Thanks to Robert I have another joke for you.

 
BEEN GUILTY OF LOOKING AT OTHERS YOUR OWN AGE AND THINKING, SURELY I CAN’T LOOK THAT OLD?

MY NAME IS ALICE SMITH AND I WAS SITTING IN THE WAITING ROOM FOR MY FIRST APPOINTMENT WITH A NEW DENTIST. I NOTICED HIS DENTAL DIPLOMA, WHICH BORE HIS FULL NAME.

SUDDENLY, I REMEMBERED A TALL, HANDSOME, DARK HAIRED BOY WITH THE SAME NAME HAD BEEN IN MY SECONDARY SCHOOL CLASS SOME FORTY-ODD YEARS AGO. COULD HE BE THE SAME GUY THAT I HAD A SECRET CRUSH ON WAY BACK THEN?

UPON SEEING HIM, HOWEVER, I QUICKLY DISCARDED ANY SUCH THOUGHT. THIS BALDING, GREY HAIRED MAN WITH THE DEEPLY LINED FACE WAS FAR TOO OLD TO HAVE BEEN MY CLASSMATE.

AFTER HE EXAMINED MY TEETH, I ASKED HIM IF HE HAD ATTENDED MORGAN PARK SECONDARY SCHOOL .

‘YES, YES I DID. I’M A MORGANNER!’ HE BEAMED WITH PRIDE. 

‘WHEN DID YOU LEAVE TO GO TO COLLEGE?’ I ASKED.

“IN 1965”, HE ANSWERED, “WHY DO YOU ASK?”
‘YOU WERE IN MY CLASS!’ I EXCLAIMED.

HE LOOKED AT ME CLOSELY: 

THEN…THE UGLY, OLD, BALD, WRINKLED, BIG-BOTTOMED, GREY HAIRED…

 DECREPIT…

BASTARD ASKED . . . 
‘WHAT SUBJECT DID YOU TEACH?’

Oddly enough, I felt quite alright wandering around the house naked after my shower this morning; it wasn’t until a little later, when I was trying to decide what to wear, that I became out of sorts. You see, I was born in Australia (in case you didn’t know already), and have never become totally accustomed to having to cover my arms and legs for colder days. I love to be as free as possible in shorts and summer tops, or floaty dresses that weigh next to nothing, but what is one supposed to do when the Arctic winds arrive?  Wool makes me itch, collars up around my neck feel like chokers, heavy trousers make me feel trussed up like a turkey, and tights… I just hate tights!  These cold, shoulder days between the end of Summer and the beginning of Autumn (which, let’s face it, really is Winter nowadays) are the worst because this is the time to ditch the pretty clothes and start to get used to dark colours, straight-jacket materials, studs and zips. How I dread this time of year, and it’s here already.

I didn’t even bother trying on my shorts this morning, it would have been a futile exercise because I was planning on going for a walk along the seafront and I would have looked funny in shorts and sandals, and a coat and scarf. It’s one thing to look a bit arty, and quite another to appear peculiar (and the dividing line is often rather thin, as somebody once told me).

Speaking of thin, that reminds me… those few pounds I’ve put on recently (for no apparent reason – because I’m always dieting and going to Zumba classes etc…) have made an inexplicable difference as to how I feel in my clothes. In my head I thought I would look fairly snazzy wearing my new vermillion jogger trousers (not elasticated at the bottom so they seem like normal trousers) and a matching red and white striped, long-sleeved top – perfect for a walk in the Winter sunshine and the Arctic wind (I could have added a scarf). Admittedly, my skin was still damp from the shower when I tried on the size ten top, so that it clung to my arms and flattened my breasts somewhat; I’m sure the sleeves would have given a bit and made it over my shoulders properly had I put on some talcum powder but, impatient, and irritated by the constraint, I pulled it off quickly. Even a larger, long-sleeved white top felt funny, and that came off yet more quickly than the first (because is wasn’t stuck to me).

