On the days when the sun shines (not that often these days) it can be sometimes be spectacular; like last night’s sunset and this morning’s sunrise. Our house faces South-East so, during the summer months when the days are long and the sun is higher in the sky, the sun rises and sets beyond the view from our windows. This morning Chris drew back the curtains to reveal the scene and I grabbed my mobile phone. If you have noticed a change of perspective from my bedroom window shots there is a simple explanation – we moved upstairs when the cold weather moved in.

It isn’t much fun walking under grey skies; it is less fun walking in drizzle on a grey day; and it is worse still when the drizzle turns into proper rain, as it did earlier today.

During the outward part of our walk, when it was grey but still dry, we met a lady we know on her bicycle and she stopped to pass the time of day. Noting how few people were around, we each felt that the day was ours almost exclusively, and nevertheless enjoyable to be out in, in spite of the grey, because it was fresh and dry.

“At least it isn’t raining”, we agreed, standing in our huddle.

We had reached the halfway mark, the railway bridge at Dawlish Warren, when it became chillier, for the air was damp with drizzle. We drew our shoulders up to our ears.

“Look, even the Red Rock Cafe is shut,” Chris pointed out.

“It must be bad,” I added. (The Red Rock Cafe is always open.)

“At least it isn’t raining,” we agreed again.

During our three-mile walk we met eight people only, not including the two dog-walkers (who did not acknowledge us) on the beach; and of those, six were really the same three people we had greeted twice (because they were going the opposite way on the same circuit). A half-mile before home I began to run.

“Let’s run,” I suggested.

“What for?,” Chris asked, “We’ll still be wet before we arrive home.”

“Okay,” I said, “I don’t mind anyway. I feel happy.”

“That’s just because you know that you will be in Australia in three weeks time!”

And Chris was right. I am so excited that even the English rain couldn’t  put a dampener on my good mood.

”

Once I had got over the strangeness of having an empty nest, first when my son James went to university, and later when Bobbie moved down to Plymouth for her studies, I really enjoyed the freedom from responsibility and the privacy; on both occasions I started to think about myself as an individual again, even though things were rather different the second time around because, by that time, I had a lovely husband to consider. But modern husbands (mine, at least) are very self-contained and can do everything around the house quite as well as I do; he doesn’t actually need me in that sense, and although I tend to do most of the cooking, I don’t have to put a meal on the table by six o’clock if I am caught up with work. Chris is happy to step in, doing household chores of any description, even ironing. Chris likes ironing. I know I am lucky (as everyone tells me). I used to like ironing – it used to be a labour of love. Nowadays the roles are not so clear. Sometimes I miss feeling needed, not that I want to be a slave to housework…

This week my young nephew, James (named after my James), has been staying with Chris and me. It has been a school week so we haven’t seen that much of him, but enough to make a difference to the running of the house and our lives.

Last night, without too much protesting from James, and quite a lot of coaxing from me, I trimmed his hair – two millimetres – and he looked so much more handsome. After his shower he came back downstairs for several games of “Rummikub” (which he is very good at). I love the fact that, like me, he enjoys playing games more than watching television – we played games all week. This morning Chris came in with my tea a little later than usual and, upon waking, my first thoughts went straight to James because I knew he would be wondering when his clothes would appear (after a recent mishap with tomato soup they were all in the wash – I had put them in the machine and hung them out, and Chris ironed them). I made him scrambled eggs on toast for breakfast and while he ate, Chris and I stressed the importance of knowing one’s tables (even if one is a genius). We also pointed out the benefits of straightening up and pulling one’s shoulders back, and he did his best for two minutes. I helped him with his tie and brushed his hair (he winced but accepted it out of politeness), and I found him his dinner money before seeing him off at the front door.

“He is a well-mannered boy,” Chris said with approval.

“Very much so, and no trouble at all,” I agreed.

“James is quite bright, isn’t he? I noticed he was as sharp as a pin at playing “Rummikub”, added Chris.

“It isn’t the children’s fault that teachers don’t teach the twelve times tables any more. I’ll print out a sheet for him to take home. Oh, by the way, thanks for ironing his clothes.”

“No problem. He didn’t wear his coat – and it’s going to rain,” answered Chris.

“We had better meet him if it’s raining when he comes out from school,” I said.

Chris laughed.

“What’s so funny?”

“You’re a proper little mother again!”

“Really? Do you think so?” I laughed too.

I did not tell Chris that he had been behaving similarly. He might not think it is very macho. I still think it is cute that he ironed James’ school clothes.

James is going back to his house tonight and this nest will be empty again. I think I’ll keep the sheets on his bed for a few days, just in case he wants to come back…

The relationship is over after seven months, on and off, and I am glad; a weight has been lifted and now I feel that I can move on. I am free. To be honest, and I hope that you will not think me too unkind, he was not my perfect man really. Yes, he had something nice about him but he was rather too old for my liking (and, sorry to be so superficial, not good looking enough). Despite his supposed great intelligence, our conversation was extremely limited; although not exactly bored, I felt not quite in tune with the man and sometimes found myself daydreaming about more exciting things. I guess we were just out of time. Is it terrible to admit that I prefer virile and handsome men?

