I arrived on time (a rare occurrence) but was made a little late (the norm) by having to sign up again at reception. While I waited a tall man came up behind me and tickled my ribs.

“Hello Byron,” I turned around.

“So you knew it was me?”

“I hoped it was you – who else could it have been?” I laughed and he was called away.

A few minutes later I was signing forms, still at reception, when a nice strong arm slipped around my waist.

“That’s nice,” I turned around to give Byron a peck on the cheek (well, what is a girl supposed to do?).

“I haven’t seen you in ages. Have you been away?” asked Byron.

“No, just busy with work and visitors, but I’m going to mend my ways and come here more often.”

On my way to the changing rooms I could hear distant music coming from behind the heavy swing doors that I had to pass; and over the beat of the music I could hear shouting.

“Not Susan then,” I thought to myself, “but it’s a Monday, Susan should be in on Mondays, or am I mistaken?”

In the changing rooms, still two rooms and two walls from the pool area, I could hear the music and the shouting even more clearly. I considered changing my mind instead of my clothes but my resolve to be good got the better of me and I decided to give it another go.

I had hoped to sneak into one of the shower cubicles unnoticed; however, recent improvements had taken place since I had been last and the cubicles had disappeared, and now there are several open showers under bright lights, so that any late arrivals are under the spotlight. In disgrace, I showered facing the wall while perhaps all eyes were on my bottom.Yet, perhaps not… not while the twenty five or so ladies present were already well underway with “bootcamp aquacise”.

Susan was off and a young man with red hair and a red face to match was taking her slot… very loudly. “Mr Bootcamp” was a young chap dressed in rugby shorts, rugby shirt, long rugby socks and… rugby boots? No, rugby boots have spikes – don’t they? He must have worn trainers, they didn’t make a clip-clop sound, not that anyone could hear anything above the cacophony that was his shouting over the blaring modern music with no melody (that nobody recognised).

The back and middle of the pool was occupied to such an extent that I was obliged to take up the largest space available, at the front – directly in front of Mr Bootcamp. He had a repertoire of about eight exercises that he repeated throughout the session, varying them only in degree of difficulty – kick low, kick a bit higher, kicker higher still; lift arms so far, a bit more, lift them into the air (you get the picture). The earnest young man kicked, squatted and lifted to the sound of his own voice, and he got hot, sweaty and well-exercised; we kicked, squatted and lifted to the sound of his voice, and we didn’t break into sweat, or even get red in the face, because the exercises are much easier to do when you’re almost weightless in the water.

Mr Bootcamp seemed troubled that we didn’t go red in our faces from our exertions so he shouted…

“Come on! You know why you’re here, if you want to lose weight you’ll have to put more into it!”

I did tell you he is young.

Now Susan takes a different approach: she seems to appreciate how hard it is to speak over loud music (and may not like shouting) so she leads her classes by example from the side of the pool, through various routines of exercises to suit the music (almost like dancing in water). She invites her class to choose the level that suits an individual’s needs best and understands that some will exercise at double speed whilst others will be slower, according to discrepancies in age and levels of fitness. She also finds music that people recognise and like, and she was sensitive to our pleas for no more of Abba’s “Mamma Mia” (after two solid years of it – we all used to like it, but not any more!). And, importantly, she does not insinuate that we are too fat.

Towards the end of the session Byron came in to have a word with the lifeguard (who probably had to take out his earplugs), and as he passed by me he gave a secret little wave which lifted my spirits (as I lifted my arms dutifully and dully), and which may or may not have been noticed by the other ladies who were all behind me (hopefully). Byron understands that women need a little levity and before he left he lightened the mood of the entire class by scooping up a handful of water and putting it on the inexperienced Mr Bootcamp’s sweaty face.

