“Oh Mum,” I say, getting out of the car first, “Just look at that!”

We are at the Tesco car park (just a few hours ago); we have parked next to a small car with the hatchback up and a dog wearing a harness is sat in the back. My mother, too, comes over to have a look. The owner of the dog is nowhere to be seen. A lady walks through the car park in our direction and as she nears I ask:

“Is this your dog?”

“No, but I saw him earlier. I think he’s really old,” the lady says smiling, and she stops to take a last knowing look at him before going over to her car.

Mum and I wonder at the woman’s astuteness. She must be a dog expert. What makes a dog look really old? Is it the wispy hair? But don’t some breeds of dogs have funny wiry hair like that? We survey him more intently…

“Are you old like me?” asks Mum advancing a step towards the dog but taking care not to get too close.

Wire-hair looks into my mother’s eyes and opens his mouth as if to speak; no sound comes out but there is definitely a rapport between the oldies. While Wire-hair rolls his tongue around his mouth I peer closer and note that he doesn’t appear to have the full quota of teeth (not that I would know how many teeth make up the full quota).

Another lady and daughter pair come along. They stop and smile, and take photo’s from a safe distance.

“He looks old,” offers the mother and the daughter nods her agreement before taking another shot of the strange sight.

“Do you think he’d like a pat?” I turn to Mum for her opinion.

“I don’t know – he must be a guard dog – don’t you think?”

“But he doesn’t look at all aggressive – does he?” I move a tad nearer to him, whilst at the same time veering slightly around to the side of the vehicle (for safety).

“He’s nice and quiet,” says Mum pleased (she can’t stand noisy animals or children screaming in supermarkets).

That does it for me. I can’t resist. I have to find out if he’s a real guard dog.

“You are a nice boy,” I cajole as I extend my left arm slowly towards Wire-hair’s chinny-chin-chin.

“Woof!” Wire-hair snaps suddenly at the air above my hand.

Mum and I jump, then we laugh. We can’t stop howling. We find Chris and he doesn’t know why we’re laughing but he knows it is something to do with the guard dog. And Mum and I don’t know exactly why we’re still creased up, however we recognise that it has something to do with being old and small, quiet and unassuming, not having many teeth and yet still possessing the ability to surprise… and bite if necessary. As I said, my old Mum and the little old guard dog had a great rapport.

It gets more and more difficult to lose weight as the years pass by – doesn’t it? Sometimes you feel like tossing out the scales (or hiding them) and enjoying life. “What’s wrong with being a bit chubby?” you ask yourself. Nothing, but then, having spurned the scales for a few weeks, you find that your big clothes are becoming less comfortable. You wonder why your clothes have shrunk. Did you put them on to wash at boil setting? (No, but your husband might have!) Your smaller clothes look positively tiny – “Was I really that thin three months ago?” You look for a reason – “Maybe it’s my hormones…” According to your husband now you have “a gorgeous curvy bottom” instead of a pert one. You consider moving to Tonga where you fancy that you will be regarded as slim but there is another solution…

Firstly, one has to be brave and muster up the courage to actually stand on the scales, which you have brought out of hiding. This must be done in the morning, after visiting the loo and before taking in any food or drink. A word of advice, before looking at the reading think of a number seven pounds in excess of your worst fears so that you’ll cope better with finding you are already in that sector – that way you’ll feel that it could have been worse. Having moved the scales around to the most favourable position, at last you accept that the scales are not at fault. Fortunately, the shock from the unpleasant experience reduces your appetite and you are ready to embark on a strict diet of protein and vegetables – no bread, potatoes or anything nice – which you have found is the only way you can lose weight these days.

On the first day you eat a small bowl of All Bran with skimmed milk for breakfast, two grilled rashers of bacon and a grilled tomato for lunch, and a small steak and salad for dinner. The next morning you are thrilled – you’ve lost a pound! You eat exactly the same all day but with the addition of a half a banana at breakfast. The following morning you have gained three pounds – you are now seven pounds in excess of your worst fears and it couldn’t be worse. You decide to forgo the half-banana in future.

