It was a little overcast when I set out on my bicycle this morning, there was even a shower as I closed the gates (electronically!) on my new abode; of course, it was nothing like the weather they have been having in England ever since I left (Chris told me yesterday that the spume from the recent – bigger than ever – waves, aided by ninety mile an hour winds, have been hitting our bay windows, approximately one hundred feet above sea level!). As for me, I just got a bit damp from a short cloudburst – no need for me to turn back – and I was dry by the time I reached my destination.

Actually, it would have been of no consequence to me whether or not I was wet or dry because my journey’s end was a swimming pool. The owners, daughters of my old friend Roland, were at work…

“Just let yourself in by the side gate, any time,” they had invited.

I hope they really meant it because that is exactly what I did. Their house is not far from their Aunty and Uncle’s (my place!), but it is at the top of the only hill to speak of around here, so I was hot upon arrival and eager to melt into the pool. A cursory check of the doors informed me that nobody was at home and the pool was to be for my pleasure alone – perfect. No neighbours were in evidence and the sun came out for me – bliss! Well, what can you expect of a mermaid?

“Come and I’ll show you how to work the dishwasher,” Sue said.

(This was last night, before the big day of their departure southbound with an enormous caravan in tow. You may be aware that I’m house-sitting for Sue and Glenn while they are away.)

Now I am a respectful person and usually do as asked by my hosts so I joined Sue at the modern sink-island (if that is what it is called).

“To be honest with you, Sue, I doubt if I will ever use the dishwasher, not with me here all alone. We don’t even use our one at home – whenever I suggest it, Chris says that he will wash-up instead,” I said. (I considered adding, “I’m not that lazy, anyway,” but thought better of it.)

“Oh I use it even when Glenn is working away,” Sue, (who is obviously not of the “old school” of thinking that laziness is a sin), responded in a refreshingly guilt-free manner.

I was glad that I had decided against mentioning the “lazy” word and took note of Sue’s instructions with renewed interest. In fact, my temporary new home has two dishwashers; the bigger one sits above the smaller one, thus no bending is involved in filling the machine on top. (Ours in England opens at floor level – a great deal of bending.)

“I always use the big one,” she said, “unless we have parties, in which case we use both!”

“But I wouldn’t use enough things in a single day to warrant putting on the dishwasher,” I argued half-heartedly.

“Neither do I,” Sue smiled enticingly, “it goes on when it is full, perhaps every two or three days.”

“You have that much crockery and cutlery?” I queried.

Sue acquiesced. Her grin suggested a certain pleasure was to be taken from using the dishwasher as a matter of course, regardless of the infrequency due to a dearth of dirty dishes.

All on my own after my breakfast this morning, I was about to wash up my cereal bowl and cup in the sink when, out of interest, I took a peek in the dishwasher. The drawer slid back very smoothly (and no bending) and I saw the breakfast dishes used earlier by Glenn and Sue. It would have been churlish not to send my own cereal bowl in with them. At lunchtime, and dinnertime too, my plates, cutlery, glasses and cups slipped in alongside the other malingerers. Just minutes ago I added another cup. The not-so-great unwashed all seemed quite at home in the nice neat dishwasher drawer; they do not smell, and there is still plenty of room… for tomorrow’s offerings.

Actually, it’s not my hat – I bought it for Chris – but I have, nevertheless, hung it up all over my new home (where I am house-sitting), as can see from the photographs…

Sue and Glenn set off on their caravanning adventure this morning and now I’m all alone, and ready to begin work on my new books. Bliss!

Incidentally, one of the neighbours called in to say goodbye to Sue and Glenn this morning – he is a tall handsome pilot. Not that I’m interested in anyone else but Chris, and he’s married and too young anyway. Still… how pleasant it is to have nice neighbours.

After writing my blog post, “Do I tell?”, last night, I went to bed and could not sleep. The events of the day kept going through my mind and I worried what Roland would say about the little incident between his new Subaru “Imprezza” (with the low mileage and pristine condition) and the stout post in the car park at Gumdale Parklands. Not my fault, of course, but I was at the wheel at the time. The policewoman had confided that she had done a lot worse to her own car in supermarket car parks, which I found somewhat consoling, but she wasn’t Roland.

I had to tell him. My conscience insisted and Chris (my husband back in England) thought that our friend would understand, and even be happy to know that I was alright. Besides, having written my blog post last night, it was already “out there”. How did I tell him? Was I brave enough to tell him outright? This is how…

“Roland, have you read my blog recently?” I asked over the telephone.

“Which one?”

“You haven’t read the one from last night then.”

“No. Why?”

“Sorry,” I said, “but I can’t talk to you until you’ve read my blog. Read it and I’ll call you in ten minutes.”

(You may imagine that I also sobbed a bit and mentioned the fact that I hadn’t slept properly.)

“The car looks alright,” he said ten minutes later. (I had been careful to post an “after” photograph of the car looking unscathed.)

Roland took the news extremely well and seemed quite unperturbed about the broken plastic bit that fits inside the wheel arch, and will have to be replaced sometime; he reacted quite as well as he did many years ago when I told him (over the ‘phone) that I had driven through his lounge-room doors. Little incidents are the stuff of happy memories. It is nice to know that I shall never be forgotten.

