Category Archives: Life

Fifteen Minutes

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“It will only take fifteen minutes,” the pretty blonde smiles and continues, “but you’ll have to keep perfectly still or we’ll have to do it all over again.”

I smile in acquiescence.

“Are you okay?” she asks sympathetically. (Obviously my smile has not hidden my feeling of dread.)

“It looks like an iron lung,” I say, trying to make light of it, realising as I speak that maybe there isn’t such a thing as an iron lung anymore.

“You’re right. I hadn’t thought of it like that…” she responds as if she can imagine such a machine and adds, “Now press this button if you have any problems. See you in fifteen minutes.”

Now alone, ear plugs in, and ensconced with safety button device in my right hand, I feel slightly panicky about the confinement even though my head is outside. I can look up at the lights or down the extent of my body. I choose the latter. I am like a potholer in a narrow tunnel – I’ve never been drawn to potholing – too akin to being buried alive. I think: I wonder how really fat people fit in these machines. Do they ever get stuck or are there special machines for the over-sized? I must go on the Dukan Diet again. 

Sounding distant and indecipherable (with my earplugs  in), a voice comes through a speaker; it must be the man in the operations room outside. I guess it’s about to begin. There are green lights and red lights and knocking sounds – short raps, long taps and rattatats – and I close my eyes.

Poetry! I’ll think of poems. “If you can keep your head… “ Rattatat, whirr, knock, knock, knock, whirr, rattatat. “Four horsemen rode out from the heart of the range, Four horsemen with aspects forbidding and strange, As forward they rode through the rocks and the fern, Ned Kelly, Dan Kelly, Steve Hart and Joe Burn”. (Well I am an Australian!) “Look at a fragment of velvety brown, Old man platypus drifting down, Drifting along the river…”  Knock, knock, rap, rap, rap, whirr, rattatat! 

“I love a sunburnt country, A land of sweeping plains, Of rugged mountain ranges, Of droughts and flooding plains. I love her broad horizons, I love her jewel sea, her beauty and her terror….” Rattatat, rattatat, rap, rap tap! “The wide brown land for me!” What was the rest of it? Can’t think. More poems….

Ah, “Abu Ben Adam – may his tribe increase – awoke one night….um… Awoke one night from a night of peace…”. Ah, um… Whirr, knock, knock, tap! “I must go down to the sea again, To the lonely sea and the sky, And all I ask is a tall ship and  a star to steer her by…” Um… 

It is quiet. The machine is thinking. The machine is moving and I’m sliding deeper into the tube.

Oh no, my knee is aching. What if I move it? If only I could move it a fraction. I need (kneed) to move it, but if  I do… Oh no! Another fifteen minutes. Please Mrs Robinson… not another fifteen minutes!

Da, da, dat, dat, dat, whirr, tat, tatta, tat,tat! 

What was that poem I wrote at primary school? Ah, “We will die and so will our successors, Our loved ones and our friends, But time will keep rolling by, Yes time will never end.” Shame I can remember only the last verse. Perhaps I can rewrite the missing verses. “Time….”  Rattatat, dah, dah, tat! “Time…” Whirr, bip, bip, tap, tap,tap.

Knee aching. Don’t move. Don’t move. Breathe, don’t forget to breathe, but shallowly. A bit more than that.

Knock, knock!

Who’s there?

Rattatat!

“A naughty little elf with a saucy little face, Stole one of Grandpa’s slippers from beside the fireplace…” “Tippie Tim. I had a little dog, His name was Tippie Tim, I put him in the bath tub, To see if he could swim. He drank up all the water, He ate up all the soap. I took him to the doctor, But the doctor said, ‘No hope!'”

At last the noises stop and I feel the presence of the blonde – her head blocks out some of the light and I open my eyes.

“Well done!” she beams.

“Is that the fifteen minutes?” I ask.

“Yep. How did you cope?” she enquires.

“I just kept trying to remember poems,” I say.

