Category Archives: Humour

Italian Lessons and a Horse?

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Whilst I was concocting my own (unauthentic) version of spaghetti and tomato sauce for dinner tonight I was thinking about two quite disparate things on my wish list – my desire to speak Italian and my fancy to own a horse. Perhaps you imagine that I want to be in a “Spaghetti Western”? Not really, not unless Luca Zingaretti (who shares my birthday) or Cesare Bocci  are in it; they are my favourite Italian actors from ‘Montalbano – The Italian Detective’, the brilliant subtitled detective series.

Quite often, when checking my blogsite statistics, I see the Italian flag of my solo Italian blog reader (I guess it is the same person). I can almost hear the happy notes of the Italian National Anthem (Inno di Mameli (Mameli’s Hymn) and I have a little thrill as I envisage Luca or Cesare dipping into my blog to see what’s on my mind. It has never occurred to me that my Italian visitor might be the mother to one of my heroes! Ah non importa. Amo tutti i miei seguaci! (Google has just helped me to learn a bit of Italian – I love all my followers!)

Now about my wish to own a horse… I can just imagine what Chris would say if I told him…

– “But you aren’t even a horse-person!”

– “How dare you say that! Horse-riding used to be my favourite sport!”

– “Yes, when you were a little girl. When did you last ride a horse?”

– “That’s beside the point, my interest has been revitalised and I want a horse.”

– “Since when?”

– “Since last Friday, when I was farm-sitting…”

– “Sally, did you see that handsome young farrier again?”

In truth, I did see that gorgeous farrier who I met last year when I visited Mary on the farm (see my old blog post entitled “Lady Chatterley’s Lover?”). Sadly, being on the farm and not expecting to see anyone except for old Tony, who wouldn’t mind how I looked (he likes buxom women), I was dressed for farm work and painting. I wore mauve knee length pants, a pink short-sleeved top with a yellow dress over the top, and over the top of that I wore one of my mum’s aprons. If that wasn’t odd enough to behold I also had on socks and trainers. My hair was in a high pony tail and I had two pink flowers in my hair. Make-up? Not much – the animals’ love is not so shallow. On reflection I think looked a bit peculiar – darn it!

I remember I was looking for Malachi, who had disappeared, so I left my painting (I was working on my latest commission) and walked up to the stable. A van was parked outside and as I approached a male voice called out:

“Hello Sally!” the smiling familiar face beamed.

“Oh!” I suddenly felt self-conscious, “I wish I had dressed less oddly.”

“You look fine – just like an eccentric painter,” he said and he gave me a kiss.

“I hope your wife didn’t mind me writing that blog about you,” I queried.

“My mother was over the moon,” he laughed showing his perfect set of white teeth.

 

Well, that was a week ago. I hasten to add that I’m not one of those frightful “cougar” women I have heard about – the older women who prey on young men. I’m happily married and it wouldn’t occur to me to go for a younger man, no matter how handsome and charming (even if he had to wear those sexy chaps every day). No, I definitely don’t want a new man, I just want a horse….

Daisy, Daisy…

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At least the cold north wind was with us on the way home yesterday morning. It hadn’t become any warmer while we were cycling (as Chris had predicted – when I asked if he thought I should wear a jumper over my thin summer top) and when the sun hid behind the clouds it was even colder.

We were coming up the coastal bridle path, past The Langstone Cliff Hotel, when the sun appeared briefly and drew our  attention to the opposite field; it was a veritable sea of daisies sparkling white in the sunshine! I was already off my bike (it’s rather steep there) so I parked it against the fence and checked to see if the gate was locked. I turned to Chris for his approval.

“Don’t be long,” he said shivering in his polo shirt and shorts.

I was a little longer than expected. I had to take some photographs for my blog and, well, there were so many of them… and who would begrudge me a few daisies? Chris was a bit frosty but he thawed out once he saw how pretty they looked at home.

They are still alive and beautiful, like of bursts of sunshine on a cold day.

The Frazzled and Exhausted Housewife (A Joke)

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It’s no joke being a frazzled and exhausted housewife…. except in this instance. This came to me by way of Roland, the “Birdman from Brisbane”, who knows quite a lot about birds of all descriptions.

