Thanks for this joke go to Roland in Brisbane.
The Born Identity?
A young woman walks into a bank to draw out some money.
“Can you identify yourself?” the bank teller asks.
“No problem,” she answers.
The young woman reaches into her handbag, delves around and brings out a mirror. She looks into it and says:
“Yes, it’s me alright!”
“I always hate saying goodbye to Caroline – I love her so much that I can’t bear to leave her,” said Chris’s old friend Jo putting his arm around Caroline’s waist.
“I feel exactly the same,” Caroline snuggled against Jo’s broad chest adding, “and it’s all down to you two for introducing us.”
“When first I fell in with love with Chris his visits were never long enough – no matter the length of time we spent together, I always felt it was not enough,” I responded, for a moment remembering those days when I could hardly bear the partings.
Actually it was I who, fancying that our beautiful friend and neighbour would be a perfect match for Jo, cajoled Chris into inviting her to come over to meet the handsome singleton on our terrace one sunny afternoon last summer. Initially reluctant (owing to his reserve) Chris bowed to my “woman’s intuition” and a very convivial time was had by all (especially Jo, who was instantly besotted). Over the ensuing months a friendship developed and love blossomed recently – and how! Isn’t it good to proved right?
Over breakfast this morning Chris and I catted about events the day before.
“I noticed you didn’t say anything when I told Jo and Caroline that I could never get enough of you,” I said, a little piqued.
“You know I’m reserved,” said Chris defensively, “besides, you made it sound like it was all in the past.”
– “Well I couldn’t go around ‘moonstruck’ for nineteen years….”
-“Well I still feel the same way!”
-“Then you should show it by making the appropriate comment when I say something nice! You’re so similar to ‘Doc Martin’ (the character played by Martin Clunes in the British comedy of the same name – he has Asperger’s Syndrome).”
“I’m nothing like him,” Chris said (sounding quite like him!).
My mum (alias Supergran) phoned asking Chris for help with her new washing machine (she can stop trains and speeding bullets but she can’t turn on the washing machine!). So, being a wonderful and dutiful son-in-law (if not so thoughtful a husband), Chris dashed down the road to save the day.
Chris returned with a French tart (the strawberry variety), which he promptly divided that we might share equally in a slightly naughty, but small, early lunch. Then, “in a single bound”, he went out again to look at Supergran’s number four cycle on the new washing machine (Supergran had called again, threatening to hurl – faster than a speeding bullet, stronger than a locomotive – the new machine under a hurtling locomotive!).
“I’m going to improve. I’ll be a better husband for you,” Chris said quickly in mid-bound.
“Ah, but you’ve said that before,” I tutted.
“This time will be different,” Clark flew out the door.
Now, after my sweet fix, and pondering on my own for a while, I’m very glad I mouthed the words “I love you” through the glass door of my studio as he looked across whilst bounding up the steps.
It’s strange how the drive home to Dawlish from Sidmouth seemed so much shorter and quicker than the outward bound journey…but of course it was shorter and faster without the cyclists, then the Crusader caravan in front of me all the way to Exeter; and, nearer to my destination, there was that little detour I made owing to a wrong turn. Admittedly, I wasn’t used to driving Chris’s big Renault Velsatis (favoured by French presidents). It felt rather big for me (even though I have quite a big bottom) and I haven’t driven an automatic since April… also it has a funny key that looks like a small credit card and a starter button like old-fashioned cars used to have (thankfully, not a crank!) . However, I managed to avoid killing any of the many fast, but not so fast as a car, cyclists and the Velsatis took me, in stately fashion, to stylish Sidmouth where I was to lead a “workshop” in the art of painting water in acrylics.
Relieved to arrive intact and on time the day just got better and better. The artists were not only friendly and kind but also intelligent and talented. Any nervousness on my part (“A captain with seven children…”) quickly disappeared and soon I felt as though we were old friends. As a matter of fact most, if not all, were not complete strangers to me because they had come along to my art demonstration last year, and I knew Tony back in the days when he was a young antique dealer (if that is possible) and I was younger still, working in my boyfriend’s antique shop.
“I knew Tony over thirty years ago,” I began to a group of ladies, “when he was dashingly handsome with lovely pink cheeks and thick black…”
“Curly hair,” he laughed.
“But you still have pink cheeks,” I added.
Sadly Tony has lost most, if not all, of his luxuriant locks.
Driving home in the afternoon sunshine – now quite at home with the car of French presidents, and also at home with the East Devon area where I had lived for over four years during my early twenties – I took pleasure in remembering my first car, an old Austin 1300 which had to be towed home on several occasions when it had run out of oil and overheated (it drank almost as much oil as petrol). Those were the days! The steering wheel used to start shaking at 85 mph and other more experienced drivers warned me not to exceed 95 mph or “The king-pin might break” (whatever the king-pin is!) – not on the country lanes, of course… it wouldn’t have been safe to drive at more than 60 on the narrow lanes. It’s all much more sedate these days – I don’t think I exceeded 50 on the main roads today.
Observing the sign for Budleigh Salterton, I was reminded also that I had nearly all my learner driving experience on the stretch of road from Woodbury to Budleigh Salterton – alone with my old boyfriend’s ancient mother in the passenger seat. She still had her driving license (though she’d never taken a test and hadn’t driven for twenty years!) and she was the only person available to sit in the car on those summer evenings long ago. I didn’t pass my test the first around. “Don’t talk to the examiner” people advised. As a result I was so nervous that five minutes into the test my left leg began to shake uncontrollably (it couldn’t have been the right one, which I might have been able to conceal). Next time around, heeding the advice of my boyfriend’s old mum, I wore a pretty see-through blouse and talked incessantly about my need to pass the test. The examiner felt so sorry for me that he let me reverse around a corner again. Eventually I managed not to drive onto the pavement and I passed.
It took five minutes less driving home, then five minutes more to park outside because since the Main Roads Department widened our pavement into a pedestrian and cycle track there is now less room on the road for traffic and nobody wants to stop and let you manoeuvre into a space… if you’re lucky enough to get one. But I didn’t get stressed – I’d had such a good day.
At the end of the day at almost the end of a particularly busy week I have a very short joke and some photos of the highlights of my week for you.
The Baby Jesus
It was all quiet in the stable until the three wise men turned up on the scene. As they walked in one of them unwisely bumped his head on a low beam.
“Jesus Christ!” he exclaimed (which wasn’t a profanity in those days).
“Now that’s a much appropriate name than Fred!” said Mary to Joseph.
All through the wintertime they hid themselves away, ashamed to show their faces, afraid of what others might say… until I found them there and very soon agreed, “Never were such a sorry lot of gnomes in greater need!”
After a while, and a bit of coaxing from shady corners of the garden, the gnomes began to trust me and see that I meant no harm but good; and once they realised that they were not being earmarked for the rubbish dump they began to come out of the woodwork and queue up on the garden table in the hope that I would choose them for a makeover (I think they feared I might get fed up with gnome painting). Even the frogs, toad, chameleon and Harry the plastic heron made their way into the line ~ they didn’t see why they should be discriminated against (must have heard us talking about “Big Brother Brussels”) ~ but they needn’t have worried because I love them all equally.
Today I sent most of the little rascals back into the garden where they are now happy to wait for the promised heatwave next weekend.
