Last night was not the best night I have ever had (just when I could have done with a really good sleep). I kept on waking up and wondering what time it was, as you do when you need to arise early… when you are about to embark on a very long journey.

There is another storm raging outside. I certainly pick my travel times well – there is always some peculiar weather event taking place when I want to travel. Sometimes it snows, or there are gales, and my plane is packed because of a backlog of passengers from flights that could not take off.

I’m not looking forward to the flight; for days I have felt apprehensive about leaving, and yet, I know that once I am in the air I shall be excited at the prospect of going home to Australia again. Now that is a nice thought. I shall be in the heat when next I write my blog. Until then, I’ll wish you a happy and healthy new year!

What will I wear on the plane? That is the question I have been pondering over and worrying about for some time now, but which I have not had time to consider properly i.e. I have not tried anything on to see what fits (seeing as I am sure I have put on weight – though that cannot be confirmed because I am too afraid to weigh myself!)

Do I wear warm clothes (if any still fit) that will be discarded en route and will not worn again until I come home. Or do I suffer the cold and look smart and pretty in the hope of being offered an upgrade on the plane (because nobody so smart should be put into economy class). Now I could wear stretchy trousers for absolute comfort… but everyone will guess that I have put on weight and can’t fit into my jeans. Not that they do not fit  – my jeans fit quite well… but only when I am standing up – it is just the sitting down that is the problem.

Problems, problems! With only just over one day left before leaving home, and only three hours before receiving a guest, late this afternoon I decided to make a pretty jumpsuit; my pattern for the jumpsuit was an old jumpsuit that I haven’t worn for sixteen years (they have come back into fashion) because I grew out of it. Hence, I cut around the shape of the panels adding an inch or so on each side. I sewed it all up (minus the bodice) and, amazingly it fits rather nicely. Now I am worried that it may not be so easy to accommodate a larger bust.

Our guest has come and gone, and once again I am pondering… Do I fiddle around for hours making a bodice or do I simply cut the outfit down into a pair of “The sound of Music” type of trousers? I shall sleep on it. So long, farewell, auf Wiedersehen, good night. I hate to go and leave this pretty sight……

The sun was shining, the roast was in the oven, and I was desperate to go for a walk. So we all decided to walk to Dawlish Warren, taking our usual route, down the bridle path, over the railway bridge and back by way of the seawall.

“It’s going to rain at some point,” said Blake, looking up at the grey clouds creeping across the blue sky.

My niece and her boyfriend were wearing their beautiful city-slicker woollen coats and I had a feeling that they might change their minds. We were standing outside our front gate and so it was their opportunity to decide not to go.

“The rain is coming, certainly, but we may just miss it,” said Chris optimistically.

We did not miss it. The heavens opened on us at Red Rock, just beyond the half-way point, and beyond anywhere with shelter. But it lasted for a few minutes only and then the sun came out again. The sea was rough, the air was fresh, and it was all rather beautiful, as you can see from the photos.

Chris and I soon got over our “empty nest” feelings once our visitors began to arrive; first to arrive was Ron, our neighbour, followed shortly after by my Mum, who walked up from her house (she was sprightly!), and then came my sister, Mary, with Geoff, Katie and young James (who stayed with us for a few days recently). Surprisingly, Geoff took off his coat to reveal that he was dressed in a black bow tie and formal dress suit.

“You look handsome!” everyone exclaimed.

“Mary told to me change into something smart because I looked too scruffy,” he said with a wry smile.

So his response was to dress to the other extreme – we all got the picture.

I cooked enough for twelve, or more, hungry people. As per usual, the oven didn’t seem quite big enough; I didn’t have enough saucepans, vegetable dishes or serving plates; the kitchen felt too small and was lacking in work surfaces, and it was also extremely hot, especially as the central heating was on to ensure that rest of the house was warm for our guests. I had a few timing issues which resulted in fears that some elements of the dinner would be cold; and when I went to pour the leek sauce from the saucepan into serving dishes, much of it splashed out onto the worktop. I use the word “splashed” because it had become as thin as water – it all went back into the pan and had to be thickened once again, during which time the meat got colder and I got hotter. Chris put the carved turkey back into the oven and then I worried it would get dried out…

At last the enormous dinner was served and I sat down at the table. I was perhaps a tad hotter than the sprouts, which had turned a little pink at the edges (I must use more bicarbonate of soda next time). Chris hates sprouts – and I had made him prepare so many of them (enough for twenty sprout lovers!).

“I didn’t know you were so religious, Sally,” said Geoff.

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“Well, I thought you must be religious because you talked to your “Maker” so many times while you were cooking!” he laughed.

I laughed too.

I do not think many people actually like sprouts, especially when they are not green any more. Three quarters of them were still in the vegetable dish at the end of the meal. Never mind, I’ll make Chris some sprout bubble and squeak for breakfast.

