Whenever and wherever I go out cycling, be it in England or Australia, I always seem to come across things dangling from trees and shrubs. You might assume I refer to wildlife (considering all the wildlife shots on my blog recently) – perhaps athletic squirrels in Devon and basking tree snakes in Brisbane; but no, surprisingly, more often than not the things are items of underwear. I do not usually write about them, or take photo’s, but yesterday the danglers were so incongruous, and obvious, in the beautiful setting of a nearby disused quarry that I could not resist capturing the odd sight on camera.

If you look closely you will notice that the net is made from a wire coat hanger and a pair of ladies tights. How resourceful! If only the naked fisherman’s girlfriend had been wearing fishnet- tights.

“I’m not one of those who can easily hide…” as the Elton John song goes. Coincidentally, my young charge for the day looked something like Elton John (sh… don’t tell him – the baby, that is!) when he tried on my sunglasses. Baby Mason wasn’t quite sure about them and soon decided that they tasted better than they looked.

With all my wildlife photography of late you may think I’m living in the wilds of Australia when in actual fact my brother’s place is like an oasis paradise surrounded on all sides by houses, busy roads, a school, shops and a church-turned-law practice. And yet, it is amazing how peaceful it is, so peaceful that a tired possum can sleep to his heart’s content in a quiet nook.

“Want to see another possum?” Bill asked me this afternoon while I was making pastry for a steak pie.

“A live possum?” I asked. (Only a live possum was worth leaving my pastry-making endeavours for).

“Of course, alive,” Bill laughed.

Bill led me down to the shed at the bottom of his garden. One half of the shed is home to Lita’s chickens whilst the other side is a repository for useful, or potentially useful, garden items; and the top shelf makes a very nice cot for a sleepy possum who perhaps finds the clucking of chooks soporific.

“Don’t get too close Sally, you know they have sharp claws, ” Bill reminded me.

“You aren’t going to scratch me, are you?” I spoke to the possum.

Somewhat surprised to be addressed by a woman with an English accent, and still a bit dazed (because it was daytime and not yet time for him to get up), he surveyed me with his big dark eyes before giving his reply, which he managed without the need to make a single sound. He yawned, lay down, curled up and proceeded to go back to sleep. He may or may not have really fallen asleep so quickly – he might have been playing possum.

Well, it may have had only one eye but it certainly looked like a smiley face to me. I fancied it was winking.

My brother, Bill, has a huge mango tree in his garden. This year the tree has produced an abundance of large, juicy, sweet and non-stringy fruit. The only trouble is that the flying foxes seem to know exactly when the mangoes are about to reach their perfection of ripeness; and they come along in great numbers, under the cloak of darkness, to steal the fruit just before the mangoes are ready to drop of their own accord. Nobody would mind if the bats descended upon one or two choice fruit every night and ate them clean to the stones, but that is not their style; nearly every morning the grass is strewn with mangoes, often only nibbled at and bearing tooth marks, sometimes with a corner gnawed through, but never eaten clean.

The obvious answer to the problem is to pick the mangoes before the bats get to them but Bill’s tree is between forty and fifty feet tall, and many of the fruit are at the top. Being the kind of Australian male who can do or fix just about anything, Bill devised a telescopic pole with a cutting blade and a hook on the end. The long blade was apt to get caught up in dead branches and leaves, and was often more a hindrance than a help. Yesterday we ditched the blade and settled for using only the hook, which gave us better purchase and relied on just a firm tug to bring down the fruit.

Bill and I worked together, one manoeuvring the long pole while the other picked up the fallen mangoes; and we took turns in each task because the pole was heavy and difficult to control when fully extended above one’s head – our necks and arms ached. Whilst we worked a text came in on my mobile phone.

“What are you doing today?” enquired one of my Aussie friends.

“Bill and I are gathering mangoes,” I answered in text (when I wasn’t the pole handler).

Another text came back from my witty friend:

“Does it take two to mango?”

I do not expect compliments from a small child, which is just as well because I have never had any. On no occasion have I ever asked a child to guess my age; on the assumption that they have better sight than I have, and less reasoning power, I have always reckoned that children think anyone over thirty is old (and I am well over thirty). I wouldn’t dream of supposing that a child would see me as an attractive woman – what would they know of mature beauty? – but I confess to trying to brainwash my little nieces and nephews (just for fun). The last time a youngster commented on my looks it was only to inform me, “Mummy says you’re looking a bit older, Aunty Sally.” Bless!

After a busy day of mowing, raking and mango felling (I’ll tell you about it next time) I decided to take a cold shower, smarten up and take myself over to Wynnum Plaza for a cool down in air-conditioned surroundings with shops and sales. I wore a red sun-top and red and white floral pants that I tied up, pirate-style, to just below the knees. Golden sandals, a red flower in my hair and a generous amount of luscious red lipstick finished off the bright ensemble.

Having tired of my hunt for bargains in the sales, I was walking back down through the Plaza when I noticed a cute little girl of four or five years old sat in a static toy car; her long hair was black and wild, her dark eyes flashed with reflected light, and she laughed as though she was having all the fun in the world. As I neared the happy darling, our eyes met and I smiled (she was already smiling).

“A pretty lady,” she said.

“And I was just thinking what a pretty girl you are!” I answered leaning forwards.

“You are more beautifuller than I am,” she insisted, still smiling.

I think it may have been the best compliment in my entire life.

