However did it come to this?

In which I sell two/don't sell two...

2012-02-05T07:28:00.000-08:00

Really, really boring down on the Barbican this cold Sunday. In fact, so mind numbingly dull that I've been working nearly all bloody day! Currently creating a winterscape of the interesting spires and rooftops of the city.

Some absolute bastard had one of my paintings 'put back', as Anal C puts it - and then - didn't come to collect it. What an effing cheek! That means it was off the wall for three days and hiding behind the counter so nobody could see it. I can't believe AC put it there without even taking a deposit. Anyway, the person left a contact number so I called and left a message this morning. The only excuse I can accept is a fatal accident endured by:
a the purchaser
b his/her child
I know, I know, I'm too lenient. They could send someone else in to pay for it!

Also, yesterday when I was snugglified in me fluffy, still drudging through Great Expectations, before me afternoon nap, Posh J phoned up to ask how much my absolutely fabulous masterpiece of Modbury was, as someone who'd just taken one of mine in to be framed WANTED TO BUY ANOTHER. Ooooh, I bet that hurt! Or maybe it didn't as they do tell me that some painters are quite generous about the sales figures of others.

WELL - NOT LOVELY ONE!

I am a black hearted rogue with regard to the success of others. It's not enough for me to succeed. Other's must fail.
Who said that? I believe it was that mean mouthed old queen Gore Vidal.

Anyway, Oscar Wilde said that 'everyone gets the face they deserve by the age of forty.'
Not Lovely One.
For a vicious, vengeful old dollop, I still have the face of an angel.

Oh, and since porking up again - I've just been designated 'an area of outstanding natural beauty.'

In which I have an unpleasantly named item in me 'ead...

2012-02-03T02:55:00.000-08:00

Back to square one. Or should that be back to round one. Or to be precise, back to round Lovely One. Still, can wobble off to Slimming World with the Pinkilicious Old Dollop - I bet she's still as fat as a little old podgit.
I expect BF is still like a filleted fart, what with her having more staying power than Lovely One or the Pink Dollop. I 'spose she'll still want to join in with the apres SW vodka and fags though. Although, having been removed from Wivey for some time, I've had no fags or vodka for ages. Do they still drink and smoke? Dunno.

Actually, I haven't had any fun for so long it's pissing me off verily! Nothing funny ever happens down here in Jannerland.

Have just sold a big B&W original. Better get on with another one in order to keep my public happy in my absence. I plan to sashay down here to the Barbican for three days a week and will, maybe, hole up with Auntie Wainwright, who is currently indisposed in hospital having a balloon inserted into an orifice and then pumped up. Horrid visions of one of those ancient balloon pumping devices of old being shoved up somewhere unpleasant are racking my dreams, and the resultant inflated Auntie Wainwright hovvering over her sick bed, lashed down with hefty ropes.

Any road up I have, not surprisingly, a plan B. I have an interview next Wednesday for a new gallery opening up - so nose picking devices crossed for that one then.

Next week will be furiously full on - Monday - Hair Do. Wednesday - scarpering up to Somerset and back and the rest of the week packing and attempting to get Bloke to dispose of his undesirable possessions. I do like Chez Lovely One to be a vision of lovliness. I've already been told that my previous furniture arrangement was 'ridiculous.' Hmmmm - We shall see about that!

Well you could have buggered me through me Onesie yester-afternoon. Just snuggled down in me blankie with a hot for me afternoon read of Great Expectations. (Do you know what? I don't really like Dickens. - There I've said it) but having just read 'Dickens a life' by Claire Tomalin (don't like her either actually) I thought I'd better have another go at him - so to speak. I started off with Bleak House and gave up after so many bods had entered the story I couldn't keep up with them, so am on G.E. now having not read it since English Literature 'O' level.

I digress...

As I said 'you could have... bla bla' when the phone rang and it was the hospital to tell me that I have a blood clot on the brain. First I had a stroke, then I didn't have a stroke, now it's a blood clot. THAT is a very nasty expression! BLOOD CLOT. Surely there must be a more pleasant description of it. So, I asked the fourteen year old doctor what he wanted to do and he said,
'Well, there's nothing we can do but I'd like to give you another brain scan. How do you feel?'
I told him I feel fine and that if there was nothing to be done that I would forgo the offer of the brain scan, there not being much point to it. They'll just get me in there again and feed me on a diet of white bread, cottage pie and sponge and custard. SPONGE AND CUSTARD I ask you, who eats 1950's nursery food like that these days? It's no good berating people for being fatties if you feed them calorific, nutritionally deficient shit like that!

Any way I am far too busy to be hanging around getting things scanned. I've got people to relieve of their cash and masses of packing to do and THEN I shall have to start organising Wivey. I expect they've all been going around doing as they please in my absence. So that'll have to stop!!!!!!!!!!!

In which my return is imminent...

2012-02-01T00:52:00.000-08:00

Oh joy Oh bliss - going back to Wivey in less than two weeks!
Will have Bloke and hellhound in tow. Will they like it? Who knows? Who...?

Also have interview for exciting new gallery job. Let's hope they'll like a fat, smart arsed, middle aged genius enough to employ one. More on that story later...

Any road up, after long and protracted emails, messages etc., have got things sorted with tenant. I had a long missive yesterday to inform me of all the associated costs and intrusions into personal details and privacy that have to be endured when one rents a property. It's not my fault! I offered her the two months I am required to give in order to find somewhere else. All I needed was to know whether I was going into storage or just moving on. I know I am a cantankerous old dollop, but I have been an absolute angel with regard to the letting of Chez Lovely One. I have allowed my fabulous garden to be ignored in favour of 'letting the slow worms live in the grass' instead of cutting it, and allowed all manner of decorating etc. Plus putting in a new shower and various electrical requirements that this ridiculous nanny state deem de riguer for tenants. Never mind home owners they can electrocute themselves William Nilliam! I even had a further letter from the council, having already spent almost £2000 putting in totally unneccessary bloody wired in fire alarms etc., to ask if my letter box was fireproof! I ignored that as it was impossible to formulate a letter without including the words 'F**k Off.'

Am freezing in the gallery at the mo. Was minding own beeswax earlier, when Don the Dumps sashayed in with a face like corrugated walnut and demanded I 'come up the town with me to get some of those things that stop you slipping over'.
'I am creating a masterpiece and minding the store,' says I.
'Never mind that, I fell over and hurt my shoulder so I need some special things to go over my shoes - size 9 - medium - remember that!'.
He then proceeded to draw a little map of where the destination to acquire the items was and thrust it under my nose.
Resistance seemed futile, so off we shot, after he'd taken all the money out of petty cash to pay for said items.
His car is a mass of dents which seems rather reasonable to me having been a passenger on a number of occasions. He pays no heed to the rules of the road and edges out of turnings into traffic moving at such a pace that he is invariably hit by something or another. Luckily this morning's little escapade garnered just the occasional shaken fist or other unpleasant shout or signal.
Anyway, the deed was done relatively quickly and I was restored to my easel.

A new masterpiece in the window is attracting lots of attention. One of mine, of course.

In which I correct another misinformed Lenkie Bore...

2012-01-29T03:47:00.000-08:00

A few motley blighters abroad this very morn. Obviously some touring coach has disgorged it's cargo and left them to amble hither and thither along the Barbican. Today's visitors seem not to want to make eye contact, so I issue a cheery 'Good Morning.' A slight mumble emits from the odd one or two, but in the main they don't want to speak, and they reject any offer of assistance. So, I get back to my drawing, which today I am doing behind the counter and not at my easel, so they don't know I am the 'Painter in Residence' advertised on the board outside.

When I am merely the shop assistant, the proles treat me with barely disguised contempt, but when at my easel, I seem to take on a kind of mythical status and am treated completely differently. Odd.

The pair who got away on Friday, came back yesterday and bought a big original and two large prints. Anal C called to tell me whilst I was in me boudoir. I LOVE making money whilst I'm idling me time away in me jim jams. I didn't do what AC does though. If I sell anything when she's not there she always makes like it was her customer just come back to seal the deal. I'll let her have that one. I couldn't give a rat's fat as long as I sell one!

Oooh - here we have some Lenkie 'afficionados'
'There he is with Androclees,' says the silly moo, pointing at the 'Self Portrait with self portrait at 90.' She thinks it's himself with his pet tramp whom he christened Diogenese.
BORE SNORE BORE EFFING SNORE
'We've just bought a really big house where the woman had about twenty big Lenkiewicz's on the wall.' Sauntering over to a 'Mark Spain' she continues 'I quite like that one of his, I wouldn't mind that one.'
I have to admit I did take delight in correcting her on both accounts.
It's been a relatively 'Lenkie Bore' free zone of late and yet even now my heart sinks when I am confronted by yet another self appointed expert. I don't know why it annoys me so much, I guess it's just the absolutely ridiculous twats that come in here just to tell me that they are vaguely informed about him.

I DON'T CARE.

I DO CARE if they want to buy one. Then I'll wax lyrical about the perverted old boy till the Vaches come home. Otherwise, forget it.
I don't mind talking about Shirley Orifice, or even that Sara one, but Lenkie - not interested!
I really am a miserable old dollop. I can't help it and I'm not even going to try.

In which I make meself feel ill remembering the Snaggle Toothed Troll...

2012-01-27T02:20:00.000-08:00

A bright shiny morning on the Barbican and met with the news that I sold two yesterday. Woohoo!

Now I am equalling my worst ever trading month at least, and not dragging behind it.

Today will finish another painting. It will be the first one this year to go into print. For me, that's amazing, I chuck 'em out at least one a week usually. To be frank, I was a little afraid to paint anything after the stroke in case I'd lost me mojo or whatever.

And have been agitated (I hate the word stress) to the limit with the will it/won't it exchange palava with Maison Moist, oh and of course, the carryings on with Boy.

Speaking to Boy yesterday, he is making good strides into getting a place at Leeds. Vile Ex Husband has inadvertantly had a positive effect on the situation with his negative approach to the acquisiton of paid employment. According to Boy, he'd been offered a job in Bath at 20K per year and had refused as 'it's not enough.' I agree that the amount is poor for a person with his depth of knowledge of pootering etc. But not having had paid employment for at least ten years, I'd have thought he would have leapt at them and bitten their hands off. He could have looked into Working Tax Credit, or seen it as a lever to something better. Boy was disgusted, having seen his dear Mama doing all sorts of jobs, and multiples of same over the years to make ends meet.

Don't get me wrong, V Ex H is a lovely, lovely, calm and kind natured article, he just has a vital bit missing. Boy can now see what drove me bonkers and eventually away. He was adamant that I shouldn't say any of this to V E H, which of course, I never would, but I am glad that Boy has begun to see the light in that direction.

My next assault on Boy will be his dishevelled appearance. I have pointed out that he is remarkably unkempt and grubby for a Gay. He never gets a hair cut apart from the one I give him when I have moaned on for so long that he gives in. I admit it must be difficult to develop an interest in grooming and interior design in V E H's flat which is a health hazard, but I did hope for more since I have always provided a sartorially elegant wardrobe for him.

No wonder VeH has formed his odd little association with the Snaggle Toothed Troll, given her frightful standards. I well remember having to show people round her disgusting abode when it was for sale, and having to step over the, gusset up, unwashed shreddies littering the floor. There was a hole in the back door, presumably awaiting a cat flap, through which sauntered ducks, geese and rabbits. The kitchen door had scratch marks that simply couln't have been achieved by anything less than a grizzly bear, though I never encountered it. The filth and flies One was met with in the kitchen was something One doesn't care to associate with the owner of a catering company. I recall BF et Moi having our gasts utterly flabbered by the grime and stench. I know the Snaggle... meant well, but I just can't get past the overall impression of sluttishness.

I do hope that she doesn't infiltrate V ex H's flat, which I know for sure is the prime directive in her assualt on him. The alarming amount of 'food poisoning' suffered by her weird and many offspring is not something I want for Boy.

I couldn't bear to see her scant volume of cosmetics on the windowsill...
TCP and a strygel for skin care regime
and
Go and Wash for hair care
not to mention
a squirt of Grime and Lime between the saggy frontispieces to set V ex H aflame

YUK

In which I merely record the day's events...

2012-01-26T03:15:00.001-08:00

The penultimate day of stress, I hope. Tomorrow the contracts should exchange on Maison Moist and we will be able to plan our getaway on 10th Feb. If it doesn't come to pass - who knows?

Yesterday I got half way through a new pic of Plymouth. Worked tirelessly all the day long.

Bleak and mizzly weather hung over the Barbican and the only movement outside in the street was the odd bundle of tumbleweed being blown hither and thither.

Until...

Enter a customer. He strode over to the counter and barked at me...
'I've got a Pollard print of the Three Crowns.'
I observed him as I digested this information.
He just stood there.
So I said 'Congratulations.'
'Well?' he said
'Well what?' I enquired.
'Do you want to buy it?'

OH DEAR, A BAD START TO THE DAY. ANOTHER EEJIT HAVING THE WRONG IMPRESSION OF A SHOP.

'No, in the current climate we are in the business of selling and not buying. I would try the internet if I were you.'

It wouldn't be so annoying if these people at least had a brief look round the gallery or passed the time of day rather than marching in and more or less demanding action.

Boy is stepping up to the mark re: Leeds University, so that's good!

Bloke is still being adorable.

I am still a wobbly old miserable dollop.

In which we visit Yacht Haven

2012-01-25T02:48:00.000-08:00

Unusual day yesterday in which I followed Bloke around on his errands. He hadn't slept at all on the previous night having been stuffed to the gunnels with stress related panic re: are we moving/are we not moving? And so the unwashed hungry of Plymouth had to scoff elsewhere.

Even though I have my fair share of panic episodes, it's not very often that I can't snuggle down in my satin sheets with a hot stuffed down me jim jams and be pushing out the z's in minutes. In fact, I could happily kip on a clothes line in the middle of the day.

Any road up - off we sallied in the Porsche to the laughingly named 'Yacht Haven.' A miserable graveyard for under used snack vans and long since abandoned doormobiles.

The forerunner of the 'people carrier', we had a doormobile when we were young which was driven manically through the Pyrennees Mountains by Aged P, who was then, young P. The British Racing Green van had wooden bench seats in the back which Lovely One and The Brother slid precariously from end to end every time we rounded a bend. From time to time the back doors would swing open and items various would scatter the streets of whatever bit of Europe we were exploring that summer.

Invariably we had a convoy of such vehicles full of P's friends and family and of a balmy evening we would roll up to one or another camp site, purchase plastic 10 litre cans of local plonk and generally have a raucous time of it.

The offspring, me usually the oldest, followed by the Brother and sprogs various would be zipped into an enormous tent, swaddled in nylon sleeping bags, whilst the grown ups would scoff daring foodstuffs not seen in Blighty and scarf the plonk.

As I recall it, the Mother and Father would be at loggerheads at all times. 'Twas always a mystery to me how they jogged along together at all. She being the perfect example of a 1950's, dirndyl skirted Dozzer Day wannabee and he being something of a spivvy wideboy. Having said that, his risk taking business ventures afforded us a lifestyle envied by many of my factory fodder parented school chums.

Anyway, I digress, back to the Doormobile...
It had sliding doors which were something of a hazard, in that they slid open william nilliam and seatbelts were not only never worn, they weren't even put in the old mobile at all! 'Elf 'n Safety hadn't been invented then and one could saunter about having accidents that weren't anybody's fault and didn't end in vast sums of money changing hands.

Well, any road up, the front doors slid open and the back doors flew open all over the continent until one day when P braked suddenly and a large truck hit us up the rear, rendering the back doors closed for ever. Getting in and out became a gymnastic feat that I certainly wouldn't attempt now. But we were young and lithe and nothing scared us.

I've gone off me track somewhat...
The Yacht Haven is a ghastly place where unwanted chaps go to 'mend' long since redundant vehicles and boats, and to hide from their wives. Yacht Haven being the escape equivalent of a shed for hiding purposes. In fact, some actually LIVE in abandoned ambulances and the like. There's a lot of lonely men out there filling their days with dirty, stinky men only pursuits. They are obviously in dire need of a female time manager, but are safe at Yacht Haven.

Bloke keeps his mobile scoff wagon there and yesterday we were visiting to pump up the tyres.
For once Bloke was reasonably attired and wearing smart/cashe Lands End items all approved, and paid for, by Lovely One.
His little fat legs were a blur as they went up and down on the pump, putting me in the mind of Michael Flatley, or in this case Michael Fatley.

Who is Kinny?

In which I let one get away...

2012-01-22T03:57:00.000-08:00

Am nursing a ghastly, swollen knee that bears a striking resemblance to a football. Plus, have an egg shaped lump on top of head and all because Lovely One cannot seem to grasp that I'm not the agile, colt like creature of days gone by...

Twas uncomfortably chilly in Maison Moist on Friday evening and as soon as the sun was over the yard arm I swaddled my dear little self in me fluffy. A pleasant evening ensued with Bloke still being adorable (how long will that last) and snuggled down to catch up with the soaps.

Not a drop of laughing water passed me lips, I swear! Yet I still managed to sprawl headlong and injure my already battle scarred darling little self.
If only I'd made two journeys up the wooden hill to Bedfordshire instead of loading myself up like one of those poor little donkeys one sees on TV asking for £2 per month in order that they may live.

But no, I hung me laptop bag over me right shoulder, a vast and overloaded handbag over the left which rendered both hands free for me scalding hottie and current book, a devilishly interesting tome about a 1600's murder by mercury enema. (I like a bit of light chick lit)

My fluffy pockets were loaded down with bottles of fizzy water for the long night ahead. And it was thus that I set off up the two flights to me boudoir for a kip.
The first flight passed without too much discomfort and I'd built up such momentum on the bend of the first landing that it was with resigned acceleration that I propelled in a forward direction to the second flight.

It was then that I inadvertantly caught me foot in the hem of me fluffy and shrieking in the manner of a banshee and scattering the contents of both bags down the stairs I thrust forward my arms to break the fall. All to no avail, sadly. And having smashed down on my knees my head shot forward and crashed against the door jamb.
Now falling on One's knees shouldn't ordinarily prove too fatal but having never recovered from the injuries sustained during a 'care in the community' course, for Lovely One it was dire! On that occasion I had mysteriously managed to hook the handle of my bag under the leg of my chair and a closely positioned table thereby creating a trip wire.
Since then I have never been able to kneel down, hence my not having retired to a convent. Bloke likes to infer that it would be a re-inforced knee that would stand the ever increasing weight of Lovely One, but that is not to acknowledge the injuries sustained in my care of the needy and dying.

Any road up - I am yet again indisposed - but still able to frequent the Gallery.
Whereupon I have already sold a Beryl Cook and am on the cusp of offloading one of mine own masterpieces to a dear little pair of Janners.

Oh shit - they've escaped!

In which I hold out hope for Boy's future...

2012-01-19T02:37:00.000-08:00

Last evening was planning to rise at 6am in order to attend to jobs various before making the journey up to see Boy. As I mentally allotted time to each task I suddenly had an epiphany moment, in the manner of...
'Are you a mad woman?'
And the answer came - a resounding 'Yes'

Boy, still in some kind of weird parrallell universe where one need neither attend further education, get a job or indeed, sign on, had requested that I make the trip on Thursday instead of Saturday as 'it would be more convenient.' I imagine this had something to do with his elderly amour.

I DO sympathise with anyone suffering from depression. Heaven knows I have a supremely tenuous grip on mental health myself, but it has to be said, Lovely One is not in the first flush of youth or indeed good health at the mo.
So, I contacted Boy and told him I didn't feel up to the drive. I felt V bad about it since I am always 'on call' as a Mummy should be, but I certainly benefitted from a day sorting out tax return, job apps etc...

Today Boy is upbeat for a change and investigating the prospect of going to Leeds University that has a foundation course specially designed for persons such as he who have had reasons various for not completing their courses.
Please let it happen! I can't bear the thought of him blowing his future.
Here am I doing what I can to get back to Wivey in order to bring some influence on his life and it looks like he'll be off even before I get there.

A price worth paying.

In which I am in a fug...

2012-01-18T02:06:00.000-08:00

Misty and gloomsville down on the Barbican. Two browsers thus far - one picking his nose and eating it and one with tourettes. Special Needs day out today then!

Spent yesterday in a fug. Felt just like I'd had a night on the vodka. Sadly, not so. Had instead been awake all night worrying for Boy and our impending move back to Wivey. Boy has burnt his bridges where college is concerned and now lies in bed all day wearing his Onesie and appearing briefly, and occasionally to consume calorific and nutrition free scoff. V ex H is unable to coerce him from 'neath the quilt it would seem and just shoves off to U.P.'s to work on his 'project.'
I nearly laughed out loud when he, very excitedly, told me about this project, the latest in a long line of non-starters that will end in no money being made and with no takers. This time it's a device to measure the velocity of bullets. Apparently lots of people make their own gunpowder and would find such an invention a 'must have' at £150. I'll 'mange me chapeau' if they do!

It's at times like this that I remember all too well why we went our seperate ways. 'Tis true, he is a lovely natured chap, calm, docile and kind, but absolutely unable to accept the fact that it is vital to have some kind of employment that pays for one's way in the world.

When first Boy and Lovely One de-camped to the Malthouse and Dear Little Lovely One began the endless round of unpleasant and demoralising jobs in order that we should have some sort of quality of life, I did hope that Boy might have understood that sometime's One has to do things that are not One's first choice in order to survive. But, it would seem not. Maybe he is depressed. He certainly suffers from some kind of nervous disorder, but he has got to try to help himself.

I waited half the day yesterday for Boy to call me and organise coming down here on the train. He didn't get out of bed in time.
I am supposed to be driving up there tomorrow, but I feel that it's time for him to realise that I have to work in order to support him in his hour of need.

I sheared to Auntie Wainwrights to collect my cheque and her shopping list. D the D was encamped in the comfy chair bemoaning his fate having had a communique from his insurance company telling him that his car insurance had increased fourfold. If he told me once, he told me four times! He's losing it, the poor old elderly gentleman.

Any road up, I got me orders and shoved off to Mozzers. Upon my return, the Butterball Hamster was squashed into the comfy chair, the builders (putting in the funny old person style walk in bath) and D the D (hoovering) all completely ignored my arrival, so I packed away the shopping and made my escape.

Methinks that I may need to assert myself in the near future to one or two of my associates and members of my immediate family!

In which I go all poetic...

2012-01-13T03:18:00.000-08:00

Checked in with Auntie Wainwright this morn before opening up the Gallery.
'We have a new accountant coming in today and he's only got one tooth so DON'T laugh at him!'
Now, dear reader, had I not been informed of the unfortunate fellow's lack of biting devices I should have happily ignored his defect and welcomed him into the fold of the Three Ring Circus that is our happy little band of art purveyors. As it is I shall very likely be quite unable to look anwhere but into his gob and probably load up me Tena Lady in seconds.
It has, however set me to thinking...

The Toothless Accountant

An accountant with only one tooth.
Can he really be very much uthe?
Dining 'pon bread soaked in milk
Not the carniverous fare of his ilk.

I prefer mine to be sneaky,
full toothed and beaky
And a stranger to honour and truth.

Has he sucked too many fishermen's friends?
That his teeth came to stubby black ends.
And when one little teggie was left
And the rest of his gob was bereft,
Why not go for those porcelain gnashers?
those perfectly formed, sparkling flashers.

Surely accountants can afford such enhancers?
Those shifty, manipulating, dastardly chancers.

And if not, why not?
Is he honest and true?
If so, we don't want him
Well really! Would you?

An accountant with TEETH could save us a buck
Not one who can merely deploy a good suck!

In which me equilibrium is shagged to feckery...

2012-01-11T05:44:00.000-08:00

Fairly serene and fostering an optimistic outlook Lovely One sashayed Gallery-ward to begin another masterpiece producing day.

Having been to gain instruction from Auntie Wainwright, currently confined to bed with stiff finger syndrome from flicking through wads of 50's, it was with a hopeful heart that I set out upon my day.
In a good mood - hopeful - optimistic. That was my first mistake...

Issuing a cheery 'Good Morning' to the window cleaner I opened the door and switched off the alarm - or not - as it happened.
Yesterday the alarm company had been to service the device. Good job there then!
Would it go off? Would it buggery!
I'll set the scene for you, dear reader...
Alarm goes off
I swipe it
Alarm stops
Alarm goes off
I swipe it
Alarm stops
As above for 45 fecking minutes...
Window cleaner watching frantic activity chimes in
'shall I come back later for me money then?'
He left with his wiper blade inserted horizontally up his chuff box.

In order to alert the alarm company it was necessary to traverse the joint and get to the phone, but there wasn't enough time to dial the number and get anyone before the bastard went off again.

