It’s a bit different, in terms of both my usual style and subject matter, but I like it. I had to paint the background very loosely or it would have taken forever. Hence this acrylic on canvas painting took very little time to produce and was great fun to paint. Any ideas for names would be appreciated…
“Can you reverse?” asked the young woman who had got out of the car behind me and, unnervingly (for me), bent her head down into my car (which had the top down).
At the time I was on my way to Rosie’s farm. I had met an enormous green tractor that occupied the whole width of the country lane, and the kindly farmer, being closer to a passing point, had been reversing until a car with a trailer caught up with him and halted his excellent backwards progress. I turned off Beethoven’s Pastoral Symphony (Part 1), which was playing on Classic FM, and which had hitherto made the experience of meeting the gigantic green tractor in the lane less stressful; and now, with a young upstart’s head peering down at me, I felt vexed. What did she mean? – “Can you reverse?” How did she think I passed my driving test? (Admittedly, reversing was my least strong point.)
“Of course I can reverse,” I replied. (I refrained from adding “You cheeky monkey!”)
“I’ll eat my hat if I can’t reverse!” I said to myself as Miss Smarty-Pants went back to her car and I put my sporty car into reverse gear.
The country lane was rather winding, which meant that sometimes I had to pull forward to realign the position of my car before reversing again; in truth, it was a fairly slow process and, all the while, the tractor was advancing. Unfortunately, the nearest passing point behind me was about a quarter of a mile back. Embarrassingly for me, the young blonde had zipped back to that point in no time at all and, in fact, had left her car and walked down to my car to offer her assistance yet again.
“Do you want me to reverse it for you?” she asked in a manner that would brook no refusal as she dipped her head into my car again.
I looked at her dirty boots and her braided blonde hair, and decided, reluctantly, to relinquish my car to the formidable horsey girl.
The farmer smiled pleasantly as he passed; the driver of the car-with-trailer cheered and waved to the horse-girl as he passed. I got back into my driving seat and zoomed off ahead of Miss Horsey – I’d show her who could drive! (Luckily, I didn’t meet any more tractors!)
Before long all thoughts of narrow roads, impasse and the impatient horse girl had faded into memory, and I was following the two black tails belonging to Malachi and Inca as they rushed ahead through the long grasses to the top of the hillside. Happy to keep me in their sights for company, they were eager to press on to the top fields where the sky meets the hedgerows, where lavender grows and a crop of golden barley is ready to be harvested; and wild daisies, like tiny dabs of white and yellow paint, add to the scene of pastoral paradise. I was equally happy to trail in their path at my own rate and pick mushrooms to my heart’s delight.
The upturned straw hat in my hands was overflowing with lavender and mushrooms as I wended my way back down to the old farmhouse. I thought of my father who, when we were little children in Gumdale (Australia), would sometimes awaken us before sunrise and whisper:
“Want to come with me and hunt for mushrooms?”
“Yes, Dad!” we used to thrill.
“Well put on your Wellington boots then…”
I had a few tears, as I often do when I think of nice things we did with my late father, but I was joyful, not sad. Malachi and Inca were waiting for me by the gate and I put down the hat full of mushrooms while I patted and cuddled them. Picking up my hat again I smiled to myself and thought:
“I’ll eat my hat… well, what’s in it!”
While I began walking back from the surgery I smiled a wry sort of smile to myself (as you do when things haven’t worked out quite right but you find it funny).
“Sorry I’m a bit late,” I had said to the receptionist just a few minutes earlier.
“Late?,” the receptionist scrutinised the screen in front of her, “Which doctor are you seeing?”
“Doctor Harvey at nine-forty,” I answered.
“Doctor Harvey isn’t on today,” the lady peered through her glasses at the computer screen again.
“But my husband got me an appointment for this morning,” I was adamant.
“No, you’re down for Doctor Harvey at nine-forty on Thursday morning!”
“Well I can’t wait until Thursday with this pain in my ear. I can’t go through another night like last night – I shall have to go to a hospital… or a witch doctor…” I said.
That did it. She booked me in for this afternoon.
“Chris is a tad deaf,” I said by way of a friendly explanation and the receptionist smiled (no doubt grateful that I wasn’t blaming her for the mix-up).
“The doctor you’ll be seeing is very nice,” she added and we were friends.
