In spite of the cold weather, also Chris’s cold and my sore throat, we try to get out for a walk whenever the sun shines. Amongst the photographs of our pretty coast in the winter sunshine is a shot of me looking like Lawrence of Arabia – that was taken after a downpour of icy-cold rain on one of our less successful walks when we had to turn back. Happily, the next day was stunningly beautiful (but not today!).
Author Archives: sallyorpwood@rocketmail.com
Cold Comfort
To think that just a couple of weeks ago I was sweltering in the Tropical Dome at the Botanical Gardens, Brisbane; now there’s a place I would like to be right now – warm damp air on warm, damp, wrinkle-free and silky skin. No goose-bumps, no hunching of shoulders around the ears, no need for socks, trousers, jumpers or coats…
The central heating is on. I’m wearing fleecy track bottoms, a sporty top (you have to look the part to feel the part – all part of my new Slimming World healthy living plan), a soft pink cardigan and a scarf, doubled. You might imagine that I should be warm but, no, my nose and hands are frozen. Little wonder that English people are reputed to have good skin – they spend several months of the year in cryogenic suspension. Cold comfort!
My tiny hand was frozen enough, even before placing it under the cold tap. My hand recoiled, my shoulders went up.
“Better than warm water from the cold tap – no need to keep it in the fridge,” Chris laughed.
I winced at mention of the word “fridge”. Warm water out of the cold tap sounded most appealing, likewise a swimming pool or spa heated by the sun; a sheet covering, or not, at nighttime – such bliss.
Last night I spent another night alone in our bedroom with two heaters turned on; Chris spent another night in an upstairs bedroom – no wish to spread his cold – although I had a sore throat myself. I’m fighting it (not fighting fit).
I lay in bed at four in the morning, fighting it with positive thinking, then thinking about two more stories for the new book, started but not revisited in such a long time. For some reason my subconscious self stirred me to think about Alexei the French Russian with the poet face, who taught French at the Grammar School long ago; who played gypsy guitar music and who could have been “the one”… Why did he hang himself in his forties? Could I have prevented him? No, not “the one” but I still think of him and wonder, and mourn, especially at four in the morning.
In the cold light of day Hurricane Imogen had abated; the rain had stopped but the wind whipped up the spume on the crests of the waves as they rolled in to shore. Imogen wasn’t as aggressive as Hurricane Henry, whom she had followed, but still she had a lashing tongue. Coming inside from the terrace I shivered. I would stay in and nurse my throat – maybe even stop it from progressing. No gym sessions today. There’s plenty of time until Thursday night – Slimming World group night. Do you know that there are hundreds of free foods to eat on the Slimming World Easy Plan? Cold comfort – I don’t want to eat any of them. What I wouldn’t give for a nice piece of deep-fried cod in unctuous crisp batter!
If You Follow Me… (Some Jokes From Oz)
All the way from Brisbane…
It Don’t Add Up
Literacy and numeracy are the issues that employers are most concerned about. You might of guessed but did you know that four out of three people today struggle with basic maths?
Not so Tweet!
A good friend of mine who had recently succumbed to pressure from his kids, and all his old pals (including me!), to become computer literate has taken to the Internet like a duck to water. Who’d have thought that dear old Molesworth would actually enjoy surfing the net? Not only does he have the most expensive modern Mac computer, a tablet and an Ipad, he also has the latest Samsung Galaxy Smartphone.
Did I hear you ask if he knows how to use them? I’ll say! In fact, in next to no time he has developed something of a problem. Only yesterday I bumped into him in Oxford Street (he had his head down, looking at his Smartphone) and I laughed.
“It’s not funny,” old Molesworth had an air of misery about him even greater than I could recall, “you see, I’m afraid I have developed an addiction and, in fact, I’ve just been to see a therapist.”
“So sorry to hear it old chap. What kind of addiction, if you don’t mind talking about it?”
“Well, it was quite unnerving – Sylvia has threatened to divorce me if I don’t seek help so you can imagine the severity of my addiction – you see I had to send myself along to this so-called addiction therapist?”
I nodded, almost dreading what was coming next.
“Well, I came right out with it. ‘I’m addicted to Twitter!’ I told him and do you know he replied?”
“No Mouldy (his nickname at school), I haven’t a clue.”
“Well, he said ‘I’m sorry but I don’t follow you!”
And lastly…
To be Succinct
A lawyer is the only man who can write a ten thousand word document and call it a brief!
Without Jas
“Look,” said Mary, “Sasha has come out to greet you. She’s so happy to see you!”
Mum and I had just got out of the car and we were trying to mind the mud. We had come to visit my sister who was farm-sitting down at Rosie’s farm. Sasha reached up her paws on my leg and left muddy marks on my trousers – too late to worry about mud – and I lifted her, like a baby, from under her tiny forelegs and brought her against my chest for a kiss and cuddle. Malachi, who also was part of the welcoming committee, rubbed against our legs and hit our knees with the happy wagging of her tail.
Once inside the farmhouse kitchen I avoided looking at the spot, in the shadows under the side table, where Jas used to lie on her favourite mattress.
“Malachi lies with Sasha now,” Mary informed.
