“Wouldn’t it be funny if we met Brian again?” I asked.

“You could almost guarantee it,” Chris laughed.

We sped along on our bikes to the end off the Newhay path, which was the spot where we had met my old co-worker, sat in his car with his dog called Oscar, two days ago.

“Different time of day,” I said, observing that nobody was around. “I’ll just take a photograph of the arch again because the light is different too.”

I dismounted from my bike and walked into the centre of the road, and as I aimed the camera on my mobile phone, I saw a dog run through the arch first and then a woman running behind it, not quite as fast, and coming towards me. I took the shot regardless.

“You don’t want a photo’ with me in it,” said the runner smiling (obviously not worried about the fact that I had taken the shot without her consent) when she reached me.

“Oh, that’s fine,” I responded, “sometimes it’s nice to have a bit of life in a photograph.”

The lady appeared to suddenly recognise me. She beamed and proceeded to tell me…

“You wouldn’t believe it,” she began in a slight accent, “I’m Dutch and I used to live in Amsterdam. My mother sent me two of your prints – of here (as she spoke she turned her head from side to side in the directions of Aller Arch and the Newhay path) – and I had them in my apartment in Amsterdam for years. And now they are in my house in Dawlish – I live here now!”

How did the Dutch lady know what I look like? Her mother would have bought the prints from a gallery in the town. Unless I run in to the art-loving runner again it shall remain a mystery for, in my excitement, I forgot to ask and soon she had to run on after her dog. Dawlish is a fairly small town, I suppose, and, patently, it is a very small world.

It was early one sunny morning and it was beautiful – the walk from Powderham Church to the Turf Hotel by Exeter Canal…

Today my thanks go to my friend Margaret, in Brisbane, who thought she would tickle me with these unusual photographs…

No, I’m not blogging about The Pushbike Song (sung by Australian band, The Mixtures, and released in 1970) – I simply need a title for my post, which happens to be about a ride we took on our bikes this afternoon, and the first line of The Pushbike Song came into my head. Unfortunately, I listened to the song whilst I read the lyrics and now it is stuck in my head…

You looked so pretty
As you were ridin along
You looked so pretty
As you were singin this song

Uh uh, aah
Uh uh, aah  etc….

I must try to forget it. Uh, uh, aah. Now where was I? Aah, I remember…

At four o’clock the sun was shining, the air was crisp, and Chris and I headed off in the direction of Dawlish town with the intention of following the brook out of the town and into the countryside. Owing to the hour, we plumped for the relatively short ride to the ford (where we dangle our feet on summer evenings).

At the end of the Newhay path, past St. Gregory’s church, I had just rounded the corner to go under Aller Arch when a voice called out:

“Hello Sally!”

Funnily enough, I knew who it was because I had been thinking of Brian only a few seconds earlier – for some reason we always seem to meet Brian when we cycle around the Newhay.(I used to work with Brian when I was eighteen and he was twenty-six, and now Chris knows him too.) While we laughed about the coincidence and reminisced about the olden days a van pulled up – it was Steve the plumber.

“Hello Sally and Chris, hello Brian,” Steve greeted. Of course, we all know one another – Dawlish is quite a small town.

“I’ll never forget when Sally rode on the back of a dolphin,” Steve launched into a new conversation.

“No, I didn’t ride on his back. I just jumped in, with all my clothes on, and swam with them,” I corrected.

“Well, I remember you jumped in on the morning the dolphins came to Dawlish. I’m going to put my beans in now,” Steve said and he opened the gate to the allotments.

On our way back from the ford we called in to the allotments as Steve was putting up his bamboo structures for the beans and he gave us a seat as we discussed a problem we have with the boiler.

“That was a bit of luck,” said Chris as we left and made our way down the Newhay to the church.

A smart lady walked ahead of us and I called out to let her know we were advancing. She turned around and we got off our bikes.

“Hello Pam,” I said.

“How is John?” asked Chris.

We arrived home from our short ride two hours after we had set out.

“That was a fruitful ride – wasn’t it?” Chris remarked. “You had nice compliments, Steve is coming to see the boiler tomorrow, and Pam and John have invited us around for coffee – and to think that all we had bargained for was a ride in the sunshine…”

“And that was beautiful!” I said.

“Yes, it was.”

Here are some photo’s…

Chris and I are at a checkout in our local Sainbury’s store. It is my first visit to the store this year because, as you may know, I have just returned from my sojourn in Australia. I don’t know the member of staff at the counter – he must be new. All the same, Chris recognises him.