I continued thus until eventually able to alert someone who led me through the long list of instructions how to silence the, oh so recently serviced, alarm.

It's now an hour and a half since I meandered in and still haven't taken the top off me pen!

Enter customer...
'My wife's an artist.'
I COULDN'T GIVE A RAT'S FAT ARSE
'Oh that's interesting,' I reply.
'Yes, we had a thriving business in Japanese Garden Centres.'
WHOOPDY FECKING DO - ARE YOU GOING TO BUY ANYTHING?
'Is that JAPENESE Garden Centres - or JAPENESE GARDEN centres?'
'Garden Centres in Japan'.
AS IF I GIVE A COCK
'She does machine embroidery.'
'Mmmmm lovely.'
ARE YOU GOING TO BUY ANYTHING OR AM I GOING TO EMBROIDER - BOLLOCKS - ON YER FOREHEAD and give you a chinese/japenese burn on the knob.

seems like hours passing where I watch his lips moving and begin to fidget in me chair. You could have rogered me through me Spanx and I wouldn't have batted an eyelid.

Having used up an hour of my life that I'm never going to get back, he then, without as much as the purchase of a fecking card, effs off!

Virgin Media man arrives to check the phone line, which the alarm oaf says is causing the fault.
Several minutes pass while he tests a wall socket that he then discovers is unused. Where do these twats come from? Don't they realise that they are tampering with the equilibrium of a fecking genius at work?
Any road up, nothing wrong with phone, so now awaiting the Alarm man.

I give in - no masterpiece today!

Please note;
My best Christmas present was a 'Knit your own Cat' book. I am already halfway through creating a brand new ginger long hair pussy.

In which I nosedive into gloom...

2012-01-10T01:01:00.001-08:00

Today is a bad day. I began to panic wildly about what will become of us when this house sells and we have no home. I want to go back to Wivey but the flat is on a buy to let mortgage, so technically, I have no home to call mine own. I made the error of vocalising these fears last evening and the dark clouds visibly descended upon Bloke. What to do?
Things ARE different for Lovely One now, having had the stroke. Previously, I had intended to take another job in Care to make enough money to live whilst I re-established my art sales in Somerset, but I can't do that now. I'm neither physically or mentally capable of Care work any more.
Here, I have three days work per week, the rental income from the flat and my sales.
WHAT AM I GOING TO DO
I need to be on hand for the errant Boy, I need to make a living, I need to keep Bloke in a good mood.
TODAY I SIMPLY CANNOT DO ANY OF IT

A nice long sleep would be lovely.

In which I bleat...

2012-01-08T03:22:00.000-08:00

Greeted by a small ugly crowd of Polish down and out drunks in the trader's car park this morn. Battened down hatches of Aston Martin and mosied off to Co-op for croissants.
'E was just stuffin' the Lambrini down 'is trousers when I saw him,' one assistant was saying to another, 'I got it out and bunged it back on the shelf.'
Now, I'm assuming the incident was connected to the grubby personages loitering in the CP.
Mental note to self:
DO NOT BUY LAMBRINI IN THE CO-OP

DO NOT BUY LAMBRINI PERIOD

The aforementioned loiterers appear to be a fairly representative example of the human slurry abroad this very morn.

Currently being annoyed by snotty customers who can't even be bothered to make eye contact or reply to my cheery 'Good Morning.'
Hope they get run over.

Yesterday was a bit dead apart from a nice little cash sale for me. I was alerted to it by a text from Anal C whilst having my afternoon nap. It really is very satisfying earning spons when I'm tucked up in me fluffy pushing out the z's.

Today I intend to draw sheep. Not any old sheep - some Henry Moore inspired sheep. I have had in my possession a set of place mats with said sheep on them for ages. Drawn by an old member of Red Hat, I thought they were of her invention, but no, exact copies! I shall have a go then, not exact copies of course, just inspired by.

This time of the year is excellent for farm animal pics in my experience so I shall get on the band wagon, or should that be the farm wagon.

Boy is giving me sleepless nights again with his elderly amour. What can I do about it? Nothing, if that's what he wants, I suppose. What with him and the Elderly Squeeze and Vile Ex H and that foul smelling troll, I hardly have time to complain about Bloke, and that'll never do.

MINDING MINE OWN BEESWAX IS NOT AN OPTION

House sale still dragging on. Been in limbo now for almost three years. And you wonder why I've gone doolally?

In which I attain the 'Shit Happens' award for 2011...

2012-01-06T02:23:00.000-08:00

Back on the Barb - distinct lack of Janners with groats burning holes in their overalls...

Visited Boy and Vile Ex Husband yesterday. Boy seemed to be getting to grips with life and has more or less abandoned college for the mo.

Alarmingly Vile EH has continued to associate with the Snaggle Toothed Troll from whom I rented the shop many moons ago. I suppose she has some plus points, though for the life of me I can't call any to mind. I finally severed relations with her when I borrowed a substantial amount of money in order that she could pay her mortgage and thereby secure the shop for all us Red Hatters. She chose not to use the funds for the purpose agreed and, well you can guess the rest...

ALSO there is most definitely an unwritten rule that one does NOT move in on one's associate's ex hubbsters/partner etc. She has an uncanny ability to sniff out the discarded and ask them to 'fix her computer.' I could cheerfully smack the yellow toothed little goblin for drawing the unstreetwise ex into her soiled web. I KNOW, I KNOW, it's none of my beeswax etc etc bla bla... Although their hygeine habits are of the same subterranian level - their respective toiley boileys are positively hazardous.

Boy and Ex VH are still revelling in their freedom from the military junta cleaning regime imposed by the Vile Dictator - Lovely One, but surely living in squalor is detrimental to one's mental health?

Have just been visited by my Eldery Gentleman Number Two, who has just come from hospital having been detained therein over Chrimbo and the NY with heart failure. I was able to trounce the blighter with 'me stroke' though, and declare Lovely One to be the outright winner in the 'shit happens' stakes of 2011.

I have been left with a scant regard for my wellbeing and an even more 'Devil may care' attitude, if that were possible. The display I maintain for my adoring public and those around me is so at odds with the maelstrom within that I have to conclude that I am a black hearted rogue.

In which I reflect on my stupidity...

2012-01-04T03:34:00.000-08:00

Back in the gallery at last mourning the loss of sales, although not quite so much as I thought.
The streets are bare apart from delivery vans and the odd ranting special needs cove.

I expect you are all holding yer breath re the hound. Well, ridiculous wife number two lost it in Ivybridge and the furry stink bomb was wandering unsupervised for two days and nights. I have to confess that the lack of dog hair wiped across me strides noir was rather welcome but only the hardest of hearts could ignore the adverse effect on Bloke.

The pecking order has become apparent and it would appear that the hound is numero uno. Kipper's Dick? Do I? Not a bit of it! I have come to realise over the past weeks that One is completely alone on this mortal coil, so One may as well get the hell on with it! The upshot of the found hound appears to be that Bloke is in something of a serene mood and is even being profoundly nice to Lovely One following an initial surge of horror.

I am forced to conclude that I am of little importance in the scheme of things and that it is entirely down to my own poor decision making and a deal of bad luck. I would give a limb to be living with poor Boy to help him. How stupid was I to think that he would charge down here every weekend and play happy families?

It's as if I do something really selfish and stupid and then about a year down the line I wake up and see what a fool I am. Would Boy have been better with me? I don't know. I really thought that the omnipresence of Vile ex husband would be of more benefit to him than me who is always working. The truth of the matter is that he would have fared better if we had all stayed together as a family, but it just didn't happen, did it?

In which I ramble on for days...

2011-12-27T02:10:00.000-08:00

'Deck the halls with dead relations, fa la la la la la feckin' la'

Aged P has performed to her utmost all the amazing and irritating habits that we have all come to loathe. All gifts were ripped into with the ferocity of a vulture tearing at it's prey and then given the 'sniff' of disapproval before being cast aside with a disparaging comment...

And the comments are so thick and fast and hilariously funny that I simply can't record them all...

At the mo we are listening to Woman's Hour, the one listing all the funny tweets of the year, and everyone who has spoken thus far has had a reception non too favourable from Aged P.
The current subject, the reaction by some women to a hot horse, has been totally misread. Interviewer obviously alluding to the sexual connotations of the hot steaming beast is illiciting comments from various contributors. Aged P, as usual, misreads the situation and chimes in, 'I like donkeys. I used to send £10 a year to some woman who looks after them. She's dead now so I don't send it.'

Another object for derision is in the ad breaks of 'Deal or no Deal', some inane tv programme where factory fodder shout out box numbers and that twat Noel Edmonds pretends there is an element of skill in it. Any road up, it would appear this drivel is sponsored by a bingo game and advertised by puppets, one of which is supposed to be Barbara Windsor.
'I hate that effing cow' spits Aged P, stabbing a digit in the direction of the TV.
'It's a puppet' I interject.
'You know what I mean' hisses Aged P, 'That effing bitch BW. She's had 8 abortions. You lent me the book.'
Up comes another ad with some footage of Grace Kelly and Marilyn Monroe.
'She shagged everyone in Hollywood, that one', says Aged P sniffing with disapproval at Grace Kelly, 'and the other one's a stupid cow'.
There really is no answer to any of this so we sit back and await another brain numbing interval with Noel Edmonds and pea brained contestants.

days pass...
More of same...

Imagining that things can only improve, fool that I am, we meander back to Maison Moist only to learn that ex wife number two has lost the effing hound...
Bloke was poised on the edge of the sofa for two days, perched right on the edge. hitherto I had assumed that the 'wringing of hands' was a mythical thing, noted only in literature and headlines a la,'phew what a scorcher' etc
But no, the phenomenon exists.
He brooks no comfort, not that Lovely One is in any kind of position to offer some, and abandons himself to grief.

Sitting there with eyes streaming into snot meandering its way through the bearded chin and splopping down onto the threadbare item that still goes by the description T shirt, though is in fact more of a gossamer thin rag.

A veritable sight for sore eyes, with beads of perspiration dotting the sparsely barnetted dome and copious nose hair flowing into a mustache and neatly trimmed beard grown to cover a profusion of chins, but merely resembling a grow yer own balaclava...

Well I'll be doggone, or not, as it turned out.

In which I wish upon a washing machine...

2011-12-22T23:22:00.000-08:00

Just as I had settled into the 'silent night' treatment from himself, he comes home almost in the manner of an ordinary cove. A brief conversation ensued during which he uttered more than the usual one word answer. How can this be? I felt sure he would have plummetted into the depths with the news of the house sale being postponed, yet again. Maybe it's the thought of a few weeks off work that lifted the spirits? Who knows? Who cares? Just be thankful that I'm not sitting in absolute silence every night.What I can't figure is - if he's that miserable with me, why prolong the agony? He always says, following the question, that 'it's not all about you.' But surely we should be on the same side. I don't get it! It must be me. I should live alone with cats and be done with it.

Yesterday, sallied forth upon the Barbican to check up on sales. Not too bad, considering the town is positively heaving with massive discounts on everything. Anal C and Don the Dump were in situ positively oozing festive bile and gloom.
'Are you still alright looking Sir?, is the stock enquiry from Anal C. That soon shifts 'em out the door.

In my recent experience, Christmas Cheer exists only in supermarket adverts. Not the Sainsbury's one though - 'Happy go lucky Me' with Panto Dames and the cod-gobbed Jamie Oliver. That is just downright sinister! I don't think I'd care for any festive fare from the hands of that Oliver goon. Looks like he picks his nose and eats it, to me!

It would be divine to be in Wivey and in my little flat, but it can't be. How I would love to saunter up the Co op and invest in some over priced mince pies and a bottle of something mind numbing.

I have reaped what I sowed and have no one to blame but myself.

And so to wash Bloke's shreddies for the season...

In which I summarise...

2011-12-22T02:30:00.001-08:00

Made appointment at docs for today, but not going. What's the point? I don't have anything to say, I can't be medicated against getting on with my life, can I?

Last night was a bit fraught. Silence and one word answers again. Earlier in the day a copy of an email sent from Bloke's solicitor to everyone down the line had been sent to me and the upshot is that it is highly unlikely that contracts will be exchanged for the purchase of this house until the new year. It would appear that the solicitor at the end of the line is Chinese and only contacts all the other solicitors via email and not telephone. Being Chinese is the excuse/reason given for this strange mode of communication. Bloke has taken this news of the delayed exchange with his customary mood of gloom and doom. I hate to think what will happen if it all falls through as he has mentally given up his business. He laid off his assistant some time ago which wasn't the right thing to do since it is never a good idea to do anything until exchange. I know he's had enough, but he's just given himself yet another reason for despair.

My sales seem to be trundling along without my being in the gallery so that's good.

She Who bla bla is off to the hospital today for investigation and it doesn't bode well. Everything would appear to be crashing down round our ears.

I do hope Bloke will be able to summon a modicum of Christmas cheer when we decamp to Aged P's.

Boy has taken to his bed yet again with a gloomy mood.

I really will be glad to see the end of this year.

In which I drone on about bog all…

2011-12-21T02:03:00.000-08:00

I need to get out of maison moist today, if only for a while. I am a bit dubious about dipping me dainty little toe into the outside world for the first time in over a week.

Why do I always think that something lovely will happen? Like someone sending me a card or some flowers, or coming to see if I’m alright. Even after all the soul destroying and unpleasant things that have gone on here I still harbour a glimmer of hope down deep in my Pollyanna soul. Ridiculous! I know! I suppose that’s why I’ve never really grown up. I keep trying to get one bit of life to a satisfactory conclusion before moving on to the next, and well, frankly, I’m still struggling with adolescence!

Yesterday, Dear Little S, brought round a couple of masterpieces that I’d completed before my head exploded. Observing them now, they are completely different to my adopted ‘style’ and are in fact painted ‘properly.’ He waited at the bottom of our two flights of stairs with them and phoned to say he was here. Now, dear reader, I am old, I am tough, I am optimistic, but I cant scale two flights of stairs carrying myself, let alone anything else! Anyway, he very kindly brought them to the door and now they await transportation to the gallery.

I imagine Anal C and Don the Dump have been doing a sterling job in their way, of depriving the odd passing Janner of their benefits, but I can’t help feeling that sales would be boosted by the fragrant presence of Darling little Lovely One. After all, the tingling thrill of buying actually from the genius is a service only I can offer.

I had an absolutely ghastly nightmare in which my face was old and wrinkly last night. Now, now, I cannot sanction silly jokes about it, Dears, because we all know how divine Lovely One’s largest organ is. SKIN, dears, for the stchoopid amongst you. I am of course, restored to my state of beauty upon waking, and shall administer the scented oils forthwith. In fact, as a Seasonal treat I shall re-apply the ordnance survey mapping and allocate each of you an area of exploration. This offer is only available throughout the festive season, mind, so get in quick!

Bloke was marginally better last night and attempted one or two words before bedtime. We are of course, by now, in separate rooms. This was embarked upon as a measure against him losing sleep to my unacceptable nocturnal wandering habits, and the arrangement has endured.

Quite what Elderly P will make of his glum state is anyone’s guess. I do try and jolly him along, but frankly am becoming seriously teeed off with the whole ghastly business.

Surely someone out there would like a nice little old elderly painter as a companion to help pay the bills? Then I could flee Bloke and take the heavy burden that is Lovely Moi off his shoulders for good. I’m sure that would crack his face!

In which I tell it like it is…

2011-12-19T14:42:00.001-08:00

OK I have had enough now. Because I have no after effects from my petit foray into the illnesses largely enjoyed by octagenarians, they now want to scan my neck and give me a lumber puncture. I was all for leaving fairly sharpish, but no, so I have just...

Well, had lumber puncture and now so full of holes that I am leaking diet coke from numerous orifices, old and new.

Imagine, if you will, time passing in the manner of a desk calendar from an old movie...

I am home! Well, not my home, this nasty, uncared for damp maison that housed Bloke and Mrs Bloke no2.

He came to collect me at the end of visiting time, not yet knowing whether we could leave or not. To say he had a pained expression on his face is to underestimate the situation. I usually hold back a bit in case he reads this and I get to suffer another week or so of the silent treatment. But, hey, look where putting up and shutting up has got me.
I asked him to talk to me whilst he sat in the chair and I lay on the bed completely flat and still following the lumber puncture.
'Whatever I say will be wrong,' was what I got for my trouble.
'Well tell me a story about when you were in the Navy,' I plodded on.
'Haven't got any stories'
He just stared straight ahead with the look I have come to dread, that dead eyed glazed look of utter hatred and malevolence.

Enter a nurse to take my blood pressure...
We had a little giggle about the husband of a woman in the corner bed who was making the most of his captive female audience and embarked upon a 'Gaw Blimee, apples and pears' tale of his time on the funfairs.
'I wonder if he realises his wife is in hospital?' I said 'And not it's all about ME ME MEEEEEE.'
This remark was greeted by a look of utter contempt by Bloke and a 'huh' in my direction, clearly to indicate that I was starting to think that the situation we too are currently in was about me. Well IT IS.
Lest we forget, I am in hospital having had a stroke, but no, the house sale, the winding up of the burger van et all are far more important.

I try again to illicit some conversation when the nurse has gone and I ask about Heather his assistant on the van. He always has plenty to say about her life since she is very talkative and I get to hear the lot, every week. It is all remembered and relayed with such clarity as is never given to any information I may pass on.Under other circumstances I would thereby assume that the two of them were 'en amour' or something like that, but I really don't think so.

Cast your mind back to the desk calendar...

Here I am a couple of days later. All seemed relatively ordinary. The heating has been put on without my asking and a relative calm has been restored.
Until today...
My requiring some shopping has proven something of an issue and having been told to,
'give me the fucking list' he then slammed (literally) out of the house only to return several hours later without enquiring for my wellbeing.

I went back to bed in order to 'give him some space' I believe is the current vernacular.

Any road up, it's now half past ten and I am up again, alone, having spoken to Boy who is coming to visit tomorrow.

I am not one of life's victims and shall engineer the situation in my favour as much as I am able.

No grand sortings out or discussions can happen at the mo since the stress could, quite literally, kill me.

Do have a jolly Xmas, one and all...

In which I am a Lovely One of little importance...

2011-12-15T12:13:00.000-08:00

I know you are getting ready for Christmas dear reader - but not one message of hope for poor anuerism struck Lovely One? Shame on you!!!!

I which I am leaving the building...

2011-12-14T01:35:00.000-08:00

oh dear, don't panic, dear reader I am incarcerated in the hospital with a bloody effing stroke. well, first I had a headache then a MASSIVE headache, got all clear after scan - dressed to leave THEN THEY CHANGED THEIR MINDS said I need another. That was 24 hours ago and i am stuck in here getting cross. HAVING NOT GIVEN ME any of my usual BP meds I am at a loss to know how to get better and OUT

MORE ON THAT STORY LATER...

In which I rant on again about my dear little customers...

2011-12-09T05:06:00.000-08:00

Imagine the scene, if you will, dear reader...

Lovely One in her studio is laying a wash of darks for a dramatic sky over Kingsbridge...

Enter Mr and Mrs Pea Brained Janner...

'You used to be down the road?' she enquires, barging into my easel.
'No, we have always been here', I reply, attempting to disengage her from my equipment.
'We dun wen in down the road an they sen us up yere' she whined on.
'How can I help you?' I smiled.
'We wanna know how much ar picture's worth.'
'Do you have it with you?' I enquire through gritted teeth. Maybe all the gritting is what's making them drop out!
'No we done 'ave 'em. We got two of 'em.'
'Who are they by and are they originals?' I ask, feigning enthusiasm.
'They'm got numbers on em.'

OH MY GAWD. HOW THICK ARE THESE EEJITS?

I finally ascertain that what the twonks actually have is two unlimited prints of the miniscule, nicotine scented JM's Guiness Clock.

WHOOP DE F*****G DOO

It is soooo difficult not to frog march these morons to the door and lecture them about wasting my time!!

I am then interrupted by another so called 'artist.'
'I am an artist,' he begins 'will it be ok if I bring in my work sometime next week?'

WE ARE NOT BUYING.
THIS IS A SHOP.
WE PREFER SELLING THINGS.
NOW PISS OFF.

The next delightful browser comes in with seemingly the sole purpose of emptying the contents of her nose into, an already, over filled and soggy kleenex, and then proceeds to wipe her disgusting, germ ridden paws all over me stock!

I don't remember the inhabitants of Somerset being as nauseous as the populus of Plymouth. There are notable exceptions to this rule ofcourse, those lucky enough to be in the orbit of Lovely One, for instance. Clearly I have a positive effect in my own darling little way, but those perambulting abroad on the Barbican are, in the main, a bunch of unwashed, educationally challenged factory fodder.

In which I mourn me molar...

2011-12-08T04:41:00.000-08:00

Back again for the afternoon in order that Anal C can supervise Moist Bob and his partner ginger in the relocation of a comfy matress up Auntie Wainwright's back passage. How many weirdos does it take to bla bla....? springs to mind.

Any road up, the upshot of the goings on renders Lovely One on duty trying not to stab the Plymouthians to death as they sashay hither and thither annoying Moi.

The pressing business of the day is to decide what to do with a body part that has recently dropped off. No, Dear Reader, don't distress your little self, it's not an essential limb, or a fingernail, it's a wibbly tooth. The Wiveliscombe dentist who filled said molar, was on a youth opportunities programme having previously been employed as a road digger upper, complete with pneumatic drillington. He attacked the poorly masticating device with such fervour that I still bear the scar - even of the injection! As for the operation to fill the darling little cavity, the ham fisted blighter knocked the other half of the teggie out and henceforth 'tas wibbled to and fro william nilliam.

Eventually, having gnashed it back and forth verily and having been threatened with pliers by Dear Little S, the offending pearly white popped out.

I have had it displayed on the mantleshelf like a mini Matterhorn, for all to admire. Bloke, even though I've offered, has declined to examine it and refused point blank to look at my hole. I have it with me nestling in a silk pouch in me make up bag for fear of him trying to dispose of it. It is, or has been, a part of Lovely One and thus, must surely be of keen and deep interest to my legions of followers.

In the manner of Van Gogh I may indeed parcel it up and send it to one of my many admirers, or adverise it on Ebay. I expect the £5000 reserve will be met almost immediately and Moi shall be languishing in retirement on the Beeharmars forthwith.

In which I offer my advice to Posh J...

2011-12-07T01:55:00.000-08:00

Here I jolly well am again Dear Reader. In the gallery, on the Barbican. Not many intrepid Chrimbo shoppers about yet since we are being buffeted by Hurricaine Herbert accompanied by horizontal stair rods.

Oooh, local tourettes sufferer just perambulated past in a positively profane manner, not befitting with the season of goodwill to all chaps! Shame about him. He's a not too shabby looking individual, smartly dressed and obviously educated, given the vast extent of his vocabulary. Shame it's all shouting and swearing really! Still, he is just voicing the general sentiments of the rest of us who are too anal and repressed to yell it all out in the street.

Have hardly got any originals left at all! So better get going and knock off a few masterpieces tout sweet, Caruthers! Speaking of my phenomenal sales...

Dear Little S and Posh J are having a winter sale. Incidentally beginning on December 13th, coincidentally the wedding anniversary of Dear Little Lovely One and Vile ex Husband. We all know how that went, don't we!!
I shan't bother telling you where it is since nobody could be arsed to go anyway! But, there is a teensy silver lining dans the cloud that is Posh J's sales figures, and that is ...
They can re-use all the invites that we produced for the sale Lovely Moi had with Posh J two years ago. All they need to do is to write SOLD accross all Lovely One's masterpieces on the invite because all Posh J's are still languishing for sale! Isn't that lucky! Do you think I should go and share this idea with them Dear Reader?

Exchange due to take place next Wednesday...
I'LL MANGE ME CHAPEAU IF THAT HAPPENS

In which I have an unpleasant altercation with Shirty Arsehole...

2011-12-02T02:39:00.000-08:00

Still no exchange of contract on Maison Moist. Pity, since it is really living up to it's monika and late last evening I was whiling away my time sitting on the downstairs toiley boiley when I discovered a MUSHROOM GROWING OUT OF THE WALL. The offensive fungi was located next to what I euphemistically term 'the weeping hole' a crack in the wall out of which seeps the most revolting black goo. Now, dear reader, I don't want you to think I usually reside in such abject horror. Indeed NO! I am living in someone else's gaff and it's literally draining the life out of me.
Darling Lovely One, as you know, is rather more used to residing in sartorial elegance, surrounded by tasteful and beautiful items of furniture and veritably cocooned in luxury. Sadly Mrs Ex-Bloke had rather a more 'cut price' approach to life than Lovely One, and having been on the cusp of vacating the prem for so long mine own divine possessions are still lovingly encased within bubble wrap and plastic lidded boxes. No nasty cardboard for Lovely One!!

