In the early hours, when sleep had evaded me still, and I was tired of just lying there in bed… thinking about marriage… and plumbing, I nearly got up to write a blog. But I didn’t because I thought you might think I was a bit crazy, and I persevered with trying not to toss and turn; eventually, with thoughts of blogs in my mind, instead of bathroom taps, sleep descended upon me. It was not a lovely peaceful sleep; on the contrary, I had a very disturbing dream…

At the start Chris and I were on a cruise-ship, but after a short while, the deck of the ship became a road and the sea was a canal running beside the road.

“Where is the ship?” I asked, distressed, as I looked to Chris.

“That was ages ago – you must be crazy!” he scoffed.

“But where are all my things that were in the cabin? What about my bracelet and the clock that were on the bedside table? Where are they?” I pleaded.

“They knew you were crazy so they took them away for you,” Chris sounded so heartless (and quite unlike his normal self I might add!).

“Who are they? When did all this happen? We were on the ship just a minute ago…”

“No we weren’t. That’s another sign of your craziness, which is why they took your possessions,” he answered calmly and coldly.

It felt like I was in the old psychological thriller called “Gaslight”, where the husband (played by Charles Boyer) tries to make his singer wife (Ingrid Bergman) think she is mad – all so he could have the riches hidden in the attic, naturally. I was just like the wife, who wondered how she could not remember things and felt as if she was in a nightmare, except that in my case, I was really in a nightmare! It is a great film… but a terrible dream.

The road suddenly became very steep (like the bow of the Titanic rearing up in front of me) and in my panic I threw myself onto the tarmac and held on for dear life. I must have passed out  in my dream, or had one of those mad memory lapses, because, in what seemed only a moment later, I was back in my bed. I jumped and screamed when the door open partially and shut again (Chris, I presumed); I cried because I thought I was going mad.

After a while, the door opened for real and Chris entered the darkness of the room; he had our cups of tea with him.

“I nearly got up in the night to write my blog,” I told him.

“I did get up at four o’clock, and wrote you a poem,” he said.

Chris sat on the edge of the bed and bent down to kiss my arm, my neck and lips. It was obvious that he wanted to make up.

“You smell good,” he added, kissing my stomach.

“You should have come back to bed – this bed – instead of writing poems,” I chided, still feeling sore that he had left at all.

“I know. I tried the once,” he said, distancing himself from my bare tummy.

“I tried twice…”

“Yes, but then you went on like a crazy woman about that blasted tap again…” he folded his arms across his chest.

“Because you didn’t know what I was talking about… I still don’t know why… How come you don’t understand English? And I’m not crazy – you’re the cracked one! And why have you pulled away from me?”

Marriage can be a bit of an up-hill struggle sometimes – can’t it? My advice is – at bedtime, never discuss the strange quirks in the plumbing, especially if your bedmate is the man who put in the taps! Also, I think that king-sized beds are unfriendly. “No bed is too small for the big lovers,” my old Hungarian boyfriend used to say (not that that lasted – he was a bit mad).

By the way, the poem was beautiful but rather too sexy to put on my blog, sorry. You will have to wait until I bring out an anthology of sexy poems…written under pseudonyms.

We were walking homeward along the sea wall this morning. It was beautiful, and so sunny that I even had to wear my sunglasses. A lady overtook us as I stopped to photograph the recently damaged breakwater by Red Rock. Strangely enough, considering I just mentioned Red Rock, the lady had hair the matching colour of our red sandstone coast. Then I noticed that the clothes she wore also matched the environment; her jacket was as green as the foliage on the cliffs; her jeans were as blue as the sea and the sky; and her handbag was the colour of the rusty railway lines.

“That lady looks like a part of the environment, ” I announced, quickening my step.

“You want to tell her so, don’t you?” asked Chris, slowing his step and dropping back a little, supposedly in order to draw a handkerchief from his pocket.

“Of course,” I answered, “but you don’t want me to.” I was aware of his little ruse to slow us down.

“She’ll think you’re a loony,” he advised with a resigned shake of his head.

“No she won’t. She’ll like it, you’ll see.” And I walked faster to catch her up.

“Excuse me,” I called.

The lady turned around. She had a nice face.

“Did you know that you match the environment?” I asked.

