I have wanted to see a real live opera for years, ever since I discovered Joan Sutherland (the best ever soprano, in my humble opinion) and last night was to be my first experience (I know, at my age!); therefore, it was a long awaited special treat. Chris had booked online for our tickets at Bristol’s Colston Hall Theatre; the tickets were for four seats (Mary and Geoff, my sister and her husband, came too), five rows from the front of the stage, as seen on the online virtual theatre screen (which shows you your approximate view).

Imagine our surprise when we arrived and found that Row E was right at the front, next to the orchestra (the orchestra occupied the space where the first four rows once were).

“Oh dear,” I said, “we never would have booked these seats so close to the front.”

“That’s not how it looked on the seating display,” said Chris, a bit vexed (a very rare state of affairs for Chris).

“I can’t sit there,” I complained and looked searchingly at Mary .

“Shall we go and see the manager, Sally?” Mary suggested with a smile.

Of course, our menfolk knew the tale (now Porch family legend) about the occasion when Mary and I went to see “Les Miserables”: we were “in the Gods” (a very good name for those seats that make you feel like you’re looking way down a chimney to a tiny stage at the bottom) and, perhaps not helped by the fact that I was still recovering from meningitis, I felt extremely sick every time I ventured to look down.

“You stay here while I go to see the manager,” Mary had told me.

She returned some minutes later with a jubilant look on her face.

“Quick, rub your makeup off, Sally,” she said, “the manager is going to escort us personally to better seats!”

The second half of “Les Miserables” was wonderful, especially as viewed from our new seats.

Back at Colston Hall, our men agreed that we girls, with our greater experience in these matters, were the right ones to see the manager. Whilst Mary and I waited for the arrival  of the seating manager we were joined by a man, similarly disconcerted with his seating arrangement, who had overheard our conversation.

“I have a directional hearing problem as a result of meningitis,” I offered.

“And I can’t look up due to vertigo,” said Mary.

“Well I’m claustrophobic,” said the man.

“I quite understand,” I nodded understandingly, “none of us could possibly be expected to remain in those seats!”

We all made the same noises to the seating manager and he quite understood too. Luckily, there were plenty of free seats and we were pleased to be offered four chairs at the back of the first echelon, which was at ground level.

Actually, we were quite pleased but not totally thrilled because we were still rather close to the stage, close enough to lose much of the mystery and magic; so while the singing and the music was marvellous, I was distracted by thoughts about the sets, costumes and even the ages of male performers (not to mention their proportions, which would have suited better an opera about the Romans rather than starving writers and artists in a garret in Paris!). My neck began to ache a little from having to look up constantly at the sur-titles high above us and I glanced over at Mary, who caught my meaning.  Mary and I were keen to make another move, this time further back, to any one of the empty tiers leading off from the  central steps but the men urged us to wait. They didn’t want us the draw attention to ourselves although the auditorium was still dark while the stagehands changed the scenery.

After the first interval we found four excellent seats in the middle, about halfway up the steps, and with so much space that we could comfortably leave an empty chair, for our coats and bags, between we two couples. I noticed the claustrophobic gentleman and his wife had made another move also, as did several others who were likewise sensitive and sensible.

When the lights came onto the stage to reveal snow falling on the Paris street scene I was at last convinced and captivated; and when Rudolpho held little Mimi in his arms before parting from her I didn’t notice that he was quite so portly, or old enough to be her father; and I didn’t have to look up to read the sur-titles; and I was happy. I tore my eyes from the stage only once or twice after that, just to observe the happy faces around me; Mary caught my eye and beamed her approval through her tears…well, “La Boheme” is a beautiful tragedy.

The second half of “La Boheme” was wonderful, almost as I had imagined it would be, all thanks to our wonderful seats…and the Moldova National Opera Company, naturally! Next month “Aida” comes to Torquay…

Firstly, I want to tell you about a funny coincidence this morning. It was a nice sunny day so Chris and I took our bikes over to Cockwood Harbour, which was glorious in the sunshine with the water in, and lovely reflections on the water. I was taking photos of the pretty scene when a man came along and walked down down to the railway bridge over the entrance to the harbour where the boating folk keep their little boats that take them out to their bigger boats; another chap came in on his boat and the pair talked as they changed positions.

Chris joined me as I carried on taking photos and Chris noticed that there was a new sturdy bench at the corner of the path (a favoured spot for people to sit and take in views of the estuary and the harbour). Just as the boatman (who had come in) was passing by us Chris said to me, “Isn’t this a good new new bench, Sally?”

