I found those photographs I was looking for!

I was going through my old photographs to look for photos of a sun-bathing goat when I came across these cartoons I drew a couple of years ago after reading a newspaper article about the dangers of wearing panty-girdles. Funnily enough, after scouring my wardrobe for something nice (that still fits!) to wear for my niece’s wedding, I was thinking about investing in a panty-girdle. On second thoughts, perhaps I won’t bother… Think I’ll wear trousers and a pretty top instead.

Chris and I are both optimists. We live in rather a rosy world where jobs are undertaken happily in the belief that there will be no problems and everything will be finished in double-quick time.

With my niece’s wedding day fast approaching (next Saturday) even Chris was somewhat sceptical that I would have time to finish the water-lilies painting intended for the happy couple. It might have been wiser to finish the task before going on holiday to Spain but, being an optimist, I considered that I could complete the painting in one day alone (especially as it is painted in fast-drying acrylics) so there would be plenty of time upon my return last weekend.

“When will you get back to your painting?” Chris asked on Sunday morning.

“Oh, don’t worry, I’ll finish it tomorrow,” I answered confidently.

“And what are you going to wear to the wedding?” he asked very perspicaciously (because that was another little niggling worry, particularly as I can hardly fit into any of my pretty clothes from Australia – and it’s wintry now!).

“What a funny thing to ask?” I replied in a niggled tone, “Just worry about yourself, I’ll find something or I’ll run up a jumpsuit on the sewing machine…”

“You’re leaving it a bit late, aren’t you?” he nagged.

“There’s plenty of time, for goodness sake!” I said over-confidently.

Now it is Thursday and I’m pleased to announce that, although it took three and a half days to finish the painting to my satisfaction, instead of the two hours I had originally anticipated, it is sat drying on my easel and is waiting to be popped into a frame Chris has prepared for it.

I would be very pleased with myself if it wasn’t for the little problem I have tried not to think about whilst I have been busy painting… what to wear to the wedding? I know… what about that pretty cream lace dress I bought for Jim’s wedding two years ago (still not married – waiting till next year); I’m sure it will still fit (it’s a bit stretchy) but is it too short? My legs look worse now my tan has faded – perhaps I could add some more lace to the hemline and lengthen it? Maybe it is too summery aswell – will it be cold in the church? – and what would I wear over it? My mauve duffle coat wouldn’t go with it and my smart, floor-length, black velvet opera coat might look a bit odd over a short cream lace dress. Oh dear! What else is there? What about that other pretty dress I bought in the sales? That’s a bit short too. Maybe I could shorten it further and make it into a top to wear with trousers…but which trousers?

If you will excuse me I think I had better go now and look in my wardrobe for inspiration. I am not too worried really, after all, I am an optimist. If the worse comes to the worst I’ll simply run up something on my sewing machine in an hour or two… Hey, I have bags of time!

Sorry girls, I know this joke is not that funny to us but I have to let the chaps have their bit of fun. Chris laughed – I told you he isn’t perfect!

The Medical

During a lady’s medical examination, the doctor says:-

“Your heart, lungs, pulse and blood pressure are all fine.

Now let me see the bit that gets you ladies into all kinds of trouble.”

The lady starts taking off her underwear but is interrupted by the doctor.

“No! No! Don’t remove your clothes… Just stick out your tongue!”

Incidentally, does my title sound like it’s a joke sent by a man or did you think the “Women” involved were sent by a man (sent mad possibly)? I hope the insertion of a comma makes my meaning clearer.

I try to be a good wife but, well, I don’t always succeed; the trouble is, that in trying to be a good wife, I may seem like a bad wife. I have always felt certain that any husband of mine would want to know his faults (as well as his virtues) and, on the assumption that no-one else would tell him, I find occasionally that I have to take on the onerous responsibility of pointing out some of his most annoying little problem areas.

Chris is a wonderful man and husband – as everybody keeps telling me (my mother adores him) – otherwise I wouldn’t have married him, naturally… and, being a bit of a flirt, I was very hard to pin down. However, now don’t be too shocked to hear that he is not absolute perfection (although my mum will disagree) and over breakfast this morning I felt obliged to inform him of a new fault. Actually, it’s not new but, for some unknown reason (perhaps my getting out of bed the wrong side) this morning I saw it as a fault.

I used to think that Chris’s ability to mimic others was charming, a gift even; but today, while I fuelled up with my usual dieters’ bran cereal with hot milk (to make it look and taste less like horse fodder), and Chris ate his lovely toast covered with lashings of butter and strawberry jam, I suddenly found him rather irritating. He wasn’t actually doing an impression of anyone at the time yet it occurred to me that he had taken on the characteristics (or foibles, as I saw them) of several other people.

“Do I know the real you?” I asked enigmatically (as a woman is apt to do when her hormones are a little off-beam – as I can see now).

“I should hope so after seventeen years together,” Chris answered, no doubt feeling hurt and shocked (and perhaps wondering how my hormones were faring).

He became quiet, after which I accused him of sulking, and he assured me he wasn’t, then kissed me before skulking off upstairs (which he always does when my hormones are up the creek). I came out to my studio to check my emails and download photographs, before setting to work to finish a water-lilies painting, when an email arrived from Chris; well, not so much of an email as a poem. And now I’m feeling contrite… because I do try to be a good wife. This is what he sent:

 
Hello, it’s me, your husband, here
at least I think that’s who it is
but sometimes things are far from clear
in terms of personalities

Am I the person that I seem?
You tell me that you’re far from sure
of who I am and what I feel
and if I’m less, or if I’m more

But let me tell you, sweetest heart,
I may, like blotting paper, soak
the ways and habits of a part
of all those friends and passing folk

Yet deep inside there’s only me
and, always there, lies love for you
and, Darling Angel, you’re the key
to who I am and what I do

So never be in any doubt
of who it is that loves you thus
the rules of love I never flout
IT’S ME WHO LOVES YOU, BETTER OR WUSS!!