The Frazzled Wife

A distressed young woman, who after twelve years of marriage had lost the bloom of youth, also had become extremely tired both physically and mentally.

“I, I don’t think I can… I can’t… sorry… take it anymore,” she sobbed and burst into tears at her doctor’s surgery.

“Sit down and tell me all about it,” soothed the middle-aged doctor and he patted her shoulder as he directed the poor wife to the chair opposite his, “now what is it you can’t take?”

“I hate my life,” she began, “I can’t stick the kids – they are noisy, disobedient, lazy, obnoxious and selfish. At eleven, eight and six, they know their Human Rights and choose to ignore mine. They spend most of their spare time on PlayStation or playing games on their phones and the television is blaring constantly. It’s like being in a nightmare!”

“Why don’t you turn the television off?” asked the doctor.

“My husband loves sitting in his ‘Captain Kirk’ chair and watching television, especially football – which is why we had to have Sky – and he has it up loud to block out the noise of the kids,” she replied.

“Oh dear,” said the doctor softly, “of course your husband has a bad back if I remember rightly?”

“Yes, but it doesn’t stop him from doing anything… apart from all chores to do with the house or garden,” she raised her eyebrows before continuing, “I have to do everything! My life is one long round of servitude from the moment I wake up at five o’clock in the morning until I go to bed at nine – and no, I don’t have time for a social life. I don’t even have time to sit down to eat my own breakfast, let alone read a book – I used to love reading…”

“There, there,” said the doctor patting her arm.

“Oh Doctor, “I’m so exhausted, stressed and on edge – my nerves are shot through – is there anything you can give me to help?”

“My dear,” said the doctor, “you need something for yourself, outside of the family, something to give you an interest or make friends.”

“That’s a joke, I’m either taking one or other of the kids to their activities, or I’m too tired to think of having any activities or classes of my own,” she said despondently.

“I have it,” said the doctor, “I really think you would benefit from running ten kilometres every day. Would you give it a go? You might want to start by doing less and build yourself up to more.”

The frazzled wife acquiesced for she was desperate to do anything to help her appalling situation.

“Listen,” said the doctor, “begin straight away and I’ll give you a call in two weeks to see how you’re getting on.”

Two weeks later the doctor saw the memo in his diary and was prompted to call the patient to whom he had offered the extraordinary advice.

“Hello,” he said, “This is your doctor calling to find out how you’re progressing.”

“Hi Doctor!” the young wife sounded full of the joys of spring. “Thank you so much for your good advice. Because I was in such poor condition it was quite hard at first but I followed your suggestion and took it easy. Now I feel strong, fit, capable and even happy – I’m a new woman!”

“I’m so pleased I was able to help,” the doctor smiled to himself as he spoke, “and, if you don’t mind me asking, how are things at home now?”

“How in the heck would I know Doctor?” the wife replied surprised, “I’m over a hundred and forty kilometres away!”

 

 

In Short

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At length, we had nearly come to the end of our bookclub meeting (and a very jolly gathering it was – so good to see everyone again after a four month gap!). My brother-in-law Geoff, who is not one of our bookworms returned home and joined us in the lounge room for a cup of coffee.

“Oh Sally, I met an old boyfriend of yours and he mentioned you and Mary – he knew Mary too,” Geoff said looking across to where I was sitting on the arm of the sofa, next to my sister.

“”Who was that then?” I asked.

“Do you know I can’t remember his name? But I think he was something to do with the Teign Valley Stompers.”

“I never went out with anyone in the Teign Valley Stompers,” I protested, “Mark Whitlock’s brother was in the Teign Valley Stompers but I never went out with either Mark or his brother!” I looked at Mary for support.

“No, Sally didn’t go out with either of them,” said Mary, “and neither did I!”

“Who are the Teign Valley Stompers?” asked Reuben, our handsome bookclub leader.

“A traditional jazz band,” answered Geoff.

“They won ‘Opportunity Knocks’ years ago,” added Mary with surprise but then she nodded her head as if to acknowledge that Reuben was originally from Plymouth, and he’s a bit younger than us.

