One of the great things I find about being married to the same man for seventeen years is that we can say almost anything to each other in the knowledge that it will be understood and taken in the right way (well mostly – we did have some weird conversations prior to Chris finally agreeing to wear his hearing aids). But you know what I mean – you get so used to your beloved’s line of thought that you know instantly what they are going on about.

Chris and I often have funny chats while we’re having our morning cups of tea in bed but this time the conversation I’m about to relate to you took place as I was cooking cauliflower cheese for our dinner tonight. Now for some reason the conversation had turned to a film, “The Great Magnolia Hotel” (or something like that).

“I didn’t like that “Magnolia Hotel” film,” I said to Chris who knew which film I meant because he knows I can never remember the actual title (owing to the fact that I never watched the whole movie).

“That’s just because you don’t like those actors,” Chris said sniffily (he had finished watching the rest of the film when I was away and enjoyed it).

“True,” I agreed, “and why do they always cast Celia Imprie as a sexy man-eater?”

“Celia Imrie,” Chris corrected.

“I always thought she must be French,” I pondered as I stirred the cheese sauce, “bet it’s a fake name anyway.”

“No, I don’t think so,” Chris clicked away on his laptop. “Oh yes it is her name – her father was Scottish – and she was born in England in nineteen fifty-two.”

“Do you find her sexy? And what other films was she in?” I asked.

“No, she’s a bit too hard-faced for me,” Chris said diplomatically, “now let me see… I didn’t know she was in ‘Highlander’…”

“She was the nasty one,” I elucidated.

“Oh yes, then there were the two – best and second best –  Exotic Marigold Hotel films” – (I knew it was a flower beginning with M) – “and loads of other films” said Chris.

“‘Calendar Girls'” I chirped in.

“Colander Girls?” Chris laughed as he popped his head around the kitchen doorway and eyed the boiled cauliflower in the colander on the cooker.

“That must have been a strain,” I replied.

“Saucy girl,” he quipped.

“Not a saucepany girl then?”

“Maybe I was frying too hard…”

We still laugh a lot – it’s another of the great things about being married to Chris for over seventeen years.

To tell you the truth I had been noticing some new lines recently so I was very pleased when my beautiful friend Caroline, who lives two doors up, called in with “a little present” for me a few days ago.

“It’s a special vitamin E serum for wrinkles,” Caroline said, handing me the pink bottle with the eyedropper top (which made it look very serious in a scientific way, if you know what I mean).

“Is this what you use?” I asked hopefully (she looked radiant and relatively wrinkle-free).

“No, I bought it for myself but I didn’t like it as much as my old one, but I thought you might like to try it…”

Overwhelmed with the urge to begin the treatment straight away, I immediately opened the bottle and pressed out half an eyedropper of serum onto my troublesome areas; a big drop ran down from my forehead and plopped into my left eye… making me squint.

“It’s really a night treatment,” said Caroline.

“I need all the help I can get,” I replied squinting (which Caroline may have thought was a wink!).

“Oh… I can see it being absorbed into your skin,” my friend looked with interest, “it doesn’t do that with my skin – it just sits there rather oily.”

Throughout the day, when Caroline had gone and I was painting back at the easel, and listening to a free audio-book version of “My Man Jeeves” by P.G.Wodehouse (very funny!), I stopped now and then to apply another drop or two of serum. The hair that fell upon my face seemed to get a bit greasy but my face was lovely and soft. I kept applying the serum.

At some point I had to nip over to see my other friend Catherine, who lives two doors down, the other way. Catherine and her daughter both came to the doorstep as I was leaving. I was about to give young Jessie a kiss goodbye when, luckily, I noticed a thin thread of mucus, still attached to my nose, was dangling in the air. I wiped it hastily with the back of my sleeve (no hanky) and hoped no-one would see. Young people have great sight. I caught her looking.

“Oh sorry. Don’t worry Jess, I won’t kiss you just now,” I laughed it off.

(“That’s funny”, I thought, “I haven’t got a cold.”)

To be honest (although I don’t why I should), I’m not so sure that my appearance has improved since I’ve been using the special serum day and night during the last few days. You see, my eyes have been smarting so much that I can’t really see if the lines are going – in fact, I suspect all the squinting might have caused some more – and my nose is running, and I’m sniffing and blowing… and I don’t even have a cold. And my hair is lank. And I’m not taking any more chances with kissing hello or goodbye (you will be glad to note). And I look like a red-eyed panda (from rubbing my eyes when wearing eyeliner and mascara). Yes, I think I’m allergic to that serum (or else it’s made from extract of onion). Shall I tell Caroline? Well, that all depends on whether or not she reads this…

Another from the Joke-master Roland…

Beggars Belief

A veteran officer from the Falklands War is in London. He’s walking along a passageway that leads to one of the underground platforms at Piccadilly Station when he sees a beggar in a wheelchair. He stops to read the cardboard sign that the beggar is holding, “Homeless, hungry and unwanted  Falklands veteran”.

“Poor beggar,” he thinks to himself, “to be in such a state after all these years. What a shame. But for the grace of God that could be me.”

He draws his wallet from a trouser pocket. He normally fulfills his moral obligation to the needy with a golden coin but on this occasion he is so moved that he takes out a twenty-pound note.