“I look better naked,” I said to myself as I observed my chubby, yet cute, reflection in the mirror (well, if nobody else will say it…). Yes, I know you can’t trust mirrors but the one in our bedroom isn’t even the flattering one – you should try the one upstairs – everybody’s favourite.

Having ransacked all my drawers, I settled upon a white Summer top with little puff sleeves and I felt rather grateful that I had rescued  it a few months ago from the bag of throw outs earmarked for the charity shop. I looked in the mirror again. Not too bad, at least the puffed sleeves were feminine, and I would wear a zip-up sweater over the top when I went outside.

I met Chris waiting for me up by the front door.

“Do I look peculiar?” I asked seeking confirmation (as you do).

“No, of course not, you look sweet with your little sleeves… but I preferred you before,” he said with a cheeky smile.

Luckily men aren’t as critical as we women imagine. Now you know why I think  I look best naked.

I had been riding along for a minute or two on my sit up and beg style, not quite, but nearly, new blue bike this morning when I realised that I my choice of riding garb was not altogether suitable; still, it hardly seemed worth going back to change. And it’s always colder when we set off. There are two good reasons why: firstly, because we haven’t had time to build up any steam, and secondly, because Exeter Road is like a wind tunnel!

“I’ll soon warm up when we turn off onto the bridle path,” I thought.

“Wish I’d worn gloves,” Chris complained. (It must have been really cold because Chris hates wearing gloves!)

I nodded. I was too cold to speak.

“This is the Arctic wind that was forecast two days ago – they were right!” Chris said, rather pleased that they had got it right (because I always point out when they get it wrong). I’ve told you before that he has a slight obsession with meteorology.

I nodded again. The air was freezing, my legs were freezing, and my “tiny hand was frozen”, just like Mimi’s in “La Boheme”, except that my hand is normal size.

“This is when drop handlebars are better than the sit up and beg variety,” said Chris when he had caught up and we were two-abreast again.

I’ve never had drop handlebars so I didn’t comment, beside which, I was too busy fighting the wind.

“It will be with us most of the way when we come home, as least we can look forward to that,” Chris must have seen the anguished look on my face as I braved onwards into the biting wind. He was very talkative this morning. I tried to force a smile.

The wind continued to hound and bite us the whole way to Cockwood. As we laboured in low gear down the hill to Dawlish Warren Chris shouted into the wind…

“Just think how it will be on the way back!”

On the way home we could have been fooled into thinking that we were cycling in still air, but for the icy chill, which felt like the hand of Frosty the snowman on our backs.  Had it not been for the wind we would have been warm – it was a beautiful sunny day. Another cyclist, a young man, riding against the wind, stopped on the cyclepath as we passed. and I called out,

“It’s so cold coming from your direction.”

“And it’s windy,” he shouted in a friendly fashion. (Well, he was only young.)

Whilst flying up the last incline I asked Chris why my bike is often referred to as a “sit up and beg” bike (you’ll think me a bit slow but I hadn’t really thought about it before).

“It’s because the relationship between your saddle and the handlebars make you look like a dog begging for food,” Chris answered very patiently (though he must have be thinking I was thick).

“Of course, I forgot,” I said, realising how thick I must have sounded.

We laughed. If he doesn’t know me by now he never will!

Oddly enough, the subject of begging has been very much on my mind ever since we returned from our special night at the opera last Tuesday night. But no, it didn’t have anything to do with “La Boheme”, except perhaps in a tenuous way, owing to the effect of the tragic story (set in the poverty-stricken artists’ quarter of Paris in the early eighteen hundreds) upon the opera-goers as we mostly all returned to the multi-storey car park nearby. For sat on the concrete at the entrance to the car park was a young man dressed in ragged denim; he had a beard and in front of him was the lid of a cardboard shoe-box with only a few small coins inside (looking very paltry); and yet the young chap looked clean and cheerful. He wasn’t drunk or drugged up. He looked at each of us as we went to pass him by and he smiled nicely, and, in a mellifluous Scottish brogue, he wished us a safe journey home.

