At the moment we have a couple of thespians sleeping in the top bedrooms of our house, not that they weren’t expected – we invited them. You see, our clever friend Martin who lives two doors up from us has written a play called “Beyond Expectations” (a sequel to Dickens’ “Great Expectations”) and Martin’s eldest daughter, Jess, just so happens to be the professional actress who is playing the leading female role of Estella.The play has had excellent reviews in Edinburgh and is now doing the rounds in the West Country (where we live – in case you don’t know already). The play will be aired locally at The Ice-Factory in Teignmouth on Tuesday and Wednesday nights – be there or be square! – and we’re going to see it tomorrow night. Needless to say, Chris and I are expecting the play to be beyond expectations.

And what of those actors sleeping on our top floor? Of course, they are members of the cast and when they aren’t sleeping at our place they are either rehearsing (somewhere else), or sustaining themselves at Martin’s. We don’t see the actors because they come in last thing at night and leave early in the morning. Last week I met one young man on the stairs but I didn’t meet the other of our thespians until yesterday, when I popped over with a birthday card for Catherine. In fact, I met four of the cast (including Jess) but not the one I had met on the stairs – he was taking Sunday off.

“I’m expecting great things even though ‘Great Expectations’ isn’t my favourite of Dickens’ novels,” I joshed, “I hope it’s more upbeat than ‘Great Expectations’.”

“Oh it is,” assured Martin.

“But four of them die,” said one of the actors (and the others called out the names of the characters who meet their ends during the play).

“No they don’t,” denied Martin.

“Well we should know because our characters die,” said the blond actor.

“I should know… oh, I suppose you’re right, ” said the author looking a bit deflated (in an over-acting way) before turning to his cast for support, “but it’s definitely not downbeat – is it?”

“I’ll tell you what is downbeat,” said Jess, rallying (and by way of prevarication), “Sally, now do you remember my cousin Rachel?”

“The book by Daphne du Maurier?” I asked.

“No, my actual cousin Rachel, Aunty Sue’s daughter – you know. I’m sure you’ve met her – she’s the blonde one who is very short,” Jess laughed.

“Oh yes, I remember,” I answered.

“Well, I know I’m not very tall at five-foot-two,” said Jess, “but my cousin Rachel is only four-foot nine inches tall and when she was in a play…”

“Is she an actress too?” I interrupted.

“No, I’m telling you about years ago when Rachel found out what part she was to get in “The Wizard of oz”, which was her school play, ” Jess continued. “They put all the names of the actors, and the parts assigned to them, on the school notice board.”

“Like they used to do with exam results?” I asked.

“Exactly,” confirmed Jess, “so imagine how down Rachel felt when she read that her part was to be…”

“A dwarf – one of the…” I tried to remember the name.

“The Munchkins!” the thespian who sleeps at my house found the right word.

“No,” laughed Jess, “much worse and more embarrassing than that!”

“The ‘Wicked Witch of the West’?” a young male voice beat me to it.

“No, that would have been great,” scorned Jess, “Rachel was given the role of…. the Shrinking Wicked Witch of the West!”

“Not when the witch has water thrown over her and she shrinks to nothing?” I asked. “But surely she didn’t have any lines?”

“Oh yes she did,” Martin replied holding up his arms and bending his knees, “I’m shrinking!”

I had told Chris I was popping out for a few minutes but I was out for some time… luckily Chris had no great expectations!

Our thespians are the two with the beards!

Thanks again to Roland (alias “Bird-man from Brisbane”) for another dose of laughter.

The Three-Legged Chickens

After many years of breeding chickens a chicken farmer finally managed to breed a three-legged variety. Of course, the farmer was exceptionally proud of his achievement and the news spread far and wide. Before long a reporter from one of the tabloid newspapers came to the farm to verify the story and turn it into a sensational news item.

Sure enough, the reporter found hundreds of three-legged chickens running around the vast chicken run. They were a little taller than regular chickens and, when they ran, it looked as though their feet were making circular motions not dissimilar to Roadrunner (from the old cartoon).

“That’s really amazing,” said the journalist, “but, tell me, how do they taste? Are they any different to normal chickens?”

“Well,” began the farmer, “I don’t rightly know. You see, I haven’t been able to catch any yet!”

The Continentals

A Frenchman, an Italian and an Englishman got into conversation at the poolside bar of their hotel in Nerja, Southern Spain, where they were holidaying with their young wives.

The Frenchman, no doubt aware of the reputation of his kinsmen for being the worlds best lovers, decided to show off.

