“Do you think you could find a home for Mum’s piano?” asked Jules, the son of our next door neighbour Hilda, who passed away last year.

“But don’t you want keep it, or even sell it?” I responded.

“No, none of us play the piano and we’re not bothered about selling it, little Sally,” he said. (He always calls me that – Bless him! – hope he’s not being ironic.)

“Well, my niece Katie might like it,” I suggested, “If you’re sure…”

“How lovely! I think Mum would be pleased to know that her piano was going to a good home where it would be appreciated,” Jules assured me.

That night I spoke to Katie and she informed me that now she has a piano. Chris checked out Ebay and found that two other pianos of the same make and era were on at around the £1200 mark. I could see the pound signs in Chris’s eyes!

“That could be one fare to Australia,” Chris said gleefully.

My brother Rob, who is a piano tuner and instrument maker, agreed to put his feelers out and help us to sell the piano. That was a couple of weeks ago.

Last weekend I was having a cup of tea with my sister and her two daughters, Lizzie and Katie, when I happened to mention that we still had to move Hilda’s piano from next door because the house is up for sale. Lizzie’s eye’s lit up. Now Liz has a piano already but it needs new felts and key covers, and it was always rather an ugly big brute, even when it could be played. On the other hand, Hilda’s piano is smaller, younger, much prettier – and it works (though it will probably need a tuning by Uncle Rob).

“I’ll pay for it,” said Mary, ” and it can be a birthday present for Liz.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” I answered, “we’re family.”

Later on that afternoon Liz came around and Chris and I took her into Hilda’s place to look at the piano.

“I’ve never had a pretty piano before!” Liz exclaimed.

She broke into a beaming smile and then I thought I could see tears of joy in her eyes.

When on our own I asked Chris:

“You don’t mind – do you?”

“No, of course not. When I saw her face I felt thrilled for her. I’m so happy that she’s going to have it,” said Chris.

“Me too,” I agreed and gave my husband a kiss.

And I’m convinced that Hilda would have approved, and I hope that Robert doesn’t mind having to move another piano, especially as there are fifty-one steps up to the road… Well, he is a piano man… and she is our niece.

Never let it be said that Chris and I deprive our guests of having a good time; if it gives them pleasure to scale a long ladder and paint the top of the third storey of our tall Victorian house – why not? After all, he is a painting contractor at home in Australia – we want him to feel at home here too.

And whilst Roland was painting the front of our house, facing the sea, I was having fun laying quarry tiles on the steps leading down to my studio on the other side of our house. It might not have been so wonderful for me had I been tiling on my own (cutting and laying) but somehow, in between holding the ladder and sorting out paint and brushes for Roland, Chris cut the quarry tiles that needed cutting and, therefore, I was able to lay all the tiles. Thus, I was very happy.

Actually, Chris and I were especially happy because we had just enough tiles to finish the job (with a bit of ingenious mosaic work under the railings) and not one tile was left.

“It’s a hard grind,” laughed Chris, picking up a half-tile and putting it against the rotary blade of the cutting machine.

We enjoy to have a joke while we work. Of course, we don’t talk much because it’s quite hard to hear (even though my hearing has returned to normal after using Otovent!) owing to the noise produced by the tile-cutting machine as it grinds through quarry tiles.

Another little joy to be experienced during the cutting operation is the shower that gets sent up, in all directions (particularly over the operator), as the blade rotates at high speed through the red-tile coloured water in the tray underneath the blade. The photographs neglect to show the wet red patch over Chris’s shirt – all over the stomach area.

“Django!” exclaimed Roland when he had finished his painting, joined us by the steps and saw Chris’s shirt. (“Django” is the name of the Quentin Tarantino film we watched the other night – needless to say there was a bloodbath.)

You’ll notice in the photographs that I haven’t grouted yet – perhaps another little pleasure to be shared with Roland over the weekend…

And only three of us here to eat them… Don’t worry about my diet, ten of them have gone to good homes, six are in the freezer (just waiting to be brought out for book club next Sunday), three have been consumed and the rest are for Chris and Roland… unless we have any visitors.

The point of fishing cannot be just to catch fish, especially when you’re on The Point. As you can see from the photographs, it was a sunny day with pretty blue skies and puffy clouds, and we tried a different fishing venue – the Point at Teignmouth, where the river flows out to the sea, and where there is always a deep channel regardless of the state of the tides. For bait we made a change from our usual squid and, instead, used live rag-worms, frozen sand-eels and plastic fake sand-eels. It didn’t make any difference – we still didn’t catch anything except for two peeler crabs and two tons of seaweed!

This is how it happened last Friday…

“Blow through your nose,” says Chris.

“I am blowing through my nose,” I reply.

“Listen, if a three-year-old child can blow up a balloon through his nostril then so can you,” Chris says impatiently.

“You’re too nervous. Just go for it and blow,” pipes up Roland.

