One afternoon nearly two weeks ago, when the big gates of my abode were wide open and I was chatting to Jade (the handsome pilot’s ten year old daughter) out on the nature-strip, two cyclists pulled up beside us; it was Drew, Jade’s little brother (aged five), and his friend and neighbour, Kevin (also five), who looks like Charlie Brown.

“Sally, you’ll never guess what..” Kevin said in the knowledge that I would respond correctly.

“What?” I fell into line.

“My trainer wheels came off yesterday!” he gushed with pride.

“Oh, well done Kevin!” I enthused, “I hadn’t noticed but now I can see. You look great, and so grown up!”

“My trainer wheels came off last week,” announced Drew.

“Really? That’s so great. How grown up you both are now! And you have nice strong arms by the look of it,” I added.

In the same way that boys have always raised their arms to bring up their muscles, the two little chaps showed me their bulging biceps and I was duly impressed.

“I can do push-ups,” said Drew.

“Really? No!”

“Yes, my Dad taught me,” Drew said proudly.

For a moment I had a mental picture of the handsome pilot doing push-ups, then Drew threw himself onto the grass and proceeded to show me that he wasn’t kidding.

“You are strong,” I complimented.

“And I can do it with one arm and one leg,” he said.

And he showed me how it was done, after which I had another mental picture of his father doing it.

Kevin, still straddling his bike, said goodbye and cycled off, perhaps a bit deflated, on his bike without training wheels.

Back on his feet Drew asked:

“What do you do in that big house every day Sally?”

“Well, there is a lot of housework to do in such a big house,” I exaggerated, and added for effect, “Sue must be a slave to housework.”

Drew’s face lit up as he had a brainwave.

“Jade and I could do your housework for you,” he looked for confirmation from his sister.

“Of course we could,” Jade backed him up. “We have to help Mum but it would be more fun to help you.”

“Can you mop floors and polish furniture?” I asked.

“Yes, and if you’ve got a ladder I could get up on the roof and polish that too,” Drew said for the sake of humour and we all laughed. Then he added, “We’ll make the house even more shinier for you than when Sue does it!”

In my next blog post I will tell you what happened when the children of the handsome pilot turned up to do my housework.

The grand gates at the entrance to my house here at Lakeland Court are high, in the Victorian style (as in Victoria, the state, rather than the old unamused queen), and by my reckoning they are about six feet six at the highest point in the middle of each half. Out on the pillar, on the side facing the nature-strip, there is a door-bell system with speakers and buttons, which no-one uses; and there is a combination lock, the secret code of which is known by all the nice people who might want to call by, including the neighbours, but they don’t use it… not during my tenure as house-sitter, anyway.

It has taken several weeks but now I know the form; people observe the other code – the code of the gates. When closed, the gates – made of black metal palings – seem to attempt to be friendly by not obscuring the view (from either side) too much, and yet, the message is clear – Do Not Disturb! When the gates are opened partially, to garden path size, the would-be callers (often the local children) stand at the entrance and talk amongst themselves, before deciding either to stay in the cul-de-sac or to walk through the gate and come to the front door. Sometimes the children stand just the other side of the opening and talk to me as if invisible gates were still barring the way; if I walk over to them the obstruction disappears and the children zig-zag back and forth like tadpoles over the opening, yet confining themselves to that small area. When the gates are open wide it is different – everyone feels free…

Last evening, as the sun was setting outside and I was on the phone inside, the gates were still wide open and my lovely New Zealander next-door neighbour called out:

“Cooee, Sally?” .

“Hello Wendy,” I sang out, walking to the screen door. “I’m sorry but I’m on the phone.”

“That’s alright, I just wanted to make sure that you were okay,” Wendy said, about to walk away.

I opened the door and gave her a kiss on the cheek.

“Thanks Wendy, I’m fine,” I told her.

“Hey, you’re a great colour,” she touched the my tanned shoulder.

