That is certainly true of my Friday’s Child, little Mason. He’s a darling and quite comfortable with me now – today he even preferred to come to me rather than his granddad (a first!).

As you will see from the photographs, my Friday boy came shopping with me before going to visit my niece and her little girl. In “Big W”, as usual I was attracted towards the bra department (ever on the search for the perfect bra) and when I handed Mason a bra to hold onto for me while I looked at others, he did what all little boys do – he tried the bra on his head! Very funny Mason!

Now, at the end of my day, I am really tired. I feel a bit like the wife of a husband who comes home from work and asks, “What have you been doing all day?” And, like that fictional wife, I would have to answer that I know it doesn’t look like I have done anything but I have been on the go all day long! Why? Because everything takes three times longer to do when you have a baby in tow. Perhaps it is something to do with all the wiping of hands and wiping up of floors and other surfaces; strapping in, then unstrapping, and trying to poke long stiff legs into seemingly under-sized leg holes in swings, high-chairs and shopping trolleys; trying to do everything you can do one-handed with a heavy tot on one hip; and waiting until the child sleeps before you can do the chores that require two hands…

But I am not complaining, we had a lovely day and I enjoyed every minute. I was reminded of earlier days when I was a young mum – oh, such happy times…

Monday’s Child

Monday’s child is fair of face,
Tuesday’s child is full of grace,
Wednesday’s child is full of woe,
Thursday’s child has far to go,
Friday’s child is loving and giving,
Saturday’s child works hard for a living,
But the child who is born on the Sabbath day,
Is lucky and happy and good and gay.

And during little Mason’s nap I have taken a few photographs.

Today I re-visited Stones Corner, a part of Brisbane which was my favourite haunt two years ago when I was house-sitting three kilometres up the road. Stones Corner has a Bohemian atmosphere not dissimilar to the West End of old Brisbane before the smartening up operations (now a long time ago). Interestingly, the shoe shop called “The Noticed Man” used to be called “Shoes for the Stylish Man” – “noticed” must be the new “stylish”!

Have no fear, I would not be so trite as to blog about my thoughts on what to have for breakfast (a slimmer’s egg, bacon and tomato – no toast – if you’re interested); but no, that isn’t what I particularly want to impart this morning. Actually, after the phone conversation with my lovely husband Chris, and after I had started grilling the rasher of bacon and tomato, for some weird reason I began to think about God and death; perhaps that’s a normal thing to do – it seems strange to me now. I don’t even know what triggered my line of thought. I wasn’t thinking about my own death; in fact, I was thinking about an acquaintance I had not seen for several years and met again almost immediately prior to my departure for Australia…

We met in my doctor’s surgery as I was leaving and she was going in. I hardly recognised Jeanette. Formerly a good looking woman with high colour, a sparkle in the eyes and an excellent figure, she was now ashen, thin as a rake and had a desperate look in her sunken dark eyes. She wore a woolly hat like a huge tea cosy as if to keep in every skerrick of heat and to deter the slightest puff of wind that might make her fall over had she not been supported by her two daughters at either side of her; it was the hat that I had noticed at first glance upon re-entering the waiting room, and then the sad eyes beneath the hat, and the look of recognition that beckoned me towards her.

“You look ill, Jeanette,” I said softly to lesson the truth.

She nodded her assent.

“At least I have my girls with me,” she said, and I was reminded that her handsome younger second husband had left her quite a few years ago and she was probably without a third.

I hugged her and hoped that any healing power in my hands might help her.

“I’ll pray for you,” I whispered in her ear as I kissed her good-bye.

I knew it sounded an odd thing to say, especially as I’m not a religious person.

“Thank you,” Jeanette replied. (She seemed not to mind my manner of expression.)

In the last two months I have thought about Jeanette quite often, and prayed for her in my way – hoped there is a God and asked for her return to good health – but I don’t know how she is. We are just acquaintances and I don’t even know her surname.

