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Friday, 30 December 2016

In which I hate it here ...

One is now fully informed of all the illnesses/medication various/eating/sleeping habits of each and every 'chum' of Aged P...

'Eileen sleeps on a two-seater sofa every night, you know and goes down Debenhams for one slice of toast with beans on and one with egg. What do you think of that?' she hisses with vitriol.

As with so many of her other statements, there is simply no adequate reply.

The child in the adjoining house starts running up and down, thereby diverting the flow of bile, briefly in her direction and affording One a handy get-out from Eileen bashing.

'Have you seen Boy?' she enquiries, knowing full well that I haven't.

This enquiry is an attempt at solidarity, since her son, my brother, has ceased all communication with her.

I briefly leave the scene, to be informed, on my return, by my companion, that she 'thinks this is disgusting because I used to buy him anything he wanted when he was little. It must be his Father's fault.'

And there we have the problem, Dear Reader: Everything has to be someone's fault. Though not hers.

The brother gave up with her and cut her from his life as 'she ruined his childhood.'
I do have a certain sympathy for that view, but I am too much of a coward to do likewise and simply prolong the agony with bad-tempered visits making any companion I have, uncomfortable in the extreme.

The real truth of the matter is that I am terrified of any comparison between she and me.

Sometimes when I'm particularly ill humoured I hear her bitter spite in my own voice. Or I catch a glimpse of her pinched, sour face in my own reflection and I want to put a gun to my temple.

Thursday, 29 December 2016

In which it's all bollicks...

That's it! Four fecking days off after the festivities are over...

'Stop moaning, Lovely One!' I hear you chorus Dear Reader, 'you can have a lovely rest and put yer feet up, watch a bit of telly.'

You'd like to think so wouldn't you? But no, a delicious visit to AP and then on to others.  Soon as I get back it'll be off back to work humping boxes of fecking shite that nobody wants, up and down the sodding stairs at the Purveyor  of Fine Grocery Items.

'OH STOP COMPLAINING, LOVELY ONE,' you cry, 'at least you've got your health'

GOT MY HEALTH!  I'm a fat, flollopy dollop with dangerously high blood pressure, diabetes, elephantine, varicose legs, loose teeth, knackered knees, a comedy stomach and a hacking cough worthy of 60 Woodbine a day AND enough super- floo-us hair to stuff a kind sized mattress.

And as for watching a bit of telly: what a load of bollicks that's been. Every crappy Christmas film has had fecking dogs in it, 'saving Christmas' or some other bleedin' nonsense. This morning hit an all time low with 'Herbie goes Bananas' Don't these blithering eejits know that cars do all that 'thinking for themselves' now?

The Christmas  tree is shedding all over the sitting room floor, shitty water is seeping up through the khazi floor, there's no hot water, can't afford to put the heating on, the oven's shagged and I'm growing a goatee.

Happy fecking New Sodding Year, one and all.



Monday, 26 December 2016

In which Christmas is over...

Back to work today...

But, what a day off...

The turkey twizzler was a triumph and was followed by an Asda Smart Price pudding for one, slathered in custard.  Obv, had a bit of a nap after all that and then resumed mopping shite off the bathroom floor.

Amazing really, since an emergency plumber, who turned up 26 hrs late, fiddled about, charged £130 for 20 mins work and cleared off saying he'd fixed it, had been on Christmas  eve.

Rather fitting really that the end of a shitty year should be actually submerged in poop.

Still have no hot water in The Lair, but there's plenty of cold water sloshing about to paddle in.

Crap on the telly too.  Not even a decent rendition of A Christmas  Carol to indulge in.  Lots of festive adverts showing nuclear families enjoying over consumption of festive fayre and drowning in expensive presents though.

The best gift One can hope for in the new year is some likely cove fronting up to purchase what's left of the crumbling Lair.  Not a great deal of hope for that scenario though.  After all, if the Estate Agent's blurb were to reveal the truth, it would say: Crumbling, damp Lair for sale, complete with undulating wooden floor seeping sewage.

Anyway One shall not be cowed, One shall rise above it all, paint a No 7 smile on One's angelic face and skip up the road in my worn out shoes to hump beer crates up the stairs and sell fine grocery items to the great unwashed.

Sunday, 25 December 2016

In which the Christmas conversation is had with Aged P...

