Periodically, since I’ve had this new laptop I’ve had problems with missing letters -especially P and U – which has been quite annoying because my pet name for Chris is Possum and he often worries that I confuse him with Ossama (Bin Laden)! A nerd once told me how to fix it without going to System Restore and, once fixed, I promptly forgot the secret. Hence, having searched and found the solution, I am putting (it felt great to write that – so much more understandable than ‘tting’) it on my blog post for future reference.

No need to keep going to System Restore – just click on Fn-Shift-NumLk together. Hope it works for you too.

Now I must write to Ossama…

“Your mum loved the photograph of you and Jim as a little boy,” Chris told me over the phone last night. (Chris reads Mum my blog when he takes her shopping on Saturdays – he is such a wonderful son-in-law.)

“That’s good,” I replied.

“Yes, she said it reminded her of what a lovely little boy he was.” (Which is true but it’s nice to know that other people think the same.)

Perhaps feeling a touch lonely and nostalgic this morning, I opened a file of scanned photographs, the contents of which date back to times before digital photography was commonplace (although, interestingly, just now I was surprised  to find that the first digital camera was invented by Kodak engineers in 1975!).

First I looked through the early photographs and then my eyes fixed on a picture of my dad and my son; it was taken at my sister’s house one Christmas (you can see part of a bow of red ribbon in the background) when Dad was shrinking and Jim was a growing grammar school boy of fifteen. It wasn’t the best photograph of either of them – my father, who remained a handsome man into his old age, hated posing for photographs and his smile was forced, and Jim’s hair was untidy and his features still forming and sharpening – and yet, there was something about the image that brought me to tears. It could have been the likeness in their smiles, or the closeness which reminds me of their special bond. Perhaps it has something to do with the fact that Jim will be getting married next month and Dad cannot be there because he died nearly nine years ago.

Whilst down in Canberra recently, Sue, of Sue and Glenn fame (the couple for whom I am house-sitting at present), was caught on camera as she day-dreamed of becoming queen. Et Voilà! Her wish has come true.

I hope she dreamed of becoming Queen Victoria rather than Queen Elizabeth otherwise she might not be amused…

“You’re right, Sally, it is better than sex,” agreed Lita after her first go.

“I knew you would love it,” I said, pleased.

My sister-in-law and I may have been exaggerating slightly to make a point but that is the reaction you can expect to get once you have introduced people to cloud-shooting. In case you are new to my blog and haven’t heard of cloud-shooting before, it is the wonderful sport of shooting arrows up into the air so that they might return to earth hitting a target (in this instance, two buckets from a distance of thirty metres). The sport requires a great deal of skill and judgement, especially if your arrows are different lengths and weights (as were our’s), and there is a wind (which there was this afternoon) and you have to make allowances for drift.

“This could be addictive,” beamed Diane, the girlfriend of my brother Henry, as, with surprising strength, she pulled back another arrow  (the rest of us were taking cover under trees at the time).

Naturally, we were supervised and kept under control by the watchful – and sometimes fearful – eyes of our trained master-archer, Roland, who supplied the venue (one and a half acres of isolated garden), the weaponry and the lunch. As you can see in the photographs, it wasn’t necessary for Roland to instruct us to run for cover – we did that instinctively. On a serious note, it must be said that cloud-shooting is a dangerous sport – those arrows come down at a force strong enough to pierce the bottom of a plastic bucket (imagine what it could do to a skull) – so I would not recommend anyone to try this without the supervision of an expert. Better still, join an archery club.

And if you’re wondering if anyone managed to hit the target… the answer is yes! Maid Marian (formerly Lady Diane), after some rather frightening manoeuvres initially, soon became a dab-hand and landed an arrow in the bucket. Lita was next best and shot one of her arrows to within ten centimetres of the target. All the Robin Hoods and William Tells were highly chivalrous and cheered enthusiastically. I bet you thought I would say they were aquiver…

Happiness is a number of different things to Mason, as you can see from the photo’s. As for me, today I was simply happy to be with Mason and Hazel.

“Do you know where your name comes from?” I asked two-year old Hazel.

“No,” she smiled and looked at me with the expectation of finding out.

“Well, your name comes from a beautiful tree which produces delicious nuts,” I told her.

She seemed very pleased indeed. Hazel is a very smart two-year old.

“And do you know where Mason’s name comes from?” I asked.

Hazel shook her head and waited for the answer.

“A mason is a man, no a person – it could be a lady nowadays – who works with stone, cutting it or sculpting it. And there are other masons who are old men who wear funny aprons…”

Hazel and Mason both laughed, and so did I.

