Anyone Want to Come for a Walk?

“Want to come for a walk with us to Cockwood?” I asked, looking first at my seven year old niece Charlotte (alias Sporty).

“No thank you Aunty Sally,” she said after a long and pensive pause.

Likewise John, sixteen, (had a feeling he would have “homework”!) and eleven year old Daniel (also known as Bubba) deliberated long and hard before screwing up their faces and making their excuses. At this juncture Lizzie and Martin came home with little Mary (Fairy), who had just won a silver medal at an athletics competition. She, too, had no yearning to walk with us the five or six miles to Cockwood and back.

“Benji would probably like to go,” said Liz, “he hasn’t been out all day – has he John?”

Chris bridled. As kind and sweet as my husband is, he has never shown any interest in young Benji who is hyperactive and a tad over-affectionate.

“I’d love to,” I smiled and excitable Benji plonked himself on my lap and gave me a kiss (I don’t mind his affections).

“Come on then, let’s go,” I enthused as I was eager to continue with our walk (we live nearly a mile from my niece).

“I’m sure he’ll be good with you,” Liz encouraged with a broad grin and Martin slipped me a bag of goodies for Benji (just in case).

Now I enjoy to stop and take photographs whenever I go out walking so guess who ended up looking after our hyperactive charge?

“You look quite at home with him,” I told Chris.

“Well I’m not really as heartless as you imagined – I grew up with dogs,” said Chris.

And Benji the Cockapoo (not cockatoo) behaved impec(k)ably – except for when he ran across the road to make friends with a horse!

The Sons of The Fathers – A Joke

The Sons of The Fathers (or Pride Goeth Before a Fall)

One hot summer afternoon two old work mates, who hadn’t seen each other for some years, chanced to meet in a pub in South Brisbane. Pretty soon the conversation got around to their families and, in particular, their sons, who were both around fourteen years old. One man’s face lit up as he began to talk of his pride and joy:

“To tell you the truth, mate, I’m so proud of our Rupert. Luckily, he inherited his brains from his mother and, thanks to all her efforts – ramming home the importance of a good education – Rupert has knuckled down and really got into a good work ethic. He doesn’t waste time watching television, or spend time on the computer – unless it’s something to do with homework – and he doesn’t even go out with girls. Rupert has a mobile phone but uses it sensibly and is always in touch if he’s going to be late home for dinner. He spends at least two hours every day on home work and another three hours reading science books… for his own pleasure! He says he wants to be an astrophysicist! And what about your son? What does he want to do?”

“Oh Carlos,” began the other man despondently. “Carlos thinks the world owes him a living. He has a mobile phone and uses it at every opportunity – even at the dinner table – but never answers when we call him. He stays up all night watching television, twanging his guitar or playing computer games – even when his girlfriend is staying over – and then he, or they, stay in bed till one o’clock in the afternoon. He’s always late for school – when he bothers to turn up – and doesn’t give a damn about education.”

“Crikey mate, aren’t you worried? Haven’t you asked what he intends to do for a living?”

“Oh, he says he wants to be a garbage man…”

“You’re kidding!”

“No, he thinks they only work on Thursdays!”

 

(From the Bird-man of Brisbane)

What, More dogs?

“I’m scared,” said Mum.

“It’s only a hill. How can you be scared?” I responded.

“It’s a very steep hill and I’m scared,” Mum insisted.

“Just think of it as the route to longevity,” I laughed, giving my mother a gentle push in the small of her back.

“Use it or lose it,” my sister Mary agreed (she was on the other side of Mum, holding her hand).

“No pain, no gain,” I chimed in.

“Is it ever going to end?” our mother rolled her eyes Heavenwards and made a sound like a cluck.

“It’s not far to the top and it’s worth the effort,” said Mary, “there’s a pretty little woodcutter’s cottage at the top and crocuses beyond that – you’ll love it!”

Earlier, the morning sunshine had beckoned us to go out for an excursion and we had decided to visit the village of Cockington – an oasis of countryside nestled between Torquay and Paignton – in the hope that the camellias, crocuses and snowdrops would be out. It’s so pretty there in the spring and summer.

“Look over there at the crocuses!” exclaimed Mary gleefully as she pointed at a few small clumps of yellow and purple in the distance.