Do you sometimes think about people you used to see regularly, and suddenly realise that you haven’t seen them for ages, and then wonder what happened to them? Usually we think the worst – don’t we? Well, mostly we are justified but sometimes, happily, there are surprising outcomes…

The second last time I saw Nicole, a friendly acquaintance whose portrait I painted in the days before I was married to Chris, she was on a stretcher being taken in to the local hospital. She looked like death and I then I didn’t see her around any more. All these years since I have worried that the poor girl had passed away. Imagine my delight last November when, having just attended my niece’s wedding, I bumped into Nicole walking through the churchyard. The pretty blonde was as pleased to see me as I was to see her and we embraced, kissed and laughed about my concern over her. What a happy wedding day that was.

I hope and pray (even though I’m not really very religious) that when I return to dear old Dawlish I will bump into Jeanette in the street one day and I will be sure to rib her about that terrible old hat she wore at the surgery when she was under the weather…

Well, it wasn’t exactly the middle of nowhere, but it seemed like it because I was on my bike and it was getting dark. Of course you can’t take a bike on the motorway so I was looking for the road I had taken earlier, going in the opposite direction (when it was light and I could see), which would have led me to the red bridge from where I would have recognised where I was. As it happened, I didn’t have a clue and night was falling fast.

I had taken a wrong turn at one of the roundabouts, went two miles in the wrong direction (and back again), had the wrong directions given to me by four different people (people will tell you anything when you approach them in their cars stopped at red lights!) and from then on I had been cycling hither and thither, hoping to meet someone who could give me the right directions. There weren’t many folk walking around, or at all actually – I wasn’t in a very popular spot. At last I had noticed three teenage Maori boys but, just as I was about to ask them the way, a car pulled up on the opposite side of the road and the lads rushed over to it and piled in. I followed them. It is amazing how they fitted into the car as it was filled already with similar lads; and the driver, who was older, looked at me daggers as I approached. Maybe at first he thought I was an undercover policewoman posing as a cyclist but I disarmed him with my smile and an innocent plea for help:

“Excuse me,” I said in my best English accent (to let him know that I wasn’t an undercover policewoman), “but I wonder if you can help me, I’m looking for the non-motorway way to Drew’s Road at Loganholme?”

The swarthy driver, who reminded me of a Maori version of “Huggy Bear” from the American cop show “Starsky and Hutch”, visibly let down his guard – he even smiled back at me and tried to assist.

” Yeah well, you see that graveyard over there,” he pointed, “you gotta get past that.”

“To the red bridge?”

“Yeah, that’s right. It’s past there somewhere. Just go there and follow the graveyard. That’s right isn’t it?” he turned to the many big lads in the back seat and they all nodded.

I thanked them all and headed for the graveyard with high hopes although the light was fading…

Perhaps, after all, it had not been such a good idea to decide to take a very long cycle ride into unknown territory in the mid-afternoon, but I had been in all day long and I had thought that a good ride would help me to get slim before the sixth of April (when my son and his fiancée are going to be married). Certainly, upon reflection, I should have accepted Roland’s offer of a lift back home, which I refused because I was sure I could make it back before dark, and because I wanted to use up more calories. In fact, after a cold drink and half an hour’s rest I had felt quite recovered and ready for the long journey homeward bound.

“What about that really big hill?” Roland queried.

I laughed and said I would be fine.

It is funny how I hadn’t noticed that long steep hill as I was coming down it!

So it was nearly dark and I was three-quarters the way home, outside Beenleigh Ambulance Station (somewhere near the Pacific Highway and not actually in Beenleigh); and the mosquitoes were having a feeding frenzy on my bare arms and legs; and a white ute had stopped ominously and his warning lights flashed so I crossed over and stood under the street lamp; and another car pulled up and flashed his warning lights too and I had a memory of the creepy Australian film “Wolf Creek”, about a murderer who befriended travellers in distress…

I reached for my mobile phone.

“Roland, I’m sorry but I’m lost…” I exhorted.

He must have come to the rescue because today, in spite of all the heat, I made him loads of cakes as a thank you. None for me, I’m dieting. And if you’re wondering… yes, I lost over a kilo. Incidentally, I went cycling again today, this time just locally and – would you believe it? – I got lost again!