Exercise helps greatly. Hard physical jobs about the house and garden are a boon. The need to paint the railings up all those steps is a Godsend. You work hard, bending and stretching at every opportunity, while adhering to the diet almost to the letter – no bread, no potatoes, nothing nice (except for a small lapse, twice – an orange and a nectarine) – and you watch the scales avidly, sometimes three times a day, for any change. For four days the reading stays the same. Do you give up? No you keep at it in the belief that one morning there will be a drastic loss.

Eventually, after a week, you stand on those scales and know for sure there has been a genuine weight loss… You are excited. What will the figure be? That, readers, is how to lose one pound in weight. The goal may be a long wait.

The main problem was that, this morning, I awoke with sore eyes. They were sore and red around the rims – it looked like conjunctivitis – so I popped some special treatment cream in both eyes and I reckoned that I should give make-up a miss (how rash, as it turned out). After my shower I was looking in the mirror; I had my glasses on, unusually for me (another wrong move) and I wondered to myself…

“If I’m going to have a make-up-free day I might aswell go the whole hog and put some Perrin’s Blend on my sun spots (which I noticed because I had my glasses on). If I keep away from the top of our steps (by the road) nobody will even see me…”

And so it was that I gave myself an ugly day. Now you may remember from an earlier blog that Perrin’s Blend, which is made by Mrs Perrin in Tennessee, is a marvellous cure for moles and sun-spots (two small moles gone forever just a few weeks ago!); however, the trouble with Perrin’s Blend is that it looks like blood and you have to keep it on for at least a whole day, sometimes longer! Chris and I were working together, painting the railings on our steps (of which there are many), but I didn’t mind Chris seeing me – he’s used to it.

In the late afternoon my friend, Catherine, who lives at number seven, appeared at the top of her steps and looked over to where I was painting the spindles on our bridge.

“Sorry Catherine, it’s not blood on my face – just Perrin’s Blend for my sun spots,” I called out.

“I can’t see anything wrong from here. I haven’t got my glasses on,” Catherine laughed.

That was a relief. Then I wished I hadn’t drawn attention to the fact that I had any sun spots.

Later still, when I had finished my painting for the day, and the sky had turned grey with rain clouds, I thought I had better run up to the top of the steps with sheets of plastic to protect the not-quite-dry paintwork on the railings where Chris had been busy a little earlier. I was bending down, putting weights on the corners of a plastic sheet, which I’d spread over the railings directly behind our front gate, when someone came up to the gate.

“Excuse me,” said a male voice in a manner that told me he wanted my full attention.

For a moment I wondered if I could get away with holding a conversation without turning around; better still, I considered feigning getting trapped under the old plastic tablecloth… but there wasn’t any wind and, anyway, the big road cones I had used for weights were rather obvious. No, there was no way out, I had to show my face.

“Don’t worry, it’s not blood,” I said, bobbing up to standing position and giving him a lovely smile (hopefully).

Initially somewhat surprised, the man recoiled ( obviously, he had sight better than Catherine).

“It’s just a bit of Perrin’s Blend for my sun spots,” I assured, “didn’t think I’d meet anyone today.”

“Well I just wanted to ask if this is Sea Lawn Terrace,” said the man, also smiling (now he knew it wasn’t blood).

He chatted to me for a minute or so before taking his leave (probably so as not to offend) and he ended by saying:

“Well, no pain, no gain. good luck with the Perrin’s Blend!”

“Today Quasimodo, tomorrow Madonna!” I said with bravado. (What a good mantra!)

And I went back inside to scrub all the blue paint off my arms and legs. Naturally, I took off my shorts to make a thorough job of it and I didn’t bother to put my shorts back on when I was finished. After our slimmers’ dinners (we are both dieting – just on different diets because Chris is contrary) I left the table to go to the sink and I was aware that Chris’s eyes were watching me – my top didn’t quite cover my bottom.

“I really like the Emperor’s wife’s new skirt!” he said lasciviously.