Do not think that I am writing in such a cavalier fashion in order to hide my injured feelings; I was the one who called it off when I had had enough, when there was nothing more I could do. I wish I could say that it was good while it lasted but, unfortunately, our relationship blossomed only in our final two days together; and yet, I am grateful for the blossoming, otherwise our seven months together (on and off) would have been a complete waste of my time.

If you are one of my treasured followers of my blog you may have an inkling of whom I write, and you would be correct in suspecting that I have finished my commission to draw Arthur Ransome, the famous English author of “Swallows and Amazons.” Therefore, the relationship is over at last and I am exceedingly happy. How did the final piece work out? It is not for me to say – why don’t you judge for yourself? But please don’t advise me to make any improvements… I really have had enough of him. No offence meant, Arthur.

Our good friends Stephen and Janine own the house that Arthur Ransome lived in during the latter part of his life; you may know that Arthur Ransome was the famous author of the “Swallows and Amazons” series of children’s books, which was set in The Lake District where he lived. Some time ago Stephen commissioned me to draw Arthur from an old photograph that has come to light in recent years, depicting an aged Arthur writing in his study.

Two failed attempts at capturing Arthur’s likeness to my satisfaction have meant that several months have gone by without any word from me about the drawing’s progress. With Christmas coming soon I thought that perhaps I ought to make one last attempt – I had put it off for as long as I could. The time had come and today I picked up my drawing pencils and pad.

I had been drawing for two or three hours, and was about to make a hard line on my initial light sketch to affirm the sagging skin under Arthur’s chin (as evidenced by the photograph) when a voice spoke to me:

“For goodness sake! Did I ever look that old and saggy? I certainly can’t remember it. That must be the worst photograph ever taken of me. Sally, must you be so unkind as to render a perfect likeness to that vile photograph?”

“What about Stephen? He is the one commissioning me to draw this,” I answered slightly bemused (and silently inside my head, I might add).

“Please don’t make me look like your Granddad Barnes again…”

“Oh, you saw those attempts? Yes, I was afraid that they were like Grandfer. But you do resemble him in that photo…”

“That which I do not recognise.”

“But Stephen has only that image to go by. What will he say if I use artistic licence?”

“What about my feelings? Don’t they count? Stephen doesn’t know that I hate that photograph but you do. Now be a good artist and trim away a little of that awful double chin (that never existed), and while you’re about, take a soft approach to the jaw line. Think of how much better the drawing will appear. That wouldn’t hurt – would it? I really love the sound of artistic licence…” the voice implored.

Now I honestly don’t know if it was the voice of my conscience, or the indignant spirit of the author himself, who made such an excellent argument in favour of kindness, as much as the aesthetic benefits, but I soon found myself bowing to the good judgement of the voice. It is still a work in progress to which I shall return tomorrow for the completion. I have taken some photos on my mobile so you may compare the original photograph with my half-finished drawing. I wonder if you will agree with the voice in my head. Do feel free to let me know.

I was about to make James his breakfast when I noticed it. James is my nephew who is staying with us at the moment.

“Look at that!” I said.

We both fetched our mobile phones hurriedly and ran outside onto the terrace to take photographs of the beautiful sunrise. It struck me how nice and natural it was that a modern twelve year old boy felt as impelled as me to take photographs of the sight. So kids don’t just play games on their mobiles, they are the same as us… with extras.

I know that is a strange title and I bet you are slightly disconcerted, wondering where this is going to lead. Now don’t worry, I am not a foot fetishist; well, at any rate, I’m not in love with other people’s feet. Quite the contrary, actually.

On the way to the shops last Saturday, when my mum announced that my youngest brother was going to visit her to cut her toenails, I heaved a sigh of relief (secretly, of course) that she hadn’t asked me to do it instead. The reason why the subject had come up at all was because Rob had put in a request for us to buy some “end-cutters” for the purpose; apparently, ordinary toe clippers or nail scissors were not man enough for the job. My ears pricked up. I had always thought that my feet were exactly the same as my Dad’s; they certainly looked the same, except for mine being a tad smaller and slightly more feminine, thank goodness (he wasn’t called “Big Foot” for nothing!). But, no, it seems that, after all, I have some likeness to my mother in the toenail department – it appears we both have thin fingernails but extraordinarily thick toenails.

“What exactly are end-cutters?” Chris asked with an interest that suggested he, too, was thinking of his own sturdy nails.

“I don’t know exactly,” began Mum, “but Robert thinks they will be in either the car tool department or the general hand tool department,”

My mind boggled.

“How big are they?” queried Chris (who was mind-boggled also).

“Nail-cutting size,” Mum answered cutely.

Unsure that Chris had the picture, both Mum and I accompanied my husband to the car tool department. Considering that none of us was quite certain of what we should be looking for, we women suggested that Chris ask a member of staff (something he is loath to do usually).

“Could you show us your end-cutters please?” Chris asked, as if it was the most normal thing in the world to ask for.

“Certainly,” said the young chap, “I’ll just ask my manager where they are.”

