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Wednesday, 31 May 2017

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

                                      ~

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

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

Tuesday, 30 May 2017

In which I can see it all...


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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






Sunday, 28 May 2017

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

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

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

Where's the justice in that scenario?

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

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

I wonder if Karma actually exists?

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

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

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


Saturday, 27 May 2017

In which One melts...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


Sunday, 21 May 2017

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Saturday, 20 May 2017

In which Wallis is back...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Friday, 19 May 2017

In which there are weirdos out there...

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

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

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

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

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

But...

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

'Have a poo'

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

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

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

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




Thursday, 18 May 2017

In which One stinks...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

What a positively pungent pongzilla!

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

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

Wednesday, 17 May 2017

In which One wonders what today will bring...

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

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

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

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

I want to die - today if possible.

Tuesday, 16 May 2017

In which I itch...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


In which One's bad luck continues...

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

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

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

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

'When will this money be refunded to me?'

I was told it might be next month.

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

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

Sunday, 14 May 2017

In which even I can still dream...

Slept almost all day yesterday too...

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

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

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

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

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

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

Even I can still dream...

Friday, 12 May 2017

In which I give up...

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

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

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

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

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

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

What's the fecking point?

Thursday, 11 May 2017

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Wednesday, 10 May 2017

In which I'm shagged...

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

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

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

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

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

SO THERE


Tuesday, 9 May 2017

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


Monday, 8 May 2017

In which I'm wondering...

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

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

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

Anyway it's out there somewhere.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sunday, 7 May 2017

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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




Saturday, 6 May 2017

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Now there's a thought!




Thursday, 4 May 2017

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Anyway, back to the Royals...

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

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


In which we're all revolting now...

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

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

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

Through gritted teeth they confirmed that, indeed they were.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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







Tuesday, 2 May 2017

In which I'm bogged off AGAIN...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Nothing changes, does it, Dear Reader...

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

Monday, 1 May 2017

In which One has lost the plot...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Am most definitely losing the plot...