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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.