It has gone seven-thirty in the evening and I haven’t even written my blog post yet; I’ve been out since breakfast time and came in  just a few minutes ago. It has been such an emotional and busy day that I have not given any thought whatsoever to my subject for today (or tonight), until now.

Now I’m here at my desk considering what to write about? I could tell you that it’s cold and wet outside; we noticed a yellow road sign with “flood” printed on it as we entered our hometown of Dawlish – “What flood?” Chris and I both thought – and then we drove through the floodwater. It has been raining hard for two to three hours – the drains can’t handle sudden downpours. But no, I’m going to write about the state of our drains in Dawlish. Besides, it feels quite cosy indoors, now that the curtains are drawn and the heating is on. The sound of the rain falling onto the roof above me out here in the studio is pleasant and reminds me of childhood, in the early days when we lived in a flat-roofed little wooden house in the bush in Australia. Everyone knows that flat roofs have a tendency to leak – ours was no exception. The heavy drips of rain that leaked through the holes made different metallic notes as they landed  in saucepans, enamel basins and enamel bowls, and lulled us to sleep in spite of the unharmonious sound; even so we managed to feel cosy inside while it raged outside and the roads flooded, and our low-lying back garden flooded. Those were the days, not necessarily the good old days, but we loved canoeing in the garden and catching yabbies (shellfish like prawns) in the streams at the sides of the roads.

My world is so different now; nowadays “cosy” is how I feel when I ditch the Summer duvet for the cuddly Winter one. It seems so inconsequential. The rain has stopped, the flooding down the town centre will soon abate; no children here will miss school for days, or perhaps a week, because they are trapped at home by floods; and maybe they wouldn’t even recognise what cosy means because they have never known anything different. Funnily enough, I don’t feel cosy any more, just hot; my studio is very well insulated, the heating is still on and I feel stifled. I can hardly breathe. I’d love to run out in the rain with all my clothes on, like we did when I was a kid…

As a matter of fact I wasn’t all by myself, I was in bed with Chris at the time. It was six-thirty in the morning and Chris, who is an early riser (much earlier than me), got completely undressed and came back to bed. The curtains were closed, and it was still dark outside, so Chris turned on the globe lamp with the romantic soft light.

“Want some music?” he asked.

“Yes please,” I answered.

I knew which CD he would put on; it had to be “Ride Like the Wind”, a compilation of love songs from the eighties and nineties, which was given to me as a keepsake by my nephew, William.

I snuggled up to Chris under the duvet during “I Would do Anything for You” and he let me warm my cold feet on his hot legs; we kissed our way through “I Wanna Kiss You all Over; we didn’t speak at all for the entire duration of “Only Words” although I may have hummed along in harmony from time to time. Before we knew it, the strains of the second movement of Rachmaninoff’s Piano Concerto No.2 were upon us and Eric Carmen poured his heart out over and over, crescendo after crescendo, and after a while we were back to the  quiet part, the repeat of the first half of the first verse – “When I was young, I never needed anyone, And making love was just for fun…” when I suddenly sang out mournfully the next line –

He was so sweet, so faithful, so reticent, so reluctant and so adamant that I didn’t push my luck, and left without giving the gorgeous boy even a pat; but I waved and called my goodbye to his master, down on the mud.

It rained all night last night, or so it seemed to me, for every time I awoke it was raining, and I could hear the waves crashing and pounding the shore and seawall below our house built into the cliff. At eight o’clock this morning, when I awoke for real, I asked Chris not to draw open the curtains on the day – I knew it would be grey and I could not face it straight away. Instead, I just wanted to snuggle up in bed and prolong my hibernation. Chris was fully dressed already, which was why he lay on top of the covers and I didn’t get a cuddle; he put out his hand and stroked my arm but I was in a funny position and found the weight of his arm, dragging on my chest, too heavy.