“Oh, that’s a good idea,” she pauses, “I remember one… ‘Little Mr Tinkie…”

We are coming out of the MRI scanning room into the waiting room and there is an old lady in a nightdress waiting in a chair by the door. She is smiling and I give her some advice before she goes through the same ordeal:

“I thought of poems. That might help you take your mind off it.”

Blank. She doesn’t speak or even acknowledge me. Maybe she has had a stroke. I guess I’m lucky to have just a bad knee and a lovely husband waiting to hold my hand and help me to the car, which he has moved to a closer car park while I was thinking of poems.

The Only Way is Up (in Smoke)

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“What shall I do with you when you’re dead?” I asked Chris when we were still in bed earlier today.

Luckily, we think alike about most things so he didn’t misunderstand me; he knew I didn’t mean “What am I going to do without you?” (of course, I would be bereft and mortified). Also, he was well aware that at present I’m in the process of writing a story about a dying man, hence the topic of death was not particularly peculiar… although you might think that six-thirty in the morning is an odd time to have such a conversation. Chris didn’t appear to think so, in fact he turned around and, although we were in semi-darkness, I could see his face light up as warmed to the subject.

“I’m glad you asked,” he said excitedly, “because recently I’ve been thinking about your idea of us being buried together.” (Hopefully at different times, seeing as my “other half” is nearly twelve years older than me!)

We snuggled closer and Chris continued:

“Darling, do you really want to moulder in the ground?”

“Yeah but what if I’m murdered – no body to exhume – they’ll never find my murderer,” my heart sank as my dreams of resting eternally in the earth went up in flames.

“After a while they bury someone else on top of you and, anyway, when did you last visit  a graveside?” he said like an enthusiastic representative for crematoriums.

“Yeah but someone may like to visit me for a talk and a few tears,” I argued feebly.

“Wouldn’t you rather have your ashes mixed with mine and be thrown to the winds? Or be in a  place we both love?” Chris wheedled.

“Our garden. I’d love to be here forever,” I succumbed.

“No, this place will be sold. Why not a rocket? People do that you know,” he suggested.

“Not a rocket,” I said, thinking of the people on land. “I guess I wouldn’t mind the sea. Throw me into the sea then. By the way, how much is a cremation compared to a burial?”

“Burials cost thousands nowadays and a simple cremation – no service or memorial – can cost as little as £1,008,” my husband exclaimed joyously. “You don’t want a service – do you? We could have a party to remember you… but I’ll probably go first and you can throw a party.”

“Let’s find out how much it costs to turn our bodies into diamonds,” my mind turned to other options. “I think I’d rather become a diamond, if it’s not too expensive – if it’s say… £2,000.”

Half an hour later we were at the breakfast table and Chris opened the mail. He laughed and showed me the letter from SunLife insurers. There was a photograph of evergreen Alan Titchmarsh looking rather happy in spite of the window above his head informing that the “Average cost of a basic funeral in the South West of England £4,685”.

“I must be getting older,” Chris mused, “I never used to get mail asking ‘who’s paying for your funeral?’. I could get stony-faced about it!”

“If you become a ‘real diamond geezer’,” I added.

So we looked up “Ashes to Diamonds” on the Internet and it looks like we can afford only to become orange-yellow stones like topazes, not lovely blue cut diamonds. Chris found another site and was aglow with the notion of having my ashes set in coloured glass shaped as hearts or bubbles. 

“But they probably put any old bits of ash in the glass,” Chris said, bursting my bubble.

So now our plans for the distant future are on the back-burner.

Beehave Yourself!

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One of my greatest pleasures whilst tending the flowers out on our terrace is when a passing bumblebee bumps against my arm and I can feel his wings, and he doesn’t get nasty or upset because he perhaps senses that I’m not going to hurt him, or maybe even he knows that I’m his friend (we gardeners are rather fanciful!). Even the ordinary honey bees don’t seem to mind my presence and they often fly close enough for me to feel the movement of their wings in the air. They never sting me, not like wasps – I’m allergic to them (and they seem to know it for they harass me regardless of my pretence at nonchalance); luckily, I haven’t seen many wasps this year.

