“Jazzy’s breathing sounds bad, as if she has something in her throat, but I can’t imagine she has, because she hasn’t eaten anything weird (to my knowledge) except for a very dry crust of bread,” I messaged Rosie by Whatsapp. I thought I had better prepare Rosie for the worst before they arrived home from holiday.

This happened at around five o’clock on Tuesday, the last day of my five-day stint of farm-sitting, and Rosie and Slav were on their way home from the airport; I had just come back with the two younger dogs from a long and glorious walk on the top fields. I noticed Jazzy’s funny breathing as soon I entered the farmhouse kitchen. Jaz was lying in her usual spot on a double layer of dog mattresses. Her breathing was rapid and rasping… Her eyes looked at me sadly as if to say “I’m sorry, but I think I’m on the way out… I think I’m dying… I may not last until Rosie gets home.”

“Oh no,” I thought, “I’ve killed her!”

I will explain… Each morning, after all the animals had been fed, it had been my recent habit to take all four dogs, regardless of age, out for a short walk. In fact, the whole point of the short walk, taken at a leisurely pace, out in the fresh air and sunshine was that it should be beneficial to the health and longevity of Jaz and Sasha. Indeed, the older two had seemed very happy (especially with lots of encouragement and pats on the back) to be going up to the orchard, then taking a rest in the first field; tiny Sasha enjoyed her rides in the wheelbarrow – she loved playing at apple-guard-dog and, likewise, Jaz was happy pretending to be a puppy again by running a few steps downhill.

Listening to Jazzy’s laboured breathing it was hard to imagine that this was the same jolly dog who had been so invigorated by her excursion to the orchard several hours earlier. If anything, her breathing was getting worse. I went over to stroke her head and give her a bowl of water when I noticed that Jaz had wet and dirtied herself. “Poor dear Jaz”, I thought – this was another clear indication of her imminent demise. If only I hadn’t taken Jaz for her walk that morning… If only I had put her, and not Sasha, in the wheelbarrow… not that I would have been strong enough to lift her – and she wouldn’t have fitted anyway (she’s a big old girl – beautiful but big!) but it helped somehow to try and think of what I could have done differently.

At last there was a phone call from Rosie. She was on her way home – hurrah!

” – Yes, she is eating well – absolutely no loss of appetite – hold on, I’ll give her a biscuit…

– Still enjoying her food, Rosie. Still drinking water – had a whole bowlful earlier.

– Yes, she did have an accident – both departments – must have been when I was walking with Inca and Malchi. I’ve cleaned it up and the mattresses are outside.

–  No, really? She hyperventilates when she feels embarrassed and guilty? Give her a cuddle but don’t be too sympathetic or she’ll think she’s ill?

– Rosie, her breathing  has abated. She’s getting better… I’m so relieved.”

You’ll be pleased to learn that Jaz is alright, just old and a bit of a worrier. Old age  can be so humiliating, especially for a sensitive lady dog like Jaz. Bless her!

I succumbed. I may have been one of the last in my age group to do so but, finally, I succumbed to peer pressure. I had intended to go, like a dinosaur, to my grave ignorant of the capabilities of smart phones. Hitherto, I had not considered myself important enough to warrant owning such modern paraphernalia  but I couldn’t fight it and now I am one of the zombies. Unwillingly at first, I responded to every strange sound that emanated from my new (but superseded) Samsung Galaxy 4.

“What’s that? An email, a text, my Whatsapp…?” I used to ask myself inside my head.

“It’s not mine,” Chris used to interrupt my thoughts as if he was a mind-reader, “mine sounds like a cuckoo and a wolf-whistle.”

“Well mine is a sheep and a type-writer bell, not a door bell!” I used to say time after time but occasionally the sound would be something else, like a waterfall, a woodpecker or a bicycle bell (and sometimes it really was just my bicycle bell making a funny noise as I went over bumps whilst out cycling).

Nowadays, willingly, Chris and I both respond to all the sounds simultaneously. We are more important and worldly now. Like robots, we stretch out our hands and check, after all, it could be something very important… Oh, just a spam email? Yes, but it might have been crucial – what if we hadn’t checked? I guess that our worlds might have fallen apart.

Perhaps you’ll think it odd that I became rather nostalgic yesterday as I was dipping a mop into a bucket of soapy water and sloshing it over the windows and outside walls of my old studio. It hasn’t been my studio and gallery for about sixteen or seventeen years but the building has belonged to members of my family for around twenty-eight years. My youngest brother Robert owned it first and he used the downstairs area as his piano workshop while I had the flat and gallery upstairs; then later our mum bought it and moved in upstairs, and I moved my studio/gallery downstairs. (Later still, I worked from home, and more recently Chris built me my current studio.)

