There was an old woman

There was a young

There was a middle-aged

There was just a woman who swallowed a fly,

I’ll tell you why she swallowed a fly,

She’ll not die.

You see that woman, she was a bike rider,

She rode down a bridle path with hedges beside her,

And in the hedges were blossoms and flies,

They were in the air and in the skies,

Horrid flies.

The woman thought she was entirely prepared,

Full of care, sun-glasses she did weared,

But even she, such a seasoned rider,

Fell prey to the beasts in the hedges beside her,

Yet it wasn’t the flies to hit her eyes,

I’ll tell you why she swallowed the fly,

Not her demise.

The woman got caught on her way coming back,

Imagine that! not going but back,

Though she was prepared with glasses she weared,

An experienced rider with hedges beside her,

Open-mouthed, the woman gasped her way up the hill,

The  fly went straight in and he’s there still,

But at least it’s not a goat (nor a cow or a horse, of course) got stuck in her throat,

And it won’t kill…

We met Charlie this morning while we were out on our bikes. He’s two years old and coincidentally, at seven stone two pounds, weighs nearly the same as me. Isn’t he just gorgeous?

“Nobody could call my daughter obeast, not since her diet, anyway,” declared Mrs Em.

I searched her face for a hint of humour and found only a look of earnest pride. Perhaps I had misheard. I didn’t think so. Middle-aged Australians speak quite clearly as a rule and Mrs Em was no exception – the  inappropriate “t” sounded as clear as a bell. She had stopped eating and looked across the table at me in anticipation of my reply… but how to reply?

“Was she obese before?” I asked, mumbling slightly in order not to stress the word obese.

“Not really. She used to be a hundred and twenty kilos. I wouldn’t call that obeast – would you?” Mrs Em replied, turning the question back on me and on this occasion seemingly putting a particular emphasis on the “t”. Now her face was inscrutable.

There was no doubt in my mind that she had said “obeast” but was it a joke? Was I meant to laugh? I wanted to guffaw and marvel at her great wit, however, her deadpan expression prevented me from doing so. Did she have an incredibly dry sense of humour? Maybe she took a somewhat wicked double pleasure, firstly in making the pun, then, having pretended it had not been intentional, by testing the reaction of the recipient of her wit.

“Just a bit chubby,” I suggested, thereby avoiding the dreaded word altogether.

“Of course, she is of an age that she would like to be pregnant – I suggested she ought to find a husband first.” Mrs Em laughed.

I was glad she laughed so that I could laugh a little too.

“Her cousin has just had a baby boy. Now she really is a chubby one – and the doctors called her obeast!”

“What a nasty thing to say to a pregnant woman,” I interjected.

“That was before she was pregnant.”

“Even more nasty,” I said, and added, “How was the birth?”

“Terrible,” answered Mrs Em, “the baby was born with his umbiblical cord around his neck!”

I am standing at my easel in my studio. There is a painting on the go – a scene of boats at the estuary end of the Exeter Canal, only there aren’t any boats yet because it is a work in progress. Yesterday I painted the sky and today I’m working on the background of trees running along beside the canal. It’s a big canvas, nevertheless the painting grows fairly quickly because I’m using acrylics.

Yesterday I half-listened to Radio 4 as I painted and found I was taking in only half of what I was listening to. Therefore the programme about the life of Jorge Luis Borge, the famous Argentinian writer, some of whose works were inspired by mathematics and infinity, was wasted on me. That is why I have decided to listen to music today. And what could be more enjoyable than the BeeGees Love Songs? Nothing. I love that album so much that I just let it play over and over (perhaps not all day – I don’t love it to infinity).

I am swaying my hips and singing to “More Than a Woman” whilst painting a large tree in the centre of the painting when Chris comes in with a cup of coffee for me. He stops for a minute to look at the painting. Meanwhile the song ends and “(Our Love) Don’t Throw it all Away” begins.The song holds no particular meaning for Chris and me, and yet we are taken by it all of a sudden. I put my arms around Chris’s neck and he puts his arms around my waist and we are dancing; I still have a paintbrush in my right hand. I sing a few words (the lower ones that can be whispered) of each line softly in his ear (and he doesn’t pull away even though I’m not the best of singers), and we dance through the whole song to the end of the track.

“I had better go back to my work upstairs now,” Chris says, about to leave.

“How can you leave and let this feeling die? This happy room will be a lonely place when you are gone…” I sing, laughing throughout.

And you if don’t recognise those words to the song I just sang along with, here are all the lyrics. Also, I took some photo’s of the painting so far….

“(Our Love) Don’t Throw It All Away”

What could be better than taking an evening bike ride in the sunshine? These are photographs of a section of our cycle path which runs from Dawlish Warren to Cockwood Harbour.

It was hard to get up this morning. Chris came in with our cups of tea at eight o’clock but he didn’t draw back the curtains, perhaps because the day beyond the bedroom window was cold and sunless. For a while I couldn’t open my eyes so I just stayed there in bed contemplating which I should do first – go to the bathroom or have my cup of tea before it got cold. Doing neither, I dozed off and awoke later to find that my tea was tepid but I drank it all the same, then went to the bathroom.

