
'I only eat 70% cocoa plain.'
'I haven't got any.'
'Give me two squares of the Cadbury then,' huffed she reluctantly.
It was devoured with gusto followed by the rest of the catering pack sized bar.

Healthy eating tip...
White bread may be consumed as long as it's shaped like a baguette.

Thursday, 14 July 2016

In which mushy peas are consumed...

How joyous must a life be: spent in the pursuit of trousers.

Following a luncheon with One's dear chum M and Aged P in the dogged-up Bear (what is it with these rabid canine fanciers? They get all sniffy and defensive when you remove their wandering dog's snout from...)
A.      Yer twinkle
B.       Yer fish supper.
We set sail once again for Marks and Spencer in Taunton, but not before I'd been sent back to the charity shop for the second choice handbag (first choice having been previously purchased) and to the Co op for a catering pack of Gaviscon following the consumption of too large a luncheon.

'I loathe mushy peas,' opined Aged P when perusing the menu.
'Don't 'ave 'em then,' hissed One through gritted teeth.
'What's Catch of the Day?' asked she, 'do you think it's fish?'
'No, probably a fecking bison caught outside the Chemist! What do you think.'
'There's no need to be like that!' Sniffed the silly old bat.
But, there is, Dear Reader, there is.

One approached the bar to order the food....
'One catch of the day,' said One, 'but Mother doesn't like mushy peas.'
'Would you prefer garden peas, or perhaps salad?' volunteered the barmaid.
'Oh go on, I'll have the mushy peas,' countered Aged P.
One's gob dropped open and the barmaid sniggered.
'Are you paying for it?' she enquired.
'Oh yes,' said One, 'today and for the rest of my life.'

Wednesday, 13 July 2016

In which One is still in the Tracy Emin tent of life...

One's findings of the week, thus far, are this, Dear Reader...

The passage of time narrows one's mind and eventually life completely zips one into a one berth tent...

Inside the tent are reading materials:
A copy of the Daily Express and a repeat prescription.

A list of subjects available for discussion: Illness, medication, and any irrelevant information about person or persons unknown to the listener.
for example -
Question - 'Delphine and John get up at 10.00am and they only eat a small apple for breakfast!  What do you think of that!'
Answer - 'I don't.'

Outings to 'the shops' are allowed on an almost daily basis, but only in pursuit of items...

a     Out of season
b     Not available in Britain since 1943


One, as a viewer of Little Britain in days of yore was amused, but nonplussed by the cove who entered the toy shop with such specific requirements for a board game...
'A pirate ship game,' he used to say, 'for ages six to six and a half,' or some such uber-specific instruction.
Such a thing happened to One just yesterday...
On One's third visit back to the car with items various, enquired if there was anything else that Aged P needed that day.
'A Daily Express for the puzzles,' came the reply.
Off One tottered to acquire same...
Upon One's return, One ventured the same question...
'A sheet of wrapping paper for a nine-year old boy,' came the retort.
Not any old sheet of wrapping paper you understand, Dear Reader, but a specific sheet designed for a nine-year old boy.
Off One went in pursuit and failed miserably.
Back at the ve-hicle, One rattled off the question again, and the Admiral, who had come along to give One moral support and to step in should there be any blood-letting, piped up...
'Did you get my Times?'
'No not yet,' hissed an ungrateful One, 'but when I do I'm going to shove it up yer arse!'

In which Coronation Street is almost missed...

Tis that most unusual of days - A double blogger...

'How do you wash your face?' Came the enquiry after One told Aged P that no hot water came out of the hot water tap due to One not being able to afford to replace the boiler.
'I've got an electric shower, a cold fill washing machine, and I just boil a kettle to wash up,' replied One, knowing full well I'd be opening a can of worms by offering too much information.
'What happens if you get your hair wet?' went on she.
I knew I was going to hate myself for pursuing that particular line of enquiry...
' I dry it?' One ventured.
'You know what I mean' spat she adopting her 'bulldog chewing a wasp' face.
One explained that One washes One's face, hair and indeed all of One in the shower.
This was deemed to be a filthy lie as...
'No one washes their hair every day.'


'Would you like to go to the seaside?' said One.
'Do you want to? I don't mind,' replied Aged P.
'I can go anytime, can't I. I'll take you if you want.'

And lo, we arrive at the seafront in Minehead.
'I can't get out of the car, it's too windy and will spoil my hair,' said she.
We drove back...

'I'll get something nice for supper then,' offered One.
'I've got a Marks and Spencer Cumberland pie,' she said, 'and I'm missing Coronation Street.'

Tuesday, 12 July 2016

In which One is full of snot and indignation...

'So, Mother, you've come all the way to Somerset.  Pray tell, where would you like to go?' enquired a sinus-infection ravaged Lovely One.  (Oh joy, oh bliss, One needs to be in tip top condition to survive a week with aged P)

'Marks and Spencer,' replied she.


