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Friday, 7 July 2017

In which it's a sick joke...

Wish I was one of them 'donkeys with sore feet' off the telly who everyone sends three quid to instead of just a solitary beast of burden, see above...

Slumped on the second hand sofa at the mo, wishing I could afford enough vodka and fags to 'bad habit' meself into oblivion, and, just realised it's been a whole month since I've vented me spleen in this manner.

Am absolutely shagged, and look it! Am now looking after the old, sick and needy who aren't as old etc etc as poor me! Me lovely long eyelashes have all fallen out. Stress, I shouldn't wonder. Anyway even if they hadn't, wouldn't be able to bung on any mascara as now have 'Cooper Eye' a family trait where puffy, droopy eyelids develop making me look even more porcine than before.

Saw a picture in the paper the other day of two carers asleep in a dementia home. They've been suspended. Yes, I know it shouldn't happen, but I wonder if any of their detractors have ever worked a twelve and a half hour shift in a boiling hot, urine scented home being pinched, slapped and screamed at, with just two five minute breaks.

Incessant, shrill alarms sound all day and all night calling hoards of eastern European and elderly unskilled drones like me to tend to our Queens.

Tending to the world of 'learning difficulties' was a whole different kettle of fish: there's a faint glimmer of improvement sometimes. The world of Dementia is whole other nightmare.

Farming the demented is big business and set to get bigger. Company owners growing fat on the backs of minimum wage drones and the misery of skeletal, twisted bodies housing dying brains, being kept ticking by medical advances.

'We're all living longer' trumpet the pioneers. Maybe so, but there's a whole hidden generation who are merely existing.

It's desperately sad, and quite frankly, sick in the extreme.

Saturday, 10 June 2017

In which its a cruel world...

Am plagued by dreams of homelessness night after night...

Quite often returning to the first flat I bought and lived in for a year, before embarking upon my endless moves and odd, unsatisfying couplings.

I was the first woman in my family to have reached the lofty heights of owning my own home and now I'm losing it.

'Most men would be intimidated by you,' someone once said to me. I imagine that was a size related remark and it's got me thinking.

I've never met a chap who didn't think he was attractive. Even the most unappealing of coves feels at liberty to make derogatory remarks about women's looks. Size being a favourite topic.

'I thought I was big until I saw you,' said one unpleasant old item who was old enough to know better, when I first came to live here.

One suitor once said he'd only taken up with me because he'd got a bit fat so had to consider less than perfect partnerage.

Blimey, I'm certainly one of life's consolation prizes!

Not that I care, Dear Reader, I couldn't give a feck.

It's just quite interesting to recall it all and write it down to give myself something to read when I'm on my lonely park bench.

I don't feel sorry for myself though. It is what it is and I am what I am.

And what I am is the culmination of poor choices and a lifetime of the wrong road taken. Still, I've never been deliberately unkind to man or beast, so I'll hang up the hair shirt, paint me face on and biff up the shops for a paper to read about better men than me who've had their lives brought to an abrupt end by the evil of others.

We're all going to he'll in a hand cart.

Sunday, 4 June 2017

In which it's back to work for me...

Back to work re-energized by 20hrs kip per day for a week. That can't be right, can it, Dear Reader? Even for a personage as ancient as me.

The past two day's sleep have been punctuated by dashes to the bog for projectile vomiting excursions.  The kind I thought were the preserve of the very young, but no. Was seduced by a marked down pizza for tea the other night and got food poisoning.

On the plus side, uniform trouserage did up a bit more easily this morning, so, every cloud and all that...

Should be extra lovely in SOP House today with the windows closed against the inclement weather.

Oh well, seems I was destined to clear up after the sick and needy. Could have done with a carer of my own lately though.

Never mind, shall biff off and cheer somebody up today. Plaster pin a false smile and get on with it.

The world has gone quite mad and taken me with it.

Saturday, 3 June 2017

In which am miserable all the time...

It was National Fish and Chip Day yesterday...

In The Underground Lair it was National Fish Finger (singular) and Low Fat (cheapest from the Co op) Chip Day.

Back to work on Monday. Have wasted the whole week sleeping and, when awake, worrying.

Really do need to get some purpose in life before it's too late...

Perhaps should get a hobby/pet/religion...

Or should concentrate on growing even fatter and sell self to travelling circus. Would make lovely spectacle in side show tent, what with rippling thighs, gargantuan upper arms, comedy stomach and post menopausal super-floo-us beard.

Or...

Could devote self to stray cats.  No. Can't afford the Kit-e-Kat.

Perhaps religion then.  Not awfully keen on Christianity though.  Maybe try that lot who wear the long orange robes and biff about singing Hare Krishna. Will ultimately need a religion that encourages the wearing of body obliterating clothing. 

No. Not quite bonkers enough for that yet...

That leaves a hobby...

Might try painting...

Oh no, that's me other job...

It's no good, am just utter misery guts with no purpose in life...

Shall just continue to tend to the sick and needy until I need to get a room.

Thursday, 1 June 2017

In which am obsessed...

That's me, that is, Dear Reader, looking over the garden wall to see if the grass is greener on the other side...

I expect it is...

Have now got fourteen weeks exactly until become sixty.  Have resolved to live a Pinot and fag free existence at least until then.

Sitting alone on the second hand sofa quaffing Pinot of an evening isn't doing it for me anymore.  Granted, working in care does rather render one a drink swilling, fag smoking sort, just as a means of survival from day to ghastly day, but, before it's too late, change must come.

Have been on hols, at home, this week, but am just lolling around kipping me life away.

I just can't come to terms with Buttgate. I wish I could, but it's all so unjust, what with the water still dripping down the back wall. AND. Have just been informed that my nemesis actually owns the flat that it's dripping from.

There she sits using our money for her own personal vendettas and there's not a thing I can do about it.

Get over it. Get a life. Or get even some other way.

Wednesday, 31 May 2017

In which I don't know what's going on...

Being a bit of a TV snob, BBC4 isn't on in the morning, and I can't possibly watch those puerile eejits on Breakfast TV, One tuned the telly in to Radio 4, to be greeted by Thought for the fecking Day...

Is there really still a place for the inane babble of some religious type spouting their dictatorial nonsense? No. There is not.

Some Christian twonk droning on about the use of social media and somehow bringing in a linkage with The Prodigal Son.

It wouldn't be quite so bad if the eejit had been making it up as he went along, but no, he was clearly reading from a script and he couldn't even get that right.

Still, I suppose we should be grateful that it was a purveyor of our supposed national religion, rather than one of the imported ones that we openly now tolerate. Having no supernatural beliefs and mistrusting of those who have, I lit a fag and biffed off into the garden with Chester, the visiting cat.

When the religious sort had sheared, the news item that followed was the shocking revelation that British pensioners living in Europe might not get free health care when we've Brexitted.

Being one of the unlucky ones with no provision for retirement, very likely due to die in the saddle, my varicose veins are highly unlikely to be retiring to the sun, so frankly I don't give a kipper's dick.

Selfish? Don't care! Am putting myself first for a change.

                                      ~

Apparently there's a perch for your falcon in the new Bentley...

Oh fer fecks sake! I've lived too long. I don't know what's going on any more.

Tuesday, 30 May 2017

In which I can see it all...


That's me, that is, Dear Reader, a beast of burden...

Not this week though, as am on hols from SOP House.

So why am I still such a fecking misery guts?
Am FAT. That's why.  Prob will die from a massive heart attack soon and be left on pavement outside Co op until a passing tractor comes along and scoops me up and removes me from the prying eyes of passers by. And, I bet I won't even swoon pavement-ward in an elegant manner, but crumple in a lardy flollop with me big pants showing.

Then, I won't even fit in one of those freezer drawers you get bunged in when you've snuffed it. I can see it now...

That Emilia Fox sort will front up to dissect me and the drawer will keep pinging shut having got stuck on me massive hips in the manner of a desk drawer with too many unpaid bills stuffed within.

'Stomach contents, Silent Witness sort?' enquires the one whose name I can never remember.

'Asda Smart Price Bran Flakes, four jam donuts (complete with bag), three rounds of cheese and pickle sangers, one of them measly bars with a healthy carob coating, six packets of smoky piggy crisps, a Mars bar (they're not as big as they used to be), four all butter croissants, a French stick, a Tandoori Mixed Gorilla, nineteen popadums, all sloshing about in three litres of Pinot Grigio,' reels off the sort.

'But wait, what's this little blue capsule? Orlistat. She must have been on a diet.'






Sunday, 28 May 2017

In which justice is going to be seen to be done...

Told a fellow resident about the amount of our maintenance money that has been spent on litigation ...

AND, about how, if the underground lair is ever sold, the Uber Leutnent will expect the many thousands paid for 'Buttgate' thereby leaving One penniless. Or, apparently, she could stop a sale.

Where's the justice in that scenario?

Not that I expect anyone to care, but I think the other inmates, of what is now a prison block, should know.

Anyway, no-one else wants to do the job so I expect our funds will be used for her diabolical purposes for time immemorial.

I wonder if Karma actually exists?

It's so much easier to be nice. Why would you want to be anything else?

But wait, I feel a Michael Douglas in Falling Down moment coming on.

But before I attend to that I just have to pop upstairs and remind the idiot above that he lives in a flat.


