It was pretty hot after lunch today. The clouds had cleared and the sun was beating down outside. I felt thirsty and went to the special drinks fridge in the garage to get a zero calorie Coke (yes, I’m dieting again, as usual – nothing much to report yet but I live in hope); well I was walking back through the garage to get to the side door when I noticed, for the first time, a cabinet on the wall, which had the name of a pub on it. I was intrigued. “Could there be a dart board enclosed behind those small doors?” I wondered. And there was.

Feeling rather sporty nowadays, after my glorious introduction to cloud-shooting the other day (and yesterday – another arrow in the bucket! But it bounced back out, honestly!) I thought I might try my hand at darts too. There was a blue line on the concrete, which I gathered meant that that was the correct distance for serious gamesters.

At last, after a great deal of trying, unsuccessfully, to fit my size 10 feet (Australian sizing) in the three inches of space between my car and the blue line, I decided that it was not quite the thing to throw darts when on tiptoes. I had to allow myself the advantage of three extra inches over the blue line. Aided by a big gulp of slimming Coke, I composed myself – it felt good to have the can of drink at hand and I could quite understand why darts players are usually armed with a pint of beer (authentic professionals do not worry about slimming, perhaps because added weight gives stability).

So, eventually, I threw the first dart with great force and it hit the board sideways and fell straight down onto the concrete. The second dart dangled by its end for a tantalising few moments before joining the other on the floor. The third fluked a triple nineteen. Bolstered with renewed confidence, I retrieved the darts and tried again. This time I hit a bullseye first off, as you can see from the photograph (no trick photography or cheating), but I soon got bored – no fun playing on your own -and I went cycling instead. My bike, seemingly with a will of its own, sent me in the the direction of the Hyperdome where it is impossible to be bored and I bought another hat for Chris, in case he doesn’t like the other one.

What of work? “Tomorrow is another day…”

Some puns forwarded by my brother, Robert. Well, we all need some pun in life!

         A man’s home is his castle, in a manor of speaking.

Dijon vu – the same mustard as before.

Practice safe eating – always use condiments.

Shotgun wedding – a case of wife or death.

A man needs a mistress just to break the monogamy.

A hangover is the wrath of grapes.

Dancing cheek-to-cheek is really a form of floor play.

Does the name Pavlov ring a bell?

Condoms should be used on every conceivable occasion.

Reading while sunbathing makes you well red.

When two egotists meet, it’s an I for an I.

A bicycle can’t stand on its own because it is two tired.

What’s the definition of a will?
(It’s a dead give away.)

Time flies like an arrow. Fruit flies like a banana.

In democracy your vote counts. In feudalism your count votes.

She was engaged to a boyfriend with a wooden leg but broke it off.

A chicken crossing the road is poultry in motion.

If you don’t pay your exorcist, You get repossessed.

With her marriage, she got a new name and a dress.

The man who fell into an upholstery machine is fully recovered.

You feel stuck with your debt if you can’t budge it.

Every calendar’s days are numbered.

A lot of money is tainted – Taint yours and taint mine.

A boiled egg in the morning is hard to beat.

He had a photographic memory that was never developed.

A midget fortune-teller who escapes from prison is a small medium at large.

Once you’ve seen one shopping centre, you’ve seen a mall.

Bakers trade bread recipes on a knead-to-know basis.

Santa’s helpers are subordinate clauses.

Acupuncture is a jab well done.

“What would you like to do?” Roland asks me. (He is my old boyfriend from years ago – now just a dear friend.)

It is gone four in the afternoon and I have called in on my way home from visiting Ellie at her horse farm (see my blog post entitled “Talking Horse”). Now I am not really one for just sitting about doing nothing, so if a good friend asks me what I would like to do I usually answer honestly.

“Honestly?” I look at him with an expression that says I am hankering to do something more exciting than to sit around having a drink, and I have had enough chit chat, considering I have spent the day talking horse ( not hoarse, of course, of course, of course…).

“I think I know what you want,” he shakes his head but he means yes, “but it’s a bit of an effort….”

“What about using the small one? Won’t that do?”

“Come on then,” he beckons me outside. (I do not need to twist his arm too much because he is very soft-hearted.)

We walk over to the shed and I help him to bring out the special square resin target (with a heart, lungs and liver line- printed in the middle), the smaller bow, a quiver and nine arrows, some of which are different lengths and weights. We normally use the life-size resin deer but I am happy to use any target because I just love archery.

Funnily enough, I find that I miss the resin deer; after all, it is more rewarding to lodge an arrow in a  fake deer’s slender ankle or pretty ear than to hit a line drawing of a lung on a box. It seems that we both feel the same way.

