The view outside at eight o’clock this morning was pretty well the same as it has been for some days now – grey, wet and windy. I can gauge the force of the wind by noting how much my neighbour’s honeysuckle bush gets blown about against a background of watery grey sky; every day recently, the leafless stalks have been shaking and waving wildly like the extra-long, super-thin arms of a Giacometti statue come to life and behaving dementedly; and each time I see them I think, “I must cut those horrible arms!”  These are the kind of days that make me think of how nice it would be to be back in Brisbane in the Spring.

And yet, there is something very exciting about living in our big house by the sea at this time of year because the October gales and high tides have arrived; the big waves crash against our sea defences, trying to force their way through granite and concrete, and sometimes succeed; and when the seawall has been breeched we can feel the impact through the foundations of our Victorian terrace, but while the fringes on our lamp shades shake with trepidation, we are not so timid…

Chris and I looked like ‘Scott of the Antarctic’ (except that my coat is pink) as we set out for a nice walk in the rain and gales this morning; even with my hood enveloping most of my head, and with the cord tied secured so that only a three inch diameter of my bare face was open to the elements, the rain, whipped up in the wind, still managed to sting  and my face smarted. We lowered our heads and made our way down to the railway bridge by Coastguard Cottages, where we met another couple of intrepid explorers, similarly dressed like Scott, and with the same tell-tale, wet red faces. We all laughed, as you do, and, without speaking, we were in accord that the seawall was impassable from that point – even the trains tiptoed past, hoping not to be spotted, and deluged, by the waves.

We took another route down to the beach. I was taking a few shots of the rough sea with my mobile phone camera when a man came along; he wore black jogging pants, an old brown ‘Scott of the Antarctic’ hooded coat (the genuine article, by the looks of it) and sandals. The man stood for a minute or so, looking very intently at the pounding waves, and then he took off his sandals and his coat.

“You’re not going in – are you?” I asked.

“Yes,” he said, taking off his tee-shirt. (He was a man of few words.)

“But aren’t you afraid?” I pointed at the sea crashing into the wall.

“I do it every day,” he said.

I supposed that meant he went swimming in the sea no matter what the weather.

“May I take a photo?” I asked.

He nodded his consent but he paid me no special attention and walked straight into the raging water. Several people came along and marvelled at the man “from Atlantis”; we  agreed, behind our hoods, that he was an excellent swimmer so we moved on.  As we were leaving, a couple of self-assured young mothers decided to take their little tots for an invigorating walk along the same seawall where the waves were of a mind to frighten the pussyfooting trains.

Everything seems to involve trains this week – ever since I started reading “Atlas Shrugged”, which has a lot (1,200 pages!) to do with railways, as you know, if you’ve been reading my blog recently.

It was hard for me to sleep last night. Maybe it had something to do with “Atlas Shrugged”, the book I’m reading for bookclub; perhaps I read for too long and I became overtired, or my eyes were strained by reading small print late at night. Or it could have been that my mind could not switch off after reading page after page of vivid descriptions about railways and the machinations of big business conducted in a bar room – as black as a cellar, with a ceiling “so heavy and low that people stooped when crossing the room, as if the weight of the vaulting rested on their shoulders” – built on the top of a skyscraper. For whatever reason, when at last I put down the heavy tome and rested my head on the pillow, sleep refused to come.

The black clouds, that had earlier blocked out the full moon, had moved on and moonlight filled the chink in the not quite closed curtains of our bedroom. Even with my eyes shut I was aware of the light and my mind’s eye envisaged the light of a train in the distance, and railway lines, reflecting pale yellow, as they disappeared towards the oncoming dot of light. Chris was asleep, breathing heavily and rocking back and forth every twenty seconds (as he does sometimes). After an hour or so I got up and drew the curtains together at the top but the moonlight, still intent on pervading the room, entered through the the double thickness of material and turned the empty space of the room an ethereal grey. I decided to go upstairs to the loo – maybe I would be able to sleep afterwards – and on my way I stopped by the double-glazed door that looked out over the sea and the moon above it; the night had calmed and the waves no longer pounded and spumed their anger at the steadfast seawall.

Back in bed, the bedroom furniture was silhouetted against the strange dark light and as I closed my eyes I was suddenly back in Australia; I was back under the shade of the giant fig trees at Wellington Point (South-side Brisbane); and I was sitting on one of the huge roots which I have known and loved all my life. The trees were always magnificent; if I have grown then so have they, and they seem the same as when Mum and Dad used to take us as children; when Dad used to stand beneath us while we climbed as high as we dared; when we made camps in the undergrowth, when we explored the cliff paths and Dad said, “Trust me, you won’t fall – take my hand”, and he was always right.

And all through the years, at different stages, those same trees have shaded generations of hundreds, perhaps thousands, of families and young lovers. From time to time we of those generations all return to reminisce or try to relive whatever memory is most dear to us; whilst the very young and newcomers begin their own happy memories beneath those beneficent boughs.

