Author Archives: sallyorpwood@rocketmail.com

A Night of….

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No, not a knight of the realm, or a night of bliss, although there were some blissful bits…

Last night was extremely hot here at Seventeen Mile Rocks (or is it Seventeen Miles Rock? We do have big rocks in Australia!). It was so hot that I couldn’t bear even the white cotton sheet over me. Prolonged physical contact was out of the question; we just lay on the bed and took pleasure in knowing that the other was there. As it was dark, I was sometimes unsure if he was still there, then I would reach out my hand and find him; he responded by stretching out a leg, that I might feel inclined to stroke it… right down to his foot. Luckily for him, I love his foot (just the one – only joking) almost as much as I love my own being stroked and caressed. He, too, made overtures in the darkness; every so often he would prod me gently, massage my knee, or glide an arm over my hip or thigh to confirm that he was with me. Or maybe he wanted to know if I was still awake…

Of course I was awake. The sliding window was open as far as it would go, the blinds were up and the curtains drawn back to allow any slightest breeze the opportunity to pass through into the bedroom, although there wasn’t so much as a wisp of wind last night and the “Crim – safe” insect screens deter the fresh air as well as the criminals. But our sleeplessness owed less to the lack of fresh air, or the light that came in unhindered by thick curtain material, or the intense heat, than to something else outside. Just behind the six-foot wooden side fence was something much worse…

I recognised the bark of the Staffordshire Terrier next door. He’s normally part of the dawn chorus – his falsetto howl, followed by a tenor bark, in discord with the alto  crows (and the kookaburras in the distance laughing about the cacophony) – but for some reason he barked and barked, and barked, without let-up, until the early hours. Sometime just before dawn – I guessed (no clock on the modern fan but a constant blue light informing of the variations in temperature – it was a little cooler at 27c) – even the loving attentions of my bed companion were of little solace to a woman terribly tired and heartily fed-up with the interminable barking. I wondered that no irate neighbours had shouted out into the night air, “Shut the dog up or I will!” (someone would have said that, or worse, years ago when people were not afraid to stand up for their rights).

For a long time I waited. I waited for a man’s voice. I anticipated the threat of a gun or an axe – in the very least, a fist – but nothing came. I stood up and, like a convict, put my face close to the “Crim-screen” and looked out.

“If no-one will do it I will,” I thought.

I took a deep breath and cried out, equally as loud as the dog next door, and with a hint of sarcasm:

“Woof, Woof!”

The shocked dog stopped. Startled Sterling jumped up from the bed for a split second, realised it was just me, and rested his head back on the sheet; he seemed to know I would come back to him. Archer raced into my bedroom, ready for action.

“Come on Archer,” I urged and he followed me to the back door. “Go get him,” I said as he ran off to the fence.

I slid the bedroom window shut, drew the curtains and turned the modern fan on to maximum (it still said 27c). The fan drowned out the barking and shortly the barking stopped, or else I was simply so tired that I went sleep. Now and then I felt a soft paw stretch out to reassure me that he was still there and I responded by caressing one or another of his beautiful feet. In this way Sterling the cat and I had a few hours of blissful sleep.

The Orthologist

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A dear friend of mine, slightly more interested in ornithology than orthology (one’s a bird watcher, the other a word botcher), was having a chat with me on the phone this evening. We were discussing my run in with a bluebottle (Portugeuse Man-of-War) whilst I was up on the Sunshine Coast last week, and the sudden and dramatic onset of anaphylactic shock, which followed quickly after the sting.

“You know,” said my thoughtful friend, “I’ve been thinking about it and you really shouldn’t be without an ‘Epi-pen’ thingy in your last two weeks in Australia. What if you were stung by a wasp? What if something else in the bush stings you and you get emphalactic shock?”

“Anaphylactic shock,” I corrected.

“Well,” he paused, “you may call it that but I spell it differently!”

(On the quiet, I always have to look up the spelling myself!”)