LO    Merry  Christmas Mother!

AP    That bloody Polish girl next door was running up and down until quarter to twelve. Don't Polish children walk?

LO    I don't know. I expect they were having their Christmas celebrations. They celebrate on Christmas  eve.  Anyway, did you get your parcel?

AP   It's white! I wanted a colour. I can't wear that it's too heavy and its got a hood and its fluffy on the outside.

(The requested bath robe has clearly not been well received)

LO   I thought you wanted a bath robe.

AP   Yes, but not a white one or a fluffy heavy one with a hood. I'm not wearing that so I'll give you the money for it and Kate only bought me a mug with sachets in it. Everyone got me the wrong wine and the Egyptians next door are still in bed.

LO   I don't want the money for it. It's your Christmas present.  It's from Marks and Spencer and it was the nicest one I could afford.

AP   Well I can't wear that with my arm and bloody Eileen bought me two tops I don't like and I'll have to come home early because she drinks Lambrusco and watches Eastenders.

LO   I thought you liked the soaps. If you don't like the bathrobe take it back and change it.

AP   Oh I can't be bothered with that now the Muslims have changed the busses. Have you got chicken?

LO   No I've gone for the individual Turkey Twizzler dinner for one. I won't be doing much anyway I've got to work tomorrow.

AP   I've got two bloody pairs of slippers and a load of chocolate and I can't even wear me best trousers because bloody Eileen's rescued a cat. I'm not eating sprouts or I'll be on the bog all day. I'm putting the radio on loud to wake them Polish people next door.  Do you know, there were thousands in Asda yesterday with trolleys piled six foot high and I only wanted a pork pie. Oh, Ange is here, I'll give her that pink wine, bye.

Friday, 23 December 2016

In which Christmas is shite, quite literally...

Oh goody! Just when I thought that my one day off for Christmas might be a little bit of a relax, it would appear that I shall be knee deep in shite.

Yes, after the last drainage debacle, when One spent thirteen weeks holed up in a sumptuous residence in Salcombe, while some shit stirrers dug up the underground lair, it's all begun again.

The splendid wooden floor is lifting, the bog is overflowing and One is pissed right off.

Who is it that sees fit to shove items various down the khazi and render the last flush (One's bog) jammed to feckery?

Deck the halls with floating pooh pooh, fa la la la la la fecking la...

Thursday, 22 December 2016

In which One narrowly evades a grisly end...

One is in a slightly better festive frame of mind this morning, having actually been abroad in daylight hours.

Have come to the conclusion that beginning One's working day in the late winter afternoon and being incarcerated in the Purveyor of Fine Foods until the dead of night is not conducive to a lightness of being.

The Admiral, in a sterling effort to bring One some festive cheer, biffed up on his tinsel adorned mobility scooter and bore One off to the Christmas Tree farm...

Arriving back at the Underground Lair, One was deposited, with tree, at the top of the stairs down to the lair whilst the A cleared off in the direction of the Co op to acquire Egg Nog.

'I can get this tree down the stairs on my own' thought One, forgetting that One is a washed up, weakened by disease, varicose old dollop...

The exercise began well and One dragged the tree down the first step without issue...

'Probably best if I go down backwards' thought One and performed a pirouette type movement whilst embracing the tree, clutching it to One's bosom with me free hand. (The other grasping a bag of life's essentials: Pinot and gusset liners,)

Unfortunately the netting, applied to restrain the branches of the tree, became entangled with the buttons on One's Barbour, rendering One spread-eagled against the wall in a bizarre crucifixion pose.

The tree, with it's stump wedged at the top of the stairs and it's tip across One's throat, was an irresistible force and rendered One an immovable object.

Just as one's life flashes before one's eyes as one succumbs to the briney and drowns, so it is thus when falling prey to 'death by Christmas Tree.'

As a myriad of failed suitors/careers/marriages/liaisons danced before my eyes, I realised the futility of my existence.

One could envisage the headline of The Wivey Messenger: 'Remains of obese Christmas Tree Fairy found impaled upon Nordman Fir' or even worse, being consumed by passing hounds who then, adding insult to injury, pee up the tree.

In the nick of time One was liberated by the A who manouvered the bastard tree into the sitting room still attached fast to One.

There it sits, menacing One, dropping needles and seemingly unable to support the flimsiest of baubles on it's droopy branches.

