Author Archives: sallyorpwood@rocketmail.com

Legging It

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“I’m not so sure that I have the right figure for leggings,” I said to Chris as he handed me a two-pack of leggings from Sainsbury’s.

“You have a lovely figure,” he answered unwavering. (I know, he’s well-trained!)

“But leggings? I don’t think I have anything appropriate to wear with them,” I said, popping them into the trolley.

Actually, all I wanted was a nice soft and stretchy pair of sports trousers that wouldn’t make me feel trussed up, as I did in thick jeans with nasty waistbands and studs; bearing in mind that I’ve not long returned from Australia where I was accustomed to wearing summer tops and shorts. The kind of trousers I had in mind were not to be found in Sainsbury’s or any other store that I had been in that day (maybe everyone else had the same idea) and I was coming around to the notion that leggings would be comfortable and sensible.

After my shower the next morning I spent half an hour or so deciding upon which outfit to wear. The snow had disappeared and the temperature was on the up, maybe eight degrees, so the new half-price dress-length jumper with the roll neck, which I had bought to go with the leggings, would have been far too hot. A similar length summer dress from Australia looked plain daft with the navy blue leggings. A pink jumper of normal length – just over the hips – looked weird. A jerkin over the top looked even more weird! I had a laugh though.

I wished I had bought the next size down – the sixteen to eighteen size had no hold and plenty of growing room which sagged and creased at the joints. At length, I pulled the saggy leggings off my ample legs and replaced them with my old boot-leg cut sports trousers, which suddenly looked a lot better than they had before.

Upon reaching the top of the staircase I found Chris was waiting in anticipation. He eyed me up and down, checking for anything peculiar.

“What was so funny?” he asked.

“Oh, could you hear me?” I laughed.

“Well,” my husband began, “I wondered what on earth could be so hilarious while you were getting dressed.”

“I was trying on my new leggings and… (laughing again) when I caught sight of myself in the mirror I thought I looked like Mr Pickwick!”

And if you don’t have a mental picture of Charles Dickens’ famous character Mr Pickwick, here are some images I collected from the Internet…

 

 

On Yer Plane!

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It all seems so long ago, the last day of sunshine. But even the penultimate day, when Lorelle came down and Roland brought young Mason over for our fond farewells, the weather in Brisbane had been unsettled. Really it wasn’t until my last day that the rain had stopped with finality, eventually, after about a week (or so it felt), and the sun looked like it was out to stay. Someone said it was going to be thirty-one degrees and we celebrated that, and my imminent departure, by driving out in my brother Bill’s vintage FC Holden,1958 model.

It was perfect. The temperature soared and we wound down all the windows, just like in the old days when we were kids and none of the old cars had air conditioning. The FC’s souped-up engine purred as it idled while waiting at lights and roared as it tore away on green, and loose strands of my long hair lashed my face.

“Is it too much?” I asked Lita who, on account of being smaller, was in the centre on the bench seat at the back (my nephew Michael was on the other side).

“No,” she said, “I love it!” (She had already given up trying to keep her hair in place.)

“Wellington Point?” Bill asked and everyone made sounds of agreement.

All roads lead to Wellington Point if you have a mind to revisit Gumdale along the way. The FC Holden homed in on Molle Road, which is where we spent most of our formative years. Our old road still floods, especially after a week of heavy rain; the  man-made lakes (flood measures) cannot contain the force of nature. Bill, Henry (our younger brother just down from me) and I laughed wryly, recalling our falls and spills, and days off school because we couldn’t get out when there were also floods at Chelsea Road. Dear old Gumdale… it’s full of millionaires now, but they still get floods. Nature doesn’t discriminate.

We all love Wellington Point, not too far away and full of happy memories from our childhood. Our late father used to take us on exciting, but precarious walks, up on the cliff; or out to the island when the tide was out – and you couldn’t be too long or you’d be stranded by the incoming tide. We trusted our dad. If he said, “Jump and I’ll catch you,” you jumped… and he caught you.

Henry jumped out of the way of a couple of vicious magpies that had attacked him on both of his last forays to Wellington Point. He had thought they “had it in” for him but this time, without his glasses on, they didn’t recognise him; and we managed to park alright.

We didn’t stay long as I had to be back in time to pack finally. For a special treat my Aussie family picked up some fresh prawns from Capalaba en route and we ate them under the gazebo in Bill’s garden.