“Ah, mes amis,” said the Frenchman, “‘ow many times do you sink I made passionate love to my wife last night? Five times! Chantal was so, ‘ow you say – ‘appy’ zat she made the crepe choclat pour mon breakfast merveilleux!”

“Si, five times is a good…but six times is a even better!” said the Italian with a twinkle in his eye. “My bella Maria, she was a so thrilled with my passion that she gotta outa da bed while I was a still asleep and she make me da fantastic breakfast of ham, tomato and olives on bread like a Mama used to make.”

“Hey, English boy,” the Frenchman turned to the Englishman [sure of a response that would repair his tattered ego], “‘Ow many times did you make love last night?”

“Just the once,” came the reply.

The Frenchman and Italian looked knowingly at one another.

“And what did she a make you for a breakfast?” asked the Italian.

“Nothing,” said the Englishman and the other two men sniggered.

“Oh, I suggested that we go out for breakfast,” the Englishman added,”but Vanessa implored me not to stop…”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

And for all you romantics here are the lyrics to the old song “The Continental”….

Chris and I seem to do most of our talking in bed whilst we’re having our morning cuppa. I imagine that many couples do the same, or are we peculiar? Sometimes we discuss rather peculiar things, not that we think so, but you might do. Maybe it’s normal to wake up at five-thirty in the morning, while it’s still dark, and burst out laughing because you’re thinking about the funny film you saw the night before, which is what happened yesterday morning.

To think that we very nearly turned off  “Blades of Glory” within the first few minutes! Without giving away too much about the film (maybe you haven’t seen it yet), it’s a spoof about two singles ice skating rivals who are banned for bad behaviour and later team up to become the worlds first male doubles partnership in competition – it’s as weird and funny as it sounds, perhaps more so because one of the skaters is a chubby sex addict (Will Ferrell) and the other is an innocent former child prodigy (John Heder) who was adopted by a multi-millionaire.

Anyway, we enjoyed the film so much that we watched it again last night. Yet again, we awoke (not quite so early this time) and began talking about the funny one-liners.

Now it just so happened that our house guests were planning to leave early this morning and they had promised to come downstairs to our sector of the house to say goodbye; so when Chris came down with my cup of tea I asked him to leave our bedroom door open wide in order that we might hear our guests announcing their departure from the landing on the floor above (so we could rush out and say cheerio).

We were still running through what we each thought were the funniest lines in the movie while were up and about to get dressed. I was stood by our bedroom door.

“I liked the bit when the slave girl comes out from the sex addicts’ therapy class, and there were all the class members getting carried away in the background,” said Chris.

“Oh yes,” I enthused, “and she said, ‘Sex, sex, sex – what more can I say?'”

“‘That about says it all'”, responded Chris laughing (in the words of Chazz).

At that moment we heard a male voice call out:

“Sally? Chris? We’re about to go…”

Chris, still in his tee-shirt and lounger shorts, ran upstairs and I hurriedly put on some jogger pants and a thick sweat-shirt and soon joined them on the landing.

“Sorry I haven’t brushed my hair yet,” I said, suddenly realising that my unruly hair was still mussed from the pillow (and not unlike the style of “Shock-headed Peter”).

Our guests soon left and Chris and I looked at each other.

“Sex, sex, sex! What more can I say?” I repeated.

“That about says it all,” answered Chris and we both cracked up.

I was in this great big farmhouse in Paris, of all places, but, oddly, nobody spoke French. It was a rabbit warren of rooms and passages, filled with people – some I knew, some I didn’t. I kept working all the time but the house was so big that my work was never finished.

Davina was there [our eldest daughter who lives in Dubai]. She pointed to a fireplace that was only half-painted and she smiled derisively as she held up a corner of the mantelpiece, which had come off in her hands.

“Oh, I thought I had finished it,” I explained.

My husband, too, was always working and I rarely saw him. He looked like a drummer from a famous band in the eighties, except that he had fair curly hair.

I couldn’t cope with all the clothes scattered around and, suddenly, I found myself walking down a leafy boulevard.

“Hi!” I said to a handsome man who looked like Bjorn Borg, “You’re my brother-in-law, aren’t you?”

“Why yes,” he said sexily, “Will you have a drink with me? I’m the manager of the Turkish baths here…” [He waved his arm towards some steps going down from the street.]

“But aren’t you a famous tennis player?” I asked.

“Sh, nobody here knows that,” he put a finger to his mouth.

“The funny thing is that I can’t remember my husband’s name…” I said, perplexed.

