I thought you might be as amused as I was to read the following email received from a very dear (and slim – and kind and gorgeous) male friend in Australia (name and number available upon request to the highest bidder – only ladies from the Southside of Brisbane please).

Dearest rabbit,

Lettuce leaves! Hmmm, maybe you would be better off not washing them first,
for you never know your luck there could be a nice fat caterpillar on the inside that could
boost your mineral intake for the day. My birds don’t seem to worry about a grub or two,
in fact they look quite slim on a diet of bread and their occasional caterpillar!

I read your blog on your now current diet, and it was a really good description
how you’re now trying to manage yourself in your new diet phase, phase 13 I believe!!
Ironically enough I’m on a diet too! No, not food, for I can eat bread, chips, crisps,
bacon, biscuits, potatoes, cake, sweets, pasta, chocolate, puddings, pastry, cream,
custard, fatty meat, cheese or anything else I might fancy. No my diet is a SEX diet!

You would not believe how successful  I’ve been! Not a hint of any sex passing
my lips whatsoever! I think its a question of just saying “no” to any temptation that
might be put in front of you! If you could apply that theory to your diet then I’m sure
by the time 3 months is out, you would, or could be the next Twiggy!

Your pal …….

Ummmm… All that talk of bread, chips, crisps, bacon…etc… has made me feel quite hungry. My mouth is watering. No, no, no!!! On the quiet, I’m glad I’m not one of my friend’s “birds” on a diet of bread and caterpillars!

How can it be? How can it really be that after all that exercise and starvation yesterday, all the willpower and all that positive thinking, all the prodding and smoothing of my newly skinny, honed body as I laid in bed this morning excited to get up and jump on the scales, that after all that I’ haven’t lost anything! In fact it’s worse – I’ve put on a pound! But it has happened before. In the past I’ve often thought, “What’s the point? I may as well eat what I want and gain a pound,” which is exactly what I did. Not now, you’ll be pleased to know that I’ve learnt the error of my ways (hopefully) and I shall be sticking to the straight and narrow at least until our next lot of guests arrive in less than a week.

I’d love to tell you what I weigh so that you could experience the vicarious pleasure of weight loss with me but unfortunately, my weight shall have to remain a guarded secret for time being. Why? If you have to ask that question you must be a slimjim. Well,  as an old school friend said to me once, “I don’t want to, I don’t have to and I ain’t gonna!”

You might have guessed by the title that I’m dieting again, in between visitors. You know how it is – you feed up your guests with lovely home-cooked food (that you never make at any other time) like lovely new potatoes, roast potatoes, chips and puddings, not to mention fresh crusty loaves and butter with everything. Somehow, even though you have no intention of joining them in these feasts, you succomb to the pressure from all around you, such as, “Aren’t you having any fried breakfast, Sally? Do you really enjoy whole grain porridge every day?”  Actually, I hate whole grain porridge every day – I don’t even like the brown colour so I say, “Well, if you put it like that perhaps I’ll have a rasher of bacon and a few beans – no egg or fried bread – mind you, would a tiny piece make a difference do you think?” One piece wouldn’t make any difference but the longer your guests stay, the greater the difference.

That’s why I’m back on the Dukan diet (two days now and I’ve lost one pound – it was like pulling hen’s teeth out) and a very vigorous exercise and fitness regime. Yesterday it was a nice cycle ride in the morning followed by an exercise class at the gym in the evening (lots of nasty sit-up types of things); today we cycled again in the morning (I pushed myself to keep on the bike for longer than usual going up the hills) and I went to the gym again at six tonight. I thought the new pilates class was to start at six but it was six-thirty so instead of going home and coming out again I used the rowing machines and static bikes for half an hour. I was feeling fine during the pilates session, which is different to yoga because you have to breathe the opposite way (suited me down to the ground because I always used to breathe the wrong way when I did yoga!), and then I hurredly changed into my togs for an hour of aquacise. I twisted in the water to “Twist Again” and kicked and turned to “Rock Around the Clock” with great gusto and vigour.

All went well until the last ten minutes when Roy Orbison’s song, “Cry…iy…y…ing” came on for the cool down; then there was the lovely warm shower (I pressed the flow button four times for a shower twice as long as my usual) and I nearly fell asleep. My intended jog home began with a spurt that petered out in three seconds flat (and it’s all downhill from the Leisure Centre to the main road), and by the time I was almost home my thighs felt like lead and my empty stomach ached inside and out; I crossed the road in a kind of slow motion dream and hoped that I wouldn’t get run over by an aged cyclist riding up the hill. Luckily, she didn’t rev up and I made it. Still haven’t had any dinner though – I’ve been savouring the moment until I could close down my laptop and put my feet up. I’m so looking forward to a piece of cold chicken and lettuce leaves.

I hope the next lot of visitors (coming in under a week) will be totally unaware of all my trials and tribulations, after all I’m aiming to be the same size as I was when they saw me last three months ago. I wish we had fat guests so that I could give them all whole grain porridge for breakfast…

A little earlier on I came across these photos of my charming nephews – they certainly enjoyed posing for their aunty. Don’t worry, they didn’t go with us on our previous holiday to the South of France  – we like to have some fun (only kidding boys!). A little bit of PhotoShop magic put them in the pictures but honestly, they always pull strange faces when I attempt to take normal photos. Bless their hearts!