On my way back I stopped at the top of the stairs and heard music emanating from our bedroom below; Chris had put on “Ride Like the Wind”, my favourite compilation of love songs. I smiled to myself.

Back in bed I listened to the strains of Bonnie Tyler singing “It’s a Heartache”…

“That’s funny,” I said.

“I know,” Chris answered, “I couldn’t find the remote and I think I pressed the Random Play button.”

In the normal run the compilation begins softly with “If you Leave me now” (… you’ll take away the biggest part of me, Uh uh uh uh no baby please don’t go, And if you leave me now, you’ll take away the very heart of me….); next comes the plaintive song, “I’m all out of Love” (I’m lying alone with my head on the phone,Thinking of you till it hurts…); thirdly comes the pièce de résistance, “More Than Words” (Saying I love you, Is not the words I want to hear from you, It’s not that I want you Not to say, but if you only knew How easy it would be to show me how you feel, More than words is all you have to do to make it real…); and if the last song doesn’t have the desired effect the fourth song, “I Wanna Kiss you all Over”, should do the trick, (Baby).

This morning, on Random Play, “It’s a Heartache” was followed by Meatloaf singing “I’d Do Anything For Love (But I Won’t Do That)” and I was unmoved, except for when Chris put an icy-cold hand on my hip and I nearly jumped to the ceiling.

We settled for a bank holiday brunch of bacon and egg. The bacon was very crisp and I picked up a rasher to eat it more easily from my fingers. Having eaten, my fingers were somewhat greasy so rested my left hand on the table and held the shiny index and middle fingers at a strange angle pointing upwards. Chris looked lovingly into my eyes and, at the same time, stretched his arm across the table and caressed my greasy fingers with his hand.

“I love you,” he said tenderly.

“That’s bacon fat on my fingers,” I laughed.

“Oh, and I thought you were just being sexy,” Chris laughed too.

The mind boggles.

“It has already started,” said Chris, “but it’s recording so I can take it back to the beginning. By the looks of it they are some kind of super-heroes in this re-make.”

“Oh dear,” I thought, but kept it to myself because nobody wants to be perceived as a misery, especially as I had been home only a week from my solo trip to Australia.

Despite my reservations, I was, as always, a dutiful wife; and, in preparation for a bit of excitement (even though I was tired and not quite back in tune with English time), I took my usual place on the sofa. Chris sat on the edge of his seat whilst I cuddled up with cushions under a warm duvet.

If I remember rightly, the opening scene was set by a canal in Venice… Suddenly, there was a swirling in the water and someone in a suit of armour arose from the vortex. Like a whirling Dervish he spun with his Japanese sword drawn and saw off a host of soldiers.

“It’s not like the old ‘ Three Musketeers then – ” I offered, “the Michael York and Raquel Welch version.”

“It is strange – isn’t it?” Chris remarked by way of agreement.

“But Matthew Macfadyen never looked so handsome,” I observed as the actor took off his helmet to reveal a well-made up face with a beard and flowing locks.

“Quite,” said Chris. (My husband hates it whenever I make such observations about other men – especially pilots!)

After ten more minutes of swashbuckling (and a little catnapping on my part) I turned to Chris and asked:

“Did you read the book?”

“I don’t think it’s what Alexandre Dumas had in mind,” he laughed.

“I didn’t even like the original ‘ Three Musketeers, with Michael York,” I said (now feeling free to be as disparaging as I wished), “But I liked Michael York…”

“Let’s switch it off then and try something new. I bought a load of good films while you were away.”

Some time later, after much face-pulling on my part, we agreed upon the film, “Of Mice and Men”, based on the book of the same name by John Steinbeck. Because it is such an important book about the reality, and the hopes and aspirations, of people during Great Depression in California, we considered the film a “must see”.

After much face-pulling, spittle-producing and talk of tending rabbits, on the part of simple-minded Lenny (played by John Malkovich) I’m afraid I fell asleep. At one point I awoke to see the not-so-gentle giant break the arm of nasty ranch worker Curly; and, at another point  of consciousness, I just knew that Lenny would accidentally maul to death the puppy he loved (heaven help the rabbits he dreamed of tending!). At last, again I aroused from my slumbers, this time to catch Curly’s wife enticing Lenny with an offer to let him stroke her soft hair. I wanted to warn and remind her about the incident with the puppy but… Well, you probably know that she succumbs to the same fate as the little dog. With all the ranch hands armed and out looking for the oft times simpering rabbit lover with the funny high-pitched voice, his cousin and protector, George, finds him first and shoots him in the back of the head.

“That was a barrel of laughs,” I said.

“Let’s play a game of backgammon next time I suggest watching a film,” Chris answered wryly.

The tide was in and the road to our favourite local cycling destination of Cockwood Harbour was flooded, so much so that you couldn’t see the pavement, half of which is the cycle-path. We opted for going with the line of cars on the side of the road where the water was shallower and we managed to cycle across without getting our feet wet.

