As much as I would love to be a good Samaritan at all times, I confess that yesterday, I was not. Was I mean or was I sensible? I don’t know.

To cut a long story short, I had declined my Coochiemudlo Island friends’ invitation to stay on for a roast dinner around six-thirty at The Kiosk; although tempted, I decided it would be better to leave in the mid-afternoon and drive home in the light.

But that was hours before. I had long since said my good-byes to my friends, and to some other would-be ferry passengers who had been waiting, like me, unaware that the ferry could not run at low tide. I found myself still there at five-thirty, not on the jetty, but alone on the beach to the right, and I was studying the water. Well, I was almost alone – there was a thin man in a pink shirt and white hat, and he had been sitting on the same big log under a tree higher up on the beach since before I had come along. The man had seemed absorbed in something on his lap and I barely took any notice of him. I had positioned myself close to the seashore that I might watch the tide intently.

“Is the tide still going out?” I wondered.

I fixed my eyes on a puddle in the shape of a map of Australia (how apt) and figured that if the tide was coming in it would soon deluge the puddle. As I watched the ebbing waves lap the large clumps of seaweed that held the many little elliptical pools, including my map of Australia, I regarded myself as a captive on the island and I suddenly felt homesick for another, much larger island which I now call home, on the other side of the world. It hit me that I was a lonely alien. My thoughts turned to Chris. He would have loved to be with me on that beach under the golden skies of the setting sun; with him, I would not have worried about the onset of nightfall and the fact that the ferry would not run again until the tide had turned and come in sufficiently for the water to reach the jetty steps – as it was, the bottom step hung in the air a foot above the water. With Chris I would not have felt so isolated by the loss of my mobile phone now that the battery had given up the ghost completely; even my camera had run out in the same manner and I felt somehow bereft and incommunicado.

At last a wave flooded Australia and turned it into Lake Ontario. Walking back up the beach towards The Kiosk (where I thought I might meet up with my friends after all) I nodded to the man in the pink shirt.

“You must be waiting for the ferry,” I observed with a look of resignation.

I was still walking, not really expecting a conversation with the loner, when he jumped up suddenly from his perch and I realised, to my great surprise, that he was a woman – at least, she had breasts… or she appeared to have breasts. She was as thin as a rake but she could not be described as petite – not at around six-feet tall. Her dark hair was short beneath her white hat and her skin was swarthy and free from make-up; her jaw and cheeks were angular – her nose was thin and hooked; her eye-sockets were deep and dark-rimmed, and her brown eyes darted as she spoke. She spoke in a deep voice without any resonance, like one of those voices that has died from a lifetime of shouting and smoking… but she liked me – I could tell. She moved closer and closer.

“Is someone picking you up on the other side,” she asked.

“No, I have a car,” I replied, taking a step backwards.

“I live down on the Gold Coast,” she continued, moving backwards with me, “I was staying with friends overnight but one night is enough!”

“Sorry,” I said, “but I’m not going anywhere near the Gold Coast.”

“Oh, of course not… I shall catch the train – the service is good – and I’ll catch a bus to Cleveland, where I can get the train…”

“I’m not going to Cleveland either, sorry,” I got in quickly and turned to make it clear that I was going to move on. “Well, I think I shall join my friends at The Kiosk for dinner.”

It was seven-thirty and we friends had finished dinner when Hayley, who was facing the sea, noticed the lights of the ferry as it pulled in beside the jetty. I hurriedly kissed the girls and ran to meet my only means of transport off the island. I was the last person in the queue apart from a teenager who hung back because she was speaking on her mobile phone; I gestured to her to go on because she was ahead of me in the queue.

“Oh, I was away with the fairies,” she said, stepping in line.

“Not away with the ferries?” I joked.

“No, I was definitely off with the fairies!” the girl said with determination and a lack of humour.