However, I’ve seen thousands of bees this year, quite recently in fact, and not one by one… Chris discovered them last Friday when he was hanging out the washing in the garden on the sea-side of our house; obviously looking for a new home in which to hibernate for the winter, the bees were buzzing in and around the loose soil all over the steep bank leading down to the railway line. Much as we love bees we weren’t too sure that we wanted our garden to be overrun by them so Chris called Graham, a bee-keeping acquaintance of ours who might have been interested in housing a homeless hive of honey bees.

“They aren’t honey bees,” Graham began, “they’re too small and they are already making homes in the soil. Also it would be too difficult to gather them, and they won’t be honey producers.

“Oh dear,” Chris and I were thinking together, having not yet come to terms with the idea of sharing our garden with so many hobos.

“But they are good pollinators,” smiled the bee enthusiast.

“How many do you think there are?” Chris inquired.

“Oh, it’s only a very small swarm – about four and a half thousand bees,” replied Graham.

Chris was hanging out the washing again this morning (I do help sometimes – really!) and he came back upstairs with something of a triumphant smile on his face.

“They are still there,” he announced proudly.

“And they didn’t sting you or get annoyed?”

“No, most of them don’t even have stings. I was looking them up on Google,” my husband admitted. “I think they are either digger bees or miner bees – not to be confused with a mynah bird.”

I went upstairs and returned with my phone camera, made a bee-line to the hive of activity and took a few photos for my blog readers. While taking shots of our bee-loved new residents I noticed our neighbours’ pampas grass, tall and beautiful against a background of blue sky and sea, and I laughed to myself. 

“Why are you laughing?” Chris asked.

“The pampas grass,” I giggled, “I was wondering if Adrian and Sonia know what it means… Maybe I should tell them… But…”

“Bee-have yourself!” said Chris.

So I’m not going to tell them. They’ll have to read my blog to find out. I’ll copy and paste an article on the subject just in case you’re in the dark.

Ah, what beautiful pampas grass!

Embarrassed dog-walkers pass by with eyes fixed ahead!

Exclusive: Pampas grass sales are falling because it is a secret signal for swingers

For decades it was a common feature of suburban front gardens throughout Britain, adding a touch of exoticism to more everyday native planting.

But an unfortunate association with liberal sexual practices appears to have heralded the end of pampas grass as a gardener’s favourite.

Plant sellers says sales have plummeted – in no small part due to the plant being regarded as a secret signal to passersby that its owners are happy to indulge in swinging.

Many nurseries have stopped stocking it entirely, and even large suppliers have seen numbers plummet, as buyers shun the plant for fear of what it means.

Palmstead Nurseries, which sells plants to garden designers for households, commercial gardens and public spaces, says the plant has fallen out of favour.

A decade ago the firm, based in Ashford, Kent, was selling an average of 550 of the plants every year. Annual sales fell to less than 500 five years ago and are now as low as 250.

The plant is one of the least popular of the company’s grass varieties, some of which are so in demand that it sells thousands of plants every year.

Nick Coslett, the company’s marketing manager, said it had fallen out of fashion in part because it was seen as a signal that swingers lived in a house.

He said: “It’s just not in fashion at the moment.

“I’ve got no evidence that it was ever actually used for that – I think it goes back to the fact that it was planted in people’s front gardens.

“But there is that connotation, unfortunately. It’s all part of that 1970s, kitsch feel.”

The plant’s association with swinging has been dismissed as a myth by pampas enthusiasts, but broadcaster Mariella Frostrup said she had inadvertently identified herself as a swinger by planting the grasses outside her Notting Hill home a few years ago.

Since the arrival of her two Cortaderia selloana plants, the presenter said she had been inundated with unwanted inquiries.