“I can’t see them,” Mum shrugged and tutted.

“We’ve come a few weeks too early,” I admitted, “but the camellias should be lovely… hopefully!”

Some people with dogs and children passed by and Mary and I stopped for a bit of dog chat.

“You’re doing well,” said a lady, seeing that our mother had just walked up the steep hill.

Mum smiled – or was it a grimace?

“Good for longevity,” I said. (Mum was still catching her breath and clucking.)

At last we started the walk down to the lakes where the camellias, rhododendrons and azaleas grow in profusion… in early spring, not winter.

“Look,” said Mary, finding a camellia shrub with a few sparse white flowers.

“I can’t see!” Mum replied with a definite lack of enthusiasm.

Some more dogs appeared, and people with children; then more dog and children people. As we walked down the hill more and more people with dogs and children greeted us on their way back from the lakes, and Mary and I enthused greatly over the cuteness of the dogs.

“More dogs!” Mum said rather sarcastically as we passed under a bridge and saw three more groups of dog people walking towards us.

“It’s hard luck for Mum that her daughters have both become dog-people!” my sister grinned at me.

At the bottom of the hill we plumped for the middle, and slightly less muddy, path to the lakes.

“I suppose we’ll have to come back the way we came… up the hill,” Mum bemoaned.

“No, I think this track will take us down to the road at the bottom,” I said optimistically.

“Is that an azalea in that tree over there?” Mary pointed.

“Oh yes,” I agreed.

“I can’t see,” our mother pointed out yet again.

Towards the end of the muddy path Mary and I had a few moments of dismay as we discovered that our way was barred with a sign and tape (perhaps there had been a landslide); we could either have gone back up the hill (oh no!) or we could take the wooden steps leading up to the higher path that comes out by the road.

“Let’s take the steps,” I suggested.

Mary’s look told me that she would pull if I would assist from the bottom with a push. And so it was that Mum made it up the huge steps at the bottom of the path…

“These ones are better,” said Mary cheerily reaching half-way, “at least there is a handrail.”

“Bravo!” said a lady as Mum climbed onto the top path.

“Not bad for a ninety-three year old,” our mother managed a smile of satisfaction.

Then, owing to the tortuous one-way system, Mum walked with us all the way back along the road to the car park. Well, we do like to keep our mother going. After all, exercise is the key to longevity.

 

 

 

“Voulez Vous Coucher….” on Valentine’s Day?

Yes, I spent most of Valentine’s Day in bed – with my sore throat, of course, and aching head! Not the very best way to spend a romantic day. Even so, there were highlights – a poem and flowers – to lift the spirits in my lonely hours…

On special occasions Chris writes me a poem or an ode, even when he himself is suffering from a nasty co’d. (Rhyming, too, is catching!)

 

THE POSSUM AND THE PUSSYCAT PART 2

                                     (The St Valentine’s Day Poem 2016)

 

The Possum and the Pussycat had often been apart

He stayed at home, she went away, right from the very start

and every year when winter brought the wind and rain and sleet

the Pussycat was far away in Queensland’s baking heat

 

And though the Possum, as his name suggests, was not averse

to joining his sweet Pussycat in Aussie’s sunshine burst

more often he’d be found at home in England’s wintry grip

 although the cold half froze his brain and gave his fingers gyp

 

But both agreed poor Pussycat  should never have to face

the bleakness of a winter’s chill of this benighted place

So every year she packed her bags and hopped onto a plane

which whisked her off without delay to Brisbane once again

 

 And always she would plan to be returning on the wing

when winter’s icy grip had safely melted into Spring

But sadly, all the best laid plans, they say, can come to naught

when winter fails to go away, the mood can’t ‘alf be fraught!

 

And so it was the Pussycat returned to England’s shores

too early, when the icy winds still moaned under the doors

“What’s this?” she cried in horror, chilled, despite her furry coat

“It’s so damn cold I greatly fear I’ll catch a vile sore throat!”

 

The Possum tried to soothe her with some talk of going to Spain

to catch the winter sunshine and relieve the cold and pain

but Pussycat said “Possum dear, you’re shooting at the Moon

we’ll simply have to sit it out and hope that Spring comes soon”.