There were fewer people than I expected on the ferry and no sign of the tall woman in the pink shirt, or the ‘love-birds’ I had encountered during the first hour of my long wait for the ferry. Somehow, perhaps during the lively conversation over dinner, I had missed the arrival of the ferry for its first pick-up. It didn’t matter to me. Actually, I was glad because I had been dreading further conversations with the odd woman who had made me feel so uncomfortable.

In six minutes the ferry drew in to Victoria Point and I jumped off first… There under the lamp at the end of the jetty was the now familiar figure of a tall thin person in a pink shirt and white hat, and she didn’t look very happy; in fact she looked very angry with a reproachful expression (aimed at me) on her sharp face and with her arms crossed over her chest.

“I hope you had a nice dinner with your friends,” she said very pointedly (and meaning the opposite) like a jilted lover. “I missed the bus and now I have to go back to the island!”

“Oh, so sorry,” I answered, still walking.

“You just run along home,” she jibed.

I didn’t run at that point but I power-walked to the road end of the jetty; I broke into a run going up the poorly lit hill and jogged the similarly poorly lit half kilometre to the car. I did not look back to see if I was being followed (I was trying to play it cool). I plipped the car with the key, opened the door, fumbled with the key in the ignition and zoomed off. After a mile or so I pulled in to set my “Sat Nav” for home. It took me on a very dark, lonely, frightening  and extremely circuitous route… but no, I said I would cut a long story short.

Another joke comes your way from my little brother, Roberto, who was always a funny child…

This morning I awoke early and made for Victoria Point where the ferry leaves for Coochiemudlo, a beautiful little island just off the coast at Redland Bay. I befriended a family moving back to the island and they invited me to stow away in one of their vehicles going over on the barge, thus I was happy to have a free passage whilst the family were happy because they had more for their money, and the ferrymen were happy in their ignorance because they had already made $120 out of one family (plus one stowaway).

Soon I met my gorgeous friend Lee, who had organised an island “Clean Up Sunday”, but I didn’t have to work because it was my Funday Sunday. We went to a quirky property with quirky houses and quirky railway carriages painted pink and purple, where even the animals are quirky; the small dog liked to ride on the back of a chubby donkey that was clearly broody over a cream-coloured kitten; and the kitten loved the donkey who took care not to stand on the kitten as she napped in the shade created by a fat donkey tummy; the blue tabby cat glowed against a background of blue; and guinea pigs and baby chicks came out to say hello from their pink and purple doll houses. And all the animals and all the people in the vicinity had something in common (apart from being quirky) – they all loved Hayley, who is somewhat quirky herself, as you may detect from her photograph…

Tomorrow I might tell you about my weird departure (even stranger than my means of arrival!) from the island…

That is certainly true of my Friday’s Child, little Mason. He’s a darling and quite comfortable with me now – today he even preferred to come to me rather than his granddad (a first!).

As you will see from the photographs, my Friday boy came shopping with me before going to visit my niece and her little girl. In “Big W”, as usual I was attracted towards the bra department (ever on the search for the perfect bra) and when I handed Mason a bra to hold onto for me while I looked at others, he did what all little boys do – he tried the bra on his head! Very funny Mason!

Now, at the end of my day, I am really tired. I feel a bit like the wife of a husband who comes home from work and asks, “What have you been doing all day?” And, like that fictional wife, I would have to answer that I know it doesn’t look like I have done anything but I have been on the go all day long! Why? Because everything takes three times longer to do when you have a baby in tow. Perhaps it is something to do with all the wiping of hands and wiping up of floors and other surfaces; strapping in, then unstrapping, and trying to poke long stiff legs into seemingly under-sized leg holes in swings, high-chairs and shopping trolleys; trying to do everything you can do one-handed with a heavy tot on one hip; and waiting until the child sleeps before you can do the chores that require two hands…

But I am not complaining, we had a lovely day and I enjoyed every minute. I was reminded of earlier days when I was a young mum – oh, such happy times…

Monday’s Child

Monday’s child is fair of face,
Tuesday’s child is full of grace,
Wednesday’s child is full of woe,
Thursday’s child has far to go,
Friday’s child is loving and giving,
Saturday’s child works hard for a living,
But the child who is born on the Sabbath day,
Is lucky and happy and good and gay.

