When Everything has Gone Pear Shaped…

One doesn’t usually laugh when things go “pear shaped” (a British expression for when things go wrong) and, certainly, there hasn’t been much to laugh about for the Porch siblings and families recently. Things haven’t been in “apple-pie order” or “wine and roses”  because our beloved Mum (also known as Granny Porch and Supergran) hasn’t been feeling so super; in fact, she has been very ill in hospital, and is currently quite frail and recuperating in a home other than her own. But, thankfully, Supergran still has the battling spirit and x-ray eyes that can wither a lesser opponent in a single glance; in other words, she is still herself and gaining strength slowly but surely.

Of course, even when things have gone “pear shaped” in some areas, some funny events happen… Take the time when my sister Mary and I were visiting our mother on Simpson Ward – d’oh! Now the outlook from Mum’s bed on that occasion was rather a grim one. Opposite were two old ladies, seemingly always asleep and visibly shrinking into their beds, and another lady sat in a chair beside her bed; to Mum’s right was another shrunken lady in the far bed by the window, and in the bed directly beside her was another lady whom I had never seen awake, and who lay there very still with her mouth wide open.

“Do you think that lady is on the way out?” I whispered in Mary’s ear whilst I looked in the direction of the latter.

Just as the words came out of my mouth the figure on the bed came to life and raised a hand to wave at me, and she smiled sweetly at us.

“Oh, how wonderful!” I exclaimed, standing up and walking over to the lady’s bedside. “You’re better. How are you feeling?”

The lady couldn’t speak but nodded as if to say that she was okay. Then I looked across at the lady who had been dozing in her chair. She, too, smiled at me and her eyes twinkled.

“You look better!”, I said, remembering how static she had been with her slumped against her chest on my previous visit. “You looked so ill yesterday” I added.

“I really do feel much better, ” assured the little lady profusely.

“Oh, I feel so pleased that you ladies are getting better,” I enthused.

Back beside my sister, Mary leaned in to whisper in my ear:

“That’s not the same lady who was in that bed yesterday!”

 Oops! 

Another funny thing happened only yesterday, and this time I was able to laugh aloud because nobody else was around… We were expecting our Airbnb guests from Canada and, while Chris rushed outside to see if there was adequate parking for them, I went upstairs to check that everything was looking perfect in the suite. A glance at the fruit bowl had me laughing in hysterics, then, of course, I had to run downstairs and grab my mobile phone before rectifying the slight problem of the pear shape! If you observe the photos below you will get my drift.

 

The Only Way is Up (in Smoke)

“What shall I do with you when you’re dead?” I asked Chris when we were still in bed earlier today.

Luckily, we think alike about most things so he didn’t misunderstand me; he knew I didn’t mean “What am I going to do without you?” (of course, I would be bereft and mortified). Also, he was well aware that at present I’m in the process of writing a story about a dying man, hence the topic of death was not particularly peculiar… although you might think that six-thirty in the morning is an odd time to have such a conversation. Chris didn’t appear to think so, in fact he turned around and, although we were in semi-darkness, I could see his face light up as warmed to the subject.

“I’m glad you asked,” he said excitedly, “because recently I’ve been thinking about your idea of us being buried together.” (Hopefully at different times, seeing as my “other half” is nearly twelve years older than me!)

We snuggled closer and Chris continued:

“Darling, do you really want to moulder in the ground?”

“Yeah but what if I’m murdered – no body to exhume – they’ll never find my murderer,” my heart sank as my dreams of resting eternally in the earth went up in flames.

“After a while they bury someone else on top of you and, anyway, when did you last visit  a graveside?” he said like an enthusiastic representative for crematoriums.

“Yeah but someone may like to visit me for a talk and a few tears,” I argued feebly.

“Wouldn’t you rather have your ashes mixed with mine and be thrown to the winds? Or be in a  place we both love?” Chris wheedled.

“Our garden. I’d love to be here forever,” I succumbed.

“No, this place will be sold. Why not a rocket? People do that you know,” he suggested.

“Not a rocket,” I said, thinking of the people on land. “I guess I wouldn’t mind the sea. Throw me into the sea then. By the way, how much is a cremation compared to a burial?”