“Fishin'” I laughed.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” she said.

Well, that’s how it is with the folk here at Lakeland Court – you have to open the gates wide to discover how warm and generous they are.

The children, too, are delightful. There are the handsome pilot’s children, Jade and Drew (he with the spiky hair); then there’s Kevin, the five-year-old who looks like a real-life version of Charlie Brown (from the Peanuts cartoon); and Luke and his two-year-old brother Jack (with the blue cycle-helmet like a German helmet). They love it when they see me coming home on my bicycle and they know that soon those gates will be open wide and welcoming. I’m going off for a cycle ride now but I will tell you more about the children later on – perhaps I should begin with the day Drew and Jade offered to come around and do my housework. Sorry, but you will have to wait until my next blog…

“Diane?” I asked over the phone yesterday morning, “Would you and Henry like to join us for dinner at The Windaroo Tavern tonight?”

(I’m a believer in doing things on a whim – then you won’t be disappointed if it doesn’t turn out great because you haven’t long been looking forward to the event, and if it is wonderful, then the surprise makes it even more so.)

“That sounds pretty good…” answered Diane.

“But I thought you might like to come around to Roland’s earlier – maybe mid-afternoon – to do a bit of ‘cloud-shooting’ again?” I asked enticingly – I had a feeling that would hook her.

“That sounds even better!” my brother’s girlfriend became excited. She was, after all, the Maid Marian, number one cloud-shooter, from last weekend’s tournament.

Unfortunately, I turned up at my old friend Roland’s place a little later than anticipated (on my part, but just as late as he had expected) for a spot of “fishin'” so we had to make do with local river fishing, rather than going all the way down to Jacob’s Well to our preferred location. As you will see from the photographs, Roland caught a catfish while I caught a tan (and very nearly a big mud crab that let go as it surfaced from the river).

As for the cloud-shooting, it is such an exhilarating and joyful experience that the participants will let you put flowers in their hair and behind their ears and take photographs of them like nymphs and fairies from a Midsummer Night’s Dream – and I’m referring to the macho men! No arrows actually landed in a bucket this time although one of Maid Marian’s arrows rested against the side.

Dinner was great, the dancing was great.

“Sally, you look exactly as you did all those years ago,” Henry and Roland agreed.

“That’s just because I haven’t learnt any new steps,” I replied and everyone laughed because each of us still danced in the same manner as we did in the eighties.

Cajoled by the music and the hour, we visitors were glad of the offer of an impromptu sleep-over, without which we would not have danced until two in the morning. Happy, but tired, at last we went to our rooms with the thought of a sleep-in and a late breakfast very much in mind.

Shortly after going to bed I was awakened by Henry and Diane talking.

“They have a lot of energy,” I thought to myself. I didn’t like to enquire if anything was amiss.

Later on I was awakened again. I thought I heard laughter. I covered my ears with my pillow lest I should hear something I shouldn’t.

At six in the morning I heard voices outside my bedroom door – Roland was talking to Diane and Henry. So much for the sleep-in! I thought that I, too, had better get up.

Henry and Diane’s bed had broken within an hour of their falling into it and they spent the night on the mattress, which they had dragged into the lounge-room.

Breakfast was delicious and the whole weekend was perfect… well nearly, I thought how much Chris would have enjoyed it. He would have laughed about the broken bed and no doubt remembered, as did I, some of our falling through bed-slats experiences… when we had booked up for cheap holidays on the spur of the moment.

From an email sent by Chris:

Just thought you’d like to see that, praise the Lord, the men are putting in those massive concrete blocks not only behind the main breach up the way, but also behind “our” bit of wall  structure to strengthen it up; I had been a bit afraid that, because the wall wasn’t actually breached at that particular point there, they would simply be replacing the parapet wall but not reinforcing it.  However, it looks as though we will end up better protected than before the storms, which is great.

From me:

No time fer writing ’cause I’m goin’ fishin’ agin!

