“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 that time of year here in England when, bucked by a sunny day, we go into the garden to weed, clean up and think about planting flowers. Yesterday was just such a day for me and, after planting some young bedding plants in the pots, I couldn’t help but notice the sorry state of my beloved gnomes, most of which were ashen-faced from lack of sunshine (and vitamin D after a terribly disappointing summer last year) or they were suffering from gnome eczema; in fact, some of them needed a complete face-lift. Luckily, I enjoy a bit of gnome cosmetic surgery and make-overs…

Unfortunately, I didn’t marry a frog prince… but I did the next best thing and married the brother of a frog – well, not exactly a frog but definitely not a toad; he was a “Roast Beef” who married a frog, has lived with frogs for most of his life, and has a frog sprog, so by my reckoning my brother-in-law can be counted as a frog, albeit with a small “f”  (which doesn’t mean feeble, rather, fairly froggy). At any rate, Glynn lives in Le Conquet, Brittany, and speaks Froggish or French (si vous preferrez). Oh I do so love l’accent de grenouilles (so much more pleasant than an accent on miserable toads, which, incidentally, should never be kissed).

Whilst I’m on the subject of frogs, I’ll remind you that our friend Roland in Australia is a bit of a frog – no, he’s not French, just a bit of a frog… as the photographs taken a few months ago will prove (I was visiting his pad at the time).

To be honest, the main reason for the frog angle to my blog today is because I have a frog joke from none other than Roly.

An Unusual Pick-up Line

Before bringing me a cup of tea in bed this morning Chris received this request for accommodation on our Airbnb site (Chris answers to Sally in this instance because we share management of our site):

“Hi Sally,

I’m registered for a four day training at the Sea School of Embodiment. As of right now, I’m just booking this for myself only. If my friend also joins the training, I may want her to stay with me. I will be sure to keep you updated, if you accept me.”

Annabelle (from New York)

Delighted to have an inquiry from America, Chris wrote back:

Dear Annabelle,

Thanks for your inquiry, and it ‘s lovely to hear from you. Yes, I’m happy to say we’re clear for the dates you want, so Chris and I would be delighted to host you for the duration of your training course – I must say I hadn’t heard of the Sea School of Embodiment – sounds fascinating! There would be absolutely no problem if your friend decides to come too – it makes no difference to the cost, or to us, we love having people. July is usually pretty good weather-wise here, so hopefully you’d be coming at lovely time of year..but no promises, of course – This is England! We greatly enjoy visitors from all over the world through Airbnb, and we love the variety of types of people. Just read your reviews, and you sound very much like our sort of person, so I really hope you decide to come and stay with us! I can pre-approve your booking, just let me know. Hope to hear back from you shortly.

All the best,

Sally (Well, we are interchangeable; like threads woven together we are as one. That’s what many years of marriage does for you!)

Chris nearly spilt the tea as he came laughing into our bedroom and sat on the bed.

“We’ve had an Airbnb request from Annabelle in New York,” Chris chuckled. “Darling, have you heard of the ‘Sea School of Embodiment’?”

“No,” I was a bit surprised at all the hilarity so early in the morning, “Is it here is Dawlish?”

“Oh yes,” he giggled, “guess what it is.”

“Maybe it has something to do with fishing, or diving, or… it’s a special course for artists learning to paint the sea,” I pondered, although Chris’s laughter suggested something far less logical or normal.

“You’ll never get it. I shall have to tell you.”

“Go on,” I urged. (He was still laughing.)

“To think, (laugh), I told her, (howl), she sounded like our kind of person!”

“Tell me what it is…” I could hardly bear the suspense.

“Here, I printed it out…” and Chris read:

“The Sea School of Embodiment sponsors international teachers in the fields of somatic sexology, sacred sexuality, sexological body work, Tantra and the expressive arts, making available top trainings and workshops for explorers to learn and heal all that’s in the way of shame free naturalness and professionals enhancing their professional practices. Somatic can be defined as “of the body” and embodiment as “the body experienced from within”.

(Tantra is a Sanskrit word that means ‘woven together.’ Hindu and Buddhist meditation practitioners use sexual union as a metaphor for weaving together the physical and the spiritual: weaving man to woman, and humanity to the divine. The purpose is to become one with God.)

“It’s £680 for a four day course. And they have ‘Cuddle Parties’ – for between 10- 25 people at £25 each,” he added.