“Burials cost thousands nowadays and a simple cremation – no service or memorial – can cost as little as £1,008,” my husband exclaimed joyously. “You don’t want a service – do you? We could have a party to remember you… but I’ll probably go first and you can throw a party.”

“Let’s find out how much it costs to turn our bodies into diamonds,” my mind turned to other options. “I think I’d rather become a diamond, if it’s not too expensive – if it’s say… £2,000.”

Half an hour later we were at the breakfast table and Chris opened the mail. He laughed and showed me the letter from SunLife insurers. There was a photograph of evergreen Alan Titchmarsh looking rather happy in spite of the window above his head informing that the “Average cost of a basic funeral in the South West of England £4,685”.

“I must be getting older,” Chris mused, “I never used to get mail asking ‘who’s paying for your funeral?’. I could get stony-faced about it!”

“If you become a ‘real diamond geezer’,” I added.

So we looked up “Ashes to Diamonds” on the Internet and it looks like we can afford only to become orange-yellow stones like topazes, not lovely blue cut diamonds. Chris found another site and was aglow with the notion of having my ashes set in coloured glass shaped as hearts or bubbles. 

“But they probably put any old bits of ash in the glass,” Chris said, bursting my bubble.

So now our plans for the distant future are on the back-burner.

A Funeral to Live For

I must be maturing because I’m not quite so scared of funerals as I used to be (apart from my own, which I trust will be a long way off considering my mum is still going strong, and is normal, at ninety-five). Until fairly recently I couldn’t concentrate on a church funeral service owing to my vivid imaginings of the poor dead body inside the coffin, and crematoriums (or is that crematoria?) were even worse… Those nasty curtains… the final curtain. Did you know that the machine for burning is called a crematory? (Not to be confused with a crème de la crème Tory like our Prime Minister Theresa May!)

Anyway, by now I’ve attended enough funerals to be discriminating about them. My favourite was the Humanist funeral for my old boyfriend Chris who died too young from drink. He used to say that he had hundreds of friends down the pub yet only three of them, one of whom was the landlord, turned up to say good-bye. My old boyfriend had never married but, being a handsome man, he had had many girlfriends – thank goodness – and his funeral was well attended with ex-girlfriends and their husbands or partners. The Humanist funeral celebrant spoke plainly and sincerely about Chris’s life; and after the service we ex-girlfriends all greeted one another with open arms and compared stories.

“I remember seeing your photo,” said one attractive lady to me.

“I always worried about what happened to my photos,” said another.

And we all laughed and thought how pleased old Chris would have been if he were in Heaven looking down on his old girlfriends regaling each other with funny stories and happy memories of being with Chris. But, of course, he couldn’t have been looking down on us because it was a Humanist funeral and he was in a woven palm frond coffin.

That was the best funeral. It helps if you’re not, or perhaps I should say no longer (in this case), too close to the deceased.

My dad’s funeral was the worst – we loved him so much.

My dear friend Amr’s funeral was the next worst. He was buried on my birthday, an extremely cold eleventh of November that year. Friends and family gathered around the graveside, our heels sinking into the mud, and only two people – my husband Chris and Amr’s daughter Laila – could manage to sing the words to Rod Stewart’s song “Sailing”; the rest of us were crying (although my proclivity to laugh when I shouldn’t nearly got the better of me when Laila began harmonising with Chris).

My cousin Christine spoke so beautifully of her mother as we stood at Aunty Eve’s grave. My aunt lived in Somerset so I didn’t know her particularly well, all the same,  enough to cry for the loss of her in our family’s lives and especially for my cousins’ loss.

If you’re wondering why I’m contemplating on funerals today, well, it’s not really so strange because my husband Chris (new Chris, although he was older than old Chris who died) and I went to a funeral recently. Actually it was this morning but I don’t want to hurt anyone’s feelings so I won’t say whose funeral it was. Suffice it to say, the deceased was exceedingly old and more of an acquaintance than a friend.

I suppose that when you’re a nonagenarian you’ve outlived most of your contemporaries, and you probably don’t go out as much as you did so you don’t have many new acquaintances and friends – or any. Hence, the church seemed rather big and the mourners rather scanty. We and a friend of ours sat on the opposite side of the central aisle to the few others who had gathered to show their respect.

