Monthly Archives: September 2014

Ground Control to Major Don (as in Duck) – A Place Oddity

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An imagined transcript from Ground Control, Dawlish, at 10 hundred hours this morning:

Okay Guys and Gals, this is Ground Control. You’re a long way from home but don’t worry; everything is under control, except for my Canadian accent (just to make you feel at home). It’s a beautiful sunny morning here at Dawlish and there’s not a cloud to spoil the view. You sure chose the right field for takeoff – right on top of the cliffs.

Now you young’uns just remember the drill – you’ve done it all before – and there’s nothin’ to worry about. Okey Dokey.

Group One, I’d be much obliged if you’d gather in an orderly fashion to the far left, at the end of the longest clearway. Well done. You’re looking good and all set for takeoff. No, hold it! Pardonnez moi – there’s a couple of long-legged egrets overhead, coming from six o’clock. Patience… Okey Dokey. Ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five, four, three, two, one and we have liftoff!

Group Two, mosey on over to the same spot. Only twenty of you? Okay. You’re clear for take off. Ten, nine, eight….

Group Three, all sixty of you, now listen to me – don’t you go takin’ off early like those smart Alecs from group two. Glad to see you got Captain Drake in command. Hold your horses, think we got an arrow of swallows coming over the flight path – nope, they definitely have square tails – they’re martins. Okey dokey. Prepare for takeoff Captain Drake. Ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five, four, three, two, one… And up, up and away you go!

Group Four. Already in formation? Well done! Oh right? Three stragglers holding up takeoff? Step to it goosies – no time for preening yourselves when you’re in Group Four. Ten, nine, eight, seven… Okey Dokey, as you wish ladies.

Group Five, excuse me, Group Five? Ground Control to Group Five? Can’t you hear with your beaks full? You don’t need no more protein pills to get yourselves airborn. Sure I know you’re the flying aces but you gotta get into line just like the rest. We got rules to follow. Major Don, now you just bring the old guys down to the runway – come on. Ignore those cyclists sitting on the fence taking shots of you – it’s only a mobile camera, Major. Will Major Don and Group Five stop eating and please come down to the runway… Can you hear me Major Don? Can you hear me Major Don? Is there nothing I can do?

Okey Dokey, you’re taking off in a most peculiar way…. There is nothing I can do.

And for those of you who are trying to remember the words of “Space Oddity”….

Ground Control to Major Tom
Ground Control to Major Tom
Take your protein pills
and put your helmet onGround Control to Major Tom
Commencing countdown,
engines on
Check ignition
and may God’s love be with you

[spoken]
Ten, Nine, Eight, Seven, Six, Five, Four, Three, Two, One, Liftoff

This is Ground Control
to Major Tom
You’ve really made the grade
And the papers want to know whose shirts you wear
Now it’s time to leave the capsule
if you dare

This is Major Tom to Ground Control
I’m stepping through the door
And I’m floating
in a most peculiar way
And the stars look very different today

For here
Am I sitting in a tin can
Far above the world
Planet Earth is blue
And there’s nothing I can do

Though I’m past
one hundred thousand miles
I’m feeling very still
And I think my spaceship knows which way to go
Tell my wife I love her very much
she knows

Ground Control to Major Tom
Your circuit’s dead,
there’s something wrong
Can you hear me, Major Tom?
Can you hear me, Major Tom?
Can you hear me, Major Tom?
Can you….

Here am I floating
round my tin can
Far above the Moon
Planet Earth is blue
And there’s nothing I can do.

Cockwood Harbour at Dusk

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It was six-thirty, the end of a day of painting beaches on canvas (will show you tomorrow), and I felt desperate for a cycle ride.

“Where shall we ride?” Chris asked.

“Where else?” I answered.

The sun glowed red behind the fields at Dawlish Warren and I felt sure that if we rode on quickly to Cockwood Harbour we would catch the sunset on the water. As you can see, we weren’t disappointed. However we had to ride like the wind homewards before it became completely dark.

The Clever Jurors

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With thanks to Roland, the Bird-man of Brisbane, for this joke. Incidentally, for all you ornithologists out there, Roland thinks you should be aware that I made obvious errors in two posts last week by calling the Scaly-breasted Lorikeet  (poor thing!) a Rozella, and by omitting the word ‘Rainbow’ before Lorikeet (see photographs below). Now for the joke…

A barrister was addressing the jury of a murder trial with his summation:

“Members of the jury, we are relying upon your intelligence, discernment and fair-mindedness to come to the only reasonable conclusion – that the accused is innocent. Let’s look at the facts: the evidence is purely circumstantial; reports of the animosity between my client and the alleged victim is hearsay – and therefore not admissible as evidence; and, most importantly, there is no body. Why, at this very moment the alleged victim might walk through that door (he points to the door). What would you think if the alleged victim walked through that door right now? In fact, I ask you now to please spare one minute to look at the door.”