Now, of course, I’m not actually interested in the handsome pilot who lives virtually across the road from my current abode, after all I’m a happily married woman and he is a happily married handsome pilot, and he must be much younger than me… although that is really beside the point because, as I said, I’m not interested anyway for all the aforementioned reasons. We have spoken only the once, on the day I arrived, which was when Glenn and Sue were still here; but we have waved from our cars and respective driveways. I’ve often wondered if we would ever speak again as he is often up, up and away at work. Why did it have to be today of all days?

Well, I’m sure you will understand my predicament when I explain. Today, for the first time during my four weeks here, I decided to abandon the Stepford look of sartorial perfection, beauty and composure, which I normally adhere to – especially whilst doing the household chores – in favour of the more natural look… for lawn mowing.

“Who will see me?” I reasoned with myself, “And anyway, there are only a few housewives at home during the day and they won’t mind or even notice what I look like…”

So after my shower I left off make-up and I scraped my unkempt hair back into a ponytail; I put on a pair of my shortest shorts and wore only a bikini top above them – it was going to be hot work in the garden and I had a feeling I would get covered in grass cuttings and grass seeds so I reckoned that less was best. Just as I was about to go out and search for the mower in the shed there was a knock at the front door and a man’s voice called out.

“Hello?”

I couldn’t see who it was from where I was standing; I hoped beyond hope that it was just a postman with a parcel too big to fit in the letterbox. I considered, but thought better of, pretending not to be home as the open front gate and kitchen door were a bit of a give-away. No, I had to brazen it out, but not at the front door, I went to the side door by the kitchen…

“Hello Sally!” the handsome pilot had moved across and stood the other side of the screen door and lifted his sunglasses to reveal his lovely eyes.

“I bet he has twenty-twenty vision,” I thought to myself.

“Sorry, I haven’t got any make-up on and I’m dressed like this. I’m about to do the mowing,” I explained.

“You look alright,” he said, “I’ve just come to move the car.”

I opened the screen door a tad, in pretence of being casual about my new look, and we chatted about the gorgeous children belonging to the handsome pilot. At last he wanted to check and see if the car was still running and I moseyed over with him (I put my hand on my hip in order to look relaxed and at ease). The engine wouldn’t start.

“I’ll just nip home and bring something to get it started,” he said.

“Not the usual jump-leads,” I noted to myself and wondered what modern device had been invented since last we used jump-leads at home (without actually speaking aloud).

This was my opportunity to dash inside and put on a top to hide my modesty, and while I was about it I also brushed my hair and put on some eye-liner. Feeling much more myself, I walked out of the bathroom just in time to hear Richard calling through the screen door:

“I’ve got it started so I’ll be off. Thanks Sally!”

I went to the door and waved goodbye as he pulled into his drive (my open-plan lounge-room is very long and his house is very close). I returned inside, cast off my pretty top, and proceeded to get a great tan while I did the mowing.

Out cycling slightly farther afield two days ago I came across these impressive murals painted on a long brick wall. I’m sorry I can’t tell the names of the different types of birds.

Next time I might tell you about an English mural, one of mine, that suffered in the storms recently…

This afternoon I stood outside, on the opposite side of the road to my old home, and had a few tears. It wasn’t either of my old family homes at Gumdale or Wynnum where I spent my childhood; it was my home during my mid-twenties when I had returned to Australia with my darling little son, James. At that time I had been looking for my future – our future – but was unsure as to whether or not I had found it… and we moved on after a very happy year at Parker Street.

I had no idea that Parker Street was so close to my present local Hyperdome shopping mall – it had not been built when I lived there – and it came as quite a surprise to realise, after checking on Google Earth, that my old home was only around two kilometres farther on.  It was a bit “uphill and down-dale” (good exercise as I was cycling) and I hardly recognised any streets because the formerly new houses, which I had been accustomed to were now mature (in Australian terms) and set in established gardens.

A large poinciana tree, afire with vermilion red blooms, and not even a sapling when I lived there, now towers over my old house at number three. The front lawn has been dispensed with in favour of cement – for the trailer, car and caravan – and the car-port area is now built in; and a green fence acts as a mighty girdle to hem in the tree, the house and forms of transport all wedged in behind the high metal railings. In my day it was all open and grassed, and people could come and go at liberty. We could see the neighbours and they could see us… probably dancing… We had no money but we danced a lot.

It’s always funny going back to old homes – isn’t it? We move on and come back, perhaps to retrieve a forgotten memory of something that helped to form what we have become. I had to come home before it got dark (you know I get a little scared travelling on my own  in the dark!) but I shall go back soon and look for James’ old primary school; and I might have a few more tears when I remember the times I held his hand as I walked him to school… He will be getting married two days after my return to England in April.

I wonder if Chris will remember me? It seems that I have been away so long…

Thanks once again to my funny kid brother, Robert, who, as a small child, once sent a toy aeroplane through our mother’s thick hair and announced with glee, “An aeroplane going through the bush!”

The “Funnies”

Going out with rod is always fun… even though some might not regard him as a very good catch!