OOOh have just been interrupted by Japanese tourists itching for a phototgraph of Darling Lovely One creating a masterpiece and then, relieving same of vast quantities of cash for 'one I made earlier.'

Rather a good start to the day considering the three hours of my life that I won't ever get back that I spent last evening on the 'Open Galleries' event, which nobody was ever intending to attend, given that it was the first late night shopping event 'up town' in the dry and with masses of exciting entertainment. Our USP was a visit from Auntie Wainwright, her grandson, her estranged hubbster, her gay (moist) hanger on, her pet hound Anal C, her seriously annoying squeeze (with yet another three resin birds) (that beak'll 'ave somebody's eye out!) and - Wait for it - a bread basket lined with napkins from the chinese filled with Quality Street! The evening was further enhanced by Anal C heating up some foul smelling soup in the microwave and slurping it behind the counter. Oh goody, I thought, now we'll all smell of onion soup too!!!

Shirty Arsehole put in an appearance which was purely for my benefit given that we'd had, what might be termed, an altercation earlier at Dear Little S's.
Let me explain...
Shirty has been bad mouthing Lovely One all around town, saying that
'Claire Rice is not the sort of person who should be around Sonia' and things like that. And 'Don't talk to me about HER' which is a bit rich since I don't even know the woman and had only met her once.
I gave her every opportunity to aviod me by ignoring her and carrying on with the business of getting my latest masterpiec framed, but no, she pursued me and insisted on licking up to me, the two faced old harridan!
So, I challenged her about what she'd said and told her that I didn't want to hear any more. Rigorous denial ensued until finally she admitted where the offence had taken place and to whom she'd dissed moi. Any road up, she obviously went straight round to Auntie W's to protest her innocence and then chose to front up at the open evening in an effort to distress your own Lovely One.

WASTED HER TIME THERE THEN

Ma James was amused by the recounting of the incident, in which one could hear a pin drop, by Dear Little S.

I shan't be mentioning it to Auntie W. Thus spoiling the moment for Shirty Arsehole.

OOOh just been interuppted by another little Dear wanting ONE OF MINE.

BOW DOWN BEFORE ME AND QUIVER WITH ADMIRATION.

In which I plan to crawl away and die...

2011-11-30T02:13:00.000-08:00

Am firmly housed dans le maison de chien once again. Have inadvertently offended Bloke and am in for at least two weeks of the staring straight ahead, one word answer treatment. If the recent past is anything to go by that is.

It all began, dear reader, when Bloke was emailed by the estate agent with the incorrect amount that I'd paid for the Home Information Pack for the sale of HIS house.

'Are you looking through my bank account?' I enquired, and all hell broke loose! Let me explain...
A couple of years ago I added Bloke to my current account so that the proceeds from the house sale didn't go into the account he still had with his ex-wife. The sale fell through, he is still on my bank account and yet he chooses to continue use of the account with his ex-wife. Only my earnings and dealings are passed through what was, after all, my bank account.
I am not interested in money, all I want is to work, paint, pay my bills and survive. I don't mind him looking at my account, I have nothing to hide. I only asked the question and now I am informed that he is,
'used to being in a relationship.' and that I 'only want to do my own thing', whatever that means.

I don't think he really wants me at all and I just don't know what to do. I feel really sad about it all, but it seems to be that I have a negative effect on everyone around me.

I should crawl away and die.

In which I am the recipient of a smidgeon of good luck...

2011-11-25T02:52:00.000-08:00

Bugger my 'at! Could it be a stroke of luck at last, dear reader? This very morn I took a call from the estate agent who very apologetically told me that the buyer of our buyer, the cash buyer (keep up, keep up) will incur some sort of financial penalty if they complete the transaction before January, BUT they want to exchange contracts ASAP.

HOW LONG HAVE I BEEN TELLING EVERYONE THAT IS WHAT WE WANT TO HAPPEN.

That is exactly what we have needed all along and I have told everyone from day one! Because we have travelled this path before and have spent, and lost, rather a lot of money, I won't make any arrangements for our onward move until we have exchanged contracts. When that's happened everyone is tied in and can't get out of it without paying up!

So, with luck, I shall be in my 'beloved gallery' as Bloke calls it, for Christmas and beyond. My enthusiasm for all things artistic is seen as me 'showing off'.

No annoying Janners with crap to sell have been in yet, but the day is young.

Had a lovely big sale last time I was in - on the cusp of shearing as the streets were almost bare of punters, when in sashayed a mother and daughter combo waxing lyrical about Lovely One. The little dears bought my 'Carousel' so moi is a contented article - but for how long?

In which things are bleaker by the day...

2011-11-23T02:47:00.000-08:00

There are some kind and generous people out there and they know who they are!

Still no word about the exchange of contracts on Bloke's gaff. He is, however, planning to stop working at the end of this week, so I hope it all comes to fruition!!

In the gallery today. The first twatticus with something to sell has been in...
'I've got a painting by *******'
'Not someone I'm familiar with' I say through gritted teeth.
'I can't believe it!' says he 'he's a really famous, well known artist from Cornwall.'
'Well I've never heard of him' I continue 'what is it you want? To sell me something?'
'I was hoping you could tell me about him' he went on 'I've looked him up on the internet and I've got this painting of the twin towers he did.'
'Well, if you've looked him up on the internet you must have found out everything there is to know and I can't add to that. I suggest that if you have something to sell that is where you do it, we are in the business of selling art.'

Although he'd barged into the gallery brandishing his painting without even looking at what we have on our walls for sale, he looked affronted that I wasn't interested in buying his wares. What is it with these people? I imagine the rest of the lucky gallery owners have had the same conversation with him as he's been traversing the street for quite some time now. Next port of call - the auction house and dear little S, no doubt.

Boy is in the doldrums again. I wish I knew whether he was really depressed or just clutching at some reason for not wanting to go to college. I should be with him in Wivey looking out for him. Not down here living someone else's life. I deserve every bad thing that happens to me, for leaving him there with his father.

Have had a very generous offer of sactuary which I would love to accept, but I'm not fit for human company. Why should I spread my misery around? I only have myself to blame.

In which I, at last, wise up...

2011-11-20T03:03:00.000-08:00

Well here I am again then! Sunday morning on the Barbican. What will today bring? No doubt the usual steady trickle of idiots wanting me to buy their worthless old tat.

Yesterday was rather fruitful in my absence. A commission for a land agent's boardroom. Big bucks for that one methinks! Plus two little ones sold. It all adds up.

I sashayed into Dear Little S's on Friday evening to collect some more small framed pics that had sold out and 'stap me vitals' the idiotic woman who attempted to sell me the worthless print of the Hoe by some unknown, had fronted up at the Auction House and attempted to get them to sell it! With flea firmly positioned in ear, rather than sod off home and bin the thing she then tried to sell it to Dear Little S. These people are unbelievable!

FFS was there wearing yet another child's frock stretched to it's limit across various ample areas of her torso and sporting a new and intriguing hairstyle. Well I say hairstyle, it looked more like she's been hung upside down for an hour or so and had super glue sprayed on it in the manner of Jeddward. A pair of Santa Claus boots completed the eclectic outfit, not to mention of course, the obligatory vast wooly poncho. Somewhere on a hillside in Wales there's an entire herd of sheep shivering following the completion of that vast item!

Lovely One, naturally, was the epitome of fragrant elegance in me uggs and big fluffy wooly.

Bloke has been rather pleasant company of late. Methinks the end being in sight of living in Maison Moist has lifted his spirits. I can't wait to put plan B into action....

I'm keeping it to my dear little self though, as if I open me gob, it'll all go tits up!

It is still a constant source of surprise to me regarding those who have offered to come to my assistance, and indeed those who haven't. I have always thought myself to be a reasonable judge of character, but it would appear not. I do recall some time back several persons questioning me rather gently about the company I was keeping, but I paid them no heed. It won't change me though and I shall still have a tiny bit of the Pollyanna about me.

Stchoopid? Perhaps? Who knows? Who cares?

I shall be keeping my own council from now on.

In which I am surrounded by idiots...

2011-11-18T02:16:00.000-08:00

Sales are going well! That's good isn't it dear reader? Perhaps I'll be able to afford somewhere to live soon.

This morning I have been irritated by two items of stab fodder thus far...

The first, a woman who wanted me to buy a print of the Hoe by an unknown artist. It is really difficult to enter into a conversation with these morons without employing the words 'off' and 'fuck'

A print - I ask you!

I gently attempted to explain to her that we are in the business of selling, in preference to buying, art. AND Why is it that people think that just because they have a print/painting it is worth money? She didn't even bother to survey the scene and see what we actually have for sale in here, before launching into her schpeil. I did what I usually do and told her to either sell it on ebay or put it in the dustbin.

The second twat was brandishing a pencil drawing produced by his Father.
'He does drawings like Salvatori Devli,' says the plonker.
I inspected the folded sheet of A4 print paper with abject horror.
How does One address these issues without punching people in the gob? I told him that we don't deal in this kind of art and he very sternly told me that 'someone in London' was interested in it!
'I should pursue that line of enquiry then,' I retorted.
IT WAS ABSOLUTE SHITE.
I would have been ashamed of it if I'd done it when I was eight years old!
It must be special needs outing day on the Barbican today. Either that or a vast amount of the Plymouth populus is thick!

Yes indeed - SPECIAL NEEDS DAY

Just had a visitation from another twatticus...
In it lopes - shorts, sandals, sunglasses. Correct moi if I'm wrong, but it is November is it not?
'I was ripped off by you' was his opening gambit.
'How so?' I reply.
'I own hundreds of paintings' he goes on 'I'm sixty now and I want to sell them.' And on he goes listing the various art he owns. Incidentally, nobody I've ever heard of.
'My accountant says if I get over £3000 I shall have to pay capital gains tax. But then you should know all that' he says, stabbing his finger into my face.
'You know that don't you?' he continues.
'I had no idea' I reply 'I'm not the owner, I'm the in-house painter.'
'Where's your stuff?' he demands to know.
I point him in the direction of my studio and he makes agreeable noises before alighting upon my 'Shape of the Hoe' framed limited edition print.
'I want that' he exclaims 'But I'm not paying that for it. I'll give you a hundred cash.'
'No' I reply. (Frankly I'd give it second thoughts if the ghastly stinker offered me five hundred)
'I'll be back to discuss it later' he says over his shoulder as he shuffles off into the distance.

Can't wait!

In which my hands are shaking...

2011-11-11T01:31:00.000-08:00

In the grip of pure terror today. No sleep, not even scoffing, which can only be a good thing. On Monday we will find out if Bloke can go ahead and buy a shared ownership flat. Not ideal. In fact, far from it. Beggars can't be bla bla...

I know I shouldn't expect him to be any stronger than me, but it just seems to always be me who's trying to sort everything out. Such is life, well mine anyway. It was the same with Vile Husband.

It seems to have been one long stroll from mistake to mistake.

Pring Pring...
Excuse moi, dear reader...

Oh I didn't see that one coming...
It was the agent marketing the shared ownership flat. The vendor has taken it off the market. What can I say?

WHY IS EVERYTHING GOING WRONG?

I never pulled wings off flies or anthing horrid like that. I have done my fair share of charity work. I am quite a nice person. So why does everything go tits up for me?

Anal C, who hasn't quite grasped the situation says that 'moving is very stressful.' It's not. I rather like it. What is stressful is that when I do move I actually don't have anywhere to move to. It's a hard world out there and with no mortgage offer and no chance of paying private rent, I am stuffed all ends up. I don't even have a plan and that's unusual for me. I can usually get myself out of a situation but not this time. I'm not sure if it's age or lack of enthusiasm or just plain grinding misery. Whatever it is I just can't do it.

Thank you to the Abbster and Dear Little S's Ma for the offer of a roof over my head and indeed, She who must bla bla and FFS, but I'm not fit company for other humans at the moment and regardless of my instinct for bolting, I must stand alongside poor Bloke who is in grave danger of crumbling.

In which I run for home, run as fast as I can...

2011-11-09T06:34:00.000-08:00

Raining chats and chiens on the Barb today.

Many moist Janners coming in to shelter from the rain, but sadly not purchasing very much. One twonk just asked me how much my cupcake painting was. An absolute steal at £145 and the stigy bastard legged it!

Have just had long chat with the Abbster, an old chumster from the Leighton Buzzard days of picnics and toddlers. EEEE them were the days! Who'd have thought she'd have off loaded the Bazzer and had her stomach stapled and lost twelve and a half stone - and she's still not happy! She also had her own Mr Stone who sauntered off into the ether with an exdirectory phone number and the contents of the bank account. And I think I've got problermos!

Speaking of which...
I had a brilliant idea to solve the current housing crisis. No, dear reader, not the national one, Bloke's and mine.

Shared ownership housing. Apparently he's eligible. So off we meander to Stoke, a very acceptable older suburb of the vast and ghastly city of Plymouth. Bloke doesn't like it though - it being...
'alright for you, you like old places.'
Rather a nice flat in an attractive block. But small. I have visions of being too close to the unnerving pong of onions, cheese and all the associated aromas of the mobile catering cove. Not to mention the plethora of drying cloths liberally distributed on any vaguely warm surface.

Oh I know I sound like a miserable old bat.
Well I am!
I long for the smell of fresh linen and pussy cats and Chanel and new shoes and vodka and the sound of laughter and having a nice chat and moaning at Boy and being answered back and getting up in the middle of the night to blog and then moaning about work and doing the garden and filling up the bird feeders and throwing snails over the garden wall and parking too close to Evil L so she can't get out of her car door and banging the gate to annoy Shirley's dog and going round to moan at Vile ex husband and just
BEING IN MY OWN FLAT

In which I am medicated...

2011-11-04T04:07:00.000-07:00

Enter roly poly man with miniscule wife...
'how much are your small framed pictures?'
Now, dear reader, bear in mind that these are 6x6 inch mounted and framed prints of much larger originals.
'£30' I say
'Are they originals?'

DO THESE EEJITS REALLY EXPECT AN ORIGINAL FRAMED MASTERPIECE FOR THIRTY POUNDS?

It would appear that they do, so after trawling through my very fairly priced prints and originals, they grab, and purchase a seascape, 20x36 inches, for £95.
Now then, you may think they've bagged themselves a bargain, but no, dear reader, it's a production line painting from China, painted by Chinese foetuses and bought in for less than a fiver!
They then proceed to entrap Lovely One in a v boring conversation about their equally boring lives.

There goes another half hour of my life I won't get back!

I feel like chasing them down the road and shouting...

'Oi you morons! You've just passed up the chance of owning a piece of genuine art in favour of, what you think is a bargain, but what is in fact a worthless piece of shit.'

I was hoping not to have to stab anyone today, but it looks like blood will be spilt before the day is out!

Yesterday, and don't worry darlings, Lovely One went off to the doctor to be investigated re: complications various. You will all doubtless be delighted to register that I am in blooming health, physically at least.
But apparently I am a basket case mentally and in need of medication and the intervention of a professional.

Well, wouldn't you be if you were about to be made homeless?

How on earth do I consistently end up in the K rap?

Poor judgement? Bad luck? Who knows?

In which I surrender to the demons...

2011-10-30T05:04:00.000-07:00

Positively reeling from the goings on last week I sat and painted a Gothic Masterpiece, complete with bat, and let the world go by. Until...

Pring pring....
'hello'
'Is Mr Stone available?'
'Not on my mobile, no' I reply
'I just thought he might be with you' went on the moron from the estate agent's office.

WHY DO THEY CALL MY MOBILE AND EXPECT TO SPEAK TO ANYONE OTHER THAN LOVELY ONE?

I explained as calmly as I could that I was, of course, in the gallery and that, no I don't take Mr Stone to work with me.

'What is it you wanted?' I enquire.
'We can't tell you, we need to speak to Mr Stone' was the reply.
'Well why are you phoning my mobile yet again?' I ask.

They are all over me like a rash when they can't be bothered to carry out an accompanied viewing and want me to do it, but for anything else, forget it!

Any road up, I'll go to the foot of our stairs, would you Christmas Eve it? etc etc it transpired that somewhere down the neverending chain of buying and selling a cash buyer has appeared and the whole festering thing is back on again.

Me being in a stable of artists has come just at the right time methinks. Back to Wivey and my lovely garden flat - but no - Bloke has pulled the hand knotted Turkish floor covering out from under Lovely One's Manolo clad size 3's. He now DOESN'T WANT TO GO TO WIVEY. Instead, he wants to rent here and just keep on keeping on til one or both of us drops dead from boredom or overwork.

I am finished. I don't have the inclination or the energy to carry on.

But before I hurtle off the nearest cliff I shall have to get the puncture fixed and the passenger window put in that thoughtfully popped out causing £300 worth of damage.

Fuck Fuck Feckety Fuck - what a mess!

In which I am buffetted in the maelstrom...

2011-10-28T01:51:00.000-07:00

In the maelstrom that is my existence, my masterpieces have been selling like mad. How gratifying that is and positively confirms my taking up of space on this mortal coil.

However, homelife is pretty dire, with Bloke more down in the doldrums than usual and me not really helping by being seemingly unable to lift the general gloom.

Sinking deeper and deeper into debt by neither of us earning enough to live and Maison Moist falling down around our ears, we sit in silence, punctuated only by an odd, long quivering sigh or the occasional dog fart.

I 'got my affairs in order' yesterday so that in the event of my demise, others can be left in some comfort. I am not planning on checking out - well not quite yet anyway, but I fully intend to be master of my own fate and not hang on like some vast quivering blob requiring spoon feeding and arse wiping. I imagine that my own experience of doing just that on behalf of others has led to this cavalier attitude to mine own alloted time.

Whilst I am favouring you all with my fragrant presence, I shall be EVEN MORE FAMOUS shortly as 'an agent' spotted me and added me to his stable of artists just this week. How exciting, I hear you all gasp, and yes,you may prostrate your dear little selves in front of the alter I know you all keep in your drab tiny homes.

Boy hasn't fronted up this half term week, having been out with Alice on most days. Alice is a girl, which is a great relief to Vile Husband and Lovely One. If he is avoiding Maison Moist in favour of skirt chasing, long may it continue! I know, I know, I shouldn't make unfavourable remarks regarding our gay brothers, but life is difficult enough for dear Boy without adding sexual proclivity mores.

The most pressing of my immediate circle of no hoper's problems is currently taking up rather a lot of my precious time in the rotund shape of the depressed Bloke. What can be done that excludes bodily contact? I know - food!

Isn't life immesurably dull when one is over 50?

Big has been cluttering up my inbox again of late. The first missive was to enquire if I was 'well and settled' to which I am sure the reply 'no' and 'no' cheered the bastard up no end! Why can't he sod off as requested? I really do consider him a vampire, feeding off my misery and growing fat on it, of late. I know I put it all out there for consumption, but you don't have to read it, I'm only doing it for myself, to spare everyone my vocal moaning.

Anyway - off to stab a Janner or three!

In which I keep on keeping on...

2011-10-23T03:04:00.000-07:00

Dearest Lovely One spent all day on Friday trying to find a place to lay my beautiful head, and Blokes, obviously, he being too 'stressed' to do anything other than bung stuff in the skip.

The morning brought with it the refusal of the mortgage that we'd been 'agreed in principle' with the helpful explanation that:
'You don't meet our lending requirements.'

If someone who has never defaulted on a payment in her life and has an exemplary credit history 'doesn't meet lending requirements' then heaven help the rest of us.

Bloke has come to the conclusion that it's because I don't have a year's worth of accounts, having been self employed for just 11 months, and that I have a hefty credit card bill. So there we are, my fault, obviously.
We were clearly 'unsuitable' at the beginning of the process, six weeks ago, but, hey, why not drag it out, and cause havoc for everyone, BECAUSE THEY CAN.

So, onward and upward I traversed on Friday, looking for a place to rent. Then, another blow that I didn't see coming. Apparently one can't even rent anywhere now without a year's worth of accounts or a responsible person to act as a guarantee that the money will be paid by someone. Puhlease.... I am fifty effing four, I don't need anyone to guarantee my credibility! Eventually I found a letting agent who helpfully informed me that I would have to pay six months rent in advance, have credit checks, for which I should have to pay (non refundable of course) and then someone might take a chance on my honesty and uprightness.

Bloke was concerned that we didn't spend out too much. ie
'I'm not paying bla bla' even though I shall be paying half and I would prefer to pay a bit more and be somewhere pleasing for a change.

Any road up it all became academic when the stchoopid eejit from the estate agent called...
'Helluy huy are yuy?' in that ridiculous voice they all adopt. And anyway when they ask after my wellbeing I could cheerfully shit in their handbags, the smug little pea brained twats.

And then having ascertained that I was indeed straining up under the bear, they delivered the hammer blow...

OUR BUYER HAS LOST THEIR BUYER - SO IT'S ALL OFF.

Bloke has not taken this news well. He has been off work for two weeks now tidying the house up and generally being tres stressed.

I have kept on working because I enjoy my time in the gallery and I just love painting and going to see the printer and the lovely little framer.

So now I find myself living out of packing cases once again, with a very unhappy man, in someone else's ugly home, out of pocket to the tune of two grand (skip and tidying money) with no hope on the horizon.

I shall carry on carrying on - I hope Bloke can find it in himself to do the same.

In which I rant for the sake of it - and MAN IT FEELS GOOD...

2011-10-19T02:30:00.000-07:00

By rights I sould weigh seven stone. What with the rushing around and the packing and the problems with Boy AND the unbelievable stress of being days away from leaving Maison Moist and STILL HAVING NO EFFING IDEA IF THE MORTGAGE IS GOING TO BE APPROVED.

Have called the broker, Chris Pascoe of Bradley Financial Management on Mutley Plain, on a daily basis. Usually everyone in the blog is unidentifiable, but in his case I am making an exception since, whilst not being unhelpful, he has most certainly NOT BEEN HELPFUL.
Having told me on each occasion in the past two weeks that we have spoken that
'We will know for definite tomorrow', I remarked on Monday that
'I have never known anything of this nature take so long',
his reply was,
'Have you not?'
That is an exceptionally unhelpful, rude and supercilious remark for someone who stands to make a large sum of money out of me by pressing a few buttons on his keyboard to make!

I was recounting this saga to Dear Little S, and laughing at the Art Frame Christmas card featuring 'Brian the Red Nosed Reindog' this very morn when in burst the pnuematic sister of Dear L S, who shall henceforth be known as Full Frontal S.
To remark that Full Frontal S has a large chest is to miss the point, although it has to be said that missing those particular points is impossible. It's magnitude lends description rather thus:

A LARGE CHEST HAS GOT FULL FRONTAL S

Very strangely attired she was this morning given the rain and plummeting temperatures, in the usual Clint poncho/Smeaton's Tower frost cover, teamed with the straining black leggings and gem set flip flops. An outfit not out of place on one of the diddycoys currently being ejected from Dale Farm.

What is it with these hardy types? Don't they have temperature gauges? When we were all sweltering in the hottest October days since time began FFS was ackled up in woolies and fur lined boots. Faux Uggs, obviously, not the real thing like Darling Lovely One! And here we are with frost bitten twinkles and she's out in flip flops giving all and sundry a flash of her cracked grey hard heel skin - yukky poo!
On removal of said bobbly, moth infested poncho a Primarni delight was revealed that would have been more suitably worn and filled out by an eight year old. It's amazing how much give there is in some cheaper fabrics these days.

THEN - WHEN I GOT HERE SOME ABSOLUTE BASTARD WAS PARKED IN MY SPACE. So I have had to eat a whole packet of saffron buns now! I hate the bloody things but there weren't any all butter croissants in the Co-op and it's too early for a pasty. Well it's actually NEVER TOO EARLY FOR A PASTY but I should be farting all day and it does tend to put the customers off!

In which I feel much improved by a good rant...

2011-10-16T03:19:00.000-07:00

Am in Gallery on Barbican. First customer, or I sould term her as a visitor, called in to ask where she could get batteries for her camera, and proceeded to tell (bore) me about all the pictures she already owns.
Just for the record...

I DONT GIVE A KIPPER'S DICK

Ooooh back in a mo, I reckon she's gonna spend a fiver!

Wrong! A quid - the Caribbean is calling.

Fired up the Bugatti and sheared to Wivey to visit the errant Boy yesterday. Spent the afternoon quizzing him about his plans and combing fleas out of my aged pussy. Boy, as afore blogged, has spent his first night sleeping at a 'friends' house. He was amazingly cagey when mildly questioned about this by Lovely One, and on subsequent investigation, he had given an entirely different story to Vile Husband and Moi.