A young Ontario woman was so depressed that she decided to end her life by throwing herself into the lake, but just before she could throw herself from the docks, a handsome young man stopped her.

“You have so much to live for,” said the man. “I’m a sailor, and we are off to Italy tomorrow. I can stow you away on my ship. I’ll take care of you, bring you food every day, and keep you happy.”

With nothing to lose, combined with the fact that she had always wanted to go to Italy, the woman accepted. That night the sailor brought her aboard and hid her in a small but comfortable compartment in the hold. From then on, every night he would bring her three sandwiches, a bottle of red wine, and make love to her until dawn. Three weeks later she was discovered by the captain during a routine inspection.

“What are you doing here?” asked the captain.

“I have an arrangement with one of the sailors,” she replied. “He brings me food and I get a free trip to Italy .”

“I see,” the captain says.

Her conscience got the best of her and she added, “Plus, I have to admit, he’s been screwing me.”

“He certainly has,” replied the captain, “this is the Toronto Island Ferry!

With thanks to Cheryl for sending this to me…

What better way to spend a Sunday afternoon than going for a drive in my brother Bill’s 1957 FC Holden? The engine purred in that wonderful way that modern cars can’t manage because they are all so refined these days; and occasionally it roared as we sped up on the straight sections of Wynnum’s wide roads – Bill thought it would give Lita and me a thrill, which it did (we whooped with delight!). I sat in the back on the turquoise bench seat without the horrid restriction of a seat belt because the regular rules do not apply to vintage cars (what joy!). Pedestrians and other vintage car drivers waved their appreciation and we waved back through the open windows. I felt like a queen. And my orange spotty sun dress complimented the turquoise interior very well…. if you don’t mind me saying so myself.

Sadly,we had the news recently that Holdens will no longer be made in Australia. What a shame…

“Do you want to hear about our snake?” asked Jade, the handsome pilot’s daughter from across the road (from where I am house sitting at present).

I was just returning on my bike from swimming at Joanne’s followed by shopping at the Hyperdome this afternoon (fourteen kilometres all told – desperately dieting and exercising) and I had stopped to speak to the children who were roller-skating at the end of the road near the turning circle. Jade’s six year old brother called Drew (the one with the spiky hair) had already told me that I ought to “get back and guard Sue and Glenn’s house” (I knew from previous experience I could count on Drew for some humour!). Danielle and Bella (their mum accompanied by the family dog) soon came out and joined us.

I nodded with interest and Jade told her tale of the two metre long tree snake that had appeared last week when the family were having a barbecue – her heroic father, in the style of an expert, caught the snake and picked it up by the back of the head before depositing it on wasteland.

“I don’t know why it chose us, out of all the people who live here…” ten year old Jade finished with a wistful ponder.

“How funny that we should both have had snake experiences recently,” I got in quickly because I had my own snake story to tell.

And I told them about my unforgettable trip to Redcliffe last Saturday and my visit to friends who have snakes (as well as dogs) for pets. How could I refuse when asked if I would like to hold a large yellow constrictor named Bonnie? What an excellent opportunity for unusual photographs for my blog! My initial response was purely instinctive – I froze and held my breath – as Bonnie wended her way over and around my head; her tongue licked my face and I felt like Tarzan’s Jane in the jungle. A green snake called Clyde was placed around my neck and the dynamic duo pretended to strangle me, just a little pressure here and there to remind me of their raison d’être (they were not to be tangled with although, indeed, they were tangled around me). Sid, the yellow snake, was a sweetie; he gave me a nice massage on my shoulders.

“Do they get to know you and like you?” I asked.

“No, they just think you’re a warm spot,” said Kendall, the beautiful snake charmer in one of the photo’s, “and don’t hold him like that or he’ll bite you…”

And the following snake photographs are for Jade, Drew and Danielle, so I can show off how brave I am (not, as you can see by my face). The dog is there on the basis of his cuteness, likewise, Kendall is there for her cuteness and the Bee Gees Statue is for fans who may be interested to know that the Bee Gees lived in Redcliffe when the Gibb family moved to Australia.

These came in from Chris (reporting on the spot) yesterday.