Category Archives: Humour

None of My Business

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I know that’s a strange title for a very innocuous blog post about apple-picking but you’ll see the point when you look at the pictures.

There are few things more enjoyable to do on a sunny late afternoon in September than picking apples on Rosie’s farm, if you like the simple pleasures in life, as my sister Mary and I do. After a nice cup of tea, and catch up with Rosie, we took the dogs, Inca, Malachi and Sasha with us over to the orchard by the original farmhouse: and after sampling the eating apples lower down in the field we wandered up the slope to the Bramleys – the cookers, which we prize above all other apples because we’re thinking of baking apple pies and apple crumbles.

The larger dogs ran around as if they were in Heaven before settling themselves in the shade of the apple trees so that they could best delight in the views on such an evening, while sensible Sasha, the tiny Yorkshire terrier, took it upon herself to guard the apples we had collected into carrier bags.

Soon we were joined by Ian, a nice chap who brought Rosie a file containing information on Internet banking (how incongruous when you’re in an orchard!); and naturally, he tried some of nature’s bounty, and didn’t mind having his photograph taken. Unfortunately, whilst I was photographing everyone I stepped back onto the file which had been left on the grass… I say “unfortunately” because there were some sheep droppings near the same spot… Oh dear!

“Oops, sorry Rosie, I apologised lifting the soiled file, wiping it off and handing it to her.

“Not to worry,” Rosie smiled, “it’s all about ‘Business Telephone Banking’ anyway!”

The Little French Runaways

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In a hired house with blue shutters on a clifftop on the Brittany coast, three couples – friends and family of an Englishman living a short walk from that house – were soon to descend, independently, for the weekend….. (The previous visitors had left some time before.)

“Psst,” whispered a little voice, “ils sont allés (they’ve gone)”.

“Je connais (I know)”, came a hushed reply.

Now in English (for the sake of the authoress!):

– “‘Ow long do you sink we should ‘ide ‘ere be’ind sis bedroom door?”

-“For as long as it takes. Someone will come eventually – surely? – and zen we can make our getaway.”

-“What if nobody comes and we’re left ‘ere to rot?”

-“Come on, mon ami, I never took you for a pessimist. Where is that famous spirit of adventure of yours?”

-“Ooh la la, yes, it is exciting – isn’t it? Maybe the next visitors to sis ‘ouse will be from America… I’ave always wanted to go to America.”

-“Me too. I ‘ope zay will not be from China – I don’t know a word of Chinese…”

-“Who is zee pessimist now? Spain would be alright – nice and warm.”

-“Not much use to us zen.”

-“Oh, yes, of course not. Let’s pray they are from America… or England. Do you know they are called ‘Roast Beefs’?”

 

The runaways stayed for a very long time hanging around behind the bedroom door, so long that they had almost given up hope of escape or even being found. In fact, they were wondering, and worrying, about their reckless act of rebellion when they heard a noise. The front door opened and some new people, most probably visitors from abroad, came down the passage and opened all the doors.

“Roast Beefs, I sink,” came a softly hissing whisper.

“Sh…!”

The door opened and the runaways stayed stock still and quieter than a mouse. The door shut and they heard the muffled voices of English visitors settling in.

“We’ll never get away now,” the pessimist sighed.

 

Another period of light followed by darkness passed. Suddenly, the door opened again and an English lady and gentleman entered the bedroom. Immediately, they set about settling in; the man drew blue and white striped flannelette pyjamas from his small case (he travelled with Ryan Air) and put them under his pillow; his wife (presumably) took a pink flannelette nightgown from her minuscule case and placed it under the pillow on the other side of the bed. They left the rest of their chattels in their suitcases, apart from two toothbrushes, soap and a razor, which went into the shared bathroom. And they left.

“So zat is what zee English people wear to bed?” whispered the pessimist inquiringly.

“I never knew,” came the response.

“No chance for us zen,” whimpered the pessimist.

 

The English couple paid little heed to the runaways. And when the door was shut tight for the night they seemed not to notice the strangers in the room, nor even in the light of morning when the ‘Roast Beefs’ repacked their tiny cases and departed.

 

“Strange,” said one small voice.