I know I have shown you photographs of Bill’s magpies before but I can’t resist taking more photo’s of them – they are so tame, characterful and endearing. Take this morning for example, I had made some fruit salad for a mid-morning snack and no sooner had Bill and I sat down at the little wooden table in the spa area of the tropical garden, than a lone magpie popped his head around the corner. He came so close that I could bend down and see his  bushy eyebrows – they have very cute eyebrows.

“I suppose you’d like to join us,” I said (honestly!).

“Well, if you’re having a bite to eat, why not?” he told me in his magpie tones, “But no fruit salad please… how about some of that ham fat from the other day – it’s bearable, and not so greasy, if you coat it in ashes or dirt … or steak – we’re partial to steak – if you prefer?”

I went inside to the kitchen to find some scraps off the diminishing leg of ham, and I had a feeling that my magpie mate would have roused the troops by the time I returned. Indeed, several of his family and friends had gathered expectantly, hoping for a banquet. The measly amount of ham trimmings lasted about two minutes. The rest of the gang came along too, hopping about and jumping onto the seat backs.

“Okay,” said Bill, “Give me a moment and I’ll be back with something even nicer than ham fat – something you won’t have to cover with dirt before you eat it…”

“Not steak then? ‘Something’ doesn’t sound like steak,” the magpie assumed rightly.

Bill returned with a big and juicy, raw beef sausage. The birds nearly did somersaults! Obviously, this was not their first beef sausage and they were not disappointed, as you can see for yourself in the photographs…

If you have been following my blog recently (by which I really mean yesterday) you may have wondered if I had forgotten that I intended to tell you today about something nice that happened yesterday. Well, one thing overshadows another and, truthfully, I began to think that you might be more interested in an update on my health. However, after taking a cold shower to relieve the itching (from the various strange lumps with blisters that have appeared), and downing some paracetamol and allergy tablets, I think I would prefer to try not to dwell upon health matters too much so I’m reverting back to the original plan…

Yesterday morning I went over to nearby Wynnum to see my younger brother, Henry, and his girlfriend, Diane. Henry was looking out from a front bedroom window as I pulled up in my new and impressive (apparently) Impreza car.

“I’m impressed!” he exclaimed through the fly screen.

Now I am not a car person – if my car goes and is relatively comfortable and cool (in Australia) then I am happy – so I  surprised myself by glowing with pride at Henry’s reaction to my borrowed snazzy car. After more than two decades of driving cars that never impressed a single soul, it was a new and uplifting experience to be admired and considered cool simply because I have the use of a friend’s cool car for the next three months.

“Want to come out for a run in it?” I asked benevolently.

Half an hour later, after reversing out of Henry’s driveway with the greatest of ease -having made use of the hi-tech screen showing the view from the special camera at the back (although I’ve never had a problem reversing any of my unimpressive lo-tech cars – except when I took my driving test), we were making our way to Lota, where my mother used to live many moons ago before moving back to England.

“Mum’s house isn’t there any more – is it?” I asked my younger brother.

“Yes it is, but it looks different because it has had an extension on the front,” Henry answered, “I’ll show you.”

So we found the old house, now drab in a modern dirt-brown, with its new extension. And I took some photo’s for Mum, yet as I did so I knew the results would not thrill – the house that I once helped my mother to decorate had been much prettier in the old days.

A short while later we pulled up outside another house that our mother owned, but which I could not recognise because I had changed countries by the time she had bought it. The second house was quaint and white. A pretty woman in her forties came out of the house and down the front path. She looked at me from over the other side of the picket fence where I was poised with my mobile camera and our eyes met.

“My mother used to own this house many years ago,” I explained.

“Would you like to come inside and look around?” she asked, “You’ll have to excuse the mess because I’ve just moved in.”

Diane stayed outside while Henry and I accepted the invitation. Despite some obvious modifications, many of the original features were still there, like the louvre windows running along the façade and the tongue-in-groove boards so typical of the period of my childhood. I did not know the house and yet it felt familiar; I imagined our mother in middle age, living between those same walls, walking on the those wooden floors and cooking in the kitchen; and I was overwhelmed by the sense of something of my mother remaining in the house, and also by the kindness of Justina, the new owner, who understood and thought it quite natural when I smiled and cried at the same time.

“The speed limit is fifty kilometres per hour,” informed the female voice of my car for the umpteenth time.

I was going at fifty-two per hour at the time, but I was not irritated – it was rather impressive.

“Take a left turn here,” said Henry for the umpteenth time.

Henry, unthinking, didn’t seem to realise that I know the roads around here almost as well as he does, but I did not mind – perhaps it had something to do with the new car – I was rather cool about everything.

“Come and take a look at this,” said Bill as he led me outside to the carport.

I knew from my big brother’s smile that he was going to show me something a bit unusual and interesting.

“Look up on the top shelf,” Bill added, pointing his finger in the direction of a white plastic storage basket.

“Oh yes, I see it. Is that a tail?” I asked (knowing full well that it was).

Suddenly a little foot with clenched fingers, like a fist, appeared from behind the white box. I moved towards it for a closer inspection.

“Don’t go too close, Sally, or he might scratch you – he’s awake,” Bill warned.

So, risking limb if not life, I stayed at an arm’s length and held my mobile camera in my outstretched hand in order to take these photo’s of the furry interloper for you. Can you guess what it is? I’ll give you a clue – Granny Clampet from “The Beverly Hillbillies” would have shot the wide-eyed creature and put it in a pie… That’s right, it’s a possum. Isn’t it cute?