It seems so long ago, so much has happened. There was that Chilean lady at Melbourne Airport, she couldn’t speak any English and I took her under my wing; then I lost her to an official for a short time while I went through security – then I worried that he wasn’t a bona fide official and she might be sold as a sex slave; luckily, she spotted me at Duty Free and we ran all the way to Gate 8, where I deposited her with the right Airline officials (hopefully!). I found I could speak Spanish after all – “Gate Octo!”. Then there was my perfect travelling companion, Evelyn, a lovely lady from Berlin. She said she couldn’t speak English but we understood each other very well…even if the flight attendants couldn’t. In a nearly full flight we were lucky enough to have about the only spare seat available between us so we managed to spread out a little and get some sleep. 

How can it be only nine days since Chris picked me up from Heathrow? Two degrees below zero! The road outside our house was dug up for resurfacing and the queue of traffic was over a mile long, and then we had to park in a road around the corner… We had to drag our cases in the freezing cold… And I cried – twice. Then came the worst snow in thirty years… 

The snow has gone now but while it lasted my heart was warmed by a visit from Lady Penelope and her parents – Bless them! On the day before it snowed they drove down from Brighton and “the rest is history”, as they say.

 

 

On Yer Bike!

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The trouble with golf courses (when you’re out for a nice cycle ride) is that many of the little paths just come to an end and you find yourself on the green. Windaroo Lakes (near Brisbane, Australia) is a prime example, which is where I was yesterday morning, and what a lovely ride I had. It was all so beautiful and wonderfully kept. Really, you’d never think that they would allow cyclists to ride amongst the golfers; but I wasn’t too worried because I had on my cycle helmet over my baseball cap.

I went down every path, circumnavigating all the greens and fairways (is that what they are called?) and reached as far as I could go without having to climb the fence into the adjacent golf course, which is separated but still part of the same club; and both conveniently border the Windaroo Memorial Peace Park, which is where I was at first – and from whence I had become intrigued to find my way into the course.

My first stop for a bit of photography was where a couple of elderly gentlemen had drawn up in their buggy only a few minutes before and they were setting up on the green. One of the chaps saw me taking photos and, no doubt concerned about all his chattels in the unattended buggy, he asked:

“Are you a photographer?” (Isn’t it funny? I often get asked that.)

“No,” I said smiling (and quite pleased that I looked so professional), “I’m an artist looking for beauty.”

“Where are you from?” he smiled back.

“Well, I’m Australian but I live in England,” I responded.

“I can tell that,” he said, “where abouts in England?”

“Devon,” I answered and he smiled and nodded as if that was good enough for him.

“Do you know Devon?” I asked.

“No,” he said, “but it’s a nice place – isn’t it?” 

“Yes,” I said and, obviously satisfied with my answer, he turned back to his pals and the game underway.

 

“What a nice old golfer,” I thought to myself before continuing on around the course.

 

Farther on around the other side I had to stop where the path divided a green and two very smartly dressed young Japanese men were about to tee off.

“Try not to hit me!” I joked.

“Do not ‘wolly’,” the handsome one in a pink polo shirt called back, holding a thumb up to indicate in case I couldn’t hear.

Some minutes later I was around the other side of one of the lakes and observed a gaggle of geese heading towards me. Of course I simply had to hang on until they were closer so I could get some good shots of them, which I did until I heard loud whistles… It was my nice Japanese golfers, no doubt “wollied” that they might hit me with a miss-shot if I didn’t move. No trouble, I had enjoyed my photographic session and promptly cycled on to the next bit of green.

Yesterday’s ride was so good that this morning I decided to cycle around the other part of the course that I couldn’t get into previously. There was a way in from end of the housing estate (what luck!) and I made a special point of getting off my bike when walking over the nicely tended grass. The path led me to an intersection where a young groundsman was busy repairing a post. I thought he looked a bit surprised to see me so I decided to speak.

“It’s so beautiful,” I began, “and I take it you don’t mind me cycling through here?”

“Not at all, Darling,” he said, “just not between the hours of six-thirty and five o’clock!”

“Well, I’ll just mosey on down that road,” I said (not mentioning yesterday). “Does it go back to the main road eventually?”

And it did.

Where Have all the People Gone?