Saturday, 27 May 2017

In which One melts...

The acrid stench of molten lard filled the air...

Yes. One sat in the sun yesterday, ackled up in a massive Sainsburys vest and some ghastly jogging bottoms melting like a giant stuck pig.

As the sun made it's way behind the gas works I fired up the disposable barbeque and flung on the Asda Smart Price snorkers and waited for them to char.

Twas an evening of song and sophistication with the Ancient Mariner hollering sea shanties and sucking a snorker or two.

After he'd been collected by his nurse and deposited back to the secure unit, I repaired to the galley to swab the decks.

Tell me, Dear Reader, how do persons of the male persuasion make such an unholy fecking mess merely during the undertaking of construction of a cup of tea.

A dribble of tea marked out the progress of the teabag to the bin, in the manner of the drips around the bog of the perambulation of the plonker to the pan.

To be fair, he had made an effort to wash up before departure, but in the manner of BFP, had simply dipped the used items in the washing up water and left them on the draining board to await a re-wash by the lady of the house.

Whilst penning today's missive I'm indulging in The Real Housewives of Cheshire and it's given me an idea...

'The Real Housewives of Wivey' We all sit around, smoking rollies, picking our feet and wishing that we'd got a cat instead.


Sunday, 21 May 2017

In which One needs a bit of lick on a hankie...

Having been thrust into a world peopled, in the main, by young persons of the female persuasion, One has found they fall into two categories...

One is the pink haired, shaven headed, illustrated and pierced kind that One has waxed lyrical of in this tome afore, and the other kind? Well, there's an oddity if ever I saw one!

There appears to have been an unwelcome resurgence of the ghastly pancake make-up of the 1960s.

The little dears look positively ridiculous with their American Tan matt faces atop their otherwise death-grey, cadaver-hued flesh.

With tidemarks along the jaw line that are visible from outer space, it's as much as One can do not to blend it in with a bit of lick on a tissue.

And as for the ludicrous, painted on square eyebrows: well, I ask you, Dear Reader, what on earth do they think they look like?

I suppose it's 'fashion' and something akin to the misunderstood glittery look of my youth, but, with their dyed, clip-on extensions completing the bizarre look, they really are a ridiculous shoal of Clown fish.

Saturday, 20 May 2017

In which Wallis is back...

With a moment or two to while away yesterday, I trawled through the tranches of photographs online of that Pippa Middleton sort and the delicate looking, chinless 'Banker' she was plighting troths with.

What grabbed One's attention were the seemingly endless hoardes of Hooray Henrys and Henriettas done up like ninepenny dinners.

With a supposed bottomless pit of clothing allowance to dip into the blighters looked positively ghastly in the main.

Tottering by in their Manolos that very likely cost more than six month's care-worker salary, with their dimpled knees peeking out from below a disastrous, designer frock, flashing their china teeth for the masses, it makes One stamp One's tiny foot in frustration that I've left me Kalashnikov in me other handbag.

After all, one can forgive bad taste, but no taste at all?  That cannot be excused.

Not that I begrudge the upper classes their share of happiness, oh no, I'm all for the pursuit of love, even though it's always been just out of my reach.

It just looks so much more satisfying and easier to grasp against a backdrop of inheritance and trust funds and more than enough spons to get yer teeth done.

AND the overriding pictorial memory of the day was that rather plain looking Pippa sort. Didn't she have a ghostly resemblance to that style icon cadava, Wallis Simpson?

Friday, 19 May 2017

In which there are weirdos out there...

I don't like that 'Banksy' nonsense...

But I've always had a sneaking admiration for the spray can wordsmith who sallies forth, under the light of the moon, in order to share his/her innermost thoughts with a passing motorist or two.

Who can forget 'Free Nelson Mandela' or 'George Davis' et al.

I well recall a drunken reveller trawling the byways of Luton when I was a gal hollering 'Free Nelson Mandela' when some wag pulled up his sash window and shouted...
'If it's free, give us half a pound'

As for poor old George sodding Davis, I couldn't give a kipper's dick: either wear Asda clothes or fecking don't.

But...

I have been musing, this very day, upon my favourite ever graffiti offering...

'Have a poo'

It's sprayed on a utilities box along Silk Mills Road, where no pedestarian ever treads, it being a traffic only zone.

Imagine the determination of the odd fellow who took the night air to pass on that valuable smidgen of information to the passing hoardes.

It carries no political message, is not particularly profane, but it makes I titter every time I sees it!

AND, tis rather good to know that there are persons abroad who are weirder than me.




Thursday, 18 May 2017

In which One stinks...

And so it came to pass that One did not, in fact, get mown down by a bus , or indeed, expire in any other dire circumstance...

Today wasn't as humiliating as yesterday, but it still stunk.

And it wasn't the only thing what ponged neither!

One, for the most part is a fragrant being, in the manner of that twat Jeffrey Archer's wife as described by a stchoopid old out of touch judge who clearly wanted to slip her one up the chuffster.

But, I digress, I do, in fact have two unpleasantly odourous zones about my person.

One is the inside of my right wrist (discovered by vile ex husband's sniffage of my watch strap) Quite what he was doing sniffing it, I can't say, but I've been vilified for my whiffy wrist ever since.

The other, a self discovery, was established this very day...

Upon removing my spectacles, in order to chew the arm whilst pondering a dilemma, I happened to catch a whiffster of the left arm that had been nestling above my left ear for a goodly part of the day.

What a positively pungent pongzilla!

Fortunately no one gets close enough to sniff me anymore, so my secret is safe.

ANYWAY for all I know I have further stink zones not yet discovered, or, maybe that swung me the job at SOP House.

Wednesday, 17 May 2017

In which One wonders what today will bring...

Just when it seemed almost impossible for things to become any more unpleasant - they have!...

Another task has been required of One: cutting the nails of the inmates. Quite how this can be described as an activity is beyond me and seems to be deemed necessary as a way of belittling and humiliating.

It certainly worked for me! It's been many a moon since I got home from work and burst into tears of frustration.

Ripping off my uniform before applying bleach and carbolic soap to my Lilly white flesh, shards of human finger nail (complete with human excrement still under them) fell from my clothing.

I want to die - today if possible.

Tuesday, 16 May 2017

In which I itch...

I hope the person who gives me a lift to work has got their car fixed or neither of us will be sallying forth again today.

SOP House makes me itch, it's so whiffy.

I have left strict instructions to have a bullet put through my head in the event of my even found saying, 'now what did I come in here for?'

Each day brings with it a new task not found on my job description and a fresh humiliation. The toxic phrase, 'and any other task' covers that, I imagine.

If only I had a pension, or a husband with a pension I wouldn't have to die in the saddle. But no, our money was in property and we all know that sorry story don't we, Dear Reader.

The future is a bleak and scary place, much like the present.

Maybe I'll get lucky and be run over by a bus today.


In which One's bad luck continues...

Got paid!  Almost enough to cover 75% of the bills, except the mortgage, so thank heavens the summer is coming because a park bench beckons.

But wait, from my meagre pittance, a large amount of income tax has been deducted...

Me.   'How come?'
Tax Office.    ' We have you down as working for two companies, with two full time jobs.'

One patiently pointed out that given the number of hours in a day it wouldn't be possible to have two full time jobs.

'When will this money be refunded to me?'

I was told it might be next month.

For me as things are, that might be too late.

Oh, and I couldn't even get to work today...

Sunday, 14 May 2017

In which even I can still dream...

Slept almost all day yesterday too...

Am determined to stay awake today so as to have had at least a little time to myself before it begins again tomorrow.

Am feeling almost chipper having slept for the greater part of two days and nights. So, shall begin by cleaning the oven.

Then, I might do the washing and ironing before putting the Hoover round.

Having been in self imposed exile for the passing of many a moon, I've run out of chums to idle the odd hour away with.

Must set aside some time for the weekly harvest: sloughing of facial skin (the dermabrasion kit is still doing it's worst), take the cheese grater to the bottom of me feet, paint me toenails and singe me split ends.

If I had a car I'd go and look at the sea, and maybe dip my gnarled toes in the water, but I don't so I'll stand in the washing up bowl in the back garden and hold a shell to my ear.

Even I can still dream...

Friday, 12 May 2017

In which I give up...

I'm back on the second hand sofa, Dear Reader...

It's 2.15am and I'm wide awake...

I did sleep yesterday, after going back to bed at 5.00am, until 4.45pm, effectively missing my day off.

I really should spend this time changing the header on this blog because, let's face it, it's not funny any more.  It's just a litany of misery and my own private hell.

Working in many care homes over the years I've witnessed numerous old ladies screaming out to God to let them die, so you'd think I'd be counting my blessings and revelling in my liberty.

Is it a chemical imbalance that makes me prone to periods of deep misery? Or the fact that I work my arse off each month, get paid, and then have to choose whether to eat or pay the mortgage.

What's the fecking point?

Thursday, 11 May 2017

In which I'm awaiting a big bang...

Four gruelling, miserable days executed at SOP House...

So now three days off, the first of which will be spent reclining in the truckle bed with a hot stuffed down me jimjam bottoms.

Currently, however, I'm installed on the second hand sofa feeling the explosive effects of having just imbibed a spoonful of bicarbonate of soda mixed with fizzy water to alleviate the curse of the elderly: heartburn.