I chuckled to myself even though my ear was throbbing and hurting like hell. I wished I had brought my bike – then I could have zoomed home – but I had been running late and Chris took me in the car. So I was walking home and, that being the case, I wished I had worn different shoes, with a bit of heel. In truth, I felt a little ‘down at heel’ without my usual make-up (no time before I left) and wearing an old top and flat shoes, not to forget the terrible earache…
A young couple with two small boys got out of a car and walked ahead of me down to Dawlish Brook (in the town centre). The woman was huge and tattooed, and it crossed my mind that I must continue with my own diet with more determination. I overtook the family and I wondered if the large tattooed woman, now behind me, was looking at my ample bottom and formulating an idea to begin dieting. At that moment an oncoming white van slowed and the driver’s window came down; a smiling face poked out and said:
“I love you!”
“Oh, Ian,” I smiled back (earache and big bottom forgotten in the wake of those three little words).
I didn’t turn around to check the responses of the family behind me – it was a private comment, said publicly for the greater effect, and a glance around would have been tantamount to gloating. Incidentally, Ian, who isn’t especially handsome but bursting with personality, is a butcher and probably loves quite a few ladies in Dawlish.
I walked on with a spring in my step – or was it a sashay? I like to imagine that the burly tattooed woman smiled wryly to herself.
Well, it was a bit dramatic actually. I’d been keeping my eyes on Malachi and Inca all afternoon and they had been very good – no running off on their own into the hills – so they were gaining my trust. Then, about three-quarters of an hour before I was planning to go home, I looked around from the farmhouse kitchen sink and suddenly I noticed… Malachi and Inca weren’t there.
I had an idea where they were but I thought I’d rule out the closer fields first. I walked up past the old farmhouse to the sheep field where I had taken the black Labradors earlier in the day and the friendly sheep ran up to me as before.
“Have you seen Inca and Malachi?” I asked.
“Baa, are they humbugging you around again?” they sympathised and rubbed their nice woolly bodies against my legs.
“Sorry, I can’t stop – think I’ll see if the alpacas can shed any light,” I said extricating myself from from very nice sheep cuddles.
I stood at the gate by the adjacent field and the two alpacas came running down to find out what was wrong.
“What’s wrong Sally?” they asked looking quite concerned at first, then disappointed, “Oh, you haven’t brought us any pellets or goat food then?”
“Sorry, there’s a bit of a drama going on – can’t stop – I have to find Inca and Malachi before I go home,” I answered and went to pat one of the kindly faces but he jumped away.
In my heart I knew that the two free spirits had taken off past the llama field and into the hills on the other side of the valley; that’s where I would have gone on a beautiful sunny evening with the lowering sun behind me. I found a whistle on the kitchen table, said goodbye to Jazz and Sasha (who nodded back sympathetically), and walked over to the llama field. As I approached the wooden fence the llamas sensed my anguish and they came racing over to me.
“What’s wrong Sally?” one of them asked with a look of genuine concern.
“You know…” I said.
“Malachi and Inca again?” the llama knew alright.
“Yeah, I’ve got this whistle and, with a bit luck, they’ll hear it and come home,” I told them (by this time all the llamas had gathered around me).
“We’ll just follow behind you if you don’t mind,” one of the new mums said, “we don’t have much to interest us and we enjoy a bit of drama!”
“That’s fine by me,” I smiled, “I can do with all the moral support I can get.”
So all the llamas, including the babies (who are growing fast and getting quite canny themselves now), followed me to the fence at the end of their field. I didn’t cross the fence – there is an electric fence rather close by – but stood there blowing the whistle and calling the names of Inca and Malachi.
Inca, the younger of the two Labradors, came bounding up first and nearly knocked me over. Then Malachi, who wanted her own personal reunion, made a slightly slower dash into my arms (rather like they do in the old movies).
After our joyful reunions I admonished the naughty girls and they walked ahead of me; they were about to walk past the llamas when the errant girls were stopped in their tracks.
“They’ll be for it now!” little Star said to Tequila (the baby llamas).
I didn’t hear every word that was uttered between Star’s mum and Malachi but I saw a lot of ticking off and a head lowered in shame. And if you think I’m making all this up… well, I have the photographs to prove it!
I was with my friend and neighbour Caroline a couple of hours ago, commiserating with her over the nasty shock she had had this morning when a car went into her car. We were out looking at the damage to the car when Steve the plumber came along (he had seen the damage as he was driving past) and he stopped to give his sympathy.
“Are you wearing your slippers?” Caroline asked Steve (and we all looked down at his feet).
“Yes I am,” he replied a little sheepishly (his moccasins might even have been sheepskin).
“They aren’t a pair – are they?” I noticed, “Look, they are different colours!”
“It’s true that I have two pairs almost the same,” he admitted.