Writing on Twitter she said at the time: “Bought two and put them on my balcony. Neighbours have been swarming!”

Steve Dawson, a buyer for Crocus, the largest gardening website in the UK, said it now sold around 300 pampas grass plants a year – a fraction of the amount it sold of other grass varieties.

“A lot of people used to put it in their front gardens – I think people are probably a bit embarrassed about doing that now,” he said.

Another plant nursery, Worcester-based Bransford Webbs, said it had stopped selling pampas grass altogether over a decade ago, because sales figures were so poor.

The plant comes in several different varieties, some of which can grow to up to eight feet (2.4m) tall.  

Most nurseries which still sold them said they tended to sell the Pumila variety, which is a, smaller, “dwarf” version of the larger plant. It grows to around five feet (1.5m).

Pampas grass is native to south America and is named for the Pampas region, fertile lowlands covering Brazil, Uruguay and Argentina, where they originally grew.

It is very hardy and can produce a significant number of seeds. This has led to the plant being seen as a weed in some countries.

In California, it is classed as an “invasive to avoid” plant, and people are discouraged from planting it in their gardens.

George Hillier, of the Hillier garden centre chain, which has 12 branches, said they had almost completely stopped stocking the plants due to low demand.

He said that embarrassment over the plant’s connotations could be a factor, but that its size and the difficulty of removing it was one of the main things putting gardeners off.

“They are very sharp and they’re very thick,” he said. “Once it’s in and really established, getting rid of it is a couple of days worth of work.”

 

A Cock-a-two?

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Full tide at Cockwood Harbour

Beautiful Cockington Village

When I asked my old school friend Sally (now living in Cyprus but on holiday in England at present) if she’d like to go to Cockington for an outing on Tuesday she thought I meant Cockwood; well they sound similar, and both spots are beautiful, but they are quite different and about fifteen miles apart. Cockwood, as you may be aware, is the little harbour on our side of the Exe Estuary and just two and a half miles from our house; it is perhaps the favourite cycling destination for Chris and me. Cockington, on the other hand, is the charming little “chocolate box” village situated only a mile or so from the seafront at Torquay, and it’s so well hidden that you wouldn’t know that it’s there.

My very first visit to quaint Cockington Village was with my cousins who lived in Torquay; that was when I was fourteen and had just arrived from Australia. On the way to Cockington – we all walked in those days – my cousin John saved me from a speeding car by pushing me into a hedge… and for the first time in my life I was stung by stinging nettles, then treated with dock leaves growing in the hedge also – another first.

In my case fourteen was an age for many firsts. My new friend Sally, who, like me, was new to the school, came from a family with rather modern and sophisticated taste – they used to eat real spaghetti not Heinz spaghetti and tomato sauce from a tin! My first attempt to eat real spaghetti – at Sally’s house – proved challenging. The pasta would not stay on my fork. Maybe an hour into the meal, when everyone else had finished, and my dinner was cold, Sally’s father could bear watching me no more.

“You don’t have to eat it Sally,” he said kindly, no doubt thinking that I preferred the Heinz variety.

I expect I blushed. It was all so embarrassing for a shy fourteen-year-old from the bush. 

 

So Chris took we two old school friends to Cockington bright and early on Tuesday. At nine-thirty in the morning, though it’s the height of summer, there were few people about and the village felt like it belonged to us… and the lady who sat contemplating on a bench by the lower lake. The air had the coolness of morning and the sun had the heat of promise for a hot afternoon. The paths were shaded by trees with leaves every colour of green, the outer ones edged with sunshine. The lady on the bench left with her white poodle, greeted us on the dappled path (as if to show no hard feelings for us interrupting her reverie) and Sally took the lady’s solitary position while Chris and I sat close together on another bench.

