“The sky is yellow! Tell Sally to get her camera and go outside quickly.” said Mum over the phone to Chris.

My mother was right (she is rarely, if ever wrong). It would have felt like the end of the world out on our terrace if it had not been for the huge double rainbow hanging over the sea. Minutes later, from the other side of our house, the sky appeared to be in flames.

These strange atmospherics have come after another big storm a little earlier. Chris was right too. The photographs do not do justice to the actual  colours, or the magnitude, of the weird conditions.

The raging storm of yesterday afternoon (the one that made day into night and caused the sea to fume and spume in curtains of froth as it lambasted our seawall; the same one which, with stony teeth, tore away at concrete and granite, and spat out the red life ring (and the line and box) across to the other side of the railway line) burnt itself out overnight.

The wind dropped before midnight and, as if to show repentance for the bad behaviour, the sun smiled on us this morning. We smiled back, in acceptance of the apology, and showed our appreciation by going for a nice walk in the sunshine… while it lasted. Another storm is forecast for tonight.

For some time now people have been asking how they can contact me directly via my website and I have been unable to answer that question. Today I updated the “About Me” page on my site and I found the “Add Contact Form”. Your submitted comments on the form will come through to me as an email. No rubbish please.

I suspect you know that by “it”, I do not mean something mundane like… a keepsake that went missing, or the ability and patience to knit a jumper (I never had that), or a fluency in another language (never had that either!). I mean the magical something, not entirely to do with looks, that some men and women have, which makes the opposite sex behave irrationally. Take yesterday, for example…

Unlike today, which is inclement, yesterday was cold but pleasant to be out in, and for a change Chris and I took a walk through the shopping centre of Dawlish. It’s something we don’t do often because it takes such an age to walk down the Strand, not that our Strand is a particularly long street, just packed with people who know me and want to chat (there is a little cachet -or is it chatet?- to being an artist in a small town). Owing to the cold, I was rather “rugged up” in various layers of thick clothing, so much so that I could hardly zip up my pretty white gilet, and I felt a wee bit puffed out like the “Michelin-tyre Man” (even more than usual).

We had not walked far (but we had been out for an hour), and we were in the midst of our tenth conversation, this time with an artistic local lady, when it happened… the most handsome man in Dawlish (after Chris, of course) who, unbeknownst to me, had been striding towards us, suddenly swooped me up in his arms, leaned me back in dramatic Hollywood manner and kissed me in the way that, when I was a child, I used to think was the proper mode of kissing – I was taken aback, quite literally. The lady waited until I was vertical again before smiling her farewell and pressing on.

“Hello, Chris. Sorry about that but something too powerful to resist came over me,” said the second most handsome man in Dawlish,

“I understand,” Chris answered, “but there’s no need to kiss me, a handshake will do!” he added as our friend leant forward to shake his hand.

“Well, I had better run, I’m going to be Father Christmas at two o’clock.”

He kissed me again twice before dashing off to find his sleigh. Well, he could hardly refuse me – it was my Christmas wish. Yes, he has “IT” too (as if you hadn’t guessed!).

Today it is with thanks to Geoff that I bring you this very funny version of  The Twelve Days of Christmas. Would you believe that, only minutes before I received this, Chris brought home a large turkey crown for our Christmas dinner (and many dinners to follow)?

The Twelve Days of Christmas

On the first day of Christmas my true love said to me
“I’ve bought a farm fresh turkey and a real life Christmas tree.”

On the second day of Christmas much gladness could be heard
As we tucked into our turkey, a most delicious bird.

On the third day of Christmas came the people from next door,
The turkey tasted just as good as it had the day before.

On the fourth day of Christmas our snowman big and bold
Had not much less of body heat than the turkey we ate cold.

On the fifth day of Christmas outside the snowflakes flurried
But we were warm and snug inside, we had our turkey curried.

On the sixth day of Christmas the festive spirit died,
The children fought and bickered as we ate the turkey fried.

On the seventh day of Christmas my true love he did wince
When we sat down to dinner and was offered turkey mince.

On the eighth day of Christmas the dog had run for shelter
He’s seen our turkey pancakes and the glass of Alka-Seltzer.

On the ninth day of Christmas the menu was a lotto.
That turkey beast was back again, its carcase now risotto.

On the tenth day of Christmas we were drinking ginger brew
We needed something hot and strong to wash down turkey stew.

On the eleventh day of Christmas a winter wind was gusting
With chilli, soy and oyster sauce the turkey was disgusting.

On the twelfth day of Christmas we had smiles upon our lips
The guests had gone, the turkey too, we dined on . . . fish and chips!

Thank you, Roberto, for sending me this. How funny that underwear has kept turning up in my blog posts today!

 
THE CHRISTMAS SEASON

Three men died on Christmas Eve and were met by Saint Peter at the pearly gates.

‘In honour of this holy season’ Saint Peter said, ‘You must each possess something that symbolizes Christmas to get into heaven.’

The Englishman fumbled through his pockets and pulled out a lighter. He flicked it on. ‘It’s a candle’, he said.

‘You may pass through the pearly gates’ Saint Peter said.

The Scotsman reached into his pocket and pulled out a set of keys. He shook them and said, ‘They’re bells.’

Saint Peter said ‘You may pass through the pearly gates’.

The Irishman started searching desperately through his pockets and finally pulled out a pair of women’s panties.

St. Peter looked at the man with a raised eyebrow and asked, ‘And just what do those symbolize?’

The Irishman replied, ‘These are Carols.’

And So The Christmas Season Begins……

I could hardly open my eyes this morning. Recent late nights and a couple of nights of poor sleep had taken their toll and I did not want to get up. My cup of tea just sat there untouched, and getting cold, on the bedside table while I languished in bed with my eyes shut.