Before I had a chance to turn around and look at the new seat, the man passing by stopped and asked, “Did I hear you talking about the bench?”

“Yes,” we answered a little surprised.

“I made that bench!” said the man laughing.

What a coincidence! And now I must get ready for the opera… Yes, we’re going to a performance of “La Boheme” in Bristol this evening so I had better get my skates on. I’ll tell you all about it tomorrow.

I shall leave you with a joke that arrived in my emails this morning… Thank you Barry!
Old Butch the Rooster:

Do you think about things in the shower? (Things other than your personal hygiene, of course.) I always do, but I don’t know if I’m odd. Usually it’s a case of me continuing my thoughts on a subject I’ve been talking to Chris about over our cups of tea in bed (our main conference area, and the other one is the kitchen table).

In bed this morning we were discussing changed values, altered perceptions of popularity and the need for celebrity, and the lack of modesty which often accompanies the aforementioned topics; in short, we conjectured on the reasons why there seem to be so many self-important people around nowadays. We considered the effects of the media and social networking sites (much as we love them); governments and political correctness (much as we dislike them); and Brussels…(which dictates nearly everything in Europe, and which spreads beyond the Western world, and around the world though the media and social networking sites….).

I was still thinking about the now casual general acceptance of pomposity (in my childhood big-heads were derided) when a memory of Jean Simmons entered my head. Jean Simmons? Who is Jean Simmons (you may be too young to remember or maybe you are not a film buff). According to Chris, one of my old (ex) boyfriends, not my husband, Chris, (I always chose boyfriends called Chris or David – that way you have a fifty-fifty chance of getting it right, as I may have told you before!), anyway OLD Chris used to think that the famous actress, Jean Simmons, was the most beautiful woman who ever lived, and he should have known because he was a film buff! She starred opposite Kirk Douglas in Spartacus.

Now if you’re puzzled as to why I was thinking about Jean Simmons while I was in the shower, pondering on why so many people are full of themselves these days; well, the reason is that, although she was a great Hollywood star, and exquisitely beautiful, she happened also to be a very modest, warm and natural lady. How do I know? How could I possibly know?  Let me explain.

Some years ago, during the early or mid-nineties, I was walking down the Strand in dear old Dawlish and I saw a lady coming out of Boots chemist. She was in her sixties, quite smartly dressed in a black and white check coat and a black hat. I recognised her straight away, perhaps because I’m primarily a portrait artist and observant when it comes to faces, and the rest of Dawlish folk out on the Strand that day just passed her by, not realising that one of the most feted beauties in the world was in their midst. Being an Australian, and therefore not over mindful of our place (because we think we are as good as the next man or woman, whatever his or her status), I approached the lady and said…

“Excuse me, but you are Jean simmons, aren’t you?

She smiled modestly (and charmingly – she had such pretty eyes and a soft mouth).

“Not many people recognise me these days,” she said in a way that let me know she was flattered.

“Perhaps I have an advantage being a portrait artist,” I answered.

“Oh, what’s your name?” she asked with interest.

I told her and pointed my finger in the direction of my gallery on the corner in the distance.

“My old boyfriend thinks you were the most beautiful woman in the world – and I couldn’t argue with him, especially after seeing “Spartacus”, I added.

“Oh, it was such a long time ago,” she said slightly embarrassed.

But her eyes lit up and she smiled like a girl who has heard for the first time that she is beautiful.

“My brother lives in Shaldon,” she changed the subject, “and I’m thinking of buying a house here. Actually, I’m looking for him now. Are you walking my way?”

So we walked together and chatted, and I wondered if she might not get bored with the quiet life in Shaldon; and about ten minutes later I took my leave, wishing her well and thanking her for the little thrill it had been to meet her (we Aussies aren’t completely impervious to certain people).

“It was lovely to meet you, too, Sally. Good luck with your painting,” she said at last, remembering my name.

I must admit that it gave me a great deal of satisfaction that day, knowing that all the townsfolk who passed up and down the Strand, many waving a greeting to me as they passed, had no idea that the pretty older lady with whom I was talking was none other than Jean Simmons. Naturally, it wouldn’t have meant anything to either the very young or non-film buffs. Forgive me if I seem a little immodest in broadcasting this event – just put it down to modern technology… or the urge for celebrity… or a sign of the times…

And, if you’re wondering… no, she didn’t buy a property in Shaldon. I’m afraid she may have thought better of it after our conversation!