Beset by feelings of love for my fellow man, and having just shed tears for poor consumptive Mimi who died with her “tiny frozen hands” at last in a warm fur muff, I searched in my purse. It was full of coins of all denominations, but somehow the brown and silver ones looked too small – they matched the ones already on the shoe-box lid – so I found a gold one. It would have seemed patronising to throw the pound coin on the grotty lid on the cold and dirty concrete (and how demeaning for the nice young chap to have to scrabble around for it if it should bounce off!); of course, I placed the coin in the boy’s outstretched hand, and our hands lingered for a moment, making a private connection.

“Thank you so much,” he said sincerely, “goodnight and have a safe trip home”.

My sister, Mary, who followed me, made her connection too; as did the gentleman who came behind us, and the couple after him; and we all smiled and said in our little huddles, “what a nice young man to wish us a safe trip!” It didn’t even feel like begging – it actually felt like he was giving us something… something special enough to make me think of him even now.

It is still a duck week here at our house. By strange coincidence Mary presented this duck to Chris last night – she thought it would look nice in ( I meant on – what a funny typo!) the piano, and it does!

I have wanted to see a real live opera for years, ever since I discovered Joan Sutherland (the best ever soprano, in my humble opinion) and last night was to be my first experience (I know, at my age!); therefore, it was a long awaited special treat. Chris had booked online for our tickets at Bristol’s Colston Hall Theatre; the tickets were for four seats (Mary and Geoff, my sister and her husband, came too), five rows from the front of the stage, as seen on the online virtual theatre screen (which shows you your approximate view).

Imagine our surprise when we arrived and found that Row E was right at the front, next to the orchestra (the orchestra occupied the space where the first four rows once were).

“Oh dear,” I said, “we never would have booked these seats so close to the front.”

“That’s not how it looked on the seating display,” said Chris, a bit vexed (a very rare state of affairs for Chris).

“I can’t sit there,” I complained and looked searchingly at Mary .

“Shall we go and see the manager, Sally?” Mary suggested with a smile.

Of course, our menfolk knew the tale (now Porch family legend) about the occasion when Mary and I went to see “Les Miserables”: we were “in the Gods” (a very good name for those seats that make you feel like you’re looking way down a chimney to a tiny stage at the bottom) and, perhaps not helped by the fact that I was still recovering from meningitis, I felt extremely sick every time I ventured to look down.

“You stay here while I go to see the manager,” Mary had told me.

She returned some minutes later with a jubilant look on her face.

“Quick, rub your makeup off, Sally,” she said, “the manager is going to escort us personally to better seats!”

The second half of “Les Miserables” was wonderful, especially as viewed from our new seats.

Back at Colston Hall, our men agreed that we girls, with our greater experience in these matters, were the right ones to see the manager. Whilst Mary and I waited for the arrival  of the seating manager we were joined by a man, similarly disconcerted with his seating arrangement, who had overheard our conversation.

“I have a directional hearing problem as a result of meningitis,” I offered.

“And I can’t look up due to vertigo,” said Mary.

“Well I’m claustrophobic,” said the man.

“I quite understand,” I nodded understandingly, “none of us could possibly be expected to remain in those seats!”

We all made the same noises to the seating manager and he quite understood too. Luckily, there were plenty of free seats and we were pleased to be offered four chairs at the back of the first echelon, which was at ground level.

Actually, we were quite pleased but not totally thrilled because we were still rather close to the stage, close enough to lose much of the mystery and magic; so while the singing and the music was marvellous, I was distracted by thoughts about the sets, costumes and even the ages of male performers (not to mention their proportions, which would have suited better an opera about the Romans rather than starving writers and artists in a garret in Paris!). My neck began to ache a little from having to look up constantly at the sur-titles high above us and I glanced over at Mary, who caught my meaning.  Mary and I were keen to make another move, this time further back, to any one of the empty tiers leading off from the  central steps but the men urged us to wait. They didn’t want us the draw attention to ourselves although the auditorium was still dark while the stagehands changed the scenery.

After the first interval we found four excellent seats in the middle, about halfway up the steps, and with so much space that we could comfortably leave an empty chair, for our coats and bags, between we two couples. I noticed the claustrophobic gentleman and his wife had made another move also, as did several others who were likewise sensitive and sensible.

