Do you remember the film “Ryan’s Daughter”? If so, do you remember Robert Mitchum wearing long johns in a bedroom scene? (I think he said, “Ah Rosie!”) Chris and I both remember it well but the funny thing is, that when we watched the film together, we were somewhat disappointed to find that the expected scene was missing. We both saw the film in the seventies, independently, of course, (we weren’t together then – I was a small child). We wondered if perhaps a Mary Whitehouse type of person back in the studios had cut the scene to protect future generations of audiences from the sight of a mature Mitchum in long johns? Our film-buff friend and neighbour, Martin, was of no help at all – he couldn’t remember that scene. We are still baffled. If anyone else can recall it we would be pleased and relieved to hear from you. I may be wrong but I think Robert Mitchum’s long johns were red (if that helps).

Anyway, Robert Mitchum’s long johns are only incidental to my story. I really want to tell  you about the chilly weather – it is getting so cold at night now – and my bed attire. Now normally I like to wear as little as possible, without being too alluring, when I go to bed; I hate that feeling of being swathed in pyjamas – they make me feel like a mummy trapped in bandages. I much prefer to wear a nice little vest and a pair of panties, so if there’s a fire I’m ready for action. However, the nights are getting colder, especially so in our bedroom because we sleep on the bottom floor of our house and the central heating doesn’t reach that far.

Dear Chris, he’s so sweet and caring; last Saturday we were shopping at Lidl, the great store that is the same all over Europe and yet it continually surprises one with one-off unusual lines (you never know what extras you’ll find). I was looking at some marvellous gloves designed for use when scraping ice off windscreens, and I was wondering if I would ever use them, when Chris came up to me with something in his hand.

“This is for you,” he said, handing me the stripey item of clothing.

“What is it?” I asked.

“A onesie, to keep you warm at night now that it’s getting chillier,” he seemed pleased that he had found something nice for me.

Last night it was like a fridge downstairs when I went into the bedroom after my shower and my thoughts turned to the grey and white stripey onesie that Chris had given me, and which I hadn’t opened yet. The first thing that I noticed upon pulling it out of the bag was that it was incredibly long and narrow; it was about six-foot long, maybe more, from shoulder to ankle and about one foot wide. Nevertheless I managed to draw up the skinny legs over my own well-formed legs – the material was stretchy – and, believe it or not, the garment fitted a treat… It was almost like a second skin up to the crotch, but being so long, the crotch (which was rather capacious) began half way down my thighs. The arms and torso were perfect and no, in case you’re wondering, the grey and white stripes didn’t make me look like a mummy. On the contrary, I looked like convict who had, mistakenly, been given the long johns of a much taller inmate.

“You look like a convict,” Chris tried to contain his laughter when he came in and found me staring at myself in the mirror.

“Don’t you like it?” I asked.

“I love the convict look,” he answered. (What else could he say?)

He jumped into bed first and I followed.

Pulling back the covers and getting in myself, I turned to Chris and exclaimed:

“Ah Rosie!”

There wasn’t any need to say more – we had both seen Robert Mitchum in that bedroom scene in “Ryan’s Daughter”!

By morning my onsie had taken on my shape, but moreso, and a glance in the full-length mirror informed me that I looked like a big baby wearing a cuddly babygrow.

“You still look like a convict,” Chris laughed.

“An I-con!” I contradicted.

Funnily enough, I slept extraordinarily well in my stripes.

Thanks go to Geoff for this one.

The Exotic Holiday

Just one of the many charming things about Trago Mills (the store that sells almost everything you can think of) is the fact that much of the wild-life walk, flap or waddle at liberty amongst the shoppers and diners outside (not inside the buildings, naturally).

Now I know for certain that peacocks love pasties, pies, sausage-rolls, any pastry, chips, Danish pastries, gingerbread men, Chelsea buns and cream doughnuts – they usually hang about the tables situated near the take-away food shops – but I was hitherto unaware, until yesterday, that they are absolutely crazy about cauliflowers. Perhaps it is because all the former foods are commonplace and freely given by the often already tubby shoppers whilst the latter are forbidden fruit, guarded as they are by watchful greengrocers.

As you can see from the photographs below, I was fascinated to see the antics of the peacock that shunned fattening foods in preference for the healthy diet option. Sadly, I didn’t get the shot of the greengrocer throwing a basin of water over the peacock.

“Why don’t you let him have some of the greenery?” I asked.

“Then they’ll all want some,” the greengrocer replied and went back to his counter.

As I was at a greengrocer’s I would have liked to have responded with, “Is it a case of sour grapes?” but I didn’t because the meaning of “sour grapes” didn’t fit the circumstances – the grocer has cauliflowers coming out of his ears! And anyway, I didn’t want to incur any wrath because I, like the peacock, yearned for one of those nice tempting cauliflowers.

Before returning with my cauliflower to the car I glanced over at the wily wet peacock who had strutted off in disgust after his shower; seeing that the coast was clear, he had turned around and was sauntering back as nonchalantly as possible, for one who craves with a passion.

And we’ve just had a delicious cauliflower cheese for dinner…

The Wrong Doctor

A woman went to her doctor’s surgery. The surgery was so busy that morning that she was unable to make an appointment with her usual doctor and had to see another, younger, male doctor instead.