“No, I didn’t. I suppose I do – but it wasn’t planned. I suppose it’s just as well because I live here,” she said with a big smile and a touch of wit.

“I took your photo from behind.” (A behind from behind, you might say, but I didn’t.) “I hope you don’t mind, I couldn’t resist,” I explained.

“I expect I looked very wide,” she said.

“I didn’t notice – just saw how well you looked against the background of red, green and blue. Would you mind if I put your photo on my blog?” I asked very amicably.

“No, not at all, so long as my face isn’t in it.”

“My husband thought you would think me a loony,” I added turning around (we were already moving on ahead).

“No worse than anyone else,” she answered, bringing a smile to all our faces.

Do you know, I wouldn’t be surprised if the lady wasn’t a politician – perhaps a member of the Green Party?

Chris and I seem to do most of our talking either in bed or over the breakfast table, at least, that is when Chris likes to talk to me because he is a morning chatterbox; as for me, I don’t like too many words during the first hour after waking, and then you can’t stop me (only joking – I said that for all the men reading this, who would find that hilarious!). Anyway, for some reason this morning, probably because there is a heap of very inexpensive, but highly desirable, Christmas presents on our dining table, the subject of Christmas presents came up whilst we having our cups of tea. Our family has agreed this Christmas to rise to the challenge of finding the nicest presents for the least price – there is a two pound limit on each gift, but they may be items we have already, or things that we make ourselves – and, on this basis, I was thinking about a wonderful gift for my brother and his family…

“Do you think Rob would like that game of “Truth and Triumph” that Mary gave us?” I asked, “I could paint out the scuffed corners and edges, and make it look like new.”

“What a good idea,” said Chris, “and I bet it hasn’t been used much.”

“About three times, I should think,” I responded with a grin, “and two of those were when we tried it!”

You may remember, if you are one of my long-time blog followers, that “Truth and Triumph” is the marvellous religious board-game equivalent to “Trivial Pursuit”. We were considering hanging on to it for a while longer so that we could astound people with our vast knowledge of religious trivia (like knowing that John the Baptist was something of a style guru and wore a camel skin, perhaps to be a bit different); however, in the spirit of Christmas, perhaps we should not be selfish and pass it on to others who would enjoy it quite as much as we have, and perhaps more. We agreed that “Truth and Triumph”, tidied up and presented nicely, would be the perfect gift for my brother and his family (what a coup – a present for five at no cost whatsoever!). Don’t worry, I’m not Scrooge – they may each have a little present aswell (the one pound ones!). I hope Rob doesn’t read this and feel disappointed because the element of surprise will be lost!

Chris suddenly had a brainwave.

“Why don’t we develop a version of Facebook for religious people and call it Faithbook?”

Do you say funny things in bed too? Or are we peculiar?

Earlier today I was in the leather chair. The seat tilted back, seemingly of its own accord, quite smoothly and gently, which crossed my mind as being rather incongruous, considering what was about to happen. Someone from behind me put a bib around my neck and, matter-of-factly, passed me a pair of goggles. Without question, I put them on. A strong light shone directly in my eyes and I closed them, partly because of the light but also because I didn’t want to look up my inquisitor’s nose. I was not bound to the chair – that wasn’t necessary – for I knew the drill. Undoubtedly, that was why my hands clenched into fists in readiness…and my legs were crossed tightly like a virgin defending her honour.

First came the easy bit, the prodding and pulling, an occasional clash of metal against tooth, and a tug that pulled my upper jaw open wider. Then came the screeching, whining, whirring, freezing cold – water and steel – device of torture…

“Be brave, Sally,” I told myself, “and don’t let them see your agony – don’t even flinch.”

The hard edge of spinning metal fenced around my gritted wisdom teeth and darted over my molars, and a managed to keep stock still, well almost…

“Would you mind keeping your tongue still?” came the authoritarian voice of the dental nurse by my left shoulder.

I tried.

“Try pushing it up to the roof of your mouth,” she said.

My dentist paused and withdrew for a moment while I apologised and promised to try harder.

The instrument of torture resumed and made its way to the delicate part of my lower front teeth, just where the gum meets the bottom of the teeth. My tongue stayed firmly against the roof of my mouth but, although my torso stiffened, my arms with clenched fists flailed in the air and my knees, with a will of their own, came up closer and closer towards my chest. I thought of the film, “Marathon Man”, in particular, the part when the Nazi dentist torturer (played by Lawrence Olivier) asked “Is it safe?”, each time before drilling out Dustin Hoffman’s teeth.