Steve lifted his trouser-legs in order to take a better look and as he did so Caroline and I observed that his stripey socks didn’t match either.
“You can buy them like that nowadays – it’s a fashion statement,” he explained.
“But you didn’t buy them like that,” I laughed.
“No, I admit that I have two pairs almost the same,” Steve said turning his feet out like a clown.
“Now turn them in like a Devon Pixie,” I suggested as I snapped with my mobile camera.
My model was a very good sport and he doesn’t mind me putting the photos on my blog. We all had a good laugh and Caroline forgot about the car accident for a few minutes.
We were busy cleaning the guest suite upstairs when something unusual caught Chris’s eye.
“Sally, come to the window and look,” said Chris, “all the men in orange are walking along the sea wall. It looks as though they’ve finished and they’re doing a final walk like a march of honour!”
I went to the window and saw for myself, it was exactly as Chris said, except that the team in orange overalls were accompanied by some men in suits. Overwhelmed with the urge to thank them before they left, I opened the third storey window fully and called out:
“Thank you!”
My voice must have good projection because they all heard me, stopped and looked up. The besuited man at the head of the crocodile line said something to the rest and they brought out white squares which they had been carrying on them, obviously in readiness for just such an occasion. Chris ran downstairs and found my mobile while the team arranged themselves in the correct order to spell out their message. It read:
“JOB DONE PART 2”
Chris and I cheered and clapped from the open window and I believe that someone else on our terrace saw them and cheered. The “Orange Army” (as they have come to be known locally) waved and smiled back.
Despite the lack of numbers in our impromptu cheering party from on high, I’m sure that the representatives of the Orange Army (whose numbers have been vast – sometimes a hundred at a time in the early stages) must realise how grateful we are for all their work, often in terrible weather conditions, over the last year and a half since the sea wall was devastated. Without our sea wall we would soon have no house and no window from which to wave and cheer our appreciation…
And now that the sea wall is officially open Chris tells me there is another strange sight to behold – ordinary people walking along the wall. Bravo! I must take a look… and take some photos on my mobile just for the record.
It is probably no coincidence that the sea wall opened today, which happens to be the day of Dawlish Carnival, when thousands of people descend on the town. Unfortunately, it often rains on carnival day and today is no exception. When Chris drew back our bedroom curtains upon the wet world outside this morning he observed:
“What a shame it’s raining so hard on the day of the carnival again! No wonder they call them* ‘floats’!”
My husband has a very dry sense of humour.
(*the entries on trailers)
Yet again, thanks for this joke go to Roland.
Could it be you?
One evening Jesus had a little feeling, if not exactly a premonition (it was not unpleasant), that something was about to happen at the Pearly Gates. He wafted over to the gates and saw dear old St Peter, very busy as usual, welcoming the faithful and turning away the disbelievers and the undeserving. St Peter’s kindly face looked a tad care-worn and tired as Jesus approached.
“Why don’t you have the evening off?” asked Jesus, “I’d be happy to take over from you and give you a well-earned break. Besides, I have a strange feeling that I should be here tonight…”
“Well, if you don’t mind?” answered St Peter rather pleased, “You’re quite right to follow your instincts. Remember that ‘God works in mysterious ways’!”
St Peter flew off and Jesus took over as gatekeeper. After a short time – it could have been a week, a month or even a year or more (time was immaterial) – Jesus thought he recognised a face in the gathering that was waiting outside the gates.
The face was extremely ancient but lined in a nice way, as if the man had spent a lifetime smiling and having pleasant thoughts. The hair was white and wavy, quite thick for one so advanced in years, and it looked soft and nice to stroke. Under his large red nose was a big moustache as white as his hair. On his nose was a pair of spectacles, which he peered over with benevolent eyes; originally brown, they had faded to a pale greenish blue with the passage of time but in those faded eyes were chinks of reflected light, which had not dulled, and showed a lively sense of humour. Instead of wearing a cloak over his clothes, he had on a brown apron, like one worn by the carpenters of old.
“Surely I know that lovely face,” Jesus said to himself and his excitement grew as he waited for the old man to reach the gates.
“Don’t I know you?” said Jesus taking the old man’s hands in his own.
“I don’t know,” replied the old man, “my eyes are not so good these days – and my glasses don’t work so well as they used to.”
“Would your name, by any chance, happen to be Joseph?” inquired Jesus.
“Yes, you could say that it is, indeed, Joseph,” answered the old man after a little ponder.
“Tell me,” asked Jesus, welling up with excitement and love, “do you have a son?”
“Why yes, I do!” exclaimed the old man, sensing the momentousness of the occasion.