And during little Mason’s nap I have taken a few photographs.

Today I re-visited Stones Corner, a part of Brisbane which was my favourite haunt two years ago when I was house-sitting three kilometres up the road. Stones Corner has a Bohemian atmosphere not dissimilar to the West End of old Brisbane before the smartening up operations (now a long time ago). Interestingly, the shoe shop called “The Noticed Man” used to be called “Shoes for the Stylish Man” – “noticed” must be the new “stylish”!

Have no fear, I would not be so trite as to blog about my thoughts on what to have for breakfast (a slimmer’s egg, bacon and tomato – no toast – if you’re interested); but no, that isn’t what I particularly want to impart this morning. Actually, after the phone conversation with my lovely husband Chris, and after I had started grilling the rasher of bacon and tomato, for some weird reason I began to think about God and death; perhaps that’s a normal thing to do – it seems strange to me now. I don’t even know what triggered my line of thought. I wasn’t thinking about my own death; in fact, I was thinking about an acquaintance I had not seen for several years and met again almost immediately prior to my departure for Australia…

We met in my doctor’s surgery as I was leaving and she was going in. I hardly recognised Jeanette. Formerly a good looking woman with high colour, a sparkle in the eyes and an excellent figure, she was now ashen, thin as a rake and had a desperate look in her sunken dark eyes. She wore a woolly hat like a huge tea cosy as if to keep in every skerrick of heat and to deter the slightest puff of wind that might make her fall over had she not been supported by her two daughters at either side of her; it was the hat that I had noticed at first glance upon re-entering the waiting room, and then the sad eyes beneath the hat, and the look of recognition that beckoned me towards her.

“You look ill, Jeanette,” I said softly to lesson the truth.

She nodded her assent.

“At least I have my girls with me,” she said, and I was reminded that her handsome younger second husband had left her quite a few years ago and she was probably without a third.

I hugged her and hoped that any healing power in my hands might help her.

“I’ll pray for you,” I whispered in her ear as I kissed her good-bye.

I knew it sounded an odd thing to say, especially as I’m not a religious person.

“Thank you,” Jeanette replied. (She seemed not to mind my manner of expression.)

In the last two months I have thought about Jeanette quite often, and prayed for her in my way – hoped there is a God and asked for her return to good health – but I don’t know how she is. We are just acquaintances and I don’t even know her surname.

Do you sometimes think about people you used to see regularly, and suddenly realise that you haven’t seen them for ages, and then wonder what happened to them? Usually we think the worst – don’t we? Well, mostly we are justified but sometimes, happily, there are surprising outcomes…

The second last time I saw Nicole, a friendly acquaintance whose portrait I painted in the days before I was married to Chris, she was on a stretcher being taken in to the local hospital. She looked like death and I then I didn’t see her around any more. All these years since I have worried that the poor girl had passed away. Imagine my delight last November when, having just attended my niece’s wedding, I bumped into Nicole walking through the churchyard. The pretty blonde was as pleased to see me as I was to see her and we embraced, kissed and laughed about my concern over her. What a happy wedding day that was.

I hope and pray (even though I’m not really very religious) that when I return to dear old Dawlish I will bump into Jeanette in the street one day and I will be sure to rib her about that terrible old hat she wore at the surgery when she was under the weather…

Well, it wasn’t exactly the middle of nowhere, but it seemed like it because I was on my bike and it was getting dark. Of course you can’t take a bike on the motorway so I was looking for the road I had taken earlier, going in the opposite direction (when it was light and I could see), which would have led me to the red bridge from where I would have recognised where I was. As it happened, I didn’t have a clue and night was falling fast.