No matter, it will be a fitting back drop to the sad spectacle of a solitary One as One carves the Turkey Twizzler on the big day.

Tuesday, 20 December 2016

In which the season's joys evade One...

Unfortunately the doors on One's advent blog have remained closed.  Stuck in place with snot.
Yes, Dear Reader, once again One has been struck down with a chest infection that has lain One low in both body and spirit.

I fear I may actually be a curmudgeonly, sour old bat. The Christmas spirit has evaded One completely and all One wants to do is crawl into the truckle bed, pull the counterpaine over One and kip the fecking festive season away.

Still, it won't actually be a holiday for One, since One is required to hump crates up and down the winding staircase at the Purveyor of Fine Foodstuffs, on both Christmas Eve and Boxing day.

One was, in fact, in line for the same depressing fate at New Year, but has been let off the hook due to the fact that One is required to visit Aged P and a gaggle of the Admiral's relations.

'Oh how lovely' I hear you chorus, Dear Reader. Maybe so, for someone who has the spirit of Christmas coursing through their veins, but at this present time One has icy water flowing through One's and is spitting humbugs.

Like a Grinch, I have all the company I need right here under the quilt in the solitary truckle bed.

Bah Humbug, go and boil yerself with yer own pudding.

Friday, 9 December 2016

In which One's barfing...

Behind today's door is a box of Maltesers...

In the Purveyor of Fine Grocery Items there are more boxes of the suckable little spheres than there are people in Wivey.

One and One's colleagues are expected to ask each customer if they'd like to buy some, along with fruit jellies and some miserable looking Christmas Cookies.

One can't bring Oneself to utter the word 'cookies'  One is British, and they are biscuits, not cookies.

Any road up, One, being an arch manipulator, has been on fire, in the flogging of fruit jellies, since they are an acceptable Chrismassy delicacy.

Frankly if I ever see another confectionery item I shall barf in me Birkin.




Thursday, 8 December 2016

In which there is more than a sufficiency of sprouts...

Behind today's door is the transcript of a conv with Aged P..

AP.  Did you get it then? And if I get any more brussels I shall be ill.

LO.  Get what? And what about brussels?

AP.  That picture of Nana Harris. She had bright red hair you know and that bloody Eileen has sausages every day. Every time we go out she wants fish and chips and a wee. I'm going to The Old Palace Lodge for a Christmas Dinner and I don't want any more brussels, I've been in the bog all day.

LO.  Well don't eat them then, and yes, I did get the picture it's lovely and I'll put it in Boy's album.

AP.  Have you got me that jumper for Christmas yet because I've changed my mind to a towelling bath robe.  What do you want?

LO.  I'd like a surprise.

AP.  Well I am paying for you to stay at The Premier Inn.

LO. Well don't then if it's a problem.

AP.  I'm bloody Fed up of them next door. They talk Polish through the wall.

LO.  Well they are Polish so it's hardly surprising.

AP.  You can't get in up the surgery any more because of all the Muslims and they've changed the bus timetable. The Egyptians have still got a tablecloth up the bedroom window and Bloody Eileen goes to bed at seven every night.

LO.  I've got to go to work in a minute so I'll say goodbye. Have a nice time at the Christmas lunch.

AP.  The Mayor's Muslim you know. I bet it's him what changed the busses and Nana stole the Christmas club money and spent it on a new hat and that bloody Eileen can't make gravy to save her life. Oh, Ange is here so I'm going for lunch and they'd better not give me brussels.

Brrrrrrrrt


Tuesday, 6 December 2016

In which One is served...

Six and seven are a set of double doors, Nana, in answer to your enquiry!

This phenomenon is required to house an image, see above, of a roast dinner cooked by the dear old Admiral.  OK, so it didn't look exactly like that, but that's what he was aiming for presumably.

Bouyed by his recent experience of dumpling creation, the old thing once again tottered toward the galley muttering about a roast beef extravaganza.

'Oh shite!' thought One, 'I'll need to get a few pints of Pinot down me neck afore I attempt the mastication of that fecker.'

Having been ushered, rudely, out of the galley upon One's attempt at help/offering advice, One flolloped down on the sofa to await the feast.

Hours passed, the air thick with smoke and profanities, and eventually he staggered in with the offering.