 

But sadly, bleak old February’s still a million miles from Spring

and in it’s cold interior there lurks a nasty sting

for who should be struck down with winter colds and horrid ‘flu’?

It was, my friends, The Possum and the Pussycat, that’s who!

 

“Oh, “doh!”, I have a ghastly “blogged-up dose”, the Possum cried

“That’s nothing” croaked the Pussycat, “My throat feels like it’s fried!”

So there they were, between them both, a sad and sorry sight

with only paracetamol to save them from their plight

 

And so the winter days rolled on with little cause for mirth

the hapless pair just sneezed and sniffed and groaned for all they’re worth

“Oh, Possum” croaked the Pussycat “I need a little cheer –

my mood is strictly gloomy and my spirit’s down, I fear “

 

The Possum had a think, and then his face broke in a smile

remembering a date that he’d forgotten for a while

for, coming up, there loomed a special day, a day apart

when lovers of the world would give their loved ones all their heart

 

And thus it was the Possum scribed this very special note

entitled “To my Sallipuss”, and this is what he wrote:

“My special Sally, you’re the best, and, if you’ve got the time,

please make my day, and say you’ll be

                                 MY DARLING VALENTINE!!! “

 

Valentine poetry (from wikipedia)

The earliest surviving valentine is a 15th-century rondeau written by Charles, Duke of Orléans to his wife, which commences.

Je suis desja d’amour tanné
Ma tres doulce Valentinée…

— Charles d’Orléans, Rondeau VI, lines 1–2[53]

At the time, the duke was being held in the Tower of London following his capture at the Battle of Agincourt, 1415.[54]

The earliest surviving valentines in English appear to be those in the Paston Letters, written in 1477 by Margery Brewes to her future husband John Paston “my right well-beloved Valentine”.[55]

Valentine’s Day is mentioned ruefully by Ophelia in Hamlet (1600–1601):

To-morrow is Saint Valentine’s day,
All in the morning betime,
And I a maid at your window,
To be your Valentine.
Then up he rose, and donn’d his clothes,
And dupp’d the chamber-door;
Let in the maid, that out a maid
Never departed more.

— William Shakespeare, Hamlet, Act IV, Scene 5

John Donne used the legend of the marriage of the birds as the starting point for his epithalamion celebrating the marriage of Elizabeth, daughter of James I of England, andFrederick V, Elector Palatine, on Valentine’s Day:

Hayle Bishop Valentine whose day this is

All the Ayre is thy Diocese
And all the chirping Queristers
And other birds ar thy parishioners
Thou marryest every yeare
The Lyrick Lark, and the graue whispering Doue,
The Sparrow that neglects his life for loue,
The houshold bird with the redd stomacher
Thou makst the Blackbird speede as soone,
As doth the Goldfinch, or the Halcyon
The Husband Cock lookes out and soone is spedd
And meets his wife, which brings her feather-bed.
This day more cheerfully than ever shine

This day which might inflame thy selfe old Valentine.

— John Donne, Epithalamion Vpon Frederick Count Palatine and the Lady Elizabeth marryed on St. Valentines day

The verse Roses are red echoes conventions traceable as far back as Edmund Spenser‘s epic The Faerie Queene (1590):

She bath’d with roses red, and violets blew,
And all the sweetest flowres, that in the forrest grew.[56]

The modern cliché Valentine’s Day poem can be found in the collection of English nursery rhymes Gammer Gurton’s Garland (1784):

The rose is red, the violet’s blue,

The honey’s sweet, and so are you.
Thou art my love and I am thine;
I drew thee to my Valentine:
The lot was cast and then I drew,

And Fortune said it shou’d be you.[57][58]

Sins, Syns and White Knights

Is it a sin to swear? I’ve been wondering about this over the last couple of days, since I read a comment on Facebook about our prime minister, “David F…wit Cameron” (apparently). It’s not that I’m a particular supporter of David Cameron but I was rather shocked, not only by the expression (which conjures a strange and unpleasant mental image), or the lack of respect, but mainly because the author was a middle-aged Christian woman. Neither the expression nor the sentiment seemed to fit.

