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Thursday, 27 October 2016

In which One very nearly vomitted...

A strange and ghastly phenomenon appears to be sweeping the indigenous male of the Wivey species, Dear Reader...

In particular, those of One's recent acquaintance...

One has observed that the males appears to have significant tackle distribution worries...

Let me explain...

An, 'Evenin' all,' (a la Dixon of Dock Green) posture is adopted at the most inopportune moment.  They stop, mid saunter, in the middle of town to perform the 'Dixon Dip' which, can mean only one thing: tackle re-distribution, unless of course attired in the garb of Her Majesty's law enforcement officers, which they simply are not.

Even The Admiral, long since retired from The Metropolitan Police has a Romanian nineteen year old Care Worker, suitably gloved-up, of course, to dip 'neath the tartan rug over his knees to rearrange the contents of his Tena Man pant.  Anyway he always had the excuse of manouvering his firearm.

But, I digress, Dear Reader...

One, feigning the aversion of One's eyes, can't help but be drawn to the observation of this new and terrifying phenomenon...

One can only surmise that what with the reluctance of the indigenous populous to venture forth past the Totem Poles on the edge of town (see above) the strapping young coves are still 'ackled up in Trutex age nine Y-Back shreddies, for as anyone who resides in the sleepy hidey-hole in Deepest Somerset will inform you, you can get almost anything in Wivey, except undergarments.

But, that is not all, Dear Reader...

A further development has occurred which has left One struggling not to barf up me marked down sausage supper...

THE ACTUAL FORAGE OF THE UNDERGARMENT WITH A DIP OF THE HAND...

This redistribution activity usually occurs when they are under the impression that they are not being observed, but, One, a keen observer of one's fellow man, has encountered this phenomenon on one too many an occasion...

Why only yesterday, one such revolting specimen rent aside his combat trousers, went in for the full handful, shifted it to the required position and then, bold as brass, commenced fingering One's Pink Lady, if you please!

That put the kibosh on One's ten minute break snack I can tell you.

I very nigh vo-mited in me till!

Tuesday, 25 October 2016

In which there is but one One...

One has received a missive from a personage calling herself 'one' and having named her blog ' However did it come to this' Dear Reader.

Well, I'll go to the foot of our stairs!

There is only one 'One'

'We should form a group' went on the other 'one'

FORM A GROUP!

One, having retired to the truckle bed to breathe deeply into a brown paper bag, has now recovered from the shock and accepted that imitation is the sincerest form of flattery.

However, One, being a curmudgeonly old harridan, eschews 'groups' of any flavour, preferring the solitary existence of the tomb deep in The Underground Lair.

One now only emerges to perambulate to the purveyor of fine grocery items and biff up and down the stairs with items various.

It did actually look like someone might purchase the aforementioned lair the other day, thereby freeing One to honour One's debts and shove off in  a raggle taggle gypsy van, but no.

I expect that's it for the winter now, so One soldiers on hoping to avoid eviction.

But wait, Dear Reader, the 'one' from across the pond wants to form a group.

Perhaps One should sally forth and 're-group at her gaff.

SHUT THE FRONT DOOR, I believe they're fond of saying.

Sunday, 23 October 2016

In which One must endure a fetid nob...

An unusually scented evening's toil in the purveyor of fine grocery items, Dear Reader...

One, winding down into retirement, has washed up in the company of a less than desirable co worker.

One, biffing up and down the winding staircase with crates of Wivey laughing water was met at the shop floor by a fetid miasma that One could have sewn a button on.

One's co worker, who, on most evenings commences the proceedings with the line...
'What can I eat tonight?' had clearly overloaded his system and was intent on blasting the excess gas into the aisles for all to enjoy.

One, too ladylike to comment, took to breathing through One's ears. Sadly a talent not shared by the passing customers, who, in their droves, opened the shop door, were met with the foul stench, and sheared to the other sustinence emporium.

Did he think no one would notice, did he not care a jot, is he just an ignorant foul smelling oik?

If there's one thing that would make One eschew this handy little painting top up income, it will be the mind numbing hours One must spend in the company of this Neanderthal Nob.

As he stands in too close proximity to One, awaiting the smallest of slip up or error on One's part, he makes One feel uber uncomfortable.

One, having to endure the company of the eejit, has, thus far, resisted the urge to tell the idiot which way is up.

One shall remain steadfast in the knowledge that he is a sad, sorry individual, who appears to believe he is One's superior.

'Have that one on me eejit.'

I maintain a dignified silence, knowing that the last time I found it necessary to engage in social intercourse with someone that far down the food chain, it was to intone...

'You're fired,' or 'start upstairs.'

Monday, 17 October 2016

In which One is reclining...

One is feeling uber gloomy today, Dear Reader...

One should be reclining on a comfy beach somewhere, fag in one hand, cocktail in the other.

Instead One is making ready to perambulate in the gen direc of the purveyor of groceries, where One shall be humping boxes of essentials up the stairs to feed the great Wivey unwashed.

Don't misunderstand One, Dear Reader, One is quite keen on One's little simple occupation, but, in dire need of a break.