The building, which still bears the “Porch Galleries” sign, is on the busy main road so, invariably, over time black dust from the traffic settles on the walls, and particularly on all the things that jut out from the wall like ledges, windowsills and door frames. Every so often, when I thought it needed a spruce up, a younger me used to put on an old top and pair of shorts and take a bucket of water and a mop… When you lift a sopping wet mop above your head to reach the high point of a wall the water runs down your arms…

The downstairs studio/gallery was renovated and turned into a flat many years ago; it has been a bolt-hole, a stop-gap or a first foray into living independently for various family members since its transformation.

So yesterday, as I was swishing the mop above my head and enjoying the feeling of power in my arms, and remembering that same sensation of water dripping down my arms, I smiled wryly to myself. It hadn’t been a good day and already I felt a little sad.

“There were times,” I thought to myself, “when I couldn’t stand out here doing this for more than a few minutes before some passing motorists would slow down and wolf-whistle. Ah, but you have to remember that you’re older now and you can’t expect to get whistled at at your age.”

Instead of shorts I was wearing three-quarter length bright pink pants and, over them, an apron that Mum had made for me.

“Who would whistle at me now?” I laughed to myself.

A few minutes later, as I was bending and sloshing with the mop, I heard a long loud wolf whistle. I turned around – it had to be for me – and a handsome man smiled at me from his car.

“Thank you!” I called back with a wave.

It was one of my old admirers from twenty-eight years ago. I continued my work with renewed vigour and half an hour later I received a nice little beep for good measure. Things are never quite as bad as they seem.

One of the great things I find about being married to the same man for seventeen years is that we can say almost anything to each other in the knowledge that it will be understood and taken in the right way (well mostly – we did have some weird conversations prior to Chris finally agreeing to wear his hearing aids). But you know what I mean – you get so used to your beloved’s line of thought that you know instantly what they are going on about.

Chris and I often have funny chats while we’re having our morning cups of tea in bed but this time the conversation I’m about to relate to you took place as I was cooking cauliflower cheese for our dinner tonight. Now for some reason the conversation had turned to a film, “The Great Magnolia Hotel” (or something like that).

“I didn’t like that “Magnolia Hotel” film,” I said to Chris who knew which film I meant because he knows I can never remember the actual title (owing to the fact that I never watched the whole movie).

“That’s just because you don’t like those actors,” Chris said sniffily (he had finished watching the rest of the film when I was away and enjoyed it).

“True,” I agreed, “and why do they always cast Celia Imprie as a sexy man-eater?”

“Celia Imrie,” Chris corrected.

“I always thought she must be French,” I pondered as I stirred the cheese sauce, “bet it’s a fake name anyway.”

“No, I don’t think so,” Chris clicked away on his laptop. “Oh yes it is her name – her father was Scottish – and she was born in England in nineteen fifty-two.”

“Do you find her sexy? And what other films was she in?” I asked.

“No, she’s a bit too hard-faced for me,” Chris said diplomatically, “now let me see… I didn’t know she was in ‘Highlander’…”

“She was the nasty one,” I elucidated.

“Oh yes, then there were the two – best and second best –  Exotic Marigold Hotel films” – (I knew it was a flower beginning with M) – “and loads of other films” said Chris.

“‘Calendar Girls'” I chirped in.

“Colander Girls?” Chris laughed as he popped his head around the kitchen doorway and eyed the boiled cauliflower in the colander on the cooker.

“That must have been a strain,” I replied.

“Saucy girl,” he quipped.

“Not a saucepany girl then?”

“Maybe I was frying too hard…”

We still laugh a lot – it’s another of the great things about being married to Chris for over seventeen years.

To tell you the truth I had been noticing some new lines recently so I was very pleased when my beautiful friend Caroline, who lives two doors up, called in with “a little present” for me a few days ago.

“It’s a special vitamin E serum for wrinkles,” Caroline said, handing me the pink bottle with the eyedropper top (which made it look very serious in a scientific way, if you know what I mean).

“Is this what you use?” I asked hopefully (she looked radiant and relatively wrinkle-free).

