Did you read about the twenty-three year old “Beautiful Curves” beauty queen who recently tweeted the acerbic tycoon Lord Sugar, asking if she could call him Sugar? I very much doubt that Lord Sugar had any idea that the saucy young woman had once been nineteen stone, had since a gastric band fitted, and is now fourteen stone when he tweeted back, “Yes, no problem, as long as I can call you fatty”. Methinks the plus-size model is seeking her fifteen or so minutes of fame.

I fancy that Lord Sugar will have been asked the very same question many times in his sixty-seven years and I’d bet that his response was simply his stock answer. I reckon he might even be familiar with this old joke…

Three couples on holiday in a Spanish hotel shared a table at breakfast. One couple was American, the second was English and the third was Irish.

“Would you pass me the honey, Honey?” asked the handsome Texan in a mellifluous voice.

His pretty wife lowered her head coquettishly and passed her husband the honey.

Continuing the game of flirtation at the breakfast table, the English gentleman asked his wife:

“Would you mind passing the sugar, Sugar?”

His wife nearly fell off her chair with the shock, regained her composure and, with a look of loving concern, passed him the sugar bowl.

Not wishing to be outdone by the silver-tongued men around the table, the Irish husband spoke up:

“Would you pass us the bacon, you big fat pig!”

For some reason – I can’t imagine why – shortly after awakening this morning I found myself remembering another morning, well over twenty years ago, when I awoke in a “hotel tent” on a plain in the High Atlas Mountains…

I was an adventure seeking young artist who, accompanied by an exciting and worldly explorer friend, had gone to Imilchil (the home of the nomadic Ait Hadidou tribe) to experience an amazing and famous wedding fair, of three days duration, that is held every September. What makes it so unusual is the fact that the women choose their bridegrooms!  Of course, I intended to paint a new series of paintings depicting all aspects of the wedding fair and the beautiful brides in their striking headdresses and jewellry.

Upon our arrival, following a long, arduous and treacherous drive up narrow mountain roads of rock and dust (and no barriers to prevent you falling thousands of feet to your death), we were greeted by officials (or perhaps they were elders) who led us to the “hotel tent”. The hotel for intrepid visitors was a huge tent, white on the outside and lined with sumptuous red and green cloth panels patterned with gold; down the middle was an aisle, on either side of which were rows of beds, or, more precisely, mattresses. Each mattress, laid directly on the sand, had two sheets and a rough brown blanket on top; the sides of one mattress were so close to the next that, in effect, the sixty beds looked like two long mattresses separated by an aisle up the centre – the pillows were on the outer sides, by the tent walls. Unfortunately for us that year, the day before there had been a flash-flood and half of the mattresses were still soaking wet. We were lucky to find a couple of dry ones about half-way into the tent.

At the end of the day and some of the night, when tired and sated by exotic food and the entertainments of ritual singing and dancing displays on red carpets in the firelight, we returned to the hotel. The plain was cold at night. We put on every item of clothing we had brought with us, including our coats, and still we froze. I was grateful that both my friend and the stranger close beside me on the other side were big men and produced a good amount of heat, though not enough to induce sleep. I was happier when the stranger rose early, whilst it was still dark, and I commandeered his blanket, feeling as I did so, a vain tug from another hand – I wouldn’t let go! Warm at last I managed to sleep.

I awoke to the sound of a farmyard. For some time I lay awake with my eyes closed, allowing myself to come to my senses gradually; I was aware of the sunlight filtering through the roof and walls of the tent, and it was no longer cold; I listened to a donkey honking, deep and sonorous, and rather near; and a little farther away a large male pig snorted and puffed.

Suddenly I was wide awake and I sat bolt upright. In the same instant a French lady, on the mattress directly opposite me across the sandy aisle, also sat bolt upright. We looked at each other; then we each looked down to the side – I at the large donkey next to me and she at the snorting pig next to her – and back to each other again; and we burst out laughing. Roars of laughter came from the end of the tent where a group of Arab lads, sitting on a hillock of mattresses and cushions, had been watching all from their vantage point. The great hilarity roused the snorers, and other sleepers, from their slumbers and soon everyone was laughing.

Now what made me think of that? Oh yes, now I remember.

Not only is my sister the kindest, sweetest, most caring, and intelligent woman you could wish to meet, she is also very beautiful, which is why I cannot understand why she considers herself to be ‘invisible’ – meaning that nobody looks at her anymore. The revelation came out during a long chat we had over the telephone a little earlier.