“Very,” agreed the optimist.

 

At last the other visitors were ready to go and a woman opened the door and put her head around as if to check that all was well.

“What’s this? Hey,” she said excitedly, “I guess that you two belong to our friends. Fancy them forgetting you! Don’t worry, we’ll take you home with us and we can send you on to them.”

 

And that is exactly what happened. We brought the stylish French pair of runaways home with us only to find that they didn’t belong to our friends in London after all. I have taken them out of the padded jiffy bag (with the address of the couple printed on the outside) and now they are draped around my camera’s tripod in my studio. Well, it seemed a trifle unfair to keep the chic chicks holed up in the dark; I say let the well travelled scarf and jacket see a bit of England and have a breath of fresh Devon air before they are extradited back to Brittany.

 

 

Irascible, That’s What You Are…

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Now I wasn’t feeling in any way ill-tempered while I was eating my Weetabix for breakfast but an hour or so ago, therefore it came as quite a surprise to me to find a strange, yet somewhat familiar, line of a song had come into my head: “Irascible, that’s what you are…” (sung to the tune of the Nat King Cole song “Unforgettable”)! Well, I almost laughed out loud – what a funny thing to pop into my mind!

Then I began to think about the word irascible – the sound is as unpleasant as its meaning. To me it suggests a rascal harassing with an eraser, but a metal file against skin kind of eraser rather than an innocuous rubber. There’s also a nasty snakish “hiss, hiss” in the middle and a crucible at the end, putting me in mind of witches and bubbling cauldrons, great heat, abominable trials and excruciating pain. All this, while I was eating my Weetabix!

Of course it’s been an “ear-worm” ever since… until I watched Nat King Cole on YouTube. If you like you can sing along to “Unforgettable” with the words to “Irascible” below:

. “Irascible”

Irascible, that’s what you are
Irritable though near or far
Like a song of ire that clings to me
How the thought of you does stings to me
Never before has there been less of a bore

Cantankerous in every way
And forever more, that’s how you’ll bray
That’s why, darling, it’s incredible
That someone so argumentative
Thinks that I am irascible too

Indefensible in every way
And forever more, that’s how you’ll afffray
That’s why, darling, it’s incredible
That someone so irascible
Thinks that I am irascible too

Nat King Cole, Unforgettable – YouTube

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Fy_JRGjc1To
irascible
ɪˈrasɪb(ə)l/
adjective
adjective: irascible
  1. having or showing a tendency to be easily angered.
    “an irascible and difficult man”
Origin
late Middle English: via French from late Latin irascibilis, from Latin irasci ‘grow angry’, from ira ‘anger’.
Translate irascible to
Use over time for: irascible

Real Tasty Guy-sers

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“J’espère…J’espère…” I said, appearing to be full of hope but painfully aware that I was without hope.

“Tu espères?,” asked the gorgeous French doctor called Guy (pronounced Ghee).

“Oui, j’espère…. I hope…” I said, slipping into my native tongue.

“En Français,” Guy urged.

He was so handsome and he looked at me so encouragingly that I didn’t want to let him down. Unfortunately, neither my French phrase book nor my English/French dictionary were of any use at all; the first being inappropriate because I had no wish to talk about the weather or the direction of the railway station, and the latter because the print was too small, and besides, it couldn’t help me with sentence construction. Quite early on at the party held by my brother-in-law Glyn and his wife Roly who live in Le Conquet, Brittany, I had realised that the French contingent would not be enthralled by my conversation in school-girl French for I remember little more than the nouns concerning ceilings, floors, crockery, cutlery, tables, windows; and the verbs “to be”, “to put”, “to play” and “to go” (and I’m not even too sure about those).

“J’espère… tu ne pense pas que je suis la fou,” I said.

“Tu,” Guy corrected my pronunciation (apparently I said “two” not “tu”, which is altogether different).

“J’espère… tu ne pense pas que je suis la fou,” I said again, this time attempting the correct pronunciation.

“La fou?” the good-looking doctor’s brow furrowed in bafflement.

“Oui, la fou – you know, mad,” I said, making a circle with my index finger in the air beside my head.

