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Sunday, 31 December 2017

In which it's over...

End the year with my self portrait, Cocoon.

Anyway, following her sad demise Lovely One was laid to rest at daybreak this morning...

As she had no actual earthly form I fashioned a small corn-dolly-ish figure from growler sheddings harvested from the bath  plughole and, having squirted the decolletage area with Cillit Bang, gently placed her in a Viking-like barge fashioned from a Co-op Fair Trade Collumbard Chardonnay three litre wine box.

Beating my way through the wintry undergrowth I chanced upon a stream.

'Perfect,' think I and, flicking a lit dog end in the ceremonial barge, launch the vessel  in the general direction of Valhalla.

Off she sailed, taking with her hope and dreams, leaving in her wake, a defeated old dollop with nothing to live on but half a packet of cream crackers and her wits...

Friday, 29 December 2017

In which I wish to make a donation...

'You must go straight to hospital and have your hands x-rayed ' demanded the medical type upon ascertaining that despite my having given an armful of blood they'd forgotten to seive it, or whatever they do, for arthritis.  The gnarled and twisted finger-age was a bit of a giveaway though.

' Your blood pressure is way too high. You've had a stroke,' she went on, as if somehow I either didn't  know, or I was doing it on purpose.
'Even if you lost a small amount of weight it would make a difference. You could have a gastric band fitted.'

So that's it. I'm fat enough for that now! I've been much fatter than this before!

I've been a porker for most of my miserable existence. One suitor even told me that he only chose me because of it, as he'd put on weight so thought he'd give a fatty a try! Oh lucky, lucky me!

Anyway I was only  at the doctor to get more mind numbing substances since I  can't afford to remain in a perpetual state of intoxication. It being the only state that offers relief from my cyber stalker and the prospect of imminent homelessness.

Having exceptionally poor judgement skills I have lurched into old age with little more than the sense I was born with. I really could use a dedicated social worker to dictate my every move.

I've got a DNR in place now, in case I have another stroke, so I asked about organ donation. Turns out nobody would want any of mine. I have time I don't want too. Can you donate that?

Tuesday, 26 December 2017

In which Lovely One is dead...

For heaven's sake! What is the matter with you people? One, having no friends, visitors or the like, has just this minute peeked into One's diary, having feck all else to do, and what do I  discover? Some of you have been tuning in.

I have an excuse, I write the shite, but you, you should be making merry with your loved ones, not with Lovely One.

Anyway, for your information, Lovely One passed peacefully away in my sleep on Christmas Night.

Having given over a significant portion of her existence to the fruitless pursuit of love, she heaved a shuddering sigh, let off a massive fart and shuffled off this mortal coil. To be replaced, in the manner of Doctor Who, with an eldery, peroxided, varicose, bloated, soon to be homeless again, financially replete, jaded, old trollope.

Henceforth, that very Trollope, assuming a place to lay my head, shall devote herself to the righting of wrongs and the pursuit of enlightenment.

Wednesday, 20 December 2017

In which a a tinsel lifeline is tossed my way...

And so the season of goodwill is almost upon us... and unbelievably there is someone out there with goodwill toward me! Just when I was sure the milk of human kindness had got stinky lumps in it, up pops a Christmas angel.

But, I've made a dog's breakfast of everything and shan't inflict my shame and misery on  an innocent bystander, however delicious the prospect.

In  lucid moments I play past mistakes over and over in my tormented mind and can hardly comprehend my actions. Certainly a good deal of them appear the actions of someone not entirely in command of their faculties. With that, the relentless pursuit of  my tormentor, the prospect  of leaving this place and the inability to paint, now my hands are twisted into tight little arthritic balls, the end must surely be in sight.

Having unwittingly turned Oneself into a ridiculous sideshow, I hope the finale will prove spectacular.

Tuesday, 19 December 2017

In which it's time to move on...

The above vision of loveliness is once more in the news with her adoring suitor...

This week the Devon council authority who preside over the area in which her land is situated have chosen to hurl her out of her home and bung her in a Travel Lodge.

It has been deemed detrimental to the requirements of the British public 'to have dwellings without planning permission popping up all over the place.'

The old argument of 'if we let them get away with it everyone will do it' doesn't really wash, as let's face it, there can't be many hard core back to nature-ists out there, can there?

Although, from where I'm temporarily sitting any kind of roof to keep out the cold looks attractive.