At our leisure we strolled back to the main path and down to the church and the big house called Cockington Court. From our table outside the cafe we watched some people trickling down the path and larger groups of young folk running off the path, down the grassy banks to the field of parched grass where cricket matches are still played on Sunday afternoons. The tourists were coming, filling the hidden world that we had felt was especially for us. It was time to leave. We were not so dissimilar to the lady on the bench. But we didn’t leave without a walk through the rose garden and a mosey around the craft centre – we, too, were kind of tourists.

I’m so glad we went to Cockington Village and not Cockwood Harbour (albeit a wonderful local destination) not least because we now have a new addition on our terrace – a strange-looking bird we acquired on our visit. Is it a cockatoo by any chance? No, that would be too coincidental. Our friend Roland from Australia (and something of a bird-man himself) has called her Tammy Toucan, and if you think she’s a bit ugly… good! We hope she’ll scare away the seagulls and pigeons that like to perch on our balustrade! All the same, we think Tammy is beautiful.

Tammy Toucan from Cockington Craft Centre

The name Cockington is thought to derive from Saxon terms meaning either ‘the settlement near the springs’ or ‘the place of the red meadow’. … From 1130-1350 the lands were owned by the Fitzmartin family who took the surname De Cockington.

Should’ve Gone to Specsavers (Yet Another Instance!)

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Earlier today Chris and I were leaning over the balustrade on our terrace to admire the work we did in the bottom garden on the sea side of our house yesterday. We had laboured hard with pruning, strimming, clearing and removing weeds and soil from the steps going down the steep slope (forty-five degrees) so we were feeling pleased with ourselves.

“From here it looks like a grave,” Chris said as he pointed out the loose soil on the brick steps edging the lawn.

“I don’t think so,” I disagreed.

All the same, I turned on the hose and held it over the balustrade letting the water cascade like heavy rain onto the brickwork beneath. Water collected in brown puddles over the brick steps and, Chris, thinking he might do better than me, took over. He didn’t.

Convinced that it was simply a matter of perseverance and quantity of water, I commandeered the hose and stood for quite a time leaning over the balustrade. Every now and then I made a comment to Chris about the slowness of the task and how much water it was taking. He didn’t say much – I thought him either bored or deaf (he is a tad deaf) – but I enjoyed his company nevertheless. I like us doing chores together.

After ten minutes or so I was getting a bit fed up with just standing there holding the hose and continually watching the water plop onto the soily wet steps. I seemed to remember Chris saying earlier that it might rain today, which, if so, would obviate the requirement for me to hose the steps to stop them looking like a grave.

“Did you say that it’s going to rain later today darling?” I asked.

No answer.

“Is rain forecast this afternoon Darling?” I ask a little louder this time.

Nothing.

So for the first time since I’d begun hosing I looked up from my lowered gaze upon the garden.Turning to the right to where I had sensed Chris’s head to be I was greatly surprised to find that it wasn’t his head at all but the stone ornamental flowerpot in the middle of the balustrade! Should’ve gone to Specsavers!

I laughed to myself. My ornamental (if not monumental) husband was inside, engrossed with his tax forms on the table – not such an empty vessel after all.

Is it going to rain later today Darling?

How to Deal With Screaming Babies and Children in Supermarkets

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Firstly, I must say that I really like babies and children in general. I love their innocence and the candid way they look at you, and suss you out, before they react. What joy when they like you and how disappointing when they don’t (and you mustn’t expect or press too hard for a good response). But however much I may love babies I certainly can’t stick their screaming in supermarkets – the shrill notes go right through me – and not just me and other shoppers; they must be the bane of many a shop-assistant’s life.

Recently I read on Facebook of a grandmother’s experience when her grandchild played up at the checkout while she, herself, was dealing with the cashier. Evidently, the guardian granny was extremely angry when the lady behind her tried to cajole the child and she even swore at the woman for touching the tot. Well, reading this I wondered what I would have done had I been in the same position as the lady behind the screaming baby. It’s quite likely that I, too, would have beseeched the screamer to stop. I might even have squeezed a toe to distract the child from her antics… or perhaps not, I can’t be sure but I could imagine doing so. I have definitely touched the arm or hand of a charming unknown child before now.