“Ah, la fou – mad – yes,” Guy recognised the words but seemed not to understand my meaning (by which time I had forgotten what I was trying to say anyway).

A silence followed.

“Tu es tres beau,” I resorted to the first thing that came into my mind.

“Moi?” he smiled and kissed me on both cheeks for about the tenth time.

“Sally, ca va?” another Guy (this time Portuguese rather than French) came up beside me and kissed me on both cheeks.

“Ah, Guy-two (ghee-two, to distinguish between the two Guys),” I said delightedly, “Tres bien.”

Guy-one slipped off to slip his arm around another waist while Guy-two slipped an arm around me.

“Parle moi en Francais (speak to me in French),” handsome Guy-two said, looking dreamily into my eyes.

“Il est le plafond et le plancher,” I laughed pointing to the ceiling, then the floor.

Guy-two seemed inordinately pleased at my prowess in speaking French. Meanwhile my husband Chris beguiled the doctor’s wife Gael, and Clementine and Laurence, with his schoolboy French to similar effect. We had a lovely weekend in beautiful Brittany.

 

 

Gone Off Fishing in Teignmouth

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No matter how busy I am, I can always find some time for fishing when the opportunity presents itself. Admittedly, last Sunday wasn’t the sunniest of days for fishing (I’m usually a fair weather fisher-woman – not to be confused with “fishwife”!); in fact it was grey, windy and drizzly – especially out on The Point where several members of our family and some friends had agreed to meet up at two o’clock.

Luckily, I didn’t have £4.50 on me for The Point car park so I wasn’t tempted to be ripped off. It was two-thirty but were not late – in our family we always agree a time and add at least half an hour. Roland went off with his rods to the beach while I drove to Mary’s house where I deposited the car and together we sisters walked on down to the beach an hour or so later. Well, there was no rush as there weren’t enough rods for everybody and we didn’t anticipate that anyone would catch anything anyway.

We enjoyed the walk even though Mary’s broken leg still isn’t completely back to normal after her accident last year; perhaps I should say that I liked the walk while my sister endured the trek but enjoyed our chat. By a patch of grass at the end of the seafront we observed a couple laughing and taking photographs of what appeared to be a pile of rubbish in black plastic, which had been arranged into a form resembling a giant caterpillar.

“What is it?” I asked as we approached.

“Just look at the sign,” the young man sniggered into his hand.

I, too, chuckled and took out my camera.

“You make us feel normal,” I called over my shoulder as we went on in opposing directions.

Still laughing, they waved.

We resisted the temptation to throw something at the plastic “sculpture” and heartily approved of the illiterate, yet discerning, seagull that landed on top of the caterpillar.

Shortly, we were on the beach and putting on our raincoats and scarves (like just about everyone else except for the hardiest of children). In the distance was a huddle of paraphernalia: a picnic table and folding chairs; bags, Tupperware boxes and blankets were propped against a colourful pram; and, above the collection, the Union Jack was flying high beside the Spanish flag (representing the recently sanctified union of Katie and Javier). Babies were in their mother’s arms and children and menfolk were dotted along the water’s edge. A black Cockapoo (not to be confused with a cockatoo) called Bengie (not Bungee) ran between the children and, upon seeing us, ran to us. I found him a bit of scotch egg from a Tupperware box and he stayed by my side until I could no longer justify feeding him the fare that was intended for hungry fisher-folk.

Roland had had both good luck and bad luck; already he had caught a sea-bass… but it was too small and had to be sent back. Struck with a glimmer of hope, I asked for a go with his fishing rod. My hopes were somewhat dashed when, upon reeling in his line, he said the quarter of a worm still on the hook would suffice. I fell onto my bottom as the damp bank of red sand gave way under my feet – it didn’t bode well. Nevertheless, within moments of casting out I felt a tug, a very strong tug.

“I’ve got a bite, a big bite,” I said excitedly.

Our friend Roland smiled and shook his head.

“Honestly, I can hardly reel it in,” I revelled.

Indeed, my line was so heavy that Roland had to assist, with a good yank, to draw my catch the final few feet to the shore. Seaweed is incredibly heavy!

