“He really loves you,” said my neighbours, Karen and Colleen, in unison, laughing and smiling.

“I guess so,” I laughed with them, “you probably think I’ve trained him well – but I haven’t – it’s just his nature.”

“We’ll be standing in line if ever you don’t want him,” Colleen said cheerily in her Irish brogue and her sky-blue eyes twinkled.

“That’s for sure,” added Karen in her down to earth Scottish accent. (We are very cosmopolitan here in Dawlish.)

“It would be a long line,” I joked, but I might as well have said, “You could be waiting for a very long time because I’m not ready to part with him yet.” (Even less so with two attractive women waiting in line!)

I’m certain you could not imagine what Chris did to spark all this banter so I had better tell you. It wasn’t anything particularly earth-shattering or tremendously exciting; actually, I might have found it slightly embarrassing had the ladies not been so charmed. Well, perhaps I ought to go back to twenty minutes or so before the incident, in order to put you in the picture…

Chris and I were in the car driving down into Dawlish town: Chris was dropping me off with a slimming lunch I had prepared for my sister, who was making alterations in her holiday flat (where we had all been a little earlier), and Chris was going on to the Post Office.

“Shall I pick you up from here on my way home?” Chris asked.

“No, that’s alright, Darling, I need the exercise so I’ll  drop this in to Mary and walk back.”

“But you haven’t got your coat on…”

“I’ll be okay. It’s not raining. I’ll walk fast,” I assured him.

I was walking home a short time later when I noticed two of my lovely neighbours chatting and laughing on the pavement beside the zebra crossing only about fifty yards from our house. Naturally, I stopped to pass the time of day and discuss the health of all the older neighbours, planning applications, holiday arrangements, unusual events and illnesses – all the things that neighbours talk about as winter approaches. We were on the subject of Colleen’s suspected case of shingles (which turned out to be an allergy to a bracelet of poor quality) when who should come along in his car but Chris? He beeped the horn and waved.  Because of my close proximity to home I was not surprised that Chris didn’t stop to give me a lift and we all waved as he went on by slowly.

The conversation had moved on to urine infections when, out of the corner of my eye, I caught sight of Chris walking on the pavement on the other side of the road. Colleen and Karen followed the direction of my gaze; we could see clearly that he carried something pink over his left arm (no, it wasn’t a hand bag – don’t be facetious!). I knew what it was. They knew what it was. That’s when my neighbours drooled and said, “He really loves you.”  Shortly, Chris crossed the road and held out my coat for me to slip my arms inside.

“Thank you, but you didn’t have to do that – I’m nearly home.”

“The wind has come up and I didn’t want you to get cold,” Chris said, suddenly aware that he was in the spotlight.

“We’re waiting in the long line… if Sally doesn’t want you any more,” said the good-looking divorcee and the merry widow.

We all  laughed, but as everyone knows, “there’s many a true word said in jest…”

You may think I meant to say that I give as good as I get, but you would be wrong: what I really mean is that, at this very moment, I’m as good as I can get… considering certain facts, like being of a particular age, having no make-up on, losing my tan, wearing tired clothes and still needing to diet. Perhaps you are thinking now, “As good as she can get – what a braggart!”  Incidentally, Brad Pitt (my hero) said, “Where I come from we don’t talk about what we do – we just do it. If we talk about it, it’s seen as bragging.” Therefore, I had better explain…

Brad tweeted also, “Before you go and criticize others, make sure you take a good look in the mirror first.” Well, I can honestly say I had no idea of criticizing anybody this morning when I looked in the mirror, least of all myself; nevertheless, I made observations, some of which I do not intend to brag about. What struck me most was how dark and drab my hair looked; my last haircut had done away with nearly all of the evidence of my time in Australia earlier this year followed by a sunny English summer and I suddenly felt the time had come to resort to streaking (no, not running around naked – I did that the other morning!).