It is lovely living so close to the sea. Two days ago a pod of dolphins swam by as we sat having lunch on our terrace balcony which overlooks the sea (no houses in front of us, just Brunel’s famous railway line by the seawall below – our terrace is built into the cliff). The dolphins were too far away to photograph, not like a few years ago when they came right into shore and the leader allowed himself to be petted by we Dawlish residents who had gathered on the breakwater (read the chapter entitled “A Mermaid’s Tail” from my book, “The Innocent Flirt Down Under”, if you want to  learn more about the incident). Sorry if that sounded like a plug.

Upon awakening this morning I was greeted by the charming sight of an old ketch with red sails sailing quickly across the view of the sea from my bedroom window. In fact, it moved so fast that I scarcely had time to run and get my phone camera before it was nearly out of view – I shall have to sleep with the camera in future. It was, you may know, another beautiful sunny morning because we are having a heatwave here in England – a perfect day for cycling. As much as Chris and I were tempted to forego working in favour of going off for a picnic, we decided instead to take an hour out, cycling to Cockwood Harbour.

Tourists and locals alike were out early enjoying the sunshine; some had taken to their trusty old bikes, some were out walking their dogs, many were headed for the beach at Dawlish Warren; nearly all were smiling and called their hellos because everyone feels so much happier when we have weather like this. As you can see from my photographs, I couldn’t help but stop occasionally on the cyclepaths to chat to cute little dogs and curious cows in a neighbouring field. One cyclist zooming by called out, “You won’t get the benefit if you keep on stopping, Sally!” (she’s a local, and a loyal patron of mine). I didn’t argue – hardly had time to look around and see who it was before she was gone (managed to snap her from behind) – but I didn’t agree. I always benefit from being out and about, taking my leisure on a nice day. I am reminded of a poem I learnt as a primary school child in Australia…

Leisure

Fifteen or so minutes ago I asked my feet (the ones in two of my photos yesterday) what they would like to do, it being seven in the evening here. “How about the ford again?” I asked. I had a strong feeling they would go for it like a shot – it being their idea of bliss (as you probably know) – but they didn’t; they stopped to think for a time before deciding. How surprising! Then my feet asked me, “Don’t you think we’ve had enough exercise already today? All day long we’ve been up and down stairs, and up and down step-ladders; we’ve been covered in earth and dust for two hours at least, then hosed before being splattered with various colours of paint, then hosed again!” How shocking! Well I didn’t expect that.

-“Well, you tell me what you want to do,” I implored.

-“We want a nice long shower, food, and then we want you to cut our nails and paint them with pretty pink nail varnish!”

It seems that my feet were rather dismayed to see themselves shown on my blog last night. They miss Australia where they were constantly kept trimmed and painted in a variety of colours because they were always on display in sandals or thongs. Apparently, they like to feel cared for and attractive, even though they are a little bigger and broader than most women’s.

Hence, I’ve had a delightful shower and I’m now sat here in my cerise towel at my laptop; some frozen spare ribs are cooking away merrily in the oven (no work); and after dinner I’m going to treat my much neglected feet (of late) to some “foot time”. Perhaps later they will not feel too embarrassed to sit on Chris’s lap when we watch television – he might even notice them and give them a cuddle.

Bliss on a summer’s evening is… getting on my new bike and cycling up to the ford, sitting on the little road bridge, taking off my sandals and dunking my feet in the running water. So much nicer than staying at home and cooking dinner – Chris can have beans on toast!

Yesterday evening was so balmy and beautiful that Chris and I decided to go for a walk  after dinner, besides, we wanted to look at our house from the vantage point of the sea wall below us in order to look up and admire the painting works we’ve been doing recently.

The fisherfolk, locals and visitors alike, were out in force. The sea was tranquil and the sky was gradually turning pink with the setting of the sun; the earliest of the anglers to set up their positions had assembled in lines on the stoney breakwaters leading out to the deeper water while the latecomers had to make do with fishing from the sea wall into the shallower water.  A man and his son of about thirteen were in full swing. “Caught anything yet?” I asked (as you do when you see fisherpeople).

– “Not yet,” said the man in his Sheffield accent, “but we’ve only just started.”

– “We caught five mackerel last night,” added the lad enthusiastically.

– “Oh really?” and I turned to Chris and said, “We should have brought our rods down tonight.”

– “Would you like to have a cast out with our rod?” asked the man kindly.

– “Yes, go on, I don’t mind sharing. You have a go,” the boy offered me his rod.

– “No, that’s alright, thank you all the same,” I refused, “I can bring my rod down another time. You have fun.”

I wished them good fishing and we carried on our way along the wall; we had gone several yards when the boy told his father, “She’s married!”

Chris and I pretended not to hear and tried to contain our laughter. Honestly, you can’t take kids anywhere!