VH had been told that he was going to a party and staying there, whilst I had been told he was staying with 'Dave' who he'd met in Taunton and wasn't a member of the college crowd at all. Obviously alarms went off in Dear Little Lovely One's troubled mind and visions of internet chat rooms et al loomed large.
VH and me, and for that matter Bloke, who can give an outsider's view, came to the conclusion that there was nothing to be done as Boy is 19. VH says that Boy is 'streetwise' and he'll be ok. I'm not convinced, since he's not yer average 19 year old in any way. AND, I am now informed that 'Dave' is,
'Sort of my boyfriend'.
Oh - I was holding out hope that the lovely Alice from college might jump him one day and put paid to all this gay stuff. Not that I have anything against alternative lifestyles, it's just that life is hard enough to get through and will be even more difficult for him now.
I'm afraid I have been clinging on to the idea of Matthew Paris's mother in that, one day he'd 'get better'. And tres selfishly,

I JUST WANT ONE NORMAL THING IN MY LIFE - IS IT TOO MUCH TO ASK?

So, to the current homelessness crisis looming large over Maison Moist. The purchasers are positively aching to take possession and want to know when we'll be out.
I'd love to oblige with the information, but as yet the brokerage firm are dragging their heels with the lender and have spent four effing weeks deciding if we're creditworthy and can afford the repayments.

WE ARE SQUEAKY CLEAN AND WE CAN AFFORD IT YOU TOSSERS

Oh how I long for the days when they used to say,
'How much do you earn and how much do you want to borrow?'
That was about it and then they fronted up with the cash and all I did was PAY THE BASTARD BACK for pity's sake!

Now, since Banks have got us all in the shit by lending vast amounts of cash to persons who could ill afford it, we all, especially the self employed, have to suffer. It seems to have escaped everyone's notice that if I get the loan I will be able to afford to repay it - and if I don't I'll be forced into rented accomodation that will cost me three times as much - and will be difficult to pay!

AND IN FUTURE IF I WANT A LOAN I'LL HAVE TO DECLARE EVERY SODDING PENNY I EARN WITHOUT EVEN CLAIMING FOR MATERIALS AND EX-EFFING-SPENCES.

If I don't find out by tomorrow I shall have to eat cakes.

In which I say three Mail Hairies and hope for the best...

2011-10-14T01:24:00.000-07:00

Chucking things in a skip is tres theraputic, darlings. Thus far I have disposed of masses of arty stuff that I shall never use and rather a sizeable amount of Bloke's detritis. I do find hoarding a very unattractive trait. Yet it is practised by lots of persons I have walked alongside for varying periods of my charmed life.

BF and BFP are positively obsessive in their gathering of stuff. Not only do they hoard in a Womble-esque manner, but they raid skips of other people's discarded crap in the dead of night and take it home in their little trailer rubbing their hands with glee.

I just don't get it! Bloke has insisted on keeping truck loads of LP's and tapes of the Top 20 from yonks ago. WHY? He's never going to listen to them, but apparently, they're 'part of his past.' Darling Little Lovely One is accused of not caring about them because they're nothing to do with Moi. Well, I suppose there is a bit of that in it, but the main reason is that I do not wish to be crushed to death by a shed load of Moody Blues albums as they plummet down through the bedroom ceiling from the loft.

I am really quite ruthless about turning stuff out. I imagine it's because I am totally incapable of contentment and crave change. Oh well, cest la vie.

Have primed Aged P for the imminent arrival of Lovely One et al, if the mortgage goes tits up. Her main concern was the usage of her combination oven by Moi and the fact that one can't lean on the kitchen worktop in case it tips up. Quelle horruer! At the mo Lovely One has bigger poisson to prepare in olive oil!

I was treated to a monologue about Aged P and her BF's trip to Oxford...
Apparently the coach driver gave the aged biddies the option of hopping off at Bicester Village for a spot of retail therapy instead of doing the sights of Oxford. The dreaming spires have no aesthetic pull for the likes of Aged P, so they duly alighted at 'the shops.'
'It wasn't like when we went' complained the Aged One.
I thought for a bit and then remembered we had been there about 20 years ago with Vile Husband and Boy.
'It was all designer places with nothing under £1000', she plodded on.
'There was Pravda, and all stuff like that.'
I had no idea that the Russians had taken over Bicester!
A long diatribe followed about how many times Aged P's BF went to the loo throughout the day. After another twenty minutes of strange information I was fit to tear off my own arm and batter myself to death with the soggy end.

How long will it be before I throttle the Aged One if I have to stay there for any length of time?

Who Knows?

JUST SAY THREE MAIL HAIRIES AND HOPE FOR THE BEST.

Off to see Boy on the morrow, who is being very cagey about staying out for the night tonight. Vile Husband and Moi have been given different stories. Nothing can be done about it though, he being 'of age' so to speak.
But it has to be said he's not yer average 19 year old and I hope he hasn't met anyone on a website.

In which I label and log everything...

2011-10-12T01:28:00.000-07:00

Raining and deserted outside the Gallery today.

Left Bloke festering in his pit after a long day's hauling masses of ghastly inferior interior shite into a skip. His 2nd wife has the right idea. Every time she gets bogged off with her current husband she just totters off and leaves them to clear up the detritis of the relationship. Well, this time it's me clearing up after her and her two offspring. And I'm paying for the flamin' skips!!

I can't for the life of me see how those two ever went their separate ways. Their hoarding habits alone should have rendered them unsuitable for future partners. I spent the better part of yesterday standing holding a dustbin bag open whilst Bloke trawled through twenty odd years worth of married trash and a further mountain of stuff from the neolithic age when he was in the Navy.

I mean, I ask you, WHY did he still have the pencil written note that he used to stick on the end of his bunk when he wanted an early wake up call?
A piece of tatty lined paper with 'Shake at 5.45am Ta' scrawled on it. I did relay this story to Anal C who, not very helpfully, suggested that was the sort of thing one put into a scrapbook. I did inform her that if she mentioned that in Bloke's earshot that I would head butt her!

I organised the day into manageable bite sized chunks of crap clearance so's not to alarm Bloke to the extent that he began refusing to ditch the detritis.

In the meantime Lovely One went off to unload unwanted items at the nearest Charity Shop. I then set about folding all my designer wear and laying it carefully between tissue paper in me Chippendale chest.

All my priceless items are neatly stored in lidded plastic containers that are carefully marked and logged in a ledger. Blokes stash of Blackpool Football Club memorabilia and assorted biros and unused notepads along with various unidentified cables and computer discs are shoved William Nilliam into re-assembled cardboard boxes that he scrounges from a car parts firm to line the floor of the burger van. These aforementioned boxes will be making their way into either the shed or the loft!

It made me recall the time when Vile Husband, having lost his flat, moved into my charming country cottage, and I had to force him to jettison shoe boxes full of labels that he'd cut off every pair of Levi 501's that he's ever owned. What is it with these articles? Do I just attract them, or do all Blokes hoard rubbish?

I wish to formally state here and now, that Lovely One never ever keeps anything that is neither use nor ornament. Also, every two years I throw away my entire life and start again, including husbands!

Take heed.

In which I enter a parallel universe...

2011-10-09T03:52:00.000-07:00

OK - Where is everybody?
Has something happened overnight to deplete the populus of the Barbican? Or is everyone staying indoors today?
Well, I do tell a slight fibbington, two lots have been in thus far.

Lot One -
'You used to 'ave the place down the road?'
'No, we've always been here.'
OUT THEY SLOSH IN THEIR FLIP FLOPS AND CAG-EFFING-GULS.

Lot Two -
'You got that Beryl Cook one with the English Bull Terrier.'
I look for it.
'No, sorry we don't seem to have that one.'
OFF THEY LUMBER WITH THEIR MATCHING ANOR-EFFING-RACS.

Do you know, I think I really have been in a bad mood for most of my entire life, for goodness sake!
Why can't I take to these festering Janners? The over-made-up women with their almost clean, just out of date outfits and their clippy clop shoes? And their associated menfolk with their too tight sportswear, tatooes and bored expressions. Not forgetting their ghastly screeching offspring being dragged from one shopping opportunity to the next with promises of 'chips' for good behaviour.
Mind you - I'd behave if someone plied me with chips.
What did I say that for? I don't even like bloody chips.
I guess I've fully morphed into the miserable old bat I've been working up to being all my life.

In a parallel universe somewhere there's a Family Rice living in a 1930's semi with a tidy garden. Ma and Pa are listening to the radio waiting for Boy to come home with his girlfriend for tea before they head back to University.
There's a sensible car in the driveway and a caravan on the hardstanding.
A ginger cat purrs and stretches out in front of the open fireplace.
Can't see any more, they've drawn the curtains...

So here we are back with two people who don't even like each other very much, packing up a house that neither of them like, to move, who knows where ...

In which I am in yet another pickle...

2011-10-07T02:22:00.000-07:00

Prospective purchasers of Maison Moist, (it's a little on the damp side), want to move in by the last week of October. Oh flamin' 'eck! That could mean that Bloke and Moi are holed up at Aged P's for at least a month.

NO NO NO Nooooooooooooooooooooooooo

I am already clinging onto sanity by the merest thread. That will tip me right over the edge. Not only that, it's coming up to the busiest time of year for me in the gallery and where will I be, in Lutonistan, for pity's sake!

Of course Aged P is looking forward to the company and planning tasty suppers of wet chicken wings with flabby loose white skin (sounds like me!) with yummy salads of ancient origin. Last time we stayed there Bloke had to have a secret stash of Porkus Pius in the bedroom for goodness sake!

I have been in some desperate states during my poorly planned and executed lifetime, but this one takes the Victoria sponge!

I know, I know, it's only what I deserve, given that I came down here with stars in my eyes thinking that I'd found true love. Oh what a stchoopid woman I am!!!

Where to go from here - Answers on a postcard please!

In which I shall be the sleeping beauty....

2011-10-05T02:57:00.000-07:00

I think the Barbican must be shut off at both ends. Nobody about. Well, I lie, two visitors thus far.

The first was following a telephone enquiry about our opening hours.
The jannering began thus...
'I 'ave bin past ur shop this morning and your sign in the door say that you are open at 11am on Sundays and Bank Holidays. Aren't you open at any other times?'

GIVE ME STRENGTH. Are these people completely thick!

I explained to the pea brained bint that those were the opening hours for Sundays and Bank Holidays.
Any road up she duly fronted up and actually bought something, so I shouldn't moan.

The next visitor was a charity shop worker wanting information about an artist whose painting someone had donated.
'Do you know anything about 'Joe Bloggs'?' says he
'Never heard of him' I say
'Well he lived down here in, oh I can't remeber the street, you know!'
'No I don't know. I've never heard of him wherever he lived.'
The nonplussed article just stood there gazing at me.
'I have never heard of him' I repeat 'I suggest you ask elsewhere.'
Off he trundled with a dissatisfied air.

And that was it!

No point in painting anything - no one is buying.

Yesterday I collected my paintings from the Brownston gallery in Modbury. Six pieces have been on display there for the month of September. Well, I say on display, but since four of them have been wrapped up in the back room and one of the two on display in a rear room had been given the wrong title, I suppose it's not surprising that nothing sold. My work always sells well when on display in a prominent position or in the window and this was borne out by the fact that as I was carrying one up the road to bung in the car I was pursued by a chap who wanted to buy it!

Anyway that's the least of me gripes for today...
I have a mortgage offer and have found a house. Bloke isn't any more cheerful and so I asked him once and for all if he wants to buy a house with me. He says he does, but then why does he sit staring at the TV not speaking to me every night? Why is everything I say ridiculed or dismissed? Why has everything gone wrong?
WHERE DO I GO FROM HERE?
I am buying some sleeping tablets online in case things get even worse. At least Boy will have some cash then, instead of a useless excuse for a Mother.

In which I shall never ever email BIG ever.....

2011-09-28T04:24:00.000-07:00

Oh my giddy aunt! What a palava! 57 sodding Libby arse-face Purvesing minutes to get here. If the council in Plymouth see a bit of road without a hole in it - they dig one.

The Germans didn't do as much damage to the effing place in the war for heaven's sake!

AND If I have to sit in the traffic with a spotty little shitbag in a £4.50 car doing their level best to pretend not to see me as they trowel on their makeup in the rear view mirror, I shall ram the bastard!

Any road up, finally I get here and my first contact with the pea brained Plymothian public is a menopausal old hag brandishing a rolled up piece of paper that looks like it's been under the bed for fifty years. And lo and behold, IT HAS!

'I wondered if you could tell me if this is a painting or a print?'
Calling it a painting would have led to prosecution under the trades description act, but it was indeed, a hand crafted piece of shit.
'It's a watercolour sketch', says Lovely One.
'Is it worth anything? It's signed.'
I ponder the heap of crap with what I hope is an interested look on me lovely face.
'Hmmm. I haven't seen that signature before,' I muse.
'Well it was done in the 1950's' says woman sharply.

Why is it that everyone and his chien think that just because something is quite elderly it is worth something. The old bat in question didn't look particularly stchoopid, well no more stchoopid than most of the no hope Janners that annoy Moi on a daily basis.
'I should just put it in a frame and enjoy it.' I smiled, handing the offensive scribble back to her.
She huffed off out wobbling in a threatening manner to her bored looking hubbster saying in a voice loud enough for me to hear,
'It's not important enough for her to look at.'
Lady, I don't give a Rat's Fat Arse, or the proverbial Kipper's Dick, just piss off and let me paint a MASTERPIECE.

On a lighter note. Anal C managed to sell the effing Chicken picture that's been littering up the place for eons. So I suppose I should stop moaning about her now she's done that AND taken the Lenkie gloom off the walls.

But will I? Will I bollocks!

ps for those of you who have been reading this diatribe for the past few years, you will remember Big.
He was made flesh some months ago. In the past few months I have been in dire need of some moral support. He knew this and stopped emailing me. What a dissapointment people are.
Then out of the blue I get-
'I hope you find alternative accomodation.'
I have NEVER asked anyone for help and I never will, but to just go AWOL rather than offer the hand of friendship is unforgiveable.
It would appear he is of the calibre of some of my other so called friends.

In which I wallow in the thrilling miasma of adoration...

2011-09-25T03:55:00.000-07:00

Here I am again, darlings, positively wallowing in the seductive and thrilling aroma of adoration. The little blighters in here this morning have been worshipping at my altar and within twenty minuets I'd sold three.

YES THREE.

Read it and weep you other inferior painterists!

I am reduced to blowing me own wossname in print at the mo, since Bloke went absolutely ape poo at Darling Little Lovely One the other day, shouting into my peaches and cream fizzog:
'You think you're the big I AM. All I hear about is - I'm off to the printers/framers etc etc.'
Well, of course, I AM always off to the printers etc, an occupational hazzard when One is a painter!
I had absolutely no idea that he harboured such unfavourable views of your very own Lovely One. Well, I keep quiet about me doings now, so there's absolutely eff all to talk about now, given that my interest in the sordid little goings on of his 'assistant' on the van are really not to my taste. He waxes lyrical about her binge drinking and rows with her 'boyfriend'. Since I know neither of them my interest is miniscule. I do tend to listen with a rapt look given that it's the only subject that animates Bloke to the degree that he excercises his vocal chords beyond the usual grunted reply.

Any road up, news reaches me shell like that Shaniqua's dear Mama has a member of the opposite in tow and rumours of a wedding are rife. Hawaii has been mooted. The disturbing vision of the James gang lined up on some tropical beach somewhere, smoking fags and swigging Vodishka makes one quake with terror on behalf of the locals.
I can see it now - Sister of Dear Little S (mother of the bride) in a knitted sarong, fashioned from twinkle hair gathered from the James family plugholes, and a 'ley' is it? made of dandelions.
Poor old Ma James will have trouble staying upright on the sands, methinks. That tottery old trollope has centre of gravity issues.
But then, given that the female members of the James gang have frontal appendages that are the size of a couple of Volvo Airbags to contend with, it's no surprise that none of 'em can stay upright for long. Well that, and the alcohol intake.

In which I offer you all a salutory lesson...

2011-09-16T05:44:00.000-07:00

Lovely Dear Little Luddite One has just discovered the 'wall' on facebook. Lots of persons have left birthday wishes for Moi. Wenesday it was. I didn't 'do' anything as I have been slowed down quite significantly with a painful, painting related injury. Before you all rush to my assistance, fear not, I am improving, slowly but surely and the brush has been removed under general anasthetic.

As I'm sure you will be aware, Dear Reader, I have been captured by the paparazzi and plastered all over the Plymouth Magazine for your delectation.

NOW, despite being warned to the contrary, Sister of Dear Little S has seen fit to 'diss' the image of your very own Lovely One.
Regardless of the fact that D Little S shook his head and sucked air through his teeth in a manner to defer the antics of his sister, she went ahead and decided to pass comment on the saintly person of Moi.

OH DEAR ME.

Foolish virgin. (I use that term loosley)

On first viewing the charming, smiling picture of Darling Lovely One, I was compared to She Who bla bla (Auntie Wainwright). NOW - Not only is Lovely One, Lovely in the manner of an Angel and extremely youthful looking, but Auntie W is Seventy effing two.
It was also suggested that Lovely One was in possession of a more than sufficientcy of 'super-floo-us' facial hair.

I feel I can't let it pass without offering a window into the life of the offending member of the James gang...

She has of late been brought to book by the Gang Gran who attempted to point out the error of her ways in the food inhalation department re: the aquisition of a fatty liver.
'Mmmmmmm Fatty Liver,' said Sister and bogged off to fry onions.

We shall find her reading this in her bed, methinks. Quite often with a rake of Special Brew and a bag or three of Pork Scratchings. Since bags of scratchings have become smaller, or so she says, (personally I think it's her Cumberland Sausage fingers) she's had a spit roast installed in the bedroom so's she can roast a whole porker of an evening. One or other of her many offspring take it in turn to rotate the 'snack'. Now you may think this is an abuse of small children, but, let's face it she's got twenty seven of them, all under five.
Lovely One has picked up with her very sensitive radar that Sister has made some concessions to her increasing girth.

It should be noted that she does, indeed, have lovely skin. It's just that there's such a vast surface area of it! Currently records of it are available mapped by the Ordnance Survey Department.

Any road up, she's started wearing leggings which One can only assume should reach her ankles, but given the acreage that they have to cover are poised half way up her calves and stretched to the consistancy of gossamer across her thunderous thighs.

Now that the Autumn months are upon us we shall be further treated to her encased in what looks like a vast poncho, with afore mentioned leggings crashing together sticking out of the bottom. Surely a fire hazard given the fear of spontaneous combustion with the friction factor.

This ensemble has rendered her a dead ringer for the mutant love spawn of Demis Roussos and Clint Eastwood.
Somewhere on a Welsh hillside there's a flock of sheep shivering to death, having been shorn merely for the production of said peculiar poncho garment.

Plymouth Council have put out a request that 'Poncho' may be used as a cover for Smeaton's Tower on frosty evenings.

Now I've brought you up to speed, Dear Reader, with the calibre of Articles who choose to take the name of your Lovliest One in vain, I hope you will all take heed and simply continue to worship at my easel - IN SILENCE.

In which I am emotionally boarded up by the council...

2011-09-13T01:50:00.000-07:00

I owe D the Dump an unreserved apol re: the dent in new frame. Twas not he who carelessly slammed me A frame up agin it, but Moist B. Moist B is monikaaed thus as he's one of those persons whose skin looks damp at all times. Not that the silky hand of Lovely One has ventured to touch the organ, mere observation is quite enough, let me tell you, Dear Reader. The moist one, whose sexuality is under review, is the 'Boy' of She Who bla bla... He and his 'partner' keep house for her.
Moist is continually velcroed to an annoying yappy hound that is carried around like a baby. They are further hangers on who regularly visit what I laughingly thought a place of work, but has increasingly become a drop in centre for the dispossesed.

A far more fragrant and desirable drop in is the lair of Dear Little S. In fact, Lovely One is oft to be found plonked on me piano stool just inside having a bit of a moan and whinge. Said piano stool is known as the 'ranting chair' since the Meemster et al are wont to perch upon it and unburden themselves to Dear Little S and Aunties J and Sh. Yesterday's visit found the aunties quivering in their corselettes over a young gentleman in Naval attire. Lovely One was sore afraid that one or both of them was about to depart to the bogs with a tube of KY and a dibber. Lovely One was deemed a peculiar article in that One hadn't even noticed the Navel personage.
The ensuing interrogation of Lovely Moi concluded that Lovely One is not normal. Apparently One should regulary be reduced to a quivering mass in the presence of beauty. Whereas J and Sh are certain that they would slime up in the face of their first loves, I can't even remember mine, if I ever had one. I suppose I must have and that in all probability I quivered with delight at some point, but I don't recall the moment I shut down emotionally. Now the only thing I get aroused by is a chocoate cake pie.

In which I am not amused by the antics of Twatticus...

2011-09-11T02:20:00.000-07:00

I am holed up in the Gallery again. What is the first thing my baby blues alight upon? My whacking great 'A' Frame board leaning against my freshly framed masterpiece 'Spirit of Plymouth'. Obviously that twatticus Don the Dump has just thrust it William Nilliam 'wherever' and has mortally wounded the beatiful frame that Dear Little S bunged on it only two days ago.

I AM LIVID.

Stupid old fart! He broke me effing easel, and denied, it not long ago and I expect he'll be blameless on this occassion. On the plus side the old fool has managed to sell a print of aforementioned masterpiece in my absence.

Honestly, we must be a flamin' laughing stock down here amongst serious art purveyors what with Don the Dump ligging around with his dyed hair looking seriously like a deceased pussy has been superglued to his shrivelled head. Not to mention the fact that even though he'll never see eighty again he totters about in the garb of James Dean, blue jeans and white T shirt. The complete 'Rebel without a Corset' look.
And then there's 'Auntie Wainwright' counting the takings with her bent and twisted digits poking out of her fingerless gloves.

Of course, Lovely One does add a frisson of elegance to the proceedings by wafting ethereally about in a Chloe tea-dress and a haze of Joy.

On another tack - I have located a lovely new home to call One's own. Granted it is on the edge of a military estate which appears to be peopled by articles with scary looking dogs on bits of string and horrid looking children hanging around in shoals. But, Dear Little Socially Mobile Lovely One has plummetted down to such levels over the past few years that One has seriously had to re-evaluate One's existence. The house itself is lovely and cosy and has fantastic views over the Brunel bridge into Cornwall.
Various members of the James gang have recoiled in abject horror when I mention some of the areas in which I have been viewing houses. But - this is what I am reduced to, so I'd better get used to it.
Over the road from said dwelling is a twenty foot stone wall with coils of barbed wire on the top. As yet I'm unclear as to whether this is to stop persons getting in or out!

Any road up, I'll go to the foot of our stairs, bugger my 'at - Dear Little S says that under the huge mound of grassed over earth behind the wall, are buried explosives, so when they go off it's curtains for moi!
So I guess that puts an immediate stop to me 'Apres Tea' entertainment of lighting me own farts.
Still - I may not be able to pull a rabbit out of a hat, but I can pull a hare out of me twinkle!

In which I wish I could divulge more information...

2011-09-10T01:58:00.000-07:00

Oooooh a bit of goss this am on way into gallery/shop/money laundering emporium...

Obviously, Lovely One being the soul of discretiono and all that, One cannot possibly name any names etc...

But, all is not harmonious in the world art. Oh, what a surprise, methinks! They all scamper about trying to outdo one another in the importance stakes whilst Dear Little Lovely One merely floats serenely above it all in an effortlessly superior state of ethereal being. One simply doesn't need to engage with all the silly schoolgirl squabbling since One's limitless and abundant talent does the talking.

It would appear that tears were shed by two opposing gallery owners over the opening of a new art space in the area. Some persons, obviously cannot name them, are so utterly obsessed with their own importance that they find it difficult to engage in a harmonious fashion with their fellow galleristas. We never had any of that at Red Hat. Or did we? I do recall that in The Hat's second iteration, there was a bit of annoyance from one or two difficult old trouts. Funny how One forgets about that isn't it?

Anyway here I am working on a Saturday for goodness sake!! I don't expect any thanks for it though, which is just as well because I won't get any.

Dear Little S made himself chunder by scoffing the fabulous cupcake and washing it down with vodishka - silly boy!

In which I am slighted by an inferior old trollope...

2011-09-09T07:41:00.001-07:00

Well darlings it's Dear Little S's birthday. Lovely generous Lovely One commissioned a special over the top ginormous cup cake. Other D little S admirers had bought him inferior cupcakes, mentioning no names (the Meemster) or vodka.
D little S said he'd be a fat alcoholic, but I reassured him that it's never done me any harm.
Being a fat alcoholic that is!