Having been a devotee of dear old Delia, One is now a dab hand at the creation of sumptuous Sunday roasts, but One's small attempts at assistance were batted off and the old thing went it alone.

Should any other persons of the male persuasion feel the need to attempt such a feat, I have written the Admirals instructions below...

Under no circumstances allow the oven to warm up to the correct temperature.

Put the beef in...

Under no circumstances season, or add any oil, making sure the plastic bit under the meat stays intact.

Cook the meat until it resembles a recently mined nugget of anthracite.

Set aside on the kitchen counter without covering so that it dries to feckery and gets cold.

Put the par-boiled potatoes onto a cold baking tray and smother with any old oil you find in the kitchen cupboard.  Don't bother turning the oven up to the correct temperature, after all, 'you know best and you never come into the galley telling me what to do, do you!'

Having put the vegetables on to boil last Thursday, check that they are on their way to resembling slurry.  Ensure the veg are stirred regularly with an expensive wooden salad server, leaving it in the water so that it is rendered 'fecked.'

Mix the Yorkshire batter.

Pour batter into a cold bun tin, making sure not to add any fat so that the puddings will adhere to the tin in the manner of shite to a blanket.

Having mixed your instant gravy earlier, set aside to congeal and get cold.

Don't bother warming the plates.

Keep  on opening the oven door to check that the Yorkshire pudding don't rise and shout into the sitting room: 'I can't understand why the potatoes are taking so long to cook.'

Ignore One, when One enquires as to the temperature of the oven, but turn it up anyway, mumbling something like...

'Oh shut up you fat tart!'

Eventually, serve with a triumphant flourish.

Enjoy.

Well, One did 'enjoy' actually, after all it's wonderful that the dear old thing had a go.  Let's just hope it's got it out of his system for the foreseeable future.








Sunday, 4 December 2016

In which One reminisces...

Behind door number five on the SAdvent Calendar is a winter afternoon memory...

We were living on the Holly Lodge Estate, gated, of course, in Highgate. 

Many of the long, foggy winter afternoons were spent in the elegant sitting room in front of the fire watching snow fall.

It was the North London standard sitting room: stripped wooden floor, central gas log fire, ornate looking glass above, with proper library shelves, holding appropriate literature, above low storage cupboards housing the must watch films of the day...

This picture of One and Boy, see above Dear Reader, was taken by Dawn, One's erstwhile work chum who would make the journey from Cheltenham to see us on a regular basis.

One met Dawn when we were both head-hunted by a Radar Console Design Company to work on the Dover Port Control system.  It wasn't long before we realised that both of us had been promoted way beyond our actual capabilities and we became firm friends.  After all it was the 1980's and if you wore massive shoulder pads, drank cocktails and stamped about issuing orders, anything was possible...

But I digress,  back to the winter in Highgate...

Many a winter's day saw us walking miles across the Heath or all the way to Camden market and then back to the cosy sitting room.

There really is nothing quite so lovely as having a delicious, well behaved, beautiful baby as a constant companion. 

Where has all that time gone, and when did that exquisite creature turn into a six foot four, hairy barn door?




In which door number four reveals the allure of One...

Behind door number four, Dear Reader, is the angelic face of your very own Lovely One...

For in amongst the toothless, weather beaten, in-bred, back-pack wearing female population of this sleepy backwater, One's everlasting, natural loveliness shines like a Christmas Tree star...

'Steady on, ' I hear you scoff, Dear Reader, 'surely you must realise you've gorn orf with the passage of time?'

Well, you'd think so, wouldn't you?

Maybe it's the failing eyesight of the septagenarian customers in The Purveyor of Fine Grocery emporium, perhaps it's the result of years of over indulgence of Thatchers Finest Cider, or even the light glinting off the bar-code reader as One scans twenty fags, but One has clearly still 'got it.'

Well, got it for at least two of the local ne'er do well drunkards, who, One has just been informed, are in fact, brothers.

One, who One first encountered shortly after arriving in town, was draped over a dog pooh bin outside a local hostelry, and upon espying Lovely One, hollered 'Oi, you're lovely, you are, will you marry me?'

One, still retaining the Hampstead Village yummy mummy air, shot off as quickly as One's sturdy little legs could carry One.