We never did play Poker with James – like me, he is a gamester, and he had bought with him the new game he had got for Christmas, in the hope that we would enjoy learning it with him. We have promised to play it tomorrow, when we shall be going over to Mary’s. Which reminds me….

Owing to the great success of Geoff’s attire, we have agreed to make our Boxing Day bash at Mary’s a rather formal affair – bow ties and evening dresses. Well, the rest of us want to have some fun too.

Before I go I will leave you with a joke from Geoff, seeing as he was the star of the day.

Apparently, my brother-in-law had come across a strange sight in his home town of Teignmouth the day before. As he was walking along the centre of town to his regular newsagent for his Daily Telegraph, he saw a busker playing ABBA’s hit song, “Dancing Queen”, on a didgeridoo.

“Good Lord,” he thought, “That’s ABoriginal!”

(Geoff and I are both a bit religious.)

It is turning out to be a rather different Christmas to the one we expected. At the beginning of the week Chris and I were not sure how many people we would have staying with us over Christmas. We knew that our eldest and youngest daughters would be away but we thought it likely that our number one son and middle daughter (with boyfriend) would be joining us; then there is our niece and her boyfriend, over from Australia, and living in London – we thought they were coming too.

On the basis that we would be having a full house we began to prepare all the spare bedrooms.

“When are Gemma and Blake coming?” Chris asked, getting out the hoover.

I wasn’t sure so I sent an email to Gemma.

“Is Susannah coming down with her boyfriend?” I asked Chris. (Some fresh sheets were in my hands.)

Neither of us knew, so Chris tried to call her, left messages, and sent emails; and so did I. At last she checked her various message sources and phoned back – she would not be coming because she is going to have Christmas with the family of her boyfriend.

“Who will you put in the big bedroom – Jim or Gemma and Blake?” Chris asked.

“Whoever arrives first,” I answered.

Everyone likes the biggest bedroom with the bay window overlooking the sea, even us. Chris and I have had a change of scene up in that bedroom for the last three weeks, but we moved our things back downstairs because the kids were coming.

Gemma’s reply arrived and I half-remembered an earlier conversation some weeks ago that informed of their intention to spend Christmas Day with Blake’s relatives in Wales. They would be joining us on Boxing day instead.

“It looks like Jim will be having the big bedroom,” I told Chris as we made up the bed.

Jim emailed last night to apologise for any disappointment, but he would not be coming for Christmas after all.

“We might as well have stayed upstairs and not bothered with all the moving around,” Chris said, as we lay in our old bed again.

“But it’s quite nice to be in our own bed again.”

And it was true. Our bed, the one we bought when we were first married, is the most comfortable bed in the house, even though the air is chillier in our downstairs bedroom.

Tonight it is Christmas Eve and, for the first time in our marriage, we have none of our children at home with us. It is a funny feeling, one that we’ll probably have to get used to because they are all getting to the age when they will be settling down themselves and having children of their own. I guess this is another milestone.

Tomorrow we will have eight for Christmas dinner, not the thirteen we might have had, and, as in other years, we will toast the loved ones who cannot be with us. I will raise a glass to you too. Merry Christmas to you all…

It has been raging for two days. The storm is even worse today. I have not been out at all for the whole day, unless you would say that opening the bedroom window and the lounge-room French door (in order to take photos for you) was going out. I took one step beyond the door out onto the terrace for about thirty seconds and got wet – all for you. It is funny how you see gigantic waves crashing into the seawall and spuming up like crepe curtains all the time and yet, when you want to take a photo it dies down and you have to wait for ages; and then the camera goes into “standby” just at the most exciting moment.

But it wasn’t the storm outside that kept me in today, it was the storm of activity going on my head. I had promised myself that I would finish certain tasks before Christmas, and publishing my somewhat lengthened short story, “Beautiful Bella”, on Create-space was one of them. I am pleased to be able to say that I have done it and now I am waiting for the review process to give me the green light. All being well, my story, about the building of a loving friendship with the bravest, most beautiful dog I have ever met, will soon be available in paperback from Amazon.com (at a bargain price, of course).

At the moment I am still in my studio, which is an extension that Chris built for me, and not in the main part of the house; therefore I can hear the wind and rain in all its fury, but I feel safe and warm inside. At last I can relax after all my trials today, getting to grips with strange formatting and various mistakes that occurred because I was overtired. I must find Chris and thank him for providing me with all my needs, and for putting up with the sounds of despair that emanated quite often from these quarters. Now I’m looking forward to a silent night, all  calm and bright… Hey, it must nearly be Christmas!

I have often wondered about my name. Is it just because it is my name that I feel funny about it? Had I been called something glamorous like Diana, would I feel the same? One of my friends is called Sally and I think it is very pretty on her. When I was a child I used to cringe when older people used to sing the song, “Sally, Sally, pride of our alley…”, or when kids used to sing the nursery rhyme, “Sally go round the sun, Sally go round the moon, Sally go round the chimney pots on a Sunday afternoon…” No, I was probably right to cringe.

