These photographs were taken by Chris on his proper camera…

At the time I was half way up the outside steps leading up to the road, but still a long way down from the pavement and the top of the wall; in fact, I was painting my side of the wall with the same cheerful magnolia masonry paint that I used for the risers of the newly tiled steps. I had been out there working on the steps and wall on my own for some considerable time, my chief amusement (apart from working in the sunshine) was listening to the brass band music which emanated from either the school across the road or the Leisure Centre a little farther up the road; in either case, the music was loud and stirring, not least because it was interspersed with the hoorahs and cheers of many young male voices. They had started with, “Come to the Cookhouse Door, Boys”  and finished the first half of the rehearsals (presumably they were rehearsing for tomorrow – Dawlish Air Show day) with the theme from “The Pink Panther”.

In the interval I found that I could hear the hum of the traffic once again and also the voices of the passers-by who walked on the pavement above me, and who often stopped to peer over the wall at the flowers on our balcony at the end of our footbridge. I was having quite a pleasant time while I painted, half-listening to the laughter and chatter of happy families going on their way to and from the fair or the beach. Some people talked about the nearby Spanish-style house which hasn’t been lived in for several years and needs doing up; most spoke about the lovely view of the sea that we must have from the terrace but which the people on the roadside get only a glimpse of from the gap between the end of our terrace and the Spanish-style dilapidated house.

It was during the interval that I heard the voice of a lad, perhaps twelve or thirteen years old. He had such a strong accent that I couldn’t understand a word he said. Now I don’t know if I should admit to you (but I will) that I had a bit of an “old fogey moment” – I thought to myself, “Why can’t youngsters speak clearly these days?” I wasn’t even sure if he spoke in English. I was still pondering when something surprising happened that made me regret my narky thoughts…

The lad must have stopped directly above me and looked out over our wall because I heard him as clear as bell this time. He said in a Liverpool accent akin to John Lennon:

“Now that is a beautiful house!”

I didn’t look up because I was busy working (and it would have been embarrassing) so I can’t say for definite that he was looking at our house – it isn’t the more beautiful side of the house, although we have a nice arch and flowers all over the balcony – but it is colourful and fresh after all my painting and tiling. It crossed my mind that the boy might have seen me painting away and wanted to give me some encouragement. Who knows? Either he is a connoisseur of houses or just a really nice lad from Liverpool.

“Want to hear a funny story?” Roland asked me over the phone this afternoon. (He is back with friends in Hampshire until Friday when he’ll be off home to Australia.)

And this is what he told me…

This morning Roland was having a cup of coffee in a cafe when he noticed a young man of around thirty in the distance; the fellow was unshaven, scruffy and dirty, and walked with a limp.

Later on Roland went for a long walk with his friends, and later on still, he took another walk into Fleet and, on his way home, he called into his local, “The Fox and Hound”, for a beer. He chose to sit in the beer garden, which has a canal at the back of it.

Roland was rolling a cigarette when he saw the same dishevelled young man from earlier coming along the canal path. The loner advanced and asked:

“Excuse me mate, have you got a whistler?”

“A what?” responded Roland.

“A whistler,” came the reply.

“I’m sorry but I don’t know what you mean,” explained Roland.

“You know – a whistler!” said the young man, no doubt frustrated. (He must have thought that Roland was as deaf as a post.)

In desperation the young man did a little mime and rolled and imaginary cigarette.

“Ah, I see, you mean a Rizla (a brand name of cigarette papers)!” Roland got the picture. “I thought you were asking if a had a whistler!”

“No, I’ve had a lisp since I was kid,” the younger man answered.

“Oh, I’m sorry about that. I thought you meant a whistler – I didn’t understand,” said our friend. “Wait a minute and I’ll get you more than that…”

And he went over to the bin by the path and lent in to retrieve an old packet of tobacco – complete with a used packet of Rizlas – that he had thrown away minutes before when he had decided to treat himself to fresh tobacco.

“There you are mate,” said Roland, “Here are some papers and tobacco for you.”

“Thank you mate. You’re a wheel diamond!” came the response.

This time Woland understood. And in a short while, when he was alone again, he laughed to himself as he dragged on his cigawette…

Thanks to my beautiful niece Lizzie, who kindly sent me this health warning, in future I shall be much more careful about shampooing my hair in the shower…

Health Warning! Do NOT shampoo in the shower

DO NOT wash your hair in the shower!!

It’s so good to finally get a health warning that is useful!!!

IT INVOLVES THE SHAMPOO WHEN IT RUNS DOWN YOUR BODY WHEN YOU SHOWER WITH IT. WARNING TO US ALL!!! Shampoo Warning!

I don’t know WHY I didn’t figure this out sooner! I use shampoo in the shower! When I wash my hair, the shampoo runs down my whole body, and printed very clearly on the shampoo label this warning; “FOR EXTRA BODY AND VOLUME.”