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Back when I was very young and the world population was only a mere 3 billion there never seemed to be a shortage of people. Even out in the bush at Gumdale, where I spent my first ten years on our three and an half acre property, you could look out of the window or be in the garden and see people: Mrs Hersom might be out by her gate, chatting to Mrs Conelly and Mrs Hood might call out to them, “No time to talk, I’m on my way to Wynnum!” and she’d hurry on walking down our dirt road for about a quarter of a mile to the bus stop by the main road; or Mr. Bark, always dressed in a dark grey suit and tie, might be cycling past on his way to Crockford’s shop at the corner by the main road – he used to wear bicycle clips to prevent his good trousers from getting greasy from the chain – and if he saw us children, for a bit of fun he would hold his hand out for shake, which we always responded to (if we were quick enough); or the drivers of the water trucks would stop to fill up at the mains water tap (set high for the trucks) just up the road and mad Rosa would come out wearing a mini-skirt and swinging an empty bucket as an excuse to flirt with the water-men; then there was eccentric  Mr. Arundel driving past – he’d slow down to greet the ladies with a nod or a “Good morning”, and they wouldn’t get so much dust in their faces; and there was Mr. Shilling, drunk as usual, and ugly as sin with a huge nose covered in purple broken blood vessels; and there was smiley Mr. Holland who drove a VW Beetle (which could go through floods without breaking down) and stopped at everyone’s letter boxes by their gates, which, come to think of it, is probably why people lingered out by their gates – Mr. Holland always had time for a cheerful few words about road access (in the floods) or news about the neighbours.

Now the world population is around 7.6 billion and I’m house-sitting at my friend Lorelle’s place on the Sunshine Coast about 70 miles north of Brisbane but not one person is in sight. There are houses to the left of me, houses to the right, to the back, and across the road…. I know there are people here – from my bed I can hear them banging doors and starting engines from around six in the morning – but I don’t see them. There are no ladies out by their letter boxes, I guess the wives and mothers are part of the weekday exodus to the roads. Thibault, the young Frenchman (Lorelle’s other guest) is still in his room (and it’s lunch-time).

There are thousands of cars on the roads. You don’t see many people walking, except up on the beach path (and most of the keep-fitters drive there). A few cyclists make it to the beach path for a spin early in the morning but after nine o’clock it is too hot. I don’t blame them.

But where are all the cars going? Are they all working people, driving for a living, driving to work? At all hours? There must be a heck of a lot of sales-reps in Australia! Where are all the retired people? No need to conjecture, actually, I know the answer to these questions.

The truth is that everyone is at Kawana Shopping Centre a few  minutes walk from here. I went this morning. Kawana Shopping Centre is a haven for people of all ages. It  is beautiful and cool, and there is everything there that you could possibly want – even watch a film there after your pedicure and massage, after seeing the bank manager and booking your holiday. But you must leave early in order to find a parking spot (hence the early exodus). I was there before the last few spaces were filled, and there was a queue for my spot as I left.  Yes, I know I could have walked… but it would have been hot walking back… with the ice cream. 

Deep in the Jungle

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Deep in the jungle, in the rainforest at Springbrook, which is down the coast from Brisbane, beyond the Scenic Rim, and past Canungra (famous for its pies and hangover cures), there are all sorts of strange and marvellous sights to behold. Here are some of them…

And now my “Tarzan” is back in frosty England, probably yodelling from the cold!

What Kind of Fool am I?

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You may be like Sammy Davis Junior (well, similar) and Barbara Windsor, by thinking that the late Anthony Newley was “the most consummate performer” but, sorry, neither Chris, Roland nor I would agree with you. We three each remember Anthony Newley as Matthew Mugg in the 1967 version of Dr Dolittle. Call me a fool if you must but I still recall the disappointment, when as a young child, my ears first encountered the strains of “After Today” sung in the inimitable fashion of Anthony Newley; and, of course, there was that silly giant snail! 
 
Actually, Chris does rather a good impression of Anthony Newley singing “What kind of Fool am I?”, as I found out a couple of days ago when we were discussing Dr Dolittle for some strange reason. Our friend Roland, with whom we are staying in Brisbane at present, confessed also to be being disappointed with the much vaunted film of the time starring popular actor Rex Harrison; the sixteen-year-old Roland, wearing a groovy white denim jacket and brown flares, had thought he was going to see a wild-life documentary. Needless to say, a fake giant pink snail did not live up to his wildest expectations! And he was beaten up after the film, hopefully not because he sneered at Anthony Newley’s rendition of “After Today” (which he was to remember ever after).
 
And yet, it is the song, “What Kind of Fool am I?”, which stands out foremost in our minds; perhaps everyone over fifty in the Western world have vague subconscious memories of Anthony Newley singing with the stars of the time – like Shirley Bassey and Sammy Davis Junior – on those Saturday night television programmes of the sixties.
 