“Here we are, good man,” he says, placing the crisp note into the beggar’s grimy hand.

The beggar’s eyes light up, he smiles and says:

“Gracias amable señor!”

The Peculiar Staring Child

Well, I’m just an ordinary middle-aged Aussie bloke and not much unnerves me these days but it was a funny thing alright, and quite uncomfortable, I can tell you, to be stared at all afternoon by a four-year-old kid. At first I thought it was something to do with me, but then I reckoned it was the child who was a bit simple although, admittedly, there isn’t that much for a small kid to do at a barbecue where everyone else is adult. Our old friends Bob and Sue were baby-sitting their little granddaughter Angelina and brought her along. “The more the merrier!” I had told them but I wasn’t bargaining for being stared at like that.

The kid was sat on the bench directly across the table from me so I couldn’t fail to notice her staring at me. Her big brown eyes were riveted to my face so, naturally, I thought there was some food around my mouth. I wiped the corners of my mouth with a serviette (I have been known to collect a few crumbs there in the past). The little angel still kept staring so I patted my lips with the serviette. She watched me with renewed interest. “Could it be some tomato sauce stuck on my chin, ” I wondered. I put some spit on one corner of the serviette and rubbed at my chin (it’s true that sometimes I’ve looked in the mirror to find dried tomato sauce, looking like evidence of a shaving accident, on my chin); but, no, there wasn’t any sauce and the kid kept staring.

The hours passed. I mingled with all our friends, making sure that the ladies’ glasses were topped up and the beer didn’t run out, but still, every time I turned around that little kid was staring at me. At last, when I couldn’t stick it anymore, I approached her.

“Angelina, shweetheart,” I said, trying to be nice, “why on earth have you been…s… staring at me all this arvo?”

She looked up at me all innocent and said:

“I’m waiting to see you drink like a fish…”

At the moment we have a couple of thespians sleeping in the top bedrooms of our house, not that they weren’t expected – we invited them. You see, our clever friend Martin who lives two doors up from us has written a play called “Beyond Expectations” (a sequel to Dickens’ “Great Expectations”) and Martin’s eldest daughter, Jess, just so happens to be the professional actress who is playing the leading female role of Estella.The play has had excellent reviews in Edinburgh and is now doing the rounds in the West Country (where we live – in case you don’t know already). The play will be aired locally at The Ice-Factory in Teignmouth on Tuesday and Wednesday nights – be there or be square! – and we’re going to see it tomorrow night. Needless to say, Chris and I are expecting the play to be beyond expectations.

And what of those actors sleeping on our top floor? Of course, they are members of the cast and when they aren’t sleeping at our place they are either rehearsing (somewhere else), or sustaining themselves at Martin’s. We don’t see the actors because they come in last thing at night and leave early in the morning. Last week I met one young man on the stairs but I didn’t meet the other of our thespians until yesterday, when I popped over with a birthday card for Catherine. In fact, I met four of the cast (including Jess) but not the one I had met on the stairs – he was taking Sunday off.

“I’m expecting great things even though ‘Great Expectations’ isn’t my favourite of Dickens’ novels,” I joshed, “I hope it’s more upbeat than ‘Great Expectations’.”

“Oh it is,” assured Martin.

“But four of them die,” said one of the actors (and the others called out the names of the characters who meet their ends during the play).

“No they don’t,” denied Martin.

“Well we should know because our characters die,” said the blond actor.

“I should know… oh, I suppose you’re right, ” said the author looking a bit deflated (in an over-acting way) before turning to his cast for support, “but it’s definitely not downbeat – is it?”

“I’ll tell you what is downbeat,” said Jess, rallying (and by way of prevarication), “Sally, now do you remember my cousin Rachel?”

“The book by Daphne du Maurier?” I asked.

“No, my actual cousin Rachel, Aunty Sue’s daughter – you know. I’m sure you’ve met her – she’s the blonde one who is very short,” Jess laughed.

“Oh yes, I remember,” I answered.

“Well, I know I’m not very tall at five-foot-two,” said Jess, “but my cousin Rachel is only four-foot nine inches tall and when she was in a play…”

“Is she an actress too?” I interrupted.

“No, I’m telling you about years ago when Rachel found out what part she was to get in “The Wizard of oz”, which was her school play, ” Jess continued. “They put all the names of the actors, and the parts assigned to them, on the school notice board.”

“Like they used to do with exam results?” I asked.

“Exactly,” confirmed Jess, “so imagine how down Rachel felt when she read that her part was to be…”

“A dwarf – one of the…” I tried to remember the name.

“The Munchkins!” the thespian who sleeps at my house found the right word.

“No,” laughed Jess, “much worse and more embarrassing than that!”

“The ‘Wicked Witch of the West’?” a young male voice beat me to it.

“No, that would have been great,” scorned Jess, “Rachel was given the role of…. the Shrinking Wicked Witch of the West!”

“Not when the witch has water thrown over her and she shrinks to nothing?” I asked. “But surely she didn’t have any lines?”

“Oh yes she did,” Martin replied holding up his arms and bending his knees, “I’m shrinking!”

I had told Chris I was popping out for a few minutes but I was out for some time… luckily Chris had no great expectations!

Our thespians are the two with the beards!