The organ came to life to the tune of Amazing Grace and the vicar lead the cortege; we turned to see that immediately behind him was a severe-looking woman dressed in black, wearing a top hat like an old-fashioned riding hat; then the coffin carried by six burly men (to lift about nine stones I reckon), and then the family who occupied the first two lines of pews on our side of the church.

The vicar, who was himself old, read out a few lines written by each of the two grandchildren and then a young man with a sheet of paper read out his thoughts about his great-grandmother – unfortunately, he spoke too quickly and his mouth was too far from the microphone for anyone beyond the front pew to hear. The vicar congratulated the young man and we had the first hymn. After a somewhat long introduction one or two of the congregation sang, “The Lord’s our shepherd…” On verse three all was not as expected for the vicar began singing verse four… I sang a bit louder to let him know his mistake but he carried on undaunted and by the last two lines we three singers were in unison. The organist must have been in on it – he stopped with the vicar’s lead (it must be a well-known trick to save time!). Two short readings from the bible and we were into our next hymn, “All Creatures Great and Small”, and three verses in – would you believe it? – the vicar began singing verse four. This time we two singers took our cue and accompanied the vicar to the end. A prayer or two followed and the organ started up again – Amazing Grace – and the dominatrix with the riding hat and stick led the cortege back down the aisle. It was over.

When my time comes, which I hope will be a long way off, I don’t want a vicar who doesn’t know me conducting a service for twenty-two people, some of whom barely knew me. No pomp either please. No lady with a funny hat and solemn expression. Give me a gathering of those who loved me, sending me off with a prayer and thoughts of any good I might have done in my life. Tears, yes – why not? That would be my idea of a funeral to die for.

Oh no, James Bond is dead!

 

Still April 17th

Some time later today this card, featuring the English composer Sir Arthur Bliss, appeared for Chris…


 

And at exactly the same time this poem appeared for me. What Bliss!

 

          THE ANNIVERSARY “FAULTS”

 

 “Am I too late?” the Possum muttered, holding back the tears

“Have we in truth been married thus for nigh on twenty years?

And each and every year I’ve managed somehow to compose

an anniversary ditty, sometimes poems, sometimes prose

Yet this year, I’m ashamed to say, I’ve really missed the boat

and failed completely, just this once,  to write  something of note

So does this mean, you might well ask, if Love has somehow dimmed

and faded into nothingness, it’s passion somewhat trimmed?

And has the heady adoration, once so freely shown

just spread its wings and headed south, where maybe Love has flown?”

 

“Not so!”, the Possum firmly cried, “For Love should not depend

on calendars, and writing cards and poems without end

and yes, it’s very comforting to give and to receive

these tokens of our love, these signs that help us to believe

But if our lives, so busy now, should steal our precious time

in which we should remember that cute card or pretty rhyme

We shouldn’t ever doubt that Love is still the bond that ties

the two of us together, through the lows and all the highs

 

And though I cannot promise that there’ll never be a fault

come future anniversaries, but if I’m worth my salt

On this you may depend,  my love for you is truly real

and “bursting’s” still the word that  summarises how I feel

So, Darling Sallipuss, you’re still the only one for me

and Just because I’m late, don’t think  I’m not your “cup of tea”

The years may come, the years may go, but every year you’ll know

Your Possum loves his Sallipuss, come rain or shine or snow.

And hopefully this little note will do the job in hand

and make you realise you’re still the fairest in the Land!”

 

April 17th 2018……Our TWENTIETH ANNIVERSARY!

(and it don’t seem a day too long!!)    xxxxxxxxxxxx

 

 

 

 

 

Supergran’s Easter Secret

“I have a little secret to announce,” said my ninety-five year old mother after we had finished our Easter Sunday dinner a short while ago. (You may remember her as ‘Supergran’, pictured above, from earlier blog posts.)

“What could it be?” I queried and turned to my equally surprised husband Chris.

“Well,” she paused (getting our full attention) and smiled mischievously, “I hope you won’t be worried…”

We just looked at Mum and waited for her to continue.

“I know you’ll be shocked but I’m thinking of getting married again!”