It wasn’t exactly my best fishing day. I didn’t stay to test my luck any longer. The wind sprang up sharper and I joined the ladies and babies. We all had a nice cup of tea around by the beach huts where the wind was less chafing; well, it would have been a nice cup of tea if someone hadn’t left the teabag in the cup…

 

Still in Love… With Fuchsias (Or a Load of Bosch)

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Raindrop Pearls

Ballerina Fuchsias With Raindrop Pearls  ~ Arcrylic on canvas ~ 20cms x 20cms x 4cms

Little gives me greater pleasure when I’m painting than to occasionally turn my head to look through the open glass doors of my studio out onto our small courtyard garden. As you might imagine (judging by the subject matter of my most recent paintings) my pride and joy are in full and beautiful bloom at present. The bees and bumblebees, too, love them.

And whilst I paint pretty flowers I listen to YouTube audiobooks. No, not romance novels or gardening books – I’m into Michael Connelly’s books about murder and detection, particularly the ones featuring Detective Hieronymus Bosch. Wasn’t Hieronymus Bosch the Dutch painter from the fourteen-hundreds? Yes, but so is Michael Connelly’s main character. They both deal with seedy aspects of life… unlike me. At the moment I just like painting pretty fuchsias.

 

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Hieronymus Bosch
Drawing of a man wearing a hat

Portrait of Hieronymus Bosch, c. 1550,
(attr. Jacques Le Boucq)
Native name Jheronimus Bosch
Born Jheronimus van Aken
c. 1450
‘s-Hertogenbosch, Duchy of Brabant, Burgundian Netherlands
Died Buried on 9 August 1516
‘s-Hertogenbosch, Duchy of Brabant, Habsburg Netherlands
Nationality Dutch
Known for Painting
Notable work The Garden of Earthly Delights
The Temptation of St. Anthony
Movement

Something in the Air

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Yesterday there was something in the air that my lungs didn’t like, so much so that I had an asthma attack in the night (and smokers think I’m over-reacting when I say I can’t take cigar smoke!).  I’m not generally an asthmatic – just around cigars and things that make me allergic – and you’ll be pleased to know I was fine after taking my inhaler.

There was something in the air today that made me feel a little wistful. At the time I was in the heart of the countryside, at Rosie’s farm, and Inca and Malachi were out for a walk with me. Inca, the younger and more impetuous of the Black Labradors, raced ahead while Malachi, ever faithful and true, stayed near me unless I threw a stick for her to catch. The older dog never seems to mind that I stop now and then to take photographs, or simply to enjoy the view; in fact, I think she likes it because I talk to her and signal that I’m ready to go on again by running my hand over the back of her head and ears (what soft ears she has). I think she feels we are kindred spirits for we appear to like the same things (although it would be fair to say that I’m not so keen on putting my nose down rabbit holes!). I wondered if, like me, Malachi had noticed the difference in the air.

It was sunny and warm. There was a gentle breeze, slightly cool and not unpleasant for walkers in the countryside, and there were bees and butterflies flitting from one side of the path to the other; but the hedges were not as verdant as the last occasion I had been on the same route, for the green was in the process of giving way to yellow and brown. Thistle heads, no longer purple, were waiting soberly for the inevitable – a stiffer breeze to whisk away the shocks of white and leave them bald. No more the tall spikes of magenta foxgloves, the red campions, or the blue periwinkles; even the cow parsley has become “sparsley”. The ferns were browning off or had already wilted with heat exhaustion. It felt like summer was nearing its end and autumn was in the air.

Malachi and I were a bit sad. We like all the wild flowers. I don’t much like walking in Wellington boots, although Malachi and Inca have no objection to larking about in the mud (another area where we differ!). We found some blackberry bushes and I picked all the ripe berries I could reach without getting stung by nettles and shared them equally between us. Coming back we took the higher path to the orchard and noted that the trees were laden with apples. We remembered that we love picking apples.

“I expect the mushrooms, too, will come up soon,” I said to my faithful friend.

And when we fed the chooks (chickens) the old porridge (glad someone likes it – I don’t) and stale bread I had brought along for them we were delighted to find a fresh egg. I kept this for myself and added another two from the basket in the farmhouse kitchen. Upon arriving back to our home in Dawlish I found Chris sunbathing on the terrace. I don’t think he’s noticed that autumn is in the air.

