While I began walking back from the surgery I smiled a  wry sort of smile to myself (as you do when things haven’t worked out quite right but you find it funny).

“Sorry I’m a bit late,” I had said to the receptionist just a few minutes earlier.

“Late?,” the receptionist scrutinised the screen in front of her, “Which doctor are you seeing?”

“Doctor Harvey at nine-forty,” I answered.

“Doctor Harvey isn’t on today,” the lady peered through her glasses at the computer screen again.

“But my husband got me an appointment for this morning,” I was adamant.

“No, you’re down for Doctor Harvey at nine-forty on Thursday morning!”

“Well I can’t wait until Thursday with this pain in my ear. I can’t go through another night like last night – I shall have to go to a hospital… or a witch doctor…” I said.

That did it. She booked me in for this afternoon.

“Chris is a tad deaf,” I said by way of a friendly explanation and the receptionist smiled (no doubt grateful that I wasn’t blaming her for the mix-up).

“The doctor you’ll be seeing is very nice,” she added and we were friends.

I chuckled to myself even though my ear was throbbing and hurting like hell. I wished I had brought my bike – then I could have zoomed home – but I had been running late and Chris took me in the car. So I was walking home and, that being the case, I wished I had worn different shoes, with a bit of heel. In truth, I felt a little ‘down at heel’ without my usual make-up (no time before I left) and wearing an old top and flat shoes, not to forget  the terrible earache…

A young couple with two small boys got out of a car and walked ahead of me down to Dawlish Brook (in the town centre). The woman was huge and tattooed, and it crossed my mind that I must continue with my own diet with more determination. I overtook the family and I wondered if the large tattooed woman, now behind me, was looking at my ample bottom and formulating an idea to begin dieting. At that moment an oncoming white van slowed and the driver’s window came down; a smiling face poked out and said:

“I love you!”

“Oh, Ian,” I smiled back (earache and big bottom forgotten in the wake of those three little words).

I didn’t turn around to check the responses of the family behind me – it was a private comment, said publicly for the greater effect, and a glance around would have been tantamount to gloating. Incidentally, Ian, who isn’t especially handsome but bursting with personality, is a butcher and probably loves quite a few ladies in Dawlish.

I walked on with a spring in my step – or was it a sashay? I like to imagine that the burly tattooed woman smiled wryly to herself.

I was with my friend and neighbour Caroline a couple of hours ago, commiserating with her over the nasty shock she had had this morning when a car went into her car. We were out looking at the damage to the car when Steve the plumber came along (he had seen the damage as he was driving past) and he stopped to give his sympathy.

“Are you wearing your slippers?” Caroline asked Steve (and we all looked down at his feet).

“Yes I am,” he replied a little sheepishly (his moccasins might even have been sheepskin).

“They aren’t a pair – are they?” I noticed, “Look, they are different colours!”

“It’s true that I have two pairs almost the same,” he admitted.

Steve lifted his trouser-legs in order to take a better look and as he did so Caroline and I observed that his stripey socks didn’t match either.

“You can buy them like that nowadays – it’s a fashion statement,” he explained.

“But you didn’t buy them like that,” I laughed.

“No, I admit that I have two pairs almost the same,”  Steve said turning his feet out like a clown.

“Now turn them in like a Devon Pixie,” I suggested as I snapped with my mobile camera.

My model was a very good sport and he doesn’t mind me putting the photos on my blog. We all had a good laugh and Caroline forgot about the car accident for a few minutes.

Yet again, thanks for this joke go to Roland.

Could it be you?

One evening Jesus had a little feeling, if not exactly a premonition (it was not unpleasant), that something was about to happen at the Pearly Gates. He wafted over to the gates and saw dear old St Peter, very busy as usual, welcoming the faithful and turning away the disbelievers and the undeserving. St Peter’s kindly face looked a tad care-worn and tired as Jesus approached.

“Why don’t you have the evening off?” asked Jesus, “I’d be happy to take over from you and give you a well-earned break. Besides, I have a strange feeling that I should be here tonight…”

“Well, if you don’t mind?” answered St Peter rather pleased, “You’re quite right to follow your instincts. Remember that ‘God works in mysterious ways’!”