I had taken a wrong turn at one of the roundabouts, went two miles in the wrong direction (and back again), had the wrong directions given to me by four different people (people will tell you anything when you approach them in their cars stopped at red lights!) and from then on I had been cycling hither and thither, hoping to meet someone who could give me the right directions. There weren’t many folk walking around, or at all actually – I wasn’t in a very popular spot. At last I had noticed three teenage Maori boys but, just as I was about to ask them the way, a car pulled up on the opposite side of the road and the lads rushed over to it and piled in. I followed them. It is amazing how they fitted into the car as it was filled already with similar lads; and the driver, who was older, looked at me daggers as I approached. Maybe at first he thought I was an undercover policewoman posing as a cyclist but I disarmed him with my smile and an innocent plea for help:

“Excuse me,” I said in my best English accent (to let him know that I wasn’t an undercover policewoman), “but I wonder if you can help me, I’m looking for the non-motorway way to Drew’s Road at Loganholme?”

The swarthy driver, who reminded me of a Maori version of “Huggy Bear” from the American cop show “Starsky and Hutch”, visibly let down his guard – he even smiled back at me and tried to assist.

” Yeah well, you see that graveyard over there,” he pointed, “you gotta get past that.”

“To the red bridge?”

“Yeah, that’s right. It’s past there somewhere. Just go there and follow the graveyard. That’s right isn’t it?” he turned to the many big lads in the back seat and they all nodded.

I thanked them all and headed for the graveyard with high hopes although the light was fading…

Perhaps, after all, it had not been such a good idea to decide to take a very long cycle ride into unknown territory in the mid-afternoon, but I had been in all day long and I had thought that a good ride would help me to get slim before the sixth of April (when my son and his fiancée are going to be married). Certainly, upon reflection, I should have accepted Roland’s offer of a lift back home, which I refused because I was sure I could make it back before dark, and because I wanted to use up more calories. In fact, after a cold drink and half an hour’s rest I had felt quite recovered and ready for the long journey homeward bound.

“What about that really big hill?” Roland queried.

I laughed and said I would be fine.

It is funny how I hadn’t noticed that long steep hill as I was coming down it!

So it was nearly dark and I was three-quarters the way home, outside Beenleigh Ambulance Station (somewhere near the Pacific Highway and not actually in Beenleigh); and the mosquitoes were having a feeding frenzy on my bare arms and legs; and a white ute had stopped ominously and his warning lights flashed so I crossed over and stood under the street lamp; and another car pulled up and flashed his warning lights too and I had a memory of the creepy Australian film “Wolf Creek”, about a murderer who befriended travellers in distress…

I reached for my mobile phone.

“Roland, I’m sorry but I’m lost…” I exhorted.

He must have come to the rescue because today, in spite of all the heat, I made him loads of cakes as a thank you. None for me, I’m dieting. And if you’re wondering… yes, I lost over a kilo. Incidentally, I went cycling again today, this time just locally and – would you believe it? – I got lost again!

A young Ontario woman was so depressed that she decided to end her life by throwing herself into the lake, but just before she could throw herself from the docks, a handsome young man stopped her.

“You have so much to live for,” said the man. “I’m a sailor, and we are off to Italy tomorrow. I can stow you away on my ship. I’ll take care of you, bring you food every day, and keep you happy.”

With nothing to lose, combined with the fact that she had always wanted to go to Italy, the woman accepted. That night the sailor brought her aboard and hid her in a small but comfortable compartment in the hold. From then on, every night he would bring her three sandwiches, a bottle of red wine, and make love to her until dawn. Three weeks later she was discovered by the captain during a routine inspection.

“What are you doing here?” asked the captain.

“I have an arrangement with one of the sailors,” she replied. “He brings me food and I get a free trip to Italy .”

“I see,” the captain says.

Her conscience got the best of her and she added, “Plus, I have to admit, he’s been screwing me.”

“He certainly has,” replied the captain, “this is the Toronto Island Ferry!

With thanks to Cheryl for sending this to me…