Suddenly, I was in a crowded fashion-house – haute couture – and I was going down a spiral staircase when someone picked up a strange golden striped shoe. It looked like an Eighteenth-Century shoe but instead of being tiny [as is usually the case], it was extremely long and incredibly thin and sausage-like (definitely an ugly step-sister shoe).

“Is this yours?” a voice asked.

“No, nobody in the world has feet that could fit into that!” I retorted.

My sister Mary, wearing a fetching black dress with big white polka dots, waved at me from the crowd.

“Hello Sally!” she smiled enthusiastically.

When I turned around my mother was standing at the bottom of the spiral staircase. She was wearing a sparkling pink jacket and matching sunhat. She leaned her arms on the banisters at the bottom and, very pleased with herself, held out a leg; on it was the strange sixteen-inch long, stripey sausage shoe.

“I’ve never worn such a comfortable shoe!” she beamed.

When I opened my eyes the dogs were surrounding me – two on the floor, their tails wagging, and the other two on the bed (Sasha and Malaki has spent the night with me), their tails wagging too.

I came to my senses and burst out laughing. The more I recalled of the dream, the more I laughed – I had to jot it down while I still remembered it. And a short while later (after feeding the dogs and having some cereal myself) this is the transcript of the scribbles.

Now I must feed the farm animals – my work is never done – and I must phone Chris. That’s it! His name is Chris!

Somebody is off her food… Not me, after a busy day on the farm and walking miles with the dogs, I had a very healthy appetite. The little “somebody” of whom I refer is Sasha, a brave, sweet and tiny Yorkshire Terrier (Rosie’s favourite, I suspect). I think she’s missing her mum. I’m not worried because I’m sure her appetite will return tomorrow when they will be reunited. Nevertheless, I coaxed Sasha with some mince, one little piece at a time, so she won’t starve.

On the subject of starvation, or diet, rather, since I’ve been farm-sitting I have been adopting the “Slim People’s Diet”; well, Rosie and family are all nice and slim so I thought I would eat whatever they eat. They have quite a lot of chocolate here… but I’ve only had four squares from the opened chocolate bar (milk chocolate isn’t my favourite and I wouldn’t dream of opening the pristine bar of dark chocolate). I did open the Kit-Kats in the fridge though (I knew I could replace them), but I’ve only had one and a half (and they’re just the two-finger variety!). They have plenty of bread here and I can understand why… because they also have an Aga, and the Aga cooker makes the best toast I have ever tasted. For the first two nights running I had mushrooms on toast, then last night Chris came over and we shared some left over spaghetti that I’d brought from home; this evening I went back to the “Slim People’s Diet” – and it was delicious!

My dinner was made even more enjoyable by the memories it brought back of the time when I was nineteen years old and pregnant. I well remember my charming little flat, three hundred years old with a bowed ceiling (nobody over six foot one could stand up straight in it); perhaps its best feature was the location – right in the heart of Teignmouth (behind Lipton’s supermarket) – which meant that I always had a lot of visitors and sometimes I used to wish that my visitors would eat before coming to see me – it seemed they never did!

One day I had a craving (as you do when you’re pregnant), and I had a laugh to myself when I was buying the objects of my desire. I thought to myself, “Nobody will want to eat these!”. I went home and had the usual round of visitors popping in for cups of tea or coffee (and any food going). It was nearly dinnertime and one caller, a chap I used to work with, was still in the lounge.

“I’m dreadfully sorry,” I began, “I’d offer to have you join me for dinner but I’m convinced that you wouldn’t want to eat what I intend having.”

“What are you having?” he asked.

“Well, I’m a bit embarrassed to tell you,” I answered.

“Is it liver? I’m quite partial to a piece of liver,” he asked, practically licking his lips.

“Oh no, nothing as normal as liver,” I responded, “actually, I’m intending to have a plate of Brussels sprouts on their own with some butter on them… Surely you wouldn’t fancy Brussels sprouts on their own?”

“Do you know, I could just fancy a plate of Brussels sprouts with some butter!” my caller licked his lips.

So I shared my half-pound of sprouts (it wasn’t a huge dinner!) with my hungry visitor and, on occasions since then, something happens that reminds me of that time. You can’t imagine what reminded me tonight. It wasn’t Brussels sprouts (they aren’t in season – are they?). Well, you’ve heard of baked beans on toast? No, it wasn’t baked beans… It was runner beans on a half piece of toast! But they were the freshest, loveliest green beans (Rosie only buys the best) and the toast was the finest toast (toasted on the Aga), and I put a nob of delicious butter on top. Even the dogs were licking their lips.

“No,” I said, “you wouldn’t like them!”