Back in the changing room I overheard two ladies extolling the virtues and methods of Mr Bootcamp. Maybe they liked the masterful approach of the rugby team coach, or perhaps the more effusive admirer was the young man’s mother. Whatever the reasons, he was a hit with at least two of the ladies. Byron, on the other hand, was a hit with all.

I overheard a conversation about marriage today: according to the two young ladies, cynical beyond their years, and one not even married yet (just very perspicacious then), marriage is like a game of cards. The game begins with two hearts and a diamond (aw…), and ends with a club and a spade!  No wonder so few people are willing to take part nowadays.

Incidentally, did you know that playing cards were invented by the Chinese in the 9th century?  Cards came to Europe (probably via Egypt) in the 14th century. Of course, they didn’t look like the cards we are all familiar with; the most widely used type of cards in the world at present, comprising four suits – spades, hearts, diamonds and clubs – are believed to have originated in France around 1480. Interestingly, after the French Revolution, and the French Court had lost their heads, a different style of high ranking cards made their appearance. Isn’t it funny that I should come across this information whilst I’m still reading “A Tale of Two Cities”? – everything is French this week!

Thank you Wikipedia. Here are some photos of the French playing cards from 1793-94, also German Skats, still in use today.

That sexy looking loaf must have put ideas into Andy’s head. I’m ashamed to say that he’s at it again! Flea is no better. She may be a bit old and gone in but that is the point, I think; I reckon that is why she delights in flaunting the fact that she’s still capable (and culpable).

I know, no bread for people on the Dukan Diet; but as you will see from the photographs, the bread was not for me; it was for our visitor (not in the photos) AND ANDY (who has no compunction about getting in any photographs, no matter how rude).

Randy Andy always has an eye for fresh bread, and he was especially thrilled by today’s loaf, which rose to perfection and was so soft and light that it buckled under the merest touch…

“Good morning Baffin Island!” – those were the first words I heard this morning; they came from Chris, naturally, as he drew back the curtains and looked at the world outside. I kept my eyes closed because I was still disentangling myself from a strange dream about strange houses at the time (we are looking at winter accommodation in Spain).

My husband may look like a mild-mannered “playboy- politician”* but in actual fact he is a frustrated meteorologist and a closet geography teacher (well, a bedroom geography teacher in this case). He keeps a globe of the world lamp (you could say it was a “Light of the World”) on his part of the dressing table, which is a very useful tool for a geography teacher, and it doubles up as a kind, and therefore romantic, light at bedtime.

“Where is Baffin Island?” I asked, still with my eyes shut but rallying. Where’s the harm in pandering to his little obsession?

“Canada, above Alaska and very close to the North Pole” he gushed, pleased that I was interested enough to ask, even if my eyes were still closed tight.

“Like Russia’s version of Siberia?” (Well, I was half-asleep. You have to show a bit of willing even if it doesn’t make perfect sense.)

“Yes,” he said, knowing exactly what I meant.

“Why is it called Baffin Island?” I continued, “Are there some animals called Baffins that I’ve never heard of?”

“Baffin was an explorer, silly! It’s a very cold and remote place, quite large really,” Chris walked over to the globe (I was now awake and able to open my eyes), “Yes, here it is… a part of Canada but so far North that it is even closer to the Pole than Siberia.” He traced his finger across to Siberia.

“Fancy that,” I said, keeping up my interest.

“Not to be confused with Puffin Island, the island for asthmatics – it’s quite a wheeze!” He came back to bed and continued, “If the explorer was called William, the island would be called ‘Puffin’ Billy’!”

We laughed (and wheezed and had a coughing fit).

“With all this political correctness nowadays you can’t call Eskimos Eskimos any more. I think that it came from the French because the plural of Eskimo is Eskimeaux” he had moved on to another line of thought, not disconnected. (I told you he is a closet geography teacher!)