Sunday, 17 December 2017

In which something funny must happen soon...

Just as suspected, reading the 'house' book has rendered me even more bloody miserable.

All set to carve the solitary Turkey Twizzler on a park bench this year.

If only I'd taken heed of the piece of advice: 'Repeating the same thing over and over again and expecting a different result is the definition of madness', maybe I wouldn't be in this pathetic pickle. But, I'm not alone there, am I?

Anyway, hopefully I'll be able to see the funny side of it soon. There must be one.

Saturday, 9 December 2017

In which I want a home of one's own...

I'm just about to begin reading 'My life in houses'  by Margaret Forster...
There is a forward by Leonard Woolfe, giving his views on the profound effect out homes have upon us.

I have preconceived ideas about the book having read quite a few of the author's previous offerings with varied resulted opinions.

Having led a life, for the most part, without stability and security, I've seldom enjoyed the luxury of the comfort of familiarity.

This time of year does allow me to wallow in such heaven, though, as when Boy was a baby, we spent a happy year in Highgate on the private, gated, Holly Lodge Estate.

Just by closing my eyes i can transport us to the day I walked through the snow to buy a Christmas Tree and dragged it back up the hill propped on Boy's pushchair.

The blissful winter afternoons of that time were spent in the shadowy glow of a fake, as if we cared, log fire, devouring our solitude.

What shall I feel now? Too old to put feelings on hold. Just a stilted, supressed nothingness at the end of the day with the sure and certain knowledge that an icy terror will wake me before dawn.

Saturday, 2 December 2017

In which I'm still a puzzle...

'Hello! I haven't seen you for absolutely ages,' trilled the bird from a gilded cage, who, it has to be said, was done up like a ninepenny dinner...  'Where are you living now?'

Not - 'how are you?' or some such greeting reserved for persons ordinaire.

I'd have shot off over the road pretty sharpish if I'd seen her coming, but it was a dark night and I'd thought to pay my surreptitious visit incognito, what with my 'gentlewoman of the road' demeanor.

I, of course, lied and said I was living in my flat. Where else would I be?

Honestly, you'd think I bolted regularly, the way people carry on, when in reality, there's just been the ill-fated sojourn in Devon and the brief dalliance as a lady's maid, who turned out to be a sociopathic closet lesbian.  Ah well, One is legendary for One's poor decision making.

I ought to write it all down. You couldn't make it up, but of corse, I have, haven't I.

Wednesday, 29 November 2017

I'm which gloom is upon One...

It's almost impossible to convey to you, Dear Reader, the icy grip of terror that clings to One's dropping bosom upon awakening.

'Can't you just live in  the moment for one day?' enquires a passer by on life's highway.
NO, actually, when each day that passes is another day towards the end of the current living arrangement with no plan for what comes after that.

Violent nightmares illuminate One's slumbers and lonely silence, One's waking hours, apart from the relentless cyber stalking.

The past cannot be changed, can it? As for the future? Is there going to be one?

Thursday, 23 November 2017

I'm which One makes light of the bleak festivities ahead...

I'm poised to place this advertisement in the nearest post office window...

As you know, Dear Reader, despite working into One's dotage, One has not a penny to put in the old man's hat.

Whilst wandering the highways and byways of Cornwall, where this week the homestead on wheels is parked, I've become aware of a seasonal business opportunity that may well put a turkey twizzler on the Christmas table.

Knowledge gleaned from many a year watching Countryfile of a Sunday night, whilst harvesting super-floo -us hair and picking me feet in readiness for the coming week's arse wiping, has made me aware of the lucrative nature of harvesting parasites.

Mind you, they did give me a bit of duff info, or so I believe...

Its mistletoe, Dear Reader, that One has spotted in great money-making abundance, high in the naked winter tree branches.

The good burghers of Countryfile, I recall, informed One that this particular, snog -inducing parasite, resides only in Apple trees. I beg to differ, irritating Matt-all over the fecking  telly-Baker, I've seen it in rich abundance in other roadside greenery, so there!

Or, might it be that the canny, kiss inducing blighter has, like your very own Lovely One, realised that it's been barking up the wrong tree for time immemorial?

Any road up, I digress, here is the proposed advertisement to be placed in the lonely hearts column, although given One's spectacular failings in that department in the past, that may not be wise!