Four minutes into the consultation (and examination) the lady burst out screaming and, hysterical, she ran down the hallway past the various consultation room doors. Hearing the hullabaloo, her own old doctor opened his door and stopped her in her tracks.

“What’s the problem my dear?” he asked (Australian doctors are very nice like that.)

He led her into another room and sat her down to calm her; and he held the lady’s hand while, in-between sobs she told her story. The kindly older doctor listened intently and, when he had heard enough, he marched down the hallway to where the newly qualified young doctor was writing on a clipboard.

“What is the matter with you?” demanded the old doctor, “That lady is seventy-one years old, has four grown children and seven grandchildren – and you told her she was pregnant?”

The younger doctor continued writing and, without even looking up, said cockily:

“Nevertheless, it cured her of her hiccups!”

The Virgin and the Priest

A mature woman was talking to her priest about her forthcoming wedding.

“Oh Father,” she said, “I’m so nervous.”

“Now dear,” Father O’Riley began, “every bride-to-be is nervous before her wedding, but it’s not to say that this is your first – is it?”

“No Father, this will be my fourth,” she said a little coyly.

“Well, there you go – you’re fourth! – then why you should be so nervous?”

“I hardly know how to tell you Father…” she lowered her eyes.

“For goodness sake, you can tell me anyt’ing. Now why are you so worried?”

“Father, how am I going to tell my new husband that I’m still a virgin?” she appealed.

“A virgin? Are you sure? Child, you’ve been married for many years to t’ree different men; now tell me, how can you still be a virgin?”

“Well Father, I’ll explain. My first husband was a psychologist and all he wanted to do was talk about it; husband number two was in construction – he always said he would ‘get to it tomorrow’; and the third was a gynecologist…”

“Surely…?” interjected the priest.

“All he did was look,” the woman shook her head, “but this time, Father, I’m marrying a lawyer so I am pretty sure that I’m going to get screwed!”

On the way back from Cockwood Harbour this morning I dismounted my bike at the top end of the bridle path – also cycle track and convenient dog-walking path (not too good when there is an excess of dogs or bikes!) – and said my goodbyes to Chris, who had something pressing to do at home (not the ironing); I had other things in mind, other than going to the gym, which I intended to do but just not yet… The gym would wait. The chestnuts, blown down in the recent storms and high winds, would not wait – or so I imagined.

Actually, I was right; no sooner had I parked my bicycle against the fence and kicked open a few prickly chestnut shells than three Orientals, a girl and two men, came along. At first I thought they were walkers only and, rather naively, I began to tell them that the chestnuts within the green prickly shells are good to eat. I don’t think they understood my words – their English was negligible – but it soon became apparent that they had come to the spot for the sole purpose of picking chestnuts; the girl carried a yellow carrier bag and they all began kicking and stamping, just as I was doing, on the green balls strewn over the length, breadth and sides of that section of path through the small wood.

“Are you Chinese?” I asked.

“Yes,” the girl answered when both the men looked to her to respond.

“Do you have chestnuts like these in China?” I inquired, stamping hard on a resistant clump of prickles.

“Yes, same,” she said with a nice smile that compensated for her lack of conversation.

“We the same too,” I said, stamping exaggeratedly like a clown, “Chinese, English, or Australian, we all stamp same way on chestnuts!”

They nodded, laughed and stamped in unison with me.

Quite a few of the chestnuts had not yet reached maturity for the expected shiny brown inner shells were partially white. Now I know that it is a little early for gathering chestnuts but, being an Australian, I’m not exactly an expert so I asked the girl:

“Are white bits okay to eat?” I showed her the two-toned nut in my hand.

“Ah, babies. That good,” she pointed to the brown end first and then to the white end, “that no good.”

“Poison?” I asked.

“No, don’t think so but.. the… the…” and she pulled a face.

“Texture?”

“Ah yes, texture, no good!” she was pleased.

“Floury?”

“Yes, floury,” she confirmed my suspicions.

Like silent movie stars, we carried on with our antics for half an hour or so, stamping and kicking our way down to the beginning of the path, where the fallen chestnuts proved to be less mature. I stayed a little longer at my task than the Chinese threesome, who had walked on, perhaps to the Chinese take-away just down from the corner (I didn’t see because I was too busy stamping).

My bounty stayed in my bicycle basket while I went to the gym, where I rowed for ten minutes on the rowing machines, ran more than three kilometres, at great speed, on the cross-country machines, and pulled weights on a machine designed to hone arm muscles.

At home again a short time later, legs aching a tad (from all the unusual stamping activity), and starving, I had a lunch of roasted chestnuts (not on an open fire – as the song goes). They may have been a bit small but they were delicious; and if, after reading this, you should happen to fancy some yourself, I have a feeling that chestnuts might be on the menu at the Chinese take-away on the corner near the garage – just before the bridle path on the right…

I knew the tide would be out at Cockwood Harbour (it’s the same tide we see from our windows) but it is always a good idea to cycle over to Cockwood on a beautiful sunny morning like today.

I wondered if the Orkney Long-liner had been sold, not that I would know simply by looking at it. Mum said she would buy it for me when her “ship comes in”, which, hopefully, will be before someone else snaps her up. I can see myself on that sweet little twelve-footer… I’d clean her up and paint her – before taking my mum out fishing in her. Ah Cap’n Sally….

Thanks for this joke go to Di (one of my fellow “bookworms”) who didn’t make it to book club yesterday because she is away… maybe on a campsite?