'How so?' One hears you enquire, Dear Reader, knowing One is a religious follower of a macrobiotic diet in the manner of my hero, Gwyneth Paltrow.

I like to worship my body by nourishing it with wheatgrass smoothies whilst undergoing hot stone back massages, after I've spent the day running up and down endless corridors that are so nauseatingly pungent they fair take One's breath away.

And thus it was that yester-eve I biffed, exhausted into the hallway of the Underground Lair, clutching a sufficiency of organic ingredients to fashion health enhancing green smoothie.

A wall of fumes greeted One.
'Oh fer fecks sake,' cursed I, 'tis as if the Ancient Mariner were ensconced in the galley boiling up a skillet-full of slurrey that he calls cottage pie.'

And lo, with the assistance of his miniscule Thai nurse, who had snuck in through the open bedroom window, he was indeed boiling up a storm.

Beaming at me through the steam, his solitary tooth glinting in the moonlight, he proudly announced that I had no need to cook my supper as he had done it.

Now, we have traversed this path before: me gently explaining the art of browning mince, frying onion, seasoning etc etc.

To no avail. Even the sainted Jean of Arc's advice fell on deaf ears.

Anyway, not wishing to offend, I gamely inhaled the foodstuff.

And hence, here I am blown up like the fecking R101, awaiting the Bicarb Bang.

Should this pattern of behaviour continue I foresee a 'Concious Uncoupling' in the cards.

Wednesday, 10 May 2017

In which I'm shagged...

That's me, that is, Dear Reader...

Having retired to the truckle bed at nine o'clock nursing v swollen ankles and pulsating varicose veins, having been on me feet for eight hours, I must have positioned me poor old fizzog in a folded up manner on the pillow, because, upon waking, I appear to have a brand new wrinkle to add to the National Collection.

It's one of those delightful ones that traverse the face from the upper lip toward the nose that make my previously rosebud mouth look like a cat's arse.

Oh joy, oh bliss, that's just put the fecking tin hat on it.  It's not sufficient misery that I have to work like a sodding donkey deep into old age, now I look like I need ironing.

Today, instead of tending to the old, sick and needy, I shall deploy my last ounce of strength, drag my shagged out carcas up into the hills, dig a large hole and get in it to wait for the inevitable...

SO THERE


Tuesday, 9 May 2017

In which I plan the demise of the old duffer...

I knew I should have got a cat instead. I don't actually even like men. Not that I like women either. In fact the whole human race is getting right on my tits at the mo.

Not that I'd actually have one in the house full time ever again (man, not cat)

Overnight houseguest is currently snoring and wheezing his fecking head off.  Which is fine if you're being wheeled back to your secure retirement home on the morrow, but not if, like me, you'll be spending upwards of four hours spoonfeeding cadavers.

Having one in the house full time can lead to an unpleasant aroma hanging in the air, particularly in the lavatory and the boudoir.

Having discussed this problem with female chums, it would appear that they all exude rancid fumes throughout the night. 

A particular line spoken in an Elizabeth Montgomery film has long resonated with me...
'If I had enough money to take care of myself I'd never have another man in my life.'

Ain't that the truth! Not that the ones I attract have any money, hence me shovelling shite for time immemorial.

AND they leave their stinky clothes all over the floor.
AND they dribble pee on the floor around the lavatory (if you're lucky enough to even get one that lifts the seat)

I remember a conversation had with vile ex-husband when first we were betrothed...
'Take yer shoes and socks of ' says I.
'Why?' retorts he.
'Because I'm going to piss on your feet!'
'How so?' he enquired.
'Because every time I visit the loo I end up wading in pee where your aim has gone awry.'
I swear, Dear Reader, I reckon he just used to walk down the hall and just pee in the general direction of the bathroom.
But, I shouldn't revile the memory of past husbands or cats.

And, do excuse me, I'm just going to smother the Ancient Mariner with a pillow...


Monday, 8 May 2017

In which I'm wondering...

I'd completely forgotten about this picture.  Where is it? Who knows?

It was residing in an art cafe in Cornwall. The cafe closed. They didn't return it to me despite knowing my address.

I'd like it back. I quite like it and would like at least one of my paintings on my own wall.

Anyway it's out there somewhere.

Today was an uninspiring day that didn't really get off the ground.  It's given me a pain in the heart and soles.

I'm too old to dash about like a tete-less poulet.

Surrounded by lithe young workers inhabiting their useable bodies I drag my portly flubber around in pain and envy as I stalk the corridors of SoP House attempting to breathe through my ears.

Lovely young women appear compelled to shave their heads almost completely and dye what's left of their hair pink or blue or some other unnatural hue. Not only that they're all illustrated with the most ghastly tattoos.

Why do they do that to their lovely young flesh?  Don't they realise that they too will be old one day?

But that's one of the perks of being young: you're never going to die, you're never going to get old...

But, if you're lucky, you do...

Imagine the care homes of the future: baggy flesh covered in blue, fading tattoos, stringy pink/blue/green hair and gaping holes where piercings used to be.

I wonder where the care workers will come from? Romania will be empty by then.  Mars?

Sunday, 7 May 2017

In which I'm going grey before my very eyes...


If I had a car I'd go to the Watchet Street Fair today...
But since I don't (well I do, actually, but it's been deceased in me parking space, with actual saplings growing out of the boot for the passing of many a moon now) I shall be staying in dear old Wiv, see above (original sold, prints now available)

By the way, apols for the strange centralised text, Dear Reader, am using ancient old pooter that won't do my bidding any more (it took me over an hour to upload the photograph of the painting.  Finally found in in a 1980 file, which is fecking amazing since I didn't even have a pooter in 1980)

Anyway, BFP said I should get the car repaired as he thinks is worth about four and a half thousand pounds. Methinks not since I only paid three and a half for it when I was residing in Devon, mistake, BIG mistake.  If it worked it would be worth four hundred and fifty quid! I shall actually have to pay someone to take it away and since I don't even have the bus fare to get to Watchet, it'll have to fester away growing trees out of the boot for the foreseeable.

Am currently sitting at poor old pooter waiting for hair dye to take, turning me into blonde again (because I'm worth it) 

Sitting alongside me is the dear old Kindle , currently resting in pieces.  Yesterday it went into 'safe mode'  What the feck is that when it's at home.  Went online to see if anyone else's had suffered the same fate and lo and behold there are many other poor old saps who can't get into their apps and can't play Candy Crush Saga.  Shame for me as that's my substitute for a social existence!

Regarding Oneself in the looking glass, One appears to be turning grey before my very eyes.  I should be turning 'lightest ash blonde' but it looks like some wag has swapped the colours in the hair dye box for a laugh.  Well, I ain't laughing Buster!

Suppose it's right and fitting that One should be sporting grey hair anyway being of a great age now, but like Glenys Kinnock all I want engraved on my gravestone is 'She was Blonde.'

Blimey, I look a right moose now!  Gradually going darker and darker!  Should I was it off now and be done with it?  Oh sod it!  I'll just wait and see what happens.  It's probably the most exciting thing that will happen to me today.




Saturday, 6 May 2017

In which time and our money could be better spent...

A further missive has hit the doormat regarding parking spaces...

A climb down, of sorts, and a victory for our neighbours, for now.  This should avoid their having to lie down in their parking spaces to protect their territory.

When first I moved into Stalag One, I had already been fully informed of the busy-body reputations of the self-important harridans who viewed themselves in a manner of importance that they neither were, or would ever be.

Joining their ranks I thought to be a calming influence, and, heading off the wheel-clamping plan, I was, to begin with, but I was hoofed off the committee unceremoniously when I had the temerity to let my flat and move on.

No matter, thought I, my little short, fat legs had difficulty perambulating me to the topmost floor where the coven convened anyway.

Living cheek by jowl in this unpleasant atmosphere has been a sad, sorry experience.  Being somewhat cowardly, I'll do almost anything to avoid confrontation and the other inmates crave a quiet life, so we just put up with the spiteful goings on.

Our money has been spent on new locks on the outer doors without a word of explanation.  The pot holes in the road are in dire need of repair and we need lighting as we tread cautiously up the steep incline so as not to fall into them, but it would appear that our hard earned funds are used mainly for the litigation of personal vendettas.

My paternal Nana was a spiteful busy body who made herself very unpleasant regarding the disturbance caused to her peace by small children playing ball games on a green area opposite her house.  So much so that an anonymous wag sent her a job lot of condoms so that she might use her time differently.

Now there's a thought!




Thursday, 4 May 2017

In which One's thoughts turn to Royalty...

So our longest serving consort has retired from public duty at the ripe old age of ninety five...

Even with my, bordering on obsessive, interest in past Royals and their doings, struggle to find anything even remotely appealing about the current crop.

Some poor Labour Party sap is currently being vilified for daring to tweet 'congratulations upon retiring from a job you have loved into a comfortable retirement with no money worries' or words to that effect.

What's wrong with that, Dear Reader? True, isn't it?

Unlike vast swathes of the working poor in this realm, me included, who shall be toiling on well into our late sixties, knackered and worn down by life.

Currently, One is nursing a painful stomach and a severely stressed sphincter, having picked up the first of, no doubt, many infections from my current place of work.