“I’m going to show you a trick now,” Roly announces as he brings out two white plastic paint buckets from the shed and arranges them thirty metres or so from our stick which marks the spot to stand.

He holds the bow and arrow horizontally and aims the arrow up into the sky in the direction of one of the buckets.The idea is to send the arrow at the perfect trajectory to enable it to rise extremely high whilst at the same time progressing forwards to its target, the white bucket. You have to take into account the wind and the height reached. Roland sends off every arrow, soaring very beautifully and landing like slalom poles around the buckets, but not in them.

“I’ve never been able to do it,” he admits, “Of course, it is incredibly hard to achieve, especially with all the variables, like the wind changes, the differences between one type of arrow and another, and the dual considerations of height and distance. I don’t know what the probability of getting an arrow into bucket would be, but it’s not very likely. Let’s see who can get nearest the bucket”.

It is my turn. I take to this cloud shooting lark like a duck to water. I am a tad over-zestful and send one or two arrows precariously close to the neighbour’s property but all is well, the neighbours are taking the wise precaution of staying indoors. One of my arrows falls only twelve hundred centimetres wide of the mark – Roland’s best was not dissimilar – and I am thrilled.

Several goes later, we have collected my friend’s arrows (all wide of their marks) and we are walking back to the starting place stick when I suddenly have a premonition…

“Next time I shall land one in the bucket!”I call out.

Roland laughs.

The first two arrows are the long wooden arrows; I get carried away with the pleasant feeling of my muscles pulling against the string of the bow, and winning; thus both arrows go too far and drop into the boughs of a bordering gum tree. Chastened by the experience, I send the next three carbon-fibre arrows at acute angles upwards (almost straight up) and the arrows drop elegantly but very short of the buckets.

Arrow number six is one of the stumpy little gold ones with red and black flights that really need renewing. I aim, make allowances for a light breeze coming from the right and ping the arrow into the air. It feels good as it leaves my fingers. It looks good as propels from the bow. The arrow reaches its apogee and begins the descent; it gathers speed as it drops… right into the bucket! I am overwhelmed with joy, and would like to scream and jump up and down; I look at Roland’s face of disbelief and his theatrical walk away; and I restrain my natural urges.

“I told you I would do it!” I say modestly.

“You said you would do it,” he agrees, “It’s remarkable, unheard of, and not a fluke, but let’s not  talk about it ever again.”

And here are the photographs.

*By the way, cloud shooting is a dangerous sport. Do not try this at home. My little arrow came down with a force that sent it through the bottom of the bucket and into the earth beneath – think what it could do to a person. It should not be attempted without the supervision of a trained archer (like Roland), and a huge block of isolated land.

I don’t know why I chose that title except for the fact that it has a “Hello” in it; several hellos might have been more apt, or “The Importance of Saying Hello” (possibly, though it’s not catchy), but I like the Lionel Richie song, and now you know that it isn’t quite right it may as well stay.

My doorbell rang this lunchtime. From behind the screen-door I could see my next-door neighbour, Wendy, standing at my gate.

“Hello,” she began, “you must think I’m terrible for not calling on you before but I have been ill.”

We were looking at each other through the prison-like bars of the gate so I pressed the remote button and one side of the gate glided back smoothly and serenely.We were still talking through the bars because it was the other side that had slid back; of course, I walked through and joined Wendy on the pavement.

“I’m sorry, I would invite you in but I’m getting ready to go cycling and swimming,” I answered.

Nevertheless, we chatted for several minutes outside.

Two hours later I was riding back from a blissful solitary swim at the house of my friend’s daughters when I noticed a young mother pushing her toddler in a buggy while an older child of about four was straggling behind. I smiled a greeting but did not speak.

“Hello!” called out the baby.

“Hello,” I replied, laughing with surprise.

“Hello!” called out the four-year-old.

“Hello!” I responded yet again and the mother and I laughed.

Heartened by the friendliness of the folk around these parts, I said “Hello” to the “Goth” schoolgirl who sat in a bus-stop.

“Hello,” she said, happily, yet quite surprised, as she ran her fingers through her boyfriend’s hair (he was on the phone).

At the beginning of Lakeland Court (my street) I recognised the car of Richard, the handsome Pilot. He saw me, too, and we slowed down to mouth the word, “Hello”, and wave vigorously.

A little farther up the road two girls came whizzing down on their skate boards. I thought one of the girls looked like Jade, Richard’s daughter. I didn’t have my distance glasses on so I wasn’t sure.