'Well, I need to get a pair of silky trousers for a 'do' I'm going to next week.'
'Why didn't you get them in Luton then?' enquired an exasperated Lovely One.
'Well, I saw what I wanted about three months ago and didn't get them so I thought I'd get them while I was here,' countered she.
'You won't be able to find something that was on sale three months ago,' volunteered One, 'stock changes all the time.'
'Well I need to get a new nightie and some silky vest tops and some ready meals and do you think they sell coffee?' ploughed on she.

One, having spent a small fortune at the award winning Wivey butchers shop was nonplussed to learn that One's culinary offerings were not up to standard and must be replaced by mass produced ready meals.  As for the coffee: finest filter Espresso obviously doesn't meet with the exacting standards of the irritating old harridan.

So, off we go to the shops...

'Huh, I want sports bras. There's never what I want,' huffed she upon being on the lingerie floor for all of five seconds.
One was rather anxious to enquire as to why an Eighty six year old with a walking stick might require a sports bra, but felt it unwise to ask.
'Well, you've just walked into the shop, why don't you have a look around?  Look,' said One, gesticulating wildly to the numerous racks of brassieres of all shapes and sizes.
'|Huh,' said she, 'there's never an assistant when I want one.'

Anyway, following a lot of huffing and puffing 'sports bras' (feck knows why), nightie and floaty trousers were acquired and off we sped to the food hall for some foul smelling Cumberland Pies that obviously were superior to the free range lamb One had intended to cook.

Upon arrival home she made herself a cup of tea ( I don't put enough milk in) and One was incandescent with rage to see that she had used One's Penguin Classic 'Pursuit of Love' mug.  A very special treat One afforded Oneself and had hidden away in order that no one else used it.

'I am your Mother!,' exploded the matriarch on request that in future a different cup might be used.


Monday, 11 July 2016

In which One's gone all Shelley Winters...

That's me that is, Dear Reader, One's gone all 'Shelley Winters'...
I know, I know, having previously gone all 'Syvia Sims' you are quite right to assume it's far too late in the day to jump ship, but, there you are, One's got curly blonde locks and a fat arse.

Any road up, what with losing a bit of lard of late and having skin hanging loosely over me gigantic frame in the manner of a three day old balloon, One is feeling the cold a bit.

One biffed off to the Doctor to have me annual once-over...

'Your blood pressure is so high,' commented the racing-snake of a nurse, 'that if it hadn't been almost that high before, you'd be on the couch having an ECG and then advancing straight to the hospital.'

What's a girl to do? thought One.  It's enough to make you stop smoking and drinking, well, almost!

'Can I just weigh you?' she continued.
'Certainly not,' countered One, 'I should have thought that a cursory glance in One's direction would inform you of the fact that One could do with losing a further ounce or two!'
'Well we usually do when giving a diabetic check-up,' she ploughed on.
'Well I've been coming here for ten years and you never have before,' retorted One, 'so let's not start now.'
'I've never had a weight problem,' said she, sliding her spindly legs back under the desk.
'Good for you,' snorted One, 'but we're not here to talk about you, are we?' and flounced out of the surgery in an indignant manner.

'God, I bet they love you in there!' said the Admiral upon One recounting the tale.

Well, honestly, Dear Reader, One is the most elderly item at the Shit-Face and can still keep up with the little blighters, so what's the big deal?
Of course, One would dearly love to give up the vagaries of bottom-wiping, but the rich seam of comedy still to be mined there (mostly from One's fellow workers) cannot be swerved.
Why, only this week, One earwigged a meeting during which a Social Worker had ordered that one of the little darlings should be undertaking 'age appropriate' pastimes and meeting other persons of a similar age for coffee and cake...

When will it occur to these do-gooding busybodies that the whole point of Autism is that continuity of surroundings and happenings are required for a calm and ordered existence?  'Social Inclusion' is a marvellous thing - but only if it doesn't cause distress, which it invariable does!

Any road up, One must stop trying to change the world, One is too old/worn out/tired and totally shagged and busy wobbling me Shelley Winter's arse up the village to get some Vin Rouge.  (Aged P is on her way!!!!!!!!!!!!!!)

Wednesday, 6 July 2016

In which One is a Viking without a pineapple ring...

That's me that is, Dear Reader, (see above), in me new Viking Dressing Up outfit from the pound shop...

'Whyfor you are dressed as a Viking, Lovely One?' I hear you enquire, Dear Reader.

Well, it's like this...

Yesterday, apropos of nothing, the theme of the conversation in the Residents' Lounge alighted upon Vikings.  It all began with one of One's co workers regaling all with the story of the Viking Burial afforded her deceased hamster.  Apparently the little furry stiffy had been bundled into an empty ice-lolly box, set aboard a makeshift longboat, had a lighted fag end hurled in and set sail upon the Bridgwater Canal.
'Want to say a few words?' enquired the co workers significant other, 'Yes,' said she 'I fancy a ninety-nine.'

Any road up this tragic tale led on to One learning a new fact of the day...

'I'm watching Vikings on the telly,' piped up a newly engaged bod, 'They discovered England, you know, and when they got here they burnt down all the Churches because their Gods were actually all humans.'

The things you see when you've left yer Kalashnikov in yer other handbag, Dear Reader.  Anyway, short of setting a pistol to the side of me head, I made my excuses and went off to tend the laundry, rather than listen to the inane babble.