A previous employer used to get all uppity when an employee suggested that their cold/upset stomach or whatever ailment, had been contracted in the workplace...

'How do you know you caught it here?' he would enquire, indignantly.

In any line of work apart from Care, that would be a valid statement, but I, for one, don't liaise with any other persons who sneeze/cough/spit in my face or render me in daily contact with their waste products.

Anyway, back to the Royals...

Dear old politically incorrect Prince Phil might actually be missed, given that we'll have more exposure to the dull, sulky Heir to the Throne. I quite like that old mare Camilla though.  Certainly more appealing than that pouting, doe eyed dullard Diana who couldn't get her empty head around the old chap's dalliance.   Quite a working class attitude for one brought up in Aristocratic circles.

Anyway, I hope Harry marries that American girl.  Heaven knows they could do with an injection of glamour and exotic good looks.


In which we're all revolting now...

Stumbling up the hill yester-eve One encountered a small, ugly crowd, arms folded defiantly and bearing determined expressions.

They surrounded a two-car parking space with a car parked horizontally across it.

'Good morrow, fellow inmates,' saluted One in their gen direc.  'Pray tell, are you awaiting the Uberlietenant and her parking police?'

Through gritted teeth they confirmed that, indeed they were.

General discontent was voiced by the gathering with varying degrees of rebellion proffered to contain the situation.

One threw the details of 'butt-gate' into the mix and was met with gasps of horror and tales of similar miseries endured by other inmates.

'You should go to court and fight it' was the general opinion, but as I know I'd be paying both to prosecute and defend myself, and being skint in the extreme and sporting ear-ringing high blood pressure and the memory of time on a high-dependency stroke ward, it can never be. One must endeavor to remain sanguine.

'Perhaps One should attempt to deploy Crowd Funding?', One suggested in not an entirely frivolous manner.

Anyway even in the unlikely event of a prospective purchaser being unearthed for the Underground Lair, One wouldn't be able to get away without the payment of many thousands of pounds, thereby leaving One without the proverbial pot to piss in.

The thrill of Butt-gate clearly waning, 'Parking-gate' has now begun, with which to fill the dark, lonely nights of our 'leaders.'

Rumour has it that they have purchased the redundant wardrobe of that 1980's popular comedy classic 'Allo Allo.'

The three costumes chosen by our leaders were: the policeman who began each sentence with 'Good Moaning,' the pneumatic Michelle, and Herr Flick.

No prizes for guessing who gets the Herr Flick costume, but we believe there's been a modicum of squabbling over Michelle's French maid's outfit. One simply prays that the victor in the ensuing scuffle shall be My Little Pony.







Tuesday, 2 May 2017

In which I'm bogged off AGAIN...

Oh goody...
The start of a new working week!  But wait! Today's little extravaganza: a course to attend.

Won't that be jolly.  Surrounded by young persons, I presume, and me sticking out like an aged care worn, sore thumb.

Ah well, it'll soon be over, hopefully.  Life has become something of a chore, of late.  One should be snuggled under a blankie watching day time telly and working out if I can afford a low cost funeral plan, with a free pen just for enquiring.

The May Fair was a bit of a damp squib...

Posh people flogging their old junk at extortionate prices and purveyors of fine food attending to the needs of the hungry masses.

One availed Oneself of a three quid tomato plant and wobbled away into the crowd.

The usual suspects weren't even there this year, apart from one potter who's been plodding gamely on with the same style wares he purveyed back in 2006 when me and BF first opened the shop.

Nothing changes, does it, Dear Reader...

But wait! Some things do. We now have a private firm 'policing' parking outside the block. What next? A curfew?

Monday, 1 May 2017

In which One has lost the plot...

May Day dawns and brings with it wind and rain.  Poor old stall-holders at the fair!

I remember the first May fair that me and BF did together.  Her with her fabric creations and me with my paintings.  It was the most glorious day, weatherwise.

Neither of us can be bothered with such events these days: she: creating in her shed and me only able to paint on my day off.

Even our chum, the purveyor of previously owned treasures is swerving the event, having had a poor result on the previous two.

I, having had a few days off (spent bashing me shreddies against the rocks down at the stream) might saunter up the High Street and gaze longingly at all the goodies I can't afford to purchase.

Shall be imbibing a sufficiency of charcoal bisquits afore I depart though, since have clearly acquired an intestinal parasite of some kind...

Following the farting of the Wedding March the other day, I must now be fair lifting the quilt, ceiling-ward, since last night I dreamt that I had some castinets stuck up me bum and was leaping out at unsuspecting passers-by, breaking into a flamenco frenzy and accompanying meself with aforementioned unseen castinets.

Am most definitely losing the plot...


Saturday, 29 April 2017

In which One is in bad shape...

Awake at the crack, as per...

Well, I say 'awake' in the sense of arising from the truckle bed, but failing to gain a sufficiency of sleep due to the most horrendous heartburn.

One's  chest and throat have been on fire, and still are...
Tis another of those discomforts that come with age, or it could have been the chicken vindaloo and pint of Pinot.

Either way, tis age related, since persons of my vintage probably should have knocked the curry/wine/fags on the head years ago.

Might be an actual physical complaint though since having had to dash toiley-boiley-ward on many an occasion yesterday with a runny bottom, One is not in good shape.
Mind you though throughout one visit One managed to fart 'The Wedding March' in it's entirety.

'Ooooh, it could be an omen' I hear you chorus Dear Reader,'maybe a proposal is looming nigh'

Huh! Methinks not! The only thing on the horizon for me today is a day on the bog.

Mind you, were I to get a proposal I could swerve the organ and simply fart my way up the aisle.

Friday, 28 April 2017

In which they're not worth a tuppeny feck...

Popped in to see the purveyor of previously owned treasures yesterday (and my paintings)

A grim month has been had by all.  Definitely not retiring to the Bahamas any time soon and shall be spoon-feeding wasted shadows until I need to 'get a room.'

Have been dreaming of poor deceased vile ex husband these past few nights...

Last night he was picking ME up from work.  Huh! Ain't that the fecking story of my life!  Anyway, he had Boy in the back of a sort of ancient looking racing car, not strapped in.

The night before, I dreamt we'd had a further child: Julie, I'd named her for some obscure reason, although I had just spent a thrilling day hollering 'Sound of Music' songs at a less than appreciative audience of bewildered beings.

Anyway, I digress, back to 'Julie'...

Left in sole charge of Boy and Julie, vile, deceased, ex-husband, (I, at work of-fecking-course) had panicked when Julie was wet and attempted to dry her off in the microwave, thereby killing her.

Obviously I was a bit miffed when I got home from work, but the six o'clock alarm woke me before I could beat the shite out of the idiot.

Ah well, even my dreams are inhabited by the sort of useless eejits who've cluttered up my waking hours.

You know the sort, Dear Reader, they think their cock will drop off if they were to undertake any menial housework task.

But, as our small, ugly gathering of disillusioned, late middle-aged ladies (arms folded in the manner of Les Dawson) agree on a weekly basis: none of them are worth a tuppeny feck after they pass forty.



In which a day out beckons...

Am still suffering the after effects of the home dermabrasion kit...

I'm now at the shedding stage despite resorting to a WD 40 rub down yester-eve.  All around me gob has gone red and is shedding in a most unattractive dandruff style manner, giving One the appearance of a gorilla with alopecia.

Anyway, have now got to the 'invisible' stage that all girls get to eventually.  You know the drill, Dear Reader: approaching sixty, no longer boffable, so therefore unseen by the naked eye and any opinion one might express falls on deaf ears.

Might as well call it a day and acquire some beige, crimpelene, elasicated waist trousers and some Velcro-fastening shoes that you can only get from a catalogue.

Who cares? Am off to exfoliate face with a brillo pad and then spend a thrilling day in the Wivey Washer.

Tuesday, 25 April 2017

In which white goods appear on the horizon...

'You've got the biggest arse in the country,' declared one of One's delicious charges.

'Maybe so,' countered One, 'and it's so big it's got it's own postcode.  So if it wins the postcode lottery I won't have to come in here and be insulted by you every day, will I? I shall be dragging my sorry arse off to the West Indies where a portly posterior is a positive!'

Although, I do believe that a fat arse is a fashion accessory these days. I mean, look at that peculiar Kardashian clan and their enormous bottoms breaking the internet.

I thought a Kardashian was a planet on Star Trek, but what do I know?  I've lived too long and have no fecking idea what's going on anymore.

Any road up, I doubt my arse would break the internet, but it did KO me laptop when I accidentally sat on it.


One is favoured this very day...
I can just see an angel on the horizon bearing white goods. He's going to get his face snogged right off when he gets here, the darling cove...
                       

 

In which One is red and shiny...

Oh dear, Dear Reader, have awoken this fine, but bitingly nippy, spring morn resembling a partially peeled beetroot.

Let me explain...

One of those home dermabrasion kits was loitering in the sale bin at Boots, so I thought, 'ideal! Shear off a couple of layers of wrinkly, tired skin, and hey presto, reveal the Lovely One of yesteryear.'

Sadly, upon slathering the requisite amount over me chops, I promptly forgot about it and tarried too long on the pooter looking at shoes I could neither afford or be able to walk in.

Upon revelation, One's face was merely a lobsterish hue, but hot enough to fry an egg on.