Have you ever bought a home-streaking kit? If you have, you will know that the look of natural fair highlights is achieved by wearing a cute little plastic cap (something like the bed cap worn by Red Riding Hood’s grandma, except made of see through plastic) and, using  a crochet hook, pulling strands of hair through the tiny holes that you have already pierced in the cap.

Chris very kindly agreed to help me, otherwise the streaks would not look natural because they would be just around my face and not at the back where I can’t see or reach. After twenty minutes of hunting around the house for another crochet hook (I do the ones at the front to reduce the time of the laborious task) I sat down at the kitchen table and put on the plastic cap and my glasses; I looked in the mirror and laughed – I looked bald! Luckily, Chris didn’t see me from that unflattering, full-on in the magnified side of the mirror pose – he stood behind me and looked down on my bald pate instead.

“Remember to come in at an angle,” I urged, remembering other occasions.

“I’ve done it before,” he answered tetchily.

Chris penetrated the first hole from a ninety degree angle, rather than the forty-five degree angle I was hoping for, and he pulled a strand, consisting of two longs hairs, from the very top of my head; the strand had been battened down by the snugly fitting plastic cap and was unwilling to give in to the relentless pulling of the hook. “No pain, no gain,” I thought (did Brad say that too?) and I bore the agony without even a whimper as the thin strand made its arrival into the open world. Only another fifty or more to go! The second attempt was better – thicker but shorter and nearer the surface – almost no pain. The third was sharp and quick.

“Ouch!” I cried out.

“What’s the matter?”

“Can’t you be more sensitive?”

“Anyone would think I haven’t done this before!” Chris said. (He’s always been a bit ham-fisted.)

“No pain, no gain,” I told myself over and over. I tried to stifle my cries, sometimes successfully, other times unsuccessfully… At one point, after a lunge of the hook at a horizontal angle (thus arriving at, and pulling the hair from an unintended location), I screamed and jumped at the same time; Chris was so taken aback that he jumped too. Through the mirror I could see from the look on his face that he wanted to throw down the hook and walk out; I nearly told him to throw down the hook and walk out, but I didn’t and he didn’t – we’re stoical like that (hope that isn’t bragging).

Truthfully, it did not get any better, in fact it got worse. You see, the more strands of hair there are poking through the holes, the more likely it is that when the hook goes in again it will pull out the clumps from other holes – one comes up and another disappears, like magic. Chris found it quite entertaining whilst I found it agonizing. Chris pulled, I screamed, and he jumped. Occasionally, knots were dragged to the surface, thought better of, and left in a matted mass by the hole. And so it went on until we were satisfied that enough hair protruded on the outside of the cap.

At length it was done and I appeared to be practically bald but with funny limp strands of hair sprouting at odd angles. If you happened to see “Robin Hood, Prince of Thieves” starring Kevin Costner, well, I looked like the ancient oracle played by Geraldine McEwan!

So now, some time later, with my streaked hair in long golden curls reminiscent of sunshine, I feel less dreary and wintry; this is as good as I get, considering all the other factors I mentioned earlier. That isn’t bragging – is it?

By the way, isn’t it funny how the words, dilapidation and depilation are so similar?

That’s Brad Pitt and not William Pitt the elder or William Pitt the younger – I’m not that old! Both the latter were British prime ministers in the eighteenth century, and, undoubtedly, would have been proud to read my title, but disappointed to learn that I actually mean Brad Pitt! If I admit to following Brad Pitt on Twitter does that mean I’m a twit or a wise owl – to…wit, to…woo?

For reasons unbeknown to me I seem to be on a list of followers of various celebrities on Twitter; there is Lord Sugar (not personal enough for my liking – too much business talk) and Fernando Alonso, my favourite, photography-loving Formula1 racing driver (even if he is too young for me – and I’m married); someone called Jo-Jo (no idea who he/she is); and the actors, George Clooney and Brad Pitt (introduced to me through George’s twitterings).