And I ate them all myself. The other half of the toast, spread with a spoon of organic honey, made an excellent dessert. That’s what slim people eat – I think…

One of the nice things about having a sleep-over is that there is a good chance you’ll be sleeping with your friends. Okay, you don’t get much sleep – or it is interrupted – but these negatives are nothing compared to the positives, such as the pleasure of novelty and the joy of being kissed and cuddled all night (not to mention the added bonus of keeping warm – the bigger the body next to you, the better!).

I slept over at the farm last night and just before going to bed I had a message from Rosie:

“Big kiss to Sash. She always looks so sad when I go.”

“I’ll bring her in with me!” I wrote back.

In fact, I had already been looking forward to taking Sash to bed with me and putting her on her own special pillow. Besides which, the king-sized four-poster bed has ample room for two, three or even four – but not five – we tried it one time and we were all overwhelmed.

Intelligent Sasha came willingly into my arms, no doubt anticipating a night of blissful togetherness, and I carried her into the bedroom. We were both a little surprised to find that Inca had beaten us to it and was sprawled over the bed. She looked at us with imploring innocent eyes.

“Okay Inca,” I answered her look, “but move over and make room for us.”

Sash licked my hand while Inca made do by wriggling into a comfy position against my legs and we slept in peace and contentment, with only four interruptions – three for toilet excursions and one for letting Hunter the cat out.

Just before dawn Malaki and Jaz awakened me with kisses – one on the hand, the other on my chin – and, assuming they all wanted another toilet trip, I went through the lounge to open the side door. They didn’t make a move. Five pairs of eyes just stared expectantly at me.

“Oh no, I’m not ready to get up,” I said, and they dispersed to their various mattresses on the kitchen floor, apart from Sasha who came back to bed with me.

No sooner had we got into our sleeping positions – I on my back and Sasha in the crook of my arm – than Inca bounded in and jumped on top of me; she licked one of my cheeks and pawed at the duvet covering me, trying to make it more comfortable. Thank Heavens, after a few minutes she relinquished her territory in favor of her former spot beside my legs. Wise old Sasha made a sweet little noise denoting her sheer delight and even Inca, young but gaining experience, realised that she had taken the term “sleep-over” too literally.

Long gone are the days of “jungle-drums”, smoke signals, telegraph, carrier pigeons and “the grape-vine”; even letters and ordinary phone calls are becoming old-fashioned! Chris and I are such modern people nowadays that we get our news first-hand from our friends and family around the globe and listen to it on Whatsapp over the breakfast table. Take this morning for example, our friend Roland in Brisbane thought we’d enjoy a giggle while Chris ate his cereal and I had my porridge (he was right – I certainly needed something to take my mind off my porridge – I hate porridge!). The following is an edited transcript from Roly’s verbal message:

“Something funny happened to me when I came home from work. Well, first I had better tell you about my method of folding the washing; I’m not like you, or Pat (she was the same as you) – I know you take the clothes off the line and fold them nicely into the basket, then you might put them in the dryer and pull them into shape before folding them nicely again and putting them in the drawers. I don’t pull my underpants into shape at the crotch – we’re talking underpants here (hope you don’t mind) – I just grab a handful off the line, fold them any old way and put them all into the underpants drawer in one go, same with the socks – all in in the one go.

So, going back to a bit earlier on… I needed a shower and shave (I hadn’t shaved yesterday because I was out fishing in the boat) so I got out a fresh pair of pants – my high vis ones – think they were orange or they could have been yellow – in fact I could check if I looked up my shorts leg (not my short leg!) but that’s irrelevant so I won’t bother. Anyway, as I took my high vis Bonds out of the drawer I noticed that they were a bit creased but I thought ‘Oh that’s just the way I threw them in’, and I put them on, and I put my shorts on because it’s warm tonight – twenty-eight degrees or there abouts!

So, because we took the boat out yesterday, and had to clean it out when we got home, we took all the stuff out and I thought I’d put it all back in so we won’t have to mess about with it next Sunday if we’re going fishing again [Roland chuckles.] As I was picking stuff up I got a pinch [he chuckles again], I got a pinch in my nether regions and I thought, ‘Ooo, what’s that?’ I thought something must’ve got caught – I can’t explain it – if you know what I mean? So I did an adjustment, as people do, and I carried on. I went to pick something else up and I thought, ‘Ooo, another pinch!’ [He guffaws.] It’s making me laugh to think about it. I thought to myself, ‘What the hell is that?’ It felt like a splinter but I couldn’t believe there could be a splinter in there so I stretched one leg one way, then the other, and made little re-adjustments, as you can imagine. I carried on working for another thirty seconds or so and had to lift something else up – oddly enough what they call a grab bag (sea-faring talk) – and I got this massive pinch and I thought, ‘What the hell?'”