“So I wonder who it could have been? Don’t you even remember his Christian name?” I fixed Geoff with my gaze.

“No, but he lives up Hazeldene Road.” (Geoff is a part-time taxi driver, therefore he remembers addresses more readily than names.”

“That rings a bell,” I said. (In Geoff’s case it would have been a door bell!) “Hold your horses, I think Chris Hutchence lives up there. Now I did go out with Chris for six months when I was just eighteen and he was thirty. Is he bald?”

“He doesn’t have much hair… and it’s white!” Geoff, who doesn’t have white hair, added gleefully.

“And does he have a moustache?” I looked at the bookworms and gestured a big moustache. “He used to have a big moustache and long curly hair although last time I saw him he was going bald.”

“Yes, he has a moustache,” confirmed my brother-in-law.

“And is he rather short?” I asked.

“Yes,” Geoff nodded.

“Oh, I don’t like short men,” said Jo, our newest bookworm.

“He was a ‘Medallion man’ too,” I continued – for Jo’s interest – and she pulled a face.

“Nothing was his scene,” I began and for a few moments I got lost in a reverie, thinking about Chris Hutchence. “Every time I suggested we do anything like play a game, go dancing, hiking… anything, he would always answer, ‘It’s just not my scene’.”

The expressions on the faces of the bookworms urged me on.

“Well, one day I wrote him a letter – it was in the days when people still used pen and paper – and I I wrote, ‘Dear Chris, I’m sorry but you’re just not my scene.”

Everyone laughed and Geoff said:

“He is pretty short. I expect it is him.”

“He used to wear built up shoes,” I looked at Jo before turning to Mary and adding, “of course, I was taller in those days.”

“But you were only about five-feet six,” Mary raised her eye-brows.

“Yes, I know,” I laughed, “but when I had my platform shoes on I was about six feet tall!”

 

And that’s the long and the short of it! (Incidentally, the book we were discussing was The Three Musketeers by Alexandre Dumas, whose writing often included the transitional expressions, “At length” and “In short”.)

 

 

The Good Shepherd

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“What would you do?” I asked Hunter the cat.

Hunter looked at me then returned his gaze to the pink sky of sunset. He was worried. I was worried. We were both anxious about the two of our flock who had gone missing when my back was turned, some time between petting the llamas and giving all the farm animals their last feed of the day. Admittedly, I had not given Malachi and Jaz as much attention as usual but with good reason because I was engrossed in painting my recent commission. At one point in the afternoon Malachi had tapped me with her paw on my bottom and rested her head against my thigh; I should have recognised the signs of boredom and perhaps anticipated the consequences… but I was too busy to pay much heed.

Naturally, I thought that the runaways would return to the fold in their own time; in fact it seemed to me that it would be a short time considering that Malachi was still recovering from her misadventures with a splintery stick yesterday and Jaz is rather old, overweight and chesty. Nevertheless, an hour or so later I saw their two black tails sticking out above the long grass as the dogs ran joyously across the upper part of the steep field next to the farmhouse (where grows the most picturesque of trees).

“Malachi, Jaz,” I had called but they ignored me.

Not eager to climb the steep hill, I preferred instead to cook my piece of steak for dinner. Funnily enough, I had lost my appetite when I saw it on my plate, and I cut the steak into smaller pieces to be divided between Malachi, Jaz, Sasha and Hunter the cat.

So Hunter and I were looking through the doorway at the reddening sky; it would be dark soon – in around half an hour. I thought of the story of the good shepherd who would give up his life for his lost sheep (though I hoped that would not be necessary) and I changed into my stout trainers.

Hunter led the way as far as the wooden fence where he stayed, maybe to keep a lookout while I walked on up into the fields above the farm.

“Malachi, Jaz,” I called again and again.

It was getting quite dark and I feared that it would soon be so dark as to be dangerous coming back down the field. Suddenly Malachi came bounding across the field, no doubt overwhelmed that I had left my painting and any other farm duties in order to find the missing lambs.

“Where’s Jaz?” I asked. “Lead me to Jaz.”

I had visions of Jaz, worn out and practically dead, under ones of the trees on the skyline; and I thought Malachi had come to fetch me to save her. (Obviously, I have watched too many “Lassie” films in my time!)