“How are you?” asks the man at the checkout.

“Good thanks, all the better for having my lovely wife home,” replies Chris.

Chris turns to me and explains:

“This man paid me my payout on the lottery while you were away.” (It was a win of five pounds so no begging letters please!)

“Ooh yes,” the man seems thrilled to be remembered by my husband, “I remember serving you… several times, but I don’t remember you…” He looks at me searchingly and and wiggles his pointed finger in my direction. I can see that he is trying to place me.

“You wouldn’t remember me because I haven’t been here,” I answer. I study his face and notice that he has permed hair and girlish mannerisms.

“Ooh, where have you been?” he asks.

“Australia.”

He pops the bag of bananas on the scales and pauses a moment while he thinks.

“Do you live on Exeter Road by any chance?” he smiles triumphantly in anticipation of my answer.

“Yes and no,” I say, surprised, “San Remo Terrace – which is kind of on Exeter Road”.

I am about to ask how he knows where I live when he gets in first and answers the unposed question:

“Julian and Andre. Do you know them?”

I shrug my shoulders.

“Well they live nearly opposite you on the Exeter Road – they have the old red vintage car outside on the drive,” he informs me.

I look to Chris.

“We know the car…” says Chris, nodding.

“But not the people,” I finish his sentence.

“Well they know you,” our checkout man with the permed hair gloats. “That will be thirty-one pounds sixty,” he adds.

Out in the store car park I ask Chris:

“How on earth did he know me? I’ve never even seen him before – who is he? And who are Julian and Andre? Do you know them?”

“He paid me my lottery winnings, that’s as much as I know,” Chris says, “and by the way, who are you?”

“I don’t know – you’d better ask Julian and Andre who live at the house with the rusty old red Riley on the driveway….”

The shoes I chose to wear today were not actually all that pretty, or extraordinary in any way other than that they are rather high, which is why I picked them. You see I was wearing long, figure-hugging jeans that were crying out for a bit of heel; in truth, I thought some elongation would help to give the illusion of slimness (well, it was my first day back to our usual shopping haunts and I wanted to look as slim as possible for the occasion).

So there I was – nearly six feet tall in my platform sandals – in our favourite Tesco store at Newton Abbot; yes, I may have been tottering a little but it didn’t matter because I had the trolley in front of me to prevent me from falling over (although the escalator going back down to the ground floor was quite terrifying). As per usual, every so often Chris put his arm around my waist while I pushed the trolley – we always feel very connected when we go shopping together. Having already selected a bag of petit pois and put it in a cold-bag in the trolley, we were still standing beside the frozen vegetables freezer cabinet when Chris slipped his arm around me again (well, it is cold in the frozen food sector).

“You’re a very tall wife today,” Chris said, “but not as tall as me…” And he drew himself up to his full height.

I squeezed his arm and gave him a peck on the cheek.

“I like tall women,” he began and added, “At least, I like you tall.”

Over by the bakery we stopped to squeeze the tiger-loaves. I could feel Chris’s eyes watching me as I walked along the row of bread racks.

“I feel much sexier wearing high heels,” I said softly in his ear as I bent forward to place a loaf in the trolley.

“I wish you would wear them to bed,” he whispered back.

The wedding reception was held in a tent on a farm, but it was no ordinary tent pitched in a farmer’s field; it was a vast Arabian Nights style white marquee large enough to seat perhaps five hundred guests at dining tables, and hold a dance floor the size of a night club, and have a bar and reception area, and provide conveniences fit for film stars. It was no ordinary farm either – the twenty acres of gardens, ponds, pretty paths and bridges are the result of a labour of love carried out over years by the bride’s father.

Jaimy, the bride, had changed her bridal costume and wore a golden dress whilst the groom, my son James, had dispensed with his turban and wore his hair tied back in a ponytail (I liked the turban). The groom’s mother (me) still wore her pink sari with sparkly gold embroidery. When the first course was over the music began and, under a ceiling of make-believe twinkling stars in a night sky, the bride and groom took to the dance-floor for the romantic first dance.

After the second course of delicacies I took to the dance-floor, preferring to be upright than seated, on account of my  very tight underskirt which had to be tight in order to keep the sari tucked in. Unfortunately, it wasn’t really a petticoat designed for the job – rather it was a sarong wrapped around me twice and tied extremely tightly at the waist (as suggested on the Internet), and beneath the sarong I wore white leggings (for modesty, in case the sarong failed). At length, I could no longer bear the feeling of being cut in half, or the heat, or the feeling of being trussed up (I had just returned from Australia where I wore only shorts and summer tops). I had to release the sarong. I slipped my fingers inside the waist, undid all the little safety pins and untied the knot (all while I was on the dance-floor). No good – the sarong had become accustomed to being wrapped twice about me and it wouldn’t budge.