Last Saturday, whilst shopping at Trago Mills (one of my favourites stores) I found myself in a not dissimilar situation. One moment I was happily, and peacefully, looking at head-bands for baby girls… and then… suddenly, my ears were assailed by a terrible high-pitched screaming. With a finger in each ear I looked down into a pram at the young perpetrator – he was a blond, curly haired little angel with pink cheeks and red lips. I was about to complain about the terrible noise when the pretty mother got in first… 

“Sorry about Phillip, he’s normally a good boy,” she said holding her own ears. 

Phillip continued to scream.

“Calm down now and stop screaming,” she said firmly.

He howled.

“Oh what a gorgeous boy you are!” I said, turning from the mother to the vexed baby.

Young Phillip stopped screaming immediately and looked at me transfixed.

“He likes you!” she enthused.

“And what beautiful hair you have! Like an angel!” I continued with the compliments because he was really was that beautiful and also because he seemed to love them so much. It was calming.

“He had open-heart surgery not long ago and he’s still getting over it,” added his mum.

I was so glad that I’d taken the soft approach on this occasion.

 

There was another occasion a few years ago when I was in Tesco’s… I heard him long before I saw him. He was a dark-haired “Dennis the Menace” aged about three or four, too big for the trolley seat and therefore stood in the back of the shopping trolley, screaming his head off. Indeed, so awful and embarrassing was he that his mother or father had disowned him and gone off to shop in some other aisle (or store perhaps). 

“Good,” I thought as I rounded the corner and saw Dennis alone, screaming at the top of his voice. I walked up to him calmly, bent my head close to his ear and gave him my best theatrical whisper:

“Shut up!”

Dennis stopped and looked nonplussed. Obviously no-one had ever told him to shut up until then. And while his mouth was still open with surprise a little old lady came zooming up the aisle from the opposite end and bent her head close to his other ear:

“Yeah, shut up!”

A double whammy. We ladies did a “thumbs up” and continued our shopping in peace.

 

A Funeral to Live For

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I must be maturing because I’m not quite so scared of funerals as I used to be (apart from my own, which I trust will be a long way off considering my mum is still going strong, and is normal, at ninety-five). Until fairly recently I couldn’t concentrate on a church funeral service owing to my vivid imaginings of the poor dead body inside the coffin, and crematoriums (or is that crematoria?) were even worse… Those nasty curtains… the final curtain. Did you know that the machine for burning is called a crematory? (Not to be confused with a crème de la crème Tory like our Prime Minister Theresa May!)

Anyway, by now I’ve attended enough funerals to be discriminating about them. My favourite was the Humanist funeral for my old boyfriend Chris who died too young from drink. He used to say that he had hundreds of friends down the pub yet only three of them, one of whom was the landlord, turned up to say good-bye. My old boyfriend had never married but, being a handsome man, he had had many girlfriends – thank goodness – and his funeral was well attended with ex-girlfriends and their husbands or partners. The Humanist funeral celebrant spoke plainly and sincerely about Chris’s life; and after the service we ex-girlfriends all greeted one another with open arms and compared stories.

“I remember seeing your photo,” said one attractive lady to me.

“I always worried about what happened to my photos,” said another.

And we all laughed and thought how pleased old Chris would have been if he were in Heaven looking down on his old girlfriends regaling each other with funny stories and happy memories of being with Chris. But, of course, he couldn’t have been looking down on us because it was a Humanist funeral and he was in a woven palm frond coffin.

That was the best funeral. It helps if you’re not, or perhaps I should say no longer (in this case), too close to the deceased.

My dad’s funeral was the worst – we loved him so much.

My dear friend Amr’s funeral was the next worst. He was buried on my birthday, an extremely cold eleventh of November that year. Friends and family gathered around the graveside, our heels sinking into the mud, and only two people – my husband Chris and Amr’s daughter Laila – could manage to sing the words to Rod Stewart’s song “Sailing”; the rest of us were crying (although my proclivity to laugh when I shouldn’t nearly got the better of me when Laila began harmonising with Chris).