I wiggled my bottom and almost forgot that I was having an ugly day.

In spite of the threat of rain, yesterday was yet another day of working outside for me; it was also the Bank Holiday weekend and no end of people, mostly tourists, were wending their way to and fro the town via the pavement outside our house. I was painting the railings on the front steps leading down to my studio whilst a horde of visitors to our little town were passing by on the other side of our wall; as you may know from previous blog posts (if you’re a regular), when I’m working outside I can occasionally hear the comments from the passers-by. Yesterday was no exception.

Often, having passed the run-down empty house (next one up from the Dawlish Warren end of the terrace), people stop at our pretty beach-hut shaped gate, which is considerably lower than the wall on either side, and observe the terrace from their vantage point. At such times I rarely look up from my work, mainly because I’m engrossed in my endeavours but also because of possible embarrassment; hence I’m kind of like “a fly on the wall” or rather, a busy bee near the wall.

A funny thing I’ve noticed recently is that it is usually the passing boys who make the most discerning comments about our house. Take yesterday…

“Mum, look at these houses,” exclaimed one little boy from the North, “They can see the sea from the other side!”

“Yes,” said his mother, “this must be the backs of these houses.”

(I felt like inviting them in but I didn’t because I would never get any work done if I invited everyone in.)

“I’d love to live here in one these houses,” came the wistful voice of an older lad of around fourteen, later on.

(I felt like inviting him to stay for a few weeks in return for some help with painting jobs and re-pointing the brick-work, but I didn’t, of course not.)

In the afternoon, just before the first shower preluded a halt to our painting activities, another Northern family stopped at our gate.

“Oh Mum, isn’t this beautiful?” a young boy’s voice enthused.

“Lovely!” answered his mum before they walked on into Dawlish.

“Did you hear that?” asked Chris, who had been painting the upper rails at the time.

“Yes, what a charming little boy,” I replied, “Did you see him?”

“Yes,” my hubby confirmed.

“How old was he?”

“About seven.”

“Only seven?”

And then it struck me – those boys are the nest-builders of the future. Bless them.

When I married Chris sixteen years ago I gave up one unusual name for another; or rather, I kept my old one – everyone knows me as Sally Porch the artist (eventually they got used to Porch) and gained another. I don’t know why people have such difficulty with Orpwood; it’s easy enough to read – isn’t it? Now I know that hearing it is another matter – people always think our name is “Awkward” and they think they are being original when they tell us what they thought it was, and we laugh along with them; or sometimes we get in first. You could say that we have an awkward name.

As you can imagine, we awkward Orpwoods hate having to tell people our name, but wouldn’t you think that writing it would alleviate the awkwardness of having to say it (usually twice or three times)? Not really. Most folk can’t get their heads around our written name either! Chris has been called Mr. Dropwood, Mr. Dripwood, Dr. P. Wood and countless other variations of nonsense.

Last Friday Chris and I went shopping with my mum to Trago Mills (the store that sells everything) and, having decided upon the colour of paint to buy for the railings on our newly-tiled steps, Mum and I left Chris to arrange for the collection of it. In order to collect items from D.I.Y Collections area with your car you have to have a special receipt chit with your name on it. Apparently, so Chris told me (I wasn’t there), this is what happened at the paint counter…

As per usual, Chris had to give his name; and, as per usual, he spelled it out to the man at the counter…

“That’s O-R-P, for Peter, W-O-O-D.” (I know because that’s what Chris has said for the last seventeen years or so, since I have known him.)

“Excuse me, I hope you don’t mind me asking,” said the man from the paint department, “but you don’t look at all Oriental to me. Are you from the Far East?”

“No,” answered Chris amused and somewhat surprised (nobody had ever asked that of my blue-eyed blond husband before).

“No, I didn’t think so, but it’s your name that foxes me,” began the perplexed paint seller, “you see I worked for a couple of years in the Far East and came across quite a few Woos in my time there, but never any Orpwoos…”

Chris explained, as we always have to, and this time Chris laughed with genuine mirth. Sometimes it’s not so bad having a funny name.