If seeing is believing, then George Clooney is a great fan of Brad Pitt’s tweets, and vice versa; Brad advises his adherents to follow George too – it’s all so chummy and lovely. They are both something of modern day philosophers. And the best thing about being an adoring follower of the celebrities is that you may reply if you want to. When George wrote, “People need to learn that Respect isn’t just given because of who you are or what title you hold. – It’s earned!”, I didn’t have anything to add. However, when he wrote, “Sometimes the only thing you can do, is just nod and smile,” I felt impelled to reply, “You just made me nod and smile!“.  As an afterthought I added, “My mother would make you nod and smile!” (Well she would – you should meet her – she’s very like the grandmother in Giles Cartoons). I thought George would appreciate someone writing back to him – I don’t know if I’m the only person who has bothered…maybe. I thought it would show due respect, on account of him being a famous film star and not unattractive.

The other day my husband Chris was a bit jealous because I sent out a blog post asking Brad to come to my book club; well, as it happens, I wasn’t a special follower of Brad at that time so he may not have even seen my invitation, anyway, he didn’t respond or turn up. Chris said that I would probably have been “bored with Brad after a few minutes” but I don’t think so, not after reading his tweets. In June Brad wrote, “Real men like curves. Dogs like bones.” That made me simper, especially as I’ve been a little down recently after several unsuccessful attempts (every day) at dieting. It would have been churlish of me to reply that Angelina was a bit skinny, so I didn’t.

The tweet, “If you can not make time for her. She will start making herself available for someone who can make time for her,” caught my eye and I replied, “In your case, Brad, the woman would have to be mad! Like your tweets.” (Well, you have to give encouragement.)

My absolute favourite of Brad’s tweets to date is “WhatIfIToldYou (what if I told you) that you are the last thing on my mind before I go to sleep and the first thing I think about when I wake up?” Naturally, I replied to that one – “I would be very surprised but incredibly happy!”

Would you believe that I’ve become something of a guru myself now? I was “Favourited” within moments of posting my comment and now I fully expect to receive fan mail forthwith. I haven’t responded to my fan, although I appreciate the compliment – I’m rather saving myself for Brad; of course, he hasn’t responded but I imagine he appreciates my little compliments…

Two of my young nephews have had their birthdays this week. Now when I actually remember the children’s birthdays (and I do forget sometimes because there are so many to remember – our family is like a Giles cartoon, if you can remember all those naughty little boys running around) I try to mark their birthdays with a home-made, and therefore unique, card.

James, now twelve, had his birthday first, on Wednesday; he has been making wine this summer so I thought he would appreciate a card depicting his face on the label of a wine bottle. The photograph I used was a little old – his big second teeth were still in the process of coming through, but with a bit of luck he might not have noticed that I used quite such an old photo – he was recognisably the same.

This afternoon I spent about an hour hunting through external hard drives full of children’s photo’s, looking for any up-to-date pictures of John, who has turned fourteen today. John has always been a charming boy, always eager to pose for photographs for his aunty, mainly because he is something of an extrovert and a master in the art of face-pulling – he should be, he has been at it for the past twelve years! Hence the rather long, and not entirely successful search for nice photo’s. I fancied I would Photoshop his face onto the body of “Superman” (now that he is becoming more manly) and I would wish him a “Super” birthday.

I downloaded some Superman images from the Internet and tried to find photo’s of John in the right position and reasonable angle to fit the downloaded images. Sadly the photo’s most suitable to fit were four and five years old, and they were all of John wearing his strangest, pose for aunty Sally, expressions. His tongue poked out in one, he looked Chinese in another; therefore, he was Superman with his tongue poking out as he was flying, or Superman smiling weirdly whilst flying, or Superman standing boldly with his tongue out, or  a Chinese Superman standing boldly. “I can’t turn any of those into a Superman card,” I thought, “I know, (I had a flash of inspiration) I’ll use the Superman image with the smallest head so that nobody will notice John’s extraordinary expression!”

That’s what I did and I think the card looks great even if John’s head looks like a strange nine-year-old plonked on the fully developed Superman body. I printed some of the “duds”, which I popped in an envelope marked “Private and Confidential” and wrote, “No-one need ever see these photos if you give me back the enclosed tenner!” Happily, John took the tenner so I’m under no obligation to keep the photographs to myself!