We remained in bed for another hour and a half; it wasn’t so much a sleep-in, or even a “love-in” (not with swathes of bedlinen and Chris’s full quota of day clothes between our willing but difficult to get at bodies); rather, we had a pleasant “talk-in” about everything under the sun, had there been any sun, which there wasn’t because the room was still dark from the dark grey of the world behind the bedroom windows, but it was nice because, cocooned in the darkness, we felt remote from the greyness that lay in wait (not to be confused with the lightness you feel at a Weight-Watchers’ meeting when you weigh in late – sorry). At length, when we had exhausted our conversation about trolls (the darkness seems to inspire such topics), the telephone rang like an alarm bell telling us we should rouse ourselves from our “pastoral turpitude” (well, that may be a bit over-the-top but we do feel slovenly if we stay in bed for more than an hour after waking). Chris took the call but it was for me; still in only my figure-hugging little vest (you know I have put on a few pounds recently!) and sexy red bikini panties, I ran upstairs, not because the call was secret – reception is poor at the bottom of the house.

It was Belinda, the secretary from the Havana Club, booking in my free talk on painting for December, and I asked her to kindly call to remind me nearer the time because I don’t have a calendar for next year yet.

“I’ll bring along a few paintings and invite the members to ask questions,” I said,”that will help maintain their interest and keep them awake” (I’ve talked to the Havana Club before).

“Oh, they’ll still fall asleep!” Belinda laughed.

“Well, I had better get dressed now, Belinda.”

“Sorry to call before you were up…” her voice showed surprise.

“Not at all, I meant that I’m up – been up for ages actually – but I’m still in my pyjamas, that’s all,” I answered, thinking on my feet. (For some strange reason I didn’t want her to have a mental picture of me, in my little white vest and red panties, standing there talking to her. And it had more to do with my dignity than her sexual orientation, of which, admittedly, I am unsure.)

A minute or two later I hot-footed it back downstairs to the cool blackness of the bedroom; Chris was fast asleep on top of the bed. I drew back the curtains to expose the grey of the day and Chris pretended that he had not fallen asleep. The rain lashed at the window panes.

“I guess you want me to get up?” he said with glint in his eye, while the other one roamed my semi-naked body.

“Yes please,” I said playfully, whilst stripping off my top. “You know what I really want – don’t you?”

“I believe I do,”  answered Chris, as he stood up from the bed.

He walked over to me, put his arms around me, and quite out of the blue, he spanked me on the bottom.

“You want to go for a walk in the rain- don’t you? You naughty girl!”

And should you be interested, I had my way. We dressed for the Arctic winds and rain, and before leaving I popped my mobile phone in my pocket – just in case there were any big waves worth photographing. Down on the seawall it was so grey and miserable that I had my doubts about finding anything worthwhile to photograph; but, before long, something magical happened; patches of blue appeared in the sky, and within ten minutes it was a beautiful sunshiny day. Here are some of the photos! Incidentally, the lady in red (dressed also for the rain and cold) is my Mum’s friend, Fran, who thought her children might enjoy to see her on my blog; and the little dog is simply there because he looks cute.

On second thoughts…

You do not want to trip up on the groynes!

To be honest with you, I used to be a little scared of trolls; not the trolls of fairy tales – that lie in wait under bridges for unsuspecting tasty goats to come along – no, I’m talking about the new breed of modern trolls who lie in wait behind their computer screens, who troll through the Internet for opportunities to assert themselves in stealthy ways that will cause damage to others without the injured parties knowing their attackers, or why they were attacked. Oddly enough, for one so fresh to the world of the Internet, I’ve had cause to wonder at what motivates trolls because I was actually subject to a bit of wicked trolling myself earlier this year. In my case the only conclusion I could draw was that the two female trolls,who wrote almost identical nasty things, and who both came from my own hometown, must have had personal reasons for being so horrible. Inexplicably, they left their names, which meant nothing to me… at the time.