For a moment my mind went back to when I was seventeen and living in London, and I met an Eskimo (he didn’t mind telling me that he was an Eskimo). I asked him for a kiss because I wanted to know what it was like to kiss an Eskimo (as you do). He was eager to oblige and it was very educational – you see it wasn’t just a case of rubbing his nose either side of my own quickly, as children do when pretending to be Eskimos (well we did!); actually, it was quite sensual, he rubbed his nose slowly DOWN one side of my nose, then the other, until his lips found mine… at which point I pushed him away because I had already got the idea.

I didn’t tell Chris about my slip into memory. You don’t have to reveal all – do you?

“Mongoloid Nell doesn’t sound as pretty as Eskimo Nell – does it?” Chris asked.

And the conversation went on in the same funny vein for another twenty minutes; if only I could remember more… but I’m afraid I had barely opened my eyes from strange dreams about houses, and I can’t remember; except for something about Siberian bungalows perhaps being called “bungaloids”…

* A true quote from a former lover (of Chris’s, not mine!)

Why is it that we (I) crave mostly for sweet or unctuous food? Do the cravings come from our needy bodies or our brains, which maybe require their ‘fix’ for happiness, often several times a day? As you may know by now, I am nearly always on a diet – I’m just not particularly successful because at some point in any day, perhaps if I have forgotten to eat at the right time, I succomb to my cravings.

This morning I opened the cereal cupboard, took one look at the packet of whole grain porridge, had a mental picture of yesterday’s breakfast, and closed the cupboard door. Next I went to the refrigerator for inspiration; Actimel yogurt drink, Polish sausage and cherry tomatoes didn’t do it for me, and there was no point in looking any further (I knew what was in the vegetable drawer). I opened the tinned food cupboard door and scanned the six tins of tomatoes, the four tins of baked beans, the Argentinian corned beef, the  Lidl’s chicken tikka, the jar of pasta sauce and then I stopped… at the “Ambrosia Rice Pudding”…. For breakfast? No, that’s what I thought too and I shut the door.

Back in the cereal cupboard, I eyed up all the serious cereal options – the rice flakes, bran flakes and oat groats – before pinching a handful of dry (but unctuous) “Crunchy Nut Caramel Bites” (with nuts); unfortunately the packet was nearly empty and was soon down to the layer of small pieces and sugar dust and I withdrew my hand in dis-dust – well you have to draw a line somewhere. I settled for a plain omelette cooked in my new non-stick pan which works with barely a drop of olive oil. It wasn’t very unctuous or satisfying and I keep thinking about the caramel dust and the creamy rice pudding lurking in the cupboards… ( And to think I believed there to be nothing nice to tempt in the house.) But no, I shall fight those cravings. It might be an idea to get on with some work!

Before I set to it I’ll give you a snippet of the conversation at breakfast (nothing is sacred nowadays). I picked up a nectarine from the fruitbowl nearest me and was surprised to find that it hadn’t ripened in the five days since it had sat there. I passed it to Chris and asked…

“Would you mind putting this in with the banana? Apparently bananas are supposed to help ripen other fruit – aren’t they?”

“That’s right, they emit…,” answered Chris as he placed the rock (still love that word) hard fruit beside a solitary banana in the fruitbowl beside him (we  are a two fruitbowl family – we have gone up in the world!).

“… some kind of gas?” I interjected.

“Like the rest of us!” Chris ejaculated.

The river beach at Teignmouth just a couple of months ago. It all looks rather timeless to me.

Having just read the “Mail” online news update on the supermarket siege in Nairobi, and seen the shocking photographs, does it seem trite to want to write about literature when there are so many terrible things going on in the world? I hope not, rather, it might be a healthy distraction. In any case, Dickens’ “A Tale of Two Cities” is anything but trite, and remains as fresh, exciting and thought provoking as it must have been when it was first published in Dickens’ literary periodical between April 1859 and November 1859 (in 31 weekly instalments). With my bookworm club meeting next Sunday fast approaching, I regret not starting the book earlier (as suggested by our gorgeous leader, Reuben, who knew I would not manage to finish reading it in a last day flurry) because I am nowhere near finished. In fact, I am still on book 2, and only at the beginning of that (if truth be known) –  yet 5 years before the beginning of the French Revolution but full of the stirrings of revolt.