“Round like a Circle in a Spiral, Like a Wheel Within a Wheel”

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I was searching on the table, for a lid I couldn’t feel…

(My own alternative version to the second line to “The Windmills of Your Mind”.)

 

Dinner was over and Bill was the first to spring up and start clearing the table. Seeing that my brother was so helpful I thought I, too, would do my bit. In front of me was a plastic container half filled with corn and my eyes scanned the table for the lid. Not really thinking too hard about it, my hand stretched out to retrieve the lid and, to my surprise, found nothing… but the circular design on the tablecloth!

“I’ve done that before, too,” my sister-in-law Lita laughed.

“The other day I thought the hand cream I used was rather funny and sudsy – it was shampoo!”.

I know, I really “should’ve gone to Specsavers!”

Where is the lid

Where is that lid?

The lid

There you are – behind the coasters!

 

 

 

Apologies to Alan Bergman, Michel Jean Legrand, who wrote the well-known song “Windmills of Your Mind”.

Lyrics

The Windmills Of Your Mind

Round like a circle in a spiral, like a wheel within a wheel
Never ending or beginning on an ever-spinning reel
Like a snowball down a mountain, or a carnival balloon
Like a carousel that’s turning running rings around the moon
Like a clock whose hands are sweeping past the minutes on its face
And the world is like an apple whirling silently in space
Like the circles that you find in the windmills of your mind

Like a tunnel that you follow to a tunnel of its own
Down a hollow to a cavern where the sun has never shone
Like a door that keeps revolving in a half-forgotten dream
Like the ripples from a pebble someone tosses in a stream
Like a clock whose hands are sweeping past the minutes on its face
And the world is like an apple whirling silently in space
Like the circles that you find in the windmills of your mind

Keys that jingle in your pocket, words that jangle in your head
Why did summer go so quickly?
Was it something that you said?
Lovers walk along a shore and leave their footprints in the sand
Was the sound of distant drumming Just the fingers of your hand?

Pictures hanging in a hallway and the fragment of a song
Half-remembered names and faces, but to whom do they belong?
When you knew that it was over were you suddenly aware
That the autumn leaves were turning to the colour of her hair!
Like a circle in a spiral, like a wheel within a wheel
Never ending or beginning on an ever-spinning reel
As the images unwind
Like the circles that you find in the windmills of your mind

Doctor, Doctor!

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“Doctor, doctor, I hurt all over!” complained the attractive blonde.

“Well tell me all about it,” said the doctor, ” and show me where it hurts.”

“Ouch,” she cried as she touched her left calf. “Ahh!” she screamed, prodding her right hip. “Ow, ow, ow,” she woofed, gently pressing a finger against her shoulder.

“It sounds painful,” the doctor commiserated.

“Sure is,” the girl seemed pleased to be taken seriously by the experienced professional. “What on Earth is the matter with me? Do you know?”

