On second thoughts…

You do not want to trip up on the groynes!

To be honest with you, I used to be a little scared of trolls; not the trolls of fairy tales – that lie in wait under bridges for unsuspecting tasty goats to come along – no, I’m talking about the new breed of modern trolls who lie in wait behind their computer screens, who troll through the Internet for opportunities to assert themselves in stealthy ways that will cause damage to others without the injured parties knowing their attackers, or why they were attacked. Oddly enough, for one so fresh to the world of the Internet, I’ve had cause to wonder at what motivates trolls because I was actually subject to a bit of wicked trolling myself earlier this year. In my case the only conclusion I could draw was that the two female trolls,who wrote almost identical nasty things, and who both came from my own hometown, must have had personal reasons for being so horrible. Inexplicably, they left their names, which meant nothing to me… at the time.

My advice to those with a hankering to become a troll would be: do not troll when you have to leave your real name as your calling card, especially when you live in the same small town, and you can be found on Facebook. And yet, one of my trolls was perhaps not quite so stupid because there happens to be another woman in our town with the same name; apparently (according to my allies – the forces of good), the older one of that name is an important middle-aged lady, involved in the local theatre and charity groups; the other is a working mother; and I do not know either of them personally, as far as I know. My intuition told me that the troll was more likely to be the older lady but I couldn’t be certain, and why? Did her husband (whoever he was) have a soft spot for me? All these months later, though the hurtful comments are no longer foremost in my mind, I still ponder occasionally on the true identity of my second troll.

Funnily enough, Jane, one of our local ‘movers and shakers’, called me last week and asked if I would give a forty-minute talk at the Havana Club (for old folk). Being a professional artist, and therefore a minor celebrity within a three-mile radius of Dawlish, I’m on the list of ‘approachables’ on the talking circuit. Having agreed to do my bit for the Havana Club, it was then suggested that I should telephone another lady who would be able to book me into a convenient slot; that lady’s name was – you guessed it – the name of my troll! Of course, the woman in question may not have been my troll; nevertheless, I found all manner of excuses for myself not to call her. At last, after a full week of mulling over what I should say and how I should say it, I decided I could leave it no later – the bull had to be taken by the horns – and I phoned her.

“Hello, is that ******** ********* (possibly Mrs Troll)? This is…ah… Sally porch. (I forced myself to smile because people can tell if you’re smiling or not when you talk on the phone.) I’m calling about the talk I’ve been asked to give the Havana Club.”

“Oh yes, Sally, Jane told me to expect a call,” she said in a fairly friendly way, as if she knew me. “You’re charging £30 – aren’t you?”

“That’s right.” (I had agreed with Jane on the figure of £30, on the basis that it was half the highest amount the club usually pays its speakers.)

“The club might be closing down soon through lack of funding, so Jane said she would put a tenner in the kitty,” said the likely Mrs Troll.

“Oh, that won’t be necessary, let’s call it twenty pounds.”

“Thank you,” said the probable Mrs Troll, “I’ll get Agatha to call you and arrange a time – I don’t deal with the bookings myself.”

When I put down the phone I thought about the matter of my humble fee. Twenty pounds is not a lot on the talking circuit nowadays; if I had to rely upon that for my living I would not have to diet – I would starve. On second thoughts it hit me that actually I would rather starve than have an important woman (or a troll) spread the word about town that I was so mean that I charged the old folk at the Havana twenty pounds for forty minutes of my time (plus the preparation and travel time).

I phoned her back.

“Hello? This is Sally Porch again.”

“Hello Sally!” a man’s voice answered in a smile ( I could tell he liked me), “I’ll just get ***** for you.”

“Hello Sally?” came a surprised voice.

“I’ve been thinking about it and I’ll waive the fee – just thought I’d let you know so you won’t have to fret about it.”

“You don’t have to do that,” said the lady (who might well have been my troll).

“Oh yes I do,” I thought to myself, but I didn’t say that. I smiled as I bade my cheery goodbye and gave no hint of my misgivings as to her possible alter-ego. I felt good. Who’s scared of trolls anyway?

As you can imagine, our family is noted for its good looks!

My helpful friend Gary sent  these thoughts on a subject very relevant to me because he knows that I’m always thinking of ways to speed up my weight loss; judging by the amount of weight I’ve gained latterly, I must spend more time thinking about it than doing it.