 

Just One Cornetto?

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Just One Cornetto?

We’re heading towards a checkout counter at Tesco when I begin to feel a bit embarrassed. I’ve just glanced into our shopping trolley and noticed that it’s not one of our most “proud to go to the counter with our healthy food” days – there isn’t a cucumber or lettuce leaf in sight. In fact, there isn’t as much as usual in the trolley (we’re trying to cut down) but what is in there nearly all came from the freezer cabinets. Well, it is a hot day.

“The man at the checkout will think we’re addicted to ice cream,” I whisper in Chris’s ear as we arrive at the counter.

Chris smiles. He’s not at all addicted to ice cream. I was the one who filled the trolley.

“Hello. What a lovely hot day!” says the forty-year-old at the checkout as we begin to empty our trolley onto the moving surface of the counter.

“Ah,” I think, “he thinks we’re ice cream addicts.”  I’m glad Chris is with me so I don’t look a desperate addict on my own.

The two packs of Raspberry Smoothies beep past the scanner, then the Mango Smoothies (another two packs – cheaper by the twos), then the Mango and Yogurt Ices (Home brand but very acceptable) followed by the gluten-free strawberry cones (for health freaks).

“You must think we’re addicted to ice cream,” I say sheepishly.

“I don’t care too much for ice cream myself,” replies the assistant.

“They aren’t all for us,” I say, “we’re expecting visitors.”

The box of six fruit flavoured water-ices are about to reach the hand of the checkout man when we are all distracted by a man’s voice.

“Hello!” beams a young man whose face is not completely unfamiliar to me but I can’t place how I know him.

The young man seams to know me. He is walking up to me. He is standing next to me, expectantly. He looks like he wants me to greet him with a kiss. What the heck! I give him a kiss on the cheek and it dawns on me how I know him…

 

When shopping in Tesco a few weeks ago, and Chris was perusing items in a different aisle, I heard two men talking about a girl with a “beautiful smile”. Fascinated, I went to the end of the aisle and popped my head around to see who they were talking about.

“That’s her!” said the young chap.

I had thanked them with a wave and carried on shopping… once I had got over the pleasant surprise. Well, he was no Brad Pitt but it’s still nice to be appreciated by a much younger man.

 

“I remember you,” I say to the young chap I have just kissed.

“Where’s my kiss?” asks my husband.

They have a man-hug and we’re all laughing, including the man at the counter.

“I think I’m going to start eating lots of ice cream from now on,” says the checkout man theatrically.

And he scans a pack of Double-Chocolate Cornettos (half price), which I know Chris will enjoy even though he isn’t an ice cream addict.

“Just one Cornetto, give it to me. Delicious ice-cream from Italy….” Remember the adverts? My admirer probably isn’t old enough to remember.

Walls Cornetto Adlocutus155247,245 views
91,927 views

 

 

My Kingdom for a… Pub!

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It’s not just that we wanted to go to a pub yesterday lunchtime, although a pub in a beautiful setting is always a great attraction; no, we wanted to go for a walk along the Exe Estuary path from Powderham Church and feel the sun on our skin and the wind in our hair…

 

Work, Work, Work

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We’ve painted the outside of our house and now we’re painting the house of one of our lovely neighbours. Our guest from Australia is proving invaluable up a ladder (he’s used to the heat) and also Roly turns out to be a dab hand at making pasta (but rubbish at stringing runner beans – shh!). In-between all the jobs we still manage to find some time every day to sit on the terrace and take in the beauty of the sea and the sky before us, and I have my mobile with me in order to capture some of the special moments. There isn’t much time left in which to write!

But before I finish I’ll tell you something funny that Roland said the other day… Chris, Roland and I were talking about relationships and the things that matter when it comes to finding that perfect mate.

“I know I’m not perfect,” I began, “I’m fat and ugly…”

I was about to spout forth some wisdom when Roly interrupted me:

“That’s the least of your problems!”

Of course he said it with a wicked smile and I laughed uncontrollably for several minutes.