“Try it,” I urged my husband (who had just enjoyed a nice big bowl of cereal).

“No thanks,” Chris said pulling a face at the spoonful of my breakfast, which I held out to him.

I guess I had pulled a similar face only a few seconds before so it wasn’t unreasonable to expect a rebuff to my generous offer.

Today is the third day of my juice diet (of my own design). Both on Monday and Tuesday alike I juiced up an old banana, an apple and a pear with a bit of ice and a drop of semi-skimmed milk, then I drank half for breakfast and saved the other half for one other meal replacement, the idea being that I could enjoy one normal full meal either for lunch or dinner and still save calories.

So far it hasn’t been the most fruitful diet, even though it’s been mostly fruit. Because the scales showed no movement at all this morning I thought I’d change tack and juice up a small carrot, a tomato and a third of a cucumber with some ice. This was quite convenient as I had run out of old bananas but it didn’t look very nice…and it tasted even worse.

“Go on, try it Darling,” I urged again.

“No thanks, Sweetheart,” Chris insisted firmly – with a face like King Kong.  

“Please, I’d like you to try it,” I cajoled.

“But I don’t want to. I’ve already had my breakfast,” King Kong was adamant.

“Why should I have to endure this if you won’t even have a taste to see how brave I am?” I saw no other choice than to capitalise on his affection for me.

Kong thought about it and his eyes softened. He took the still proferred spoon and, with great stoicism, swallowed the tiny amount of cold, puce-coloured mush.

“Not quite as bad as I thought,” he said.

“Well you drink it!” I quipped in Chief Dan George style ( from the film The Outlaw Josey Wales, when the carpetbagger offered Chief Dan George a taste of the elixir he was selling).

After pondering for a moment or two Chris came up with a suggestion:

“Listen Darling, (now in caring, thinking cap mode), if you’re allowed a normal-sized meal once a day why don’t you just split it into three and have it for each meal?”

“That’s a good idea,” I said, “but why shouldn’t I have just a third of the normal amount of different foods for each meal?”

So I began my new new regime by taking out a small bowl and having a handful of cereal with a little milk. It was delicious. Of course, I was hungry again by ten o’clock and I had to reach for an apple. I didn’t cut it into three. Well I didn’t want it to go brown – did I?

The trouble with golf courses (when you’re out for a nice cycle ride) is that many of the little paths just come to an end and you find yourself on the green. Windaroo Lakes (near Brisbane, Australia) is a prime example, which is where I was yesterday morning, and what a lovely ride I had. It was all so beautiful and wonderfully kept. Really, you’d never think that they would allow cyclists to ride amongst the golfers; but I wasn’t too worried because I had on my cycle helmet over my baseball cap.

I went down every path, circumnavigating all the greens and fairways (is that what they are called?) and reached as far as I could go without having to climb the fence into the adjacent golf course, which is separated but still part of the same club; and both conveniently border the Windaroo Memorial Peace Park, which is where I was at first – and from whence I had become intrigued to find my way into the course.

My first stop for a bit of photography was where a couple of elderly gentlemen had drawn up in their buggy only a few minutes before and they were setting up on the green. One of the chaps saw me taking photos and, no doubt concerned about all his chattels in the unattended buggy, he asked:

“Are you a photographer?” (Isn’t it funny? I often get asked that.)

“No,” I said smiling (and quite pleased that I looked so professional), “I’m an artist looking for beauty.”

“Where are you from?” he smiled back.

“Well, I’m Australian but I live in England,” I responded.

“I can tell that,” he said, “where abouts in England?”

“Devon,” I answered and he smiled and nodded as if that was good enough for him.

“Do you know Devon?” I asked.

“No,” he said, “but it’s a nice place – isn’t it?” 

“Yes,” I said and, obviously satisfied with my answer, he turned back to his pals and the game underway.

“What a nice old golfer,” I thought to myself before continuing on around the course.

Farther on around the other side I had to stop where the path divided a green and two very smartly dressed young Japanese men were about to tee off.

“Try not to hit me!” I joked.

“Do not ‘wolly’,” the handsome one in a pink polo shirt called back, holding a thumb up to indicate in case I couldn’t hear.