Sister of D little S was jannering loudly into her moby and stamping about for all the world like an SS officer with a silk flower behind her lug. She was fairly fragrant so Lovely One enquired what manner of scent she'd immersed herself in. As you know I favour Cilit Bang Grime and Lime, it masks the scent of fully loaded Tena Ladies coupled with the whiff of desperation. S of D little S had been soaked in something called 'Toilet Door'?

I have been mildy perturbed by a fellow artist bad mouthing me. I realise that you, my adoring public, won't possibly be able to believe it, but some old harridan called Shirty Arsehole, or something like that, has had the infernal cheek to diss Moi!
Apparently she's got an entourage of deceased husbands to her credit (died on purpose, methinks) and a list of ailments as long as Hugh Jorgan's willy.
Any road up, having never encountered the ailing old trout, I should be mightily interested to find out what she bases this totally inappropriate character assasination upon. I sniff the doings of the food stained one, or her hound. But perhaps I am mistaken, maybe I've been found out for the poisonous trollope that I am at last.

OR - THAT OTHER OLD STANDBY - DOES'T SELL AS MUCH AS MOI!

Ner, Ner, ner ner, Ner

In which I am on the move yet again...

2011-09-04T03:40:00.000-07:00

Oooooh at last we have sold the rancid stinkpile that is Chez Bloke et ex Mrs Bloke. The most annoying part of it, however, is that, for the very first time I revolted and insisted that S was there when the agent came to show them around, and the bastards bought the effing place!
Of course, Bloke, who is doing his level best to annoy me at every turn of the road, said
'Obviously S said all the right things.'
Oh bollocky bollocky bollocks, I thought, whilst grinning through gritted teggies.

Any road up, the greedy gits were still toying with the idea of asking the prospective purchasers for more money, but luckily, Bloke saw sense at last.

So, off we go again. Hopefully to some bijou seaside homestead which I shall furnish with my usual style and taste rather than the 'sale rail' style of the previous encumbant at Chez Bloke.

In the in box today...
A missive from the vile and spiteful LF, secretary of the residents association at Lovely One's other homestead, requiring Lovely Moi to return some documents that she never sent me. The reason given that she 'has a flat sale going through.' The woman's ridiculous self deception is staggering! She actually seems to think that she OWNS the flats! Stupid old bint! She's made herself so difficult and unpopular that people are really quite uncomfortable in their own homes!

Changing tack rather...

Sales are up up UP!

Sold five yesterday!

Eat my dust!

In which Eileen has custody of the cucumber...

2011-08-31T04:15:00.000-07:00

I feel I must unburden more of my visit to Aged P..

As one of life's passengers, Aged P, is not conversant with the demands of driving and as I'd had the worst drive of my life to get there I wasn't particularly keen on venturing out the very next day. None the less we sallied forth to MK to acquire a shower head, Boy having broken the one in situ. Having spent many hours in the past attempting to get Boy into the shower, it was with some pleasure that I found he had showered with such gay abandon he'd broken the wretched thing.
Aged P, who is jolly keen on wearing a hair shirt, greeted the news with the retort:
'Don't worry about it, I'll manage without.' As per, I had to practically beg to take her to get another one.
'Where else would you like to go,' I asked when we'd traversed B&Q accompanied by grumblings about having to pay £15 for the showerhead. Which was a bit rich, since the wrong one had been fitted in the first place and the shower was practically unusable in that the water fired out with such uncontrollable force that it was akin to being stabbed with red hot needles. Anyway, I fitted the blasted thing and she wouldn't use it in case I hadn't done it properly, so we had to wait for Bloke to arrive so that my handiwork could be inspected by a 'Man'. Ho hum!

Off we sashayed to many, many dress shops whereupon Aged P regailed various shop assistants with tales of her support stockings and the fact that she hadn't been able to wear any of her summer clothes because of the rain. Completely oblivious to the fact that it's actually been raining on all of us, not just her!

Bloke arrived back rather late and starving, very unusually not having availed himself of various ethnic scoff-ups throughout the day. I had already been brought to the point of suicide in the Co-op when attempting to ascertain exactly what Aged P wanted for 'tea'.
'Would you like lasange?'
'I'm not eating that muck'
'How about a sausage and mash ready meal?'
'I can't eat a whole one'
'You could save half'
'I've got pizza and sausage rolls'
'Is there enough for everyone?'
'Yes, if you have salad and a jacket potato with it'
Now I know that Bloke won't scoff that and I also know that 'enough' for Aged P is not the same as 'enough' where Boy and Bloke, and for that matter, Darling Moi, are concerned. So, at the risk of incurring the further wrath of said Aged P, I took the Bull by the wossnames and grabbed a couple of ready meals.
'Would you like garlic bread with your pizza?' I ask
'Please' says Boy
'I've already eaten three slices of bread' says AP
AP is unable to utter the words Yes or No, so I buy a small GB for Boy.

We get home...
Two pizzas the size of saucers are heated to a warm floppy consistency and slapped on the table for consumption.

AP ate a whole one and half of the garlic bread.

Bloke arrived and requested salad with his.
'Do you want lettuce and tomato?' enquired AP
'I bought a cucumber, but Eileen's got it' she went on.
Now, I felt that I would abandon the line of enquiry as to why Eileen had possession of the cucumber, and advised Bloke to request a couple of slices from the end with the fingerprints on!!!!

In which I am shat upon from a great height…

2011-08-27T05:55:00.001-07:00

So here we are at Aged P’s. ..

Bloke has gone off to the smoke to see a football game and Boy et Moi are festering quietly at Maison P.

But it is yesterday’s antics that I wish to offload upon your shell likes, dear reader…

I sashayed along to the gallery and was having a most productive day saleswise and indeed paintingwise. I sold two large framed prints and an original and completed yet another masterpiece.

It was raining chats and chiens so it was some time before I put out the A frame advertising dear little Lovely One’s wares. On shuffling out with it my beady was drawn to the opposite corner of the window to where my own dear masterpieces delight passers by. What do I see?   I’ll tell you what – a painting not dissimilar to mine own, for sale, undercutting my prices.

Now, as you will all be aware – well those of you from the world of art – it is an unwritten law that

A      I won’t put any of my work in anyone’s gallery close enough to interfere with She Who Must bla bla’s sales

and

B       She won’t get in any artist’s work likely to affect my sales.

AND YET THERE IT WAS

A painting that cost less than one of mine, the same subject matter, a not dissimilar style, beautifully framed and for sale in direct competition with me!

I ranted on at Anal C for a while, who informed me that when my sales were taken from the daysheet there weren’t any others of any significance, and, she put it…

‘I don’t know what people want any more’

Au contrare – we do know what they want – they want what I’ve got.

And it was with this in mind I contacted the gnarled, evil smelling entity that is She Who….. who incidentally is fast turning into Auntie Wainwright from Last of the Summer Wine.

I registered my displeasure at this slight which was received in the manner of a bag of pork scratchings at a Jewish tupperware party.

Any road up – the fingerless knitteds are now well and truly off!

I expect that before not very long I shall have joined the endless stream of past business associates who are forever consigned to the

‘I was so good to her/him, did everything for her/him, taught he/she all they know etc etc bla bla… and now look at what they’ve done to me. Poor me, lovely me.’

Let it be recorded here that I have stuck to my end of the bargain.

ps The Lenkie pics are down – Hurrah! No more Lenkie bores!

In which I am relishing my final hours of solitude...

2011-08-26T01:23:00.000-07:00

Just half a day today in the dear old Gallerista. No, dear reader, don't think I'm going to go 'home' (well, Bloke's house) and recline on the chaise longe, no, am driving squillions of miles to the homestead of aged P, along with Boy and Bloke. Oh joy of joys.

Bloke will be schlepping 'up the smoke' to see a football game and so I suppose I shall be dragged around some vile shopping mall with aged P, dragging a reluctant Boy.

I have already had an annoying phone call from aged P.
'There's a bus stop outside my house now, so don't park the car at it, will you?'
Oh shit, I thought, I always park at bus stops! What on earth am I going to do?
But I say...
'No, of course I won't park at the bus stop.'
'Well, next door and two doors up have got some kind of thing on the kerb so that they can drive onto the front to park their cars. You won't park there will you?'
'NO I WON'T PARK THERE EITHER.'
'I'm only saying', she goes on.
Already I am dreading the thought of seeing her. It's not because she's old. She's always been the bloody same.

Ten minutes pass during which I wash down a handful of Tamazepan with a chipped cup full of vodka....
The phone goes again...

'You might be able to park on next door's front. Shall I go and ask them?'

'NO - DON'T GO AND ASK THEM. WHEN I GET THERE I WILL FIND A SPACE AND PARK IN IT.'
'I'm only saying, there's no need to get annoyed.'

Any road up, to change the subject somewhat...
Bloke and me were watching the TV the other evening and some old trollope was regailing some other old trollope explaining that she was
'Built for pleasure'
'That's me' say Moi 'I'm built for pleasure'
'Yeah - like a bouncy castle' says he.

In which I accept culpability...

2011-08-20T07:28:00.000-07:00

What an absolute waste of a day. I opted to go to visit Boy on Tuesday instead of today since I need to inspect the flat and didn't want to disturb the tenant on a weekend.
Boy, on contact, who was still slumbering didn't sound any too miffed, or indeed, any too happy considering his fabulous accomplishments in the A level results. No thanks to me, I expect you're all thinking, given that I abandoned him to the tender machinations of Vile Husband.

And that, Dear Reader, is what's at the bottom of all this angst and dissatisfaction in my dear little existence...

In a fit of God know's what, be it too many prescribed happy pills, middle aged graspings for love, or plain and simple menopausal madness, I destroyed what little happiness and normality I have ever known by coming here.

Now, you may say, and you may well be correct, that I'm not concerned about Boy, but that I might be culpable in his dissapointments and unhappiness and thereby trash myself even more.

I have made my bed and I am lying most uncomfortably in it since I have nowhere else to kip.

meanwhile...

I attempt to cheer up Bloke by having a fish and chip picnic up on the cliffs watching the boats sail by. We were entertained by a peculiar cove seated on a bench on the opposite side of the road singing his head off. I was sorely tempted to nip over and give the pub singer an outdoor airing but was restrained by Bloke who doesn't appreciate raw talent.

Anyway, later that very same night I was to be found availing myself of both the porcelain bathroom fittings at the same time. Given that they're on opposite sides of the room I now have a bad back from the angle in which I was required to evacuate.

Obviously someone with my aristocratic sensibilites simply cannot digest food of the plebs.

In which we attempt some evening trade...

2011-08-19T08:54:00.000-07:00

Greetings from the Barbican.
'Weather here...Wish you were lovely'

A new plan has been thunk up by She Who bla bla. The premise of which is, if we stay open later in the evening, maybe all the stingy bastard holidaymakers/Yachtsmen/general hangers around who have been fingering the merchandise with their sticky little paws all bloody day and not buying anything, will come back and buy something later in the day.

Half a plan, One might think. However, those of you familiar with this neck of the woods will know only too well that after five in the evening we become swamped with overly made up and partially naked bints being sniffed after by football-shirted oiks intent on downing their own body weight in lager, barfing it up in the gutter and then giving any old trollope one up the chuff box.

Oooh, there goes the first one...
Their mantra should most certainly be 'just because it comes in my size, it doesn't mean I look good in it.'
The acreage of lycra employed in the fashioning of the, and I say this with a grimace on me gob, 'Little Black Dress' is positively alarming. I know lycra stretches to accomodate most things but across the arse this yard or two is taking on the properties of a cobweb.
All this atop gargantuan, thunderous thighs, clad terrifyingly in FISHNET TIGHTS that are heaving across the cellulite to such a degree that the upper thighs are dimpled in the manner of a Chanel handbag! When they are removed I imagine the horrifying trollope looks like an enormous quilted eiderdown.
The stilleto heels create a tremor that is registering on the richter scale as she stamps in the general direction of the nearest watering hole.
Crowning the lot is an over made up mask with the usual ironed and bleached scraggy barnet.
As she wafts on by the smell of cheap scent comes in like a fug - and what is that I detect - Cilit Bang Grime and Lime, up her Aunty Mary I shouldn't wonder!

They're all out now, swaggering, tottering and screeching like banshees.

I shall hang on in here until I start feeling like stabbing someone, which usually signals that I should go home.

In which I am a Boil in the Bag Hippo...

2011-08-17T01:44:00.000-07:00

Well, well! Rather a splendid month already for Lovely, Lovely talented darling One. And don't I deserve it? Yes, of course I do, what with the vagaries of the rest of my life being tiresome and difficult to bear.

It must be a source of constant wonder to you, dear reader, when you're deep in reverie, in the, not inconsiderable amount of time, you set aside each day, to think of Lovely One and her doings. You must marvel at the tenacity of One such as Lovely One and long to fashion your loathsome self in my image. Well, it cannot be! There is but one Lovely One and you'll just have to content your meagre self by prostrating yourself at my (no doubt you have one at home) shrine.

Any road up, I digress, once again....

I have totally slaughtered all the opposition down the street with the addition of my fairly priced local souvenir framed pics. J and all her cohorts must be forming an orderly queue in Netto for their weeks groceries now that their incomes have been slashed by the growing clamour for absolutely ANYTHING produced by Lovely One.

AND Brixham, which I favoured with a personal visit on Monday, is now under my spell and shelling out it's collective pocket money on Moi, Moi, Divine Moi. Now, you may imagine that I've gone over the edge with all this self congratulation, but I care not a jot!

The little pics of which I blog are in such demand that every day or so I wobble off to see Dear Little S to have him frame up some more. Now they need to be sold in bulk to make anything from them as She Who must be bla bla, has her gnarled hand out at alarmingly regular intervals and shoves the wads of cash up the leg of her bloomers, or down whatever manner of garment is under the food spattered cardi she constantly dwells within.

In a mad dash the other day I sashayed off to D little S in such a hurry that I failed to notice the liberal sprinkling of sandwich pickle smeared down the front of me greying Matalan T shirt, so had to spend the entire session zipped up in me unflattering raincoat which gave me the air of, and the liquid content of, a boil in the bag hippo. Anyway they've all sold now so I shall be going back tomorrow.

The weekend was marred by the addition of She Who Must be Obeyed's hangers on. In they trooped...
The Gay cleaning boy, complete with toy spaniel that he has clutched to his breast every effing time I see him and one of the many grandchildren who seem to be following in the arse prints of Don the Dump and seemingly call in for a pooh!

Any road up, I'll go to the foot of our stairs! That lot were mere bluebottles on the excrement of the Sunday afternoon compared to what fronted up close to closing time...

That irritating oddity, the ertwhile Elburton Drop in Centre, Saturday boy.

Now, even though he is no longer in the employ of the education department and on permanent 'playtime' he appears unable to resist giving all and sundry the benefit of his 'learned opinion'

Strolling nonchalantly into my little studio his opening gambit was...
'Your colour combinations have improved'

I could, at this point, cheerfully have smacked him on his smug, misshapen fizzog, but being mid honeycombe waffle cone heaven, I chose to take it on the chin.
However, on he ploughed, sauntering in my direction, hands in pockets and with the look of a man about to deliver a lecture... Which indeed he was.

'I think she's improved, don't you?' he says, drawing She Who M.... into the conversation.
'Oh yes I do' she answers
Now, I should tell you that She Who Bla bla... hangs on the every word of any T D or Harrington. She is an appalling judge of persons and this is born out by the number of times she is hoodwinked and dumped on.

Shoving the last few inches of waffle cone in me gob, I sneer in their general direction.

and STILL HE GOES ON

'your mark making has improved' says he
MARK MAKING
What the fuck is he on about, the tosser, methinks.

Seeing my glowering gob he says
'I'm trying to pay you a compliment, your mark making IS improving.'

What on earth makes the twat think his opinion is of any interest to me or indeed anyone else, because, lets face it he dishes it out to everyone.

I am still seething and had She who Bla bla not been there I would have let the little bastard have it verbally and possibly phsically since I have never been met with a situation that violence couldn't remedy.

Still, I expect there'll be a next time!!

In which people have the cheek to die inconveniently...

2011-08-14T02:49:00.000-07:00

Well, here I am again dear reader, just opened up and already had a bizarre conversation with a mightily strange personage from Doncaster.

'ah rite lov?' was the opening gambit
Even though I am patently 'not ah rite' having damp hair and a hole in me trousers from getting caught on a gate in the car park, I reply...
'Jolly fine' putting on one of me beatific smiles 'how the devil are you?'
'I were wonderin' if you could tell me 'ow to tell t'difference between a print and an original?'
'The price would generally be a bit of a giveaway' says me in an attempt to be jovial, even though I already want to stab someone with me paintbrush, such is my ever gloomy mood.
'well I'm manager of a charity shop and I can't tell t'difference lov.'

By now there are a few actual customers littering up the place, so I'm not that interested by the fortunes of a charity shop in effing Doncaster,so I sidle over to the small ugly gang leafing through the 'views of Dartmoor'.
'Me wife's looking for a picture to replace the one in our lounge,' says one.
I am too polite to inform him that only hotels and airports have lounges, but offer my assistance.
'We want to use and old frame, but we haven't measured it.'

GIVE ME STRENGTH.

The things you see when you've left yer Kalashnikov in yer other 'andbag!!!

Any road up another fatel blow to the enjoyment of what I laughingly call 'my life' occurred recently and I fully intend to bore you with it, dear reader.
It has long been my ambition to see a Lucian Freud work whilst the artist was still living.
On the coach trip from hell that I took Bloke on to give him a rest from feeding the unwashed, one of the trips was to Liverpool. When we got there, on the day after we should have gone, I was utterly beside myself to find a portrait of Leigh Bowery by Freud in the Tate.
It just made my day, my month my entire measly existence, in fact. Since for years I'd begged Vile Husband to take me to an exhibition - one being around my 40th birthday and I felt sure that he'd got tickets as a surprise. What an absolute idiot I am. Short of pinning him down and shouting into his face
'take me to the exhibition you selfish moron', no hint dropped would ever be acted upon.

Anyway it came and went, without me...

So, it was with utter horror that I subsequently found out that Lucian Freud had died the day before I went to the Tate. If the itinerary hadn't been changed, at least I'd have been there viewing the painting on the day itself, but look on the bright side - he might still have been warm!

In which I peruse my demise...

2011-08-10T02:03:00.000-07:00

Well here I am again and I note that three of my masterpieces have sold in my absence. That will annoy the anal one, oh goody goody! It also means that, like last month, I have sold one EVERY DAY. It seems sooo unfair on everyone else doesn't it? And that makes it EVEN BETTER.

I had Boy with me on Sunday when I was in here and he has begun to organise me into a proper business person by putting all my takings and expenses on a spread sheet, whatever that is. I always prefer to throw all the cash in a bucket under the desk and just dig in when needs must. The visit from Boy was a resounding success with Bloke being genial and amusing. Usually he is surly and uncommunicative and being confronted with this genial being I was flummoxed and really rather unsure how to react to it all. The upshot of all this rapidly changing behavoiur has left me in a quandry as to whether I am in fact falling out of me tree. With my drug induced short term memory failure to contend with, every day is something of an adventure and not always a pleasant one. However, I have once again fallen into a calm routine and am making dried grass whilst we have clement weather, so to speak.

It came upon me that I don't much care whether I exist or not now. The only thing keeping me afloat is the proliferation of drugs bestowed upon me from the quack. Taking them makes me numb. Not taking them makes me all too aware of what a ninepenny breakfast I've made of my miserable existence.

The tin hat was put firmly on the situation by the refusal of She Who Must be Obeyed to reign in her dog in the shape of the ghastly Anal One. When I complained about her odd behaviour and her naked aggression to Lovely One, She Who bla bla merely said that she would make sure we weren't both in the gallery at the same time. I really do think that the Anal One must have some kind of hold over her, as surely she should be admonished for her peculiar behaviour. They would both do well to acknowledge the situation as I feel most uncomfortable now and given that other galleries are making advances toward me, I may well review the situation as regards who becomes my lucky new owner.

Until I wash down the sleeping tablets with the vodka, that is. Which won't be long...

In which I am a bit, well a lot actually, pissed off...

2011-08-06T00:55:00.000-07:00

Ding ding! All change!

Well, dear reader, what a week! Culminating in yesterday, a foul and horrid day. Not of my making, I hasten to add.

It all began with a very quiet, more quiet than his usual self, which is of the grave. The odd intervention from moi enquiring as to the reason for the latest prolonged period of silence.

Any road up, so as not to bore you with the details, it culminated in the fact that having had two weeks off work and not having made enough to realistically keep things afloat, the overdraft was in use bigstyle. Myself, having been used to living on an overdraft facility, wasn't to perturbed by this, but darling Bloke was!
It all rather put me in the mind of dear old Grandpapa and Grandmama. One doesn't normally like to draw anyone's attention to the charming old ancestrians, being as they were, 'in service' so to speak, but well, it was the general theme of things. You see, and those of you from working class stock like dear little lovely one, will recall the days of the mantra 'we're not 'avin it if we can't pay cash'
And that, dear reader, is what it made me think of.

Since moving lock, stock and Manolos into chez Bloke (me casa et su casa) Moi has picked up the tab for scoff, treats, holidays, clothing, white goods, entertainment, tax bills etc...
those of you who are fortunate enough to be familiar with Lovely One will know that I am not stingy in any way shape or form. In fact, quite the reverse. Hence, usually skint!

But I am now required to pay rent. No more treats or holidays or outings or even eating together - just rent. Which is fine, or would have been if it had always been the arrangement.

Poor dear Bloke is quite beside himself with worry, what with the state of his business and his poor limpy leg and his perpetual pessimism. But the ferocity of his request was all out of proportion and really rather frightened Lovely One. One was left feeling like a guest that had outstayed their welcome.

It really MUST be moi. I must be sooooo difficult to live with and annoying that eventually everyone wants rid of me.

Speaking of which...
Sashayed into the gallery in order to have me photo taken for the newspapers and was met with an unsolicited outburst from Anal C. Who is definitely in need of urgent counselling.

Minding own business having conflab with She Who bla bla...
'Guess what' says me 'Slimey Normey from over the road (a rival gallery) came in here to ask is he could sell my stuff'
'What did you tell him' says She through gritted porcelain gnashers, that look a bit silly in a septagenarian gob.
'I told him that you'd batter me to death' says me with an impish grin.
'correct' says she
'Anywyay' I plough on 'I think we should up the ante...'

At this point Anal C positively launched herself across the gallery floor and flew into the conversation with..

'I know you think I don't try to sell your stuff, but I do' followed by other unintelligible babble.

'What on earth are you going on about?' says me

'That comment - up the ante' spits the Anal one.

'It's not all about you' I reply 'We weren't talking about you'
But she wouldn't have it and went on and on and on....

I found it necessary to draw her attention to the defensive stance that she takes on every matter with myself and She who must be obeyed, but it is becoming quite clear that she has lost the plot.

Anyway here endeth the day...

What a pisser that was!!!!

In which I return to the gallery...

2011-08-03T04:14:00.000-07:00

Well, dear reader, would you Christmas Eve it? I glided elegantly into the gallery. Bronzed, rested, worshipped and raring to create, following my luxury mini break ooop North, and what do I find?
The effing chicken in pride of place with a hand written, HAND WRITTEN, I tell you, notice - Good Buy - was £450 - now £245. This sophisticated note was scribed on a random piece of cardboard in the hand of an eight year old. Undeniably the work of the Anal One. But that wasn't the best bit, she'd seen fit to take my easel out of my studio space and, WAIT FOR IT, display someone else's painting on it!!! I say 'painting' because, as you know, I'm a generous soul where others' work is concerned, but I use the term very loosely indeed.
It was a horse's head. Well is was a horse's arse actually! It had all the features of a horse's head but not necessarily in the right order.
In front of it resided She Who bla bla looking like a pink and wrinkly Mafioso Donnette complete with said horse's head.

Why oh why, when I'd left a piece of work on my easel complete with my paints out and the area in suitable dissaray, does the Anal One feel the need to effing well move every sodding thing. I tell you, I could nip out for a wee and she's pack everything up, the ridiculous old crone!

Another one of the octagenarian olympic muff diving team was in discussing the laundering of a king sized quilt that had been shat on by an elderly infirm husband - so sitation normal then! Numerous prospective customers came and went clutching their vomit bags. After all who wants to listen to two old crones discussing terminal turditis.

I'll be back...

Just had to go outside to move on some ridiculously clad, smoking article who was parked on the windowsill just in front of my most fabulous masterpiece, yelling into his i phone about work, whilst leaning on my 'A' board.
'Excuse moi' says me 'where do you work?'
'Why?' says he
'Because I'm going to come and sit on your desk so no one can see what you're doing, you tit.' And with that I wobbled off back inside. Even my arse was pulling a face!

