Why is it that we (I) crave mostly for sweet or unctuous food? Do the cravings come from our needy bodies or our brains, which maybe require their ‘fix’ for happiness, often several times a day? As you may know by now, I am nearly always on a diet – I’m just not particularly successful because at some point in any day, perhaps if I have forgotten to eat at the right time, I succomb to my cravings.

This morning I opened the cereal cupboard, took one look at the packet of whole grain porridge, had a mental picture of yesterday’s breakfast, and closed the cupboard door. Next I went to the refrigerator for inspiration; Actimel yogurt drink, Polish sausage and cherry tomatoes didn’t do it for me, and there was no point in looking any further (I knew what was in the vegetable drawer). I opened the tinned food cupboard door and scanned the six tins of tomatoes, the four tins of baked beans, the Argentinian corned beef, the  Lidl’s chicken tikka, the jar of pasta sauce and then I stopped… at the “Ambrosia Rice Pudding”…. For breakfast? No, that’s what I thought too and I shut the door.

Back in the cereal cupboard, I eyed up all the serious cereal options – the rice flakes, bran flakes and oat groats – before pinching a handful of dry (but unctuous) “Crunchy Nut Caramel Bites” (with nuts); unfortunately the packet was nearly empty and was soon down to the layer of small pieces and sugar dust and I withdrew my hand in dis-dust – well you have to draw a line somewhere. I settled for a plain omelette cooked in my new non-stick pan which works with barely a drop of olive oil. It wasn’t very unctuous or satisfying and I keep thinking about the caramel dust and the creamy rice pudding lurking in the cupboards… ( And to think I believed there to be nothing nice to tempt in the house.) But no, I shall fight those cravings. It might be an idea to get on with some work!

Before I set to it I’ll give you a snippet of the conversation at breakfast (nothing is sacred nowadays). I picked up a nectarine from the fruitbowl nearest me and was surprised to find that it hadn’t ripened in the five days since it had sat there. I passed it to Chris and asked…

“Would you mind putting this in with the banana? Apparently bananas are supposed to help ripen other fruit – aren’t they?”

“That’s right, they emit…,” answered Chris as he placed the rock (still love that word) hard fruit beside a solitary banana in the fruitbowl beside him (we  are a two fruitbowl family – we have gone up in the world!).

“… some kind of gas?” I interjected.

“Like the rest of us!” Chris ejaculated.

The river beach at Teignmouth just a couple of months ago. It all looks rather timeless to me.

Having just read the “Mail” online news update on the supermarket siege in Nairobi, and seen the shocking photographs, does it seem trite to want to write about literature when there are so many terrible things going on in the world? I hope not, rather, it might be a healthy distraction. In any case, Dickens’ “A Tale of Two Cities” is anything but trite, and remains as fresh, exciting and thought provoking as it must have been when it was first published in Dickens’ literary periodical between April 1859 and November 1859 (in 31 weekly instalments). With my bookworm club meeting next Sunday fast approaching, I regret not starting the book earlier (as suggested by our gorgeous leader, Reuben, who knew I would not manage to finish reading it in a last day flurry) because I am nowhere near finished. In fact, I am still on book 2, and only at the beginning of that (if truth be known) –  yet 5 years before the beginning of the French Revolution but full of the stirrings of revolt.

I remember reading the book when I was fourteen or fifteen years old, and finding it hard work because of the different style, and my immaturity, of course. Reading it with older but fresh eyes I now see just how brilliant Dickens was. Far from being stilted or old fashioned, as you might imagine, Dickens used modern idioms such as “pretty”, as in ‘pretty good’ – and I’m expecting Madame Defarge to look up from her knitting and say, “He lost his head – cool!”. As ever, his descriptive powers are wonderful and often funny, giving the serious subject light and shade. Here is an early description of the man on horseback who delivered the message “Recalled to life”:

   His message perplexed his mind to that degree that he was fain, several times, to take off his hat to scratch his head. Except on the crown, which was raggedly bald, he had stiff, black hair, standing jaggedly all over it, and growing down hill almost to his broad, blunt nose. It was so like Smith’s work, so much more like the top of a strongly spiked wall than a head of hair, that the best of players at leap-frog might have declined him, as the most dangerous man in the world to go over.

And now an excerpt from the last chapter of the first book, when Miss Manette has come to fetch her estranged father – much changed, unrecognisable and thought dead – who has been freed from his twenty years of captivity in the Bastille for political crimes:

He had sunk in her arms, and his face dropped on her breast: a sight so touching, yet so terrible in the tremendous wrong and suffering which had gone before it, that the two beholders covered their faces.