At present Mary is house-sitting for friends in Brisbane, which makes her comment even more incomprehensible since everyone knows that Aussie men are real macho men, or at least they used to be. Nowadays strange new laws have been introduced in an attempt to curb the Australian he-man’s urge to wolf-whistle (and make a normal girl’s day); happily, ute-men – the drivers of those half-car/half truck utility vehicles – and often, the male cohorts in the passenger seat, are about the only men left in Australia who are brave enough to flout the ridiculous law; however, even they may do so a tad more discreetly than they used to.

“Are you having fun?” I asked Mary.

“Well, I’ve lost over a stone and I’m nice and brown and healthy looking,” my sister replied.

“That’s good, but have you met any interesting people?” I delved.

“I had a lovely time with Lorelle and Kaylene up on the Sunshine Coast,” she said.

“I know that, but what about now that you’re back in Brisbane?”

“I’m afraid the cat will die inside the house if I stay out too long. I do go out though, just not very far. It’s so hot Sally!” Mary explained.

“So you haven’t met any people since you’ve been house-sitting?” I queried, amazed.

“When I was out shopping in Corinda yesterday I met a nice lady – older than me but not old – and she was all on her own after losing her husband and her son. She cried as she told me,” Mary’s voice quaked.

“So you’re telling me that you haven’t been chatted up since you’ve been away?”

“Nope. I think I’m invisible these days. It’s what happens when you’re middle-aged,” Mary answered.

“Rubbish,” I contended, “I don’t feel invisible so why should you?”

“You’re younger.”

“Yeah, eighteen months,” I said in disbelief, “And no hot-blooded Australian male has shown any interest in my gorgeous sister over there alone? I can’t believe it!”

“Honestly, it’s true – well, no-one apart from two ute-men,” she laughed.”

Tomorrow Mary plans to risk leaving the cat inside, with plenty of water and food (and kitty litter), and she’s going to go into the city to take in an art gallery, or museum, or swank along South Bank – anything to get out. She’s going to wear some cute new navy and white cut-off pants and white top (great against a good tan); she’s going to wear mascara and red lipstick – she will look like an Italian fimstar. She will not be invisible! (I hope that Geoff, her husband here in England, will not mind that I gave Mary a bit of a pep talk!)

What do you do? We all ask that of strangers when we meet socially – don’t we? Or, if the person is young we add the word “want” –  What do you want to do? My problem has never been in putting these questions to others but always in answering them sensibly.

Why only yesterday Chris and I were at Rosie’s dinner party for nineteen people (and very charming it was in the big barn which has a retro-chic, rather Bohemian-style, interior); some of the guests we had never met before, and amongst those was an artist whose reputation and work I was familiar with – the barn used to be his studio (now he works and lives primarily in Barcelona). He’s an attractive man – imagine a cross between Richard Burton, Tom Jones and Dylan Thomas (maybe he has some Welsh blood in him) – and you can tell he’s an artist by his hair, thick and slightly dishevelled, and the flair with which he carries off wearing a green scarf and woolly jumper. Somebody must have told Mike the artist what I do and, towards the end of the dinner party, he collared me.

“What do you paint?” he asked.

Now you might think that is a simple enough question, but considering that most people within a three-mile radius (the epicentre of my fame) know me or, at least, know of me, I was taken aback a little.

“I used to be a portraitist, mainly, but now I paint anything,” I said rather lamely and boringly.

Modesty prevented me from elaborating and awkwardness made me wish that Mike would talk about himself, or something else. We talked about Dawlish: our views on my hometown (and his for a time) were two sides of the same coin – my side was the shiny one.

Later on, whilst pondering over the peculiar conversation and my inability to talk with ease about one of the things I love to do nearly every day of my life, I recalled another conversation I had several years ago with the then retired head of the art department at my old college. We met quite by chance at an art exhibition.

“Hello Sally!” an aging gentleman beamed at me.

“Hello John!,” I began after the pause of recognition, “How amazing that you can remember me after all this time, especially as I dropped out in my first year!”

“How could I forget you? Do you remember your interview? We wanted to laugh…” he chuckled.

“No, it was so long ago. What on earth did I say?” I dreaded to think what he was about to tell me.

“Well, the other tutors and I were sat behind my table and you were sat on a chair in front of us. You were wearing a wearing a red, white and blue striped miniskirt.” (I remembered that nice miniskirt and nodded.) “And, when the others had finished asking their questions, I asked you, ‘What to you want to do in life?’ and you said….” John tried to hold back his laughter.