Wanted: lithe old gentleman in possession of very long ladder wanted by morbidly obese (perfect for use as ballast) aged beauty, for the harvesting of seasonal bounty to be sold by the wayside from the back of me van.
Please send photograph of ladder.

Monday, 20 November 2017

In which it's begun...

The true meaning, and the official beginning of Christmas, has begun: I'm a Celebrity, get me out of here!

A rake of third rate, d-lister nonentities ligging about in the undergrowth, sweating and masticating kangaroo penises.

I've already started my annual hate campaign against the one who irritates me the most: Rebecca Vardy.  She appears to be let off any mildly exerting challenge for 'health reasons'.

Anyone who's willingly boffed Peter Andre and then bragged about it must surely consider being shut in a coffin with six million cockroaches, a walk in the park!

AND, how does being a famous person's wife make you a Celebrity?

The world's gone mad!

Friday, 10 November 2017

In which G Ma gets one up the chuffer...

Am seriously jacked...

Fed up with chucking up all the time and then having to lie prone throughout the day, only to be awake in the middle of the night whilst the rest of the world slumbers. Must re-think the nutritional requirements of the over sixties. Clearly fags, Pinot and croissants don't cut it anymore.

Nothing on telly, and I can't even get out of the van because it's precipitating.

There's only so much Daily Mail online One can read. Am fully informed re: plastic-nellied eejits and whatever cove they're currently boffing. AND how many more pictures of that annoying Liz Hurley in a bathing suit does One have to suffer?

The world's gone MAD.

What with all this sexual improprieties surfacing, leading to films being re-shot and soaps re-written there won't even be anything on the telly at Christmas.

Perhaps a few re-runs of The Waltons would be a safe bet, but no doubt John Boy was guilty of slipping Grandma one up the chuff box every time she bent down to tie her shoelaces.

Thursday, 9 November 2017

In which it's a NO to the NONO...

As I lie here wrapped in a moist duvet I've been pondering my life in houses.
Moved 19 times. Been made homeless 4.

Excessive by anybody's standards.

I suppose all this silly and fruitless 'pursuit of love' a la Nancy Mitford has really been the quest for security and stability.

2 family homes lost in the Father's business pursuits as a child. Quite how an Elecricity Board apprentice went on to be Judy Carne's manager and then to finance the beginning of Howard Goodall's musical career is beyond One's comprehension.

Matey old Ron Harris from Luton was dropped like a stone as soon as Howard and his cohort in the duo 'Half Brother' began to gain momentum and that sounded the death knell for our family's financial security.

Ron's dead now, but the rest of us are still floundering about in our hand to mouth existences.

Me? I'm just the culmination of stupidity, poor decision making and missed opportunity.

But hey, I've got the makings of a post menopausal beard in the offing. Perhaps the circus beckons?

Sunday, 5 November 2017

In which One frolliks in the forest...

I need a pair of pyjamas...
As am clawing way through a life of penury can only acquire items that are sorely needed. 'Want' flew out of the roll-down , motor-home window moons ago.

In fact, twas by the light of the silvery moon, enormous and uber-shiny of late, that One first became aware of a challenger to that full moon in the shape of One's fullsome moon-like arse protruding through a worn away section of One's jammy bottoms.

Not wishing to alarm the creatures of the forest where One parks up of a night, One sallied forth to seek jarmarage fresh.

You can see it now, can't you, Dear Reader...

One, frolicking about the forest in the manner of Snow White, singing with the indigenous critters...

More like looking for a mole hole in which to pooh.

No matter, be dead soon.

Anyway, I digress, pyjamas...

Almost always, unless you're minted and can shop at M&S, and particularly at this time of the year, all pyjamas have something banal printed on the front.

'I dream in glitter', 'up to snow good' ,or 'oh deer', don't look that cute on a fat old Trollope with her teeth out.

Absolutely nowhere could I find a pair that said, 'Feck off and don't talk to me until I've had three espressos and a fag.'

Friday, 3 November 2017

In which I'm disbelieved and cyber stalked...

Have developed ''cyclical vomitting syndrome'
Upon cancelling a day trip to the embalmers and being met with, 'I sort of expected it' One has soldiered on regardless.  Was expecting, 'oh I hope you feel better soon' , but, no matter, am used to being disbelieved, and cyber stalked to boot.

Anyway, life in even more abject poverty and damp, cold, temporary housing is no fun. Off back to the sun in the van soon, well in my dreams if not actual reality. Or maybe Luton.