In the ladies’ room I stood by the mirrors and pulled at my sarong. At that very moment a beautiful Indian girl with a Scottish accent approached me with open arms and kisses.

“I’m Jazz,” she said, “Now you are a part of our family – and there are many of us – and if ever you want to come to Scotland you must get in touch because we have a chain of hotels…”

Somewhat overwhelmed by her kind comments, I kissed Jazz effusively, and when she had left I went back to my killer sarong. All the safety pins had to come out first, then I unravelled the mummifying material while the sari, still pinned to my shoulder, hung limp and lifeless in two rings on the floor. Just as I pulled the sarong free, revealing my near nakedness (thank goodness I had the forethought to wear those charming white leggings underneath!) a group of ladies arrived at the bottom of the stairs, looked up at me and burst out laughing. Well I never! Laughing at the mother of the groom. But I forgave them – they helped pin me back together again…

Sadly, an hour or two later I needed to use the bathroom again. This time I endeavoured to be more discreet and managed to release the sari from the top of my leggings, and put it back in again, all by myself. Later, whilst being whirled around the dance-floor by Santo (one of my lovely new relatives from the Brisbane division, coincidentally) I suddenly found myself tripping up on a trailing piece of pink sari that had found its way free and fallen between my legs and out the other side like a tail. A deft hand movement sorted it out and I don’t think Santo noticed.

“You are family now,” he said and added, “Next time you go to Australia you must visit us, We have six families in Brisbane.”

The last song was played, the festivities drew to a close and the guests said their goodbyes. A lady came up to me and kissed me.

“I’ll never forget you,” she laughed.

I remembered that laugh. She was the lady who helped me in the bathroom.

I love my extended family but I’ve decided that if ever they invite me to any more functions I shall wear a pretty tunic and long pants…

Why is it that all men seem to get jealous at any talk of handsome pilots? Believe me, they do. All the chaps I know, including my beloved Chris (back here in England while I was away), used to wince every time I mentioned the handsome pilot who lives just three doors down from my house-sit abode at Loganholme, Queensland, where I spent eight weeks recently, even though the pilot is a family man with a gorgeous wife and children.

Today, after our lovely morning cycle ride to Cockwood Harbour, I was downloading my photographs when Chris noticed a nice shot of a train coming along the track at Cockwood.

“You must be a train-spotter,” he said, laughing (I said the same of him yesterday when I discovered that he knew all about the Sir Nigel Grisley (okay, Gresley!) train, which came through Dawlish twice – down and back – in the afternoon.)

“Not really, but it’s only natural to take photo’s when you live right by a famous railway line,” I answered after a little thought.

My explanation made some sense although I must confess that I was starting to worry a bit because the train in my photograph was just an ordinary, everyday, common old Intercity train passing through.

“I always wanted to be a train driver,” Chris added wistfully.

Hey presto! His wish has come true…

My photo’s look like paintings…..

The bride entered the temple first. She was exotic and beautiful, like a foreign queen resplendent in crimson red and gold, and accompanied by an entourage of young beauties dressed in gold.

We had to wait for the arrival of the groom. It was quite a wait. At last came the news.

“The groom has arrived,” someone said, and soon everyone in the temple knew he was outside.

All eyes were on the closed doors.

“Go to the door to greet him,” my mentor, Hari, told me.

The doors opened and a beautiful woman walked ahead of the groom towards the threshold. My son was tall and handsome in his dark suit, red tie and red turban. He smiled and bent to kiss me. One of the bride’s uncles took him aside to affix something to the turban, and then James looked behind me to the gathered assembly of familiar and unfamiliar faces. The tears flowed down his cheeks.

“I’m just so happy to be here and to see you all,” he said half laughing, half crying.

“Take his hand – he needs you,” Hari whispered in my ear, “And lead him into the dining room for tea and breakfast.”

And I wiped his cheeks with a tissue Hari had passed to me. And Jim and I held hands while we enjoyed our cups of tea that someone had poured for us. And after a breakfast of samosas and other delicacies we parted company on the stairs leading up to the room where the ceremony was to take place…

Tomorrow I’ll post more photo’s.