Nevertheless, he’s not completely perfect – I assure you!

One of my Aussie friends has wallaby visitors every day. Of course, our mutual friend is very hospitable and always feeds his guests extremely well…

If anyone has any interesting or quirky photos suitable for my blog I would be only too happy to post them.

This morning we were out for a walk on the bridle path leading down to Dawlish Warren; no more cycling – it is far too cold nowadays for normal, non-Lycra wearing cycling folk like Chris and me to take to our bikes. But the sun was shining beautifully and it was the perfect morning to be out and about in the fresh air, which it was, fresh I mean, to the extent that I felt the need to wear a woolly hat and gloves (plus my new pink sunglasses from Spain, naturally).

Last night I posted a photograph of a poinciana tree on fire (seemingly), which came from a friend in Brisbane, and today I have photographs of stinging nettles on ice after the frost overnight. I had just taken the shots and my mobile phone camera was busy “processing” when two men and a white Staffordshire terrier came into view at the bottom of the path. The dog took one look at me and came bounding up to me. It ignored Chris altogether while it wagged it’s trail, rubbed itself up against my legs and craned its neck for my patting and smoothing attentions.

“Fancy that,” I began, “he really seems to like me!”

“He isn’t interested in me,” said Chris.

“Yes, but I’m a dog woman these days, ever since Bella,” I explained unnecessarily. (Chris knows all about Bella – he should do – I forced him to read my book about Bella).

After much fussing, petting and gushing over the friendly white dog, the two men who had been accompanying the dog caught up.

“He’s so cute and friendly. He seems to have taken to me,” I extolled.

“He’s well-trained,” said the owner, “he always makes a beeline to nice ladies and makes the introductions for me!”

All four of us laughed, even Chris, and the two men and the dog carried on their way uphill while we continued down.

We crossed over the railway bridge at the Warren and walked back to Dawlish along the seawall, making it a circuitous route to home. At the “Red Rock Cafe” we met a lady with yet another Staffordshire terrier, this time a black one called Daisy, and again I was sought out for cuddles and petting whilst Chris was ignored completely. I felt rather pleased that I was so popular this morning.

A short time later we were still on the seawall when we came across the two men and the white dog on their way back to Dawlish Warren, having come almost full circle, as we had done. This time my phone camera wasn’t busy “processing” and I asked if I may take a couple of shots of my new four-legged friend. The owner must have thought I was crazy about Staffordshire terrier dogs and told me how to go about getting hold of one for myself; but I wasn’t listening, I didn’t like to tell him the true purpose of my taking the photos – it did not seem appropriate to tell him that really I was more crazy about blogs than dogs (even though I am a dog woman nowadays).

We were in Nerja, walking past the tourist shops and street traders, when my sister saw an old man who looked quite familiar.

“Do you think that is my old basket-weaver?” Mary asked me.

“It could be,” I replied.

I wasn’t sure because I remembered the incident rather than the man, and it was three years ago. That was when we were on a previous holiday staying in Frigiliana, the picturesque white village in the mountains just four miles from Nerja. On that occasion we had entered a small workshop where an old man was busily making a basket. There were no customers in the shop and the man’s eyes lit up when he saw us. Mary was intrigued and enchanted as she watched the man’s deft fingers weaving a basket; she also felt sorry for him because, not only did he look poor, but he also looked very hopeful that we might buy his wares.

“How much this?” Mary pointed to a basket, “Quanta costa, Senor?”

Eventually, the old weaver seemed to understand and held up his hands to signify thirty Euros. Mary left happily after paying the full price, much to her husband’s chagrin because she ignored his advice to haggle, and he had seen similar baskets elsewhere for ten Euros. Twenty minutes later the shop had shut and our party joked that the basket-weaver could now afford to close for the day after such an excellent sale. It had been something of a joke ever since – of course I remembered.

Mary approached the old man and looked at his baskets.

“Are you from Nerja or Frigiliana?” she enquired with a lot of gesturing by way of making herself understood.

He nodded his head and smiled when he heard Frigiliana. Perhaps he remembered Mary after all. I asked if I could take his photograph and he nodded when I held out my mobile phone in the manner of a camera. The old basket-weaver beckoned Mary to get close for a photo and he put one arm around her at the same time. Then he puckered his lips for kisses on both her cheeks (if not her lips).

“Ten Euros,” he said holding a basket towards Mary.

“You don’t need any more baskets, Mary,” I told her. (I could see her resolve was weakening.)

He beckoned me to have a photo with him and I let him put his arm around me and kiss me on both cheeks.

A few minutes later Mary struck an agreeable deal – two baskets, one medium-sized and one small, for ten Euros.

“What are you going to use them for for?” I asked as we walked on laughing.

“I don’t know, there are a lot of things these would be useful for…”

And you can see for yourself some of her ideas in the photographs below. By the way, when we retraced our steps a short while later the old basket-weaver had disappeared. How familiar!

This photograph was taken at 5.30am (three and a half hours ago) by a friend in Brisbane.