So I asked Google if it’s a sin to swear (it used to be when I went to Sunday school) and there are many forums discussing this point. Here is just one of the answers:

The quick answer is, yes, it is a sin to cuss or swear or curse. Ephesians 4:29 says, “Do not let any unwholesome talk come out of your mouths, but only what is helpful for building others up according to their needs, that it may benefit those who listen.” That seems pretty clear! Also, 1 Peter 3:10 adds, “For whoever would love life and see good days must keep his tongue from evil and his lips from deceitful speech.” Not clear enough yet? James 3:9-12 says, “With the tongue we praise our Lord and Father, and with it we curse human beings, who have been made in God’s likeness. Out of the same mouth come praise and cursing. My brothers and sisters, this should not be. Can both fresh water and salt water flow from the same spring? My brothers and sisters, can a fig tree bear olives, or a grapevine bear figs? Neither can a salt spring produce fresh water.”

Of course, I have sinned in this respect but I’m repentant (I hate myself for being vile – Sunday school wasn’t completely wasted on me!). However, I’ve not “synned”, at least not too much, because I have lost one pound in weight since I joined Slimming World last week. Not much to crow about but I’m keeping at it and being good.

What of the “White Knights” in the title? Well those are the white blood cells I envisage as victors over the attacking cold germs in my attempts at positive thinking. As yet there is an impasse around the region of my throat – at present barely a word is audible from my lips… and certainly no expletives!

Cold Comfort

To think that just a couple of weeks ago I was sweltering in the Tropical Dome at the Botanical Gardens, Brisbane; now there’s a place I would like to be right now – warm damp air on warm, damp, wrinkle-free and silky skin. No goose-bumps, no hunching of shoulders around the ears, no need for socks, trousers, jumpers or coats…

The central heating is on. I’m wearing fleecy track bottoms, a sporty top (you have to look the part to feel the part – all part of my new Slimming World healthy living plan), a soft pink cardigan and a scarf, doubled. You might imagine that I should be warm but, no, my nose and hands are frozen. Little wonder that English people are reputed to have good skin – they spend several months of the year in cryogenic suspension. Cold comfort!

My tiny hand was frozen enough, even before placing it under the cold tap. My hand recoiled, my shoulders went up.

“Better than warm water from the cold tap – no need to keep it in the fridge,” Chris laughed.

I winced at mention of the word “fridge”. Warm water out of the cold tap sounded most appealing, likewise a swimming pool or spa heated by the sun; a sheet covering, or not, at nighttime – such bliss.

Last night I spent another night alone in our bedroom with two heaters turned on; Chris spent another night in an upstairs bedroom – no wish to spread his cold – although I had a sore throat myself. I’m fighting it (not fighting fit).

I lay in bed at four in the morning, fighting it with positive thinking, then thinking about two more stories for the new book, started but not revisited in such a long time. For some reason my subconscious self stirred me to think about Alexei the French Russian with the poet face, who taught French at the Grammar School long ago; who played gypsy guitar music and who could have been “the one”… Why did he hang himself in his forties? Could I have prevented him? No, not “the one” but I still think of him and wonder, and mourn, especially at four in the morning.

In the cold light of day Hurricane Imogen had abated; the rain had stopped but the wind whipped up the spume on the crests of the waves as they rolled in to shore. Imogen wasn’t as aggressive as Hurricane Henry, whom she had followed, but still she had a lashing tongue. Coming inside from the terrace I shivered. I would stay in and nurse my throat – maybe even stop it from progressing. No gym sessions today. There’s plenty of time until Thursday night – Slimming World group night. Do you know that there are hundreds of free foods to eat on the Slimming World Easy Plan? Cold comfort – I don’t want to eat any of them. What I wouldn’t give for a nice piece of deep-fried cod in unctuous crisp batter!

If You Follow Me… (Some Jokes From Oz)

All the way from Brisbane…

 

It Don’t Add Up

Literacy and numeracy are the issues that employers are most concerned about. You might of guessed but did you know that four out of three people today struggle with basic maths?

 

Not so Tweet!

A good friend of mine who had recently succumbed to pressure from his kids, and all his old pals (including me!), to become computer literate has taken to the Internet like a duck to water. Who’d have thought that dear old Molesworth would actually enjoy surfing the net? Not only does he have the most expensive modern Mac computer, a tablet and an Ipad, he also has the latest Samsung Galaxy Smartphone.

