“Shall we take an umbrella?” I asked as I put my head out from my studio door.

“Is it raining?” inquired Chris. (He doesn’t like to be cluttered with paraphernalia when out for a walk, in fact he’d prefer to go coat-less unless it’s actually raining.)

“No, but there are these big drips – it has been raining,” I admitted.

Chris agreed it might be prudent to take my pink umbrella and then I remembered that I always get wet when my husband holds the umbrella so I urged him to take his big black umbrella also. He paused, probably remembered my usual complaints about peculiar angles and different heights, and he located his own, grand scale, umbrella. But we didn’t need them at first; on our way out we just used them as jaunty walking sticks.

In truth, it wasn’t the best day to go out walking. Yes, we’d had one false dawn since our arrival back from Australia – on Friday – but the weekend was dismal, cold and wet. Yesterday we didn’t even step out of the house. I put on my new cuddly warm jumper (only size 10 and half-price, maybe because they got the sizing wrong!) and developed a kind of sleeping sickness that made it impossible for me to move from the sofa until bedtime. Chris, too, had sleeping sickness but less severe than mine and he discovered he could muster the energy to use the television remote control. What a terrible day it was, but I managed to stay awake for “The Love Bug” movie and laughed at the same things I found funny as a child.

So you see, we needed to get out for some exercise this morning, no matter the weather; especially as I’m embarking on another new diet – the Dr. Mosely “Eight-Week Diet Plan” (except that I shall have to do it for life because my inclination is always to put on weight!). I call it “The Black-Shirt Diet” because of another famous Mosely. It sounds quite easy because you can eat anything… except for normal bread, potatoes, rice and pasta. Put like that it doesn’t come across as easy but I must “endeavour to persevere”, as Chief George said in the Western, “The Outlaw Josey Wales”. And, thank Heaven, you can eat low GI bread, (which is not to be confused with short American soldiers who might, nonetheless, be quite tasty!).

Of course it rained and we were glad that we’d brought along our individual umbrellas. Chris carried his sturdy umbrella in his unusual, up and forward advance, fashion whilst I opted for the lower, keep dry all-round, method. Chris exaggerated that I nearly had his eye out and caught his ear twice; I couldn’t help it – my smaller umbrella seemed to have more prongs. But it was all said good-naturedly and the wetter it became, the more we laughed; the exercise made us exhilarated and we were rather pleased that, unusually for us, we had come prepared.

We were not the only people walking to and from Dawlish Warren in the rain this morning. Several others greeted us on their morning constitutional. Our comrades with umbrellas were particularly chipper and smiley, one chap raised his umbrella in a grand gesture as if it was a hat; the ones without umbrellas smiled wryly as if to say they would “endeavour to persevere”. All this walking has made me hungry. Now if you’ll excuse me I must try to find something to eat!

Here are a few jokes I picked up in Australia. I hope my old school friend Sally, in Cyprus, will enjoy them.

A Quiet Drive in the Countryside

A couple were on a drive through the countryside in silence after a heated argument. As they passed a farm with some cows, goats and pigs the husband broke the silence.

“Relatives of yours?” he asked sarcastically.

“Yep,” the wife replied, “the in-laws!”

Dressed for the Occasion?

What’s the difference between a poorly dressed man on a tricycle and a well dressed man on a bicycle? …. Attire!

Must Have Been Adopted

A fifteen year old lad was particularly disgruntled with his parents when they changed the broadband password as a punishment for spending too much time on PlayStation, not attending school, turning his bedroom into a pigsty and for being rude to his elders. He could hardly believe that he could be the son of such unfair people. In his wretched state the teenager got to thinking that he was nothing like his parents in any way – not in looks, way of thinking, dressing, morals or values. He began to wonder if he really was their son. Shortly he became convinced.

“You can tell me the truth,” he mumbled as he came into the family kitchen. “Was I adopted?”

The mother looked at the father as if to ask, “Shall I tell him?”, and he nodded.

“Okay son,” she began, “you were adopted but it didn’t work out and we had to have you back!”

“Crikey,” I thought, “they are a strange couple!”

I had noticed them when we were waiting to board at Gate 10, Sydney International Airport. In truth I had clocked several couples of the same ilk, all middle-aged with the husbands rather older than their female counterparts. The most striking thing about each of them was their lack of colour. All the males had iron grey hair cut short like men in the fifties and they all wore glasses; their clothes were plain and drab, almost nondescript, as were their facial features. The females wore knee length dresses in charcoal grey or black with a white pattern, and they all wore black shoes with flat heels. Without exception, they had long grey, or mousy, hair, which each wore loose or pinned with a big black bow. They wore no make-up and their skins were ashen, belying the fact that they had probably been in Sydney during the recent summer heatwave with temperatures of thirty-eight degrees plus.

But it wasn’t so much their odd looks that made me think they were strange. We were on the night flight back to England, practically the whole trip was spent in darkness. Now most travellers try to sleep or watch films during the black flights – when they aren’t eating (which isn’t very often these days) – but not the couple at the end of my row.