Oh, and by the way, I didn't have a fantastically sophisticated mini break, I am not worshipped and Bloke has inferred that I should be packing my Luis Vuitton and vamoosing. Well, he did retract the statement, but One is clearly on oueff shells now!

I should live on my dear little own with cats.

In which I am in the maison de chien yet again...

2011-07-24T02:27:00.000-07:00

Whatever was I thinking, dear reader, when I booked a coach tour for Bloke et Moi? Arriving at the first pick up point One felt positively jeune against the assembled octagenarian mob.

Amongst the gaggle was a vociferous hennaed matriach who determined to be heard above all others and, frankly, who never stopped emitting drivel from her pinched up little gob until we reached Bristol, whereupon we changed.

True to the luck of Bloke, or so he would have us believe, our ongoing vehicle was circa 1950 and exceptionally uncomfortable unlike the other lined up luxury modes of transport. In fact, Lovely One has bruises on her triangular knees having been crammed into a space designed for someone under 4' tall. Speaking of which, was what we had sitting in front of us for the entire hideous ordeal, in the person of, Troll, see above.

Troll and Trollina communicated with one another by reading out any printed material passing by.
Such as...
'Morissons', or 'Car Wash', met with 'Mmmm Morissons' from the other Troll.
Now this became hysterically amusing and murderous in turn.
When stopped alongside empty buildings we were treated to
'Empty building, shame' or even 'I like them bricks'
In fact any empty space had to be filled with the sound of Troll's voice, from start to fucking finish!

At feeding times, (all scoff was included in the price) Troll and Trollina ambled repeatedly up to the carvery and returned with overloaded plates of anything that was going.
Them being... 'entitled, since they'd paid for it.' The despicable little worms!

The first day out was a tour around the Peak District which is aching with interesting places such as Haddon Hall and Chatsworth, which we positively sped past, being dropped of for a shopping opportunity in Bakewell.

One high street being much the same as another, that was rather boring, although most of our time was spent searching for a belt (Bloke had forgotten his and was intending to spend the entire break wearing grey jogging bottoms) Believe Moi, he does indeed have a 'jogging bottom' and the larger gonad of the gentleman of advancing years is not served in the asthetic department by being encased in said jogging bottoms!

We tried Burtons and M & S but to no avail. Nothing they could proffer would go anywhere near encircling the girth of Bloke!
Oh joy! Oh bliss! I espied an Evans! The home of the fasionable fat bint! And indeed, they didn't let me down, having a four yard faux leather trouser holder-upper that went round him a treat!

Being completely shagged by the first day out we fed and watered and retired to the room, such as it was, to watch TV
Bloke divested himself of his attire and reclined in a mass of undulating flesh on the bed wearing just his Primarni shreddies and what I thought was a 'come hither' stare that I later found was indigestion.

Other discomfort centered around his 'bad knee' and this was duly attended to by raising and lowering his right leg in a scissor like movement which apparently eased the pain. An unfortunate side effect of this therapy, however, was a portion of shiny gonad peeking out of his knicker leg at alarming intervals.

I attempted to diffuse the situation by making conversation about the film we were watching, 'Clash of the Titans' (an Omen, or what!)
'I always wanted to look like that Judi Bowker when I was a little girl', says Moi, 'you know, when she was in Black Beauty'
'Shame you look more like the fecking horse', he replied, giving me another flash of past it's sell by date wedding tackle.
Pot - Kettle

Day 2 was a trip to Chester. Off we went, trundling along, with everyone full of Full English. Or at least full for a while.
Dashing down the coach ailse came a scraggy looking old girl, closely followed by a stream of puke.
'He's never sick! He's never sick!' shouted the attendant wife of the Pukemeister.
'OH YES HE FUCKING IS' methinks as partially digested bacon, egg and fried slice sloshes past me.

And so it went on...

We did have a trip to Liverpool which was acceptable since we were dropped at Albert Dock and were able to visit the Tate. When asked where I'd been by the driver and I divulged this information he looked stunned and his mouth fell open. Most people went to John Lewis.

Bloke accused me of 'moaning' and 'thinking I'm better than everyone else'. That is simply not the case. We just enjoy different things and I AM different to people who enjoy coach trips and have a 'herd' mentality. Not better - different. We can't all be the same.

I don't want to holiday with people who go around on frames with wheels and are disgorged from groaning coaches for shopping trip after shopping trip.

Bloke does and he's going without Moi next time!

In which I do the Fucky Chicken ...

2011-07-15T03:23:00.000-07:00

I tripped in this morning full of the J of S when I espied it...
NO CHICKEN ON THE WALL

Fan dabby donuts methinks! Anal C, trout extraordinaire, has FINALLY accepted that I don't want the egg laying bastard on the wall. Tossing aside my emergency saffron buns I skipped out to the Masarati and unloaded today's masterpieces.
Floating in and out for ten or so minutes in me chiffon Chloe Tea dress, I smiled the beatific smile of the unsullied Lovely One.

THEN I SAW IT

A fucking chicken print - right in the front of me browser - obliterating everthing else!

Bugger my 'at I muse, stamping my tiny Lanvin clad tootsie and reaching for the saffron buns. (They bastards are difficult to neck without liquid, I can tell ya) Nonetheless I managed four.

She Who must bla bla interrupts me reverie to phone and tell me that Anal C is depressed. DEPRESSED - the woman is completely ga ga - two vodkas short of a piss up.
Frankly, looking at the day sheet I thought we were closed yesterday given the fact that we had absolutely no effing sales. I should think anyone crossing the threshold was put off by her miserable scrunched up fizzog.

Of course, since Lovely Moi has been here we've had a succession of customers who all bought something - a big one of mine included - and went off happy and smiley following their encounters with Darling Darling ME ME ME.

Dear Little S just made contact to say that Swastika is on her way out.

In which I am accused of being spotty and having super floo us hair...

2011-07-13T02:26:00.000-07:00

I sashay in all ready to start another masterpiece and bugger my hat the fuckin' chicken is back on the wall.If I have to tell Anal C not to put the bastard thing on the effing wall once more I'll shove it up her arse!

I KNOW, I KNOW my chickens, hares, woofty bark wows etc are MASTERPIECES in their own right, but I don't want them in the same place as my signature pieces. Is that soooo difficult to grasp? I need a 'nomme de paintbrush' so that they aren't identified with Lovely One. Granted, they sell like gateaux chaud, like everything else I put my talented little mits to, but I don't want the effers on the wall - RIGHT!

Once again I find my entire area blocked in with Beryl Cook cards and that ridiculous Sara nonsense - old lady, cheap student paint K wrap. She just likes putting it next to mine to wind me up - and guess what - it's working today!
Now I've had to eat four saffron buns and I don't even like the bloody things! How am I ever going to get thin if people keep annoying me? Lucky I'm gorgeous in every other way, isn't it?

Although you wouldn't know it yesterday when I wobbled in to visit Dear Little S. There he was 'en famile' beavering away getting assistance from la soeur S, who was ackled up in some sort of massive romper suit from Primarni. She had the infernal gall to accuse Lovely One of having spots and 'super floo us' hair! Bitch!
I'd like to see what cascades out of that particular romper suit if given a sharp tug - then we'll see whose hirsute and whose not!
HOW D'YER LIKE THEM TUBES OF IMMAC - EH

Any road up, dears, I digress, there was also another romper suited member of the James gang, positively ready to pop with yet another one inside, fighting to get out. Having strange cravings she'd got a pork pie and a tub of clotted cream up her knicker leg to pacify 'Swastika' or whatever it's going to get called.

Then along comes Ma James, the diminutive leader of the gang, fresh from a fortnights arse wiping and herds them all off to get 'tea' for Dear Little S.

Lovely One, meanwhile, has produced yet another work of art that will shortly be coming to a sitting room wall near you - watch this space.

In which I explore the wonderful science of the fax machine...

2011-07-08T04:03:00.000-07:00

Anal C has moved all my paintings from whence I shifted them at the weekend. I put them where She Who must bla bla wanted them, but no, Anal C had to move them all yet again. I did meander past on Monday and caught a glimpse of her sweaty little brow flashing back and forth with a feather duster up her arse, but thought better of going in. The entire window was empty and the whole place was in disarray. When I returned later my easel was stuffed up a corner in front of all my paintings.

She Who bla bla was apologetic but daren't upset Anal C who she fears would suffer an apoplectic fit if she were challenged in any way.

oops - here comes the anal one...

I return some days later...

Well, Anal C has lost it big time!

'How are you' I enquire, hoping it's nothing trivial.
'I am still bunged up' she nasally informs moi,
'Oh goody' methinks
'My head is stuffed full of all sorts and it's all green' she goes on.

I'm fairly unsure of what that means, unless she's referring to snot, so I just busy myself and hope she goes away. Which after a while she does, only to be replaced by Don the Dump who wants to send a fax.

Now, when D the D was active in the work arena message sending involved pidgeons or persons on horseback, so Lovely One takes charge. Half way through the episode She Who bla bla phones up to see what's occurring re fax.
This means I have D the D on one side shouting instructions, She Who bla bla on the phone in the other ear and the fax in engaged.
Faxing a document is no longer considered a miracle of science, or voodoo, as it seems to be to D the D, who rips the paper out of my tiny hand and shoves me aside.
'What's that noise I can hear', says She who Bla bla...
'It's the elderly gentleman' says me 'and he won't let me get on'
With that he phones her on his mobile to her mobile, so now we have a four way conversation with everyone shouting instructions to me on how to use the fax.

NOW CORRECT MOI IF MOI'S WRONG BUT THE REASON FOR COMING IN FOR ME TO DO IT WAS BECAUSE I'M THE ONLY ONE WHO KNOWS HOW TO USE IT.

'The next noise you will hear is me slamming the effing door on the way out' I say to She who must be... 'If you don't call off the old gentleman.'

During the course of the fracas the fax has been sent - yippee!

'Has it gone, has it gone, HAS IT GONE' yells D the D (old gentleman)
'It has, and so are you' says me through gritted teeth.

OOOh - got to run - some chancer outside it taking a photograph of one of me masterpieces through the window.

FLAMING' CHEEK!

I accosted him and made him delete it - he pretended not to speak English but I'm fairly sure what I said was universal!

In which I realise it's me...

2011-07-03T03:18:00.000-07:00

Poor dear little Lovely One was feeling a bit horrid yesterday. Probably One's own fault as I laid in too long in the morning and didn't scoff any brekkie so went off to mind Dear Little S's with only my vast amounts of drugs (legal) rattling about inside. By the time I got home I shoved down anything I could get me 'ands on since I felt just about ready to comatose. Unfortunately I alighted upon some crackers, cheese and crisps with a pork and egg pie garnish. Too fatty, too salty too everything, and by the time it had all gurgled down I felt fit to chuck.

I awoke some time later to find Bloke, eyes shut, on the sofa.
After having enquired for his day - no good - as per, I said I wasn't feeling on top of the planet.
This was immediately taken as my making an excuse so as not to go to the theatre that evening.
He suggested I went back to bed, which having been met with derision on asking if there was anything wrong, I did.
I sat around a bit, not really knowing what to do, when I heard his shower start working and assumed he was going on his own, which he sometimes does.
When I finally plucked up the courage to go downstairs and meet the gloom, I found the theatre tickets torn up and thrown around the room.

If I hadn't wanted to go I wouldn't have bought the tickets.

Bloke seems very unhappy and I don't know what to do about it.

Is it me? I do seem to make people, well, Blokes, miserable.

Is it my reletless optimism in the face of adversity?
Is the suppers I cook?
Is it the way I paint?
Is it the way I look?

IS IT JUST ME PER SE?

Any comments would be greatly appreciated.

In which I meet a genuis...

2011-07-02T04:18:00.000-07:00

Oh dear, Dears, it would seem as though I shall have to stop minding Dear Little S's empire entirely.
This very morn I sallied forth in the horse and buggy and tied up outside the place expecting to have a reasonably quiet morning in order to paint.
First of all I am greeted by the most objectionable old git who had come to collect a framed splodge that was apparently going in for a competition.
I shall eagerly await the arrival of the winner's cup for that one!
EVERYONE IS A SODDING ARTIST THESE DAYS
He was arrogant in the extreme. What is with people, well, MEN? Just because I'm a lumpen old trollope that nobody wants to boff, why do I get treated like a minion. Well, being treated like a minion is a treat, usually it's like a dog turd or the like stuck to the sole of a shoe!
I suppose that when people come in here they assume, just because I'm such a lovely mild mannered little Lovely One, I must be way down the food chain.
Maybe that's why J stamps about and talks in a very loud voice. It must convey power. I shall have to try it.

Only yesterday in the other gallery, I encountered possibly the most arrogant artist I have ever met.
He strode in, slapped a catalogue down on the counter, and said;
'Give that to Anal C' (well he didn't say Anal - but you know who I mean)
'I'm looking for someone to market and promote my work. I'm at the European Parliament you know.'
WHOOPDY FUCKING DO methinks, not quite knowing what to say. So I say 'congratulations.'
He goes on and on visibly puffing up as he tells me how it would be an accolade for us to have association with his work.
It is very well executed and way superior to my offerings, but, and it is a big but (like mine) there is a very tiny market for paintings of current Royal Naval vessels. In fact, so small, it extends only to the Captain of said ships.
Still, he clearly enjoyed talking down to me, that made his day and off he strutted.
I curtseyed and put a hex on him that he would get run over.

In which I go off in yet another huff...

2011-07-01T04:59:00.000-07:00

I really do enjoy going in to Dear Little S's place and gossiping with him whilst I paint. We enjoy a bit of a bitch and whatnot and as long as Lovely One is under observation, I get a good days painting in. However, I fear I may have to abandon the idea since, not only am I finding that J's students are 'getting inspired' by my work, but it would appear I am required to fulfil certain obligations in order to go in and chat to Dear Little S. I'm fine with that and have indeed offered to 'mind the shop' on occasion, one occasion being tomorrow morning.
BUT that means I'm there on my own, thereby defeating the whole object of my being there at all, which is having a bit of company whilst I paint.

But that's not the worst bit - J had the supreme audacity to offer me up as an exhibiting painter alongside one of her students.
Do I look as if I need someone to take charge of me?
Rhetorical question, darlings. NO I BLOODY WELL DO NOT!
Nor do I wish to to exhibit alongside a student of someone that I do not in any way, shape or form consider my superior!
I know exactly what would happen because it's happened before.
I have exhibited with J before. Seemed like a good idea since her offerings are the opposite end of the spectrum to mine own. It was upon my arrival in Devon and the whole evening turned into the J show, mainly due to the fact that she'd invited all her 'students' and I didn't know anyone, being new in town. I placed myself behind the counter in order to observe the goings on and was quite content about that. I wasn't introduced to anyone or included in the evening in any way, but I wasn't perturbed since I prefer to weigh up new situations before entering the fray. Other people were put out on my behalf, though, insisting that J should have included me in the proceedings.
Personally, I couldn't have given a Kipper's dick, since I sold all my stuff that week anyway.
I do believe most of hers is still taking up wallspace in Dear Little S's place, gathering dust.

All of this I can brush aside - but assuming I will exhibit with anyone now, least of all a gaggle of talentless, no hope, little old lady daubers - is BEYOND THE PATIENCE OF DEAR LITTLE LOVELY ONE!

What a cheek - Would you Christmas Eve it?

I felt it necessary to put J in the picture, figuratively speaking.

'I have spent years getting to the position I'm at now. I have worked as part of a Co-op. I have worked as an art therapist to violent, mentally disturbed adults, I have 'wiped arse' as a part time job to pay the bills etc etc

AND I AM NOT BEING BOSSED AROUND BY SOMEONE WHO'S HUSBAND CAN PICK UP THE TAB IF IT DOESN'T GO TO PLAN

Thank you very bloody much!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

In which it is all spoiled, spoiled, spoiled...

2011-06-30T00:40:00.001-07:00

A good and most enjoyable day in the gallery yesterday.
AND I bought a Martin Procter original! He, dear reader, is the reason I started to paint, I have lusted after and admired his work and yesterday, found a perfect little example at just the price I could afford.

Having had an exceptionally good month, sales wise, and for once having a little bit of spare cash, I felt that 'buying affordable art at the moment is a good idea' as I'm always telling my customers, was indeed, an excellent idea for Lovely One.

I acquired said art from a rival gallery over the road, Slimey Normey, to be precise. And so it was that I took it back to Armada with some trepidation since She Who Must Be Obeyed was in situ and had in fact, only sent me out to spy on another gallery further down the Barbican.

Now, darlings, I don't want you to think that I am sent off on errands like some office junior, it's just that She Who bla bla, can't get about like she used to, having done a somersault down a marble staircase in Dubai and suffering the consequences.
Hang about though - They DO, but since the rest of them are elderly in the extreme, I suppose I should consider it as hanging on to what little of my youth I have left. Ha ha

I consider that this is a very high point in my career, since the Martin Procter cost less than one of my paintings.

But my day was spoiled by the ghastly black cloud that appeared on my horizon in the shape of Bloke.
'Do you want to look at it' says me with girlish, enthusiasm.
'No, I'm not interested,' he retorts
'Come on' says me, 'have a look, thinking he was joking.
'I'm not interested in art', says he, with me only in his peripheral vision, since he doesn't make eye contact when in one of his black moods.
I duly took the art upstairs in it's packaging to be hung on the walls of my own home, when I find such a place. I won't be hanging it in his and his ex-wife's house since I don't feel at home.

'I've just had eighteen years of this', he said when I reappeared. Now, I realise that he has had quite a time of it with said ex as she wiped the floor with him in every way, but, those of you who know me will attest that I am not selfish, dishonest or unkind, unless I am wounded and then I am poisonous.

I WOULD ALSO LIKE TO POINT OUT THAT YESTERDAY I BOUGHT A VERY LARGE TV, total anathema to Moi, FOR HIS PLEASURE

AND IT COST LESS THAN THE PAINTING.

In which I shall take a ghastly revenge...

2011-06-29T02:15:00.000-07:00

I'm seething from morn until night
and positively fizzing with spite
I'm the victim of theft don't you see
because everyone's copying me!

Now I realise my talent is massive
so I simply cannot remain passive
In the light of the crime being done
to dear lovely innocent One

'The style is mine'
I cry with pique
and hither to
it was unique
and it's taken me a goodly while
to develop Lovely One's own style

As, mindful of contemporaries
whilst obviously keen to please
I paid no heed to other's strictures
and produced mine own delightful pictures

But now I find those lesser mortals
try entering fame through my own portals
by emulating my technique
Render moi no more unique

What can One do to stem the tide?
I'll ponder and my time I'll bide
You may be sure revenge is nigh
I'll get the bastards by and by

For until now I've let them be
not encroaching on their territory
But since on mine they've chose to tread
I hereby warn impending dread

I speak as one who rarely fails
to obliterate all other's sales
I shall continue to reign supreme
and all you others can but dream
just speak of me in tones quite hushed
or prepare yourselves to get fecking crushed!

In which I twiddly diddly dee-sist...

2011-06-26T02:58:00.002-07:00

Well, dear reader, there goes another three hours of my life that I won't get back!

One dabbed a bit of Cilit Bang Grime and Lime behind One's lugs and valiantly sallied forth to the Theatre Royal last evening, with Bloke, to see 'The Man in the Mirror'. Thinking it would cheer up the sullen Bloke, One purchased tickets and duly counted down the days until I could spend three hours up close and personal on one side with a complete unknown personage, whose personal hygeine routine would be completely unknown.

Now, I'm not entirely immune to the delights of Michael Jackson, myself, but I have since discovered that he left me behind at 'twiddly diddly dee rockin' Robin' etc etc...

The show began with the brightest flashing light display I've encountered since having drops in One's baby blues and being temporarily blinded for a whole day. AND, I have to say, that experience was pleasant in the extreme compared to last evenings doings.

An assorted throng of poorly dressed articles shimmied their way, as if without direction, through La Jackson's back catalogue, interspersed with video footage of himself and various hangers on bigging him up.

One or two of the participants were vocally acceptable particularly a dusky maiden with thunderous thighs who thankfully didn't wobble about patially clad, like most of them.

At the interval I sought Bloke's opinion of the 'entertainment' and it would appear he was as unenthusiastic as Moi, but had resolved to sit it out as 'we'd paid for it'.

Would that it were that we COULD sit it out! But no! Horror of horrors!
'Stand up and put your hands in the air' ordered one of the cast.
MY WORST NIGHTMARE
Lovely One, as those of you dear readers who are privvy to the proclivities of Moi, just doesn't DO organised enjoyment. In fact I suffer a severe sense of humour failure and it's to be seen all too clearly in my countenace, not to mention me fizzog!

Any road up, eventually One and Bloke, had to get to our tootsies, since we were completely surrounded by die-hard Jackson fans swaying and clapping to their little tickers content.

Still, standing up, momentarily relieved me from having me space invaded by a denim clad article who insisted in sitting, legs akimbo, in the manner of football pundits on Sky TV. You know the ones, silky suited morons whose tailors clearly ran right out of cloth before knitting enough gonad room.

Anyway, I'm straying from the path... as per...

I could have spent the ticket money on shoes, well one shoe anyway, and shut meself in the cupboard under the stairs with the radio on full blast and repeatedly smashed me head against the wall whilst shining a lazer torch into me eyes. It would have had the same effect, minus of course, the space invading thing next to me.

Bloke went straight to bed upon our return and barely spoke to me this morning. Not sure if it's because he's gone into one, is generally sullen, I'm not quite meself or what...

At this present moment in time I couldn't give A RAT'S FAT ARSE

In which I do my well known and much loved Incredible Hulk impersonation...

2011-06-24T07:31:00.000-07:00

Now! Don't panic and rush out to buy grapes, but Lovely One is not feeling herself of late. A very unfortunate black out occurred whilst at my post in the gallery. One came over all unneccassary and whilst not losing conciousness, certainly lost my dear little senses for a mo. Assembled company fussed around bringing me water and thrusting my head between my knees with such force that I was nonplussed. Dear Little S put forth the theory that I was overcome by fumes emitting from Don the Dump, which may well have been the case since he is now 'Don the Double Dumper'. Anyway, I am restored to my former rude health, although it's not very rude these days, having all sorts of grumbling ailments with which I shan't bore you.

Any road up, shortly after the fainting experience I looked up from ebay to see BF and BFP standing in the doorway, large as life and twice as nautical. BF resembling a partially shorn sheep with a baalamb type hairdo which must collect allsorts when she's out foraging in the hedgerows.

Hoardes of She Who bla bla...'s octagenarian would be muff diver admirers have been clogging up the airspace in here this week, skyping and webcamming their many and various grandchildren all over the universe. I get shoved out of me seat, interrupted in the middle of the creation of many an important masterpiece and the upshot has been not much done. They don't seem to clock that their squelching Tena Ladys and clacking false teeth put the customers off.

I did get some painting done at Dear Little S's AND the little dear has sold one this week - goody goody!

But the most annoying occurance this week, thus far, has been the selfish shitbag who parked his nasty little ve-hickle so close to my Ferrarri that I couldn't open the effing door to go home! I was that fecking furious that I, single handedly, let off the handbrake and pushed the thing out of the parking space. I did turn green and bust out of me Chanel suit, but I don't think any one noticed.

In which I shall never darken the door of the Mountbatten again...

2011-06-22T02:12:00.001-07:00

On Mondays Bloke and Moi do all our other stuff, other than work. This week we opted to favour, well I opted to favour, The Mountbatten pub which looks out over the stretch of water to the Hoe and the Barbican. The skies were misty and rain pelted down outside so we sat inside by the window.

I spent the most uncomfortable half hour with the arms of a 'country cottage' style chair digging into me gargantuan thighs. Now, dear reader, those of you familiar with dear little Lovely One will know that I am of the statuesque form, in the manner of Miranda Hart, or any Amazon one might care to name, but thus far have always engineered my arse into any assorted chair one may proffer. Never have I splayed the legs of a white plastic garden chair. Never have I required an extension belt on an aircraft. Never have I been stuck in a turnstlye, but I was bruised in the extreme by the diddyman sized, rickety seating apparatus in that boring establishment.

The general discomfort, however, didn't stop me from being utterly aghast at the general decor of the place. A revolting mish mash of styles: wrought iron dividing arches which didn't seem to be actually dividing anything. Ghastly faux Lloyd loom bucket chairs in the restaurant with tables too low to eat from, alongside vast heavy pine tables and modern chairs. Hideous curtains with silly little tie backs that screamed at the soft furnishings and carpet. The pictures on the wall, some from Armada, though none of mine, the bastards, looked as though they'd been flung at the wall and nailed up where they hit. The bar looked for all the world like a saloon bar from a wild west film, were it not for the repulsive and unbelievably enormous dried flower display, topped off with fairy lights. Behind the bar stood five or so bored looking spotty youths with their arms folded waiting to pull another pint of cider that they could then slop unceremoniously on the bar.