'I know, thinks I, I'll bung on a cooling, peel-off cucumber face mask.'

Big mistake. Huge.

Am now several layers of epidermis light and a frightening, scabby looking monster.

Oh well, let's hope One doesn't terrify One's charges when One turns up bright red and shiny covered in Vaseline.

Sunday, 23 April 2017

In which I've got the Monday sulks...

So here is Monday and it all begins again...

Four days of slog...

One day sleeping...

Two days of housework, washing and ironing...

Hurrah!  It doesn't get better than that, Dear Reader!

But wait...
This week will have some variety...

The kettle has stopped working, so I'll be able to boil water on the stove (now there's a bit of variety)

AND. The washing machine is fecked, so I shall be sashaying down to the nearest stream to bash me shreddies on the rocks.

On a lighter note...

I espied one of my paintings on the wall in the background on a TV programme.  Fame at last! But can they just do that?

Of course they can! It's only me, after all.

Saturday, 22 April 2017

In which I am only sixty (nearly)...

Had a divine day out with Nana...

In dire need of 'new' clothes that actually fit we mosied off for a waddle around the charity shops of Wellington.

Our requirements differed in that Nana is diminishing in size, whilst I, on a poverty induced diet of Asda Smart Price shite, am porking-up like a good 'un.

Nonetheless, any garment with a sufficiency of lycra, (lower 20's sizewise) has the required amount of 'give' to accommodate either of us and since our tastes are similar a certain amount of scuffling ensued.

'Look over there' says I, 'they're handing out free pies in the street' thereby distracting her long enough to grab a sensibly priced, seemingly unworn frock before she saw it.

'Huh! I'd 'ave 'ad that if I'd have seen it first' opined she upon recovery from the pie ruse, 'you've got an eye for a bargain haven't you?'

'Haven't I just' thought I. It comes from years of attempting to support myself on the meagre wage of a painter/carer with a non-contributory husband/Boy/occasional plus one.

Any road up she evened the odds with a four quid Per Una top so we cleared off to Boots for some mouthwash and charcoal biscuits, thereby ensuring both ends were equally fragrant.

'Blimey! How did you spot that?' enquired Nana as I made a grab for a three quid Spode, lidded jar within a milli-second of entering The St Margaret 's Hospice shop.
It's not often you get a bargain like that these days with all those sodding antiques programmes on the telly, but some eejit had had missed what was a good eighty quids worth.

With fifteen quids worth of previously owned tat between us we boarded the omnibus back to Wivey (seemingly now one of those rare corners of the globe one can sit outside and enjoy a fag with one's coffee without feeling like a complete pariah.)

That's about done the Easter Egg money sent by Aged P!

'You Mum still sends you Easter Egg money?' I hear you collectively enquire, Dear Reader.

Well, I am only sixty.


Friday, 21 April 2017

In which we debate our ghastly fate...

It's awfully difficult to support oneself financially when all alone with the burden, isn't it, Dear Reader?  Most especially if one is of the female persuasion and fast approaching old age.

One was deep in conv with two fellow late middle-aged ladies just the other day, who both have husbands, who were shouldering the family's financial burden alone. Both their husbands had, seemingly, entered mid-life crisis, abandoned their lucrative careers and deliberately allowed the burden of earning the entire family's living to their wives.  Notwithstanding the fact that the lion's share of housework and childcare still fell under the umbrella of the wife.

It really is still a man's world. with the thrilling array of menial job opportunities out their for women returning to work after having children.

Let's think: Care work (the catch-all euphemism for shit-shovelling), part time shop work, child minding, cleaning to name but a few of the exciting opportunities designed for us only.

As we bemoaned our fate, other passing women joined the debate.
'It's alright for you,' said one of them to me, 'you can just paint another picture and make some extra cash.'
Quite when I'm supposed to do that, who knows?  At night when I get home from a day charging around a Care Home presumably.

We would have all banded together to March on Downing Street simply to grizzle about our fate to the WOMAN at the top, but most of us had to dash home to cook supper and get ready for work the next day...

Thursday, 20 April 2017

In which One encounters a silly boy...

A young gentleman of my acquaintance told me yesterday that his best friend had 'given birth'

'How jolly nice' thinks I, 'tis a fairly recent phenomenon that young persons have BF's of the opposite sex'

When One was young, boys were an oily, spotty mystery and a girl's best friend was another girl.

'He phoned me from the hospital in a right old panic,' continued the cove.

Hmmmm, thought I. Curious. Other things must have undergone radical changes whilst One has been minding One's own bees-tiddly-wax...

To my certain knowledge it has always been the singular preserve of the female of the species to 'give birth'

But he blathered on, dropping the 'he's just given birth' nonsense into the conversation, so I know I didn't mis-hear it.

'Crikey!' thought I, 'The TV'll be all over this one. Never mind the Taunton Gazette.'

SOMERSET MAN GIVES BIRTH! I can see it now.

Unless, of course, the eejit's best friend is a sea horse.

Stupid, STUPID boy.

Wednesday, 19 April 2017

In which One is incontinent...

Oh my giddy aunt...

It's the beginning of the end...

Is it just me, or does everyone dream about not being able to find a toiley boiley when they need a wee when they're asleep?  Is it an age thing?

Anyway, One had one of those very dreams just the other night.  Every lavatory I encountered was either closed, didn't have a door, or was blocked up with unmentionable items various.

Being in a deep sleep, One didn't reach that period of consciousness where One leaps from the truckle bed and stumbles to the smallest room.

When one is young, one never dreams that one's Lilly white flesh will ever be dotted with liver spots, or that one will ever have a crepey neck, or more than a sufficiency of super-floo-us hairs. AND one may titter at the advertisements that intersperse afternoon television. You know the ones, Dear Reader, concerning the inability to pooh and the unwanted dispersal of wee every time one laughs or sneezes.

Well, for One it has come to pass...

One weed One's pyjamas. And One had an overnight guest of the male persuasion.

That's it, Dear Reader, the search for love is hereby over.

I'm getting a cat and be done with it!

Tuesday, 18 April 2017

In which 'tis the cycling season...

Here we go, Dear Reader...

With the first glimpse of sunlight, they're out! The flip-flop wearing, tattooed, dimpled thighed delights...

Pale, translucent, clad in ghastly shorts and vests, displaying their illustrated bodies in gay abandon, putting the rest of us off our lunch until the November shadows fall.

But even they, in their Primarni splendour, pale into insignificance alongside the irritant cyclists.  With their moist gussets suctioned to their aero dynamic saddles, they clutter up the highways delaying the rest of normal humanity in their little ve-hicles from gaining access to our places of work.

Nothing can be more ghastly than the vision of a grim-faced, middle-aged sort, with a pained expression forging his way through town and country on his bicycle.

I blame that Bradley Wiggins!

Although I have to say, there's something strangely appealing about the sinewy cove.

But I'm glad it's not me who has to launder his moist gusset area.

Monday, 17 April 2017

In which I'm a miserable old bat...

One knew it couldn't last, Dear Reader...

Woken up fit to bite a nail in half...

'But you were fair chipper just the other day,' I hear you chorus, as one.

When you've been in a bad mood as long as I have (fifty nine years) a day of merriment, is just that : a day.

'What's occurred to blight your sunny disposition?' I hear you collectively enquire.

Well, apart from stating the bleeding obvious: Buttgate, some snap- happy sort has gone and taken a photograph of me latest masterpiece and splashed it all over social sodding media.

NOTE TO ALL: my paintings hang in galleries for you to purchase, thereby easing my existence of penury and grinding poverty, not for you to copy  William Nilliam.

SO THERE!

Saturday, 15 April 2017

In which I mop the floor for fun...

So, Dear Reader, here I am at 4.05am, solitary on the second hand sofa...

Having got up at 5.30 am yesterday to finish a painting and get it in the shop in the hope of flogging it to some passing cove with disposable income, I flopped into the truckle bed in the afternoon for a nap, and upset my body clock.

After that I spent the rest of the day washing the floor. Jeez, I know how to have fun!

Later on I shall fashion a loaf in the breadmaker Boy got me for Christmas AND THEN probably scoff the lot slathered in peanut butter to further enhance my fat, wobbly body. I wonder if they make cardboard coffins in XXXL?

Yesterday, whilst mopping the floor, I suddenly thought about Jonathan Hill. Quite why a boy from primary school should pop into my head I don't know.  Well, I do know really, Dear Reader, and I shall, here and now, bore you with the sorry tale...

Every day I used to walk the short distance home from school alone. Waiting on a grass verge, each day, would be my nemesis, the ginger haired menace, Jonathan Hill...

I can still recall the knotted lump of fear in my stomach as he approached, blocking my passage and began, as he did each and every day, kicking my white-socked shins with his nasty little Clark's shod feet.

Eventually, after months and months of torment I told my Mum who advised me to 'kick him back.'

This I did the very next day, giving him a jolly good thrashing to boot!  He was visibly stunned, I still recall, and ran off crying home to his Mum.

The next day, I was called in to see the Head Mistress where sat the offender, Jonathan Hill and his Mother.
I was given a severe telling-off and forced to apologize to my tormentor!

That was the day I found out that there is no justice in this life.