Now at this juncture I had better explain. You see, I had been deaf in one ear for nearly four weeks and it seemed to be getting worse, not better, in spite of nasal spray, decongestants and a Vick nasal stick. Two doctors, independently, thought my left ear would clear eventually of its own accord but secretly I feared I would need surgery and grommets.

Luckily, my dear old mum is still as astute as she is caring and, whilst she had been out in Dawlish on Wednesday, she struck up conversation with an interesting couple and happened to mention my bad ear (no doubt in the hope they might have a solution). Would you believe it? The lady in question had had an ear problem that sounded exactly like mine; furthermore, she had found the cure – a German product called Otovent (though it’s actually made in China). Mum had been standing outside Boots the chemist at the time so, after the goodbyes, she went straight in and ordered me my very own Otovent glue-ear cure – a significantly sized piece of plastic, rounded at one end (for pushing up one’s nostril) and with a hole running through it, and several white balloons with “Otovent” printed on them (to be fitted to the other end of the plastic device). It arrived on Friday. And now back to the conversation…

“I’m blowing as hard as I can!” I say.

“No you’re not,” says Roland, “give it some welly!”

“Let me have a go first and we’ll see how easy or difficult it is to blow up using one nostril,” Chris says.

Taking it from my left nostril, I wipe the round end piece of the device with kitchen towel and pass it to Chris. He wipes it with his handkerchief, places it hard against one nostril, shuts off the other nostril with a finger and blows; the balloon expands immediately – just as easily as if he had blown it in his mouth.

“Let me try again,” I ask, holding out my hand.

He passes it to me and I swill the plastic thing in a glass of water, wipe it with kitchen roll, put it back in the glass for a second swill then wipe it again until the white plastic is thoroughly dry and burnished. Heartened by the fact that even my husband can blow up the balloon, I give it another go.

“If you can do it, and three-year-old children can do it, then I must be able,” I say.

I push the big round ball end against my dainty nostril, shut my right nostril with a finger against it, and I blow… to no avail – the white balloon with Otovent printed on it hangs loosely below my line of sight; I fancy it must look somewhat limp and pathetic.

“I wonder if they’ll take it back?” I conjecture.

“Not likely,” answers Roland, looking at me with the piece of plastic still up my nose and the limp balloon hanging down over my chin.

“Guess not,” I agree and we all laugh.

“I’d better give it another go,” I say, “or Mum will have wasted nearly a tenner!”

“Take some deep breaths,” suggests Chris.

So I take three deep breaths. The men are watching me intently and I want to burst out laughing. They notice my urge to laugh and they try to stifle their own, not dissimilar, urges. I take some more deep breaths, push the ball of the device higher into my nostril and blow with all my might. My ears crackle and pop and the balloon expands to the size of a grapefruit.

“I can hear!” I scream (I’m so used to shouting).

It was an Eddie Murphy moment – like his character in the movie “Trading Places”, when the he is pretending to be an amputee and the police lift him from his trolley to reveal his legs. “I have legs!” he exclaims.

Three days on I can still hear thanks to “Otovent” and, if anyone has a glue-ear I’d be happy to lend my nostril device to you – only two users!

There’s no doubt about, the River Beach at Teignmouth is picturesque and charming. I love the towels blowing in the breeze, the Victorian gang plank on wheels, the boats on the beach, the children playing on the sand …

Sophia, one of my gorgeous nieces, turned six today, not that I remembered (if only someone would remind me…); nevertheless, by sheer chance Chris, Roland and I happened to be there at Mary’s place at the time of the party and we had a lovely time. As you will note from the party shots, there isn’t a plain one amongst us…

Earlier today at Trago Mills (where nearly everybody is quackers)…

Thanks yet again to Geoff for providing me with another particularly funny joke.

My niece’s boyfriend, Javier, came around last night with a freshly caught bass for our dinner. There was much discussion on the best way to cook the fish and everyone (apart from me) thought we should salt it, add butter and lemon, wrap in foil and pop it into the oven; personally, left to my own devices, I would have filleted it and covered it in batter or egg and breadcrumbs before deep-frying. Nevertheless, I went with the flow and put it in the oven.

After twenty minutes or so in the hot oven the fish had become soft and tender, so tender that when I unwrapped it from the foil and attempted to move the fish from the baking tin to an oval plate… it’s head fell off! A few moments later I had managed to re-attach the missing head (with its eyes cooked white) and no-one but me would be the wiser.

At the table, I chiselled out a small portion only for myself, and hoped that nobody would notice.

“You’re not having much!” everyone exclaimed together (apart from my young nephew).

James understood. He had already claimed to be “All fished out” and was happy to have a couple of small baked potatoes with cheese and tinned tuna (so much more appetising without eyes and skin!).

The first mouthful, complete with two bones, was quite enough for me and, when no-one was looking, I moved the rest onto Chris’s plate.

The bass was a great success – everyone (almost) loved it – and James and I thoroughly enjoyed our potatoes and salad. And if you’re wondering what this blog post has to do with socks… just look at the photographs and you’ll comprehend. Shh, please don’t let on to Roland that I’ve used this sneaky shot of him in socks and sandals.