So delighted was Malachi that she immediately presented me with a stick to throw. Slightly shocked that she hadn’t learned her lesson from yesterday’s ordeal I threw the stick down beside me and she looked remorseful.

“Take me to Jaz,” I urged and the faithful Black Labrador led me even higher up the hill and across to yet another field.

I climbed up to the barbed wired fence at the top and stopped – I didn’t believe that poor old Jaz would have been capable of such a climb, even under the thrall of the younger dog. But from my vantage point I saw a beautiful sight – Jaz running toward me from the other side of the adjacent field.

We made it down the steep slope alright in the semi-darkness. Now, their wanderlust sated by their long escapade and their hunger somewhat appeased by my leftover steak, the errant ones are back with the flock. Bless them! All are asleep, except for me, and now this is finished I can join them.

The Triumphal Horn

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Yesterday was possibly the most miserable day I’ve had in years. Why? Well, at the start of the day at least I had Whatsapp capability on my fairly new Huawei Smartphone, even though that was all I had – no email service (ever) or phone service (since before we left for Spain over two weeks ago, and then I had signal only long enough to make two calls!); and on my old Nokia, which I still use for taking photographs (because it takes better photo’s than the Smartphone), I could actually receive calls on occasions and, on fewer occasions, even make a call. Therefore I had been relatively happy, if not ecstatic – all my communication needs were met to some degree – until Chris suggested that I change the sim cards between my two phones and reset my Smartphone back to “Factory Setting”.

Suffice to say, my morning was utterly vile and totally frustrating. The “resetting” measures had deprived me of the little pleasure left to me in the Huawei phone. The only thing we discovered was that the phone still stole money from my Tesco Pay as you go card, which I had kept in the old Nokia for that reason. My brain felt like a shrivelled walnut and, in tears, I went into my studio to console and lose myself in painting (a lovely commission of three figures in the shallow water of an ebbing tide – will show you when I’ve finished). As I painted and listened to the dulcet tones of my Kindle-reader reading me “The Three Musketeers” by Alexandre Dumas (pity Miss Kindle can’t understand that in French ‘St’ is short for Saint not Street!) Chris ordered me a new phone over the Internet. The better brand Samsung should be with me in a few days.

Imagine my surprise this morning when I found that my relatively new but disappointing Huawei had started to buck its ideas up. Upon re-installing my Whatsapp (wonderful app that it is!) I also found that I was offered the opportunity to set-up my email address (never happened before) and my phone service was returned to me (not that it had ever been brilliant on that score – two calls!). So thrilled was I that I used all three services immediately, regardless of the fact that there was no need for me to call anyone, or write emails, or send recorded messages on Whatsapp. Then I discovered how to turn up the volume and set the ringtones for all the different goings on…

Now it’s late – very late – and I can’t go to bed. Why not? Surely? Well, earlier on I kept getting “Hello, hello ya…” singing noises and after a while I was pleased to find that it was the phone working, not that I answered in time; then came the “Honk, honk” of an old bicycle horn – could have been a text to tell me I missed a call; and when I was about to close down everything for the night a sheep bleated – “Ah, Whatsapp,” I thought and I was right. I had just finished replying to my daughter-in-law Jaimy, who arrived in Brisbane yesterday (Facebook knew before me – more reliable than my phones!) when I heard the blast of a triumphal horn. “What’s that?” I asked myself (not Whatsapp – previously more “What’s up Doc’?”). It was none other than my late owl brother Robert sending me an email.

The Huawei sure is making a last bid effort to impress. Now I shall not feel so guilty passing it on to a family member in need of a Smartphone. And now I really must go to bed – even the triumphal horn has stopped for the night.