If only One could live life in the manner of that Dawn Ward looky likey, Liz Hurley, and flollop about on the beach in a bathing suit, with me plastic nellies sliding under me armpits whilst me weird looking progeny snapped me on his eye phone.

Never get Boy to behave like that spooky Damien though. I did suggest he took a few shots of me in me vest and pants draped over the motor home, but he vomitted in me Lidls carrier. Must have that syndrome, like what I've got.

Wednesday, 25 October 2017

In which One is bemused...

'Shall I have  a go at the food waste bin with the toilet brush?' enquired the cove upon finding the aforementioned in the bath awaiting scrubbage.

'What?!,' countered One, incredulous.

The cove began to reiterate. One raised One's hand

'WHAT?,' enquired he, again, 'You've put bleach in it. You put bleach down the bog. I don't get it.'

And there you have it, Dear Reader, a succinct and brief explanation as to why sharing a home with a member of the opposite other is a bad idea.

This enquiry is as anathema as...

'May I attend to a gonad irritation with your inter dental flossing brush?'


'Would you like me to stir your Espresso with my wissy-wooper?'

Purely for those of the male persuasion, let me explain...

A toilet brush is a vile implement, used only in dire emergency (usually as a direct result of a male personage using the facilities)
Following usage, should ideally be jettisoned and replaced forthwith. In the unlikely event it lives to un-clog again, it should be immersed in bleach and boiling water for at least an hour.

The mere fact that it has proven necessary to explain that toiley-boiley cleansing equipment may not be cross contaminated with items entering the kitchen is enough to illustrate the differences of gender.

Get a cat instead. That's my advice.

Monday, 23 October 2017

In which One visits the food bank...

If I am ever in the fortunate position of being able to donate, rather than receive, the generous givings of the food bank, I shall bear in mind that, although the humble baked bean is delicious, the deserving poor don't want to chow down on the little orange bastards every fecking day!

Plus, what with One now being a ' Lady in the Van' the inevitable consequences of bean over consumption are dire.

Anyway, am now a hobo and not a thing I can do about it.  What do hobos eat? Surely not bloody baked sodding beans all the time? One had formerly assumed their ubiquitous brown paper bags concealed alcohol in some form, but perhaps One has been labouring under a misapprehension and they, in fact, are shielding beans from the populous.

Anyway, should one of my food bank benefactors be reading this, I could really use a medium-sized pack of Waitrose sushi, 20 fags, a bottle of Pinot and some charcoal biscuits, thanks awfully.

Sunday, 22 October 2017

In which it's one down, tonnes to go...

Nothing like a death in the family to bring 'em from far and wide...

One fired up the motor home to attend the occasion, leaving the Capri Sun to set in my brief absence.

The 'no smoking' sign always appears a little incongruous on the door of the crematorium, but the clear and present danger of ignition came from the static activity caused by the rubbing together of gargantuan thighs clad in nylon leggings. (And they weren't even mine!)
In fact One melted into the crowd of molten lard like a dream.

'That's the best day out I've ever had in my life,' commented a nonagenarian as she wheeled away into the gathering gloom.

Wouldn't go that far, being unable to partake of the Pinot, what with living in a ve-hickle.

Sunday, 1 October 2017

In which One is back from the dead...

That actually is me scavenging for food...

What the ....

NO, Dear Reader, I haven't shuffled from this mortal coil.  Not for the want of trying though...

'What did you do that for?' enquired the locum when a dishevelled One fronted up after consuming an entire month's worth of meds.

'What the feck do you think?' thinks I.

No matter, the human spirit prevails and having resigned Oneself to a life of bleak penury, One shall, now being sixty, throw Oneself on the mercy of social services...

The perfect beauty of mind-numbing drugs is that memories are scant and for the life of me I can't remember why I was in the doldrums, well, apart from working all my life for feck all, having a shite credit rating and not being able to rent even the most humble of shelters etc...  

Don't feel remotely sorry for self though, 'tis what 'tis.


'Go in front of me if you just want fags,' said the blighter who loaded the gun, passed it to the evil bint and fecked off...

I waited.


He's fortunate I didn't jump on his face until he was unrecognisable.  ( I know what I mean )


The weather outside is frightful,
but the motorhome's delightful
There's only one place to go
Sorrento Sorrento Sorrento 

Plan to do a Thelma and Louise...

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.


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.


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...


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.'


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.


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...


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...