Some minutes later I was around the other side of one of the lakes and observed a gaggle of geese heading towards me. Of course I simply had to hang on until they were closer so I could get some good shots of them, which I did until I heard loud whistles… It was my nice Japanese golfers, no doubt “wollied” that they might hit me with a miss-shot if I didn’t move. No trouble, I had enjoyed my photographic session and promptly cycled on to the next bit of green.

Yesterday’s ride was so good that this morning I decided to cycle around the other part of the course that I couldn’t get into previously. There was a way in from end of the housing estate (what luck!) and I made a special point of getting off my bike when walking over the nicely tended grass. The path led me to an intersection where a young groundsman was busy repairing a post. I thought he looked a bit surprised to see me so I decided to speak.

“It’s so beautiful,” I began, “and I take it you don’t mind me cycling through here?”

“Not at all, Darling,” he said, “just not between the hours of six-thirty and five o’clock!”

“Well, I’ll just mosey on down that road,” I said (not mentioning yesterday). “Does it go back to the main road eventually?”

And it did.

Back when I was very young and the world population was only a mere 3 billion there never seemed to be a shortage of people. Even out in the bush at Gumdale, where I spent my first ten years on our three and an half acre property, you could look out of the window or be in the garden and see people: Mrs Hersom might be out by her gate, chatting to Mrs Conelly and Mrs Hood might call out to them, “No time to talk, I’m on my way to Wynnum!” and she’d hurry on walking down our dirt road for about a quarter of a mile to the bus stop by the main road; or Mr. Bark, always dressed in a dark grey suit and tie, might be cycling past on his way to Crockford’s shop at the corner by the main road – he used to wear bicycle clips to prevent his good trousers from getting greasy from the chain – and if he saw us children, for a bit of fun he would hold his hand out for shake, which we always responded to (if we were quick enough); or the drivers of the water trucks would stop to fill up at the mains water tap (set high for the trucks) just up the road and mad Rosa would come out wearing a mini-skirt and swinging an empty bucket as an excuse to flirt with the water-men; then there was eccentric  Mr. Arundel driving past – he’d slow down to greet the ladies with a nod or a “Good morning”, and they wouldn’t get so much dust in their faces; and there was Mr. Shilling, drunk as usual, and ugly as sin with a huge nose covered in purple broken blood vessels; and there was smiley Mr. Holland who drove a VW Beetle (which could go through floods without breaking down) and stopped at everyone’s letter boxes by their gates, which, come to think of it, is probably why people lingered out by their gates – Mr. Holland always had time for a cheerful few words about road access (in the floods) or news about the neighbours.

Now the world population is around 7.6 billion and I’m house-sitting at my friend Lorelle’s place on the Sunshine Coast about 70 miles north of Brisbane but not one person is in sight. There are houses to the left of me, houses to the right, to the back, and across the road…. I know there are people here – from my bed I can hear them banging doors and starting engines from around six in the morning – but I don’t see them. There are no ladies out by their letter boxes, I guess the wives and mothers are part of the weekday exodus to the roads. Thibault, the young Frenchman (Lorelle’s other guest) is still in his room (and it’s lunch-time).

There are thousands of cars on the roads. You don’t see many people walking, except up on the beach path (and most of the keep-fitters drive there). A few cyclists make it to the beach path for a spin early in the morning but after nine o’clock it is too hot. I don’t blame them.

But where are all the cars going? Are they all working people, driving for a living, driving to work? At all hours? There must be a heck of a lot of sales-reps in Australia! Where are all the retired people? No need to conjecture, actually, I know the answer to these questions.

The truth is that everyone is at Kawana Shopping Centre a few  minutes walk from here. I went this morning. Kawana Shopping Centre is a haven for people of all ages. It  is beautiful and cool, and there is everything there that you could possibly want – even watch a film there after your pedicure and massage, after seeing the bank manager and booking your holiday. But you must leave early in order to find a parking spot (hence the early exodus). I was there before the last few spaces were filled, and there was a queue for my spot as I left.  Yes, I know I could have walked… but it would have been hot walking back… with the ice cream.