When the lights came onto the stage to reveal snow falling on the Paris street scene I was at last convinced and captivated; and when Rudolpho held little Mimi in his arms before parting from her I didn’t notice that he was quite so portly, or old enough to be her father; and I didn’t have to look up to read the sur-titles; and I was happy. I tore my eyes from the stage only once or twice after that, just to observe the happy faces around me; Mary caught my eye and beamed her approval through her tears…well, “La Boheme” is a beautiful tragedy.

The second half of “La Boheme” was wonderful, almost as I had imagined it would be, all thanks to our wonderful seats…and the Moldova National Opera Company, naturally! Next month “Aida” comes to Torquay…

Firstly, I want to tell you about a funny coincidence this morning. It was a nice sunny day so Chris and I took our bikes over to Cockwood Harbour, which was glorious in the sunshine with the water in, and lovely reflections on the water. I was taking photos of the pretty scene when a man came along and walked down down to the railway bridge over the entrance to the harbour where the boating folk keep their little boats that take them out to their bigger boats; another chap came in on his boat and the pair talked as they changed positions.

Chris joined me as I carried on taking photos and Chris noticed that there was a new sturdy bench at the corner of the path (a favoured spot for people to sit and take in views of the estuary and the harbour). Just as the boatman (who had come in) was passing by us Chris said to me, “Isn’t this a good new new bench, Sally?”

Before I had a chance to turn around and look at the new seat, the man passing by stopped and asked, “Did I hear you talking about the bench?”

“Yes,” we answered a little surprised.

“I made that bench!” said the man laughing.

What a coincidence! And now I must get ready for the opera… Yes, we’re going to a performance of “La Boheme” in Bristol this evening so I had better get my skates on. I’ll tell you all about it tomorrow.

I shall leave you with a joke that arrived in my emails this morning… Thank you Barry!
Old Butch the Rooster:

Do you think about things in the shower? (Things other than your personal hygiene, of course.) I always do, but I don’t know if I’m odd. Usually it’s a case of me continuing my thoughts on a subject I’ve been talking to Chris about over our cups of tea in bed (our main conference area, and the other one is the kitchen table).

In bed this morning we were discussing changed values, altered perceptions of popularity and the need for celebrity, and the lack of modesty which often accompanies the aforementioned topics; in short, we conjectured on the reasons why there seem to be so many self-important people around nowadays. We considered the effects of the media and social networking sites (much as we love them); governments and political correctness (much as we dislike them); and Brussels…(which dictates nearly everything in Europe, and which spreads beyond the Western world, and around the world though the media and social networking sites….).

I was still thinking about the now casual general acceptance of pomposity (in my childhood big-heads were derided) when a memory of Jean Simmons entered my head. Jean Simmons? Who is Jean Simmons (you may be too young to remember or maybe you are not a film buff). According to Chris, one of my old (ex) boyfriends, not my husband, Chris, (I always chose boyfriends called Chris or David – that way you have a fifty-fifty chance of getting it right, as I may have told you before!), anyway OLD Chris used to think that the famous actress, Jean Simmons, was the most beautiful woman who ever lived, and he should have known because he was a film buff! She starred opposite Kirk Douglas in Spartacus.

Now if you’re puzzled as to why I was thinking about Jean Simmons while I was in the shower, pondering on why so many people are full of themselves these days; well, the reason is that, although she was a great Hollywood star, and exquisitely beautiful, she happened also to be a very modest, warm and natural lady. How do I know? How could I possibly know?  Let me explain.

Some years ago, during the early or mid-nineties, I was walking down the Strand in dear old Dawlish and I saw a lady coming out of Boots chemist. She was in her sixties, quite smartly dressed in a black and white check coat and a black hat. I recognised her straight away, perhaps because I’m primarily a portrait artist and observant when it comes to faces, and the rest of Dawlish folk out on the Strand that day just passed her by, not realising that one of the most feted beauties in the world was in their midst. Being an Australian, and therefore not over mindful of our place (because we think we are as good as the next man or woman, whatever his or her status), I approached the lady and said…

“Excuse me, but you are Jean simmons, aren’t you?