Years later I saw a picture of the little shit in the local newspaper: he'd married Janet Gookey (widely known as the ugliest girl in school)

I wonder if they produced a brood of ugly, spiteful, ginger-haired children?

Friday, 14 April 2017

In which One is a danger...

It's definitely One..

One is the facilitator...

One is the catalyst...

History DOES repeat itself, Dear Reader, but seemingly only when One enters the frame...

Point me in the direction of any poor cove beetling through life minding their own bees-tiddly-wax, drop me into the mix, and, lo, poverty, gloom, despair and as sure as eggs is eggs (seasonal reference) disaster shall ensue.

On the cusp of puberty, One should have been locked in a secure unit so as to not upset the equilibrium of any passing stranger.

 Today, One shall fashion an enormous Super Hero costume, wear One's big pants over me leggings, and emblazon 'CATALYST WOMAN' across me ample bosom to warn passing victims.

On a lighter note, I shall today, it being Good Friday, be partaking of a solitary supper of Lidl Pinot and pork scratchings. I feel it's what Our Lord would have wanted.


Wednesday, 12 April 2017

In which I'm chipper...

Blimey! I've only gone and got in a good mood again!

Am really enjoying my new job. (Now there's a sentence I thought I'd never write again.)

Good job I didn't hurtle meself off the kerb.

No money, no secure future, wobbly thighs and a harvest due on me super-floo-us hairs but I'm chipper in the extreme.

How long 's it going to last?




Monday, 10 April 2017

In which it stinks...

One is full to the brim with knowledge...

Granted, it's the very same knowledge that one is required to imbibe upon entering the employ of a further residential care home.

But, this time, One spends One's days making Easter Bonnets, knitting , singing or just conversing, rather than armed with a mop and bucket and wet wipes.

I am bitterly resentful that I have to do anything at all really, when I should be tucked under a blankie on the second hand sofa watching 'The Real Housewives of New York City'

Anyway, seems to be my lot in life, so I'd better find something amusing to say about it.

I used to just laugh and get on with it, but that switch tripped over a year ago now and I can't seem to pinpoint the fault that will allow me to set it again.

I have had far more than my fair share of laughs throughout my life though, so maybe I'm just destined to be a resentful, miserable old bat.




Saturday, 8 April 2017

In which Nana has a theory...

That is an enhanced view of One that is used on some gallery websites...
Presumably, the dimpled, varicose, gargantuan One of the present is deemed too alarming for the great unwashed.

Ah well, following a v pleasant afternoon with Nana, I now learn that I've lost my 'oomph' as well as my looks.  And, do you know what, Dear Reader, she's right.

I've been like a vast galleon adrift in a sea of sorrow for so long now that I'm not sure if I can navigate my way back to shore.

Sometimes I glimpse dry land, but then seem to drift aimlessly around the doldrums again following even the slightest setback.

Where has the devil-may-care One of old gone, and will she ever return?

I'm such a misery guts now it's no wonder people avoid me.

I used to bounce around like a geriatric Tigger, charging headlong from one disaster to the next without a care in the world with the mantra, 'I don't worry about things that I can't do anything about.'

Maybe it's just the passage of time, or the years of dragging my flolloping flab to and from a never ending stream of menial jobs that's defeated me?

Maybe I just miss Boy?

Nana has a theory and I hope to goodness she's wrong.

Friday, 7 April 2017

In which another summer beckons...

Oh how different the world looks, Dear Reader, following a week's work...

No more pacing the floors of the Underground Lair worrying about losing my home and being spuriously pursued for many thousands of pounds by the unpleasant management company of this block.

No, now I'm gainfully employed, I can worry about that when I catch the bus home.

Anyway, tis a fairly pleasant way to spend the day. The other staff are nice and friendly so that's good.

I was provided with a delicious, pale blue, short sleeved, silky jacket to wear. It sported a white mandarin collar and triangular silver buttons that did up in a zig-zag manner down the front. Sadly the sleeves exposed One's bingo wings and when the buttons were secured One resembled a trusted up Christmas Turkey.

A tabard has been agreed upon...

Still, progress is being made, so I may see out another summer...

Sunday, 2 April 2017

In which I'm Atila the Hunny...

Strangely enough I feel quite sanguine today...

Am still keeping out of the way of chums, since am one seething dollop of misery. Not self pity. Never do that, or considering myself as a victim: very unattractive behaviour.

Anyway, must remain calm as have new job to start tomorrow and am determined to enjoy it, do it well and earn my keep.

Have concluded that I must have been, at least, Atila the Hun in a past life.

Saturday, 1 April 2017

Just when I thought it couldn't get any worse...

The Butt of Damacles has raised it's ugly...

Had the demand for many thousands of pounds arrived a week or so ago I think it would have been enough for me to take my own life.

My own money (supposed maintenance payments from all flat owners) is being used to prosecute me over the spurious claim that an innocent water butt blocked a downpipe to the degree that rainfall cascaded from the gutter in enough quantity to soak through an entire, four storey block with two feet thick walls.

Were I to defend myself, not that I have any money, I would be paying both to prosecute and defend myself.

What is the point in my trying to go on any longer. I'm a broken down old woman with yet another care home job to start on Monday that won't come close to paying the bills.

She may as well just come round and put a bullet through my head. The outcome will be the same.


Friday, 31 March 2017

In which it's turned to dust...

Daylight snuck in through the charity shop curtains...

It wasn't one of those shafts of spring sunlight that carry dancing diamonds of dust within, it was an intrusive, dull thud of gloom announcing another day.

Anyway even if I'd been able to see the dust (there's yet another fecking scaffolding tower in the garden obscuring light) 'twould have been merely someone else's skin particles for me to inhale. Isn't that what 90% of dust is, Dear Reader, human skin particles?

Scaffolding shoots up around here with alarming regularity. As soon as the pink shoots of the paeonies peek through the soil you can bet your bottom dollar that a small, ugly gang of oiks will appear, take down the fence, mince up what's left of the lawn and erect another sodding tower.

Shame it wasn't a couple of weeks ago when One was looking for somewhere to hang Oneself by the neck until dead.

Yes, at last, suicidal gloom has faded away to be replaced by a fatalistic acceptance of abject misery and penury as I trudge toward the grave.

Off back to gainful employ on Monday. Not enough to pay the bills and eat. I'd like to see whoever came up with 'the living wage' actually exist on it.

I'd really rather like to just sit on the second hand sofa watching daytime TV and eat pies until I explode.




Thursday, 30 March 2017

In which one fails...

Yesterday, feeling relatively normal, pour moi anyway, I ventured into the galley to create a cake.

The Admiral and his carer were due one of his increasingly rare forays beyond the secure unit and were visiting for afternoon tea.

One, wishing to appear 'on it' googled Scary Cherry's Victoria Sandwich.

The receipt promised enough mixture for two seven inch cake tins. They lied, so I bunged in an extra egg and wanged the meagre mixture into a single tin.

Like a seasoned Bake Off contestant, I took up residence on the floor, next the oven, to watch it rise. (Tis entirely possible to see through the oven door since I discovered that evil potion that not only removes centuries of grime but three layers of epidermis.)

Any road up, it rose spectacularly in the centre and sported, what looked like suppurous boils all over, giving it the appearance of an over Sun-kissed tit.

Waiting for it to cool, I embarked upon the butter cream.
Unlike the cake mix quantity, there was enough butter cream to weld together the contents of Greggs front window display.

Slicing the top off the tit cake I slathered a goodly amount inside, with a bit of raspberry jam (mould scraped off) and plonked it on Nana's cake stand.

There was sufficient butter cream left to plug a hole in the back wall, satiate the sweet tooth of Chester the visiting cat, fill the cracks in the gable end and still have enough left to smother Lovely Gordon from head to toe, awaiting One licking it off at One's leisure.

Upon sight of the badly listing sponge, the Admiral guffawed. A foolish move in itself, but he carried on digging by opining...

'Cor blimey! Can you imagine what S's wife J would say if she saw that! She'd say: well, you tried, but leave the baking to me and you stick with the painting.'

Now, that is committing a Cardinal Sin, Dear Reader: defiling the culinary efforts of one's significant other in favour of those of the wife of a chum.

Having bitten One's tongue to the point of severance on many an occasion when the sainted J was imagined as Star Baker every week until that eventual crowning as winner, One was incandescent with rage.

One, making do with a bottom of the range Belling, housed in a cupboard, sans window or extractor fan, laughingly referred to as a 'kitchen' whilst One's nemesis has an Aga, a feck off enormous gas cooker, all housed in a huge farmhouse kitchen, does One's level best to conjure up culinary delights against all the odds.

Seething with resentment, One turned One's heliotrope hued face away and set about making a pot of tea.

The milk had gone sour and I'd forgotten to buy any tea...

OH BOLLICKS!



Wednesday, 29 March 2017

Over the edge...

Boy visited on Mother's Day...

With him was his elderly amour and jolly contented they looked together.

Contentment. Now there's a thing. Not exactly 'happiness' (a state of which the young seem to view as a human right) but the deeper and more solid state of acceptance of one's lot with no urgent requirement for change.

A state to which One has never been elevated and to which now, is about as likely as One's appearance on the front cover of Vogue.

The closest One has ever been were those long ago, winter afternoons in Highgate, where One and Boy would sit quietly in front of the fire watching London fall silent beneath a covering of forgiving snow.