“What kind of fool am I?” Chris, Roland and I crooned, warbled and droned before bursting into fits of laughter. Then, in between hiccups, and maybe feeling a bit unkind for making fun, I said:
 
“I’m a nice person really.”
 
“Only ten percent of woman are as nice as you,” said our friend.
 
“Oh thank you,” I responded quite pleased.
 
Roland paused before adding dryly:
 
“The rest are nicer.”
 
Then we all cracked up again.
 
 

Anthony Newley What Kind Of Fool Am I? (Best Version) – YouTube

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tJN7TEC0UYM

 

 
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9gm-J2yxZog
Jul 29, 2017 – Uploaded by Erin Shoop

The joyous song “After Today,” sung by Anthony Newley, From the 1967 musical film, Doctor Dolittle …

 
 
 
 
 
 

Not in the Doldrums

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Just because I haven’t been very active (or not at all) on my blog for a while (ages!) it doesn’t mean that I’ve been in the doldrums. Actually, a stiff and somewhat turbulent wind brought us swiftly to Australia and it seems as though we haven’t stopped since.

Chris and I recovered at Bill and Lita’s in Brisbane; bought a shiny new red bike from a garage sale for just $10 (looking foward to riding it); and went down to New South Wales – all in the first week.

Then it was “Out West” to Toowoomba and the Darling Downs for a taste of both city  and country life; perhaps I’ll tell you about our adventures with Gary, our self-appointed tourguide when I have more time.

Back to Roland’s not far from the Gold Coast we did spot of fishing and enjoying the wildlife, then on to the Sunshine Coast to see my old friend Lorelle. And now I’ve run out of time… as we’re going out.

But before I go I’ll tell you what Chris said when I asked if I had spelt “doldrums” right…and I added:

“That is the place where there’s no wind – isn’t it?”

“Yes,” Chris answered, “It’s the place you want to be when you’re referring to gastric conditions.”

Ever the wit!

All I Wanted for Christmas

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“What would you like for Christmas?” Chris asked of me.

“Nothing. I have everything I want,” I said, “except… perhaps?”

“Yes?”

“Perhaps you could write me a poem?”

That’s approximately how the conversation went just before our first Christmas together twenty-one years ago. Since then I’ve a poem for every Christmas, birthday, Valentine’s Day and even those days when nothing was special but I needed a lift. To date I have seventy-five poems from my beloved. Most are humorous, some are romantic and they chart our life together. All show how well Chris knows me.

I wasn’t disappointed this year, either; I had all I wanted for Christmas and more – he wrote me two poems! And here they are below… Hope you’re all enjoying Christmas!

Also see the additions to the family this year, including two day old little Lillibet.

 

BIBI’S BEAUTIFUL BABY   (Bibi is me – Grandma!)

                  Well, nearly my baby!)

 

My sweet baby Penny, she’s top of the tots

with her velvet brown eyes and her freedom from spots

and her giggling laugh in her baby culottes

she’s the cream of the crop, and the queen of the cots!

 

She’s cute and adorable, my baby P.

and I’ve waited so long for her sweetness to see

But now that she’s here I’m as proud as can be

She’s put  joy in my heart, and she’s my cup of tea! 

 

When she beams me a smile I can feel my heart melt

it’s as though all along she would know how I felt

and of all the fine aces that could have been dealt

She’s just so “Pennylicious”, (and that’s not mis-spelt!)

 

She’s a real “fashionista”, all thanks to her Mum

dressed up to the nines, she’s as sweet as a plum

and when she’s all sleepy, to dreams she’ll succumb

while I gently ponder on what she’ll become

 

 

As I gaze in her innocent eyes I can see

all the life and the love that was always to be

and I know that this beautiful child is part-me

she’s so nearly my daughter, this sweet Penny P.

 

So, Lady Penelope, always be sure

that your BiBi will love you, whatever the score

and when you’re grown up and have boyfriends galore

I’ll still be there for you, it’s you I adore!

 

 For Penelope, and Her BiBi Sally, on Christmas Day 2017

     

 

 LEISURE – REVISITED 

A Pastiche,  with apologies to W H Davies

(A Christmas poem for Sally  -December 25th 2017)

 

What is this life if, full of woe,

we have no time to take it slow

 

No time to stop and take our ease

enjoying leisure as we please

 

No time to lose ourselves in song

and feel the music all day long

 

No time to lay amongst the flowers

and make sweet love for hours and hours

 

No time to pause in Life’s mad rush

to seek the peace of gentle hush

 

No time to gaze in wonderment

at Nature’s beauty, heaven-sent

No time to share our happiness

with  all the friends who we possess

 

No time to take our exercise

to shrink our waists, which we despise!