The overpriced baguettes were delivered without cutlery or napkins by a surly over made up piece with a face like a chewed nuttals mintoe. Masticating the fatty beef momentarily took me mind off me discomfort stuffed into the uncomfortable chair, but whilst chewing said beef, I begun, as One does, to listen to the surrounding conversation.

On one side was a table of elderly ladies each outdoing the another with tales of various and revolting illnesses.
At what particular age does one have to dwell so completely on one's health? For me, the answer to the question:
'How are you' is answered by
'Fine thanks' unless I have a limb visibly hanging on by a tendon.

The other side of us there sat a family, generations of them, discussing what to do now their proposed walk was scuppered by the rain. Grandma, apropo of nothing, launched into a monologue praising euthenasia.
'Bugger my 'at' I thought , 'I know it's rainting, but that's something of an extreme reaction.'

Further up the establishment there was a table of new mummies, not in the least bit yummy, with three mewling and puking babies.

We discarded our gristle buns, prized my arse out of the chair and sheared.

In which I am a reluctant home porn viewer...

2011-06-19T04:11:00.000-07:00

More bloody road closures! Today it's the 'Race for Life' lot, so many many pink clad and sweaty women tramping the streets for their cause. It's not that I don't wish them well, but I just wish they'd run about somewhere else! As if it's not enough that the gas men are still clagging up the road, now we've got metric tonnes of perspiring cellulite causing the tectonic plates of the Barbican to shift alarmingly!

Mounds of moist flesh of another hue are shockingly visible from One's kitchen window of an evening at the mo. As dear little Lovely One is boiling the kettle for her nightly hot, a sight not fit for Lovely Moi consumption is all too visible from the old pied a terre.

I feel I should explain re: hot...
The weather is never suitably clement for the removal of a fur clad hot from the jammy bottoms of oneself. Although the 'corned beef' flesh look, reminiscent of one's shins having spent too long in front of a coal fire, is not favoured by Bloke I simply can't do without it. On winter days I cram one down the back of me leggings when I'm painting and waddle around with it in the manner of a toddler with a full nappy.

Anyway, back to the dusky goings on over the road. The house immediately opposite has been occupied by a lone chap for as long as I've been in residence. That is until recently when the dusky lump occasionaly on view has been moved in seemingly permanently.

Last evening I pointed out to Bloke that the goings on in the bedroom which our kitchen window looms down upon, are flagrantly visible when standing at said window. The other side of the road is a long way off beyond a tree covered green, but with opera glasses (joke) everything is played out like a little portable tv screen just por moi.
No, dears, I'm not looking, but when standing at the sink, the movement of all that undulating brown flesh being pursued by a little, anaemic stick like chap in his tesco home and wear y-fronts tends to draw the eye.
Bloke, peering, furrow browed, in general direction, not very helpfully shouted out:
'He's got his finger up 'er bum!'
causing Lovely Moi to misdirect the boiling water from my hot right down the front of me fluffy!
'You've got flamin' good eyesight', I retorted, barging him aside.
'I can't see it', says me squinting and clutching me fluffy.
'Neither can I, you goon' says he, shuffling off shaking his head.

In which I just waffle on and on...

2011-06-17T02:36:00.000-07:00

Moved into Dear Little S's gallery yesterday. My very own corner - in which I may actually leave out my stuff (as long as it's tidy - bore snore) so that passers by can admire it and bid to buy even before it's complete. Well, that's the plan.

J, Dear LS's business partner is frightfully posh and business like which is a bit scary for soft and gentle Lovely One. But, I suppose someone's got to be the grown up and as long as it doesn't have to be moi, I'll fall into line. I am swapping a 'room of one's own' for time manning the gallery so that Dear Little S can go wedding snapping with the Meemster and Posh J can look after her aged Ma.

Should work well for me since I can't get any painting done in here, (Barbican), as I keep on getting interrupted by customers, the bastards! Not that anyone's bought anything yet. Just the usual Lenkie bores treating us like a museum and 'oh I'm just looking' it all over the shop - the shittsters!

One new approach this morning though, an elderly, kagul clad, shopping baggster shuffled in and said,
'I used to work with him you know in 1966'
I plastered on the smile that says - 'Yes, I too regard the old perv as a saint' when inside I mean
'I hope yer colostomy bag bursts and drips into yer Co-op carrier.'

Anyway, enough of that, I'm getting obsessed and full of bile, and I can't do a festering thing about it because the object of my frustration has snuffed it.

Onward and upward.

D the dump has been in attempting to hack into She who....'s email account and requesting my assistance for the task. Still, at least with that occupying his time he wasn't outback offloading last nights fish finger biryani and 14 pints of guinness.

Am officially an old person, well will be from the 18th to 22nd July when I have, perhaps rashly, booked up for a coach tour of Chester, Liverpool and the Peak District. It's so unbelievably cheap that I dread to imagine standard of accomodation and food. Still, Bloke never goes anywhere without a catering pack of cheese and onion crisps and a coal sack full of Minstrels so we should be able to chow down in our 'comfortable twin bedded room'

I expect it'll be a 'Pamela Harriman' experience (google her) in that being surrounded by much older people, one is automatically the most attractive. Youth being the best beauty asset of all.

Bloke says we are old gits anyway. He certainly looked like one this morning when he came to slobber me goodbye, with his tummy hanging over his new extra large Matalan shreddies and his little, well enormous actually, head, freshly shaved looking like a just dug up Desiree spud that had had a run in with a garden fork.
Off he plodded, with a face like a bombed out toilet block, hobbling down the stairs to the wafting aroma of pooh and toothpaste that permeates the homestead of a morning.

In which I press ahead with world domination...

2011-06-15T02:22:00.000-07:00

Well, here I jolly well am again darlings.

It took Lovely One A WHOLE EFFING HOUR to negotiate the sodding gasworks/roadworks/whateverbastardworks to get here and thusfar have taken 80p for two postcards.

The first thing I did on opening up was to ensure that the sales figures have slumped once again now Anal C is back at the feather dustered helm. Oh tee hee, the old bat's putting off the customers again. One slight little problermo though, is that she has once again moved all my stuff round and hidden a lot of it. She's only interested in selling stuff that's owned outright by the gallery as all the money for that goes straight up the knicker leg of She Who Must bla bla...

I expect she's off poisoning some unfortunate fucker so's she can furrow her brow and 'nurse' them back to health. She who must be... was certainly in better fettle without the gloom of Anal C surrounding her last week.

I bet she's spitting! My new cards have trounced everyone else's Oh joy Oh bliss. I do realise, dear reader, that I am a spiteful, vinegar pissing Old Harridan. Do I care? Do I buggery!

Anyway, back to the serious business of me dominating the world. At this point I'd twirl me mustache, if I had one. (Well maybe a little bit of one) But, in the absence I'll twirl me twinkle menacingly. After some investigation I have arrived at the conclusion that galleries now appraise One's work via the pooter, if you please. So, I currently have a person of that persuasion resizing me originals, whatever that is, so I can email them to prospective exhibitors. I know I'm an insufferable big head, but I know they'll all want them. Who wouldn't want to make money for nothing?!! At least that way I won't have to traipse around with a bundle of masterpieces having to be pleasant to people when I'd rather be watching re-runs of Come Dine with Me and picking me nose.

The saga of Aged P's flat has come, or will come at 12 noon, to an end. We have had to stump up a grand towards the deed of variation that the purchaser had to get in order to let the flat. Which is a bit rich considering the stchooped solicitor wasn't doing his job. But these days, in order to sell anything, you have to be rather too flexible and accomodating for my liking.

On relaying this story to aged Ma - SHE SAID SHE'D PAY FOR IT OUT OF HER SHARE.

WELL - YOU COULD HAVE BUGGERED ME THROUGH ME RAINCOAT

In which I am dripped on by soggy fat birds...

2011-06-12T03:30:00.001-07:00

Absolutely tipping it down! Raining pussy cats and those ghastly other furry things. So, consequently lots of kagul clad cretins in, sheltering from the downpour.
Even as I blog there's a generously sized blob type lardarse dripping all over Lovely One's print browser.

Of course, we have sportswear covered fiftysomethings who've never been adjacent to a gym in their miserables, hovvering pathetically around the Lenkie offerings.

Goodo, most of them have sheared.

I want to get on with my painting. I am getting a little bit, well a BIG bit actually, sick of pretending to be a shop assistant. Although it has to be said I do a better job of it than the actual shop assistant who was back in yesterday and judging by the poor sales should have stayed away.

Sashayed by to visit Dear Little S yesterday and set up a painting area for myself in his studio. I desperately need a dedicated space to set up my stuff and just leave it there instead of having to pack it all away in this Steptoe's Yard of a Gallery.

Any road up, Dear Little S and Moi have come to the conclusion that Anal C is using She Who must be.... as a vehicle for her 'Munchhausen's syndrome by proxy'. As odd as it may seem, SWmbO has been perfectly ok this past week whilst Darling Moi has been minding the shop and she has swanned in and out like the owner should. There's been very little talk about impending doom of any kind, business wise or healthwise and so One must draw the conclusion that Anal C is at the bottom of it, so to speak.

Her pinched up face - mouth like a cat's arse, and knitted brow, wrinkly forehead look, puts off the most ardent art lover.
Lovely One, of course, with peaches and cream, flawless skin, brightened by sparkling teggies and baby blues is a positive breath of air of the freshest quality.

The fetid stench of decomposing octagenarians does rather repell prospective purchasers when the gaff is left in the tender care of Anal C - or even worse - Don the dump. Don the dump, the estranged spouse of She who... totters in occasionaly demanding cups of tea and asking moi to do 'something on the computer' for him. Known as D the D for the unfortunate habit of calling in for a crap on a daily basis. Does he have no facilities at home, One can't help pondering. The facilities here are not exactly cut out for major dumping expeditions, being in a little hut immediately behind the counter and next to the kitchen, yuk yuk and double yuk!!! The pervading pong is utterly vomit inducing and - oh shit - here he comes again...

Wonders will never cease! He's bogged off - rather than bogging on - like he usually does.

Anyway, back to D the D. He may well spray the air freshener copiously about the shit hut, but the 'room freshener' that can cut through that hasn't come out of the Nassau Space Center lab yet! If One could sew, One could sew a button on the cloud emanating from the gap under the door.

Oh feckin' 'eck he's back again! But not for long as his oversized ancient Merc has blocked the 'See Plymouth by Beryl the bus' bus. The driver is frantically sounding his horn to shift the shittster and his Merc, whilst his cargo of packa-macked pensioners tut-tut their false teeth into a sodding percussion interlude.

That's probably the most excitement me and Billie Holliday will have all day. She's still bleating on about some man 'havin' done her wrong'
Still, she should be grateful that he just duffed her up, rather than nipping in to stink out her bog with a nuclear submarine sized chod!

In which I realise that I am indeed working for a freak show...

2011-06-11T12:38:00.000-07:00

And so the end of the Anal C free week has cometh.

Rather splendid sales all round despite the visitations of She Who bla bla's little chums sniffing around on an almost hourly basis. Fantastically interesting discussions held at high decibel levels on topics such as their endless supply of weird friends with their equally weird health conditions.

Lovely One was left agog, positively open mouthed and gaping upon the overhearing of today's little discussion.

It went thus...
'Do you remember Alice who went to Australia?'
'Oh yes, wasn't she the one who liked older men?'
'Yes that's the one.Well another one's died and left her even more money.'
'That's four of them she's seen off now'.
'What ever happened to Dorothy?'
'Dorothy?'
'Yes, you know, the one who only married men with one leg.'
'There's a name for that isn't there'

THERE IS INDEED A NAME FOR THAT METHINKS. But for once, I am mesmerised into a deathly hush

'Well that third one she married, you know, the one who had his leg amputated so she would marry him. Well he's dead'

I quietly packed away my paints and left...

In which I am serene and flawless.......

2011-06-10T03:06:00.000-07:00

Charming and disarming moi has spent the entire week being a shop assistant in the gallery.

Anal C is on her hols this week.

I've had a wonderful time making a mess, not washing up and putting stuff where I want it.

Takings are up MASSIVELY, music played is sophisticated and cool, witty banter drifts hither and thither and we are positively galleryesque, instead of being a drop in centre for elderly ladies to discuss their many and varied forms of waste disposal.
Why is that when one hits a certain age it would appear one can't pooh, and yet would seemingly be unable to stop weeing! I can't wait!

I'm checking out before those delights occur! Sadly too old now to die 'young and beautiful' I shall deffo shuffle before I have to spend my days astride a Tena Lady lorry!

Can't be arsed (I hate that expression) to paint this morning and am people watching. I've decided to be utterly charming moi today and see just how much more spons can be stashed before Anal C returns with her feather duster and her cottage cheese.

It's not enough for me to succeed - everyone else must fail!

Just sold a boring old David Young painting of some spiffing Tor or another out on Dartmoor. Two old bints, one with terminal halitosis, were in here AGES choosing the festering item. They had the infernal cheek to prop the prospective choices against LOVELY ONE'S MASTERPIECES! They have no idea how close they came to being belted round the bonce with a bronze Lenkie bust. (Assaulting persons is all they're good for)

Anyway finally a ghastly bluebell wood was decided upon for the lucky retiring person's gift. Whipping it onto the counter for wrapping the eagle eyed one of the pair spotted a slight mark on the frame, so off we went again. Give me strength! Lovely One did of course remain serene and jollied the pair along to another choice. If only all these people knew what a bad tempered, sour old harridan I actually am! My mask of lovliness never cracks! Well, not til I get home and beat up Bloke before drinking myself into an incontinent stupor!

ANY OLD FLAMIN' WAY - whatever I'm like, I'm much more palatable than the anally retentive septagenarian Anal C who haunts the place on a daily basis.

'Oh there's not enough work for two to do' she bleats constantly to She Who ... bla bla. When will the ridiculous old fluid retentive dollop realise that

SHE IS A SHOP ASSISTANT

AND LOVELY ONE

IS

AN ARTISTE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

In which I am improving - as if that were poss...

2011-06-09T04:21:00.000-07:00

Goodo! Things picking up this week to such a degree that I can't paint 'em fast enough! Two on their way to Australia and one on it's way to France and that's just over the past two days, dear reader.

And, guess what? If I haven't told you already I AM BEING STUDIED AT THE UNIVERSITY.

No, get up, dears. No need to prostrate yourselves just yet. Oh alright! Go on then!
It won't change me. I'll still be the model of perfection and modesty I've always been.

Just been rudely interrupted by a Lenkie bore wanting to tell me all about his painting. Bore - snore - bore. Do I look like I care!

Anyway, sales are up, I am Lovely and I've got a viewing on the house this afternoon AND Me Dad's flat's sold.

I need shoes!

In which I recall my time as a deep sea pearl diver...

2011-06-07T04:24:00.000-07:00

I know, I know, I'm a dear little fool to myself! Having acquired a shiny new thick nibbed glass pen to write on my outside board I went all benevolent and wrote a whole side of the A frame about Lenkie.

Then, deep in discussion with an antipodean customer about the merits of shipping one of my paintings, along comes my first Lenkie Bore of the day...

In it marches,
'Where's the Lenkie prints' it enquires, whilst standing next to them.
We then embark upon a 'why isn't there a dedicated museum/gallery/shrine.' All this whilst I am in the middle of a sale of one of my paintings!
'I'm a writer', it ploughs on, 'and I sat next to one of Lenkie's daughters at an art class yesterday.'

I DON'T GIVE A RAT'S FAT ARSE. FUCK OFF AND LET A LIVING, BREATHING PAINTER GET ON WITH A SALE.

Luckily said Antipodean personage is sufficiently enamoured with Lovely One's offering to hang around long enough for the 'writer' HUH, to sod offski.

A little question for you, darling reader, Why is it that opticians invariably have halitosis that could fell a tree at fifty paces?
My training as a deep sea pearl diver came in awfully handy yesterday when having my baby blues examined, as I was able to hold my breath for the entire forty seven minutes.

In which I discover Chet Baker...

2011-06-05T02:47:00.000-07:00

I am listening to 'My funny Valentine' by Chet Baker. I 'discovered' this genius whilst listening to Roger Waters Dessert Island Discs. Being a jaded old trollope of advancing years, with a cynical slant on life, I was stopped in my tracks by the sound. I'd long since given up on anyone or anything affecting me deeply when along comes Chet. Oh well, maybe other things will stir me, who knows!

Wobbled off to Browston Gallery in Modbury on Friday with a few prints and cards to hawk my wares. Never ever done that before, I am always invited to exhibit by others. Still, I intend to cash in on my works now so have been galvanised into action. Waffled on nervously and thrust said works in front of cool as a cu gallery owner, who, it has to be said, went into paroxyms of delight right there before my eyes. I was nervington as a result of J telling me that the gallery is notoriously difficult to get into, but - success is mine! Not only am I exhibiting three large works in the next exhibition, but they want my new cards AND they want me to paint in their exquisite garden throughout the summer! It's days like that - that make me wonder if my long standing decision not to live to be old might have been a bit hasty.

Anyway, am painting Beer today and then will be off to the Steam Gallery, the very place that inspired me to paint full time, having wonderful Martin Procter stuff on display when visiting on hols many moons ago.

Mucho bollockso with regard to sale of aged P's gaff. Now it would appear that the buyers solicitor omitted to inform his client that there was a clause in the lease of the flat that forbids letting. Bit of a bummer when one's purchasing said gaff in order to let it! Ensuing shit hitting fan means no greenbacks to be shared out amoungst the great unwashed Harris' family. Absolute nonsense actually since most of the flats are indeed let, and anyway, just do it!

Sashayed forth to Wivey to extract shiny new pooter from Wardo Boy. Hot and bothersome journey there and chilled and cool one on the way back in the company of Chet.

In which I slip back into my little family...

2011-05-30T03:16:00.000-07:00

I fuelled up the ferrari and sallied forth to Wivey on Saturday to see Boy. He appeared at the door almost before I'd taken my hand off the bell, since last time he was still in bed upon my arrival at 12.30pm.

I had taken with me my grooming kit, consisting of a hair clipper and various other items to improve the appearance of teenage males. I was thwarted in my attempts to groom either Boy, or indeed, Vile ex husband, who could have seriously done with a bit of attention in that department. He, as usual, enquired for the wellbeing of Bloke, since he lives in constant fear that with his demise I might return!

I had to bow to their wishes re grooming, however, Boy being an adult, and Vile ex husband being exactly that, - ex.

It was, nonetheless, a successful visit on all accounts. Having lunch made for me and a new pooter procured from the internet.

Tigerboy was on good form for an elderly pussycat and brutally savaged me as I attempted to stroke him. Bloke thinks that Tigerboy is a savage creature, but as I've said before, I abandoned him and I deserve to be savaged. He still attacks vile ex husband though. Tigerboy that is, not Bloke. All I have to do is shout 'seize him' and the claws are out. So much so, this time that blood was spilt and bandages had to be administered.

It's quite satisfying how I slip back into that little discarded family and it was quite a sad little farewell when I went 'home'. I know I've droned on about it all the time, darlings, but I really thought that Boy would come and live with me in Deepest Devon - AND HE DIDN'T!

Oddly enough, even vile ex is companionable company on these visits and though it would be quite de riguer for him to vacate the premises, or even to deny me access, he stays and we have a lovely time all together. I suppose that now I'm not married to him and don't have to accept his foibles, re unemployment and general apathy, I can only see the kind and pleasant individual that he is and always will be.

Boy will be losing all his companions from college as they go up to Uni following the summer break, but due to his illness he has to repeat his final year. I do hope that now he's aquired the art of making friends that he'll make some more next term.

My lovely new Art Cards are in the gallery - so flock in your droves!

In which I despair of 'My Aunty Mary'...

2011-05-25T03:40:00.000-07:00

One simply cannot choose one's relatives. Well, in this case that is not actually true. Dear Little Lovely One is having irritating problems with One's Aunty Mary (no not a euphamism) in Scotland. And, One's Auntie Mary is an adopted addition to the family deemed a good idea by Aged P's Aged P.

It has always been the story that Mary, Hilda actually, or Marie or Mhairi as she is known to herself, was a foundling. The story goes that she was left under a tree in a park by her prostitute mother and duly rescued and adopted by One's Nana Harris (mother of aged , now deceased P)

Aged P was never keen, saying that he didn't request this faux sibling and was toddling along quite happily with his imaginery playmate when the less than welcome sister Mary turned up.

She was a problem child from the outset and grew into a problem adult.

Placed in front of a psychiatrist at an early age to determine her odd behaviour' the learned one deduced that she had 'delusions of grandeur'. A little unfortunate, given that good manners in the Harris household consisted of saying pardon having let one rip, and the height of sophistication was having carnation milk on yer tinned peach slices on a Sunday.

Anyway, Mary, Marie, Mhairi, whatever, set off on the hunt for a minted hubbster early on and shagged her way around the sons of moneyed Luton families until gaining a reputation for loose living, signed up for the air force and vowed not to leave until a husband was procured.
'Tug' (nickname, though apt description) was duly snared and whisked off for a honeymoon in Clackers before settling down in Edinbugh.
'Good' thought everyone, that's her off our hands - but now she's back and wreaking havoc.

We foolishly let her act as executor for Nana's will, a complicated drawn out trust issue, in which she left her flat for Aged P to live in and then to be sold on the event of his demise and the proceed to be split amoungst seven remaining beneficiaries.

At every turn of the road she has questioned the solicitor, often phoning or turning up drunk and abusive.

Currently we are in danger of losing our latest buyer, whose mortgage offer runs out on 31st, as M has just sent a 20 page letter to said solicitor demanding answers to yet another tranche of irrelevant questions.
She has completely failed to register that her remit is to carry out the wishes of her adoptive Mother, not to hold up proceedings and cost us all money!
Not to mention the long and drawn out saga that she has seen fit to make the death of MY DAD.

In which I rip it up in a paddy...

2011-05-22T06:11:00.000-07:00

Just sold two originals to the same personage. Goodo! The money off notice is working, that's two originals and two limited edition prints since I threatened to end it all.

However, just had the tits bored off me by some git looking for a painting that bloody Lenkie bloke did of him about a squillion years ago. They come in here in their droves, not to buy anything, oh no, just to glaze me over with yet another effing drivellish conversation about that sodding pervert painter bloke.

The Bounty is in Sutton Harbour at the moment and today a Johnny Depp looky likey is marauding about the streets looking for maidens to rape and pillage.
I nipped out and rolled up me trouser leg in order to lure him over but never even got pillaged. Just trampled in the rush.

At present am attempting to paint a new view of Smeaton's Tower for 'She who must be obeyed' to use as a card. Sat here weilding paintbrush not actually doing anything whilst a great big fat old trollope was deliberating about spending a couple of quid on a card. I couldn't just get on since SWMBO has insisted that that picture is done in acrylics and I can't affort to get half way through something and then have to stop to serve a customer.

I wait

And I wait

And I wait

In the end I risk it and as soon as I get halfway across the sky with a deft brushstroke the lumbering great oaf wobbles over with her sodding card.
By the time I am liberated the sodding paint's dried and the whole bastard painting is shagged. So in a fit of pique I rip it up and shove it in the bin.

That's it - no more painting today - blogging and internet shopping for moi!

In which I have had to eat a whole box of jaffa cakes...

2011-05-20T06:08:00.001-07:00

Huh! - No comments I see - even though I have threatened to extinguish my dear little self. Have you people no heart? There you all are going about your beeswax, totally ignoring my gloom. Well, bollocks!

Anyway, since I'm still here I shall vent my spleen further!

Those utter bastard, gas works sodding gits are still digging up the road to the extent that none but the intrepid explorer can find his/her way down here to the Barbican. Consequently I have had to eat an entire box of jaffa cakes and have thus ruined my diet! So not only are the shitbag gasbags responsible for my lack of sales but are now also guilty of expanding my arse!
I have put the following sign in the window;

A MESSAGE FROM THE INHOUSE PAINTER
Claire Rice

Due to the wholly inadequate signage to the Barbican throughout the current digging up of the road by Gas persons my income has fallen to the degree that my children are shoeless and starving. Therefore anyone who has persevered and made their way to Armada Gallery will be rewarded with 20% off any Claire Rice original or print.

Much sniggering and pointing has ensued. Well, I say MUCH, but much, in as much, as there are so few bods abroad.

As yet no sales.

Stingy f*****s

--------------------------

In which I consider ending it all...