“Who is he?” I asked, trying not to show surprise. “Not that old man who kissed you at Newton Abbot market last year?”

“Who?” Mum replied. (Her memory isn’t quite what it was.)

“You know, that old man who kissed you on the lips after you bought him a cup of tea?” I reminded her.

“Oh no,” she said emphatically, “you know I don’t go for old men!”.

“Not a younger man?” my eyes widened. “Who is he?”

“You’re a April fool!” Mum said with relish.

Well and truly!

 

 

 

Who Would be a Mermaid?

My first mermaid painting

At last my first mermaid painting is completed! She was begun perhaps a year ago or longer and has never received great acclaim in her unfinished state.

The greatest compliment she received during her first year came from a gypsy lad of about twelve. The boy had appeared, with his gang of two other boys and a girl of fourteen, at my studio door one summer day when they were out causing a bit of a commotion in Dawlish town. Ah, but they knocked on my door for help, having been threatened by “twenty or thirty sixteen-year-olds”, and they insisted on coming into my studio for refuge. Once inside, their eyes darted about the room and the red-haired boy looked at the mermaid and exclaimed:

“I really like that drowned lady!”

“She’s not drowned,” said the fair, taller boy derisively. “Don’t you see she’s a mermaid?”

My mermaid was relieved that someone knew she wasn’t drowned and later that night Chris’s bicycle went missing.

Since then, my husband has bought a nicer new bike and the mermaid has enjoyed, or rather endured, several phases of development. Changes were made in respect to other comments, especially about her being “too busty” and “in need of a shell bra”. Well that was a bit of a ‘come down’ for my lusty mermaid – quite literally, as I set about  giving her a reduction operation straight away. Yet, still, she stayed unloved except by me (I had a feeling she would blossom into a beauty over time).

By the end of last year I had moved on and started a new mermaid on a larger canvas (5′ x 4′).

Unfinished large mermaid

But when I returned from Australia, ready to finish the larger work, I had a change of heart; my little mermaid’s eyes implored me to give them more character and the painting soon took final shape.

Now I’m thinking about more mermaid pictures – I love the theme. When I see all the beautiful children in my family I can imagine them depicted with mermaid tails. So I’ve been asking them if they would be my mermaid models. Daniel wasn’t too keen, as you will see from some of my recent photographs…

 

The Little Art Connoisseur and the Packet of Crisps

Despite her years (not yet two) Miss Annalise Sanchez has already enjoyed some little fame as an “International art critic” (according to the Reuben Lenkiewicz Art Gallery, Teignmouth) and would be juggler (Mamhead Village Fete 2017). And she’s always been a bit of a food connoisseur as well…

Recently my great little niece has impressed again with her new skill at blowing bubbles…

I expect that you’re wondering if there is no end to her talents… No, there isn’t. Annalise continues to amaze with her brilliant intellect. Now I heard that only two mornings ago, when her parents were still in bed, she had awoken early with a tremendous appetite for crisps. Apparently she went downstairs to the kitchen and found the crisps she had set her heart on.

Have you noticed how hard it is to open goods nowadays? Lord only knows how old ladies manage! Well, the same applies to children, especially tiny tots like Annalise. Try as she might, she did not have the strength to pull open the bag of crisps.

“Oh dear!” she must have thought, “I’ll have to ‘come clean’ and take them up to Mummy and Daddy to open them.”

“Oh no!” said mummy Katie, “You can’t have crisps for breakfast. Have a banana…”

“Or an apple,” chimed in her dad.

“No, these,” pleaded Annalise with her most charming expression and she tried again to pull open the stubborn packet.

Katie took the packet and pulled, not too hard, against the seal.

“Well I can’t open them either,” said Katie with mock exasperation.

“Neither can I,” said her dad as he did the same.

“You’ll just have to settle for a banana,” added her mum.

“I find the scissors!” said Annalise.

 

 

On Yer Plane!

 

It all seems so long ago, the last day of sunshine. But even the penultimate day, when Lorelle came down and Roland brought young Mason over for our fond farewells, the weather in Brisbane had been unsettled. Really it wasn’t until my last day that the rain had stopped with finality, eventually, after about a week (or so it felt), and the sun looked like it was out to stay. Someone said it was going to be thirty-one degrees and we celebrated that, and my imminent departure, by driving out in my brother Bill’s vintage FC Holden,1958 model.