Now, we've all wandered off in different directions and news reaches me of the death of another of our Bohemian group.

One can't help but imagine our fiendish creator stifling a guffaw as he/she moves us about the giant chessboard of life: some pushed onto comfy sofas and others flicked over the edge...

Sunday, 26 March 2017

In which I venture forth...

Yesterday I dragged my chemically enhanced carcas onto the mean streets.
I chose early evening in the vain hope I would be able to perambulate hither and thither without encountering anyone who might make the innocent enquiry, 'how are you?'

Not that I ever reply anything other than, 'jolly fine', but I do look like a mad old bat, which, of course, I am.

And anyway, persons abroad do read this shite and therefore know that I speak with fork tongue.

However, isolation wasn't forthcoming and sidling down Silver Street, I chanced upon Lovely Gordon.
In one hand he carried a Fortnum and Mason grocery bag and in the other a worryingly, moist looking dog poop bag, tied with a perfect bow to which he clung.

Knowing he leads a hound-negative existence, I imagined he'd had another run-in with an indigenous article allowing her shit-machine to foul the pavement.

But no, finding Taunton Deane's refuse bins to be aesthetically displeasing, he opts to eschew their use and to transport, what turned out to be a bag of putrid broccoli spears, to the bin in Jubilee Gardens.

That's one sure thing about dear old Wivey: no matter how bonkers One becomes, One still has a chance of encountering a madder cove, on it's thoroughfares.

After sharing tales of retirement and care workers who turned out to be 'lady-boys' he strode off toward the Co op mumbling to himself.

'Oi!,' I heard him holler from ten paces. 'Have you heard the one about the man with five penises?'
'His underpants fit like a glove.'


Saturday, 18 March 2017

In which I'm climbing out...

Thanks to my chemical additives, I have, today, clawed my way to the perimeter of the deep black hole in which I've been residing these past weeks...

As long as the brutal jackboot of life doesn't stamp on my fingers , I shall be tentatively lifting my head above the parapet some time later today.

It won't be the head that's generally shown to the world so I'd shield your gaze, if I were you, Dear Reader. Personal grooming has gone down the lavatory of late and I resemble a gentleman of the road. (and very likely smell like one too.)

I say 'gentleman' advisedly since, as you know, Dear Reader the harvesting of super-floo-us hair is now a daily occurrence, or should be, in this case.

I do have a strimmer somewhere in the garden shed so as soon as the precipitation ceases I shall attend to my facial growth and macrame a couple of plant pot holders.

Blimey, I just re-read that last bit and it bordered on amusing. I must be on my way back.

Anyway, never shall I scoff at the depressed, or use that awful dismissive phrase, 'pull yourself together.'

AND

I shall most certainly follow my 'carer' BF's advice...

'Don't stop taking the tablets until things have settled down.'

Ooooh, I feel a bit peckish...

Friday, 17 March 2017

In which I have added chemicals...

Today I shall be mostly trying to act like a normal human being...

There must be suitable gainful employment out there for a broken down old wreck like me.

I haven't eaten enough to keep a fruit fly alive for weeks, but since I have sufficient lard stores about my person to sustain me for months, maybe that's a good thing.

I'm finding it really difficult to accept that there are so many jobs I can no longer do.

Do most people deteriorate slowly, or do they just hit a brick wall like I have?  I don't know.

Living a hand to mouth existence as I have for all of my adult life I don't have the luxury of rainy day funds, but I'm not feeling in the least bit sorry for myself, nor am I bleating away on this diary for any other reason than to record events for my own perusal should things change, either for the better or worse.

I've certainly had an interesting life full of good friends and family.

Laughs are a bit thin on the ground at the moment, but, with my new chemical additives, I am starting to hope for a smidgen of titters in time.

Thursday, 16 March 2017

In which the obit is writ...

Slowly emerging from my current black hole...

I am really struggling with the logic of the person who misrepresented the last debacle in the workplace that I had to abandon.

What  earth was the point in giving an old crock like me a job masquerading as an 'activity organiser' when it was clearly a hands-on care job?

I really did try, too, but 'KNOW YOUR LIMITATIONS WOMAN' is a mantra I shall adhere to forthwith.

What on earth can I do next?

My current source of reference must be on something of a perpetual loop, for goodness sake.

One lesson I have learned, well, two, actually: I can't function without the discipline of full time employment, and I should never have left my job in care in Wivey, no matter how challenging it was.

Obituary:
Here lies One. She made poor decisions and stupid mistakes.

Wednesday, 15 March 2017

In which I am hopeful...

The only way is up...

Finally hit upon a medical solution to my ghastly problems, but the Doctor has been in therapy since my visit.

Have had to accept that there are some things that I can no longer do.

Had I adhered to the old adage 'if it ain't broke, don't fix it' I may well have weathered the storm, but, well, Dear Reader, I didn't.

'There's no fool like an old fool' is another soubriquet I would have done well to heed, but having been a fool, young and old, I didn't.

What next?
Here's hoping!

Tuesday, 14 March 2017

Stop...

Snap out of it.
Pull yourself together.

This has been a long time coming and while I still can, I'll document it so I remember.

Yesterday I sat in silence until it got dark outside.

Silent everywhere except inside my head.

Went to see a doctor, but I don't think pills will do it this time.

Stress, anxiety, panic attacks, severe depression and very high BP

Aged P wants me to go to her to recover. Can't do that.

'Take these tablets. We don't want you to have another stroke.'

Don't we? Would it make it stop?

Monday, 13 March 2017

In which it won't change a thing...

Here I am on another day. Shaking uncontrollably, dry mouthed, head ringing, heart pounding.

Will attempt to get through the day and try to get to see the doctor, who no doubt will pump me full of Prozac and offer a 'talking therapy'

Talking about it won't change anything. I'll still be unemployed, penniless and going out of my mind.

Sunday, 12 March 2017

In which I woke up again...

Good morrow, Dear Reader, are you enjoying your descent into madness with me?

Unfortunately I awoke this morning drenched in perspiration, heart pounding as if to burst from my chest and with the acrid stench of failure and despair playing around my nostrils.

What is happening to me? I haven't ventured from the underground lair for a week now and find myself spending entire days rocking back and forth on the second-hand sofa.

No use to man nor beast, I just sit here watching my thighs grow wider.

Where has that optimistic old trollope gone?
Will I wake up tomorrow and find her again?

The mind is a strange thing. I don't seem to have any control over mine at the moment.

I'm perfectly capable of obtaining employment.  After all I was offered both of the jobs I went for last month, but when it comes to actually doing them, well, we know what happened there, don't we.

So what happens now? I don't have a template for this.

Saturday, 11 March 2017

In which it's a death sentence...

And so, with being incapable of looking after myself, I can no longer care for others.
So, what next?
And will there be a next? With no income and nothing in the fridge.

I always wondered what a panic attack actually was. I've made many a comic reference to breathing into a brown paper bag in this little diary, and now I've had one myself I don't think I'll be quite so dismissive again.  Well, not unless I get my muddled mind sorted out soon.

I'm starting to wonder if there might be something else entirely going on though. After all I've dusted myself down and got on with it after hurtling in and out of many a scrape. I've lost my nerve and have developed shaking hands, which means that even if I could pull myself together and paint, I can't hold a brush.

I suppose it's fitting that I should be found decayed and nibbled by alsations, in the manner of Bridget Jones.

I feel such a fool that I couldn't do that last job, but it wasn't really an Activities post, it was just the same old, same old, hauling bodies about and I couldn't do it.

The only jobs around for people like me are in care and how do you do that when you're old?  I don't know.

This week a party of women born in the 1950's travelled to London from the West Country to protest at being deprived of many year's worth of pension payments since we now have to work an extra seven years at least.

For unskilled women like me who can only get care work, it is a death sentence, but maybe that's the plan.

Friday, 10 March 2017

In which I'm at it again...

I think today might be one of those constant blog days...

I simply have to write it all out of my system.  After all, it spares anyone from having to listen to me. You don't have to read it. Do you?

But I must write it.  If I don't tap it out the end of my gnarled, rheumatic digit it just runs as a constant narrative in my head...

Why did I do that when I should've done this, and all those unhelpful thoughts that clutter up the mind of a bonkers old woman.

Looking back over my life I can see the ridiculous situations I've gotten myself into.  Saying and doing things because that's how I thought others wanted me to be and never being true to myself.

That is true cowardice.

Living alone for too long and at too early an age with various intermittent and unsuitable liaisons to trickle in some human contact in an otherwise solitary existence.

It's not as if I can cite a dysfunctional childhood.  It was a bit fraught with warring parents and a very unstable Mother, but it's not an excuse for my completely ballsing everything up.

I've always taken the path of least resistance and dived into situations that have been short term fixes with absolutely no thought for the future.

That was fine before when I was young enough to keep starting again, but what of now?

It's as if I've just woken up to the fact that I'm not young anymore.  How stupid is that?


Depression

Too sick to even go to the doctor today...

I wish I could just die and get it over with.

I'm no use to anyone anymore.

I so envy people who are strong.  I think it's always been a false front that I've shown to the world, but depression is a non visible thing that strangles the life out of its sufferers in private.