2011-05-18T05:27:00.000-07:00

I am currently in the gallery. The Gas Board, if that's what one still calls them, have seen fit to dig up every single road leading to the Barbican so no shoppers can get here unless they park in town and WALK all the flippin' way! So, consequently, no bods about, not even browsers. I am suffering my worst ever month for sales. Needless to say, this is not enhancing my already gloomy mood.
I think I've been in a bad mood for about 48 years now. Two incidents mark the beginning of my gloom.

Incident number one: I am 8 years old
Whilst sitting in me granny's front room minding me own business, I hear her say to the Mother;
'Look at the size of that child's thighs'.
This incident not only spurred the Mother to take me to the doctor to enquire;
'Why is this child so fat?'
But also started me off on my life time of self loathing, which directly led me to make poor and disastrous choices since I value myself very little.

The other incident which happened regularly was:
When at junior school I, and I expect all those of a similar vintage, had to wear the vile and ghastly gaberdine mac. This hideous item of clothing covered all weather and was particularly unsuitable for rain (for which it was primarily invented) since it soaked up water like a sponge and slapped itself against one's ever increasingly red thighs on the long walk home. I recall with alarming clarity, especially for one with virtually no recall for anything else, how in high winds and accompanying rain I walked the five miles or so to and from school with the blasted soggy mac slapping against my bare thighs.

Both these incidents involve my thighs, which I still hate with a passion and which when I realised their ugliness, I believe mark the beginning of me being in a very bad mood.

Why do I bother being falsely cheerful and pretending I enjoy anything about life? It is all boring and pointless as I sally forth with my enormous thighs crashing together.

And, to cap it all, Bloke is heading into one of his black periods. It all began yesterday when he refused to eat his tea or watch the football.

So there we are - no sales, nothing to look forward to and effing great thighs.

In which I am judged and found wanting...

2011-05-11T02:06:00.000-07:00

And so, dear reader, off we sashayed to the Aged P's at the weekend to doss down whilst Bloke scuttled off to the smoke to watch Blackpool play in the premier division, whatever that is.
I dropped off Bloke at Luton station and on the way back stopped at the shopping area of the salubrious council estate where Aged P resides. Indeed where Lovely One resided many moons ago. I bought a newspaper and a french stick. Then the absolutely unbelievable happened. The dusky maiden at the checkout stuffed the newpaper in a carrier, looked at the french stick, assessed it's unliklihood of fitting into said carrier and promply folded it in half to ram it in!! I decided there would be little point in attesting that this was not an acceptable practise and legged it.
I, perhaps foolishly, opted to entertain the Aged P rather than slog round the smoke all day and going to the footie that didn't start until 5.30pm
I had nightmarish visions of being dragged round markets and steered away from 'posh' clothes and shoe shops, so Aged P it was.
We sallied forth to Stony Stratford in pursuit of a Box 2, that was apparently mythical. There were, however, many, many charity shops. All of which Aged P rummaged around in as if on behalf of the Po-leece with a search warrant.
A purchase was made in Oxfam.
'I wonder' methinks 'How long will it be before all and sundry are informed that aged P worked in there for 22 years.'
I didn't have to wait long - during the purchase of a delightful pleated 'nearly new' skirt, having of course entertainted everyone with the;
'course, I can't wear anything that shows these things I have to wear' speech, whilst hoisting up trouser legs to reveal support knee socks that to the rest of the world just look like ordinary stockings, the octaganarian biddy on the till made an error. Well, who wouldn't being confronted with Aged P hitching up her attire during the transaction?
Anyway, the old biddy calls over a senior old girl to attend to the mistake. Aged P does no more, but shoves old biddy out of the way shreiking, in her best telephone voice;
'Ey'll do it. Ey worked at Oxfam for 22 years you know.'
Well, senior old biddy, of course wasn't having any of that and a general scuffle for mastery of the till ensued.
I confess, dear reader, I hid in the rare books department.
All this time Bloke was texting me to tell me of all the foodie delights he was treating himself too 'up the smoke'.
Aged P and Moi had a coffee and toasted tea cake in an establishment that existed for the employment of persons with 'special needs'.
On the Sunday we rather rashly decided to take Aged P out for lunch at a nearby carvery. At the bar, where one collects one's ticket for the scoff extravaganza, Aged P orders a Pimms No 1. It is duly delivered, without fruit and without a straw. It only cost a quid, so I'm not surprised. However Aged P interrogated the sorely afraid young barmaid as to the whereabouts of said fruit and straw. The unfortunate young thing was unable to rectify the situation so Aged P says, out of the corner of her mouth, to me,
'The girls in 'ere are useless'.
Why is it that old ladies think no one can hear a remark made from the corner of the mouth?
As we were sitting at our table a further girl brings over a piece of lemon, lime and orange for Aged P's drink. A lovely gesture I thought, since I'd have shoved it up her knicker leg if it were me!
Throughout the ensuing scoff I was treated to tales of seemingly, every single one of Aged P's friends' offsprings having various villas in far flung places to which all said friends are spirited away for the summer.
'Well so and so's son/daughter's got ever such a good job you know,' being the phrase of the day.
Clearly, Lovely One is judged and found wanting, yet again!

Made it back to Deepest Devon in record time in sparkly new vehicle, which, incidentally, is a magnet for bird shit! Any seagull with a bout of jippy tummy for bloody miles makes a detour to crap on Lovely One's shiny car!

Anyway, Aged P enjoyed her outings and Bloke enjoyed the footie.

In which I lint roller me crevices...

2011-04-29T12:25:00.000-07:00

And so dear reader, the day of the Royal Wedding dawned. I was awoken by my very own handsome prince stroking my cheek (face of course) with a gnarled digit. He swung his muscular thigh across the bed and growled
'I 'spose I'd better do me duty with the thing then.'
Thinking I was in for a bit of action I was relieved that the previous evening I'd foraged me crevices with a lint roller and removed any lurking crusty talcum powder. But no, darlings, I was spurned!He was in fact referring to walking the stinky mutt that had wandered uninvited into me boudoir.
Realising I've lost me allure, I necked a couple of vitamins that are supposed to fortify the over fifties and slunk down the kitchen to rustle up a wedding breakfast.
In the spirit of the day I chucked the dusty remains of a bottle of chianti down me neck and set about boiling the ostrich eggs. I prefer them, you can use a whole stick francais as a soldier.
Rumour abounded abroad that there was to be a street party down on the Barbican so I set about beautifying meself...
Unfortunatlely, himself was feeling a bit under the weather so that was that and we had a kip after the event (wedding) and woke up in time for come dine with me.

In which Big becomes flesh...

2011-04-24T02:28:00.001-07:00

When will the male of the species come to understand that spontaneity requires careful planning.
I had arrived at the gallery at just after 8.00am yesterday morning in order to pack up a painting for someone to transport back to their homeland wherever that may be. Judging from the accent somewhere north of Watford, so unknown to Lovely One.
As always, the first thing I did was to check my emails, since Boy has got my computer again.
There was one from Big which I opted to shelve and read later, thinking it would contain more about his wonderful existence somewhere in a North Devon castle.
So it was with utter astonishment and complete horror that I actually encountered Big in the flesh, as it were.
A large curly topped item loped toward Moi muttering something about knowing a 'woman who painted from Wiveliscombe.'
Not twigging at first I plodded on with me masterpiece, when like a bolt from the blue I realised it was the actual, mythical BIG!
Yes, dear reader, he of the late night phonecalls and numerous emails of the last, what, three years, I think.
Pre-Bloke, Big and I had enjoyed an intimate understanding of one another. Well, as intimate as one can get, without ever having actually met. My legions of readers at one time were holding a book as to the liklihood of my actually ending up with Big.
I was recently parted from Vile Husband and he was in the throes of a divorce from his wife.
He made me laugh and, actually cry, once or twice. Whether that was due to my fragile emotional state, or the Prozac, I shall never know.
All through the ridiculous turmoil that was my foray into the world of internet dating Big remained a constant in my life, and a faint little glimmer of hope on my horizon, until it became obvious that he was merely passing the time contacting me for what I can only assume was amusement, or something to laugh about with his brothers.
And now he is FLESH.
And here I am in my ghastly yellow painting smock, unwashed hair, v little make up and looking, and feeling a complete lump.
I had evolved him into a Ray Winstone type, all edgy and false bravado. What did I get, a looky likee of that fat bloke who dresses up as Heather from Eastenders on Harry Hill's TV Burp!
We made small talk, with me glued to me artist's stool, brush in hand. I should take heed from this and go back to my former existence in only my paintings and writings.
Anonymous is best.
I missed the boat.
He missed the boat.

He did of course beg me to run off with him, but I had a customer waiting, so had to decline.

In which I wonder what Alan Bennett has in his many sandwich lunches...

2011-04-22T04:49:00.000-07:00

Lovely hazy weather on the Barbican today. Lots of browsers around, and just had my first one tell me that they have a couple of Lenkie prints that they bought from Michael Wood, (round the corner.)
'Oh yes' I reply, unsure as to what else is required.
The first two customers this morning came in because of my window display, which was gratifying.
Drawing out a sketch of Looe today so that next week I can begin my onslaught into Cornwall.
Attended Dear Little S's gallery and framer opening on Wednesday evening, having been up there during the day to hang me wares.
The thing that most attracted my attention was the amount of make up, foundation in particular, worn by some of the young women attending. Trowelled on, it was, thereby masking any evidence of youthful bloom that might shine through. The Meemster is always shrieking about my wonderful skin.
I offered to grid reference it, there being such a proliferation, in order that she might admire a section per day.
The Meemster had declared official British summertime by being ackled up in flip flops and shorts. Her poor little translucent corned beef legs poking out from a pair of red combats, if you please. AND, pray, those nasty plastic flip flops that one should reserve for the comfort of one's own home.
The place looked topping and the evening was very well attended.
Of course, Dear Lovely One was the star of the show. Well, not exactly moi, but moi's paintings. There being many more delighted comments and ugly crowds around my wares than anyone else's.
Everything now safely transferred back to the Barbican gallery and hopefully sold as soon as...
Sold two prints yesterday and of course no one bothered to inform me, so I didn't bring some more in to replace them.
Lunchtime, so fewer wanderers around. I shan't bother, having scoffed a whole punnet of strawberries and a croissant thusfar.
It's early yet though and aromas various are tempting...
Before I forget, I am currently reading 'Untold Stories' by Alan Bennett. Am on the diaries at the moment which seem to record mainly sandwiches eaten and churches visited. Still I expect he'd be bored with my blog...

In which I bemoan my lack of dedication at school...

2011-04-17T02:12:00.000-07:00

Taxi drivers are getting a bad press these days, and quite deservedly so since they seem to run amok or off with persons william nilliam these days.
So it was with trepidation that I engaged a firm of travel purveyors over the past few weeks to transport Lovely One and all the trappings of being a nearly famous artist, to the Barbican.
The first one turned up on the dot in a relatively clean vehicle that positively stank of medium priced scent which the Eastern European driver had doused herself in that very morn and many more by the thickness of it.
I was thus deposited to my easel and collected by a sour faced Bloke when the day was done.
Two more such journeys have been undertaken, one accompanied by a young driver who sat and watched me struggle in and out of the cab with six large paintings and my box of paints. Needless to say the only tip I gave him was 'don't whistle with a mouth full of custard'.
The final journey surpassed all others when the driver of the disgustingly stained cab (why isn't it law for them to have leather, wipe clean, seats?) nonchalantly lifted the cheek of his European Union arse and let out a foul smelling whiffer, if you please! I shan't tell you the little tip I gave him!
Anyway, dear reader, my ghastly stint as a passenger is over and this very morn I pootled here in my lovely new shiny car, which is safely tucked up in the private Barbican Trader's car park. It is indeed rather larger than my previous mode of transport; incidentally, which is now in the possession of Vile ex-husband and Boy.
AND, Darling Reader, blogging of Boy, I very nearly had an apoplectic siezure on Friday last when I texted Boy to enquire of his wellbeing and he informed me that he was currently on the Tube, if you please, in the middle of London, ON HIS LITTLE OWNSOME!
I slumped down on the spiral staircase, which is very difficult to do with an arse with it's own postcode, and trembled.
What had happened to the Boy of yore? The one who wouldn't get out of bed to go to college. The Boy who never went anywhere without moi? The Boy who had his meals delivered to the computer side, or indeed, in bed, and who had his bath run for him? It would appear that BF, with her absence of childrearing knowledge, was indeed right, and that leaving him to his own devices with Vile would be the making of him.
Throughout the day I'd worked myself up into such a furious frenzy that when the garage delivered my lovely shiny new car I couldn't trust myself to go out in it unescorted!
Anyway all ended well and Boy returned home and called me to say although he'd got lost in Paddington, he'd returned home safely and had decided, on the strength of the visit that he wouldn't be going to Uni in London!
It got me thinking about a friend of mine from High School, Cecilia Murphy, who had worked much harder than I at school and had won a place at an unglamorous University somewhere, whislt I drifted into and out of various drawing offices. She once said to me that she couldn't believe with my natural intelligence that I'd never bothered.She said that she'd had to really work at everything whilstI,with my natural bent for anything I chose to do,would have rendered me able to do anything I wished. At the time I didn't think much of it and, some years later when I was invited to her wedding I was still much more interested in looking glamorous and gorgeous in my pie crust collar and impossibly tight rayon dress. I recall this look being too much for her brother in law who, sitting next to me at the reception, leaned over and whispered in my ear,
'I bet you go like a train.'
'Yes, darling', I replied, 'But I don't stop at your station'.
Later on when talk turned to learned things and Universities, I made my excuses and left in a filthy taxicab.
If he'd been one of the current taxi stranglers he'd have saved me a lot of bother. Though now, with my current decay, I expect I'd merely have been pillaged!

In which I have my glorious hair cut...

2011-03-30T01:02:00.000-07:00

Having a quiet day today...
Shall, of course, create something wonderful, either on paper or in the kitchen. But, presently, am listening to the absolutely ghastly Libby sodding Purves on dear old radio 4. What a complete twat that woman is. She has her very own language and pronounces words in a manner unknown in the English speaking world. I could choke the bat until she croaks! However I must listen to her since the annoyance is good for my system and gives me an artistic ferve not previously seen. Listening to Terry Wogan induces feelings of wanting to cuddle up in a blankie and eat a pie. Chris Evans makes one want to take to the streets and castrate any 'gingers' one might come upon, in case they procreate, and as for John Humphries, well he should be despatched by having a state of the art laptop shoved up his chuff box!
Mmmmm, feel better for that Darling reader!
Now - any of you out there who would like a piece of Lovely One should speak up right now, since I am just about to commit my flowing golden locks to the dyson.
Yes! Dear Ones, I have had my innapropriately long hair cut!
Obviously, I still look divine, and ordinarily I would say 'Don't mess with perfection', but the time has come for Lovely One to make some small allowances for her age and begin to look and dress like a grown up.
I shall still behave in the manner of a petulant teenager though, so don't panic.

In which Birmingham should be walled in...

2011-03-10T02:25:00.000-08:00

There is light at the end of the tunnel darlings. Bloke has agreed that a move back to Somerset is the thing to do. Not until we've offloaded chez mildew, and sold the business, but nonetheless, I can start planning. Dear little tenant in maison Lovely One need not concern herself as yet, since I can't see us getting rid of the ghastly homestead in the near future. I just hope I make it home before my pussy dies of old age. My remaining pussy, that is, since one has already gone to the great radiator cushion in the sky. But dear old Tigerboy is still around, biting and scratching anyone who dares to try and stroke him.

Many moons come and go...

I am back...

Been confined to satin sheeted fourposter ackled up with furry hot water bottles and smelling salts as have had some ghastly virus thing that attacked me with such vigour that I couldn't even put me face on, let alone amuse the great unwashed down on the Barbican.
Anyway, back to Lovely, Lovely normal now so holed up in gallery being annoyed by stupid men making stchoopid remarks to impress their bespectacled, short haired, fat arsed wives.
This very morn Lovely One has had to converse with several species of pond life out for a stroll. Are these people specially delivered by the bus load to annoy the sensibilities of Lovely One? Do they appear as if by magic from their fetid holes in the ground when they catch a whiff of the scented Lovely Moi?
This mornings first offering, that would have benefitted greatly from a thwack about the cranium from a lump hammer, was a strawberry nosed tosser who strolled in, hands in pockets, with anoraked BHS supplied 'Mrs' in tow...
'How much is the picture in the window. It must be free. There's no price on it.'
Well, I very nigh had to clutch me tena lady pants into twinkle zone for fear of pissing meself at that hilarious joke!
'Oh we give those away each day to the first customer who says that' I retorted. Then, with one of my works in his grubby, sausage fingered mitt, says,
'This one should keep off the scrumpy, the skyline's crooked'
Well! Not in the best frame of mind first thing on a Monday morning I'd have liked to poked the wanker in the eye, but if that's the way pond life from Birmingham choose to while away the hours entertaining their fat, badly dressed wives whilst on their break from the factory, who is Darling little Lovely One to spoil it for them.

I'll tell you who Darling Little Lovely One is, Dear reader..

Talented, famous, fragrant, gloriously fascinating, beautiful artist, who should be feted, admired, Nay, worshipped and lauded by stchooopid holidaying twats. Especially ones from Birmingham.

In which I am analysed by Amazon...

2011-03-05T03:48:00.000-08:00

What sort of person are you? If you ever shop on Amazon, and let's face it, who doesn't, you may find some insightful information about your dear little self.
I was looking for an interesting book to read - or shoes - (how come amazon sells shoes) well, who cares they do, and I love 'em.
'Welcome Mrs Claire E Rice' the pooted tooted, or 'if not Mrs bla bla - sign in'
'we have recommendations for you'
Started off inoffensively enough ...
Complete Series of Upstairs Downstairs DVD - got that
Complete Series of Duchess of Duke Street DVD - don't wannit
How to paint abstracts dont know what to say to that!
Love from Nancy Mitford - reddit
Charleston - A Bloomsbury House - got that one - I see a pattern emerging here
The complete letters of Lytton Strachey - reddit
Autobiography of Frances Partridge - reddit
The Dukan Diet - OOOh haven't done that one
A rush of blood to the head, Coldplay - NOoooooooooo
Easy Learning French - Let the miserable gits speak English
Snug Sofa Blankie - mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm want one
Match Annual - Surely an error
Six pack of bodywarmers - I'd need three per body warm
Brown chunky sports sandals - I going to sue Amazon for inferrring I'd wear such an item
Bloomsbury something or other - flippin 'eck I must be obsessed!
I can make you thin Paul McKenna - You filthy liar
Psyllium husk powder - we won't go into that!
A sub zero factor two thermal neck warmer - WHAT
A pair of sling back crocs - SLING BACK CROCS - WHATEVER NEXT DARLINGS
GCSE maths - I fear Boy may be hacking into my account
Warcraft - Boy IS hacking into my account

The Bolter - surely a self help manual - I'm buying that one

A picture of a fat woman with constipation and a very cold neck has emerged. A penchant for the faccile upper class bohemians of the Bloomsbury set. A massive desire for any kind of warming clothing and a vauge interest in boxed sets of tv programmes featuring the upper classes and their servants.

The only two items that are of any interest are the 'brown' BROWN, I kid you not, sandals. Litigation will follow.
and
The Bolter - a handbook that could have been penned by Dear Little Lovely One.

In which le chat is out of the bag...

2011-03-04T02:03:00.000-08:00

Le chat is out of the bag!
It has become widely known that Dear Little S has told the Alkie and the Corpse Bride to shove their mount cutter where the sun don't shine and has huffed off and started his own business!
Goodo me thinks! Imagining massive chocolate pie and bitching sessions william nilliam. But No! She Who Must be Obeyed has said, nay DEMANDED, that dear little Lovely One is under no circumstances to throw me chapeau into the ring with Dear Little S or I can consider my association with Armada Gallery at an end.
Now, I know where I'd rather be, darling readers. Let's think, shall I spend my days eating chocolate cake pie, (cat pie when Mimi buys it) and bitching about all and sundry, OR shall I spend it being bored shitless by Lenkie lookers and holidaymakers from Birmingham who want an original for ten quid. And surrounded by septagenarian shop assistants who couldn't spot a masterpiece if it infiltrated their eighteenhour corselette.
Hmmmmmm Dilema indeed!
But it's not as simples as that. It never effing is, is it!!!!????
I currently work three days in the gallery. THREE FULL EIGHT HOUR DAYS - MIND - FOR ONE HUNDRED AND TWENTY QUID. and I'M SELF EMPLOYED.
Work it out dears. Less than the minimum wage! And me a one time captain of industry no less!
Any road up, I need the paltry sum to keep the wolves from the door. Well, not really, but to pay my massive credit card bills, at least until I can remortgage the old homestead.
This current economic state of affairs really is a sodding nuisance to the likes of Dear little Lovely One. I've spent the greater part of my adult life running up huge debts and then moving to a smaller house to pay them off with the proceeds. That's how I ended up in Wivey. A massive downward spiral from Hampstead village to Wive-soddin-liscombe. But now, with the state of the property market I can't get my dear little self out of the shit without the little matter of a bit of hard work. How boring is that? I don't like them bananas!
So, whilst it would be divine to dish the dirt with all at Art Frame Solutions, I shall have to remain here, chained to me easel, flogging rattled off paintings of the Barbican to earn a meagre crust. Not that I'd be able to eat it since I've removed solid food from my intake at the mo in an effort to stop the expansion of my fat arse.
Talking of daily bread...
Yesterday I deployed the breadmaker and constructed a loaf for Bloke. Fair delighted with me efforts I emailed him a pic.
'Who threw that through the window?' was the reply.
It has to be said that the loaf did exhibit a resistance to the breadknife not normally associated with say, a Mother's Pride. But in fairness to moi it did look the part.
Anyhow, I shan't be complaining quite so much about Bloke since he has started murmering that maybe it wouldn't be so bad to live in Wivey.
Oh to leave this abomination of a place. It's grey, boring and everyone is thick.

In which I just don't want to know...

2011-02-26T06:23:00.000-08:00

Sun shining, occasionally, browsers and shoppers about, sometimes, sign outside - set up for the day.
The sign says 'Painter working inside today - come and watch'. And, dear reader, they come.
They come to ask if I want to buy any Lenkie prints.
They come to ask me if I've heard of some bloke who paints in Saltash.
They come to tell me they can't draw.
They come to tell me they can't paint.
They come to tell me that they've been in someone's house where they say a Lenkie.
They come to tell me that they've got a painting that might be worth something.

They come for just about anything other than to buy something.

Therefore they can piss off

In which I torture Dear little S...

2011-02-25T04:32:00.000-08:00

Finally caved in and went a'painting in the Elburton Chapel of Rest (formerly the Elburton Drop in Centre) The limp, damp sponge of a new owner was there and we had a FIVE HOUR chat about absolutely fuck all. I am now a world renowned authority on medicinal leeches, the acquisition of unusual cross stitch designs and many other mind numbingly boring topics that, for the moment, escape me, thank fuck!
I was engaging the old corpse bride in conversation as a kind of torture for Dear Little S who was making throat slitting signs at me and mouthing lots of words beggining with F followed by death threats if I didn't stop delaying the departure of the deceased one.
But, well, darling reader, what would life be if we couldn't get some pleasure from the discomfort of others?
She has the unfortunate manner and aura of a Dickensian, sloth-like corpse.
'I don't know if you realise, but the business has changed hands', says she to some poor unfortunate old bint quietly choosing a frame.
'Mmmmm', murmers unfortunate bint, backing away, unsure of the required response. AND no doubt to distance herself before barfing into her co-op carrier, since the Corpse Bride has breath that could fell a tree at 250yds.
And blogging of breath, darlings, the 'business partner' of Corpse Bride (business partner - my fat arse!) was noted by a customer as 'Stinking of drink'. Their words, dearest, not mine.
Not quite the image I've been trying to get across whilst painting away in the gallery. I try to foster an ethereal, vague and arty image. Falling over pissed is dangerous with all the glass about.
And - blogging of glass...
He was so peeed he stuck an order form to the front of a limited edition print and then pulled all the surface away with the selotape.
KIN ADA
They've only been here five soddin' minutes and are making us look like a pack of clowns.
I may be a miserable, fat old bad tempered trollop. But at least I'm a professional miserable bla bla... etc
I do recall that one of the scintialling topics of conv that went on for hours was her food dislikes...
'I can't eat yogurt anymore, since I found a weevil in one', says she, even identifying the particular weevil type. Flamin' Norah, weevil identification, a pastime as yet unexplored by Lovely One.
I am reliably informed that her worstest ever food dislike is Jerusalem Artichoke. What a bummer that must be...
Imagine - it must be a nightmare in Subway - 'Do you want Jerusalem Artichoke with that?'
Or the famous Mc Jerusalem Artichoke McFluffy.
It's endless...
Whatever can she eat?
Oh - don't ask - you'll be there for at least five hours