“We’re in the wrong business,” I said.

We meditated over the notion as we drank our cups of tea, which weren’t exactly divine because they had got cold whilst we were laughing.

“Seasons will never change… the way I love you,” Mary and my mum (alias Supergran) finished singing “All Kinds of Everything”, the 1970 Eurovision Song Contest winner. (Dana was their backing singer on this occasion.)

Robert turned off the music and all the assembled family members, who had come to my brother’s house to celebrate Supergran’s ninety-third birthday, clapped and cheered.

“Now wouldn’t that be a lovely song for the girls to sing at Katie’s wedding?” my sister asked.

“Yes,” I concurred (not to be confused with conquered or conkered).

“Isn’t it a bit corny?”, “Ooh, not so sure…”, “Yes, too corny”, were some of the responses.

Sat over on the sofa with the tired seat cushions were Sophia and young Mary (my sister’s namesake), the little girls who have agreed to sing at their aunt’s wedding; having never heard the song before, they pulled faces expressing doubt about the proposed choice of song.

“Then how about that Aled Jones song about the shade and the trees?”, suggested my sister.

“That’s nice… or there’s ‘Marble Halls’ – that’s pretty,” I said.

“How does that go?” several asked.

“Oh, you know,” said Mary, but she couldn’t recall how it went so she looked to Robert… and his phone.

“Too complicated for little girls,” Robert shook his head, then looking to Katie, “What would you like Kate?”

“Oh, I don’t mind just so long as I get married…”

Several more songs were suggested, played, sung to and rejected by the majority; the romantic pop songs were “too poppy” (except for the little girls on the sofa) and the old ones were either “too corny” or “too difficult” to sing. At last my nephew Robert (my brother’s namesake) picked up a guitar and started singing “Scarborough Fair”, which was soft and beautiful – and quite appropriate for a country style wedding.

“How about singing that, girls?” asked someone amidst the hubbub of different conversations going on.

Now my hearing isn’t too bad but it’s not easy to discern every word from one conversation when there are five others in progress, therefore I heard just a snippet from the direction of the old sofa…

“….. …… quieter …….?”

“Surely no song can be ‘quieter’ than ‘Scarborough Fair'” I looked over at Judith (Sophia’s mother).

Judith started to giggle.

“No,” Judith paused to laugh, “the girls asked why we couldn’t get the ‘choir ter’ sing it!”

The Wikipedia article and lyrics, below, cause me to wonder if, after all, “Scarborough Fair” is the perfect wedding song; but on the other hand, husbands and wives often expect impossible tasks of one another. We can’t all be like Supergran.

Scarborough Fair (ballad)

Lyrics[edit]

As a popular and widely distributed song, there are many versions of the lyrics. The one here, intended as a duet by a male and a female, includes the place after which it is named:

Male part-

Are you going to Scarborough Fair?

Parsley, sage, rosemary, and thyme;

Remember me to the one who lives there,

For once she was a true love of mine.

Tell her to make me a cambric shirt,

Parsley, sage, rosemary, and thyme;

Without any seam or needlework,

Then she shall be a true love of mine.

Tell her to wash it in yonder well,

Parsley, sage, rosemary, and thyme;

Where never sprung water or rain ever fell,

And she shall be a true lover of mine.

Tell her to dry it on yonder thorn,

Parsley, sage, rosemary, and thyme;

Which never bore blossom since Adam was born,

Then she shall be a true lover of mine.

Female part-

Now he has asked me questions three,

Parsley, sage, rosemary, and thyme;

I hope he’ll answer as many for me,

Before he shall be a true lover of mine.

Tell him to buy me an acre of land,

Parsley, sage, rosemary, and thyme;

Between the salt water and the sea sand,

Then he shall be a true lover of mine.

Tell him to plough it with a ram’s horn,

Parsley, sage, rosemary, and thyme;

And sow it all over with one pepper corn,

And he shall be a true lover of mine.

Tell him to sheer’t with a sickle of leather,

Parsley, sage, rosemary, and thyme;

And bind it up with a peacock’s feather,

And he shall be a true lover of mine.

Tell him to thrash it on yonder wall,

Parsley, sage, rosemary, and thyme,

And never let one corn of it fall,

Then he shall be a true lover of mine.

When he has done and finished his work.

Parsley, sage, rosemary, and thyme:

Oh, tell him to come and he’ll have his shirt,

And he shall be a true lover of mine.