The jurors turned their heads and stared expectantly at the huge courtroom door. The court was so quiet that you could have heard a pin drop. Two minutes passed and, just as the court began to get fidgety, the barrister broke the silence.

“Thank you members of the jury,” the barrister looked pleased instead of crestfallen. “Can you tell me why, if you thought the alleged victim was murdered, you all turned your heads towards the door? I contend that the answer is simple – you don’t believe that he was murdered. I ask the jury, in all your wisdom, to acquit the accused of murder and throw the case out of court.”

Half an hour later the jury came back and the judge asked for the verdict. The foreman stood and said solemnly:

“Guilty my Lord.”

“I thought you said the jurors were intelligent,” the convicted man whispered, quite shocked, as he touched the sleeve of his counsel.

“They are,” said the barrister.

“But they all turned their heads and expected Al to walk through the door,” he argued, bemused.

“Yes they did,” the barrister agreed before adding, “but you didn’t!”

Not a Wine Buff (or Bluff)

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Anyone who knows me well would not be surprised to learn that I’m no wine buff, they might even regard me as almost teetotal (well my maternal grandparents were “Band of Hope”. In truth, when not dieting (which is not very often – I do try to be good), I’m not averse to the odd glass of wine, Pimms, gin and tonic or the first sip of a cold glass of lager on a hot day: and when I’m in France… I drink like the locals – like a fish – because I speak better French after a few glasses of wine (at least I think I do).

On Friday evening our friend and neighbour, Caroline, called around for drinks. Now Caroline is a beautiful, vivacious party-goer and something of a wine connoisseur; I gathered the latter because, earlier in the day, she said that she wanted to repay a kindness from Chris with a bottle of good wine.

“What kind of wine does Chris like?” she inquired.

“Um…” I racked my brains, “I know he likes Chardonnay…”

“Oh, he likes white wine?” Caroline raised her eyebrows.

“Well sometimes but he likes red wine too. Isn’t Chardonnay the nice buttery white wine?” I wondered if there was something wrong with liking white wine.

“No, I think it’s a bit oaky.” (This is where Caroline showed her great knowledge of wine matters.)

“Okay, I must be mistaken. Say, I’ll ask Chris what he likes and let you know when I see you later.”

Four hours later the gorgeous wine expert was seated in our lounge-room and I remembered what Chris had told me…

“Oh, by the way, Chris likes Ricotta wine. Hold on… no that’s not right… that’s -”

“A cheese!” laughed Caroline finishing my sentence.

“Well it sounds like Ricotta. It begins with an “R” and sounds similar to Ricotta.Oh, what is it Chris?” I called out to my husband who was uncorking a bottle of wine in the kitchen.

“Rioja!” he called back, “It’s Spanish!” (That bit of information made all the difference to me.)

Chris entered the lounge with a bottle of red wine (of some particular sort, which was quite nice as it turned out) and three glasses.

“In this regard Sally reminds me of my mother,” Chris turned to Caroline and I knew he was going to tell a funny story. “You see, my father had been a teetotaller all his life so we never had any alcohol in our house – I made up for it in ‘the city’ when I had left home – and Mum never went into a pub until my dad passed away. My mum’s boyfriend wasn’t teetotal – Arthur liked going into pubs – and one day we were all in a pub; the barman looked at my mother and asked for her order. She answered, ‘I’ll have an orange juice and he’ll have a Manikin!’”

“What did she mean?” I asked (just to make sure I was right).

“A Heineken,” Chris said and he and Caroline looked at me surprised.

“Of course, that’s what I thought,” I bluffed.

And I took a sip from my half-glass of the nice wine – I’m still on my diet.

A French Harley Davidson?

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I’ve never owned a Harley Davidson and I’ve never been a biker chick, nevertheless, I have always liked the unmistakable sound of a big masculine Harley pulling up beside me at a gas station or passing by me on the open road; I like the look of them too. If I was ever to purchase a motor bike (not that it’s very likely now) it would have to be a Harley. Of course, Chris knows my feelings on this subject so, when he saw a big beautiful three-wheeler in the car park at Trago Mills (our favourite store in Devon) my husband thought I might like to inspect it.

“There’s a three-wheeler bike with lots of chrome on it over there,” Chris pointed into the distance.

I squinted my eyes and nodded my interest.

“Well, if you like Mum and I can pick up the paint in the car and come back for you in the car park in a few minutes,” Chris continued obligingly (he knows how to make a girl happy).

So they zoomed off in the car and I hastened over to the bike. A good-looking lad wearing a red football kit sat on a rail and looked at the bike.

“Is it your motor bike?” I queried.

The lad smiled, not quite answering, but somehow suggesting to me that I wasn’t far wrong.

“Or maybe it’s your dad’s bike?” That seemed the more likely scenario.

The boy beamed at me but still he said not a word.

“You must feel very proud sitting behind your dad as he drives his bike,” I continued.