On our way back the traffic was heavier – on both sides of the flood-water. A line of cars on the far side were waiting for the cars on our side to make their precarious crossing.

“Let’s tag along with these cars,” Chris suggested.

So we put in a great effort to keep up with the cars ahead and followed closely behind. The car at the end of the queue, and directly in front of me, crossed successfully and drove off. Suddenly, the driver who had been waiting on the other side, seemingly oblivious to we cyclists coming up the rear, ploughed forwards straight at me. I held out my arm in protest… but to no avail – the hell bent driver kept coming. At the last moment I lost my nerve and swerved into the deepest part of the flood-water. She slowed down as I passed by her. The pedals, and my feet on them, were going like paddles from a steamer churning up the water.

“Thank you very much,” I said, shaking my fist at the woman behind the wheel.

She wouldn’t look at me. Perhaps she felt ashamed. Maybe she hadn’t seen me – people can be blind to bikes – though she would have had to have been as blind as Mr Magoo not to notice that she was about to run into me.

“Calm down,” said Chris, “she’s just a nervous old lady who didn’t know what to do.”

Isn’t Chris kind? All I can say is… watch out for nervous old lady drivers! We still had a lovely ride though, as you can see from the photographs.

It’s my father’s birthday, though sadly, he is with us – those of us who loved him – only in spirit. His birthday serves to remind me that he’s no longer here and I am saddened; and yet, I cannot be too down at heart because today is also my old school friend’s birthday – she is six months younger than me (she must cherish those six months). We have known each other since we were fourteen, when I arrived from Australia and she moved down from North Devon – we were both alien novelties at our new school in Teignmouth, just three miles from where I live now.

Happy birthday Sally! My friend is another Sally. I suppose it’s funny that I think the name sounds pretty on her but not on me. I wonder if any of the children from her primary school days used to sing, “Sally go round the sun, Sally go round the moon, Sally go round the chimney pots on a Sunday afternoon” for her benefit? (And I was so painfully shy – honestly.) Maybe the chanting of the rhyme was more an Australian thing. It didn’t happen in England. The English thing was for older people to suddenly burst into song singing the much loved (by many – so many!) Gracie Field classic – “Sally, Sally, pride of our alley, You’re more than the whole world to me…” I know it was meant as a kind of compliment but, oh how I hated that song. Do you know I can’t remember when last anyone sang that to me… I’d like to say that I feel differently about that charming old song now, but I can’t – I still hate it!

The other reason why this is a special day for me is because it’s my sixteenth wedding anniversary. I thought it was seventeen years but Chris assures me it’s only sixteen (he counted on his fingers – six of them twice.) Now in general, people do not send Chris and me anniversary cards or well wishes for being married so long – most people forgot after the first year. However, this year my friend Sally sent us a lovely card depicting two hedgehogs drinking champagne – very cute (I can be a bit prickly sometimes)- and very English, which is a tad peculiar considering she lives in Cyprus (maybe they have special card shops for English folk there); and another old friend, Roland, (once boyfriend, now just friends) sent an email wishing us a happy anniversary.

Chris always remembers our anniversary, usually with vases of primroses that he has collected in the early hours while I have sleeping, but today it was bluebells because the primroses came and went before even the arrival of Primrose Day (the nineteenth of April – and, coincidentally, my maternal grandparents’ wedding date). Most of this morning’s floral offerings had been spirited away from the garden of the property next door, which remains empty almost exactly a year after the sudden death of Hilda – her family still cannot bear to part with the house and garden she loved so much. Hilda had the prettiest eyes, the colour of bluebells…

How odd – nobody could have realised it – but it has been a very special anniversary.

Chris and I were cycling back from the ford this morning. I was cycling ahead of him, as usual, because he thinks that if he goes first he will forget himself (or me) and leave me behind in a cloud of dust. Ha!

We were at the Arch end of the Newhay path and up ahead, at the waterfall end and in the sunshine, were two youngish looking men in conversation. As I drew closer, I could see that one of the men had a baby in his arms; the man had his back towards me and the baby was looking at me over his father’s shoulder. The cherubic curly-haired tot of about eighteen months old appeared to be much more interested in the approaching cyclists than the conversation going on between the men.

I thought I would make it a bit more interesting still for the child by putting on a spurt.

“Just passing by,” I announced as I sped past.

“Mum,” called out the startled babe as I whooshed by.

Chris was coming up the rear (and he’s a tad deaf, as you may know) so I wasn’t sure if he had heard the little chap call out.

“That was sweet,” I called behind me for the benefit of all and sundry. I couldn’t turn around because I might have fallen over – the track is narrow and uneven.

A few moments later Chris had nearly caught me up.

“Did you hear the baby call me Mum?” I asked.

Chris mumbled something, which suggested to me that he hadn’t actually heard.

“I’m so glad he didn’t call me Gran!” I laughed.

“Oh yes,” Chris laughed with me.

Now I’m not entirely convinced that my husband heard but when he reads this he will understand why I was so happy as I charged off on the Newhay path. Mind you, we’re always happy when we’re out on our bikes in the sunshine.

And here are few more photographs of the Dawlish countryside….