My advice to those with a hankering to become a troll would be: do not troll when you have to leave your real name as your calling card, especially when you live in the same small town, and you can be found on Facebook. And yet, one of my trolls was perhaps not quite so stupid because there happens to be another woman in our town with the same name; apparently (according to my allies – the forces of good), the older one of that name is an important middle-aged lady, involved in the local theatre and charity groups; the other is a working mother; and I do not know either of them personally, as far as I know. My intuition told me that the troll was more likely to be the older lady but I couldn’t be certain, and why? Did her husband (whoever he was) have a soft spot for me? All these months later, though the hurtful comments are no longer foremost in my mind, I still ponder occasionally on the true identity of my second troll.

Funnily enough, Jane, one of our local ‘movers and shakers’, called me last week and asked if I would give a forty-minute talk at the Havana Club (for old folk). Being a professional artist, and therefore a minor celebrity within a three-mile radius of Dawlish, I’m on the list of ‘approachables’ on the talking circuit. Having agreed to do my bit for the Havana Club, it was then suggested that I should telephone another lady who would be able to book me into a convenient slot; that lady’s name was – you guessed it – the name of my troll! Of course, the woman in question may not have been my troll; nevertheless, I found all manner of excuses for myself not to call her. At last, after a full week of mulling over what I should say and how I should say it, I decided I could leave it no later – the bull had to be taken by the horns – and I phoned her.

“Hello, is that ******** ********* (possibly Mrs Troll)? This is…ah… Sally porch. (I forced myself to smile because people can tell if you’re smiling or not when you talk on the phone.) I’m calling about the talk I’ve been asked to give the Havana Club.”

“Oh yes, Sally, Jane told me to expect a call,” she said in a fairly friendly way, as if she knew me. “You’re charging £30 – aren’t you?”

“That’s right.” (I had agreed with Jane on the figure of £30, on the basis that it was half the highest amount the club usually pays its speakers.)

“The club might be closing down soon through lack of funding, so Jane said she would put a tenner in the kitty,” said the likely Mrs Troll.

“Oh, that won’t be necessary, let’s call it twenty pounds.”

“Thank you,” said the probable Mrs Troll, “I’ll get Agatha to call you and arrange a time – I don’t deal with the bookings myself.”

When I put down the phone I thought about the matter of my humble fee. Twenty pounds is not a lot on the talking circuit nowadays; if I had to rely upon that for my living I would not have to diet – I would starve. On second thoughts it hit me that actually I would rather starve than have an important woman (or a troll) spread the word about town that I was so mean that I charged the old folk at the Havana twenty pounds for forty minutes of my time (plus the preparation and travel time).

I phoned her back.

“Hello? This is Sally Porch again.”

“Hello Sally!” a man’s voice answered in a smile ( I could tell he liked me), “I’ll just get ***** for you.”

“Hello Sally?” came a surprised voice.

“I’ve been thinking about it and I’ll waive the fee – just thought I’d let you know so you won’t have to fret about it.”

“You don’t have to do that,” said the lady (who might well have been my troll).

“Oh yes I do,” I thought to myself, but I didn’t say that. I smiled as I bade my cheery goodbye and gave no hint of my misgivings as to her possible alter-ego. I felt good. Who’s scared of trolls anyway?

As you can imagine, our family is noted for its good looks!

My helpful friend Gary sent  these thoughts on a subject very relevant to me because he knows that I’m always thinking of ways to speed up my weight loss; judging by the amount of weight I’ve gained latterly, I must spend more time thinking about it than doing it.

 
The Importance of walking

Walking can add minutes to your life. This enables you at 85 years old to spend an
additional 5 months in a nursing home at $4,000 per month.

My grandpa started walking five miles a day when he was 60. Now he’s 97 years old
and we have no idea where the hell he is.

I like long walks, especially when they are taken by people who annoy me.

The only reason I would take up walking is so that I could hear heavy breathing again.