A few weeks ago, when I was out shopping with my mum, we got into conversation with a pleasant lady called Rose or “Rosie” (seeing as we all got on so well). We commented on the prettiness of her name, to which she became super-smiley and animated.

“Would you believe that I married a Mr. Budd?” she asked.

We were suitably incredulous, and I was about to ask the obvious question, when Rosie pre-empted me:

“And I didn’t marry him for his name!” she laughed.

Today, whilst I was shopping for presents for people I had forgotten during my two previous forays into the knick-knack shops, I came across a counter filled with ladies ribbed cotton jumpers in three different pastel shades – salmon pink, pale aqua and primrose yellow.Now I love cotton jumpers (wool irritates my skin) and I love all those pastel colours so I found it hard to choose from amongst them. Chris was no help – he was already suffering from shopping fatigue and I knew he would say anything.

“The blue one”, he said, sounding fed-up.

“What’s wrong with the yellow?” I asked, slightly perturbed because I was coming down in favour of the yellow.

“They are all fine,” he answered, sounding even more fed-up, and he went off leaving me to it.

At that moment an older lady came along and began to inspect the jumpers.

“I love cotton jumpers,” said the older lady.

“So do I.”

“They wash and wear so well…” she began.

“And when they are old you can use the cotton for dish-cloths,” I interjected.

“Or floor cloths,” she added with a smile that showed the joy of one who has just met a kindred spirit.

“Aren’t they pretty?” she asked.

“Yes, they all are. That’s why I can’t decide. What do you think?” I asked back.

One by one, I held a jumper of each colour up to my chin… twice.

“Well, I’ve never seen anyone look so pretty in those colours, so if I was you I would buy all three!” she said very charmingly.

“But I only want to buy one.”

“In that case, go for the blue,” she suggested.

“Why not the yellow one,” I asked (still hankering for the yellow).

“Well, my name was  Eleanor Primrose so my mother always dressed me in primrose yellow, and people always ribbed me about it,” she laughed.

I took her advice and the lady moved on. I was about to move on too when I had a sudden change of heart and changed the aqua for the primrose. In all probability, the aqua blue had the edge – I know that colour suits me well – but I also knew that the pale yellow would remind me of Eleanor Primrose. And it would remind me also of something else – Chris and I got married April 17th, the closest day to Primrose Day (April 19th) that we could arrange; and, all these years later, our house is filled with primroses each anniversary – Chris picks them while I am still asleep.

Incidentally, the jumper looks lovely, but I probably wouldn’t have bought it if my name was Sally Primrose. And while I am on the subject of primroses, here is a photograph of some pink primroses (or are they primulas) with faces that look like some of my nieces and nephews.

Just came across these photos of strange lenticular cumulus clouds, which Chris asked me to take while he was driving the car when we were on holiday in Spain.

This joke comes from Geoff, one of the most prolific joke contributors to my blog. More jokes on a Christmas theme please.

 Last month, a world-wide telephone survey was conducted by the UN. The only question asked was:-

Just a few minutes ago our friend and neighbour, Ron, called in with two bottles of perfume for me.

“One has never been opened,” said Ron, “I hope you don’t mind but I can’t do with them.”

I understood. The perfumes belonged to Ron’s late wife who passed away two years ago. Naturally, I accepted them, but with some reservations. You see I could not help remembering the occasion, some years back, when I bought a bottle of “Chanel No 5” from a charity shop…

The exterior of the bottle was pristine (if a little dusty) and it was the genuine article;  the bottle was full and it cost five pounds only – for Chanel perfume – what a bargain! However, my excitement waned after I dabbed a spot on my wrist.

“Either Chanel doesn’t smell nice on me, or perfume goes off,” I told Chris, holding my hand up to his nose.

“Essence of magnolia air-freshener in an old-people’s home,” he observed whilst pulling a face.

Our youngest daughter’s eyes opened wide with delight when she arrived home and I offered her the bottle of perfume.(It was to be an early Christmas present.)

“I don’t like Chanel on me, it is far too heavy and sweet for me, but it might be lovely on you,” I suggested (though I suspected otherwise).

“I like sweet perfume,” she answered, hiding any disappointment, “and in any case, it will look good on my dressing table.”

Ron left and I laughed out loud at the memory of the Chanel No 5 (which remained full and adorned my daughter’s dressing table for years).

“What’s so funny?” Chris asked.

“Well, in my experience essence of old perfume doesn’t smell very nice…”

“Oh no, I agree, the essence of old persons isn’t a nice smell,” Chris said very agreeably, (and very absent-mindedly).

“Essence of ‘old persons’? Is that what you thought I said?” I laughed.

Chris is a tad deaf, as you may remember. He laughed too when he realised I was referring to the new, but old, bottles of perfume that Ron brought in as a kind of Christmas present for me.

And what of the perfumes in question? Are they still good? Are they light and fresh? Or do they smell, uncannily, of magnolia air-fresher, in particular, the like of which one comes across in old persons’ homes? Need you ask?