Yesterday was an odd day in the store as the Square's electricity was out for hours.

All transactions were in cash as the tills and scanners were down. When power came back we were required to decipher our long lists of shorthand transactions and scan the lot.

One can't deal with anything out of the norm these days and is currently reclining breathing into a brown paper bag.

The other grocery emporium shut it's doors, chucked out all it's chilled and frozen produce, whilst we, with our 'can do' spirit soldiered on with the aid of a torch and One's lightening mental arithmetic abilities.

Perhaps some of the infrequent visitors to our store, the store of preference being shut, will favour us with their custom again.

One would hope so, since we were selling our chilled goods for half price, while the other store chucked theirs out. When questioned as to the possibility of donating the produce to the poor and needy, they replied, 'it's not company policy.'

Shameful

Saturday, 15 October 2016

In which One is in hiding...

A splendid time of year, Dear  Reader...

Just nippy enough for a hot water bottle to shove down me leggings during a delicious afternoon nap, AND, the 'special socks' are out for the season.

'Oh my gawd!' exclaimed the Admiral as he parked his mobility scooter in the hall and One appeared wearing a baggy-arsed Tesco Home and Wear tracksuit and the aforementioned special socks.

Having, over the years, now farted seven times in his presence, One felt secure enough in his affections to introduce the tracksuit accompanied by the socks.

Above the neck, however, One sported the face of an angel, fully made up and coiffed, since One had been up since sparrow's fart presenting the Community Show on 10 Radio with Dear Old A.
103.5fm or is it 105.3, anyway it's online on 10 Radio.org

A few hours in the company of D
 old A does wonders for an old one like One and we met some interesting coves.

Who would have thought that sleepy old Wivey played such a part in the Monmouth Rebellion?
One of our guests mesmerized One with an account of three Wivey articles having been hung drawn and quartered and their tarred remains being hung in the town to deter others from traitorous doings.

Serves ''em right for passing the totem poles at the edge of town!

Stay in the village. That's my advice, Dear Reader, feast on marked down sausages from Central Stores, wack a couple of pints of Thatchers finest down yer neck of a Friday pm and hide from the cruel world in deepest Somerset.

Tuesday, 11 October 2016

In which One's ankles ache...

Saturday's child works hard for a living...
Ain't that the truth, Dear Reader.
Why didn't One do something sensible when One was young?
A transferable career. Say, hairdressing or some such.
Instead One chose engineering drawing and in the dim distant past we used mapping pens and linen.
After One had nurtured Boy the world had moved on to pooter aided design and left One behind.

Woe is One.

Don't get One wrong, Dear Reader, One actually likes shop work. After all no one bites, punches or poops themselves thus far.

But One hadn't envisaged a life of humping crates of beer at the cusp of retirement.

Stoptober definitely hasn't come to Wivey.

One's poor old legs look like they've been knitted out of bobbly wool. After eight hours standing up One's feet are v tired and One's creaky ankles about to give way.

Must ramp up the painting on One's days orf.
Got a couple of hares on the easel facing to be painted at the mo.

Even thoughts of being a 'lady in a van' are seemingly out of reach since The Underground Lair appears impossible to sell.

One, however, is not melancholy in the least, but striving to prevail.

After waking up thinking 'oh shit. I'm still alive' the world looks a better place after the administration of a snorker sandwich and three espressos.

At the end of the month when One gets paid, One shall acquire some fresh seasonal vegetables though, since living off marked down snorkers has rendered One something of a Buddha.

Maybe that's why me ankles ache.

Monday, 10 October 2016

In which One has acquired cheesy feet...

'What are you going to do this evening?' enquired One's co worker as One finished for the day at six pm instead of One's usual ten pm, not to forget the extra ten/twenty minutes spent cashing up...
Yes I know I moaned about it yesterday, but it's worth a minute or two's moaning monologue per day...

So, One replied...

'I shall be squeezing sausages.  What are you doing?'

Let me explain, Dear Reader...

When darkness falls in the purveyor of fine grocery items, One marks down perishables and flogs 'em off at ridicliously reduced prices.  If the Sausage Truffler from Milverton hasn't been in and bought the fecking lot, One, living in dire reduced circs, wacks 'em in a basket and perambulates them, forthwith, to the freezer in the Underground Lair.

Being, utterly 'snorkered up' One came upon the idea of knocking up a rake of pastry and fashioning some sausage rolls to ring the changes.

Ergo...  Sausage squeezing.

Any road up, One snuggled down on the Louis Cans with aforementioned sausage rolls and feasted One's beadies upon Ross Poldark rolling a silk stocking up the leg of the v fortunate Demelza,
'Flippin' 'eck,' thought One, 'I could go a portion of that on a Sunday night,' and immediately telephoned the Home for Retired Seamen to enquire the whereabouts of the Admiral.

Fortunately the Admiral had just been administered his Sanatogen, and thus, he set forth on his motability scooter for the Underground Lair.

One, wishing to waste no time, had assembled One's elastic stockings, lit an incense burner and lay back on the Louis Cans awaiting his arrival.

