Not only did we have a delicious lunch at John and Barbara’s favourite garden centre but also I found some novelty soaps which I thought would make nice presents for my Australian friends and family. The bars of soap looked like abstract paintings with swirls and circles, and different colours – some even aped confectionery; and each different variety had a particular scent and a name to best represent the soapy smelly artwork.

I chose six cakes of soap and put each into its own cellophane bag (it was similar to a sweet-shop ‘pick and mix’) but, of course, there were no labels on the bags to indicate the names. So I took photographs of the names, the idea being that I would print out the names and descriptions and pop them in with each respective soap. Unfortunately, I wasn’t wearing my glasses when I took the photos, otherwise I might have noticed that two of the descriptions were intended for our European neighbours…

Here I go, singing low…. Feeling quite chirpy actually because soon we’ll be off to sunny Queensland. Yesterday afternoon it was ‘Goodbye to Dawlish’ for a while and I marked the occasion with some photographs as we were going along in the car – it wasn’t the finest of days… and it was snowing when we arrived at our friends’ place in London.

Oh, I know, I shouldn’t be wasting time taking photographs of the sunset on the eve of our departure when I haven’t even finished packing yet (or started, for that matter!). Perhaps it’s my subconscious telling me not to bother packing many clothes because, after all, you never wear all the clothes you take – do you?

Somehow, whenever I go to Australia my English clothes look funny (as do my ghostly white legs); and my first thought is always to have a look in the sales, which are on at this time of year. I’ll pack just a couple of pairs of shorts (the ones that fit me) and after a few weeks of intense Queensland heat and dieting I’ll be into smaller ones; there will be a temptation to throw out the old big ones but I must remind myself that they will be required next year when my weight has gone back on again! And besides, my new Aussie gear (which looks so nice with brown legs) always looks rather odd and over-colourful back in England.

Well, I had better get cracking with the packing, even though I’m taking so little to Australia. Now the packing for the journey and the stop-over in Dubai is another story… and, of course, there is the London visit first… I am just going down to the bedroom and, like Captain Lawrence Oates, ” may be some time.”

Everybody loves good neighbours… Don’t worry, today’s post is not going to be about the Australian soap opera of the same title; actually, I was thinking about my own neighbours here on the terrace.

It was about three o’clock this morning and I couldn’t sleep. I didn’t have the heart to wake Chris so I slipped out of bed and went upstairs to the big guest bedroom (not necessarily for big guests). As I drew the curtains I looked down at the very familiar sight of the men in orange working on the seawall. The repair work is not so noisy now and the lights, which are even brighter and more numerous than previously, hardly bother us anymore; nevertheless, I lay in bed thinking for a long time, waiting for sleep to come. I was thinking how lucky we are to have good neighbours.

It wasn’t such a strange line of thought as you might imagine because Chris and I had just spent the evening with Catherine, Martin and the girls over at number seven (two doors down) for a bit of a send-off before we leave for Australia at the end of the week. They have been good friends of mine ever since I moved into the terrace twenty-two years ago (in my single days) and I’ve known their three daughters all their lives. Now, of course, they are OUR good friends.

Last week we had a similar send-off from Alan and his daughter Caroline at number three (two doors up). Alan and Wendy, his late wife, also predated my arrival on the terrace; we became friends later, some time after Chris and I had married (nearly seventeen years ago), and when Wendy was ill in hospital with a tumour. Wendy recovered but remained quite frail until her sad demise three years ago. She was one of those people who look even better close up; she had beautiful skin and a wonderful smile.

“Oh you do make me laugh, Sally,” she used to say laughing. And I would egg her on to make her laugh even more…

Alan is an older gentleman much admired by females of all ages. Miri, Catherine’s sixteen-year-old daughter, refers to him as “My Alan”; and last night, when I remarked that I thought Alan would have been exceptionally handsome when he was young, Miri responded:

“I think he’s handsome now!”

Gorgeous blonde Caroline moved in with her dad last year to help him out after a bout of poor health and now he’s spry and healthy, which is just as well because we’re planning on going to Spain with him in the summer.

Margaret and her daughter Carina have lived next door (at number six) for donkey’s years. They are Scottish but George, Margaret’s late husband, was Dawlish born and bred. Margaret, at ninety, still has the most sparkling blue eyes. The ladies enjoy an occasional chat from the balcony or out by the steps but we don’t really socialise.

For nearly two years the house next door on the other side of us (number four) has remained vacant. It was always Reg and Hilda’s place, but it has been passed down to their son. Julian lives in Essex so now the house is up for sale. A few days ago a nice couple who had been viewing the vacant property came to our door to find out more about the place – I guess they also wondered what the neighbours were like. We hit it off straight away and showed Andrew and Clare over our house so that they could see how much lighter Hilda’s house would be if they knocked through some of the walls as we have done. During the course of their visit I told them about a conversation I had had with Reg eighteen years before, when Reg was in my kitchen and I was expecting a visit from my new lover – Chris! It went something like this….

“What do you reckon Reg?,” I asked, “Do you think the place is tidy enough as it is or should I run around with some bleach and polish?”

“Well, Sally my dear,” began Reg, stroking his white beard as he spoke, “I wouldn’t bother unless you can keep it up for the next thirty years or so!”

Neighbours, Everybody needs good neighbours
With a little understanding
You can find the perfect blend
Neighbours…should be there for one another
That’s when good neighbours become good friends
Ooh Neighbours, should be there for one another
That’s when good neighbours become good friends.

Read more: Various Artists – Neighbours Theme Song Lyrics | MetroLyrics

This joke comes all the way from Brisbane. Thanks again Roly!

    Oh God!

A middle aged lady has a heart attack and is rushed to hospital. During her intensive care she has a close encounter with death and finds herself speaking to God.

“Is it my time, have I died?” she asks God.

“No,” God replies, “you still have 43 years, 7 months and 2 days left on this earth.”

After recovering the lady decides, “Well in that case I’ll have a face lift, a tummy tuck and  breast enlargement.”

After she had all this done she also decides to herself, “I might as well have my hair done and my teeth whitened.”

Coming out of the beauty parlour after the latest procedures, the lady is crossing the road and gets hit by a lorry. She is killed!

When she gets to heaven and sees God at the gates she says to him:

“Hey, I thought you said I still had about 43 years to go?”

God replies:

“So I did. Sorry, but I didn’t recognize you!”

“Ow! My lip is still sore,” I said trying to keep my top lip from stretching too much as I spoke.

“Oh, you poor girl, even a thin cut is painful in such a tender place,” answered Chris turning away from the television screen to look at me (we were on the sofa).

“I can’t think how it happened. Maybe a bramble thorn caught me unawares when I was out walking the dogs today,” I pondered, still keeping that upper lip as tight as possible.

“You remind me of Ronald Fraser,” Chris smiled.

“Oh no!,” I cried, making my mouth into an even smaller “o” shape. “Have you ever kissed someone with a really small mouth?” I continued.

“No, but I can imagine,” Chris laughed.

“Well, I have – his name was Dino. He was Italian, quite good-looking but the first kiss was enough,” I informed.

“I remember you telling me,” said Chris. (When you’ve been married for nearly seventeen years most things from the past have been told already.)

“Do you think it’s politically incorrect to say that someone has a small mouth?” I wondered.

“No, I shouldn’t think so – not yet,” Chris said and added, “but you could be accused of bad-mouthing someone!”