When the quiet of the garret had been long undisturbed, and his heaving breast and shaken form had long yielded to the calm that must follow all storms – emblem to humanity, of the rest and silence into which the storm called Life must hush at last – they came forward to raise the father and daughter from the ground. He had gradually dropped to the floor, and lay there in a lethargy, worn out. She had nestled down with him, that his head might lie upon her arm; and her hair drooping over him curtained him from the light.

And that is why I find myself in love with Dickens. It has absolutely nothing to do with my own tenuous connection to Dickens, in that, in 1998 I happened to be an “extra” in the mini-series of  “Our Mutual Friend” (reputedly Dickens’ most sophisticated novel, began in 1864 and finished in 1865 after the Staplehurst train crash, during which the manuscript was very nearly lost and his alleged affair with Ellen Ternan was very nearly exposed). My acting role was short and sweet, hardly warranting the great time spent on wardrobe, hair styling and de-make-upping (it was authenticism to the enth degree); and if you are interested to see the younger me, albeit for just a few seconds, I was the maid dressed in black, carrying a tray across the room while the Boffins had a conversation (Mrs Boffins was played by Pam Ferris – and what a charming lady she is – not at all like Miss Trunchbull!).

Now normal “extras” know their place – they aren’t supposed to converse with actors – and they keep apart and chat amongst themselves. In general, the normal “extras” are not quite as interesting as proper actors (though they often think they are) so I was rather grateful that my long hours of waiting on set were filled rather pleasantly by the company of two male actors, one of whom was not especially handsome in his false mutton chop whiskers but he was very witty. We three had become quite chummy during the course of the day – I took some extra pleasure from being told by some more important “extras” than myself that I should not be mingling in such a manner – and my new friends delighted in supporting me against any discrimination whatsoever. This became most evident when the director (a lady) came over to thank my friends for being a part of the production…

First the director went up to the taller, younger actor and kissed him on both his handsome cheeks.

“Oh thank you so much for being here Darling!” she enthused very theatrically.

Then she kissed my dear Muttonchops thoroughly on either side (presumably where the hair was least in evidence) and she gushed again…

“Darling, how marvellous that you are here to be a part of this. Thank you so much! I’m so grateful to you, and totally thrilled Darling!”

Muttonchops was all smiles. Then, being a perfect gentleman, and not wishing me to feel left out or discriminated against, he looked away from her to me and held out his arm in my direction. She was nonplussed for a split second and then the good hearted young woman rallied. She embraced me and kissed me on both cheeks.

“Thank you for coming Darling!” she said convincingly.

“No, thank you for having me,” I answered almost humbly in recognition of the fact that I was merely an “extra” who ought to know her place.

And if you should happen ever to see that wonderful production (it is good – all joking aside) of “Our Mutual Friend” and you notice the maid wearing an extremely wide and authentic maid’s dress (complete with iron ring structures to keep the dress in shape), and you get to wondering how I ever managed to fit in the narrow Portaloos on site; well, I shall tell you – you go in backwards, tilt forwards, then backwards. How do you close the door? Don’t be ridiculous! You just sit there like a queen holding court and you laugh!

Well, not three ships, just one, and it wasn’t a sailing ship, or a ship exactly…  (I’m rather a romantic.) In truth, when Chris and I were in bed this morning we saw just the little red fishing boat that comes from Cockwood Harbour (our favourite cycling destination). The boat was chugging along in the choppy sea outside, and it was very close, as it circled around and the fishermen put out the nets. We see all sorts of fascinating things from our bedrooms here at San Remo Terrace.

I was never one of the popular girls at school, for which reason I used to sneer at them and pretend to enjoy a certain anonymity in being rather average. Secretly, however, I used to wonder what it would be like to be universally admired and feted. How strange then to find now, so many years later, that I am at last popular, especially on the Internet, in the form of unwarranted (by me) emails.

Have you ever wished that you weren’t quite so in demand? I do. The many Viagra offers from Canada (do Canadian’s think that Sally is a man’s name?) go straight into my spam box and get deleted daily in one fell swoop (or click). More tricky to detect are the up to twelve unsolicited emails each day, mostly from Barkin Fiasco (or some such sounding name) somewhere in Africa, asking me to become a trusted business partner so that I may manage and share large amounts of money varying from $2,000,000 – $9,000,0000; you wouldn’t believe how many people have died in car accidents, plane crashes and from sudden diseases without leaving wills… and I am the one person in the world that all the claimants believe they can trust! The trouble with these emails is that they ride in under the respected names of Google Calendar or, as was the case of one today – firedoglake. Firedoglake? Never heard of it? Neither had I.