If it is true that we are what we eat (as I’ve read somewhere), does it therefore follow that we are also what we wear? I certainly hope not! I can assure you that I am nothing like those nasty grey trousers you may have seen me wearing yesterday afternoon when I was re-pointing the brick wall by the road.

I’m afraid the trousers in question were bought on impulse from our local Lidl’s store about three weeks ago. In fact, I nearly bought the same trousers the week before but thought better of it. In justification, I must tell you that the strange impulse to purchase those nasty grey trousers was not based at all on their aesthetic merits, it owed everything to the matter of sizing and size; you see they were a medium and they looked as if they would fit me.

I don’t know what came over me on that particular day; I remember taking them out of their cellophane wrapper and holding them up for inspection; I observed the dark grey with some apprehension (grey is not my colour) but dismissed my objections as they would be on my lower half and could be teamed up with brighter, less draining colours. The material was an odd Lycra-mixture that stretched and didn’t require ironing, yet the trousers had over-sewn creases running down the middle of each front panel. I held them up to me and wondered if they would look better on. “Do they look a tad ‘old-ladyish’?” I asked myself. “Not with you in them,” a part of me answered quite convincingly.

A week later I tried the nasty grey trousers on for the first time. They fitted a treat (I was right about something). However, none of my pretty tops or jumpers matched or could redeem the matronly effect they produced, and I decided I would not be seen dead wearing them in the public’s eye; they would have to be restricted to wearing at home – Chris wouldn’t mind. A couple of mornings later I tried them on again and asked Chris what he thought. He looked at me for an excessively long time before answering, “Well, they fit alright, they’re okay…” The way he said it implied “comfy but ugly, wear them if you must, but I wouldn’t touch them with a barge pole!” They went back into the chest of drawers.

Yesterday afternoon I decided to do a bit of mortaring on our brick wall by the front gate. It was cold and windy and I wondered what to wear… What better than to don those nasty trousers, which wouldn’t matter if mortar got on them? So I spent twenty minutes trying to find something old, warm, but not too ugly to go with them. I settled for an orange and white striped long-sleeved top and put a thicker orange cardigan on top; it didn’t look very nice so I put on an apron over the top. My charming outfit was later enhanced when my neighbour, Ron, brought out a navy blue baseball cap for me to wear – to keep the hair out of my eyes.

Unfortunately, it is school half-term holidays this week and, despite the cold and damp, scores of holiday-makers and families with children were out and about, seemingly all of whom wanted to pass by our stretch of pavement while I was trying to re-point the wall. Some people stopped to chat – a plumber going into our next door neighbours’ place thought I had “done it before” (which I had, three months ago, but hadn’t finished the job); a young man of about twenty-four was on holiday from the South Coast and imagined we must have great views of the sea; an older lady thought I was doing “a grand job!” (people are nice); and a family of five on bicycles rang their bells to make me move my bucket and give them room to pass without the need for them to dismount.

“This is footpath, not a bicycle track; the bicycle track ends down there”, I said, removing my bucket and my bottom.

I was feeling somewhat miffed at having to move my gear when it was they who should have got off their bikes and walked past me. A pedestrian coming from the other way agreed with me.

“They do it on the seawall too,” he said.

“No-one would mind if they got off,” I said. (I like to ride along the seawall too.)

The cyclists didn’t utter a word of apology, they just scowled. I read their thoughts. I bet they were thinking, “What a nasty woman, in her funny baseball cap and nasty grey trousers…!”

This joke just came in from Barry in Australia.

CAPTAIN SMITHERS

To be perfectly honest with you, I do not normally speak to people on the phone when I am wearing only my birthday suit; in fact, I was just dashing by Chris in the passage, on my way to the bathroom, when Chris stopped me and handed me the telephone. Incidentally, I really was ‘dashing by’, rather than sauntering or sashaying by, sexily or otherwise, because all my efforts at dieting recently have been to no avail and I’m feeling a little coy about showing my ample figure naked, except as a flash of womanly voluptuousness as I dash past to the shower. Hence, when Chris stopped me in my tracks and handed me the static telephone, mouthing the words, “It’s Mary”, I felt quite unprepared, both to speak in the nude to my sister, and to stand in the one spot for long enough for Chris to take in the sight.