She smiled modestly (and charmingly – she had such pretty eyes and a soft mouth).

“Not many people recognise me these days,” she said in a way that let me know she was flattered.

“Perhaps I have an advantage being a portrait artist,” I answered.

“Oh, what’s your name?” she asked with interest.

I told her and pointed my finger in the direction of my gallery on the corner in the distance.

“My old boyfriend thinks you were the most beautiful woman in the world – and I couldn’t argue with him, especially after seeing “Spartacus”, I added.

“Oh, it was such a long time ago,” she said slightly embarrassed.

But her eyes lit up and she smiled like a girl who has heard for the first time that she is beautiful.

“My brother lives in Shaldon,” she changed the subject, “and I’m thinking of buying a house here. Actually, I’m looking for him now. Are you walking my way?”

So we walked together and chatted, and I wondered if she might not get bored with the quiet life in Shaldon; and about ten minutes later I took my leave, wishing her well and thanking her for the little thrill it had been to meet her (we Aussies aren’t completely impervious to certain people).

“It was lovely to meet you, too, Sally. Good luck with your painting,” she said at last, remembering my name.

I must admit that it gave me a great deal of satisfaction that day, knowing that all the townsfolk who passed up and down the Strand, many waving a greeting to me as they passed, had no idea that the pretty older lady with whom I was talking was none other than Jean Simmons. Naturally, it wouldn’t have meant anything to either the very young or non-film buffs. Forgive me if I seem a little immodest in broadcasting this event – just put it down to modern technology… or the urge for celebrity… or a sign of the times…

And, if you’re wondering… no, she didn’t buy a property in Shaldon. I’m afraid she may have thought better of it after our conversation!

How beautiful Dawlish is in the sunshine! It has everything: a pretty Brook lined with trees, wildlife (home to the black swan, not to mention pigeons and seagulls!), architecture, romance, excitement… you name it. Here are some photos taken a little earlier today on my mobile.

How about an aussie joke? This just arrived in my emails – thanks Rob!

A rich man living in Darwin decided that he wanted to throw a party and invited all of his friends and neighbours.

He also invited Colin, the only Aborigine in the neighbourhood. He held the party around the pool in the backyard of his mansion. Everyone was having a good time drinking, dancing, eating from the BBQ and flirting.

At the height of the party, the host said, “I have a three metre, man-eating crocodile in my pool and I’ll give a million dollars to anyone who has the balls to jump in.”

The words were barely out of his mouth when there was a loud splash and everyone turned around and saw Colin in the pool fighting the croc, jabbing the croc in the
eyes with his thumbs, throwing punches, biting the croc on the tail and flipping the croc through the air like some kind of Judo Instructor. The water was churning and
splashing everywhere.

Finally Colin strangled the croc and let it float to the top like a dead fish. Colin then slowly climbed out of the pool. Everybody was just staring at him in disbelief.

The host said, “Well, Colin, I reckon I owe you a million dollars.”

“Nah, you all right boss, I don’t want it,” said Colin.
The rich man said, “Man, I have to give you something. You won the bet. How about half a million bucks then?”

“No thanks… I don’t want it,” answered Colin.

The host said, “Come on, I insist on giving you something. That was amazing. How about a new Porsche and a Rolex and some stock options?’

Again, Colin said “No.” Confused, the rich man asked, “Well Colin, then what do you want?”

Colin said, “I want the bastard who pushed me in!”

There are much worse ways to spend a Saturday than teaching nine talented amateurs how to paint water-lilies in acrylics. I just wish I had been there for one more hour so that I might have finished my painting of Australian water-lilies (slightly different to English ones because they are smaller and stalkier, although they grow conventional ones too). I’ll have to finish it in the week – bet it takes longer to finish it than start it. Here is a photo of the painting so far.

Now I’m going to put my feet up and watch “Strictly Come Dancing”.