I remember reading the book when I was fourteen or fifteen years old, and finding it hard work because of the different style, and my immaturity, of course. Reading it with older but fresh eyes I now see just how brilliant Dickens was. Far from being stilted or old fashioned, as you might imagine, Dickens used modern idioms such as “pretty”, as in ‘pretty good’ – and I’m expecting Madame Defarge to look up from her knitting and say, “He lost his head – cool!”. As ever, his descriptive powers are wonderful and often funny, giving the serious subject light and shade. Here is an early description of the man on horseback who delivered the message “Recalled to life”:

   His message perplexed his mind to that degree that he was fain, several times, to take off his hat to scratch his head. Except on the crown, which was raggedly bald, he had stiff, black hair, standing jaggedly all over it, and growing down hill almost to his broad, blunt nose. It was so like Smith’s work, so much more like the top of a strongly spiked wall than a head of hair, that the best of players at leap-frog might have declined him, as the most dangerous man in the world to go over.

And now an excerpt from the last chapter of the first book, when Miss Manette has come to fetch her estranged father – much changed, unrecognisable and thought dead – who has been freed from his twenty years of captivity in the Bastille for political crimes:

He had sunk in her arms, and his face dropped on her breast: a sight so touching, yet so terrible in the tremendous wrong and suffering which had gone before it, that the two beholders covered their faces.

When the quiet of the garret had been long undisturbed, and his heaving breast and shaken form had long yielded to the calm that must follow all storms – emblem to humanity, of the rest and silence into which the storm called Life must hush at last – they came forward to raise the father and daughter from the ground. He had gradually dropped to the floor, and lay there in a lethargy, worn out. She had nestled down with him, that his head might lie upon her arm; and her hair drooping over him curtained him from the light.

And that is why I find myself in love with Dickens. It has absolutely nothing to do with my own tenuous connection to Dickens, in that, in 1998 I happened to be an “extra” in the mini-series of  “Our Mutual Friend” (reputedly Dickens’ most sophisticated novel, began in 1864 and finished in 1865 after the Staplehurst train crash, during which the manuscript was very nearly lost and his alleged affair with Ellen Ternan was very nearly exposed). My acting role was short and sweet, hardly warranting the great time spent on wardrobe, hair styling and de-make-upping (it was authenticism to the enth degree); and if you are interested to see the younger me, albeit for just a few seconds, I was the maid dressed in black, carrying a tray across the room while the Boffins had a conversation (Mrs Boffins was played by Pam Ferris – and what a charming lady she is – not at all like Miss Trunchbull!).

Now normal “extras” know their place – they aren’t supposed to converse with actors – and they keep apart and chat amongst themselves. In general, the normal “extras” are not quite as interesting as proper actors (though they often think they are) so I was rather grateful that my long hours of waiting on set were filled rather pleasantly by the company of two male actors, one of whom was not especially handsome in his false mutton chop whiskers but he was very witty. We three had become quite chummy during the course of the day – I took some extra pleasure from being told by some more important “extras” than myself that I should not be mingling in such a manner – and my new friends delighted in supporting me against any discrimination whatsoever. This became most evident when the director (a lady) came over to thank my friends for being a part of the production…

First the director went up to the taller, younger actor and kissed him on both his handsome cheeks.

“Oh thank you so much for being here Darling!” she enthused very theatrically.

Then she kissed my dear Muttonchops thoroughly on either side (presumably where the hair was least in evidence) and she gushed again…

“Darling, how marvellous that you are here to be a part of this. Thank you so much! I’m so grateful to you, and totally thrilled Darling!”