 

No time to spend a day alone

and carry on without the phone

 

No time, even, to write this verse

(which as you see is getting worse!)

 

A poor life this if, full of woes,

we’ve barely time to blow our nose

 

So…please remember, it’s just fine

to take a break at Christmastime!!

 

 

 

Hapless in London – A Tale of One City

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It may not have been the best of times but it was certainly almost the worst of times. It was the season of Darkness alright…

But yesterday began well. I awoke in darkness (not so bright but early) in Brighton to the sound of Penelope cooing and laughing. She was soon out of her cot and into my bed for a bit more sleep and cuddles; and when she awoke again my baby granddaughter touched my cheek and smiled. What at darling! Yes it was a good start waking up at Jaimy and James’ place. 

We all kissed goodbye at Brighton Station. I knew I would probably arrive at Australia House on The Strand well before my three-fifteen appointment but I thought it best to leave plenty of time and maybe they would let me in early. Chris’s excellent maps and timetables made for a trouble-free journey into the city and, indeed, I had a couple of hours to kill. First stop Australia House to see if they could fit me in… Buzz. Please? No? But I could enter a half an hour earlier and wait inside; my appointment would be at exactly three-fifteen.

No problem. I’d buy a chocolate milkshake at McDonald and have it for lunch in Trafalgar Square, right down the other end of The Strand; and en route I’d pass the Strand Palace Hotel where I worked for a couple of months as an accounts clerk when I was seventeen; and I’d talk to the doorman. Richard the doorman was rather impressed that I was so interested in the place and he informed me that employees may still have their breakfast, lunch and dinner there if they wish. 

The first sign that all was not going to go to plan was the long wait at McDonald only to find that they were all out of any milkshakes. I took my McDonald “coffee away” down to Trafalgar Square and I took photographs in spite of the grey day. It was nevertheless exciting to be in “town” with the tourists, the city folk, the pigeons and the street performers; the air was alive with the music from a violinist playing electric violin in front of the National Gallery.

I was just standing in the square with my mobile phone camera poised when a handsome man, possibly Egyptian, walked down the steps. He wore a smart navy woollen overcoat and a red scarf. He broke into a beaming smile when he saw me and I smiled back. What a lovely greeting from a stranger! We didn’t speak, though I thought he wanted to (you can tell), and he gestured that he’d take my photograph for me. I waved my “No thanks” and he understood. He walked to the fountain and lingered there a long while, perhaps hoping that I would join him. Instead of joining him I took his photograph when he wasn’t looking. He didn’t look quite as handsome without his winning smile (which didn’t exactly work this time, but only because I’m married). I stayed the other side of the fountain and eventually, I was drawn by the music up to the road. The sun came out while I watched the musician and the crowd, and the man dressed up as a Star Wars creature.

At length the time came for me to wander back leisurely to Australia House.

I was number 84. Numbers 85, 86 and 87 all went before me while I waited. I had a feeling that the Chinese Australian young lady would be my clerk.

“I don’t like these photographs,” she said, looking at the multiple choices from slightly grim to extremely grim. “You appear to be smiling!”

Oh no!

“What about these?” I handed her more.

“I check,” she left and returned. “No, the quality of the paper isn’t good enough and one is slightly blurry, you’ll have to get some more done and be back by four o’clock – we close at four.”

“But it’s half past three nearly…”

As soon as I stepped out of Australia House I was hit by a bucket of rain. It continued to pour in torrents as I raced down The Strand to Charing Cross Underground Station, which is where I had to locate my specified photographer – the closest to Australia House. The pavements ended in puddles that wet my socks and my smart cerise coat was soaked.  I entered the subway from the wrong way and had to ask a couple of hobos if they knew the photo place; they seemed surprised to be asked such a question by a drenched, panting woman. They wanted to help but didn’t know. At last I met a railway man who pointed me in the right direction.

Like a whack in my face, the shop was closed! I had visions of spending the night with my hobo friends and was about to cry when the railway man turned up with the photographer. Hurrah! But could he open up, take my photos, print them and take my eight pounds in less than seven minutes?