“No, I bought it for myself but I didn’t like it as much as my old one, but I thought you might like to try it…”

Overwhelmed with the urge to begin the treatment straight away, I immediately opened the bottle and pressed out half an eyedropper of serum onto my troublesome areas; a big drop ran down from my forehead and plopped into my left eye… making me squint.

“It’s really a night treatment,” said Caroline.

“I need all the help I can get,” I replied squinting (which Caroline may have thought was a wink!).

“Oh… I can see it being absorbed into your skin,” my friend looked with interest, “it doesn’t do that with my skin – it just sits there rather oily.”

Throughout the day, when Caroline had gone and I was painting back at the easel, and listening to a free audio-book version of “My Man Jeeves” by P.G.Wodehouse (very funny!), I stopped now and then to apply another drop or two of serum. The hair that fell upon my face seemed to get a bit greasy but my face was lovely and soft. I kept applying the serum.

At some point I had to nip over to see my other friend Catherine, who lives two doors down, the other way. Catherine and her daughter both came to the doorstep as I was leaving. I was about to give young Jessie a kiss goodbye when, luckily, I noticed a thin thread of mucus, still attached to my nose, was dangling in the air. I wiped it hastily with the back of my sleeve (no hanky) and hoped no-one would see. Young people have great sight. I caught her looking.

“Oh sorry. Don’t worry Jess, I won’t kiss you just now,” I laughed it off.

(“That’s funny”, I thought, “I haven’t got a cold.”)

To be honest (although I don’t why I should), I’m not so sure that my appearance has improved since I’ve been using the special serum day and night during the last few days. You see, my eyes have been smarting so much that I can’t really see if the lines are going – in fact, I suspect all the squinting might have caused some more – and my nose is running, and I’m sniffing and blowing… and I don’t even have a cold. And my hair is lank. And I’m not taking any more chances with kissing hello or goodbye (you will be glad to note). And I look like a red-eyed panda (from rubbing my eyes when wearing eyeliner and mascara). Yes, I think I’m allergic to that serum (or else it’s made from extract of onion). Shall I tell Caroline? Well, that all depends on whether or not she reads this…

Another from the Joke-master Roland…

Beggars Belief

A veteran officer from the Falklands War is in London. He’s walking along a passageway that leads to one of the underground platforms at Piccadilly Station when he sees a beggar in a wheelchair. He stops to read the cardboard sign that the beggar is holding, “Homeless, hungry and unwanted  Falklands veteran”.

“Poor beggar,” he thinks to himself, “to be in such a state after all these years. What a shame. But for the grace of God that could be me.”

He draws his wallet from a trouser pocket. He normally fulfills his moral obligation to the needy with a golden coin but on this occasion he is so moved that he takes out a twenty-pound note.

“Here we are, good man,” he says, placing the crisp note into the beggar’s grimy hand.

The beggar’s eyes light up, he smiles and says:

“Gracias amable señor!”

The Peculiar Staring Child

Well, I’m just an ordinary middle-aged Aussie bloke and not much unnerves me these days but it was a funny thing alright, and quite uncomfortable, I can tell you, to be stared at all afternoon by a four-year-old kid. At first I thought it was something to do with me, but then I reckoned it was the child who was a bit simple although, admittedly, there isn’t that much for a small kid to do at a barbecue where everyone else is adult. Our old friends Bob and Sue were baby-sitting their little granddaughter Angelina and brought her along. “The more the merrier!” I had told them but I wasn’t bargaining for being stared at like that.

The kid was sat on the bench directly across the table from me so I couldn’t fail to notice her staring at me. Her big brown eyes were riveted to my face so, naturally, I thought there was some food around my mouth. I wiped the corners of my mouth with a serviette (I have been known to collect a few crumbs there in the past). The little angel still kept staring so I patted my lips with the serviette. She watched me with renewed interest. “Could it be some tomato sauce stuck on my chin, ” I wondered. I put some spit on one corner of the serviette and rubbed at my chin (it’s true that sometimes I’ve looked in the mirror to find dried tomato sauce, looking like evidence of a shaving accident, on my chin); but, no, there wasn’t any sauce and the kid kept staring.

The hours passed. I mingled with all our friends, making sure that the ladies’ glasses were topped up and the beer didn’t run out, but still, every time I turned around that little kid was staring at me. At last, when I couldn’t stick it anymore, I approached her.

“Angelina, shweetheart,” I said, trying to be nice, “why on earth have you been…s… staring at me all this arvo?”

She looked up at me all innocent and said:

“I’m waiting to see you drink like a fish…”