It was perfect. The temperature soared and we wound down all the windows, just like in the old days when we were kids and none of the old cars had air conditioning. The FC’s souped-up engine purred as it idled while waiting at lights and roared as it tore away on green, and loose strands of my long hair lashed my face.

“Is it too much?” I asked Lita who, on account of being smaller, was in the centre on the bench seat at the back (my nephew Michael was on the other side).

“No,” she said, “I love it!” (She had already given up trying to keep her hair in place.)

“Wellington Point?” Bill asked and everyone made sounds of agreement.

All roads lead to Wellington Point if you have a mind to revisit Gumdale along the way. The FC Holden homed in on Molle Road, which is where we spent most of our formative years. Our old road still floods, especially after a week of heavy rain; the  man-made lakes (flood measures) cannot contain the force of nature. Bill, Henry (our younger brother just down from me) and I laughed wryly, recalling our falls and spills, and days off school because we couldn’t get out when there were also floods at Chelsea Road. Dear old Gumdale… it’s full of millionaires now, but they still get floods. Nature doesn’t discriminate.

We all love Wellington Point, not too far away and full of happy memories from our childhood. Our late father used to take us on exciting, but precarious walks, up on the cliff; or out to the island when the tide was out – and you couldn’t be too long or you’d be stranded by the incoming tide. We trusted our dad. If he said, “Jump and I’ll catch you,” you jumped… and he caught you.

Henry jumped out of the way of a couple of vicious magpies that had attacked him on both of his last forays to Wellington Point. He had thought they “had it in” for him but this time, without his glasses on, they didn’t recognise him; and we managed to park alright.

We didn’t stay long as I had to be back in time to pack finally. For a special treat my Aussie family picked up some fresh prawns from Capalaba en route and we ate them under the gazebo in Bill’s garden.

It seems so long ago, so much has happened. There was that Chilean lady at Melbourne Airport, she couldn’t speak any English and I took her under my wing; then I lost her to an official for a short time while I went through security – then I worried that he wasn’t a bona fide official and she might be sold as a sex slave; luckily, she spotted me at Duty Free and we ran all the way to Gate 8, where I deposited her with the right Airline officials (hopefully!). I found I could speak Spanish after all – “Gate Octo!”. Then there was my perfect travelling companion, Evelyn, a lovely lady from Berlin. She said she couldn’t speak English but we understood each other very well…even if the flight attendants couldn’t. In a nearly full flight we were lucky enough to have about the only spare seat available between us so we managed to spread out a little and get some sleep. 

How can it be only nine days since Chris picked me up from Heathrow? Two degrees below zero! The road outside our house was dug up for resurfacing and the queue of traffic was over a mile long, and then we had to park in a road around the corner… We had to drag our cases in the freezing cold… And I cried – twice. Then came the worst snow in thirty years… 

The snow has gone now but while it lasted my heart was warmed by a visit from Lady Penelope and her parents – Bless them! On the day before it snowed they drove down from Brighton and “the rest is history”, as they say.

 

 

All I Wanted for Christmas

“What would you like for Christmas?” Chris asked of me.

“Nothing. I have everything I want,” I said, “except… perhaps?”

“Yes?”

“Perhaps you could write me a poem?”

That’s approximately how the conversation went just before our first Christmas together twenty-one years ago. Since then I’ve a poem for every Christmas, birthday, Valentine’s Day and even those days when nothing was special but I needed a lift. To date I have seventy-five poems from my beloved. Most are humorous, some are romantic and they chart our life together. All show how well Chris knows me.

I wasn’t disappointed this year, either; I had all I wanted for Christmas and more – he wrote me two poems! And here they are below… Hope you’re all enjoying Christmas!

Also see the additions to the family this year, including two day old little Lillibet.

 

BIBI’S BEAUTIFUL BABY   (Bibi is me – Grandma!)

                  Well, nearly my baby!)

 

My sweet baby Penny, she’s top of the tots

with her velvet brown eyes and her freedom from spots

and her giggling laugh in her baby culottes

she’s the cream of the crop, and the queen of the cots!