Yes, he could. He kindly gave me a tissue to wipe away the streaks of mascara all down cheeks and suggested that I look in the mirror. Wet hair stuck to my head, no makeup and water still shining all over my face. But time was running out! 

“They want me to look ugly,” I said defeated, “they can have me just as I am.”

And the nice photographer took me at my word. A few minutes later I was running through the puddles back up to Australia House; in my pilot case (Chris’s) were six of the ugliest photos I’ve ever seen of myself.

The clock at the end of The Strand chimed four o’clock. It was quite a long chime and I wondered if I could make it to the Passport Department door, like in the films… where they always make it in the nick of time. The chimes ended two seconds before I buzzed. the receptionists were still there.

“Go to the Consulate door around the corner,” the bearded receptionist suggested.

 

“Calm down, Sally,” said the nice older Aussie gentleman who received people into the embassy.

And he gave me a tissue to wipe off the wet black ink that had got onto one of my new photos. And he called the Chinese Australian girl to pick up my gorgeous photos. She pulled a face and so did I. But she accepted them. She had to after all her previous objections… and all I had been through.

I arrived home at eleven-thirty at night. Some trains had been delayed, some were too full to squeeze any more into – there were problems at Waterloo, a very appropriate place for battles of all sorts. Some people were extremely kind and rallied round, as you might expect from people on the same side. Richard the audio man from Chichester was lovely and helpful – he has three brothers, one of whom is an ascetic minister who spends two months a year in a Swedish retreat (so interesting, the things people tell you on trains). And Nigel, the civil servant from near Salisbury, was my constant companion when I needed one most – after the packed train departed the station without me. He was an interesting chap, too; a world traveller who had worked three hundred miles “out west” from Brisbane when he was in a different profession – something to do with gas deposits. My Chris, too, was one of the stalwarts. He picked me up at Exeter St Davids and bought me a chocolate milkshake before driving me home.

My new Australian passport should arrive on Saturday. When I arrive at airport Customs in less than three weeks I guess I shall have to joke about the photograph. I know what to say – it’s what a Customs officer told me many years ago:

“If you look like your passport photograph, you’re not well enough to travel!”

Vis-à-Vis

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“Have you got me a visa yet?” I inquired of my better half just last week.

“Oh,” Chris pondered for a second before the look on his face confirmed what I had been thinking, “no!”

My Aussie passport had expired in March and Chris had told me very confidently that I need not worry about applying for a new one until we’re actually in Australia – ” no point in going up to London when it’s so easy to nip into a post office over there” – and I could travel over on a visa, as Chris does. Being an agreeable and dutiful wife, I went along with this idea, even though it rather went against the grain; it’s a bit strange having to obtain a visa to enter one’s own homeland.

It seemed a bit odd, too, when I couldn’t enter my citizenship of Australia on the E-visa application form. My computer didn’t like it either and it played up all the long while that I filled out the form and filled out the form again… several times.

Apparently Chris’s visa had taken only a matter of hours to appear (months ago… when he had applied and forgot about me!). I waited and waited for the good news. In the evening of the second day I received the email – “Terribly sorry but we don’t give our citizens visas; they have to renew their passports.” (Or something like that.)  But I’m supposed to be going in less than three weeks! Or perhaps not?

“Do you want the good news or the bad news first?” my beloved asked bringing in our morning cups of tea. 

The look of horror on my face was not to be borne and Chris hurriedly explained. Passport applications normally require up to four weeks to process… Oh no! But it should be alright because they have a priority service. Thank God! Good old Australia house!”

No doubt feeling guilty, Chris had been up for hours ahead of me finding out all the information I needed from the Internet. However, I was still feeling sick to my stomach with anxiety.

“How can I help you?” came the reassuring voice of a middle-aged lady with a familiar sing-song accent.

I must have been the first person to call her; it was one second past nine in the morning.  From that first moment I knew that I was in safe hands and I could breathe more easily.

So tomorrow I shall be off early on the train to Brighton to see my darling Penelope Sweet Pea (now over six months old) and on Wednesday I’ll break the journey home by calling into Australia House on The Strand ( or is it Memory Lane – I used to be an accounts clerk at Strand Palace Hotel when I was seventeen). You have to make an appointment and apply in person. Getting an Australian Passport in England is strictly “Vis-a-vis”! But, hopefully, there will be no unpleasant confrontation. And Chris avoided that by arranging my whole trip beautifully. Bless him!

And here are some photographs of my friend Reuben’s new gallery in Teignmouth where I did a bit of drawing last week…