The other, whom One had hired to clean One's chimney when One lived in the Big House, upon hearing that One rather liked the aroma of soot, replied...
'Ang on Missus, I'll just smear me naked body with it.'

Since One has resided in the Underground Lair One has managed to swerve the sweep, but still lights the fire of the other brother, for, tis he who makes a nightly visit to the Purveyor of Fine Grocery items merely to gaze upon One.

'Ere, you're lovely, you are, standing there with your blonde, curly hair,' says he as he staggers over to the hot food counter to purchase a 'marked down to 10p' pasty for his tea.

One has implored One's teenage work colleague to head him off at the pass, but the little dear merely guffaws as he considers this nightly spectacle 'entertainment.'

Last evening, expecting a visit from One's unwanted amour, One nipped down the back of the shop to mark down the almost out of date fish, hoping the aroma of moist tuna might mask the heady aroma of One, but to no avail.

One's colleague, for once, shouted, 'Oi, mate, you can't come in here harassing the staff!' But 'twas no good, he staggered past him, weaving in and out of the Bawdens cake delivery, hollering, 'You can't keep me away from her. She's my baby!'

So there you have it, Dear Reader, One hasn't lost One's legendary allure with the passage of time.

Saturday, 3 December 2016

Behind door number three...

Behind door number three...

Is a complete idiot. That's me that is, Dear Reader...

Why did I give up painting? How did I end up being a sixty year old woman working in a sweet shop?

Anyway, with these pertinent questions ringing in me good ear, and having salted away enough money to buy some mounts for 'Storybook Wivey' I hailed the omnibus and limped off to Wellington.

'No, no, no,' said the bloke in the art shop upon One's request for a quote for ivory picture mounts.
'No. You want green,' he ploughed on.
'I don't want green. I always use ivory and that's what I want,' said One through gritted tooth. (I don't grit them too hard these days as I've only got three that aren't loose.)

Eventually the fool realised that One does actually know what One wants and said...
'You only want one then? You don't want backing board as well.'

One actually wanted one hundred and fifty, in lots of ten, but it seemed pointless to pursue the transaction further when the fool quoted seven-fecking-fifty for a single, back-free mount.

Might as well paper the khazi with the 'Storybook Wivey' prints for all the chance One has of affording that.

Ah well, off to sell chocolate and cider to the great unwashed, with just a solitary Turkey Twizzler to look forward to at Christmas.

Friday, 2 December 2016

In which One wants presents...

Behind door number 2 on One's SAdvent calendar is an email from BF saying that she's so skint, we should stop exchanging Christmas presents.

In fact, things are so bad down the hill that she's been harvesting pubic hair from the plug hole for months and crocheting antimacasas as gifts for family.  BFP will be the fortunate recipient of a balaclava, constructed solely from the super-floo-us facial harvests courtesy of the No-No he gifted her last year.

Not only that, Dear Reader, I heard the Admiral on the phone telling his offspring that 'we're too old for all that. Don't get us anything.'

TOO OLD
 DON'T GET ANYTHING

What's the matter with these curmudgeonly old humbugs?

I want presents and lots of them.


Thursday, 1 December 2016

In which One is a snot machine...

So, here we are, Dear Reader, at the end of a complete shite year, at the beginning of advent and behind door number one...
A snot filled Kleenex.

Yes, One has a cold in der doze...

A tad difficult to get any time off the Emporium of Fine Groceries, but wheedled two days in bed, no pay of course, and am holed up on the sofa watching stchoopid American Christmas films and hacking up lumps of lung into a bucket.

If One is in this sort of state now, approaching sixty, what will One be like when One reaches the new retirement age of sixty-fecking-seven!

What's that all about, Dear Reader? 
Correct moi if moi is wrong, but wasn't it those city bankers who dropped the country in it with their risk taking, for which not a single one has been brought to book?  Yet it is the poor sod at the bottom of the heap:  Moi et al who are fecking paying for it.

Every woman who would have retired next year, like me, has had thirty thousand pounds stolen from them.  And that is thirty thousand as of now.  A figure which will surely rise as the retirement age goes up and up.

One doesn't mind doing One's bit work-wise, but pay is so bad now that it doesn't even add up to enough to meet basic bills, let alone have any left for luxuries like heating and hot water.

I kid you not, Dear Reader, I still haven't got a hot water tank.  Oh well, perhaps I'll get pneumonia and die.