No, the lizard isn’t called Spot, as you will realise when you read the ensuing email. It came in from Roly Attenborough, our ‘Birdman’ and all-round naturalist (not to be confused with ‘naturist’) friend from Brisbane…

Just thought this might make a good quiz for your loyal blog followers. In this picture there is one of my lizards in the tree, can you spot Larry? Or should I say Larissa for it is a female. Women always hide and shy away, well some do!

Now how (not ‘how now’) does Roly know that the lizard is female? I think she should be called Twiggy or Cate Branchett.

Thank you yet again Roland!

“What is a Devonshire (or Devon) dumpling?” you may be asking yourself. It is the name of a pub and restaurant in Torquay, and another pub near Crediton in Mid Devon; also, the name of an online trip adviser; it’s even the name given to a special type of yeasty bun (recipe at end). But none of the aforementioned is what I think of when I hear the term “Devon dumpling”.

I associate it with the Urban Dictionary defintiion:

Devon Dumpling. A member of an ethnic race of subnormal intelligence. A Devonian. “I’m a Devonian born and bred, strong in the arm and thick in the head”

Well, the Urban Dictionary may have taken it a bit far – one might think they were referring to the inhabitants of the Devonian Period in Earth’s history (over 3 million years ago), in which case a true Devonian would have been a fish! However, the latter part of their definition is about right. Of course, a modern Devonian is likely to laugh as he proclaims proudly, “I’m a Devonian born and bred, strong in the arm and thick in the head”, but if you said it first he could well show you the strength of his arm. The term is often used lovingly by newcomers to Devon when they find their Devonshire cousins a tad slow to comprehend something.

For your information, I’m not a Devonshire dumpling (although my dad was born in Devon and I hope I’m still tall enough not to be called dumpy); I’m not any kind of dumpling, hopefully. So why am I writing about Devonshire dumplings?

A little earlier I replied to some of the comments that had come in on my blog. As usual, I removed my email address and had started to write an “S” for Sally when a window dropped down with a choice of names beginning with S. I had to laugh… the third option on the list was “Sue Ett-Dumpling”!

Katie Jamieson

I thought this was funny so I pinched it from Facebook (thanks David!).

He was in ecstasy with a huge smile on his face as his wife moved
forward, then backwards, forward, then backwards again, back and
forth, back and forth……..in and out…in and out.
Her heart was pounding…her face was flushed…then she moaned,
softly at first, then began to groan louder. Finally, totally
exhausted, she let out an almighty scream and shouted:

“OK, OK! I CAN’T park the blasted car! You do it, you SMUG swine!”

One of my lovely nephews (let’s call him Ben) had been having a bit of trouble keeping up with the chores since he left home and had to manage everything on his own; so I offered to go along to his flat and help him put things ship-shape. The night before the appointed day of good-fairy works I received a telephone call…

“Hello Aunty Sally. This is Ben,” he began.

“I haven’t forgotten,” I replied, “I’ll be down in the morning.”

“Well, that’s why I’m phoning. You see, I’ve been thinking, I made the mess so I should be the one to clean it up,” said Ben in a very responsible way that made perfect sense.

“Okay Ben, if you’re sure, but I’m happy to lend a hand or show you how to do things. Just let me know if you need help,” I assured him.

“By the way, Aunty Sally, you know I haven’t done much washing up?”

“I had heard, Ben,” I admitted.

“Well there is a good reason. You know the yellow Marigold gloves kept under the kitchen sink?”

“Yes.”

“They are medium size and don’t fit – I need large ones!”

(Incidentally, when I asked Ben if he minded me writing this in my blog he had no objections but, somewhat bewildered, he couldn’t see what was so funny!)

Thanks for this new joke go to Roly (from Brisbane).

The Drunkard Wants a Drink

A drunk nearly fell in through the doorway of an Aussie pub. Swaying and holding on to tabletops and chairbacks for support, he made his way up to the bar.

“I’ll have a… a… cold pint a lager…pleash,” he slurred.

“Nah, sorry mate, but I’m not going to serve you,” said the barman in a matter-of-fact manner.

“Aw, why’s that?” the drunk tried hard not to be distracted by the corks dangling from his hat.

“Because you’re drunk mate. Now you just go on out through the door and come back another day,” the barman said kindly.

“I’m not drunk…” the drunk steadied himself at the bar.

“Yes you are. Now go on out through that door.”

“If… if… hic…. you inshist,” the drunk turned, and teetering, stumbled his way to the door.

The drunk opened the door, turned to his right, and staggered along the pavement. He found a pub door and opened it. For a few moments he stopped to disentangle one of the strings to his vest, which had caught on the handle, and he rocked from side to side as made his way to the bar.

“Give me a pint a lager pleash,” he said to the barman.

“You’ve got to be joking mate! I’m not serving you,” answered the barman.

“Why not?”

“Because you’re drunk, and we don’t serve drunks,” said the barman firmly.

“Aw, go on… pleash mate. I’m not drunk,” the drunk leaned forward putting his forearm on the bar and the corks on his hat made circles, which he followed with his eyes, independently.

“Now be a good mate and go out through that door before we have any trouble,” said the barman in a tone that would brook no argument.

The drunk clicked his teeth (those that he had left) and followed the barman’s advice. Eventually, he made it to the door and went out onto the pavement. This time he turned left and, rocking and swaying, he staggered along the pavement until he came to a pub door. He went inside and made his way up to the bar where he met the barman.

“Hey,” said the drunk, “how many pubs do you work in?”