No wonder I have been gaining weight!

Well! I got rid of that shampoo and I am going to start showering with Dawn Dish-washing Soap. It’s label reads, “DISSOLVES FAT THAT IS OTHERWISE DIFFICULT TO REMOVE.”

Problem solved! If I don’t answer the phone, I’ll be in the shower!

I’ll never forget the first time I saw them… It was about six years ago when Mary and I were visiting our cousin, David, who lives in Sydney.

“What are they?” I asked. At the time I was holding back a giggle as I looked at David’s ugly blue plastic shoes that appeared to be a cross between plastic clogs with holes in and galoshes (which wouldn’t have been protective because of all the holes in them).

“These, my dear cousin, are the most comfortable shoes ever made,” David began, ” and you can wear them anywhere and do anything in them.”

Mary and I looked in amazement and disbelief.

“Don’t they make your feet sweaty?” asked my sensible sister.

“Not at all,” David answered, “because these are the real Crocs, which are expensive. The cheap imitations might be a different story. Isn’t that true Wendy?”

“Crikey, you bet! You gotta have the real Crocs – they’ll set you back forty bucks but it’s worth it. We live in ours,” enthused David’s girlfriend.

A few days later Mary and I were in a tourist shop in Manly`when we noticed a big rack of ladies’ Crocs.

“Do you figure they’re the fake ones, that make your feet smelly?” I asked Mary.

“I reckon so,” she said knowingly, “These are only twelve dollars.”

“It must be cheaper plastic than the authentic Crocs,” I suggested.

Mary agreed. Nevertheless, my feet were soon clad in an attractive bright yellow pair of size tens (eight in English sizing) and, rather dumbfounded by the sight, I stood eyeing my feet in the mirror. The fake Crocs resembled two big yellow paddles with holes in them – and I considered their usefulness in swimming in creeks. However, as I have rarely, especially in adulthood, been tempted to jump into a creek for pleasure, I thought better of it. Oddly enough, bereft of the paddles, my large feet seemed instantly much daintier than ever before and, Cinderella-like, I slipped my feet back into my comfy sandals, which had never caused my feet to sweat.

The years passed by without the slightest temptation on my part to buy a pair of “the most comfortable shoes ever made”… until last year. My mum and I were at Trago Mills (our favourite store which sells almost everything) and, there they were, a whole rack of Crocs in chrome yellow, electric-green and hot-pink.

“Look Mum,” I said, “These are only two-pounds seventy-five!”

“What would you do with them?” asked Mum, obviously unimpressed on the basis of aesthetics.

Well, I could have said that they would be excellent for swimming in creeks but I didn’t. Instead, I bought a pink pair for outdoor jobs like mowing, tiling etc… As a matter of fact I was wearing those same pink imitations on Sunday morning as Chris and I were preparing to go down to my mother’s place to do our “good fairies” bit; and I hesitated, wondering if I looked too ugly in my Crocs to be seen in public.

Two hours later, at about twelve o’clock, Chris and I met Mary in the car-park outside Mum’s place (she was bringing our mother home as we were leaving). We had a little chat, as you do, while Chris brought the car around.

“You look very pretty today,” I said as I kissed my sister goodbye.

“So do you. You are always pretty Darling,” Mary turned as if to walk on and then she looked back and laughed, “Especially in those Crocs!!!”

I knew I shouldn’t have worn those ugly Crocs, although I have to admit that they are quite comfortable and not too sweat inducing even though they are only the fake Crocs that cost two-pounds seventy-five.

The fisherman we met during our walk up the Exe Estuary path might well, at this very moment, be enjoying fish and chips from his favourite fish and chip shop but we had ours for lunch as a reward for the effort we made in walking to the Turf Hotel by the Turf Locks. Lunch was delicious and we didn’t feel guilty either because we knew that we would be walking off most of the calories on the way back. It was a little windy by the water but the rain held off and the sun shone down us, making the scenery all the more beautiful and us all the more cheerful.

I was going to tell you a funny story today but I find that I can’t because I’m thinking about Joseph, my Hungarian lover from my younger days, who died too young of a stroke in June, and whose ashes were scattered in the Brisbane River at six-thirty this morning (English time). Joseph’s friend, Delene, who found me on the Internet and wrote to me with the sad news, arranged a memorial service for this morning and even put up a poster in West End (where Joseph lived), inviting those who knew him to come along and pay their respects.

I would have loved to have seen Joseph again before he died, just to talk as old lovers without all the emotion and heat yet with the bond you retain as a result of all that emotion and fire, but it didn’t happen. I missed him. But although I had left him long ago, I always kept him, if you know what I mean…

There was a photograph of Joseph on the poster; his face was rounder and softer in middle-age, and I fancy he looked less edgy and tough than he did in our day. Now, after my tears (quietly, while no-one was looking) I’m feeling a bit peculiar and not especially jocular. Think I’ll leave that funny story to another time.