I have to walk early in the morning, before my brain figures out what I’m doing…

I joined a health club last year, spent about 250 bucks. Haven’t lost a pound. Apparently
you have to go there!

Every time I hear the dirty word ‘exercise’, I wash my mouth out with chocolate.

I do have flabby thighs, but fortunately my stomach covers them..

The advantage of exercising every day is so when you die, they’ll say, ‘Well, he looks good – doesn’t he.’

If you are going to try cross-country skiing, start with a small country.

I know I got a lot of exercise the last few years,…… just getting over the hill..

We all get heavier as we get older, because there’s a lot more information in our heads.That’s my story and I’m sticking to it.

 [cid:16A6729151AE40CB98693C600273FCEC@SCOTTPC]

My Chris has been laughing to himself rather a lot In recent weeks, ever since he started searching for Winter let accommodation in Nerja, Southern Spain; and, in particular, when he received replies from Spanish agents and landlords, many of whom speak English in a very unusual but charming dialect.

Take Spiderman Luis for example:

Hello visitor, it is not how he came to this page, welcome.

Are you looking for an apartment or a villa with private pool for your holidays in Nerja? because I had a look at my web. I hope to be able to offer you an interesting accommodation to suit all tastes.

As you know, a picture is worth more A thousand words. i hope that this visit will open to you the appetite and come as soon as possible to My Nerja.

A greeting, Luis.

Another landlord offered a country house:

QUIET HOUSE, nicely decorated, large terrace with barbecue AND FRONT PORCH (I like the sound of that, well I would do with a name like Sally Porch!), just 400m from the beach Playazo, near Nerja MARINE HOTEL AND BUS STOP, IN FULL FIELD SURROUNDED BY TREES AND AVOCADO TO BE THE DELIGHT OF THEIR SALADS.

Delightful! And he could spell “AVOCADO”, which is more than many English greengrocers can do.

And I have left the funniest to last:

Best points about the property:

The apartment this located to little meters of the famous Balcony of Europe in the heat of the heart of Nerja and therefore can arrive at precious beaches located to both sides of the Balcony of so single Europe in 2 minutes walking.

With respect to the floor to as much indicate the amplitude of the bath as of the kitchen as they can observe in fotografias.

Hints and tips from the owner:

See the personal website of the owner

To visit the Caves of Nerja, Granada (and its Alhambra), Malaga, Frigiliana (colourful town located to 6 km), etc…

If you are jovenes (and of course also for but mature), the zone of diversion this close (to 2 minutes of the floor) in the seat Tutti Frutti (Oh Rudy) at which they can arrive leaving the by hand left floor.

If they go towards the right, in a minute, will arrive at Cavana Seat and the Balcony of Europe, precious zone of stroll in where they will find many terraces of summer and as much here as in the streets which they end at the Balcony are abundant bars, restaurants and commerce for all the pleasures. (Sounds irresistible!)

Like reference of which they are located in the heart of Nerja, to indicate that at time of summer, this street of the floor (by the terraces and positions of artesania which they put in the street) along with Antonio street Million (next to seat Tutti Frutti) (Oh Rudy, A whop bop-a-lu a whop bam boo) and Carabeo street they are the 3 streets that are cut to the traffic rolled from the 6 of afternoon and until the 2 in the morning. In summery, that when being in the heart of Nerja, will not need to depend on car and all they will find by hand.

Of course, I can’t talk – literally, I can’t talk; I mean, I can speak French but only in a very literal (and often humorous) translation from English to French; our web-footed neighbours across the Channel can understand me but they giggle and keep me talking so that they can have a good laugh. “Sally, can you please repeat zat again?” they implore me. I say it again, even more ludicrously, and we all crack up. I’ve promised my French buddies that I will learn fifty more French words  before my return to Brittany so that we may have more interesting things to discuss than floors, ceilings, windows (open and shut), cutlery, china, tables, bottles, the weather and l’amour.