On going to bed last night here at Rosie’s farm I rather expected I might have a visit from Inca, the black Labrador who had slipped in under cover of darkness and kept me company for most of the night last time I slept over; I didn’t expect to open my door and find Horsey the cat (well that’s what she answers to) curled up on the right side of my bed, as if waiting for me to take my place on the left side, which I decided to do, considering she looked so cuddly, comfy and warm (it was cold and I hadn’t bothered to put the heater on). However, just as I was about to get into bed, Inca entered the room and looked imploringly at me.

“Okay,” I said and she jumped up and took her place at the bottom of the four-poster.

Horsey endured the intrusion for five minutes but she was miffed, and departed with her nose in the air. Inca, obviously delighted, quickly took her rightful place beside me and rested her head in the crook of my arm, and put her paw in mine as we had done before.

Perhaps half an hour had passed when I heard another set of paws clicking on the tiled floor; in one bound agile Malachi (another, but slightly heavier, beautiful Black Labrador) was at the foot of my bed and trying to push my legs apart. For some time I lay on my back with my left leg straight and my right leg skewed at a strange and uncomfortable angle. The dogs’ bulk took up any slack in the duvet cover and the whole of my left-hand side, including my bare left foot, was getting cold; I wished I had opted for thermal socks and my polar bear onesie rather than my pink and black leopard skin onesie, which was much thinner.

I returned to bed ten minutes later, having disturbed my bed-mates who then needed to go out for some “air” – and the other dogs, Sasha and Jas, joined them (making the most of the general disturbance and the open door); but this time I was thermally protected and bearlike. And on this occasion Malachi beat Inca to the favoured spot beside me and the younger dog had to make do with the area of bed beyond my bent knees. Malachi was treated to the same kind of loving caresses that Inca had gone into raptures over; but she could not decide which she liked best – being stroked under her chin or on top of her head and around her silky ears; therefore, every so often, she moved her head – either under my hand or over my arm – and deep sleep eluded us both, although we dozed in a particularly warm and pleasant manner. I had pulled the hood of my fluffy onesie over my head and was cosy, regardless of any shortage of duvet.

At some point during the coldest hour, when I was half-asleep, I was brought to full consciousness by rapid breathing and two little paws reaching up to my bedside; it was tiny Sasha, and behind her was Jas, the eldest and largest of the quartet. I turned on the light.

“What do you want?” I asked, “Do you want to come onboard?” (I hoped they would see that there was scarcely room for one more, even a small one.)

Sasha stood on her hind legs and surveyed the bed-top. Realising the hopelessness, they chose the next best thing – a breath of cold air! They all went. Afterwards Sasha and Jas retired to their usual mattress and we three four-poster wallerers went back into the bedroom; Inca snuck in first and Malachi had to take up the lesser position. She couldn’t bear the come-down and headed off for her basket by the Aga.

Just as I had begun to snooze, I felt a heavy weight at the end of the bed and a gigantic body was forcing my legs apart – Jas!

I slept lengthwise across the bed, with the pillows against my back (which was quite good for keeping out the draft); but it wasn’t a long sleep… soon it was time to get up and feed the animals.

No sleepwalking shenanigans tonight – I’m going to shut the door.

Here are a few photographs of the lovely fire, Horsey the cat and my other bedfellows.

I could tell he didn’t like me. He hadn’t liked me last time I was farm-sitting and nothing had changed – I felt sure of it. He had a cockeyed look that he used to good effect to hide the fact that he was watching my every step, whilst pretending to have a great interest in  well-upholstered hens, or ducks, or goats; wherever I went he followed. He was tailing me – the light was failing and he was tailing.

“What is he doing?” asked one of the gaggle of ducks as they huddled together to confer.

“He’s tailing her,” said the most astute of the five, the one with the longest neck.

“Let’s get a bit jumpy – that should warn her,” they agreed. They had an antipathy to stalkers. Their number had been greater until they had dealings with a rusty coloured and bushy tailed stalker of their own last year.

My stalker, too, was a fine looking chap, apart from his shifty eyes and deformed feet. In spite of his odd toes which went out to the sides at funny angles, as if they were broken, he walked and stalked rather fast. In my green Wellington boots, I had to run out of the duck enclosure to avoid a confrontation. I kept on running, through the hen pen, and the power walking stalker managed almost to catch me up at the gate, which I closed rapidly. Unfortunately, it was a five bar gate with a gap underneath and my lithe stalker limboed easily under the bottom bar and followed me to the stable, where I hid behind the wooden door to the food store. Mr Nonchalant stopped at the threshold to the stable, perhaps to catch his breath, ostensibly to pick at some food I had thrown there a few minutes earlier. All the while I was aware of his beady cock-eyes looking at me.

Malachi, the faithful black Labrador, stood guard outside the stable and the stalker strutted off in an appearance of having business elsewhere. I came out of hiding bearing some of the goodies from the storeroom and went to the goat pen. Only moments after the hungry goats had made short work of their dinner I turned to leave and saw my attacker, his fine feathers ruffled and his wings outspread, jump into the air like Bruce Lee. His funny shaped feet, with talons spread, missed their mark and I ran to the safety of the stable again.

At length, when I had finished feeding all the animals, the bad tempered cockerel gave up the game of cat and mouse; it was nearly dark and he headed to the chook-house (not to be confused with cook-house – chook is an Australian term for chicken). Malachi, Inca and I headed for a meadow on a hillside where they love to run through the long grass and take in the views of the farmstead below and the sea in the distance; they went on ahead while I clambered up the hillside in my wellingtons… and my socks slid off my feet and  disappeared into the toes of my boots. And when I reached the top I saw my companions’ black tails wagging as they ran through  the grass.

Incidentally, I’ve discovered that the cat is called “Horsey”. When I stood at the fence by the field with the horse, and I called out, “Horsey!” to get the horse’s attention, the cat shot out like bullet from the hedge on the other side of the field and was with me in ten seconds flat. He was a bit disappointed to be offered a carrot.