“I hope no-one else takes this seat,” I had said with a smile and gesturing to the empty seat between us as we awaited take-off. (In the hope of having extra leg room Chris and I had opted for two aisle seats opposite one another.)

The lady with white skin and mousy long hair acquiesced with a hint of a smile but said nothing, and after take-off she took out her lap-top computer and started typing. The bespectacled grey husband to her left, and almost out of my line of sight, produced note books and they worked together assiduously during the thirteen and a half hours of the first leg of the journey, stopping only occasionally for the scant meals and a little nap.

“They must be co-writing a book together,” I thought, adjusting my eye-mask to try to block out the overhead lights.

There were some other lights, too, blazing in the dark and, sure enough, they shone on grey bespectacled heads and weird black bows….

“Maybe they are all lecturers going to a convention,” I conjectured to myself, returning to my seat and pulling on my eye mask again.

On the second leg of the long journey home-bound we were in the same seats – they, too, were heading for London Heathrow. Now she wore a different dress in black and white, and I had changed from white to blue but still wore my orange cardigan on top, like a beacon in the blackness.

“I hope it won’t be a full flight,” I said, patting the seat next to me affectionately.

She smiled back broadly for the first time and, after take-off, I opened the tray next to me so that she could place her notebooks on it.

The overhead lights continued to blaze after the snack and my two films, and I moved two rows up for a sleep on three empty seats. At length I came back to my seat and patted Chris’s arm.

“I think they might be ministers,” I leaned across and whispered loudly, “I think I saw a New Testament.”

At last the pilot announced the beginning of our descent and soon the lap-top computer, the numerous notebooks and the small leather-bound book with gilt edged pages were stowed away.

“May I ask what you are?” I said at last. “I think you must be famous writers, or journalists, or lecturers?” (Thought I’d leave out my final conclusion in case I appeared to be too snoopy.)

Now she laughed and shook her head of long mousy hair.

“We’re just Christians studying our scriptures,” she said.

“Not ministers?”

“Just Christians,” she chuckled.

“Well Bless you!” I responded.

I didn’t know what else to say.

“Blimey!” I thought.

It was still dark when we boarded the coach for Exeter at Heathrow Bus Station. Our breaths were like puffs of smoke. A few more passengers were picked up at Reading. A big grey person, wearing grey stretchy jogger pants, glasses and a big woolly hat, lumbered on and plonked herself directly behind us although the bus was nearly empty. Soon the stench of tobacco and body odour sent me to the other side of the bus, and Chris and I were once again divided by an aisle. And as the sun rose to reveal the frosty landscape through the morning mist I saw last summer’s cow parsley resurrected in sparkling white. The sun gained strength and the frost thawed.

Geoff picked us up from Exeter and soon we were home. We phoned Mum and she nearly cried with joy. Shortly my sister Mary came over with shopping and fresh made soup so that we wouldn’t have to go out again. Alien no more.

Having eaten like birds at breakfast time Chris and I were starving when we arrived at Manly, Sydney, at lunchtime (we are staying with my cousin David and Wendy at the Parramatta end of Sydney until Monday, when we will be bound for home in England). Firstly we headed to those “Golden Arches” for a couple of sixty cent ice creams and a dollar frozen pineapple and lime drink, then we went to the fish and chip shop next door for a substantial lunch of two fish and one portion of chips; we had been enticed by the sign outside that said, “You won’t be disappointed!”.

“Is your fish really nice?” I asked the man at the counter.

He smiled and assured me that they were the best in town (like the ugly duckling). Upon going outside to find a table for two we noticed a most disappointed seagull on one of the tables – the table was bereft of anything to eat.

I think the man who served us had taken a shine to me, or he thought I was from the Trade Description Board (if there is still such a place) because six small, but delicious-looking, golden battered cod pieces accompanied by twenty or so crispy brown chips were brought out to our table. Needless to say we didn’t manage to eat them all but, even after feeding the seagull with the broken leg and the hopeful face, the remaining “far from disappointing” left-over pieces were brought back with us.

After wandering through the town, going to the shops and nipping back to the car park twice Chris and I went to the beautiful beach at Manly to sunbathe. Funnily enough, before long Chris and I were feeling peckish again. Luckily I had in my big beach-bag some “Twisties”, the cheesy Australian snack of choice. I put the “Twisties” between us on the towels so that we could reach down and dip in every now and then. My second Twisty was in my hand at head level, and I was just about to pop it into my mouth when the crispy tasty morsel was stolen from me – even Chris turned around because some sand flew into his face.

“Hey!” I thought, believing it to be a horrid child behind us but when I turned around it was a seagull. He turned away as if to pretend it wasn’t him but when I held another Twisty out in my other hand all pretence had disappeared. There were a few titters (not twitters) on the beach as sunbathers raised their tired heads and laughed (or raised their eyebrows). My audacious seagull fought the flock that followed into his territory and suddenly lunch was over… He squawked and stamped his feet.

“He’s in a bit of a twist,” said Chris.

Chris always manages to say the right thing.