My cousin Christine spoke so beautifully of her mother as we stood at Aunty Eve’s grave. My aunt lived in Somerset so I didn’t know her particularly well, all the same,  enough to cry for the loss of her in our family’s lives and especially for my cousins’ loss.

If you’re wondering why I’m contemplating on funerals today, well, it’s not really so strange because my husband Chris (new Chris, although he was older than old Chris who died) and I went to a funeral recently. Actually it was this morning but I don’t want to hurt anyone’s feelings so I won’t say whose funeral it was. Suffice it to say, the deceased was exceedingly old and more of an acquaintance than a friend.

I suppose that when you’re a nonagenarian you’ve outlived most of your contemporaries, and you probably don’t go out as much as you did so you don’t have many new acquaintances and friends – or any. Hence, the church seemed rather big and the mourners rather scanty. We and a friend of ours sat on the opposite side of the central aisle to the few others who had gathered to show their respect.

The organ came to life to the tune of Amazing Grace and the vicar lead the cortege; we turned to see that immediately behind him was a severe-looking woman dressed in black, wearing a top hat like an old-fashioned riding hat; then the coffin carried by six burly men (to lift about nine stones I reckon), and then the family who occupied the first two lines of pews on our side of the church.

The vicar, who was himself old, read out a few lines written by each of the two grandchildren and then a young man with a sheet of paper read out his thoughts about his great-grandmother – unfortunately, he spoke too quickly and his mouth was too far from the microphone for anyone beyond the front pew to hear. The vicar congratulated the young man and we had the first hymn. After a somewhat long introduction one or two of the congregation sang, “The Lord’s our shepherd…” On verse three all was not as expected for the vicar began singing verse four… I sang a bit louder to let him know his mistake but he carried on undaunted and by the last two lines we three singers were in unison. The organist must have been in on it – he stopped with the vicar’s lead (it must be a well-known trick to save time!). Two short readings from the bible and we were into our next hymn, “All Creatures Great and Small”, and three verses in – would you believe it? – the vicar began singing verse four. This time we two singers took our cue and accompanied the vicar to the end. A prayer or two followed and the organ started up again – Amazing Grace – and the dominatrix with the riding hat and stick led the cortege back down the aisle. It was over.

When my time comes, which I hope will be a long way off, I don’t want a vicar who doesn’t know me conducting a service for twenty-two people, some of whom barely knew me. No pomp either please. No lady with a funny hat and solemn expression. Give me a gathering of those who loved me, sending me off with a prayer and thoughts of any good I might have done in my life. Tears, yes – why not? That would be my idea of a funeral to die for.

Oh no, James Bond is dead!

 

Still April 17th

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Some time later today this card, featuring the English composer Sir Arthur Bliss, appeared for Chris…


 

And at exactly the same time this poem appeared for me. What Bliss!

 

          THE ANNIVERSARY “FAULTS”

 

 “Am I too late?” the Possum muttered, holding back the tears

“Have we in truth been married thus for nigh on twenty years?

And each and every year I’ve managed somehow to compose

an anniversary ditty, sometimes poems, sometimes prose

Yet this year, I’m ashamed to say, I’ve really missed the boat

and failed completely, just this once,  to write  something of note

So does this mean, you might well ask, if Love has somehow dimmed

and faded into nothingness, it’s passion somewhat trimmed?

And has the heady adoration, once so freely shown

just spread its wings and headed south, where maybe Love has flown?”