 
The Importance of walking

Walking can add minutes to your life. This enables you at 85 years old to spend an
additional 5 months in a nursing home at $4,000 per month.

My grandpa started walking five miles a day when he was 60. Now he’s 97 years old
and we have no idea where the hell he is.

I like long walks, especially when they are taken by people who annoy me.

The only reason I would take up walking is so that I could hear heavy breathing again.

I have to walk early in the morning, before my brain figures out what I’m doing…

I joined a health club last year, spent about 250 bucks. Haven’t lost a pound. Apparently
you have to go there!

Every time I hear the dirty word ‘exercise’, I wash my mouth out with chocolate.

I do have flabby thighs, but fortunately my stomach covers them..

The advantage of exercising every day is so when you die, they’ll say, ‘Well, he looks good – doesn’t he.’

If you are going to try cross-country skiing, start with a small country.

I know I got a lot of exercise the last few years,…… just getting over the hill..

We all get heavier as we get older, because there’s a lot more information in our heads.That’s my story and I’m sticking to it.

 [cid:16A6729151AE40CB98693C600273FCEC@SCOTTPC]

My Chris has been laughing to himself rather a lot In recent weeks, ever since he started searching for Winter let accommodation in Nerja, Southern Spain; and, in particular, when he received replies from Spanish agents and landlords, many of whom speak English in a very unusual but charming dialect.

Take Spiderman Luis for example:

Hello visitor, it is not how he came to this page, welcome.

Are you looking for an apartment or a villa with private pool for your holidays in Nerja? because I had a look at my web. I hope to be able to offer you an interesting accommodation to suit all tastes.

As you know, a picture is worth more A thousand words. i hope that this visit will open to you the appetite and come as soon as possible to My Nerja.

A greeting, Luis.

Another landlord offered a country house:

QUIET HOUSE, nicely decorated, large terrace with barbecue AND FRONT PORCH (I like the sound of that, well I would do with a name like Sally Porch!), just 400m from the beach Playazo, near Nerja MARINE HOTEL AND BUS STOP, IN FULL FIELD SURROUNDED BY TREES AND AVOCADO TO BE THE DELIGHT OF THEIR SALADS.

Delightful! And he could spell “AVOCADO”, which is more than many English greengrocers can do.

And I have left the funniest to last:

Best points about the property:

The apartment this located to little meters of the famous Balcony of Europe in the heat of the heart of Nerja and therefore can arrive at precious beaches located to both sides of the Balcony of so single Europe in 2 minutes walking.

With respect to the floor to as much indicate the amplitude of the bath as of the kitchen as they can observe in fotografias.

Hints and tips from the owner:

See the personal website of the owner

To visit the Caves of Nerja, Granada (and its Alhambra), Malaga, Frigiliana (colourful town located to 6 km), etc…

If you are jovenes (and of course also for but mature), the zone of diversion this close (to 2 minutes of the floor) in the seat Tutti Frutti (Oh Rudy) at which they can arrive leaving the by hand left floor.

If they go towards the right, in a minute, will arrive at Cavana Seat and the Balcony of Europe, precious zone of stroll in where they will find many terraces of summer and as much here as in the streets which they end at the Balcony are abundant bars, restaurants and commerce for all the pleasures. (Sounds irresistible!)

Like reference of which they are located in the heart of Nerja, to indicate that at time of summer, this street of the floor (by the terraces and positions of artesania which they put in the street) along with Antonio street Million (next to seat Tutti Frutti) (Oh Rudy, A whop bop-a-lu a whop bam boo) and Carabeo street they are the 3 streets that are cut to the traffic rolled from the 6 of afternoon and until the 2 in the morning. In summery, that when being in the heart of Nerja, will not need to depend on car and all they will find by hand.

Of course, I can’t talk – literally, I can’t talk; I mean, I can speak French but only in a very literal (and often humorous) translation from English to French; our web-footed neighbours across the Channel can understand me but they giggle and keep me talking so that they can have a good laugh. “Sally, can you please repeat zat again?” they implore me. I say it again, even more ludicrously, and we all crack up. I’ve promised my French buddies that I will learn fifty more French words  before my return to Brittany so that we may have more interesting things to discuss than floors, ceilings, windows (open and shut), cutlery, china, tables, bottles, the weather and l’amour.