Muttonchops was all smiles. Then, being a perfect gentleman, and not wishing me to feel left out or discriminated against, he looked away from her to me and held out his arm in my direction. She was nonplussed for a split second and then the good hearted young woman rallied. She embraced me and kissed me on both cheeks.

“Thank you for coming Darling!” she said convincingly.

“No, thank you for having me,” I answered almost humbly in recognition of the fact that I was merely an “extra” who ought to know her place.

And if you should happen ever to see that wonderful production (it is good – all joking aside) of “Our Mutual Friend” and you notice the maid wearing an extremely wide and authentic maid’s dress (complete with iron ring structures to keep the dress in shape), and you get to wondering how I ever managed to fit in the narrow Portaloos on site; well, I shall tell you – you go in backwards, tilt forwards, then backwards. How do you close the door? Don’t be ridiculous! You just sit there like a queen holding court and you laugh!

Well, not three ships, just one, and it wasn’t a sailing ship, or a ship exactly…  (I’m rather a romantic.) In truth, when Chris and I were in bed this morning we saw just the little red fishing boat that comes from Cockwood Harbour (our favourite cycling destination). The boat was chugging along in the choppy sea outside, and it was very close, as it circled around and the fishermen put out the nets. We see all sorts of fascinating things from our bedrooms here at San Remo Terrace.

I was never one of the popular girls at school, for which reason I used to sneer at them and pretend to enjoy a certain anonymity in being rather average. Secretly, however, I used to wonder what it would be like to be universally admired and feted. How strange then to find now, so many years later, that I am at last popular, especially on the Internet, in the form of unwarranted (by me) emails.

Have you ever wished that you weren’t quite so in demand? I do. The many Viagra offers from Canada (do Canadian’s think that Sally is a man’s name?) go straight into my spam box and get deleted daily in one fell swoop (or click). More tricky to detect are the up to twelve unsolicited emails each day, mostly from Barkin Fiasco (or some such sounding name) somewhere in Africa, asking me to become a trusted business partner so that I may manage and share large amounts of money varying from $2,000,000 – $9,000,0000; you wouldn’t believe how many people have died in car accidents, plane crashes and from sudden diseases without leaving wills… and I am the one person in the world that all the claimants believe they can trust! The trouble with these emails is that they ride in under the respected names of Google Calendar or, as was the case of one today – firedoglake. Firedoglake? Never heard of it? Neither had I.

I have a friend in America with the surname Lake; I wondered if he went off the name Gary recently and during a brainwave decided to call himself “Firedog” (hot diggity dog! Yahoo! Y’old hound dawg you!). As much as I thought it an exciting idea I didn’t really see Gary as Professor Firedog Lake, mild-mannered lecturer in Agriculture from Wisconsin; and I was afraid to open the email in case it contained a “Trojan horse”, so I checked Google for “firedoglake“. FDL, as it is shortened to – probably to look like federal, which would be much more appropriate – is an interesting American news site, a sort of US online version of “Private Eye” magazine, which pokes about for the nitty gritty truth below the surface and treats it with the sarcasm it deserves. The site also has a book salon (not a store or library) – I read a synopsis of “The Vertical Farm” book (farms in skyscrapers – fascinating!) – and for a moment I wondered if a whizzkid from FDL wanted to profile my own book. The notion flitted into my head and straight out again – after all, “The Innocent Flirt Down Under” is no great expose of anything more subversive than my own innocent thoughts whilst visiting Australia (not even America!) a little while ago.

Hence, intrigued but not unduly excited, when I opened the email from firedoglake I was only slightly disappointed to find myself Miss Popularity yet again, this time with a Miss Angie Abdul, who was also Miss-Informed if indeed, she was amiss at all.

The “Pouting Baby” story at FDL, accompanying the email, was much more illuminating and amusing… to the folk who live in Washington and remember what shenanigans Judge Clarence got up to some years ago… I imagine he was very popular at the time but I don’t care because I sneer at popularity.