I rather wish I hadn’t insisted on buying the white fish called Bacava, Baclava, Bacalva, well, it was something like balaclava but more Spanish; anyway, it was quite an attractive fillet of white fish, as far as fillets of fish go. Our friend and neighbour Alan, who is on holiday with us, likes to have fish twice a week so we made a special visit to the Super Sol Supermercado, which has a fresh fish counter (we had dissuaded him from buying frozen fish at Lidl’s). Alan preferred the appearance of the pink fish next to the white ones but I was put off by the red bits, which looked like blood (I’m a tad squeamish) and he conceded because he knew we weren’t crazy about getting fish in the first place (not plaice).

I don’t think Chris and Alan enjoyed their dinner very much tonight; I know I certainly didn’t! I don’t care if I never eat fish again! (In fact I hope not if it’s anything like tonight’s fish.) What was wrong with it? Well, it was a large piece of fish and I took great care in cutting out the bones, then cutting the fillet down into smaller, more appetising pieces – about seven in all (I thought I might get away with having only one myself without anyone noticing). Now had I been at home, with my own larder, I most probably would have made a nice batter and deep-fried the fillets; or I could have made breadcrumbs – even a spoon of flour and shallow-fried might have been okay… Sadly, when in Spain on holiday you have nothing but a bit of butter and a bottle of olive oil at your disposal – oh, and a lemon from the tree by the front door.

Seasoned with a squeeze of lemon and a little salt, the Baccalavia went into the frying pan with a knob of butter and a squirt of olive oil. I began to worry somewhat when the liquid in the pan increased tenfold in volume and the fish was being poached instead of frying (as intended). I poured away a breakfast bowlful of the yellow fluid and returned the pan to the hob.

“I was hoping it would go crisp and brown on the outside,” I apologised, putting the plates on the table.

“This would do nicely as the invalid’s dinner at the nursing home,” Chris said as he observed his large serving of fish.

“It certainly wouldn’t break any teeth,” agreed Alan and I thought I could detect a look of disappointment in his face as he eyed his huge portion of poached Balaclava (well he was the one who wanted fish).

“Anyone want some ice-cream?” I asked. “I’m still hungry.”

“You hardly had any fish,” Alan jibed (he had just forced down his last mouthful of watery white Balcallivia).

“And hardly any boiled potato either,” Chris added with a sneer.

“I’m dieting,” I said and the men exchanged dubious glances.

As a sort of recompense I did the washing up (and drying up and putting away), which I don’t do normally when I’ve also done the cooking. And while I was at the task the men were still sat at the table, discussing our unusual fish dinner.

“I wonder what kind of fish that was?” Alan asked.

“I thought it looked like cod,” I interrupted, “maybe Baclavia means cod in Spanish?”

“It most definitely wasn’t cod,” Alan asserted, “it had a strange texture, like nothing I’ve ever experienced before.”

“No, it wasn’t cod,” Chris agreed, “but I’ll tell you something, it should win an award… for being the blandest fish ever!”

“Next time Alan wants fish I’m going to eat steak,” I laughed.

“And I shall join you,” said Chris.

“I should have stuck with the frozen salmon from Lidl’s,” Alan said ruefully.

Chris and I nodded and we all burst out laughing.

Perhaps it wasn’t such a good idea to visit my sister in hospital this evening (and it had absolutely nothing to do the with The General Election). Earlier Geoff had suggested on the phone that we should leave visiting until tomorrow but, at about six o’clock, while I was finishing off the painting for Mary, I thought of my own experiences of being in hospital. I remembered how grateful and loved I had felt when dear friends and family came to see me, even when I was terribly sick (maybe even more so then because only people who love you want to be around you when you’re in such a state).

“I’m going to see Mary for a short visit,” I told Chris.

“Is that wise Darling?” Chris asked.

“I think I know my sister better than anyone else and I’m sure she will feel better knowing that we made the effort, if only for a few minutes,” I assured my husband. “I’ll phone Mum and see if she wants to come…”

To tell the truth, even the beginning of our outing didn’t go well… Mum was in a flap when we picked her up outside her house.

“I was changing for bed when you called,” she said, “I hadn’t even had my banana sandwich for tea yet and then I couldn’t find my blue badge for parking!”

“Don’t worry about that Mum,” I assuaged.

“We can pay for parking,” agreed Chris.

“But that’s not the point – where can my card be? If only people would be like you Chris and give it back to me at the end of a trip out,” Mum whimpered.