And no, I'm not feeling sorry for myself, or that I haven't tried.  It's just been such a long hard pretence, that I'm worn out and now that I've grown old, I can't see a way out.

Along the way I've been met with extraordinary kindness. Much more kindness, in fact, than the opposite, so I've been fortunate.

This little diary has helped, but as I look back through it I can see the harm I've done to other people, so I must be reaping what I've sown.

I am judged and found wanting.

Thursday, 9 March 2017

In which its all a bit horrid...

Well, that's it, Dear Reader...

Going to hell in a hand cart. Do not pass go. Do not collect any wages.

Being physically unable to shift a 23 stone man single handed, crawl around on the floor securing wheelchairs, or jump down from a tailgate, One is once again without gainful employ.

'But you said it was an activity job?' I here you exclaim, Dear Reader.

Yes, I know, so did they, but it wasn't.

What next?

Hide under the duvet and wait for repossession, or death. Whichever comes first.


Tuesday, 7 March 2017

In which One is sick in bed...

Here I am, in bed, Dear Reader, having been sneezed at, snotted on and grabbed by a whole lot of aged persons carrying brand new strains of germs not familiar to One...

Every time I start work in a new environment I catch something in the first week or so.

I think the kindest thing, all round, would be to put a bullet through me head and be done with it.

I'm now so old that I'm looking after people who are younger than me.

HOWEVER DID IT COME TO THIS

Maybe I should just get a room...

Sunday, 5 March 2017

In which I can't get down. Or up...

Well then...
Have completed my first, employed, five day week since 1991.
Am well and truly cattle-trucked.  Have been dragging this flollopy, lard-encased carcass around for sixty years now and am spent.

Have discovered that my creaky old knees can no longer weight bear, following the two falls I had a while ago.

'Of course they can't bear your gargantuan mass!' I hear you exclaim, Dear Reader, and I would concur.

I didn't imagine, given my current job title, that I would be required to spend any time at all on my knees, but, there it is, Dear Reader, I am.

My delightful co-worker is a slender, young lovely, who is lithe in the extreme and very supple and bendy.

I am not. And I am on my knees. Or, I would be, if I could get down, let alone get up again!

Monday, 27 February 2017

In which I appear to have wandered into the life of another...

On my first day at Stopsley Infants School, I was delivered, under protest, by Aged P, who wasn't aged then, but was a mini skirt wearing yummy mummy.

I barely tolerated the day, hid the ghastly luncheon of salad under the enormous knife and fork (if you didn't consume every morsel, you were left alone with the food in the school hall until you had) drank the Luke warm milk and soaked up the atmosphere, imagining the day was a one off.

The following day, being taken there again, under extreme protest this time, I sat firmly on the floor in the classroom and steadfastly refused to budge.  Mother was escorted out and the Headmistress, who I told to 'bugger off' bundled me into the hall, held me in place on a chair with one hand and conducted the choir with the other.

This adverse reaction to authority and repetition has dogged me my entire life.

Today has been another such experience that is required to be repeated, ad infinitum, until such time as I either retire/drop dead/win the lottery.

Saturday, 25 February 2017

In which laughter may be on its way...

Saturday afternoon: Anchors Away followed by High Society, what could be better than that, Dear Reader?

I'm currently reclining on the second hand sofa, wet hair, peel-off cucumber face pack drying...  and accepting the fact that, in  all probability, it's too late to emulate the divine Grace Kelly, and one should slide as gracefully as one is able into a grey haired, sans make-up, old age.

I wonder what you're doing, Dear Reader, particularly you persons Francais.  Yes, I can see you there, thanks to the Boy genius who put the counter on my blog.

I imagine you beside a log fire, sitting in an elegant chair, looking out of your Paris apartment window, over the winter rooftops.  Or maybe you're in a farmhouse kitchen surrounded by children and dogs and baking something delicious for tea.

To you, I must apologize for not being even the slightest bit amusing over the past months, but it's grey, windy and cold here and definitely lacking in amusement.

Anyway, New job on Monday. People to meet and places to go and hopefully laughter will resume in the Underground Lair...




Thursday, 23 February 2017

In which it's all Hurrah!...

Hurrah!  Have got new job and upon completion of a current mission of mercy, shall be leaping into action again in the manner of a coiled spring.

It has been an anxious time during which I have trawled self-help books whilst breathing into a brown paper bag.

Why, Dear Reader, is it always a 'Brown' paper bag that is required for the alleviation of panic?  Are other colours without the soothing property of the good old brown paper bag?

Anyway, once back in residence at the Underground Lair on the morrow, shall call New place of employ and ascertain the whereabouts of day one.

Obv, I'd rather be sitting, legs akimbo, in a deck chair on Paignton beach at this point in life, but with no pension arrangements 'twould appear One shall be required to undertake gainful employ until the grim reaper comes a'calling.

My little, fat, varicose legs have a few miles yet to trudge...


Monday, 20 February 2017

In which BF is definitely going to Heaven...

So, that's what it was girls...

How lovely of Kirsty Wark to make a documentary about the menopause with all it's associated delights.  I bet every woman since the beginning of time has been wondering what that was all about. 

How fortunate we are to have a 'celebrity' menopause to refer to!

What is it with these media/celebrity types? 

Each time one of the bleach toothed, plastic nellied nonentities shoots out a baby they feel the need to make a tv show/write a book to inform the rest of us.

And now, a helpful little guide to the menopause. 

We were all the result of childbirth and every Mother knows the delights of squeezing something the size of a 'feeds 8 to 10' Christmas turkey through an opening the size of a pencil sharpener hole.

Yes, we all have individually peculiar menopausal delights.  Why, as you know from reading this nonsense, Dear Reader, One went completely bonkers, ran away from home with someone I had nothing in common with and lived to regret it.  (But then again, so did he, the poor chap!)

We've all awoken with a moist imprint of out bodies on the sheets, in the manner of the Turin Shroud.  We all have had mood swings/super-floo-us hairs in unfortunate places and we've all gone to work, done the housework and just got the hell on with it for goodness sake!

Yes, it's ghastly, but for fecks sake, keep it to yourself or write a little old blog like I do to get it out of my system.

Yes, I only write this for myself.  If I didn't I'd be boring the arse off everyone I meet with my various mental health issues.  Lucky for you my long suffering carer BF gets her dear little ears chewed off with it.  If there is a Heaven, she certainly has earned a place!

Sunday, 19 February 2017

In which 'tis the day of rest...

Off to the last meet of the season.  V foggy on top of the moor, but as they left the sun came out.
Never a horsey type as a girl I still don't see the appeal of it all, but we'll, it's so very English and they do look splendid.

You'd never know that hunting had been banned. Well, not in Devon anyway.

They can go on about the Fox being vermin until they're blue in the face, but to me, hunting down and tearing a creature to shreds is anathema.

Oh, I don't know though, there are a couple of persons abroad that I could quite cheerfully rip to pieces, but 'tis Sunday, the day of rest so instead I shall take the cheese grater to the hard skin on me feet and bleach me upper lip hair.

Thursday, 16 February 2017

In which trundling is the order of the day...

I wonder what delights today will bring to the dark, damp Underground Lair?
A prospective purchaser perchance?
One can but cling on to the hope that, out there somewhere, is a displaced, cave-dwelling goblin on the hunt for a cave.

Until then, One must trundle bravely on, searching for gainful employ and looking for humorous anecdotes in my fictional existence.

Onward and upward in the manner of a varicose Valkyrie...

In which, what's the point? ...

Feeling extra gloomy today and surplus to the requirements of the Grand Plan, if there is one.

Who would have thought that the disruption of my routine by the loss of a shitty little part time job could have resulted in this chasm of misery.

Shall shut self in Underground Lair so as not to litter up the town with my miserable hairy face.  Yes, am even too depressed to harvest any super-floo-us hairs and currently resemble a hirsute, morbidly obese Catweazle.

Shall amuse self by pulling out broken veins with a quick-unpick and then hold breath until turn blue.

Wednesday, 15 February 2017

In which it's bleak...

Have awoken once again to the bleak landscape of life...

How come I can't think of a way to change things?  Must be too old now.

When did I get to be such a defeatist old misery?  Oh yes, I remember, when I became unemployed, unemployable, completely skint and on the verge of homelessness.

Can't think of a single thing to look forward to so am off to stand under a ladder in the vain hope that something heavy falls on me head.

Saturday, 11 February 2017

In which a life of glamour clamours...

Flicking through another's Country Living magazine (I can't afford such luxuries) I happened upon an advertisement for 'birdwatching lessons.'
How awfully odd!
Surely the instruction: 'find bird. Watch it,' should suffice.
No matter. One is a pretend country person anyway. What do I know?

Another oddity was a 'wife carrying' competition. The first prize: a firkin of fortified wine and a prize for the last in race of a 'can of celebration dog food.'

Neither pursuit is of interest to moi, since One has no husband (the Admiral, even in the peak of condition, or the first flush of youth could narry carry a biffer of my gargantuan proportions) and there are no birds to watch in the grounds of the Underground Lair since the arrival of Son of Tigerboy.

It would appear that even though One is practically a pensioner, One's stock has gone up, since the two interviews One has attended have both resulted in offers of gainful employ.

Sadly, the decision will be based entirely upon the place of work's proximity to an omnibus pick up point.

Oh the glamour of it all.