I have a friend in America with the surname Lake; I wondered if he went off the name Gary recently and during a brainwave decided to call himself “Firedog” (hot diggity dog! Yahoo! Y’old hound dawg you!). As much as I thought it an exciting idea I didn’t really see Gary as Professor Firedog Lake, mild-mannered lecturer in Agriculture from Wisconsin; and I was afraid to open the email in case it contained a “Trojan horse”, so I checked Google for “firedoglake“. FDL, as it is shortened to – probably to look like federal, which would be much more appropriate – is an interesting American news site, a sort of US online version of “Private Eye” magazine, which pokes about for the nitty gritty truth below the surface and treats it with the sarcasm it deserves. The site also has a book salon (not a store or library) – I read a synopsis of “The Vertical Farm” book (farms in skyscrapers – fascinating!) – and for a moment I wondered if a whizzkid from FDL wanted to profile my own book. The notion flitted into my head and straight out again – after all, “The Innocent Flirt Down Under” is no great expose of anything more subversive than my own innocent thoughts whilst visiting Australia (not even America!) a little while ago.

Hence, intrigued but not unduly excited, when I opened the email from firedoglake I was only slightly disappointed to find myself Miss Popularity yet again, this time with a Miss Angie Abdul, who was also Miss-Informed if indeed, she was amiss at all.

The “Pouting Baby” story at FDL, accompanying the email, was much more illuminating and amusing… to the folk who live in Washington and remember what shenanigans Judge Clarence got up to some years ago… I imagine he was very popular at the time but I don’t care because I sneer at popularity.

Do you remember Rocky? I doubt that you could forget Rocky – that is, assuming you have read my book. If you haven’t, well, Rocky was the tall handsome American I met at Heathrow Airport and sat next to on the plane going to Dubai (the first leg of my journey to Brisbane) nearly three years ago. To be honest, it was my gorgeous travelling companion who inspired my first book, “The Innocent Flirt Down Under” (now available in paperback from Amazon.com or amazon.co.uk  – as you may be aware after all my recent plugs). Those of you who are familiar with the Rocky character (and how lucky you would be if you were!) might have wondered if he was pure fantasy or a flight of fancy? Rocky was certainly real and very fanciable but flirtations on planes are perhaps best left up in the air, sadly, especially when one is happily married already. Hence, we kept in touch occasionally by email and became “if only” friends.

Just before Christmas last year I sent Rocky a virtual “JibJab” Christmas card depicting me and family members as a rock group (well, it would have to be a rock group!) playing and singing “Happy Christmas” (Granny Porch looked great as a heavy metal drummer!). The funny thing was that the JibJab account is in Chris’s name so it looked as though the card came from  my husband, and not me. Rocky was so touched by Chris’s kindness that he wrote back thanking Chris. Chris brought in Rocky’s nice email with my morning cup of tea – and was still laughing in the shower half an hour later. I emailed Rocky to tell him about the confusion… and the good laugh we had over it. Rocky didn’t see it as funny, he was just “embarrassed”. Chris felt so sorry for Rock that he wrote back with warm and hearty wishes; Rocky was so overcome by Chris’s good-heartedness that he wrote back that Chris was, “a bigger man” than he was (bearing in mind our romantic history); Chris replied that the only reason he was “a bigger man” was down to all the mince pies he had eaten in the build-up to Christmas!

By Christmas Day the guys were best mates and looking forward to meeting each other when Rocky next comes to England! I don’t mind telling you that I felt a bit sidelined. In fact it has never been quite the same since. Rocky has included his best wishes to Chris in all his emails… and some of the magic has disappeared. The “if only” aspect of our emails now refers only to Rocky’s lack of time for a holiday in Devon. I use the word, “now”, but actually I haven’t heard anything for a few weeks (if only he would write).

About six weeks ago Rocky wrote that he was seeing his first ex-wife (he has three) from 1986. A week later he had got to the kissing stage (nothing more – he didn’t want to rush things), and within a fortnight he wrote again to tell me that he was going to get remarried… Now don’t go thinking there are any sour grapes on my part, he is a lovely man who deserves a good woman and I wish them every happiness.

A couple of weeks ago another handsome admirer/friend, this time in Australia, was introduced to a nice lady and, although it is early days, something is definitely in the air – “I can feel it all around…” Honestly, I’m really happy for them. If only… if only… well… what can I say? Fancy that!

Following the peaceful scene depicted in my blog last night I think I might set your pulses racing with these photos of the waves crashing against our much buffeted seawall on the other side of our property. The unknown (to me) gentleman was at first oblivious of me capturing him on camera from the bottom of our garden on the other side of the railway line, then he heard the tell-tale bleep of my focuser and thereafter posed very stoically as the waves crashed and the water rose up in front of him. I hope he is a reader of my blog… or perhaps, if you happen to recognise him, you could tell him he is the star of my blog today?

Incidentally, I must tell you about a funny little typo I make almost every time I type the word, “today” (as I did a moment ago) – it nearly always appears as “toady” and I laugh to myself because I have another story up my sleeve involving the exploits of a handsome toad based on a real conversation between a couple of toads (but you will have to wait until I write it!).