In response to my last blog post entitled, “A Letter From Sari”, one of my readership (a bright spark who calls himself Singh A. Songasixpence) claimed “it brings to mind the old Don Maclean song ‘Sari Sari Night’!” I was surprised that the possibly more apt title of “Whose Sari Now?” had not been picked up.

Indeed, I was further astonished when I checked the lyrics of the Connie Francis hit (1957) “Who’s Sorry Now?” on Google. In particular, the line, “Who’s sad and blue?” struck a chord because the beautiful sari, now posted, fits that description exactly. And on the subject of postage, that brings me to the lines, “You had your way, Now you must pay”…

I was in the Post Office at the Hyperdome this afternoon – I had cycled over – and the blue sari, along with an accompanying letter (from Sari!) and two sets of blue bracelets – one of  them metal, the other beaded – was tucked into a recycled padded bag. The Indian lady serving me (what a coincidence!) had a bewildered look on her face when I popped the bag on the scales.

“May I keep the pen?”, I asked. “Because it has Australia Post written on it – a keepsake…”

She looked surprised and I guessed that not many people ask if they may keep one. She smiled and nodded. (I guessed she wasn’t supposed to let me keep it.)

“That will be – no it can’t be! – can it? Please to wait a moment, hold on,” the lady checked again and looked in disbelief.

“It’s a sari,” I told her.

She nodded knowingly (nine thousand yards of gossamer material edged with gold and folded neatly into a small bag – it all came back to her).

I began to worry. It has been several years since I sent anything airmail from Australia. I had been guessing the postage would cost around ten dollars.

“Oh dear, oh dear,” the nice lady said to prepare me for a shock, “that will be thirty-nine dollars and seventy-five cents, please. I wonder if you would like to take anything out?”

I thought of the heavy bracelets (total price $5) and I jumped at the opportunity.

“Yes please.”

“You can take it over to the table and fill out this customs form at the same time,” she said kindly as she could see I was suffering from shock.

Unlike England, where there are few dedicated Post Offices left and we have to queue in the backs of newsagent shops for the attention of perhaps one or two harassed and often belligerent members of staff (not in my home town of Dawlish, of course), the Australia Post shop had six or seven assistants and one of these, noticing my pallor, came over to help me.

“Is everything alright?” she asked (probably suspecting the cause of my dismay).

“Can this small package really cost forty dollars to send to England by airmail?” I pleaded.

The woman weighed it in her hand and then on the scales.

“It is just over the limit,” she admitted, “but if you could bring it under five hundred grammes it will be less than half the price to send.”

Back at the counter a third lady staff member, aware of my recent trauma, was “just like a friend, right to the end” and informed me with pleasure that I could re-insert one of the sets of bracelets and still come in under the threshold.

“And you must put in the letter,” she said with concern. Her sweet motherly expression told me that she was sorry to have to charge me anything.

“Thank you so much for all your kindness,” I said before leaving.

“It’s nice comments like that that make my job worthwhile,” she smiled like a happy angel.

So now all is well; the blue sari is on its way, nobody has need to be sorry, I have a red and white Australia Post pen as a memento and (below) you have the lyrics and a bit of extra information about the song, Who’s Sorry Now… if you should happen to be interested.

Who’s Sorry Now?

From Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia

For the Connie Francis album, see Who’s Sorry Now? (album). For the Marie Osmond album, see Who’s Sorry Now (album).

“Who’s Sorry Now?”
Single by Connie Francis
B-side	You Were Only Foolin’ (While I Was Fallin’ In Love)
Released	November 1957
Recorded	October 2, 1957
Genre	Rock ‘n’ Roll
Length	2:16
Label	MGM Records K 12588
Writer(s)	Ted Snyder, Bert Kalmar, Harry Ruby
Producer(s)	Harry A. Myerson
Connie Francis singles chronology
“Who’s Sorry Now?” is a popular song with music written by Ted Snyder and lyrics by Bert Kalmar and Harry Ruby. It was published in 1923.[1]

“Who’s Sorry Now?” was featured in the Marx Brothers film A Night in Casablanca (1946), directed by Archie Mayo and released by United Artists.