You wouldn’t imagine that a scale and polish could be quite such an ordeal – would you? And the less said about the little red Christmas tree thing like a bottle-brush (which my dentist poked between my teeth) the better!

Thank you David for sending me this link. I found it fascinating. I hope this link works from my blogsite.

The words of the Nat King Cole song from the early fifties filled my head before I went to sleep last night:

Unforgettable, that’s what you are,

Unforgettable, tho’ near or far….

And those same words were still wafting around in my head when I awoke this morning. Why? Well, you see, something pretty unforgivable happened on Tuesday, and I might add that it has happened before… Both Chris and I forgot the birthday of our number one daughter! We didn’t realise until number three daughter gently reminded us yesterday. Why didn’t she remind us the previous day? I asked that too. She told me that she thought we might be offended that she could possibly imagine that we might forget (Bless her).

Now I come to think about it, I did have a nagging little worry that I had forgotten something; even so, I didn’t check the date, nor did I tax my memory banks too greatly.

Oh dear. These days, since I started trying to forget my own birthday, I seem to be losing track of the birthdays of others too. It happens so frequently that it has become a little joke between my young nieces and nephews and me – they pretend to tell me off with wagging fingers and stern faces that crack into smiles – but they know I will find something to appease them.

If you have read my book, “The Innocent Flirt Down Under”, you might recall that in the last chapter I revealed another lapse on the occasion of Chris’s birthday; and when I asked why he hadn’t told me earlier, he replied, “I thought you might have known, considering that you’re my wife.” But don’t worry, he said it with a sunny smile (after all, we were about to have an unforgettable Australian pie experience at Cunungra!).

That reminds me, if you would like to purchase a Kindle eBook version of “The Innocent Flirt Down Under” at a bargain price, it will be available at just $0.99 on a Countdown Promotion for one day only, beginning midnight this Saturday (7th Dec) and finishing on Sunday midnight (8th Dec).

Wonglepong, a charming country area on The Scenic Rim, inland of the Gold Coast. A little taste of Australia for you. And yes, after the rains earlier this year, the grass really was as green as the west coast of Ireland.

Cedric Lane – what a nice name for a new road! Well, you have not had the chance to think on it as I have done. Let me tell you about it and you may agree with me…

My big brother, Bill, who lives in Australia, has recently returned from a holiday in the Philippines (from where my lovely sister-in-law originates). If you have been following my blog, you will perhaps remember that our entire family was terribly worried for several days when we heard no news of our loved ones abroad during, and after, typhoon Haiyan hit the Philippines to devastating effect. Luckily, although not far away in Batangas, Bill’s family, and Lita’s relatives also, missed the cyclone’s wrath; and they were unaffected apart from being inaccessible due to the problem that communications were down extensively. In my heart I knew that they would be alright – in a crisis Bill would keep everyone safe. And he did, but in a different way. Something else quite unexpected happened.

For some time now Bill and Lita have been considering buying a block of land in the Philippines, something rural  to be used as a sort of retreat from their usual lifestyle. They found the almost perfect spot about four kilometres from the nearest township; three acres of fertile land with a creek at the bottom of it. The only problem appeared to be that there was no road access to it.

News travels fast in small communities and Bill heard about the plight of a poor farmer whose ten year old son was dying of peritonitis for want of the $1,500 required to pay for the operation. Bill was prepared to cover the hospital fees, with no strings attached – what price the life of a child? However, the farmer was proud and found another way to receive the sum, a way that would be acceptable and beneficial to them both…in exchange he offered my brother a thin strip of his land, wide enough to be used as a road, which leads to the three acre block that Bill has been thinking of buying.

“Did the little boy live?” I asked Bill after he told us his story (we were on Skype).

“Yes, at present his insides are in a bag outside of his body but he will be having another operation in January. He will be alright though,” Bill’s eyes welled up. “If I buy the property, we’re going to call the access road Cedric Lane, after the little boy, Cedric.”

“Oh, that’s lovely Bill,” five of us here said together as we all dabbed at our eyes too (it was a family Skyping session).

And that is why I think Cedric Lane is such a nice name for a new road. Bill Lane would be quite good too.