“And, by chance, does he happen to have some small holes in his hands and feet?” asked Jesus hardly daring to hope.
“Yes, of course he does,” the old man nearly swooned with joy.
“Oh Father,” began Jesus, “it’s me, your little boy!”
“My boy?”
“Your beloved boy,” Jesus wept.
“Oh my dear boy,” the old man took Jesus in his arms, “my dear Pinocchio!”
Last night my cousin and her family, who are on holiday, came over to our place for the evening. At the dinner table fourteen-year-old William, who is keen on art, asked me a question about drawing, and every time I began to answer he butted in and finished my sentence for me. At length, after about five attempts (and ever so slightly ruffled), I looked at him and said, “If you’ll stop trying to pre-empt me I’ll give you the answer to your question.” As the word pre-empt left my mouth I wondered if he would understand me, not least because of his youth, but also because he is German… Also, I wondered if I was using the word pre-empt correctly in this instance and had a feeling that perhaps another word (which evaded me, and does still) might have been more appropriate.
I fancy it was the slight edge of annoyance in my voice that made my meaning all too clear. As it happens, William understood very well and bore no resentment for, after a split-second, he burst out laughing and pre-empted any further irritation (also, he let me finish my sentence!). In fact, we all laughed! We had lots of laughter and a lovely evening.
The one funny thing I saw today happened to be at our local Sainsbury’s store. While I was taking a photograph for you to see on my blog a girl who works there stopped and laughed.
“I think it’s funny too,” she said, “and, earlier, I took some photos from exactly the same spot as you!”
Later on at the checkout a smiling young man asked if I was having a good day.
“Great!” I said (even though I hadn’t slept well last night, but I liked his smile) and I added, “How about you? Are you having a good day?”
“Yes, but not as good as yours by the look of it,” he beamed back.
“Well, at least you’ve got age on your side,” I responded.
“I think you mean ‘youth’ rather than ‘age’,” Chris informed, quite rightly.
We all had a good laugh about my mistake. They are ever so nice at Sainbury’s – I felt great (still tired but great!)
.
No, I’m not joking about the Peter, Paul and Mary song of the same name as my blog post title, this is another joke from Roland in Brisbane (as ever). However, I’ll paste the lyrics of the song at the end of the joke.
If I had a Hammer
The judge looked at the man stood in the dock.
“You are accused of attacking the landlord of ‘The Carpenters Arms’ public house with a hammer,” began the judge.
“Liar, liar!” came a voice from the back of the court, “It’s all lies!”
The judge ignored the interruption and continued:
“You are also accused of attacking a bartender at ‘The Carpenters Arms’ with a hammer on the same night.”
“You big liar! You big liar!” shouted the man at the back of the court.
The judge paused meaningfully, gave the man a look that could kill, and continued his address:
“Not only that, you are accused of taking the same hammer to attack the policeman who was called to the scene to intervene…”
“You big, big liar! You great big hairy liar!” shouted the incensed man at the back of the court.
“And who,” the judge inquired with a sneer, “are you?”
The man stood up.
“I have lived next door to the accused for all of ten years now and I know for certain that my neighbour is incapable of committing the crime he is accused of.”
“And how do you know that, pray tell?” asked the judge.
“Well, your Lordship, every time I ask to borrow his hammer he tells me he doesn’t have a hammer!”
from Around the Campfire
If I had a hammer,
I’d hammer in the morning,
I’d hammer in the evening,
All over this land,
I’d hammer out danger,
I’d hammer out a warning,
I’d hammer out love between,
My brothers and my sisters,
All over this land.
If I had a bell,
I’d ring it in the morning,
I’d ring it in the evening,
All over this land,
I’d ring out danger,
I’d ring out a warning,
I’d ring out love between,
My brothers and my sisters,
All over this land.
If I had a song
I’d sing it in the morning
I’d sing it in the evening
all over this land
I’d sing out danger
I’d sing out a warning
I’d sing out love between
my brothers and my sisters
all over this land
Well, I’ve got a hammer
and I’ve got a bell
and I’ve got a song to sing
all over this land
It’s the hammer of justice
It’s the bell of freedom
It’s a song about love between my
brothers and my sisters
all over this land
It’s the hammer of justice
It’s the bell of freedom
It’s a song about love between my brothers and my
sisters
All over this la-a-and
Songwriters
LEE HAYS, PETE SEEGER
Published by
Lyrics © T.R.O. INC.
Read more: Peter, Paul & Mary – If I Had A Hammer Lyrics | MetroLyrics