Today I have a funny little tale told to me this morning by my mother. Anyone who knows my mother will know already that, although she is a sprightly, healthy old lady with all her marbles, she is also nearly blind. But Mum is feisty and doesn’t let a little thing like having only thirty percent vision in her one good eye stop her from going about her daily life as she used to before the onset of wet macular degeneration. She catches buses by herself; and she crosses busy roads by herself, trusting that drivers will see the white stick at the end of her outstretched arm – she uses it like a conductor’s wand!

A couple of days ago, when Mum had been invited to lunch at my youngest brother’s house, she insisted that she didn’t need a lift and would enjoy to walk the half-mile to Robert’s in the sunshine. Half-way up the hill Mum noticed a very smart looking lady walking down the hill towards her; the lady wore crisp white trousers and a bright red and blue top; she also wore sunglasses and she had gorgeous blonde hair which shone like gold in the sunshine. As the lady approached Mum took a breather and called out (as you do)…

– “It’s so much easier coming down the hill than going up!”

The smart blonde lady stopped to pass the time of day.

– “I’ll say,” she said and they both laughed.

After some minutes had passed the blonde lady said she thought Mum seemed familiar.

– “What’s your name?” she asked.

– “Betty,” Mum replied, “and who are you?”

– “Maria,” she said with a smile, “No wonder I thought you were familiar!”

– “Oh Maria!” – the penny had dropped – “I didn’t recognise you as a blonde, and with those sunglasses – you know I can’t see,” Mum giggled.

– “It’s my new wig… no, I couldn’t see you either… I’m as blind as a bat!” said Maria, barely able to speak for laughing.

My mother and Maria have been good friends for twenty years! Apparently, they howled with laughter for at least five minutes.

Garden parties in Le Conquet (the most Westerly region of Northern France) are not rushed affairs, as I was to find out last Sunday. They begin at midday with kisses and introductions, and end after midnight with kisses and regrets that there aren’t more hours in a day. Gay tablecloths and floral arrangements adorn the tables, two of which are under the cool of the trees while another table is shaded by parasols; hats are provided for all and sundry, for protection as the shade changes with the movement of the sun across the sky. Courses arrive after just the right intervals, when one is starting to feel a little peckish again, and Champagne corks pop and wine bottles appear before you as if by magic. The genial hosts smile wonderfully as they offer you more of this or that and you feel that they genuinely appreciate you being there.

One of the joys of being at a twelve-hour party is that you may move around freely between courses, so, if perchance you made a mistake by at first sitting next to a slightly reticent or dull person at the wrong table, all is not lost – there are ample opportunities to make a move to a more interesting spot (on another table) without making undue haste and causing offence. Indeed, guests, and hosts alike, flit from place to place, alighting sometimes for a minute or perhaps for an hour or more where the conversation is most captivating.

Quite by chance, some time after our first course, and at a point when my conversation with the interesting Steven Spielberg doppelganger from Paris ran thin, I found myself in a most peculiar situation. I had moseyed over to the liveliest table and sat myself next to the vivacious English-speaking Francoise who used to be a member of the local repertory company, and who was apt to cross her eyes whenever she found something funny, which was quite often. Chris sat to my left but he was a bit quiet because he had toothache. Guy, the Portuguese market-trader and fisherman (one of my buddies from the night before), sat at the other end of the table and raised his glass to me every so often as a special gesture to remind me of our pleasant conversation in Franglais the previous evening; sometimes, with his glass raised up to me, he would call out, “What’s my name again Sally?”, and I would raise my glass and answer very slowly, “Acuna…Da Silva…La Pinto…Guy” and he and many others would be thrilled and roar with laughter – they were easily pleased. Perhaps it wasn’t his real name after all?  Yet another course was about to be brought out to the tables when the three empty chairs directly opposite me were suddenly filled.

I can tell you I hardly knew where to look through the wine bottles! There was Renaud the osteopath (with whom I had developed a special bond the night before whilst sitting close on the sofa and drinking shots of banana liqueur); next to him was Franck, also an osteopath and business partner to Renaud; then there was Guy – not the Portugese fisherman – but the tall handsome doctor who looked like he had just stepped off a yacht in the South of France. The three just sat with their puppy-dog expressions as if begging for my attention and each time I looked at one the other two looked dismayed.

– “Sally…” began Franck.

– “Yes Franck,” I answered.

– “I thought we ‘ad an understanding,” tutted Renaud.

– “We have,” I winked back and he was happy again, at which point Guy the playboy looked bereft and I had to wink at him to restore his self-confidence.

– “Sally,” Franck persisted, “I love you!”

I winked at Franck in order to show my appreciation of his good taste. Renaud and Guy remonstrated with Franck and turned away in disgust.

– “Sally, I sink you like the handsome doctor,” Francoise showed a certain insightfulness and we clinked our wine glasses.

– “Oh yes, I do, but they’re all so nice I don’t know how to choose between them! I think I just love all French men!”

Francoise crossed her eyes and everybody laughed. Her husband, who is rather unassuming, looked at her with adoring eyes and he took her photograph. Well, understandably, she used to be a star in the local repertory company.

And what of the wives of the three hot boys? They were too busy flirting themselves to pay any notice. Aren’t the French marvellous? Cheers!