I found the parking card in the handy box between the front seats – Chris had forgotten to return it to my mum last Saturday – and my dear old mum stopped hyperventilating and crying, and calmed down. We made it to the hospital with half an hour to spare before the end of visiting hours, and Chris managed to park in the disabled car park close to the entrance.

The middle part of our adventure – the visit – didn’t go too well either… Mum disliked the floor surface, which had an adverse effect on the soles of her shoes, and she was not expecting the half kilometre walk to the ward. Mary was in E bay on Durbin Ward but her reserve wasn’t met – a curtain surrounded her bed and we heard her moaning:

“Don’t let my mother and sister see me being sick… tell them to go.”

Mum and I wanted to go in and soothe her forehead and hold her hand but we stayed outside.

“I love you,” Mary managed.

“We love you,” we walked away.

Nobody told us to go.

“At least she knows we love her,” we all agreed back in the car.

On the way home we tried to be normal and cheerful. We talked about the Election and the likelihood (or not) of Nigel Farage, the leader of the UKIP Party, becoming Prime Minister; and we discussed the local election and the Polling station; and towards the end of our journey, having discussed our dinner plans (banana sandwich for Mum and pumpkin soup for Chris and me), Mum said:

“I’m so glad that you benefit from those ‘UKIP’ tablets I gave you, Sally.”

“Thank you Mum, they’re really good for my eyes – I can feel the difference – but they aren’t called ‘UKIP’ tablets… they are called ‘Eye-Caps’!

“I thought you must have been talking about sleeping tablets!” said Chris.

As you might guess by the title of this blog post, I’m going to tell you a joke that my brother-in-law Geoff passed on to me a couple of days ago when I visited my sister who is laid up with a broken leg (and would be “climbing up the walls” by now with the boredom if it weren’t for the fact that she can’t go anywhere). Mary and I don’t always find Geoff’s jokes funny but this one made us chuckle.

The Perplexed Duck

This duck came into a bar, landed near the beer pumps and flapped around a bit to get the attention of the barman.

“What the heck?” exclaimed the barman.

“I’ll have a pint of the best and a packet of prawn cocktail crisps please barman,” said the duck in a voice not dissimilar to Donald Duck.

“Goodness me!” blurted the barman. “You’re the first duck I’ve known to come in here and ask for a beer and crisps – you’re amazing! Hey, I wonder if it’s even legal for me to sell alcohol to a duck?”

“You won’t be breaking any laws. I’ve been drinking beer in pubs since before you were born,” lied the duck (of course ducks don’t live as long as humans – and the barman was all of forty years old!).

The barman pulled a pint for the thirsty duck and reached behind the bar for a packet of prawn cocktail flavoured crisps. However, he was still a little wary of the cocksure duck.

“So where do you work then?” he asked.

“Oh, I’m working on the building site down the road – you know, the new Barrett homes?” responded the duck nonchalantly.

“Well I’ll be blowed,” the barman warmed to the duck, “the Mrs and I have been admiring those new houses – they seem to have so much more style nowadays. They used to be like little boxes.”

“You’re not wrong there,” the duck said with pride.

“But, honestly, with your talent,” began the barman on a different tack, “I can’t understand why you don’t join a circus. Someone with your skill must be one in a million. Surely you’d earn a lot more working in a circus?

“A circus?” the duck was bemused. “Sonny, as far as I know circuses have tents… What would a circus want with a plasterer?”

I had to do a bit of last minute shopping this morning – some fridge-magnets, pens covered with koala and kangaroo designs (you know the sort of geegaws you bring back from holidays in Australia) and some fluid retention tablets (for the flight home) – so I tagged along with dear old Roland (well, much older than me) who had to go his bank at Beenleigh. Rather than wait in the car, in the heat without the air-conditioning on, I went into the bank with Roly.

“And would you like to withdraw any cash sir?” asked the lady bank teller in a very formal fashion.

“Two hundred please,” our friend replied.

“Fifties okay?” she glanced up to look him in the eye.

“I’m only forty-eight!” he quipped.

The teller stopped to think about it for a moment and burst out laughing.

A short while later we were doing some shopping in Coles supermarket. We needed to get special “Earth” washing liquid (our friend has an organic septic tank system) and as we stood in the washing products aisle I noticed that they had also some “Earth” fabric conditioner. We always use fabric conditioner at home so I asked:

“Wouldn’t you like the “Earth” conditioner aswell?”

“No thanks,” Roland sidled up close to me and nudged me on the elbow, “I like it ‘rough and tumble’!”