The boy smiled a sheepish smile that made me think he was a nice modest lad.

Then a man came along – not the owner (because he didn’t talk to the boy, and he didn’t look like him) – just another interested person. We a had a short chat about chrome and the nice sound a Harley makes compared to other bikes. He walked around the bike as we conversed and, satisfied, smiled a goodbye before slipping through a gap in the trees to find his car.

Suddenly, another, younger, boy wearing a red football kit appeared beside his big brother and a lady across the road spoke to both boys, perhaps urging them to “Come along”.

“What a shame you haven’t brought your phone,” I heard her say.

“I have,” I called out, “I’ll take some photo’s and put them on my blog so the boys can see them.”

I was still smiling to myself a little while after the mother and her children had gone (the boy hadn’t lied) when a man and woman came along. It seemed to me that they came to look and sneer at the big shiny attraction.

“It’s not even a Harley Davidson,” he derided.

“But it has the eagle insignia,” I answered (well he was standing exactly opposite me).

“Anyone can stick an eagle on a machine,” he leered and showed a set of dirty teeth, “but look closer – it’s a Peugeot! It’s a car with a wheel missing, and it’s got a French engine!”

When I was younger I might have been too frightened of the xenophobic gnome with the wicked glinting eyes and nasty teeth to dare answer back, but I’m older now and less fearful of speaking up.

“I’ve got a French engine – a “Vel Satis” – a Renault (I added in case he didn’t know the make of our obscure car)”. I fancy I may have jutted my chin a tiny bit at him.

“The ‘Vel Satis’ were so awful that Renault only made four!” the gnome could hardly contain his laughter.

At that moment Chris drew up silently beside us in the car (anyway, one of the four) favoured by stylish French presidents. Chris tooted the horn.

“Here it is,” I said, “powerful, luxurious – like a limousine…”

“I’ll believe that when I see it,” the ignoble man shook his head and a thin but long lock of lank greasy hair fell over one eyebrow.

Actually, he wasn’t that bad – I was getting a tad carried away; but you know what they say… that “there’s many a true word said in jest”!

Needless to say, it was not without some pleasure that I got into our car and Chris, somewhat impatient at having to wait for me, put down his foot and the Vel Satis took off like a rocket.

 

 

The Sexy New Sunglasses

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Our friend Caroline called around for a drink tonight and told us about a funny conversation she had had with her elderly father earlier in the day .

She had come home bearing a new pair of sunglasses and put them down on a table. Her dad picked them up and admired them.

“These are very nice sunglasses,” he said (perhaps eyeing them up for himself), “Are they men’s, women’s or… are they… bisexual?”

A Bird in the Hand is Worth More than Three in the Frangipani Tree….

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The bird-man from Brisbane has them eating out of his hands…

 

The Making of a Miniature Double-Portrait

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A wedding gift.

Posted in Art

A Joke About Texting

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Thank you Gary. I haven’t received any jokes for ages.

A 70 year old Couple Texting – Something for all you romantics.

 
An elderly couple had just learned how to send text messages on their mobile phones. The wife was a romantic type and her husband was an engineer.

One afternoon the wife went out to meet a friend for coffee. She decided to send her husband a romantic text message and she wrote:

“If you are sleeping, send me your dreams. If you are laughing, send me your smile. If you are eating, send me a bite. If you are drinking, send me a sip. If you are crying, send me your tears. I love you.”

The husband texted back to her: “I’m on the toilet. Please advise”.

A Mynah Slip-up

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Our friend Roland, now back home in Brisbane, is the Australian equivalent of the naturalist David Attenborough or, if you prefer, Doctor Dolittle (not to be confused with Alfred Dolittle – “I’m getting married in the mornin'” – from the musical, My Fair Lady). His (Roland, not Alfred Dolittle) big garden, bordering on beautiful designer bush-land at the back of his property, is a veritable nature reserve; any amount of birds and wallabies call on him regularly for food, drink and pleasant conversation.

Even our friend’s penchant for the sport of home archery seems not to deter the animals… although it has to be said that they manage to carefully avoid the garden when Roland indulges in a spot of cloud-shooting (arrows aimed at the clouds, at the desired trajectory and speed, for landing into a small bucket – great fun!). They also steer clear when he hones his archery skills on deer – a big plastic deer, thank goodness; it’s quite amazing how easy it is to miss the life-sized deer from a distance of fifty metres, and surprising how many arrow holes adorn the garage door!

This morning I received an email from Doctor Davey Dolittle in which he described his latest adventure with a tiny mynah bird chick:

“I rescued the little one from the ground by the fruit trees, mum and dad were squawking  to warn it that I was approaching and to hide! Well me being me, I noticed the commotion and said to myself, “Hello there’s trouble going on”. Sure enough I found that little young mynah chick on the ground and managed to catch it and put it back in a fork of a tree. Where it might be safer, oh, I’m so good aren’t I??”
 Well, I didn’t say he was modest!