“It’s hard to say for certain without giving you an X-ray, my dear, but I’m pretty confident that you have a broken finger…”

~~~~~~~~~~~

 

Did I ever tell you about the time I went to see my lovely doctor about a little problem I was having with my right leg?

“How can I help you Sally?” he asked.

“Well, it’s rather embarrassing,” I began, “and you’ll think I’m imagining things…”

“Try me,” he said, “I’ve heard most things in my time.”

“Okay,” I conceded, “my leg won’t shut up!”

“Very odd,” my doctor stifled a laugh.

“It’s no laughing matter,” I retorted, “just humour me by bending down and listening to my ankle.”

“But Sally….”

“Please Slav…”

So my doctor kneeled down on the floor , which was a bit of an effort seeing as he’s a very tall chap, and he  held my ankle up to his ear. He was about to burst out laughing when my ankle whispered to him:

“Lend us fifty quid!”

“Oh dear,” said my doctor, putting my leg down.

“If you think that’s bad, Slav, just listen to my knee!” I invited.

Still kneeling down, my doctor put his ear close to my knee-cap.

“Lend us a hundred quid!” ordered my knee.

“Dear, dear, dear,” said my doctor tutting, “I’m afraid it’s much worse than I thought originally, Sally. I’m afraid your leg is broke in two places!”

 

 

The Ugly Baby

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Don’t you just love babies? They are all so beautiful – aren’t they? Well, at least their mothers think so. But, naturally, they can’t all be bonny bouncers and winners of baby competitions…

The other day I was taking a bus ride into Brisbane city centre when a lady came on board with her baby. The driver took one look at the babe in arms and pulled a face of revulsion.

“Ugly little bruiser!” said the driver to himself after the lady had walked a few steps down the aisle. All the same, his whisper was audible halfway down the bus to where I was sitting.

The furious woman plonked herself down in the seat just in front of me. The elderly gentleman next to her was a tad deaf and had missed the inadvertent insult.

“Are you alright?” the old man turned to her and adjusted his hearing aid.

“No I’m not. I’ve never been so insulted in my entire life. Why I’d like to give that driver a piece of my mind!” she added.

“Oh dear,” said the old man, “people nowadays think they can get away with anything. Why don’t you go back and give him a good telling off? I’ll hold your monkey for you…”

(Something like a joke in Brisbane’s Courier Mail newspaper a couple of weeks ago.)

 

The Sting

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The sun, on its way down, still sparkled on the breaking waves but the shadows from the trees up on the beach path were inching their way across the sand; soon the long shadows would reach the straggler sun-bathers and send them packing home. The fisherfolk had already arrived, and were still coming – we were coming to join them; Roly had come up to the north coast for the surf fishing and he had arranged to meet a kindly old fisherman called Robert, who had promised to bring along a surf rod for my fishing buddy. There was no way I would be able to cast out beyond the breakers so, after the greetings with Robert and Adele, I took a long beach walk with Chris back in England – on my  mobile phone . Chris enjoys to hear the sea, the wind, and the snippets of conversation as I walk along and meet people with a “Hello” or “Isn’t it beautiful this evening?” We feel like we are together, as if we were strolling along the beach at home on a summer evening.

Every so often I said to Chris:

“Will you wait a minute while I take a photograph? I’ll send it to you and call you back…”

In that way my far away husband sees the same as I do, just a bit delayed; we saw our friend, shorts half wet from the surf and rod in hands; we delighted in seeing a little girl as she ran, ahead of her family, with the wind in the gathers of her pretty red dress; we thrilled at the waves tumbling over my feet and Chris could imagine the sand being drawn from underneath them. Maybe he even saw that last wave, the one that brought in the string – seaweed, I thought – that wound itself around my ankle and wouldn’t shake free.

“I’ve been stung by a bluebottle,” I said.

“I hope you’re not allergic,” Chris wondered.

 

I’m not allergic to jellyfish but a bluebottle isn’t a jellyfish; those small clear sacks aren’t filled with jelly – they are bladders of air that help to keep the tentacles of the Portuguese Man-of-War afloat. I am allergic to a Portuguese Man-of-War (millions of micro-organisms working as one to paralyse and kill). The pain from the sting itself was nothing in comparison to the searing agony that began ten minutes or so after the sting – something akin to molten lead in my bloodstream going up into my thigh, then my groin and abdomen…