“I don’t want to get up. Do I have to get up? Why can’t we stay in bed all day like John Lennon and Yoko Ono did? Let’s have a ‘love-in’ – isn’t that what they called it?” I asked (once I could muster the energy to talk).

“Why not?” replied Chris, perking up.

“Or a sleep-in,” I said, lowering his expectations.

Nevertheless, we snuggled closer in our cosy bed-cocoon.

At length, when I could sense the room getting lighter, I turned over to face the day beyond our bedroom window. My eyes opened and the sight was so strange, fascinating and beautiful  that I forgot my lethargy and hastily found my mobile camera. As you can see from the photographs, the sky on the horizon was an unusually deep blue against a pale sea, made almost green with reflections of yellow.

Transfixed by the scene, we allowed ourselves the pleasure of staying yet a little longer still in bed. Suddenly, Chris chuckled.

“Look at that,” he said, drawing my attention to the cuddly toy dog that sits on the Ottoman, “I’ve only just noticed – he’s become the undiesdog!”

And it was true – see for yourself! Well, it was awfully late when we went to bed last night.

Chris put up our Christmas tree yesterday and, as he adorned it with ornaments collected over decades (some of them even going back to his childhood), he told me that he was ten years old when he was first given the important task of decorating the tree; and he has done it every year of his life since. We sometimes wonder if it is worth the effort now that the children are grown up, but we always relent.

While I was out today, Chris finished putting up the decorations. I noticed that the meerkats (free gifts from a particular insurance company), teddy bears (new presents), Andy (Mary’s monkey who came for a holiday, fell in love, and stayed) and Felicity (my treasured old white cat and object of Andy’s affections) have been moved to the top of the bookcase for an excellent view of the ancient fairy (one of our girls favourite Barbie doll, which has had pride of place each December for nearly twenty years!).

Oddly enough, the Irish busker we saw at Newton Abbot last Saturday also had an old white cat – it lives inside his drum, or maybe it was just the driest place to hang out. Perhaps his cat is called Fernando… “Can you hear the drums Fernando?” Now that song brings back memories.

Suddenly our house is warmed by the glow of colourful lights, tinsel and shiny baubles, and we are glad that we bothered, even though everyone is grown-up, because it feels like Christmas.

I have been out all day and we are going out to dinner tonight – that time of year again – so I haven’t much time to write, just time enough to tell you about a funny conversation my sister had with our young niece some years ago. Mary reminded me and the same niece about it recently, when she came to visit with her boyfriend (Gemma has grown up in the meantime!).

Apparently the little Gemma came into the kitchen when Mary was preparing dinner.

“Do you like frozen peas?” Mary asked, making conversation with the five year old.

“Yes, I do,” Gemma said very politely, yet with a touch of hesitation before adding, “but I really prefer them cooked!”

And whilst I am on the subject of food here is another short anecdote which comes also from Mary’s kitchen…

This time it was, a tiny Elizabeth (Mary’s elder daughter), who came into the kitchen – she was hungry… until she found out what was for dinner.

“What is for dinner Mum?”

“Mixed grill,” my sister answered. (It was in the days that “mixed grills” were all the rage.)

Liz burst into tears.

“Why on earth are you crying Darling?” Mary asked.

“I don’t like minced squirrel!”

Ever after in Mary’s house mixed grill has been affectionately referred to as “minced squirrel”!

At first I kept thinking about The Edge of Love, the film that Chris and I had just watched. It was such a dark film in all senses. What does the title mean? The edge of love? It was one of those films that, after a short while, I felt I might not like and considered switching off but stayed with because I hoped I was wrong. We had watched it to the bitter end and regretted sticking with it, not only because we could have seen something more uplifting, but also because we were left questioning the veracity of the premise on which the film was based. Was Dylan Thomas really so awful? Last night it bothered me and I could not sleep. And afterwards I could not sleep because I was thinking about trying to go to sleep.

The mattress on the bed in the room we are using at present (not our usual bedroom because it’s warmer upstairs) is not as comfortable as our normal bed; when one person turns over the mattress shakes like a jelly and the other person feels seasick!  Hence, I tried desperately not to move, but when you try not to, the urge to do so is even greater. After my second visit to the bathroom I had the idea of going upstairs to sleep (our house is on four storeys) and, not wishing to disturb Chris from his slumbers, I stole up the stairs quietly.

The bed I chose was warm and as comfortable as a cloud; the only problem was that I could see the clouds – and the moon – through the Velux window in the ceiling! I tried to sleep but again I was troubled by thoughts, not about the film, but of ingenious ways to make ceiling curtains or blinds! After twenty minutes of physical comfort marred by moonshine (not the kind from Tennessee) I decided to go back downstairs – right the way downstairs to our regular (cold) bedroom. Half-way down the stairs I heard something. Movements. Footsteps? Coming up from the bottom? I waited a few moments… It was Chris.

“Where were you?” he asked, “I’ve been searching the house for you.”

“Upstairs. I couldn’t sleep.”

“Neither could I,” he said. For a moment I considered mentioning his snoring (one of those mysteries – how you can snore while you are awake) but there wasn’t any point because he never believes me.

“Sorry I kept waking you to talk about the film,” I apologised.

“That’s alright. Sorry if I breathed loudly. It wasn’t your fault that I couldn’t sleep, I just couldn’t get comfortable – I wanted to turn over your way but I knew it would keep you awake.”

So, at two o’clock this morning, we kissed goodnight on the stairs and Chris went one way and I went the other. And we each fell asleep within about five seconds. Happily, today I am not at all on edge, especially not on the edge of love – whatever that means!