Oh dear, I have Little Richard in my head now. Bop bopa-a-lu a whop bam boo
Tutti frutti, oh Rudy…

Several stories in the newspapers this week have struck me as very funny. Take Friday for example; I came across a photograph of a very distressed looking Mrs Lillian Taylor, 88, (living in sheltered accommodation in Clapton) and her seething son, Fred, 65, (of Basildon) with his arms around her. It was little wonder that Fred was so angry because it transpired that poor frail Lillian, who has dementia, was discharged and sent home from hospital to an address where she used to live. Apparently, ambulance staff were greeted at the front door by the current resident, an old gentleman (and a total stranger to Lillian), who was persuaded to let the old lady, wearing her nightdress, into his home and put her into bed – the elderly chap, naturally confused, felt he had no choice but to comply.

Yesterday I read two more madcap real-life stories. One was about a letter sent by Norwich City Council (age unknown) to “The Occupier” of a public lavatory, closed by the council over a decade ago, to enquire if there were any objections to a local store’s application to sell alcohol. The other concerned a florist shop in Blackburn; a council official warned that a wooden ornament of a caterpillar smoking a hookah pipe (as in Alice in Wonderland) could breach the ban on smoking in the workplace. It was also hinted at that the florist, Debbie, 32 years old, might be in charge of “an illegal ‘shisha pipe’ den”(whatever that is).

When I read the articles to my Mum (of advanced years) and my sister (of indeterminate age) – they had called in on their way home from the boot-sale (like a market) at Exeter – they laughed too and then Mary said, “But none of those stories is as funny as what happened to my friend Cheryl.”

“When?” I asked, “Do you mean on Wednesday?”

“Yes, last Wednesday!” Mary said with the excitement of someone who knows that what she is about to impart is going to be really humorous.

Cheryl (age unknown) is an old school friend of ours from Australia. She turned up with her husband in Teignmouth (where Mary lives, 3 miles from Dawlish), on Tuesday night when we were all at the opera, “La Boheme”, and called us on her mobile phone; thus arrangements were made for them to visit Mary the next morning. Chris and I had gone over to Mary’s place to see Cheryl and Rod but no mention had been made of anything strange going on prior to our meeting. It was all rather intriguing.

“What happened?” I asked Mary.

“Well, you know it has been some time since Cheryl came to our house, and she couldn’t quite remember which one in the close was ours. So they knocked on Bab’s house…”

“The lady across the road?”

“That’s right, Robin’s mother, who has dementia and is bedridden. Well, they knocked on the door and someone, I don’t know who – it could have been a carer, at that time in the morning – opened the door…”

According to Mary (I think I shall take over the storytelling now, for ease and clarification), Cheryl was somewhat surprised to see a stranger before her at what she thought was Mary’s front door.

‘Is Mary in?’ Cheryl asked slightly unsure.

“Well we call her Babs but she answers to other names. Sometimes she likes to be called Barbara, or Mitzi, ‘ the person at the door smiled and welcomed the Australian couple inside.

“But we’re looking for Mary…” said Cheryl.

“Oh that’s alright. I think she answers to Mary. Do come inside. Just follow me upstairs to the bedroom – she’s in bed.”

“In bed?” Cheryl asked. (She must have thought that Mary had a very tiring time at the opera the previous night.)

“Oh yes. Babs – Mary – will be so pleased to see you!” said the good hearted person (whoever he or she was).

The person opened the bedroom door and Cheryl and her husband were invited inside to talk to Babs – Mary. Cheryl observed the ninety-two year old lady sat up in bed; she was freshly washed and her white hair was combed nicely, ready for visitors.

“That’s not my old school friend, Mary,” exclaimed Cheryl making to leave.

“Won’t you stay for a nice cup of tea?” asked the person.

Cheryl and Rod declined and ventured across the road to Bab’s – no, Mary’s – house and no-one thought to tell me until today. Sorry if it is slightly old news. And before I go, can anyone tell me why reporters are so fixated by people’s ages?

Thanks to Robert I have another joke for you.

 
BEEN GUILTY OF LOOKING AT OTHERS YOUR OWN AGE AND THINKING, SURELY I CAN’T LOOK THAT OLD?

MY NAME IS ALICE SMITH AND I WAS SITTING IN THE WAITING ROOM FOR MY FIRST APPOINTMENT WITH A NEW DENTIST. I NOTICED HIS DENTAL DIPLOMA, WHICH BORE HIS FULL NAME.