St Peter flew off and Jesus took over as gatekeeper. After a short time – it could have been a week, a month or even a year or more (time was immaterial) – Jesus thought he recognised a face in the gathering that was waiting outside the gates.

The face was extremely ancient but lined in a nice way, as if the man had spent a lifetime smiling and having pleasant thoughts. The hair was white and wavy, quite thick for one so advanced in years, and it looked soft and nice to stroke. Under his large red nose was a big moustache as white as his hair. On his nose was a pair of spectacles, which he peered over with benevolent eyes; originally brown, they had faded to a pale greenish blue with the passage of time but in those faded eyes were chinks of reflected light, which had not dulled, and showed a lively sense of humour. Instead of wearing a cloak over his clothes, he had on a brown apron, like one worn by the carpenters of old.

“Surely I know that lovely face,” Jesus said to himself and his excitement grew as he waited for the old man to reach the gates.

“Don’t I know you?” said Jesus taking the old man’s hands in his own.

“I don’t know,” replied the old man, “my eyes are not so good these days – and my glasses don’t work so well as they used to.”

“Would your name, by any chance, happen to be Joseph?” inquired Jesus.

“Yes, you could say that it is, indeed, Joseph,” answered the old man after a little ponder.

“Tell me,” asked Jesus, welling up with excitement and love, “do you have a son?”

“Why yes, I do!” exclaimed the old man, sensing the momentousness of the occasion.

“And, by chance, does he happen to have some small holes in his hands and feet?” asked Jesus hardly daring to hope.

“Yes, of course he does,” the old man nearly swooned with joy.

“Oh Father,” began Jesus, “it’s me, your little boy!”

“My boy?”

“Your beloved boy,” Jesus wept.

“Oh my dear boy,” the old man took Jesus in his arms, “my dear Pinocchio!”

Last night my cousin and her family, who are on holiday, came over to our place for the evening. At the dinner table fourteen-year-old William, who is keen on art, asked me a question about drawing, and every time I began to answer he butted in and finished my sentence for me. At length, after about five attempts (and ever so slightly ruffled), I looked at him and said, “If you’ll stop trying to pre-empt me I’ll give you the answer to your question.” As the word pre-empt left my mouth I wondered if he would understand me, not least because of his youth, but also because he is German… Also, I wondered if I was using the word pre-empt correctly in this instance and had a feeling that perhaps another word (which evaded me, and does still) might have been more appropriate.

I fancy it was the slight edge of annoyance in my voice that made my meaning all too clear. As it happens, William understood very well and bore no resentment for, after a split-second, he burst out laughing and pre-empted any further irritation (also, he let me finish my sentence!). In fact, we all laughed! We had lots of laughter and a lovely evening.

No, I’m not joking about the Peter, Paul and Mary song of the same name as my blog post title, this is another joke from Roland in Brisbane (as ever). However, I’ll paste the lyrics of the song at the end of the joke.

If I had a Hammer

The judge looked at the man stood in the dock.

“You are accused of attacking the landlord of ‘The Carpenters Arms’ public house with a hammer,” began the judge.

“Liar, liar!” came a voice from the back of the court, “It’s all lies!”

The judge ignored the interruption and continued:

“You are also accused of attacking a bartender at ‘The Carpenters Arms’ with a hammer on the same night.”

“You big liar! You big liar!” shouted the man at the back of the court.

The judge paused meaningfully, gave the man a look that could kill, and continued his address:

“Not only that, you are accused of taking the same hammer to attack the policeman who was called to the scene to intervene…”

“You big, big liar! You great big hairy liar!” shouted the incensed man at the back of the court.

“And who,” the judge inquired with a sneer, “are you?”

The man stood up.

“I have lived next door to the accused for all of ten years now and I know for certain that my neighbour is incapable of committing the crime he is accused of.”

“And how do you know that, pray tell?” asked the judge.

“Well, your Lordship, every time I ask to borrow his hammer he tells me he doesn’t have a hammer!”

Read more: Peter, Paul & Mary – If I Had A Hammer Lyrics | MetroLyrics