Upon hearing her name, Malachi stood between the two chairs opposite me at the table, where Mum and Mary were sitting, and they petted her.
“Is it alright to let her have part of my hot cross bun?” Mum asked.
We laughed – she had already let Malachi have the last of it.
“Rosie left me this book to read,” began Mary as she lifted a book from the table, “written by Ben Fogle. It’s called ‘Labrador'”.
My sister read aloud the short introduction to the book and finished in a stream of tears; my eyes were pricked and I don’t know about Mum – we were both silent. In a moment the familiar glossy black coat of Malachi was pressing against me, her tail wagged at my touch and her head found its way under my hand. Dear Malachi, dear Jas.
Here are some photos taken at the end of last August when we four girls picked up apples in the orchard at Larkbeare…
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- Let’s just sit awhile in the sunshine!
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- Sasha, too. is feeling her age.
Lay Your Head Upon My Pillow
I’m in bed listening to the ear-worm in my head – “Lay your head upon my pillow, hold your warm and tender body close to mine…” – which is quite funny really because I am quite alone. I don’t know the time exactly but I’m guessing that it’s about six o’clock. I’ve been awake for a couple of hours, thinking and listening to this ear-worm… over and over. A train passed a while ago, lighting up the darkness behind my bedroom curtains, but not enough to illuminate the chaos at the end of my bed… our bed; I haven’t finished unpacking yet, five days on.
It’s a wonder I can hear the ear-worm over the sound of lashing rain, wind and waves… or maybe it is my subconscious trying to block out the English winter. The fog from long haul flying has cleared, almost, but still I can’t sleep through the night. I’m thinking about my last morning of waking up to sunshine – at five-thirty – and feeling the excitement of going home, also the stress of last minute packing and dread of the long haul ahead.
Chris has a bad cold and is sleeping upstairs, way upstairs at the top of the house (our bedroom is on the ground floor and there are two storeys between – “never twain shall meet”, just the train!). He doesn’t want to give me his cold and I don’t wish to receive it. But I’m all alone in bed, with Elvis Presley in my head (could be worse) and a mental picture of Sterling the cat upon my pillow… Oh, for the good times.
“For The Good Times”
Don’t look so sad, I know it’s over
But life goes on and this old world will keep on turning
Let’s just be glad we had some time to spend together
There’s no need o watch the bridges that we’re burning
But life goes on and this old world will keep on turning
Let’s just be glad we had some time to spend together
There’s no need o watch the bridges that we’re burning
Lay your head upon my pillow
Hold your warm and tender body close to mine
Hear the whisper of the raindrops fallin’ soft against the window
And make believe you love me one more time
For the Good times
I’ll get along, you’ll find another
And I’ll be here if you should find you ever need me
Don’t say a word about tomorrow or forever
There’ll be time enough for sadness when you leave me
Lay your head upon my pillow
Hold your warm and tender body close to mine
Hear the whisper of the raindrops fallin’ soft against the window
And make believe you love me one more time
For the good times
For the good times
The Last Crack Before the Pack
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- For Lorelle
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- For Stefan
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- For Henry
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- For Roland
The last few days of my visit back in my homeland of Australia have been busy. There were paintings to paint and people to see, and now there is time left only to do the final packing, have a bite of breakfast and say my goodbyes to loved ones. Ah, so sad to leave… but how thrilling to be going home to see to Chris, Jim, Bobbie, Susannah, Mary, Mum, Rob, all my beloved nieces and nephews, and my wonderful friends. Besides, I’ll be back… in November! See you in England in a couple of days!
One Train of Thought
Longing for “The First of May”, no doubt.
A gentleman is on the 6.15 Victoria to Belmont train (London). He is sat on one of those seats that has people sitting opposite him and a table in-between. He is coming back from a meeting with his old pals from the days when he lived and worked in ‘Town’. He draws his mobile phone from his pocket and goes to his Whatsapp messages – he knew there were some awaiting his attention but until now he has not had a quiet moment… He has been looking forward to the train journey back to John and Barbara’s so that he could enjoy reading the messages in private.
“That’s different,” he thinks as he opens his Whatsapp, “two verbal messages and one text. With a bit of luck she’ll be talking softly.”
He presses the arrow to begin play and music emanates from his phone:
“When you rise in the morning sun, I feel you touch me in the pouring rain…” a woman sings along badly and loudly.
All eyes are upon the gentleman who now feels embarrassed.
“I’m sorry,” he looks around apologetically, “it’s my wife in Australia – on the karaoke.”
He begins to turn down the volume on his phone when he is stopped by the lady next to him:
“Oh don’t turn it down, we can hardly hear – please turn it up.”
“Yes, do turn it up,” agreed the man opposite and some people over on the other side of the aisle.
And that is how the passengers on a particular carriage of the 6.15 train to Belmont were thus treated, firstly, to a rendition of “How Deep is Your Love”, which was followed – between Whaddon and West Croyden – by “I Got to Get a Message to You” (it was a Bee Gees’ CD). Apparently, they all loved it and were smiling and tapping their feet. Chris, and his fellow passengers, got the message alright; and in a matter of two days I shall be joining him and our dear friends Barbara and John in Belmont. If you’re on my Qantas flight tomorrow night, don’t worry – I shan’t be singing love songs badly… not unless you ask for an encore.