And now I need to catch up on my sleep as tomorrow I shall be moving twenty or so miles south down the Pacific Highway to take on house-sitting duties for friends.

I’ve never had a car accident on the road. My record remains untarnished tonight… sort of. I did once drive through my boyfriend’s lounge-room glass doors, accidentally (naturally). Funnily enough, the incident which I am going to relate to you (in confidence, please!) involves the same old boyfriend, now just a dear old friend. I have to tell someone so I am choosing you – even if you don’t give me any useful advice, perhaps writing about it will help me to decide whether or not to come clean. Wouldn’t it be funny if this was the one night that Roland, my friend, can’t sleep and gets up in the middle of the night, and thinks, “I must read Sally’s blog!” Hope not. If I have to tell him it might be best to tell him face to face. Oh dear, I’m feeling very anxious about it again. And to think that only five hours ago I was having such a great time…

After going to Wynnum Plaza to recharge my sim card and buy felt circles to stick under the legs of the chairs in Bill’s dining room I found myself driving over to Gumdale, a few miles away, where I spent my childhood until the age of ten. Incidentally, as you might have gathered already, I was driving the lovely new car that Roland has lent me – the impresser! So I drove up Molle road and stopped outside of our old house – the one that Mum and Dad had built on our three and a half acres – and I got out and took some photographs. At the gate I stood for some minutes just looking at the house, trying to conjure up memories of what it was like inside; the driveway did not seem be as long as it used to be but I know that is always how it appears when you go back.

My reverie was interrupted by the sight of an elderly gentleman walking from the house in my direction. When he reached the half-way point I raised an arm in a wave and he smiled and waved back.

“Hello,” he said as he approached the other side of his gate.

“I came here years ago – we used to own your house…” I began.

“I know,” he smiled with satisfaction because he remembered our meeting over twelve years (nothing wrong with his marbles!).

Mr. Burroughs and I chatted away for thirty minutes or so; we talked about my family, his family (Mary went to school with his son who is a carpenter and earns more money than his architect father ever did), land drainage, snakes (there are still red-bellied black snakes in the bush at the rear), dirt roads, town water, dust, the creek… and just about everything that two people who owned the same property at different times could talk about. We shook hands several times, meaning to part, and then one or another of us would think of something else that was not only relevant but vital and the conversation continued with renewed interest. His daughter drove up and while her father wheeled open the massive gate I told her:

“I’m just chatting up your dad!”

“Good luck,” she said merrily.

She did not stop. Two minutes later I could see her, feeding a flock of pale yellow galahs down by the house (Mr. Burroughs told me there were sometimes as many as sixty of them).

At last I shook his hand more meaningfully and I left for real. I wanted to go to the very end of the road, past the American boat-building yard (where, as children, we used to collect the Coke bottles and get the deposit back at Crockford’s shop), to the creek where my dad used to take us fishing and crabbing.

Finally, I drove along Chelsea Road to the turn off for Parklands – my favourite fishing spot. There was just one other vehicle in the car park so I opted for parking on the empty side. The sky was overcast and evening was drawing near, and yet there was still beauty in the scene of the creek from the decked area where soft fisher-folk, like me, do their fishing in comfort with shaded seats and baiting tables with drains and running water. Feeling very happy and content, I wandered back to my car, and as I did so great numbers of fishermen arrived.

The car park was nearly full and a large ute, parked directly behind me on the opposite side, had left me little room to manoeuvre. Slowly I inched my (Roland’s) car back and turned the wheel. My window was down and I popped my head out to see…just as a jutting piece of wood snagged on my bumper, by the wheel-arch… Did you know that cars are made of plastic nowadays?

I was on my knees trying to push the bumper into position – it had dislodged on one side and was hanging down by two inches – when the police car pulled up beside me on the road.

“Can you help me please?” I asked. (Was that the wrong thing to ask a policeman?)

He got out of the police car and pulled up his belt as he stretched to his six-feet three. (Policemen always do that when I talk to them in their official capacity.) He wasn’t very skilled at pushing the bumper back into place, and neither was the lady policeman who, nevertheless, was extremely sympathetic and agreed that the jutting piece of wood was a great hazard and impossible to see – I was not at fault. The policeman made a joke about me drinking but we women ignored that one.

The kindly Australian police couple escorted me to the main road, just to make sure that the bumper didn’t fall off (which it didn’t) and I took it easy driving home to Bill’s.

The car looks great – really impressive – again. Bill is a marvel – my brother used to be a mechanic – but he says it really needs a new bit of plastic. He’s going to try to find one for me tomorrow. If he does, and he puts it on, then I do not need to tell my friend that anything untoward happened to our car; but if he can’t find the proper Subaru bit of plastic then I will have to tell him – won’t I? This is my little quandary….

There were some sausages left over from Australia Day, now beyond their sell-by date; there was a magpie who took note of my gesture from his vantage point in the poinciana tree – he made the call; and before long the lawn was like a scene from “The Birds”. My friend, the one who always comes close to talk to me, did so again and seemed not to mind too much when I bent down to take his photograph. I reckon he knows I admire his pluck (and his eyebrows).