“Is it jade?” I asked as they approached, but by then I could see that it wasn’t.

“Hello,” I said anyway.

The girls beamed and their fair hair shone in the afternoon sunshine – they were a picture of health and innocent youth.

“Hello,” they called back (I had passed them by now).

I kept going to my house at the end of the road and I was smiling to myself.

Sorry, but you will have to wait another day to read about about my exciting exploits as a cloud shooter.

Happily for our house, just above the railway line and seawall at Dawlish, the storms over the weekend were not as bad as predicted. Chris took photographs of the repair work in the sunshine. The huge crates in front of the breached wall contain tons of granite rocks.

Do you remember “Mister Ed”, the old American situation comedy show about the acerbic talking horse? (We loved it  when I was a child.) It starred the gelding palomino, Bamboo Harvester, Allan Lane (the voice of Mister Ed), and Alan Young who played the architect owner… Well, I’m not going to discuss that, except in passing because you may have started to get excited thinking that I was going to write about Mr. Ed. Sorry to disappoint. In truth, I really want to talk horse, or rather, I would like to tell you about some of the horse-talk that I was party to yesterday during my visit to Jimboomba (love that name). Naturally, one is bound to have a bit of horse-talk when one calls on people whose living it is to train horses and riders, even when your own experience of horses was limited to Sunday treats as a child – riding old nags that used to wander off into the bush at will and, with the help of a sharp twig, cantered only on the way back to the stables (a gallop was out of the question, and they used to turn around and nip our legs!)

So there I was, with cherubic baby Rowan in my arms, out on the verandah; my friend’s daughter, Ellie, and her four-year-old, Kai, were there too. We were about to depart for the training paddocks in Logan Village when an attractive woman, dressed in a St Tropez-style white blouse over Levi jeans, turned up to book a lesson and have a horse chat with Ellie. I sensed they would not be too interested to hear about my ordeals with the bad-tempered old nags at Gumdale years ago, so I kept quiet, smiled occasionally, and listened. From time to time my mind wandered… but sometimes my ears pricked up.

“So how much did she get for Roger?” asked Julie-Ann (in the baseball cap and nice white blouse).

“About thirty, I think,” answered Ellie.

“Thirty? That seems alot for Roger,” Julie-Ann’s eyebrows furrowed.

Thirty dollars sounded quiet cheap for a horse to me.

“It might have been less – it could have been fifteen…” Ellie conceded.

“Blimey!” I though to myself.

“Are you talking thousands?” I asked them, incredulously.

They smiled their answer back at me.

“Well how much is a normal horse?”

“Anything,” said Ellie, “from a couple of hundred – the price for horse meat – to a few thousand, or thirty thousand – even millions!”

“Horse meat?” I thought of the horse meat scandal back in England.

“I know it sounds terrible,and I’m a vegetarian, but dogs have got to eat too,” Ellie felt uncomfortable.

We all looked at her dog called Bailey. He was well-fed. I turned cuddly baby Rowan over on my lap so he could sleep safely with his arms, legs and head free, and I patted his bottom (I remembered that my Mum used to do this with Henry and Robert… and all of us, probably). I was thinking nice thoughts about babies when the horse-talk conversation took precedence again.

“Grant is so much better educated than Clara,” Julie-Ann quipped.

“It happens,” said my friend’s daughter knowingly.

“When she asks him to do things he just looks at her as if to say, ‘I can’t be bothered – you’re way beneath me’. She’ll have to get rid of him,” added Julie-Ann.

“What’s he worth?” asked Ellie.

“I don’t know. What do you think? Thirty thousand?”

Like an alien actress, I nodded. I was glad the answer wasn’t “Two hundred dollars”.

And now for the lyrics to Mister Ed, courtesy of the show’s archives.

Hello, I'm Mister Ed 

A horse is a horse, of course of course, 
and no one can talk to a horse of course, 
that is of course, unless the horse, 
Is the famous Mister Ed! 

Go right to the source and ask the horse. 
He'll give you the answer that you'll endorse. 
He's always on a steady course. 
Talk to Mister Ed.

People yak-it-ti-yak a streak 
and waste your time of day, 
but Mister Ed will never speak, 
unless he has something to say... 

A horse is a horse, of course of course, 
And this one will talk 'til his voice is hoarse. 
You never heard of a talking horse? 
Well, listen to this... 

I am Mister Ed

Today I went to Jimboomba! Don’t you just love that name? It has to be Australia – doesn’t it? Perhaps I like it particularly because my son is called Jim, although he prefers to be called James (but only by strangers). Talking of strangers, I am no stranger to Jimboomba; in fact, my sister, Mary, and I spent a week there last year, though not at the same place I visited this morning. We found it a little too bushy and snake-ridden for our liking as a holiday destination but it is a great place for a day trip, especially if you love horses or you enjoy the wide open spaces without having to travel too far from civilization.