Did I hear you ask if he knows how to use them? I’ll say! In fact, in next to no time he has developed something of a problem. Only yesterday I bumped into him in Oxford Street (he had his head down, looking at his Smartphone) and I laughed.

“It’s not funny,” old Molesworth had an air of misery about him even greater than I could recall, “you see, I’m afraid I have developed an addiction and, in fact, I’ve just been to see a therapist.”

“So sorry to hear it old chap. What kind of addiction, if you don’t mind talking about it?”

“Well, it was quite unnerving – Sylvia has threatened to divorce me if I don’t seek help so you can imagine the severity of my addiction – you see I had to send myself along to this so-called addiction therapist?”

I nodded, almost dreading what was coming next.

“Well, I came right out with it. ‘I’m addicted to Twitter!’ I told him and do you know he replied?”

“No Mouldy (his nickname at school), I haven’t a clue.”

“Well, he said ‘I’m sorry but I don’t follow you!”

 

And lastly…

To be Succinct

A lawyer is the only man who can write a ten thousand word document and call it a brief!

 

 

 

Lay Your Head Upon My Pillow

I’m in bed listening to the ear-worm in my head – “Lay your head upon my pillow, hold your warm and tender body close to mine…” – which is quite funny really because I am quite alone. I don’t know the time exactly but I’m guessing that it’s about six o’clock. I’ve been awake for a couple of hours, thinking and listening to this ear-worm… over and over. A train passed a while ago, lighting up the darkness behind my bedroom curtains, but not enough to illuminate the chaos at the end of my bed… our bed; I haven’t finished unpacking yet, five days on.

It’s a wonder I can hear the ear-worm over the sound of lashing rain, wind and waves… or maybe it is my subconscious trying to block out the English winter. The fog from long haul flying has cleared, almost, but still I can’t sleep through the night. I’m thinking about my last morning of waking up to sunshine – at five-thirty – and feeling the excitement of going home, also the stress of last minute packing and dread of the long haul ahead.

Chris has a bad cold and is sleeping upstairs, way upstairs at the top of the house (our bedroom is on the ground floor and there are two storeys between – “never twain shall meet”, just the train!). He doesn’t want to give me his cold and I don’t wish to receive it. But I’m all alone in bed, with Elvis Presley in my head (could be worse) and a mental picture of Sterling the cat upon my pillow… Oh, for the good times.

“For The Good Times”

Don’t look so sad, I know it’s over
But life goes on and this old world will keep on turning
Let’s just be glad we had some time to spend together
There’s no need o watch the bridges that we’re burning

Lay your head upon my pillow
Hold your warm and tender body close to mine
Hear the whisper of the raindrops fallin’ soft against the window
And make believe you love me one more time

For the Good times
I’ll get along, you’ll find another
And I’ll be here if you should find you ever need me
Don’t say a word about tomorrow or forever
There’ll be time enough for sadness when you leave me

Lay your head upon my pillow
Hold your warm and tender body close to mine
Hear the whisper of the raindrops fallin’ soft against the window
And make believe you love me one more time

For the good times
For the good times

One Train of Thought

Longing for "The First of May", no doubt.

Longing for “The First of May”, no doubt.

 

A gentleman is on the 6.15 Victoria to Belmont train (London). He is sat on one of those seats that has people sitting opposite him and a table in-between. He is coming back from a meeting with his old pals from the days when he lived and worked in ‘Town’. He draws his mobile phone from his pocket and goes to his Whatsapp messages – he knew there were some awaiting his attention but until now he has not had a quiet moment… He has been looking forward to the train journey back to John and Barbara’s so that he could enjoy reading the messages in private.

“That’s different,” he thinks as he opens his Whatsapp, “two verbal messages and one text. With a bit of luck she’ll be talking softly.”

He presses the arrow to begin play and music emanates from his phone:

“When you rise in the morning sun, I feel you touch me in the pouring rain…” a woman sings along badly and loudly.

All eyes are upon the gentleman who now feels embarrassed.

“I’m sorry,” he looks around apologetically, “it’s my wife in Australia – on the karaoke.”