How beautiful Dawlish is in the sunshine! It has everything: a pretty Brook lined with trees, wildlife (home to the black swan, not to mention pigeons and seagulls!), architecture, romance, excitement… you name it. Here are some photos taken a little earlier today on my mobile.

How about an aussie joke? This just arrived in my emails – thanks Rob!

A rich man living in Darwin decided that he wanted to throw a party and invited all of his friends and neighbours.

He also invited Colin, the only Aborigine in the neighbourhood. He held the party around the pool in the backyard of his mansion. Everyone was having a good time drinking, dancing, eating from the BBQ and flirting.

At the height of the party, the host said, “I have a three metre, man-eating crocodile in my pool and I’ll give a million dollars to anyone who has the balls to jump in.”

The words were barely out of his mouth when there was a loud splash and everyone turned around and saw Colin in the pool fighting the croc, jabbing the croc in the
eyes with his thumbs, throwing punches, biting the croc on the tail and flipping the croc through the air like some kind of Judo Instructor. The water was churning and
splashing everywhere.

Finally Colin strangled the croc and let it float to the top like a dead fish. Colin then slowly climbed out of the pool. Everybody was just staring at him in disbelief.

The host said, “Well, Colin, I reckon I owe you a million dollars.”

“Nah, you all right boss, I don’t want it,” said Colin.
The rich man said, “Man, I have to give you something. You won the bet. How about half a million bucks then?”

“No thanks… I don’t want it,” answered Colin.

The host said, “Come on, I insist on giving you something. That was amazing. How about a new Porsche and a Rolex and some stock options?’

Again, Colin said “No.” Confused, the rich man asked, “Well Colin, then what do you want?”

Colin said, “I want the bastard who pushed me in!”

There are much worse ways to spend a Saturday than teaching nine talented amateurs how to paint water-lilies in acrylics. I just wish I had been there for one more hour so that I might have finished my painting of Australian water-lilies (slightly different to English ones because they are smaller and stalkier, although they grow conventional ones too). I’ll have to finish it in the week – bet it takes longer to finish it than start it. Here is a photo of the painting so far.

Now I’m going to put my feet up and watch “Strictly Come Dancing”.

This week it has been weather for ducks – of all kinds!

“Shall we cycle or ride this morning?” asked Chris as we stood by our bedroom window and surveyed the grey mist outside.

“It might be a safer bet to walk,” I answered.

So we dressed in trousers, not shorts, and set off after breakfast.

“Which way? Shall we go to the forest?” Chris asked from outside our gate.

“How about walking through the woods first and carrying on down to Secmaton Lane if it looks as though the rain will hold off?” I suggested.

“Good idea,” Chris said, “So we won’t have too far to go if we have to turn back.”

It started to rain at a point when it was too far to turn back and we were only slightly nearer to home by continuing on; hence, at just over half-way through our longer walk we began to get wet. I thought of the conversation I had had at my “Bookworm Club” last Sunday, which went something like this….

“I wish I could go to Australia again to avoid the English winter” I said, (or it may have been something similar with regard to it being easier to lose weight in Australia).

“Oh, why is that?” asked our gorgeous leader, Reuben.

“Because I like the outdoors  life – getting up early and going out for a walk or a cycle ride before the sun gets too hot,” I answered, a little surprised that anyone would wonder at the advantages of spending our winter months in warmer climes.

“But you can do that here,” he said.

“It’s not quite the same especially not when it rains,” I laughed.

“Oh yes you can. I love running in the rain…”

“So do I,” chimed in Elizabeth, my niece.

“But it’s dark in the early mornings here…”

“The best time” said Liz, and Reuben agreed.

“Well I don’t see much evidence of such enthusiasm,” I remarked a tad sarcastically.(Obviously it’s not dark or wet enough when I go out.)

Chris and I were going up one of the steepest hills in Dawlish when the rain increased to a downpour; we didn’t feel like running. Our waterproof jackets proved not be waterproof at all and the nylon stuck uncomfortably to Chris’s arms (I had sleeves underneath); our wet trousers flapped around our legs; and it was hard to tell if the water at the ends of our noses were raindrops or dewdrops. As we passed a new estate still in the process of being built (where there used to be beautiful countryside) two workmen wearing hard hats (imagine the din!) crossed our paths. I held up my hands and laughed.