 

“Not so!”, the Possum firmly cried, “For Love should not depend

on calendars, and writing cards and poems without end

and yes, it’s very comforting to give and to receive

these tokens of our love, these signs that help us to believe

But if our lives, so busy now, should steal our precious time

in which we should remember that cute card or pretty rhyme

We shouldn’t ever doubt that Love is still the bond that ties

the two of us together, through the lows and all the highs

 

And though I cannot promise that there’ll never be a fault

come future anniversaries, but if I’m worth my salt

On this you may depend,  my love for you is truly real

and “bursting’s” still the word that  summarises how I feel

So, Darling Sallipuss, you’re still the only one for me

and Just because I’m late, don’t think  I’m not your “cup of tea”

The years may come, the years may go, but every year you’ll know

Your Possum loves his Sallipuss, come rain or shine or snow.

And hopefully this little note will do the job in hand

and make you realise you’re still the fairest in the Land!”

 

April 17th 2018……Our TWENTIETH ANNIVERSARY!

(and it don’t seem a day too long!!)    xxxxxxxxxxxx

 

 

 

 

 

The Little Art Connoisseur and the Packet of Crisps

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Despite her years (not yet two) Miss Annalise Sanchez has already enjoyed some little fame as an “International art critic” (according to the Reuben Lenkiewicz Art Gallery, Teignmouth) and would be juggler (Mamhead Village Fete 2017). And she’s always been a bit of a food connoisseur as well…

Recently my great little niece has impressed again with her new skill at blowing bubbles…

I expect that you’re wondering if there is no end to her talents… No, there isn’t. Annalise continues to amaze with her brilliant intellect. Now I heard that only two mornings ago, when her parents were still in bed, she had awoken early with a tremendous appetite for crisps. Apparently she went downstairs to the kitchen and found the crisps she had set her heart on.

Have you noticed how hard it is to open goods nowadays? Lord only knows how old ladies manage! Well, the same applies to children, especially tiny tots like Annalise. Try as she might, she did not have the strength to pull open the bag of crisps.

“Oh dear!” she must have thought, “I’ll have to ‘come clean’ and take them up to Mummy and Daddy to open them.”

“Oh no!” said mummy Katie, “You can’t have crisps for breakfast. Have a banana…”

“Or an apple,” chimed in her dad.

“No, these,” pleaded Annalise with her most charming expression and she tried again to pull open the stubborn packet.

Katie took the packet and pulled, not too hard, against the seal.

“Well I can’t open them either,” said Katie with mock exasperation.

“Neither can I,” said her dad as he did the same.

“You’ll just have to settle for a banana,” added her mum.

“I find the scissors!” said Annalise.

 

 

Autumn Leaves and the Obelisk at Mamhead Forest

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Henry has arrived at Heathrow

My brother Henry is over from Australia (that’s us in the photograph above) and, after a week, he’s just about over his jet-lag. So this morning Chris and I thought he might enjoy a walk to the obelisk at Mamhead Forest as it is not a particularly long walk and it’s pretty flat terrain. Best of all, the lookout point has a magnificent panoramic view of all the rolling countryside leading down to the mouth of the River Exe and the sea. Oh, and the trees are beautiful on a sunny autumn day.

None of us realised it had been raining until we stepped outside the house but it didn’t matter because we were togged up in coats and sensible walking shoes. Chris wore his shorts because my better half insists upon wearing them into November, or as long as possible (providing it’s not snowing), and Henry wore his Aussie shorts because I haven’t taken up his new jeans for him yet. I wore long jogging pants because I was going to the gym after our walk (dieting and keeping fit again) and Malachi had on nothing but her black coat – well she is a black Labrador (we picked her up from Rosie’s farm nearby).

Unfortunately, it wasn’t a sunny day, and as we drove “onward and upward” to the forest we noticed that the hilltop was shrouded in cloud. Nevertheless, as you will see from the photographs below, the mist did not detract from the beauty of the autumn leaves; in fact it was very atmospheric.

And in case you’re wondering why I’m on the Cabbage Soup Diet again – well, you can only do it one week at a time…  I lost seven pounds, subsequently put on two (on holiday) and now I’m back on the cabbage soup to lose some more so I can put it on again. Diets are like the seasons – they come and they go, and I end up pretty well the same.