Last night, before finding sleep at last, I climbed one of the giant fig trees and I did not fall; I had a picnic with a lover from the past, watched my little son on the sea-saw and the swings; sun-baked on the beach with my dad and held his hand; and sat joyfully on one of the roots, so conveniently shaped for sitting upon, whilst surveying the happy scene of sunshine and sea, from within the world of shade. Then I turned on my side and cuddled Chris to make him stop rocking… and I went to sleep.

The Tesco supermarket, Newton Abbot, had something new in store for its patrons yesterday, and there were plenty for all – if only we knew what they were…

Dear Henry, Clint, Harrison, Mel and Brad,

Please excuse me for not writing to you individually by hand, but I don’t have your addresses, and I know that even this is a bit of a long shot; nevertheless, I’m hoping that at least one of you reads my blog every day by now (I have been at it for around four months!); and please don’t be offended by the order of your names – it doesn’t mean I like any one of you less than an another – I simply thought it would be more respectful to begin with the eldest and continue in chronological order. Well, I had better tell you why I’m writing to you, but first, let me say that it has nothing to do with money, I’m above that – this comes from a woman artist (accustomed to starving) who waives her fees for public speaking at the Havana Club, Dawlish – and I trust you have the same disregard for filthy lucre.

I am writing to you because I’m in a bit of a spot; you see, I belong to this bookclub in Teignmouth (down in Devon, the South West of England – you may know it already – Goldie Hawn is a regular, not to our Bookworms club, but to the area), and last month our gorgeous leader, Reuben, suggested that each of us bring a new member to the next meeting at 4.30pm Sunday 27th October, only a fortnight away. I have asked my husband if he will be my new member/guest but he has refused point blank. I asked him if there was any way that I could induce him to change his mind and he replied, “Only if Goldie Hawn makes an appearance!” Now if any of you lovely chaps are on friendly terms with Goldie you could put a word in for our little diminishing group of bookworms… However, perhaps that’s not such a good idea because we already have more female bookworms than males (owing to the charisma of our leader, no doubt) and the majority of the group would definitely prefer more male bookworms.

In case you’re wondering, I don’t think anyone will think the worse of you if you turn up without having read this month’s book – few of us will have had time to read it either; in fact, I haven’t finished reading “A Tale of Two Cities” yet (much as I love it) and I had to put that on hold in order to read  the Kindle free sample of “Atlas Shrugged”, our latest tome, while I waited for the local library to send out to Tiverton for my copy, which I collected yesterday. In truth, I’m only halfway through the free sample – imagine my dismay when I found that the paperback version has nearly 1,200 pages of extremely small print! So, no worries, hardly anybody will have finished it and I can fill you in with a synopsis (which I will read the day before the meeting). I bet you have read it already Henry. What do you think about Ayn Rand’s philosophy of the individual first? (Or greed, as most people call it.)

Accommodation is no problem, you can stay the night, or a week – yes, make a free holiday of it if you wish. Mel, if you decide to come I hope you won’t be leading Chris astray and taking him down the pub all the time – better to stay in and reminisce about Australia with me. Sorry, Brad, but the group doesn’t encourage members to bring their wives and many kids along – they are far too distracting (Chris says to bring Angelina but leave the kids with Nanny). And Clint, did you know I’ve written a couple of books myself? Harrison, I hope you will be able to tear yourself away from the jungle, or wherever you are filming at present, to be with us in a fortnight. Please come.

Your fellow bookworm (hopefully),

Sallyxxxxx

It has gone seven-thirty in the evening and I haven’t even written my blog post yet; I’ve been out since breakfast time and came in  just a few minutes ago. It has been such an emotional and busy day that I have not given any thought whatsoever to my subject for today (or tonight), until now.

Now I’m here at my desk considering what to write about? I could tell you that it’s cold and wet outside; we noticed a yellow road sign with “flood” printed on it as we entered our hometown of Dawlish – “What flood?” Chris and I both thought – and then we drove through the floodwater. It has been raining hard for two to three hours – the drains can’t handle sudden downpours. But no, I’m going to write about the state of our drains in Dawlish. Besides, it feels quite cosy indoors, now that the curtains are drawn and the heating is on. The sound of the rain falling onto the roof above me out here in the studio is pleasant and reminds me of childhood, in the early days when we lived in a flat-roofed little wooden house in the bush in Australia. Everyone knows that flat roofs have a tendency to leak – ours was no exception. The heavy drips of rain that leaked through the holes made different metallic notes as they landed  in saucepans, enamel basins and enamel bowls, and lulled us to sleep in spite of the unharmonious sound; even so we managed to feel cosy inside while it raged outside and the roads flooded, and our low-lying back garden flooded. Those were the days, not necessarily the good old days, but we loved canoeing in the garden and catching yabbies (shellfish like prawns) in the streams at the sides of the roads.

My world is so different now; nowadays “cosy” is how I feel when I ditch the Summer duvet for the cuddly Winter one. It seems so inconsequential. The rain has stopped, the flooding down the town centre will soon abate; no children here will miss school for days, or perhaps a week, because they are trapped at home by floods; and maybe they wouldn’t even recognise what cosy means because they have never known anything different. Funnily enough, I don’t feel cosy any more, just hot; my studio is very well insulated, the heating is still on and I feel stifled. I can hardly breathe. I’d love to run out in the rain with all my clothes on, like we did when I was a kid…

As a matter of fact I wasn’t all by myself, I was in bed with Chris at the time. It was six-thirty in the morning and Chris, who is an early riser (much earlier than me), got completely undressed and came back to bed. The curtains were closed, and it was still dark outside, so Chris turned on the globe lamp with the romantic soft light.