“Lovely day for a walk,” I said loudly, in case they couldn’t hear under their hats.

“You ought to trying laying bricks in it,” one of them responded (whether or not he heard me, he got my gist alright).

We climbed the muddy path up to the now disused golf course. The wind was at its wildest at the top and it turned my wet strands of hair into fine lashes that whipped and stung my face. The grass was long and wet; and I pointed out that our feet would probably smell of dogs’ wee (as has happened before under similar conditions). Chris said “it isn’t a case of grass-cutting but cost-cutting”, which is bound to be true; and one day they’ll sell the useless land, that used to be a lovely well-kept golf course, for yet more building; and the dogs won’t be able to use it for their toilet; I won’t be worried about my shoes smelling of dogs’ wee because I won’t be allowed to walk up there either. One day…

Back on our busy main road all the vehicles had their headlights on full. Most of the cars that passed by us paid little heed to the effect of their cars going at speed through the streams of water at the sides of the road, and our already wet trousers were further drenched; conversely (and interestingly), all the trucks slowed down in an effort not to splash us.

Every item of the clothes we wore earlier this morning had to be wrung out and hung out to dry. Funnily enough the storm has passed and the sun has come out. It isn’t such a bad day after all. We should have waited.

Did we enjoy walking in the pouring rain? Well, we laughed alot, but no, not really, I’d still prefer to spend the English winter in Australia, where I can get up early and be out before the sun gets too hot…

A few months ago, when Bobbie (our youngest) announced that she was planning on making changes in her life and moving up to London to live with her boyfriend, I thought, “Good on you, Bobbie”. It wasn’t like she was a young girl leaving home for the first time; she hasn’t lived at home full-time since she left for her second year of university down in Plymouth, where she carried on living until just over a year ago. Of course, Plymouth is only forty miles away, not exactly on the doorstep but not remote either; and then she returned to Dawlish to live independently in Mary’s ground floor flat under the old Porch Galleries, which was on Granny Porch’s doorstep, but everyone respected her “space” (so to speak). I thought of myself at her age – a young mother of a seven year old Jim, living in Australia, travelling back forth, not quite knowing where to settle, and very much involved in my own life – and I understood exactly why Bobbie felt the need to spread her wings.

Bobbie has been packing away her things and preparing for the move for weeks; she has taken some suitcases up to Martin’s already, to lessen the load; she has been talking about the last weeks of her work at Totnes, the last days, the goodbye party, the last day… We knew she was going, it was no surprise, we have had months to get used to the idea, we have been excited for her, we have been happy for her… but it hadn’t hit me yet…

Even yesterday, when Mum phoned in tears saying, “Oh Sally, I know I don’t see that much of her, but I shall miss her. I’ll miss the knowing that she’s there…”, it still hadn’t hit me. It struck Mum first because Bobbie left the flat yesterday; and Mary was struck next because she came over to say goodbye as we were packing things into the removal van; and Mary said, “I shall miss her, Sally; just not having her there will be funny.”

Bobbie came home with us last night. We had very well-cooked (slightly burnt) chicken for dinner (I had put it in the oven to cook while we were at Bobbie’s flat for the final packing into the van), and Madeleine came over later to spend the last hours of this era with her childhood friend. Bobbie walked her half-way home and Chris and I went to bed. I found it hard to sleep. I think Chris did too. He had restless legs; they wriggled every ten seconds (I kept count) and when I could stick it no more I called out into the darkness, “You kick your legs every ten seconds!” After that he made a valiant effort to control the jiggling.

I must have gone to sleep eventually because Chris woke me at ten to six this morning with a cup of tea that I couldn’t face. Bobbie was getting ready upstairs when I walked through the kitchen; Chris was somewhere else; the tumble-drier was tumbling away and a hot damp fug was in the air; and with nothing better to do, and no-one to talk to, I decided to take a shower. While I was still in the shower Chris called through the door, “We’re off now”.

Damp and in my bathrobe, I stood by the front door and hugged and kissed Bobbie goodbye.

“It’s so exciting for you,” I said, trying to be cheery, “and it’s not like we won’t be seeing you. We’ll see you soon – won’t we?”

“Yes, of course,” Bobbie replied, “I should think we’ll be down in January.”

“But we shall speak on Skype and phone?”

The door closed against the dark rainy morning, I thought about January , three months or more away, and Christmas disappeared, and then it hit me…