Upon my return the conv had moved on to the week's Asda order...

'Anyone want anything special?' asked the chef.  Following the usual requests for Larks tongues in Aspic, Vodka and other such delights not allowed on the premises, someone requested pineapple rings...

It made One recall a recent going-on in the Underground Lair...

One had acquired a pineapple corer and slicer for 50p at the local charity shop.  Needless to say One then required a 'pound pineapple' from the Co op, and had left same in the galley for future consumption.

The Admiral, on one of his visits from the Home for Bewildered Seamen, had alighted upon same and opted to try out the device.  'Twould appear that he had placed a pineapple ring on the end of his duffel-bag willy, anointed it with squirty cream and sat in his bath chair awaiting One's arrival home from the Shit-Face.

'Well, where is it then?' quizzed One. 
'It looked so nice, I ate it myself,' says he, licking squirty cream off his gnarled digits and positioning the standard issue Royal Navy blankie over his duffel-bag. 

In which One fashions some new footwear from discarded plastic bottles...

New shoes, Dear Reader...
Shoes of the worn out, downtrodden, battered, flollopy dollop, previously known as Lovely One.
I'll grant you they're not the unsual dainty sandalettes of yore, but neither are One's feet.
One has taken tiredness to a whole new level this past week or so...

One is tired of being hit/bitten/scratched/pinched and generally yelled at and misused for me troubles.

What's a girl to do?

Yesterday was a welcome break in the monotonous world of getting bashed up and One sallied forth to a different House to take a masterclass in knitting.

Oh the gentle world of yarn...
What a delight it was to sit in complete safety surrounded by enquiring little faces longing to learn how to fashion a ball of yarn into a garment.
That, and a mid afternoon lecture from a gardening type about grass snakes and the day was done.

Biffing to Waitrose on One's way home, One expected to find garden plants at a knockdown price since we are yet to achieve a sunny day in it's entirety.  But, no, scabby, unwatered blooms various were marked at a ridiculous price, so One cleared off home to survey the salad and fruit offerings.

One sodding measly looking unripe strawberry nodded in the breeze and a single pea sized tomato peered out from it's browning foliage.  As for the salad, with One's minimal knowledge of 'mixed salad leaves', as it said on the seed packet, One hesitates to harvest a handful to perk up the Asda Smart Price Spam, as One isn't exactly sure if One is eating weeds, harmful or no.

Any road up, this week One was looking forward to a sojourn with BF,  but, as usual One has been pushing out the zeds in me truckle bed at every available opportunity.

Next week Dear Aged P will be alighting from a chum's vehicle to write her name in the dust on top of the pianola.

That reminds me, I must email chum and explain that One will quite understand if she has to push Aged P into the oncoming traffic on the M5 just to shut her the feck up!

Sunday, 3 July 2016

In which One would like to sin upon a tiger skin...

Off we went to Barnstaple to take the Aged Admiral's even more aged Dear Mama to Marks and Sparks.
Good training for One as One's Aged P is arriving v shortly for a holiday.

A holiday from what, precisely, One is as yet to ascertain, since for as long as One can remember, Aged P 's time has been her own. Unlike poor dear Lovely One who has been a wage slave this past year or so.

One shall surely have to give up the delights of personal care soon since One shall require care Oneself soon and believe me, Dear Reader, One shall be shitting One's bloomers with alarming regularity.

One has earned the right to become a curmudgeonly old git and is practicing even now to demoralize a Polish person.


Yesterday, One was whisked off to Montacute House, a National Trust grand Elizabethan house to look at paintings 'after Holbein'

Twelve pounds fifty each to get in! Good job One didn't have to contribute. That's more than One spends per month on Asda Smart Price processed scoff.

Any road up it was complete bollicks.  One recalls going there once afore and was delighted since One had just read The Viceroy's Daughters, and anxious to see Curzon's bath.
A second view was definitely not required.
Did like the painting of Elinor Glyn though...

Would you like to sin
With Elinor Glyn
Upon a tiger skin?
Or, would you prefer
To err with her
On some other fur?

Google it, you I'll-educated blighters.

Friday, 1 July 2016

In which the world has gone quite mad...

Woken up a bit...
Oh feckin' 'ell. What's the point?
At least me 'hokey kokey' Rota is over for the month. You know, Dear Reader, in/out, in/out, and I've got four days off in a row, but frankly, when I've cleaned the flat and done the washing and ironing, swept up the fag ends that little shite upstairs keeps chucking in the garden and harvested a week's growth of super-floo-us, there's just enough time for a kip and then I'm off again.

'Did you do some baking?' enquired a corpulent paper shuffler, as One emerged virtually unscathed from an afternoon's herding jellyfish.

Did I do some fecking baking? Might as well just tip 200g of flour over me head, smear a handful of disgusting 'can't believe it's not butter' (I fecking can) slime all over me frock and it would have the same outcome.

Still, finished reasonably early that day, so nipped next door to see if next door's cat wanted to bake a tray of cupcakes after it had finished watching Panorama.

I ask you, Dear Reader, has the world gone quite mad?