“Who’s Sorry Now”

To my sister, who will soon be receiving a parcel…

Dearest Mary,

This is not a begging letter, well, it is but I hope you will not be put off, which is why I wasn’t going to mention it. However, I have been told what a lovely, empathic person you are so I have every faith that you are the one to whom I should turn.

In truth, I began my life, many years ago (not sure how many because I can’t count beyond eight), full of Eastern promise and with every expectation that my function in life would be fulfilled; forgive my vanity, but I had hoped to attend parties and gatherings, and be admired by many. Alas, it was not to be so. Instead I was sold (for a good price no doubt) to an English tourist – I was a love gift to his young wife. “How romantic!” you may think… Sadly she was devoid of any romantic fibre (unlike me) and she wrapped me “in cotton wool” (if only – my fancy- it was really a brown paper bag) and hid me away in a dark place where my only friends, also my mentors and educators, were eight pages of “The Bombay Times” and five loose sheets from “My Heart Sings Out” (one of the hymnals from the Episcopal Church of the United States of America).

Captive that I was, I have, nevertheless, travelled… albeit in a tea-chest in the hold of a ship bound for Australia. Even then, now so long ago I can barely remember (Hallelujah – if only I could forget completely), I had some little optimism that my exclusion from society may have been a long but still temporary oversight. It was not the case. I have endured year after year of confinement with not a puff of fresh air or even a drop of fresh water and yet I have been tempted cruelly by the likes of Fry’s Turkish Delight, Leonard Singh and Sons’ “Exotic Moonlight Tours down the Ganges”, and “The Coming of the Lord”.

Also I have suffered the indignity of colour discrimination and, latterly, having believed myself to be rescued, I have had the added humiliation of being told that I stank. Heavens to Betsy! Hence I was left out airing for a day on a washing line and was caught in a strong wind that sent me twirling around the central pole; my nerves – and the bottom of me – frayed and my blue silk got caught in the grass, then later got entangled in Sally’s big feet (size 10, Australian) and now there are threads of blue scattered about the garden). Finally, having sniffed me suspiciously, Sally submerged me in soapy water – a particular aversion for me after being on a “dry” ship for so long and being accustomed to the familiar smell of an ancient section of “The Bombay Times” mixed with the aroma of old sandals (I was demoted to the lower half of a closet – the floor – after the death of the English tourist.)

So… dearest Mary, I will be arriving, perhaps a little the worse for wear, on your doorstep soon. I am clean, a bit frayed (naturally, after all I’ve been through), maybe not as bright as I was (but I still have all my marbles and some of my glitter) and pressed (not depressed – hallelujah!) on silk setting (so not very well). I hope and pray that you, or someone as beautiful as you, will appreciate me at last and enjoy wearing me to the wedding of James and Jaimy. May you be Blessed with moonlight on your horizons and your senses filled with Eastern promise…

Thanking you in advance,

Sari x

After risking life and limb on busy roads it was great to discover cycle-paths in beautiful countryside… Also some shots of the cycle-track that snakes its way to the Hyperdome part of the world.

When you’re feeling in a Huck’ Finn mood there ain’t no better way to spend a day than fishing. No need to talk if you don’t feel inclined, and mostly, when you’re fishin’ you’re not inclined to do much talkin’ – you like to nod and say “Ah” when other folk talk, to let them know that you’re in the frame of mind for fishin’ not talkin’. Sometimes you just want to feel the sand under your feet, or even stand in the water to let your feet cool down while you’re enjoyin’ standing there, not sayin’ much but “Ah” and “Not yet”, while you’re watchin’ the world around you.