'Blimey!  I'll never get them up your fat thighs,' opined the Admiral as his gnarled digits fought in vain to roll the American Tan stockings up One's shapely calves.
One, who could detect the snagging of One's surgicals by the fungal fingernails of the Admiral, sought not to have One's reverie rudely interrupted and closed One's eyes to conjure up the image of Ross Poldark.

'Flippin' 'eck, what's that pong?' enquired he, recoiling as fast as an arthritic frame will allow, 'You ain't arf got cheesy feet!'

One, by now struggling to maintain the illusion, was mortally offended, but to be honest he did have a point.

Casting aside the stockings, blowing out the candle, One slipped the offensive plates of meat into me tartan zip up cozee booties and put the light on.

'It's Athletes foot if you must know,' huffed One, 'I have to stand up for eight hours at a time in the shop.'

'Athletes Foot! Athletes bleedin' foot!,' shrieked he, 'how the feck did you get anything athletic?'

Well, Dear Reader, that about put the tin hat on the proceedings.  One repaired to the bathroom to administer some Scholl foot cream and left the blighter to let himself out.

Saturday, 8 October 2016

In which we are short changed...

One, having been a captain of industry in One's youth, (well, a Drawing Office Manager) enjoyed a productive, lucrative and respected working life. Having spent time out rearing Boy, doing feck all and then many years self employment as a jobbing painter, it has come as something of a shock, upon One's return to the workplace, to encounter what can only be described as Victorian working practices.

In the world of 'Care' workers are routinely expected to work fourteen hour days, sleep in their place of employment and endure a twelve hour day to follow. If your day off coincides with a 'sleep in' you wake up, on your day off, in your place of work.
A twelve and a half hour day has three five minute breaks and no lunch break as workers are expected to eat with their charges who routinely run off/spit in your food or physically assault you.

I now hear of one hour's notice extra working hours in packing warehouses for which workers are not paid until the end of the financial year.

But my favorite scam of the moment, being directly involved, is the practice of cashing up at the end of a shift, if you are a shop worker.
Upon questioning this practice, One was told...
'Well, it only takes ten minutes.'
Not so. It takes at least twenty, and those minutes are MY TIME.
Imagine, Dear Reader, the thousands of hours of unpaid work that goes on in this country.

Working practices in this country have fallen well below an acceptable standard.
Who will address this new and unacceptable practice.
Not me. I need a job.

Thursday, 6 October 2016

In which it's almost a three penis day...

Today was almost a three penis day, Dear Reader...

Let me explain...

Have you ever noticed, when watching Countdown, how many times a 'Penis' pops up?

Sometimes, even when the appropriate letters don't present themselves, One just shouts 'PENIS' anyway, and being One's day orf, One had a devil-may-care attitude about One and almost did a bit of wee One chortled so much.

The Admiral, on one of his rare visits from the home for retired sea-farers, opined...

'Steady on old girl, next door will hear you yelling! In fact, the blighters in Taunton can very likely hear you.'

One, undeterred, continued in One's paroxyms of glee, when the letters popped up yet again, by this time, snorting in the manner of a truffling pig.

P E N I ......U

Just the two penises today then and not a three penis day at all, but then, the night is but young, Dear Reader, and One has just taken a freshly baked batch of sausage rolls out of the oven...

Monday, 3 October 2016

In which One is resigned to One's fate...

Reports of my demise have been greatly exaggerated, Dear Reader...
However, One has undergone a metamorphosis of such epic proportions of late, that One is discombobulated in the extreme.
One, having begun the month of September in the gainful employ of The Shit-Face, moved on to be 'Claire in the Community' and ended the month as a supervisor in a delightful little establishment flogging scoffage to the great unwashed.
'What happened to your little 'Nurse on Wheels' car and your desire to help those in need?' I hear you enquire, Dear Reader.
Well, it's like this..
One, being unable to get up at five each day, dash from one distressed article to the next, until ten at night, and, after returning home at eleven, doing it all again day after gruelling day, though...
'Bollicks!'
One has done One's bit for the poor and needy, so they can go whistle for a Romanian teenager next time they need shopping/arse wiping/lunch/wee/poo bags emptying etc...
ONE IS DONE
One drove the little car back, ripped of One's uniform, flung the inadequate phone in the boot, discarded the aprons and gloves and legged it back to the Underground Lair pretty sharpish.
Yes, One is now without a ve-hicle, but One doesn't give a rat's fat...
And, even though One isn't even earning enough to keep body and soul together, let alone pay the mortgage, One is relieved to have eschewed the world of shite/bite/kick/punch/clothes ripped off etc...
Not that any of the old persons physically assaulted One, but a goodly amount of them were rude, ungrateful, unpleasant old harridans and and they can all feck right off as far as One is concerned.
One, not knowing what manner of gutter One shall ultimately end up in, is resigned to One's fate.
After all, One has been a captain of industry, a fair to middling painter, lived high on the hog afore plummeting down the food chain to end up here, unlike the majority of the eejits One has recently encountered whose tiny little lives will stagnate in the West Somerset miasma since they give themselves credit for more intelligence than they have and fail to recognise their limitations.