The Vintage Cycle Event – A Classic

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Today wasn’t perhaps the perfect day for dressing up as a St. Trinian’s girl in white summer shirt and shorts, and going on two cycle rides. You see, that old Arctic wind (which has been an almost constant feature since my return to England four weeks ago) was still blowing and the sun was too wimpy to pierce through the clouds for more than a few minutes at a time but at least the rain kept off. Now normally Chris and I are fair weather cyclists and our friend Caroline isn’t an any weather cyclist at all (she hasn’t been on a bike for a year) but we three, wearing our summer term uniforms (of sorts), were prepared to brave the elements; not simply for the fun of doing so but also because my brother Robert, who organised the event, had asked us to take part. In truth, the sun was out when we decided upon our theme of dress on the basis of fun factor (not sun factor – no need of that today) and comfort, and everyone knows you can rarely trust the weather forecast.

Over thirty cyclists registered for the event. Only fourteen stalwarts turned up, but what a wonderful sample of vintage and classic sartorial elegance (well, most of them – just not our trio) was to thrill our little seaside town of Dawlish. There were plenty of gentlemen in authentic tweed jackets, plus fours* and flat caps; a midwife (in real life, a doctor and ready to answer the call) in sensible long cape and boots; an English rose wearing a polka dot dress and no cardigan (must have frozen); and then there was Chris, Caroline and me – Chris hoped people wouldn’t think he, too, was a St.Trinian’s girl! Maybe that’s why he wore his ‘Dennis the Menace’ jumper.

The number of stalwarts had reduced to nearly half for the second, and longer ride, to Cockwood and back; and two of us nipped home en route to pick up essentials – a sheepskin coat for Caroline and a big black jumper for me. We arrived back to rapturous applause from thirty or forty people who had been waiting for us on the green in the ever colder wind. Ten minutes or so later, when the juggler on a unicycle had finished and the three piece band had begun to play again, the green was almost deserted; David, our compere with a boater and cane, did an impromptu dance (no doubt to warm himself up). He thanked us all for taking part and we left him to his hosting and dancing, and we went home for a nice cup of tea.

 

[*Wikipedia Plus–fours are breeches or trousers that extend 4 inches (10 cm) below the knee (and thus four inches longer than traditional knickerbockers, hence the name).]

 

Want to See my New Bike Painted up for the Vintage & Classic Cycle Event?

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As you may recall I’ve had my new bike for only a week but it wasn’t a brand new one; nevertheless, it isn’t old – perhaps a year or two – so it’s hardly vintage and tomorrow we will attend the Vintage & Classic Cycle Event, part of the Dawlish Heritage Day Celebrations (funny how I’ve been here all these years and never heard of this special day before!). Chris and I have to go because, owing to my brother Robert’s interest in bicycles, he was collared into organising this event and you have to support your family.

In any case I enjoy dressing up and joining in with fun things; Chris, who is more staid than me (as exemplified by his original choice for dressing as an Edwardian gentleman), was less keen about being a part of the Heritage Day entertainment for all the tourists and visitors. But to give Chris his due, when he realised that he couldn’t get out of going, he got into the spirit of it; in fact he has spent the last ten minutes affixing a wicker basket  to the carrier at the rear of my bike. (Funny how that nasty film – ‘The Wicker Man’ – came into my mind.)

“Is that too close to the saddle?” Chris asked. “Will it annoy you?”

I thought he was worried that my bottom was so big that it would hang over the end of the saddle and hit against the basket as I rode along. Unsure if indeed my bottom had such vast proportions I sat on the saddle to find out. Only when I had ascertained that my bottom didn’t stick out beyond the saddle did I dare speak up for myself.

“My bottom isn’t that huge – what a cheek!” I said in a huff, but secretly I was pleased to be able to say that for I had suspected that Chris’s query had some foundation (as did I – just not as much as I thought!).

At present Chris is putting a basket on his bike. Half and hour ago he disappeared upstairs and I heard him return with the old-fashioned horn – it has come out of seclusion, having been sentenced to a solitary life a long time ago after a stonking, honkingly noisy visit from our young nephews who loved that old horn. Perhaps we can love it again now that it is fulfilling it’s original purpose for being… on Chris’s bike.

I have a feeling that it will be a lot of fun tomorrow, provided it doesn’t rain all day (rain in the morning is forecast) and if you care to come along all the cyclists shall be forgathering at the Brunswick (not wicker – ugh!) Arms at 9.30 am. Chris said that if it’s really cold he will revert to his Edwardian costume but I’m going as a St. Trinian’s Belle no matter what!