‘Course, as you probably know, it’s not all about the fishin’, which is just as well because sometimes there ain’t no fish or they ain’t hungry (mostly that’s when I go fishin’). You like to see the rich folk enjoyin’ themselves on their swanky boats, speed boats and jet-skiis; and the poor folk havin’ a swim, or courtin’ and cavortin’ in the water, or fishin’.

And if you’re tired o’ standin’ in the sun (although your feet are right cool and dandy), you stand your rod in a bit of old pipe you already buried in the sand, and you find a shady spot with a fine-lookin’ rock fer swingin’ yer legs from, or alternatively, open out yer blanket roll for sittin’ or lyin’ on. Your blanket is also yer tablecloth where you set out the tucker for lunch, which you brought on the off-chance that you might decide to stay until the fish start biting, if there are any fish; but mostly, there ain’t so there’s a pretty good chance yer goin’ to decide to stay a while longer anyway and have a bite yerself.

With a bit o’ luck, or the good Lord willing, you catch a flathead fish – a good size and good fer eatin’ (so folk say) – but he ain’t that good-lookin’ and after you cut off his head and clean him out, you say to yerself, “Ah, I ain’t really hungry – not yet!”

Thank you to Barry for this joke contribution.

A Lexus mechanic was removing a cylinder head from the motor of a LS460 when he spotted a well-known cardiologist in his shop.

The cardiologist was there waiting for the service manager to come and take a look at his car when the mechanic shouted across the garage,

“Hey Doc, want to take a look at this?”

The cardiologist, a bit surprised walked over to where the mechanic was working.

The mechanic straightened up, wiped his hands on a rag and asked, “So Doc, look at this engine. I opened its heart, took the valves out, repaired or replaced anything damaged, and then put everything back in, and when I finished, it worked just like new. So how is it that I make $48,000 a year and you make $1.7M when you and I are doing basically the same work?

The cardiologist paused, leaned over, and then whispered to the mechanic,
“Try doing it with the engine running.”

Last Sunday I ran out of milk, not a common occurrence because I drink so little milk, mainly because I don’t like it very much. Normally I take a drop of skimmed milk in my weak tea and the semi-skimmed variety in coffee and cereal. Upon the departure of Sue and Glenn five weeks ago, the unopened two litre bottle of whole milk left for my use  had gone straight into the freezer, where it promptly turned an odd yellow colour.

I can’t remember when last I actually enjoyed drinking milk – it probably goes back to primary school days at Manly West when the crates of ice-cold third-of-a-pint bottles of milk were brought out on parade each morning and the bottles distributed, in orderly fashion, by milk monitors… Nearly all of us (apart from Mary, my sister) liked milk back then. But no, nowadays I don’t care much for milk or even cereal, for that matter – at least, not until Monday morning when I made a discovery in the fridge…

In fact, for a moment or two I thought that a good fairy had come in whilst I had slept because, instead of seeing the bottle of yellow frozen milk I had rescued from the freezer the night before, there was a bottle of pristine white milk awaiting me – on the outside there were even several inviting droplets of water denoting the coolness of the liquid within. I opened the bottle; it certainly looked unharmed after its term in the cooler and I poured some out over a bowl of similarly just released “Golden Honey Clusters” (needed a change from “All Bran”, or birdseed and groats – still dieting, of course).

It seems that I like milk after all; mind you, only when it has been frozen at minus eighteen degrees for five weeks, then thawed partially and stored at three degrees, thus keeping the icy heart intact. Indeed, it is particularly nice on “Golden Honey Clusters”, which I’ve found also serve as a good lunch or dinner – no preparation and such a pleasant change from salad.

And here are the lyrics of the 1966 Herman’s Hermits song, “No Milk Today”, for those of you who are trying to remember how it goes… Aw, I’d never given it much thought before (perhaps because it was a bit before my time). Rather sweet if a tad repetitive.

“No Milk Today”  –   Herman’s Hermits (Peter Noone)