“What did I say? Become a famous painter?”

“You said, ‘I want to marry a millionaire’!”

How embarrassing! At my art college interview! Remembered forever, not as a great artist or writer, but as a comedy act! But it did sound like me. Please, let’s not talk art or what I do or want to do – what do you do?

Try as I did, it was impossible to keep to my diet over Christmas and the lost pounds found their way back home – oh dear! Luckily, Chris put on the same amount so we don’t notice the difference in each other (a bit like aging together). However, we can feel it and we’re starting afresh as of today. I’m not sure, but our decision to be good may have been inspired by an unexpected visitor we had yesterday morning…

With it being a Bank Holiday we took our time getting up and it was about ten o’clock when the doorbell rang; fortunately, I was showered and dressed but I hadn’t yet brushed my hair or put any make-up on (why is it that people always come when you look ugly?) and I was waiting for my porridge to heat up in the microwave. Chris went to the door.

“Darling,” Chris called as he came down the stairs, “you’ll never believe who it is!”

I started for the bathroom a little too late because our nimble guest, matching Chris’s steps, had reached the bottom of the stairs in no time.

“Nic,” I said, “you look great!”

He certainly looked dapper in a grey woollen three-piece suit and a trilby hat. I looked like a Highland cow that had been pulled through a hedge backwards (and a chubby one at that!) so I didn’t expect my old friend to return the compliment, which was just as well because he didn’t (it would have been fulsome!). We hadn’t seen Nic for about sixteen years. While Chris kindly distracted him with conversation I dashed to the bathroom. Moments later I returned with a Colgate smile, pink lips and slightly less dishevelled hair.

“You look dapper!” I said admiringly.

“I think it’s because I haven’t put on any…” Nic began.

“Weight,” I finished the sentence with him.

“Would you believe that I’m the same weight I was at twenty?” he asked.

I nodded and smiled my surprise. There wasn’t much I could add, seeing that he was twenty-four when we had first met and I couldn’t remember if at that time he had been fatter or thinner than now.

After Nic had gone – over an hour later –  I was pondering on the visit when I burst out laughing.

“What are you giggling at?” Chris was curious.

“You know there was almost an awkward silence when Nic said he was the same weight as he was at twenty?”

“Yes….”

“Well, it’s just come to me. I should have told him that I, too, am the same weight that I was at twenty… when I was nine months pregnant!”

And, just in case you don’t know what Highland cattle look like…..

I’m all dressed up and ready to go somewhere – a party, actually – which is quite most unusual because we are rather stay at home in the evening people. We’re not going out of the district, thank goodness, so we won’t have far to roll home later on, not that I intend to get drunk – it’s just that I have regained a few pounds over Christmas.

I started off by wearing a black and grey evening gown (bought in Australia last year) – it’s funny how strange my Australian gear looks when I wear it in England. The dress has two glamorous slits up the sides so I had to wear black tights (pantyhose if you live across the pond) to cover my white legs (gone is the tan). I hate wearing tights of any colour but I thought I’d make the effort as we so rarely go out to parties. Chris entered the bedroom, looked at me, and said:

“Is this the first thing you’re trying on?”

“No, this is what I’m wearing,” I answered decisively (for a change), “Why, is anything wrong with it?”

“No, it’s just a bit black,” Chris answered cautiously.

“It’s got grey in it,” I countered.

“Well, okay, black and grey,” Chris made it sound so attractive.

“What else should I wear then?”

“How about a onesie?” he joked.

So now I’m all dressed up in an all-in-one (onesie) sort of jumpsuit with three-quarter length legs. The material is rather pretty – a floral pattern in pink, blue and green on a black background – and I have a pink cardigan over the top (not over the top outrageous, or gorgeous – just normal  worn over the top). The black tights came off (I do so hate wearing tights, especially under onesies, not that I’ve ever done so). The only thing that looks a bit odd about my outfit is the pair of black socks I’m wearing, but I hope that nobody will get that far once I put some bright lipstick on.

“What are we going to do for four hours,” asked Chris.

“Five hours,” I corrected.

Old grumpy boots looked to the sky for some reason.

“Why don’t we bring along a game of Picasso?” I suggested, perking up. (It’s a really good game like charades but you have to draw the clues – particular fun for artists.)

“You don’t take games to parties,” he scorned.