He begins to turn down the volume on his phone when he is stopped by the lady next to him:

“Oh don’t turn it down, we can hardly hear – please turn it up.”

“Yes, do turn it up,” agreed the man opposite and some people over on the other side of the aisle.

And that is how the passengers on a particular carriage of the 6.15 train to Belmont were thus treated, firstly, to a rendition of “How Deep is Your Love”, which was followed – between Whaddon and West Croyden – by “I Got to Get a Message to You” (it was a Bee Gees’ CD). Apparently, they all loved it and were smiling and tapping their feet. Chris, and his fellow passengers, got the message alright; and in a matter of two days I shall be joining him and our dear friends Barbara and John in Belmont. If you’re on my Qantas flight tomorrow night, don’t worry – I shan’t be singing love songs badly… not unless you ask for an encore.

(If you’re a Bee Gees aficionado you will recognise that “How Deep is Your Love” doesn’t begin with “When you rise in the morning sun..” – at least not in the official lyrics (below) but they were the actual words on the screen! Nevertheless, the new words made a kind of sense as I rose in the morning sun of Australia while Chris was in the pouring rain and cold of England. The photograph of windy Belmont Station at 6.30am and 4 degrees makes the point.)

 

“How Deep Is Your Love” 

I know your eyes in the morning sun
I feel you touch me in the pouring rain
And the moment that you wander far from me
I wanna feel you in my arms again

And you come to me on a summer breeze
Keep me warm in your love and then softly leave
And it’s me you need to show
How Deep Is Your Love

How deep is your love, How deep is your love
I really need to learn
‘Cause we’re living in a world of fools
Breaking us down
When they all should let us be
We belong to you and me

I believe in you
You know the door to my very soul
You’re the light in my deepest darkest hour
You’re my saviour when I fall
And you may not think
I care for you
When you know down inside
That I really do
And it’s me you need to show
How Deep Is Your Love

How deep is your love, How deep is your love
I really need to learn
‘Cause we’re living in a world of fools
Breaking us down
When they all should let us be
We belong to you and me

And you come to me on a summer breeze
Keep me warm in your love and then softly leave
And it’s me you need to show
How Deep Is Your Love

How deep is your love, How deep is your love
I really need to learn
‘Cause we’re living in a world of fools
Breaking us down
When they all should let us be
We belong to you and me
[Repeat fading out]

In the Bag

“That lady looks jolly attractive in her hat and Australian flag draped around her,” I thought to myself.

I rather wished that I had thought of something special to wear, it being Australia Day, but I hadn’t planned on going out today at all – not until I had a phone call from our friend Roland last evening. And even then I had no idea that we would be going to the West End and South Bank, which is where we were when I saw the cute elderly lady in her patriotic outfit on the seat. As I drew nearer to the lady I noticed something else unusual about her – she had the same white crocheted shoulder bag as I have (and which I had with me at the time).

“I like your bag ,” I said, making her look up. “It’s exactly the same as mine!”

She looked at my bag and smiled.

“Where did you get yours from?” she asked.

“Oh, my Mum gave it to me years ago – maybe twenty years or more – and I think she probably acquired it from a charity shop. It’s my favourite bag. When it gets dirty I just bleach it and wash it and it always comes up as good as new.”

“I do the same,” she said nodding, “and mine came from South Africa over twenty years ago!”

The nice lady with excellent taste let Roland take a photograph or two of us together. I was going to sit beside her on the bench but the seat was wet so she suggested we stand… I hasten to add that I am not over six feet tall and three feet wide – by my reckoning the lady was a petite four feet seven or eight!

Still on the subject of bags, Archer the cat (the elder of my charges here at Charis’s house – I’m house-sitting) joined me while I was painting on the verandah yesterday afternoon. Admittedly, the outside settee had rather a lot of my art equipment resting on it and you might have thought that a furry cat would prefer to lay on the cold concrete on such a hot day… but no, Archer fancied the black shopping bag that normally holds all my paintbrushes! He looked so sweet I had to stop painting and take photos. And there was another coincidence this morning… Whilst waiting for the lights to change at a road crossing in West End, Brisbane, I saw another animal in a bag, this time a darling little dog in a mauve bag suspended from a woman’s neck.

That’s it for now – my blog post is “in the bag”.