[I looked at Chris over the table and mouthed the words, “I think I know!”]

“So I went into the bathroom to sort myself out,” our friend’s message continued, “Guess what was in my pants, right in the undercarriage part of my high vis orange pants? A piece of Velcro with the sticky tape part and the hooks, so that’s what had been making my pants creased. Every time I bent down the Velcro hooks had been grabbing my hairs and pulling them out. It was only a little piece – about a half inch – and how it got into my pants I couldn’t guess. Ah, but of course, Velcro is what I used to stick my new bait-board onto my boat… but how did it get into my pants? You couldn’t imagine how a little piece of Velcro could get into a tub of washing and find its way into the crotch of the matter, so to speak. (He said this in a very high-pitched voice!) You just couldn’t guess – could you?” Roland finished his story.

No, I couldn’t have guessed it was Velcro hooks. I thought it was a fishing hook – didn’t you? The bait and tackle doesn’t bear thinking about!

Yesterday was Dawlish Air Show day. It is the day when tens of thousands of people descend on our sleepy little seaside town to watch the big event of the year. People gather on the hillsides, they line up along the seawall and on every path up the cliffs; every flat roof or garden that has a view of the sea is bursting with people on Dawlish air Show day. Our terrace looks out over the sea, above which the spectacular air show takes place each year, so naturally, many of our family and friends came to our place to watch from one of the best vantage points.

In between putting sausage rolls and pizzas in the oven, bringing out sandwiches and telling the children to be quiet or go downstairs into the garden, I managed to see the acrobat plane tumbling down from the sky and start his engine again successfully; also I saw (and heard!) the Vulcan – may it “live long and prosper” (although that isn’t very likely because it was to be the Vulcan’s last show performance, and therefore unmissable). There was an interval (although I missed it) and the Red Arrows formation team were due to come on in the mid-afternoon. However, the weather worsened and clouds and mist brewed up – it looked like rain.

Everyone waited in suspense. Were the Red Arrows going to make it? Whilst making cups of tea for the adults and handing out cheesy Whatsits and lemonade to the kids, even I wondered if the stars of the show would make an appearance. I was bringing out the tray full of Mary’s delicious scones and cream when I heard engines overhead. I looked up and saw five planes, in arrow formation, flying out from a big cloud… at least I think there were five of them… and I’m sure they were in arrow formation… but admittedly, I didn’t have my distance glasses on at the time.

“Oh look!” I said, “Is that the Red Arrows?”

Several hawk-eyed children looked at me as if I was making a strange joke; and even more pairs of older eyes observed me, first with incredulity, then smiles. I turned my head skyward again and squinted, for more clarity. Oh yes, they had funny old-fashioned shaped wings alright – they might well have been bi-planes… or, for all I knew, they could have been built by the Wright brothers!

I turned back to the gigglers.

“I know,” I laughed, “I should have gone to Specsavers!”

We all laughed because at that time we hadn’t heard about the tragic accident which had already happened at Shoreham Air Show. Later on, when nearly everyone had gone home, my mum phoned up with the bad news. With sadness, we guessed that it was the accident, rather than the threat of rain, which had halted the appearance of the Red Arrows.

This joke comes from my old school friend Sally who now lives in Cyprus (who received it from her sister Linda in Turkey… who received it from her friend Jan – whereabouts unknown – possibly England… who received it from Penny, another citizen of this small world).

Wherever you come from, or live now, I’m sure you’ll be familiar with the fact that priests and ministers of many denominations still wear “clericals” – a white detachable collar (usually white) and a black shirt (or blouse) – to denote that the minister is on church duty of a pastoral nature rather than liturgical duties (when vestments are worn). As you will know, the clerical collar is usually referred to as a “dog collar” but what about little children these days – do they understand? Why yes, of course they do!

 The Priest’s Collar

A  priest was invited to attend a house party. Naturally, he was properly dressed, wearing his priest’s collar and black shirt.
Little Jackson kept staring at the clergyman during the entire evening. Finally, the priest approached the child and asked what he was staring at. The young boy pointed to the priest’s neck.
“Oh this? – my ‘dog collar'”, the priest laughed and put his hand up to his collar, “It’s very important to me and to members of the community. Do you know why I am wearing this?”
The small lad nodded his head and replied:

“It kills fleas and ticks for up to three months.”