Google+ Followers

Follow by Email

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.

Thursday, 9 February 2017

In which its a long walk to peace of mind...

Right! Pull yourself together and get on with it!

Stop dithering about like a demented dollop, count your blessings and PAINT!

Where has that irrepressible, forward looking, optimistic old trollop disappeared to?

If only the sun would come out.  Everything looks better when bathed in a warm haze, doesn't it, Dear Reader?

Vacuum the Underground Lair, do the washing, be thankful that you have a crumbly old Admiral in your life AND FOR GOODNESS SAKE - CHEER UP.

Wax yer face, pull on yer eighteen hour corsellete, put on your support hosiery on, paint on an Avon smile and LIVE!

I'M NOT TELLING YOU AGAIN.

                                               ~

Sauntering up the town yesterday, I happened upon Lovely Gordon peering out through the undergrowth by his front door, coughing like a dedicated 40 Woodbine a day, devotee.

'I went looking for you at the shop the other night,' says he 'and they said they'd never heard of you.  You shouldn't be working in there,' he went on.

'I'm not,' says I.

And indeed, I'm not, but how did they forget me already? I know that I was to the retail trade as useful as a sock full of wet sand, but come on, the customers liked me.

Wednesday, 8 February 2017

In which I'm very sad...

Just waiting around to start a new job.
This time I think it's something I'll be able to do, thank goodness.

A little ginger and white cat has come into my life. He's like lovely old Tigerboy was when he was a kitten.
There's me, minding my own bees-tiddly-wax, and he strolled out of the spare bedroom into the sitting room purring his head off.

He'd wandered in through the open back door and claimed the underground lair as his own, the cheeky blighter.

One is just recovering from a nasty bout of food poisoning.

Nothing much to laugh at these days.

BF and BFP are grandparents. Lucky them. That's something to warm an otherwise cold and defeated heart.

I'm starting to think that I might actually be the 'fool' my Father always said I was.  Is it too late to change?  I don't know, but I'm going to pull my socks up and try.

You know, it's funny, Dear Reader, I write this silly nonsense most days never thinking that anyone actually reads it and I wander about hoping that those who do have a little titter now and again at my stupidity.