“Want some music?” he asked.

“Yes please,” I answered.

I knew which CD he would put on; it had to be “Ride Like the Wind”, a compilation of love songs from the eighties and nineties, which was given to me as a keepsake by my nephew, William.

I snuggled up to Chris under the duvet during “I Would do Anything for You” and he let me warm my cold feet on his hot legs; we kissed our way through “I Wanna Kiss You all Over; we didn’t speak at all for the entire duration of “Only Words” although I may have hummed along in harmony from time to time. Before we knew it, the strains of the second movement of Rachmaninoff’s Piano Concerto No.2 were upon us and Eric Carmen poured his heart out over and over, crescendo after crescendo, and after a while we were back to the  quiet part, the repeat of the first half of the first verse – “When I was young, I never needed anyone, And making love was just for fun…” when I suddenly sang out mournfully the next line –

He was so sweet, so faithful, so reticent, so reluctant and so adamant that I didn’t push my luck, and left without giving the gorgeous boy even a pat; but I waved and called my goodbye to his master, down on the mud.

It rained all night last night, or so it seemed to me, for every time I awoke it was raining, and I could hear the waves crashing and pounding the shore and seawall below our house built into the cliff. At eight o’clock this morning, when I awoke for real, I asked Chris not to draw open the curtains on the day – I knew it would be grey and I could not face it straight away. Instead, I just wanted to snuggle up in bed and prolong my hibernation. Chris was fully dressed already, which was why he lay on top of the covers and I didn’t get a cuddle; he put out his hand and stroked my arm but I was in a funny position and found the weight of his arm, dragging on my chest, too heavy.

We remained in bed for another hour and a half; it wasn’t so much a sleep-in, or even a “love-in” (not with swathes of bedlinen and Chris’s full quota of day clothes between our willing but difficult to get at bodies); rather, we had a pleasant “talk-in” about everything under the sun, had there been any sun, which there wasn’t because the room was still dark from the dark grey of the world behind the bedroom windows, but it was nice because, cocooned in the darkness, we felt remote from the greyness that lay in wait (not to be confused with the lightness you feel at a Weight-Watchers’ meeting when you weigh in late – sorry). At length, when we had exhausted our conversation about trolls (the darkness seems to inspire such topics), the telephone rang like an alarm bell telling us we should rouse ourselves from our “pastoral turpitude” (well, that may be a bit over-the-top but we do feel slovenly if we stay in bed for more than an hour after waking). Chris took the call but it was for me; still in only my figure-hugging little vest (you know I have put on a few pounds recently!) and sexy red bikini panties, I ran upstairs, not because the call was secret – reception is poor at the bottom of the house.

It was Belinda, the secretary from the Havana Club, booking in my free talk on painting for December, and I asked her to kindly call to remind me nearer the time because I don’t have a calendar for next year yet.

“I’ll bring along a few paintings and invite the members to ask questions,” I said,”that will help maintain their interest and keep them awake” (I’ve talked to the Havana Club before).

“Oh, they’ll still fall asleep!” Belinda laughed.

“Well, I had better get dressed now, Belinda.”

“Sorry to call before you were up…” her voice showed surprise.

“Not at all, I meant that I’m up – been up for ages actually – but I’m still in my pyjamas, that’s all,” I answered, thinking on my feet. (For some strange reason I didn’t want her to have a mental picture of me, in my little white vest and red panties, standing there talking to her. And it had more to do with my dignity than her sexual orientation, of which, admittedly, I am unsure.)

A minute or two later I hot-footed it back downstairs to the cool blackness of the bedroom; Chris was fast asleep on top of the bed. I drew back the curtains to expose the grey of the day and Chris pretended that he had not fallen asleep. The rain lashed at the window panes.

“I guess you want me to get up?” he said with glint in his eye, while the other one roamed my semi-naked body.

“Yes please,” I said playfully, whilst stripping off my top. “You know what I really want – don’t you?”

“I believe I do,”  answered Chris, as he stood up from the bed.

He walked over to me, put his arms around me, and quite out of the blue, he spanked me on the bottom.

“You want to go for a walk in the rain- don’t you? You naughty girl!”

And should you be interested, I had my way. We dressed for the Arctic winds and rain, and before leaving I popped my mobile phone in my pocket – just in case there were any big waves worth photographing. Down on the seawall it was so grey and miserable that I had my doubts about finding anything worthwhile to photograph; but, before long, something magical happened; patches of blue appeared in the sky, and within ten minutes it was a beautiful sunshiny day. Here are some of the photos! Incidentally, the lady in red (dressed also for the rain and cold) is my Mum’s friend, Fran, who thought her children might enjoy to see her on my blog; and the little dog is simply there because he looks cute.