 

She’s cute and adorable, my baby P.

and I’ve waited so long for her sweetness to see

But now that she’s here I’m as proud as can be

She’s put  joy in my heart, and she’s my cup of tea! 

 

When she beams me a smile I can feel my heart melt

it’s as though all along she would know how I felt

and of all the fine aces that could have been dealt

She’s just so “Pennylicious”, (and that’s not mis-spelt!)

 

She’s a real “fashionista”, all thanks to her Mum

dressed up to the nines, she’s as sweet as a plum

and when she’s all sleepy, to dreams she’ll succumb

while I gently ponder on what she’ll become

 

 

As I gaze in her innocent eyes I can see

all the life and the love that was always to be

and I know that this beautiful child is part-me

she’s so nearly my daughter, this sweet Penny P.

 

So, Lady Penelope, always be sure

that your BiBi will love you, whatever the score

and when you’re grown up and have boyfriends galore

I’ll still be there for you, it’s you I adore!

 

 For Penelope, and Her BiBi Sally, on Christmas Day 2017

     

 

 LEISURE – REVISITED 

A Pastiche,  with apologies to W H Davies

(A Christmas poem for Sally  -December 25th 2017)

 

What is this life if, full of woe,

we have no time to take it slow

 

No time to stop and take our ease

enjoying leisure as we please

 

No time to lose ourselves in song

and feel the music all day long

 

No time to lay amongst the flowers

and make sweet love for hours and hours

 

No time to pause in Life’s mad rush

to seek the peace of gentle hush

 

No time to gaze in wonderment

at Nature’s beauty, heaven-sent

No time to share our happiness

with  all the friends who we possess

 

No time to take our exercise

to shrink our waists, which we despise!

 

No time to spend a day alone

and carry on without the phone

 

No time, even, to write this verse

(which as you see is getting worse!)

 

A poor life this if, full of woes,

we’ve barely time to blow our nose

 

So…please remember, it’s just fine

to take a break at Christmastime!!

 

 

 

Shrinking

I was small and the world was big.

 

One morning recently I awoke early after a restless night of feeling hungry and shrinking. Yes shrinking! I was about half way through the “Catherine’s  Cabbage Soup Diet” and I could feel changes (even if nobody else could see them). So I was awake and the first thing that came into my mind made me laugh…

 

Strangely, I was remembering back to a time when I really was small, three years old I guess, and Henry was a baby in the pram; my sister Mary must have just started school because she wasn’t with us as we were walking home down Molle Road. Now I happened to be an excruciatingly shy little girl who wouldn’t speak to strangers; I’d run away or hide, often under Mum’s skirts if there was nowhere else to hide. However, on this occasion I didn’t run away when we met a group of ladies coming out of Mrs Cottrell’s place… and one of them had a pram.

 

I didn’t speak of course but I stood by the pram, just as Mum did, and looked inside at the new baby. Young as I was, I knew what a beautiful baby looked like – my baby brother Henry was soft, round and bonny – so I hadn’t been prepared for the sight of the alien little creature in the pram. The baby was bald and pale with a face and skin so thin that all his veins showed through as blue as his sad watery eyes.

 

“Mum,” I whispered as I tugged on my mother’s gathered skirt to get her attention,”Isn’t that a funny looking baby?”

 

My  mother wouldn’t answer so I tugged again.

 

“Mum,” I whispered slightly louder. “Isn’t that a funny looking baby?”

 

My mother reached down and pushed my hand from her skirt but said nothing. I couldn’t understand why she didn’t seem to hear me.

 

“Mummy!” I shouted whilst pulling at her dress. “Don’t you think it’s a funny looking baby?”

 

Silence. Oh dear! Everybody looked at me. Mum squirmed and I realised I had said the wrong thing. I was too young to make amends so I did the next best thing and disappeared inside Mum’s voluminous gathered skirt where no-one could see me. I knew my mother’s legs quite well in those days… when I small.

 

Nowadays the world doesn’t seem nearly so big and, after a week on “Catherine’s Cabbage Soup Diet”, neither am I. I’ve lost seven pounds. The tricky thing will be to keep it off, especially as we’re on holiday in Spain at this very moment. Actually, I’m hoping to shrink a bit more.‍