It was seven-twenty this evening – only ten minutes to get ready – and I thought to myself, “aquacise or a walk by the sea?”

“Want to come for a walk to Coryton Cove with me?” I asked Chris. (His answer would help me make the decision.)

“How lovely! What a good idea!”

That is why, ten minutes later, we were to be seen walking hand-in-hand down past Coastguard Cottages to the seawall, and not up at the Leisure Centre.

What a beautiful evening it was; barely a breeze and not cold at all (we both wore sleeves); the tide was in and the sea was calm and flat; and the moon was full though it wasn’t dark yet. Two fisherman were silhouetted against the sky and I wished I had brought our rod (we have only one between us and I don’t know where it is, but I love the thought of fishing). I wished also that I had brought my mobile phone, which I use mostly as a handy camera. We walked along to the station, where the wooden railway platform juts out overhead and acts as shelter in poor weather; as we did so the flat sea surged forwards and pushed a ton of water into the air. We didn’t get wet but it was close enough to laugh, especially as Chris was on the outside. We passed two girls, laughing themselves, as they took photos of the moon on the water. They smelt of soap, perfume and cigarettes, and I was reminded of being fifteen again.

We passed another fisherman – he had caught twelve fish – who said that the mackerel were right in shore in great numbers. (If only I knew where that little rod was.) The farther on we walked, the more fisherfolk there were, and the darker it got, and suddenly we were aware of the lights from cars and trains and houses; and everything looked so pretty and welcoming.

At the end of our seawall, at Coryton Cove, a solitary black man took photographs of the moon on the sea, just where the reflections were interrupted very artistically by a rock shaped like a whale’s back. I told him that I wished I had brought my camera and the man commiserated with me, but not too much because he could see we were in love with the evening anyway. Some more fisherfolk fished off the beach.

It seemed that we all  all drifted back towards Dawlish together – a fisherman and his wife who were looking forward to eating their fresh mackerel tomorrow, the photographer who spoke in soft tones, perhaps to his wife or girlfriend, on his mobile phone, and Chris and me. We held hands, and every so often, we stopped to kiss (just a peck) and hug because it was that kind of perfect evening, and I guess that we felt like the holiday-makers do when they come to Dawlish for the first time and think how beautiful it is. The wonderful thing was that there were not too many people about, enough to feel the pleasantness of company and few enough to feel that the night was ours almost exclusively.

Imagine my surprise when I jumped on the scales this morning and found that I had lost nearly a pound. I was so thrilled that I’ve been thinking about it all day. What was it? How can it be? After all, I didn’t do any exercise at all yesterday – the bad weather prevented me from stepping outside the front door – therefore the miraculous loss (well, it is so hard to lose anything!) must be down to diet…

Yesterday morning I had half a bowl of own-brand bran flakes for breakfast, nothing too different there then because I always have bran flakes or porridge when I’m being good… For lunch I had that nasty dry tuna – in fake mayonnaise – with lettuce and watercress that I told you about in my blog (and very vile it was , which was why I told you about it). Could my weightloss be down to that awful tuna and watercress salad? I hope not. I was going to have some of the leftovers for lunch today but I couldn’t bring myself to go through with it when I opened the lid of the container in the fridge, and I made a prawn and crab stick salad instead. Oh, please God that it wasn’t the tuna that did the trick… But I digress…

No, I believe the secret to my overnight success was down to half a portion of fish and chips for dinner (chris and I shared it – we both want to lose weight). I could cope with a diet of fish and chips -what a pleasant way to lose weight!  Tonight we’re having a healthy stir fry and if the scales are not kind in the morning I shall know for sure that the secret is small fish and chips… or horrible tuna and watercress. If the latter turns out to be the secret I’m happy to share it with you, and I wish you every success, but I will wait until I’ve gained more weight before I resort to such desperate measures.

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This morning Chris and I took advantage of the sunshine and went for a cycle ride (as you do on good days); nothing unusual about that, you might think and you would be right. The unusual thing was seeing a horse coming along our cycle-track – well, why not?  All and sundry have taken to using our purpose-built cycle-track, so, by all means, bring on the horses. It’s so English here – very “fair play”.

Chris was still thinking like a car driver so he pulled in to the edge of the path by the fence, in order to let the horse pass by (without being scared out of his wits by a bicycle – the horse, not Chris, naturally). I stopped to take a photo of the rare sight of a horse on the cycle-track, and I sent it to Facebook, little realising that my niece’s husband, Zoli (in Australia) would see the funny side of it and turn Chris into the star of scene. So here it is, the odd sight of Chris on a motorbike going into a fence while a horse, as calm as you like, advances towards us… Thank you Zoltan. You are a true artist, which is why I shall not be offering to pay for the right to use your work on my blog!