Happily for me, Chris found the cordless phone and passed it to me. Now able to move and converse at the same time, I went hurriedly into the bathroom and grabbed a towel, which I held up to my chest with my free hand and kept in place either side by clamping it under my armpits. In this fashion I walked back into the kitchen and stood at the far end, in the doorway to the corridor, and opposite Chris, who was leaning against the kitchen worktops. In this manner I talked to Mary for about ten minutes while Chris stayed put drinking his coffee. When the call had finished I returned to the bathroom.

I was getting into the shower when Chris, laughing and smiling, appeared by the open door.

“What’s so funny?” I asked.

“Well, you know when you stood in the doorway/”

“Yes?”

“And you thought the towel was covering your modesty?”

“Yes?” I was starting to get the picture.

“Well, I could see you naked from behind in the mirror at the end of the passage, and because you weren’t aware of what I could observe, you stood there so naturally. That’s why I stayed listening to your conversation. You looked like the seventies poster of the girl tennis player with no panties on.”

I had to laugh. Maybe my pose was similar… There endeth the similarity. Surely? I’m feeling so chubby at the moment. Rubens would have loved me (that is Rubens the Flemish painter, not to be confused with Reuben, our handsome bookworm leader!) Luckily that particular mirror is highly flattering – it’s the one I’ve mentioned  to you before on my blog (the type everyone should have to make them feel good!). Now I’m not complaining if my husband chooses to see me in such a wonderful light. But of course, I have to take into account that this compliment comes from the man who remarked suddenly the other morning, while we were sat in bed talking over our cups of tea –

“I love your little tummy!”

“Really?” I asked, looking down at my tummy, “You must like Buddha!”

Thank you for sending me this joke, Robert.

 
Handy Woman

A young blonde girl in her late teens, wanting to earn some extra money for the summer, decided to hire herself out as a “handy woman” and started canvassing a nearby well-to-do neighbourhood.

She went to the front door of the first house and asked the owner if he had any odd jobs for her to do.

“Well, I guess I could use somebody to paint the porch” he said. “How much will you charge me?”

Delighted, the girl quickly responded, “How about £50?”

The man agreed and told her that the paint, brushes and everything she would need were in the garage.

The man’s wife, hearing the conversation, said to her husband, “Does she realize that our porch goes ALL the way around the house?”

“That’s a bit cynical, isn’t it?” he responded.

The wife replied, “You’re right. I guess I’m starting to believe all those dumb blonde jokes.”

A few hours later the blonde came to the door to collect her money..

“You’re finished already??” the startled husband asked.

“Yes,” the blonde replied, “and I even had paint left over so I gave it two coats.”

Impressed, the man reached into his pocket for the £50 and handed it to her along with a £10 tip.

“Thank you,” the blonde said, “And, by the way, it’s not a Porch, it’s an Audi.”

A strange little dog appeared on the rocks at Babbacombe, near Torquay, at the weekend….

We had book club yesterday afternoon. Luckily, I had managed to read 65 pages of the 1,200 page tome so I could enter the conversation to some small degree. Surprisingly, two bookworms had actually finished the book and the rest of us  bestowed them with the admiration they deserved for such a feat of determination. Unfortunately, none of my desired Hollywood celebrity guests were able to make it to swell the numbers of our little book club.

“Why didn’t you ask Goldie Hawn along?” all the chaps asked a bit shirtily.

“Too many women already,” I answered.

They could see my point and I think they felt slightly chuffed that I was quite so territorial.

But that’s not what I wish to tell you about this evening; I really want to tell you about my funny day. I can sum it up for you with an extract from an email I sent a little earlier to our handsome book club leader. This is part of my response to his question, “What have you been up to today?”