SUDDENLY, I REMEMBERED A TALL, HANDSOME, DARK HAIRED BOY WITH THE SAME NAME HAD BEEN IN MY SECONDARY SCHOOL CLASS SOME FORTY-ODD YEARS AGO. COULD HE BE THE SAME GUY THAT I HAD A SECRET CRUSH ON WAY BACK THEN?

UPON SEEING HIM, HOWEVER, I QUICKLY DISCARDED ANY SUCH THOUGHT. THIS BALDING, GREY HAIRED MAN WITH THE DEEPLY LINED FACE WAS FAR TOO OLD TO HAVE BEEN MY CLASSMATE.

AFTER HE EXAMINED MY TEETH, I ASKED HIM IF HE HAD ATTENDED MORGAN PARK SECONDARY SCHOOL .

‘YES, YES I DID. I’M A MORGANNER!’ HE BEAMED WITH PRIDE. 

‘WHEN DID YOU LEAVE TO GO TO COLLEGE?’ I ASKED.

“IN 1965”, HE ANSWERED, “WHY DO YOU ASK?”
‘YOU WERE IN MY CLASS!’ I EXCLAIMED.

HE LOOKED AT ME CLOSELY: 

THEN…THE UGLY, OLD, BALD, WRINKLED, BIG-BOTTOMED, GREY HAIRED…

 DECREPIT…

BASTARD ASKED . . . 
‘WHAT SUBJECT DID YOU TEACH?’

Oddly enough, I felt quite alright wandering around the house naked after my shower this morning; it wasn’t until a little later, when I was trying to decide what to wear, that I became out of sorts. You see, I was born in Australia (in case you didn’t know already), and have never become totally accustomed to having to cover my arms and legs for colder days. I love to be as free as possible in shorts and summer tops, or floaty dresses that weigh next to nothing, but what is one supposed to do when the Arctic winds arrive?  Wool makes me itch, collars up around my neck feel like chokers, heavy trousers make me feel trussed up like a turkey, and tights… I just hate tights!  These cold, shoulder days between the end of Summer and the beginning of Autumn (which, let’s face it, really is Winter nowadays) are the worst because this is the time to ditch the pretty clothes and start to get used to dark colours, straight-jacket materials, studs and zips. How I dread this time of year, and it’s here already.

I didn’t even bother trying on my shorts this morning, it would have been a futile exercise because I was planning on going for a walk along the seafront and I would have looked funny in shorts and sandals, and a coat and scarf. It’s one thing to look a bit arty, and quite another to appear peculiar (and the dividing line is often rather thin, as somebody once told me).

Speaking of thin, that reminds me… those few pounds I’ve put on recently (for no apparent reason – because I’m always dieting and going to Zumba classes etc…) have made an inexplicable difference as to how I feel in my clothes. In my head I thought I would look fairly snazzy wearing my new vermillion jogger trousers (not elasticated at the bottom so they seem like normal trousers) and a matching red and white striped, long-sleeved top – perfect for a walk in the Winter sunshine and the Arctic wind (I could have added a scarf). Admittedly, my skin was still damp from the shower when I tried on the size ten top, so that it clung to my arms and flattened my breasts somewhat; I’m sure the sleeves would have given a bit and made it over my shoulders properly had I put on some talcum powder but, impatient, and irritated by the constraint, I pulled it off quickly. Even a larger, long-sleeved white top felt funny, and that came off yet more quickly than the first (because is wasn’t stuck to me).

“I look better naked,” I said to myself as I observed my chubby, yet cute, reflection in the mirror (well, if nobody else will say it…). Yes, I know you can’t trust mirrors but the one in our bedroom isn’t even the flattering one – you should try the one upstairs – everybody’s favourite.

Having ransacked all my drawers, I settled upon a white Summer top with little puff sleeves and I felt rather grateful that I had rescued  it a few months ago from the bag of throw outs earmarked for the charity shop. I looked in the mirror again. Not too bad, at least the puffed sleeves were feminine, and I would wear a zip-up sweater over the top when I went outside.

I met Chris waiting for me up by the front door.

“Do I look peculiar?” I asked seeking confirmation (as you do).

“No, of course not, you look sweet with your little sleeves… but I preferred you before,” he said with a cheeky smile.