Five minutes later we were looking in the pliers and wire-cutters section. Chris picked up a pair of eight inch long wire-cutters.

“My toenails aren’t that bad – you’ll cut off my toes with those!” Mum said alarmed.

Chris and I each thought of our own respective toenails and we agreed.

For those of my readers who have a similar interest in easy-to-use toenail cutters with spring-opening handles (that, unlike scissors, don’t bruise your knuckles) Newton Abbot market is the place to go for miniature end-cutters and side-cutters. At £1.20 each they are a snip!

This morning Chris returned to bed after his shower. He snuggled under the covers and whispered excitedly:

“Those toenail cutters are fantastic!”

“Good,” I said, “I think I had better buy another pair to take with me to Australia in January.”

There, you see, my blog had nothing worrying about it. So why did I call it “Foot Love”? Well, actually, the toenail clippers story was incidental to my intended main thrust, but I got carried away and now I am running out of time. I have a commission to finish. In a nutshell, foot love is my term for the romance between a foot (no matter how large or small) and the hands that hold, caress, and rub it, or the lips that are drawn to kiss it, in spite of the little imperfections caused by wear and tear. Just one thing though, the painted toenails on the huge foot must be short, and without hornedness. You will no doubt be pleased  to know that on Newton Abbot market there is a stall that sells the smallest little wire cutters….

It was so pretty in my home town of Dawlish this morning. The sun was shining and it was raining golden leaves every time there was a puff of wind. Accustomed now to wearing sensible warm clothes, I did not mind even the chill of winter in the air. A friendly black swan made his acquaintance, then glided off when he realised we had no food for him; even the seagulls and pigeons (normally squabbling over food and stealing pastries or fish and chips from out of the hands of babies) were at peace with the world – they had just been fed by the wild-life wardens.

Chris and I were about to walk past the premises of a real-estate agent friend of ours when I remembered the phone call I had received last week…

“You and Chris walked right by our Dawlish office without even looking in. I was waving like mad but you two waltzed by,” said David in a half-laughing reproach.

“But you’re never in the Dawlish office,” I joshed, “How were we to know that you were there?”

“Well, you could have looked in to see if I was….”

With those words still in my memory, I suggested to Chris that we ought to take a look in through the window to see if David was there. The shop windows were filled with Christmas decorations and the glass door was adorned with stars and posters making it awfully difficult to see through. Chris held back, preferring to keep on the outer part of the pavement while I  went closer, right up to the glass, to peer through into the office.

I could see only two people inside, a blonde lady who didn’t notice me, and a young woman who looked my way from her desk. I did not know either of them. I reckoned that our friend, being so nice and friendly, would surely employ friendly staff so I smiled and waved enthusiastically. The girl was not amused in the slightest and seemed not to understand that when a person smiles at you, you really should smile back. Etiquette was not her strong suit, apparently. She glanced at the blonde then back at me, at the same time mouthing words I could see but not hear. I high-tailed it out of there before the older lady estate agent had the time to turn around.

By odd coincidence David telephoned just a short while ago to arrange a lunch date. (We must be telephonepathic!) 

“We were walking by your Dawlish office this morning and there were so many things obscuring the windows that I had to put my face right up to the glass to see in; but you weren’t there… and your staff didn’t recognise me, nor I them,” I said with a chuckle.

“And they probably thought you had escaped from Langdon,” David interjected.

He got my drift – Langdon is our local hospital for the mentally impaired.

The touchy plumber began his charm offensive yesterday morning and won me over in about ten minutes. He might now be more correctly described as the “touchy feely plumber”. Of course, he’s no ordinary plumber (as denoted by the recent tap fitting), you probably know that I refer to Chris, my husband and extraordinary tap installer (sh, don’t tell him I said that or he might get the hump again).

Earlier this morning, I was taking off my night things whilst sat on the side of the bed, and Chris, who was still in bed, had been watching me.

“Do you know that from behind you look like a guitar?” he said in a way that wasn’t really a question.

“A guitar?” I asked in mock surprise (because I had a feeling that I knew exactly what he meant). Nevertheless, I was eager to hear the compliment.

“Yes, a guitar has the most sexy, curvy shape…”

“But what about from the front?” I stood up and turned around.

Chris reached up and stroked my stomach.

“This is your solar plectrum – I could strum you there,” he said, “and string you along.”

“I take it you didn’t mean that I look like an electric guitar,” I queried.

“Nor, a bass guitar,” he said in a playful tone that made a bass guitar sound rather desirable.

After our little spat, I’m so glad that we’re singing from the same hymn sheet again. (Well, it is almost the right theme.)

Incidentally, don’t forget to get your free ebook version of my book, “The Innocent Flirt Down Under”, by going to Kindle ebook store. It is on FREE PROMOTION until Tuesday midnight.

Please take advantage of this FREE PROMOTION of “The Innocent Flirt Down Under” E book, running from midnight tonight for two days until midnight Tuesday 10th December.

Laugh and cry with me as I let you in on the adventures, and some of the reminiscences, I had in Australia two years ago. Enjoy and please feel free to write a nice review!

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