Oddly enough, my doctor and his wife (back home in England), for whom I painted the mural inside the American “Air Streak” caravan last spring, have a daughter with a young family who live in Jimboomba; and today I delivered some presents from Mum and Dad. I had thought I would stay an hour or less but I was made so welcome that I spent most of the day with them – and even went to the equestrian training paddocks where Ellie’s partner, Anthony (pronounced with the “h” – as we Aussies tend to do), was busy training riders and horses how to jump fences.

To be honest with you, I am not really much of a horsewoman (or at all really); nevertheless, I tried to show a bit of interest in the horse talk, and there was plenty of it. Hence, now rather tired, I will let the photographs speak for themselves…

I would like to tell you about something remarkable called “Cloud Shooting”, but you will have to wait until tomorrow because I am going to bed.

I have to get ready to go to Jimboomba (delivering presents down on the stud farm – all will be revealed later) so this morning I shall leave you with an email and photos from Chris, our lovely man with the news updates in Dawlish…

Darling, thought you might like to see the scene down below as it
develops – high tide this afternoon, rough, but not terrible; work seems
to have been suspended for a few hours,  guess to let the tide retreat a
bit.  You can see the sea’s still getting through the gap, but I believe
they’ve done their concreting, so there’s now a little more protection
for the house.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

What a relief! By the way, did you know that David Cameron (our English Prime Minister) visited Dawlish two days ago?

Perhaps you have never wondered what Australians talk about after dinner; or perchance you are Australian and already know that we sometimes like to have a bit of snake chit chat. Having finished our barbecue lunch, we were relaxing and chatting around the table; I don’t know who started the conversation but we were discussing our favoured subject of snakes. Incidentally, the we who comprised the small gathering on this occasion were my brothers, Bill and Henry, Henry’s girlfriend, Diane, and my old boyfriend, now just  good friend, Roland – my niece, Loretta, had left early to go on to another party..

“I’ve seen two snakes since I’ve been back,” I announced proudly (well, I was still alive).

Everybody looked suitably horrified and nodded to each other as if to say “She’s still alive though – well done to Sally!” Few people really like snakes, and certainly not in our family – not after a childhood in Gumdale.

“I used to have a recurring nightmare about snakes when we lived at Gumdale,” Bill said, “In my nightmare I was always backed up into a corner looking out – I thought it was safer to look outwards to see them coming for me – but they drilled through the walls behind me to get at me.”

Bill winced and we all winced with him, in sympathy.

“I had nightmares about snakes every night of my life until the age of ten when we moved to Wynnum,” I joined in, wincing, “Sometimes I lived in a tree-house in the jungle, like Tarzan, where I was safe but whenever I walked on the jungle floor bags of snakes would open up in front of me…”

“Why were you all so traumatised by snakes?” asked Diane, “I, too, grew up with snakes but I never had nightmares. Although my uncle nearly had a heart attack when he thought there was one in the thunder-box once, but it was just a bit of paper that had fallen against his back.”

Bill, Henry and I glanced at one another knowingly. Bill was about to answer when I beat him to it.

“Well, let me tell you about the time Mum was in the old sentry box toilet and there was a black snake coiled around the inside of the door knob…” I began excitedly.

“That was me in the toilet with the snake coiled around the door knob, not Mum,” Bill interjected, “And how do you think I managed to get out?”

He paused to heighten the suspense before telling us.

“I had to climb up and crawl out of a gap under the pitch of the roof.”

“And, you won’t remember, Henry, because you were younger, but Mum got Mr. Conelly to come over with his gun to shoot it,” I added (and Henry nodded vigorously to confirm his memory was as good as mine).

“No, it was Mr. Pigooli (not sure of the spelling but that’s how I always heard it – think he was Polish!),” Bill corrected me, “and…”

“Mr. Pigooli shot it then,” I asserted.

“No, you wouldn’t believe what he did – he grabbed a piece of fibro and threw it at the snake!”

“Did it kill it?” I asked stupidly (because fibro isn’t very heavy and it would have taken years for the snake to develop asbestosis).

“Of course not, and the worst of it was that the snake got away and went under the toilet box – I never wanted to go in the toilet again!”

Everybody laughed, even Roland, (who didn’t have any snake stories from his soft, English childhood), because we all knew that nobody ever really wanted to go in those nasty, smelly old thunder-box toilets.