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Wednesday, 14 September 2016

In which One is likely to expire on Sunday...

'Tis One's birthday today, Dear Reader, and look what arrived by courier from the Admiral's Rest Home for Senile Sea-Farers...

The most scrum-diddly-umptious Birthday cake just pour moi!

The sugar-craft roses were whittled by his gnarled old digits out of sugar paste.  Apparently Mary Berry pops in of an afternoon and holds a baking masterclass for those inmates who are still reasonable compus mentos. 

Any road up, One is chuffed to little mintballs with it and it's lovely diaphanous bow fashioned from the feathery light outer covering of a Tena Pant (unused of course)

Can only show the front view, since the poor old dab fell face down on the back having exhausted himself to the point of double incontinence trying to get the tasty treat ready for One's big day.

'Tis a v large cake and One has no chance of finishing it all since, as you know, Dear Reader, One is all alone in the world so shall be singing 'Happy Birthday to One,' all on One's little old lonesome, then scarfing down a slice or two.

One likely shan't even finish the blighter afore One shuffles off this mortal coil as One has inadvertently accepted a new position whereupon One is required to work two fifteen hour days one after the other this week.

'Why do you want the job?' they enquired.
'I'm fed up with twelve and a half hour shifts,' replied One.

Can it be that they thought One wanted even fecking longer days?

One is of a mind to think that the blighters are all the fecking same!

Friday, 9 September 2016

In which One farts...

Long, long ago when One had known Vile Husband for but a short while he enquired of One...
'Don't you ever fart?'
Well, of course, Dear Reader, One hadn't broken the sound barrier, One is of a mind to eschew bodily emissions for as long as possible, when beginning a new coupling.

Obv, having married the blighter and issued forth progeny, One ripped off a fair few over the decades.

Similarly, having spent a goodly amount of time with The Admiral, on his frequent visits from the home for retired sea-farers, One has emitted the occasional parp, following the consumption of a polystyrene cup of curry sauce all over me chips.

Three farts in 27 months, in fact.  Making the gestation period of each, that of a human child.

Obv, their piquantcy, fermented over the passing of many a moon, has rendered them paint strippers.

'Kin Ada!' snorted the A, 'That bastard's got claws!'
Granted, One could have readily sewn a button on it, but, Dear Reader, The Admiral is the source of many an inhuman emission from both ends.

One is regularly to be found hot footing it down the Anderson Shelter of a night, when One realises that 'twas not an Ack-Ack gun in the boudoir, but a shell-shock rendering farty-bottom from the salty old sea-dog himself.

Why, just last night, One had to put a wet hanky over me face to avoid choking, and as for the snoring...

Some nights he can suck the drawers clean off me Armoire.

Thursday, 1 September 2016

In which One is sick of the inequality in society...


'Twas but last week I believe, Dear Reader, that One likened the Support Worker to a worker bee dancing attendance on the Queen...

Upon further procrastination, One has settled upon the analogy of the Indian untouchable worshipping the goddess with multiple limbs, for we, the ordinary of the people are wont to wait on the odd, hand, foot and fingernail.

As One has droned on about before: it is a mark of a civilised society that we look after those who are incapable of looking after themselves, plus the ones that have families who either can't, or choose not to look after their challenging offspring.

BUT  and it's a huge BUT, we appear to have, as a society gone completely bonkers.

One can no longer remain party to a system that allows the less fortunate to lead a better life than those looking after them.

The less fortunate have champions galore and woe betide anyone who should question the enormous amount of taxpayers money that goes to support their never ending supply of new clothes, iPads, trips out to lunch, cinema/theatre visits, massage therapies etc etc

And let us not forget the Motability vehicles which their families keep for their own use. (Replaced every three years at the expense of the tax payer)

The poor old support worker, One included, works their collective arses off for little more than the minimum wage, gets assaulted on a daily basis, cleans up excrement from all over the shop and still doesn't earn enough to meet their commitments.

One is out of it from Sunday, and not a moment too fecking soon.