Last evening there was an almighty crash outside and Bill ran out ahead of me to the back yard.

“It’s just a possum,” my brother said, pointing to the possum hiding in the roof of the carport, “he knocked over the basket on that shelf.”

“How cute,” I responded.

“Yes, but you don’t want them living in your house – they carry diseases,” he answered.

I remembered the possum that used to come most nights to our house at Gumdale when we were children; he used to sit on the meter-box under the window sill and wait for his bread and jam. Nobody worried about diseases in those days, all the same, I took Bill’s word for it; and of course, you wouldn’t want one actually living in your roof and clattering around – they are quite big animals.

Bill went back indoors to find the humane possum trap (if caught the possum might be sent on a trip to Gumdale, which is still a bit bushy even these days). My phone rang and I sat down on a garden chair to take the call (well, it was a chatty conversation). After a short while I noticed a golf ball come whizzing out from under my chair, between my feet on the concrete and up towards the grass – it went so fast that I thought it was a ping pong ball at first. Lily the chubby cat (three of us are feeding her at present) came bounding from somewhere behind me, caught up with the ball and sent it back and forth, up and down the concrete floor of the carport. All that extra food has given Lily lots of energy.

What a surprise when I went out to feed the chooks and the magpies this morning! I surveyed the scene beyond the back door and realised, with some satisfaction, that our Lily is an extremely clever cat for, quite obviously, she has developed her own form of the French game of Petanque (Boules) – see the photographs and judge for yourself. To think that if the possum had not knocked down the basket of balls from the shelf Lily would never have discovered her talent. Perhaps the possum and the cat played Boules together all night long? Lily is a tad lethargic, yet hungry, today. Or maybe I’m talking fanciful balderdash?

I had almost finished doing the washing-up when I began to feel quite emotional… It had nothing to do with the conversation with my brother over lunch, which was very pleasant and genial. The day had been good so far – plenty of exercise, my hormones were fine and nothing was bothering me; I was simply standing there with my hands in the sink when I noticed, through  the gaps in the bubbles, the pretty colours in the hand-knitted cotton dishcloth. It started pale blue at one end for two rows, then on to mauve, cerise and white, and finished with a pale pink – a single line of navy blue against the white made it edgy in an artistic way, like a dark line in an abstract painting by Mondrian. But the point is that I recognised the handiwork and I thought of the hands that had made it…

Those are the hands I have known all my life; the hands that held me first and nurtured me with love and kindness; they are the industrious, hard working, tireless, giving, soothing and loving hands of my mother.

I wrung out the dishcloth in my slightly daintier hands (than Mum’s), wiped the kitchen worktops and returned it to the sink.

“Soak it in a little bleach every so often and it will keep on going for years,” I could almost hear Mum saying.

I did exactly that and the colours became brighter.

Although I felt emotional thinking about my mother and all she has done for me, I didn’t cry; in fact, I smiled to myself. Mum may be nearly blind these days but she is hale and hearty (if perhaps a little cold) in England. I expect she is knitting or making aprons (by feel, while she keeps abreast of world news on the radio) even as I write this.

At around five-thirty this afternoon I went out into the garden to find Bill, my elder brother (with whom I am staying at present). He was smiling as he walked up from the vegetable patch; he had something in his hand.

“Bill, I’ve invited Diane for dinner,” I called out before reaching him, “well, we had so many leftovers from the barbecue… and it won’t be as good another day from now.”

“Great idea,” he replied, “What about Henry?”

“He’s at work but Diane can take a dinner back for him.”

“Sally, look what I dug up just now. Ever seen anything like it?” Bill asked laughing.

He held the object suggestively in his hand and, for a moment or two, I wondered what it was exactly – then I burst out laughing.

Twenty minutes later, when our younger brother’s girlfriend arrived for dinner, she was rather taken aback by our unusual arrangement of salad on the table for there in the centre was an enormous… well, see for yourself. Let me just add that nobody fancied radish tonight…

This joke was awaiting me in my in-box this morning. I have a feeling that Robert thought I might pass this on to you… and he was right!

The Kind Nurse
A male patient is lying in bed in the hospital, wearing an oxygen mask over his mouth and nose.

A young student nurse appears and gives him a partial sponge bath.

“Nurse,”‘ he mumbles from behind the mask, “are my testicles black?”

Embarrassed, the young nurse replies, “I don’t know, Sir. I’m only here

to wash your upper body and feet.”

He struggles to ask again, “Nurse, please check for me. Are my testicles black?”

Concerned that he might elevate his blood pressure and heart rate from worrying

about his testicles, she overcomes her embarrassment and pulls back the covers.
She raises his gown, holds his manhood in one hand and his testicles gently in the other.

She looks very closely and says, “There’s nothing wrong with them,
Sir. They look fine.”

The man slowly pulls off his oxygen mask, smiles at her, and says very slowly,

“Thank you very much. That was wonderful. Now listen very, very closely:

Are – my – test – results – back?”