(If you’re a Bee Gees aficionado you will recognise that “How Deep is Your Love” doesn’t begin with “When you rise in the morning sun..” – at least not in the official lyrics (below) but they were the actual words on the screen! Nevertheless, the new words made a kind of sense as I rose in the morning sun of Australia while Chris was in the pouring rain and cold of England. The photograph of windy Belmont Station at 6.30am and 4 degrees makes the point.)
“How Deep Is Your Love”Â
I know your eyes in the morning sun
I feel you touch me in the pouring rain
And the moment that you wander far from me
I wanna feel you in my arms again
I feel you touch me in the pouring rain
And the moment that you wander far from me
I wanna feel you in my arms again
And you come to me on a summer breeze
Keep me warm in your love and then softly leave
And it’s me you need to show
How Deep Is Your Love
How deep is your love, How deep is your love
I really need to learn
‘Cause we’re living in a world of fools
Breaking us down
When they all should let us be
We belong to you and me
I believe in you
You know the door to my very soul
You’re the light in my deepest darkest hour
You’re my saviour when I fall
And you may not think
I care for you
When you know down inside
That I really do
And it’s me you need to show
How Deep Is Your Love
How deep is your love, How deep is your love
I really need to learn
‘Cause we’re living in a world of fools
Breaking us down
When they all should let us be
We belong to you and me
And you come to me on a summer breeze
Keep me warm in your love and then softly leave
And it’s me you need to show
How Deep Is Your Love
How deep is your love, How deep is your love
I really need to learn
‘Cause we’re living in a world of fools
Breaking us down
When they all should let us be
We belong to you and me
[Repeat fading out]
Love is in the Air on Australia Day
In spite of the lack of sunshine yesterday it was quite evident that everyone, tourist or local, loved to be at Southbank, Brisbane, on Australia Day.
In the Bag
“That lady looks jolly attractive in her hat and Australian flag draped around her,” I thought to myself.
I rather wished that I had thought of something special to wear, it being Australia Day, but I hadn’t planned on going out today at all – not until I had a phone call from our friend Roland last evening. And even then I had no idea that we would be going to the West End and South Bank, which is where we were when I saw the cute elderly lady in her patriotic outfit on the seat. As I drew nearer to the lady I noticed something else unusual about her – she had the same white crocheted shoulder bag as I have (and which I had with me at the time).
“I like your bag ,” I said, making her look up. “It’s exactly the same as mine!”
She looked at my bag and smiled.
“Where did you get yours from?” she asked.
“Oh, my Mum gave it to me years ago – maybe twenty years or more – and I think she probably acquired it from a charity shop. It’s my favourite bag. When it gets dirty I just bleach it and wash it and it always comes up as good as new.”
“I do the same,” she said nodding, “and mine came from South Africa over twenty years ago!”
The nice lady with excellent taste let Roland take a photograph or two of us together. I was going to sit beside her on the bench but the seat was wet so she suggested we stand… I hasten to add that I am not over six feet tall and three feet wide – by my reckoning the lady was a petite four feet seven or eight!
Still on the subject of bags, Archer the cat (the elder of my charges here at Charis’s house – I’m house-sitting) joined me while I was painting on the verandah yesterday afternoon. Admittedly, the outside settee had rather a lot of my art equipment resting on it and you might have thought that a furry cat would prefer to lay on the cold concrete on such a hot day… but no, Archer fancied the black shopping bag that normally holds all my paintbrushes! He looked so sweet I had to stop painting and take photos. And there was another coincidence this morning… Whilst waiting for the lights to change at a road crossing in West End, Brisbane, I saw another animal in a bag, this time a darling little dog in a mauve bag suspended from a woman’s neck.
That’s it for now – my blog post is “in the bag”.
Must Thai Harder!
We had been forgotten and, for an hour or more, nobody noticed that our order hadn’t been taken yet. We didn’t mind too much – neither did the couple on the table next to us. We alfresco diners thought it was rather comical and had a nice chat about everything under the sun (although it was evening – and then night!); some of the inside diners had left in a huff so we felt obliged to keep our end up and remain cheerful (it helped that some of us were a bit merry already… from the “stubbies” bought at the bottle-shop across the road!).
At last someone remembered our order and four spring rolls appeared just within the subsequent hour. The spring rolls were accompanied by a sweet-chilli sauce and a small salad garnish on the side. By now hungry, we made short work of the delicious crispy (and small) rolls and, fearful that it might be another sixty minutes before the main courses arrived, we turned our attention to the side salad. A piece of red pepper or tomato (I wasn’t sure which) had fallen off the plate and onto the tablecloth. I picked it up and returned it to the plate, realising as I did so that it wasn’t red pepper or tomato…
But it was something red – even redder than the embarrassment showing on my face… The red thing was – can you guess? – it was a…a…a bottle top. I know, I know… yet again, I should’ve gone to Specsavers !
Everything red is good for you!
Especially what was under it!