Oh dear, I have Little Richard in my head now. Bop bopa-a-lu a whop bam boo
Tutti frutti, oh Rudy…

Several stories in the newspapers this week have struck me as very funny. Take Friday for example; I came across a photograph of a very distressed looking Mrs Lillian Taylor, 88, (living in sheltered accommodation in Clapton) and her seething son, Fred, 65, (of Basildon) with his arms around her. It was little wonder that Fred was so angry because it transpired that poor frail Lillian, who has dementia, was discharged and sent home from hospital to an address where she used to live. Apparently, ambulance staff were greeted at the front door by the current resident, an old gentleman (and a total stranger to Lillian), who was persuaded to let the old lady, wearing her nightdress, into his home and put her into bed – the elderly chap, naturally confused, felt he had no choice but to comply.

Yesterday I read two more madcap real-life stories. One was about a letter sent by Norwich City Council (age unknown) to “The Occupier” of a public lavatory, closed by the council over a decade ago, to enquire if there were any objections to a local store’s application to sell alcohol. The other concerned a florist shop in Blackburn; a council official warned that a wooden ornament of a caterpillar smoking a hookah pipe (as in Alice in Wonderland) could breach the ban on smoking in the workplace. It was also hinted at that the florist, Debbie, 32 years old, might be in charge of “an illegal ‘shisha pipe’ den”(whatever that is).

When I read the articles to my Mum (of advanced years) and my sister (of indeterminate age) – they had called in on their way home from the boot-sale (like a market) at Exeter – they laughed too and then Mary said, “But none of those stories is as funny as what happened to my friend Cheryl.”

“When?” I asked, “Do you mean on Wednesday?”

“Yes, last Wednesday!” Mary said with the excitement of someone who knows that what she is about to impart is going to be really humorous.

Cheryl (age unknown) is an old school friend of ours from Australia. She turned up with her husband in Teignmouth (where Mary lives, 3 miles from Dawlish), on Tuesday night when we were all at the opera, “La Boheme”, and called us on her mobile phone; thus arrangements were made for them to visit Mary the next morning. Chris and I had gone over to Mary’s place to see Cheryl and Rod but no mention had been made of anything strange going on prior to our meeting. It was all rather intriguing.

“What happened?” I asked Mary.

“Well, you know it has been some time since Cheryl came to our house, and she couldn’t quite remember which one in the close was ours. So they knocked on Bab’s house…”

“The lady across the road?”

“That’s right, Robin’s mother, who has dementia and is bedridden. Well, they knocked on the door and someone, I don’t know who – it could have been a carer, at that time in the morning – opened the door…”

According to Mary (I think I shall take over the storytelling now, for ease and clarification), Cheryl was somewhat surprised to see a stranger before her at what she thought was Mary’s front door.

‘Is Mary in?’ Cheryl asked slightly unsure.

“Well we call her Babs but she answers to other names. Sometimes she likes to be called Barbara, or Mitzi, ‘ the person at the door smiled and welcomed the Australian couple inside.

“But we’re looking for Mary…” said Cheryl.

“Oh that’s alright. I think she answers to Mary. Do come inside. Just follow me upstairs to the bedroom – she’s in bed.”

“In bed?” Cheryl asked. (She must have thought that Mary had a very tiring time at the opera the previous night.)

“Oh yes. Babs – Mary – will be so pleased to see you!” said the good hearted person (whoever he or she was).

The person opened the bedroom door and Cheryl and her husband were invited inside to talk to Babs – Mary. Cheryl observed the ninety-two year old lady sat up in bed; she was freshly washed and her white hair was combed nicely, ready for visitors.

“That’s not my old school friend, Mary,” exclaimed Cheryl making to leave.

“Won’t you stay for a nice cup of tea?” asked the person.

Cheryl and Rod declined and ventured across the road to Bab’s – no, Mary’s – house and no-one thought to tell me until today. Sorry if it is slightly old news. And before I go, can anyone tell me why reporters are so fixated by people’s ages?