Luckily men aren’t as critical as we women imagine. Now you know why I think  I look best naked.

I had been riding along for a minute or two on my sit up and beg style, not quite, but nearly, new blue bike this morning when I realised that I my choice of riding garb was not altogether suitable; still, it hardly seemed worth going back to change. And it’s always colder when we set off. There are two good reasons why: firstly, because we haven’t had time to build up any steam, and secondly, because Exeter Road is like a wind tunnel!

“I’ll soon warm up when we turn off onto the bridle path,” I thought.

“Wish I’d worn gloves,” Chris complained. (It must have been really cold because Chris hates wearing gloves!)

I nodded. I was too cold to speak.

“This is the Arctic wind that was forecast two days ago – they were right!” Chris said, rather pleased that they had got it right (because I always point out when they get it wrong). I’ve told you before that he has a slight obsession with meteorology.

I nodded again. The air was freezing, my legs were freezing, and my “tiny hand was frozen”, just like Mimi’s in “La Boheme”, except that my hand is normal size.

“This is when drop handlebars are better than the sit up and beg variety,” said Chris when he had caught up and we were two-abreast again.

I’ve never had drop handlebars so I didn’t comment, beside which, I was too busy fighting the wind.

“It will be with us most of the way when we come home, as least we can look forward to that,” Chris must have seen the anguished look on my face as I braved onwards into the biting wind. He was very talkative this morning. I tried to force a smile.

The wind continued to hound and bite us the whole way to Cockwood. As we laboured in low gear down the hill to Dawlish Warren Chris shouted into the wind…

“Just think how it will be on the way back!”

On the way home we could have been fooled into thinking that we were cycling in still air, but for the icy chill, which felt like the hand of Frosty the snowman on our backs.  Had it not been for the wind we would have been warm – it was a beautiful sunny day. Another cyclist, a young man, riding against the wind, stopped on the cyclepath as we passed. and I called out,

“It’s so cold coming from your direction.”

“And it’s windy,” he shouted in a friendly fashion. (Well, he was only young.)

Whilst flying up the last incline I asked Chris why my bike is often referred to as a “sit up and beg” bike (you’ll think me a bit slow but I hadn’t really thought about it before).

“It’s because the relationship between your saddle and the handlebars make you look like a dog begging for food,” Chris answered very patiently (though he must have be thinking I was thick).

“Of course, I forgot,” I said, realising how thick I must have sounded.

We laughed. If he doesn’t know me by now he never will!

Oddly enough, the subject of begging has been very much on my mind ever since we returned from our special night at the opera last Tuesday night. But no, it didn’t have anything to do with “La Boheme”, except perhaps in a tenuous way, owing to the effect of the tragic story (set in the poverty-stricken artists’ quarter of Paris in the early eighteen hundreds) upon the opera-goers as we mostly all returned to the multi-storey car park nearby. For sat on the concrete at the entrance to the car park was a young man dressed in ragged denim; he had a beard and in front of him was the lid of a cardboard shoe-box with only a few small coins inside (looking very paltry); and yet the young chap looked clean and cheerful. He wasn’t drunk or drugged up. He looked at each of us as we went to pass him by and he smiled nicely, and, in a mellifluous Scottish brogue, he wished us a safe journey home.

Beset by feelings of love for my fellow man, and having just shed tears for poor consumptive Mimi who died with her “tiny frozen hands” at last in a warm fur muff, I searched in my purse. It was full of coins of all denominations, but somehow the brown and silver ones looked too small – they matched the ones already on the shoe-box lid – so I found a gold one. It would have seemed patronising to throw the pound coin on the grotty lid on the cold and dirty concrete (and how demeaning for the nice young chap to have to scrabble around for it if it should bounce off!); of course, I placed the coin in the boy’s outstretched hand, and our hands lingered for a moment, making a private connection.

“Thank you so much,” he said sincerely, “goodnight and have a safe trip home”.

My sister, Mary, who followed me, made her connection too; as did the gentleman who came behind us, and the couple after him; and we all smiled and said in our little huddles, “what a nice young man to wish us a safe trip!” It didn’t even feel like begging – it actually felt like he was giving us something… something special enough to make me think of him even now.

It is still a duck week here at our house. By strange coincidence Mary presented this duck to Chris last night – she thought it would look nice in ( I meant on – what a funny typo!) the piano, and it does!