The paramedics, Jackie and Ken, left only after the Adrenalin and antihistamines had taken effect and I could move my hands and walk around again – perhaps an hour and a half from the time of the sting. By morning even the swelling had all but disappeared – and by lunchtime there was no sign of the ordeal that had caused so much fear and panic. I went to the shops for a cool down and later… no I didn’t go down to the seas again (“To the lonely sea and the sky”) – I started a painting of Bella the wonderful golden retriever in my book, “Beautiful Bella”. Sadly, she died last June. I’ll finish it tomorrow and show you. It’s good to be alive.

Feels Like a Holiday

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Have you ever been to the Sunshine Coast, Queensland? Have you ever been to my friend Lorelle’s house at Buddina? If your answer to those questions is “No” and “No”, then you should and could – it’s beautiful here and Lorelle does Airbnb so you can book online… just not for the next two weeks because I’m here house-sitting with Stefan, another of Lorelle’s friends, while she is away. A lovely German girl called Katrin is with us for a few days and we’re all doing our own thing.

My “thing” is waking early and going for a long walk or cycle ride along the path that runs parallel, but higher than, the beach; of course it gets hot so I come back for a swim in our pool; then after lunch, what could be nicer than an hour or so spent at Kawana Shopping Centre? Shopping? Well, yes, that too, but the main reason most people go to the shopping centre is for a cool down in wonderfully air conditioned surroundings (one step through the door and we all go “Ah”). You get hot again as soon as you step out and go to the car park so the pool is most welcoming after “shopping”. Then it’s time for another walk along the beach before dinner, and I delight in seeing the happy faces of the people coming off the beach – the swimmers, surfers, kite-flyers and sun bathers – or the families on bikes, or the singletons keeping fit. An added pleasure comes from taking Chris with me on my walks – on the phone!

Tomorrow morning you’ll be able to find me on the calmer estuary side of Point Cartwright – fishing! I guess it sounds like a holiday. What about work? Painting? Writing? Yes, yes, yes, I know. All the gear is out on the verandah waiting… just for a few days while I enjoy feeling like being on holiday.

Last Cast

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“Farewell and adieu unto you Spanish ladies, Farewell and adieu to you ladies of Spain…”

I do so feel like singing that old sea shanty now that I have an affinity with Robert Shaw’s character, Quint, from the film “Jaws”. Oh, and I have plenty of scars to show – not shark attack scars of course, but ones acquired honourably  nevertheless (especially the swimming accident one – 45 minutes to clean up and sew at Southport Hospital many years ago!). Talking of shark attack…

My assistant and I were at the rather innocent sounding Pelican Slipway, Redland Bay, for a spot of fishing (my last for a while as tomorrow I shall be heading up to the Sunshine Coast). Roland had all the luck, catching a fine bream within the first half hour, after changing the bait from old squid (refrozen and thawed twice) to a piece of diced steak. I caught only the sun and, for the most part of three hours, I left my rod standing in the crevice of rocks; never willing to just sit and get bored, I scrambled over the rocks with my mobile phone camera.

Time passed happily enough for me, although my casting out was amateurish in the extreme and I had either to admit defeat by calling upon my aide’s strong arm or make do with short casts… with the tide going out. Apart from the once I made do with my own feeble efforts.

“Time to go, I think,” said Roland. (He had already had his prize.)

“Just one last cast?” I implored, not really thinking that it would be any more successful than the previous attempts.

The last cast was equally as short and disappointing as the many before, however, within moments there was an enormous bite on my line and my heart leapt. It was a big one – I could tell.

“Let it out,” yelled my helper, “then bring him in a bit.”

And so, with such sound advice, I brought Jaws onto the rocks and my seafaring friend fought to hold him long enough for me to take a few photographs. Those mighty jaws made short work of the fishing line and the desperate shark was allowed back into the water, albeit with a nasty big hook still in his mouth.

“Oh… Farewell and adieu unto you Spanish ladies, Farewell and adieu to you ladies of Spain…”

 

Quint’s Song – Farewell and adieu. – YouTube

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GVmeeYwEiQw
May 7, 2011 – Uploaded by Mc Fly

Quint’s Song – Farewell and adieu. …. The best parts of the movie are when Brody, Hooper and Quint go ..

And should you like to hear the whole song, there is another version below.

FAREWELL SPANISH LADIES – A SEA SHANTY – YouTube

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=54JSY9uNceY
Jul 16, 2012 – Uploaded by videoblast

HERE’S TO SWIMIN’ WITH BOW LEGGED WOMEN!