So I’m all dressed up, the pizza I made is in the oven (we will roll home), I’m going to secrete “Picasso” somewhere on my person (whatever that means) and I’m just about to clean my teeth and put on some lipstick before venturing two doors up, to our neighbour’s party. We are the only guests so I can’t see why we shouldn’t play Picasso.

Wherever you may be, whichever way you are choosing to welcome in the new year, I wish you a happy and prosperous new year!

I didn’t have the heart to shut my bedroom door. Jas and Sasha had snuggled together on their big cushion and were already half asleep when I turned off all the main lights; likewise, Malachi, Inca and Yoda had settled on their individual cushions and did not follow me as I walked through the lounge-room towards my bedroom. From my doorway I surveyed the peaceful scene; the small lamp on the kitchen window sill shed a soft and comforting yellow light over that end of the house; and in the middle of the open-plan living area, to the left of a spiral staircase, the lights on the Christmas tree twinkled and winked on and off. No need to hunt for the switch – if it became bothersome during the night I would shut my door.

I changed out of my thick polar bear onesie in preference for a thinner grey one with white spots, still fluffy (but more like a rabbit than a bear), and much more suitable for sleeping in. The big wooden four-poster bed, made to appear less massive and square at each corner by lengths of pastel coloured silk, looked sumptuous; and the red duvet cover was warm and inviting. For some time I just lay in bed and watched the reflection of the fairy lights which lit up the glass doors of the wood fire in the lounge. Although the hour was late sleep evaded me; I closed my eyes, pulled the duvet up around my ears and waited for sleep to come.

Presently, I became aware of padded feet on the floor – perhaps it was the click of nails on the ceramic tiles – and a dark head was at my bedside. In a moment the dog, as black as night, was lying at the end of my bed; quietly, and without great movement, she curved her body against my legs. When I had to move I did so very tentatively, trying not to disturb her; she responded likewise. For perhaps an hour I enjoyed the warmth of her body against me through the duvet; I liked the way she rested her head over my shin; I even liked the sound of her breathing.

Neither of us slept. I wondered which of the three larger dogs she was. I didn’t think it was Jas – Jas is old and not so nimble as the younger ones; it had to be Malachi or Inca. Inca is the youngest and awfully bouncy at times, she is apt to jump and barge for attention. No, I thought it was Malachi, my favourite (if I was forced to own to it). Malachi is patient, responsible and caring; like a sensible older sister, she watches over all whilst joining in for the fun too. I had to know if I was right. I reached down to pat the head at my left knee. She was awake; she lifted her head as my hand searched – her hair was straight and sleek… it was Inca! Not at all boisterous now.

My legs needed a change of position. I moved to the left and Inca went to the right; she was lying beside me with her head in the crook of my arm. Very gently, she nudged a paw against my side and I held her paw in my hand. Inca was so happy that her throat made sweet little noises; I was so happy that I shed a tear.

More nails clicking on the tiled floor – it was Malachi. Did she want to join us on the big four-poster? The more, the merrier. No, she wanted to tell me that Yoda needed to go out for a minute. As it happened, Jas and Sasha decided to join Yoda (you know what we females are like – we rarely like to miss an opportunity). We all went back to our respective beds, except for Inca, who hadn’t left her spot.

“Move over a bit,” I whispered as I slid under the red duvet.

I held her paw again to reassure her and she fell asleep with my fingers going through her silky hair; I knew she was asleep at last because she made little sucking noises like a baby. And sleep came to me… but not for long (at least it didn’t seem very long). Soon it was dawn and the whole troupe burst excitedly through my bedroom door.

As I was getting into the car to leave Inca came bounding over and licked my face. Strangely enough, I didn’t mind a bit.

“We’ll try to get down to you by midday on Boxing Day, Mum,” said James (alias Jimbo or Jim) over the telephone on Christmas Eve.

“Don’t worry about having to be here for a specific time for lunch,” I replied, “We’re going to have a running buffet so that anyone can drop in at anytime.”

“I hope it won’t be a banana and a drink of water from a plastic cup,” Jimbo joked.

I was still smiling when I put down the receiver. I was thinking back to an earlier time when he was my little Jim, barely more than a toddler…

“Goodnight sunshine,” I whispered, kissing him at bedtime.

“Goodnight Mumshine,” he responded as quick as a flash.

James and Jaimy are on their way from Brighton. They should be here within two hours. I haven’t seen them since their wedding in April – I’m so excited. I wonder if I have any plastic cups – just for a joke, of course.