In case you’re wondering, I’m the “very old” bricklayer – or re-pointer, to be exact. Yesterday a charming modern “Princess” of nearly seven years old told me that someone said I looked “very old”, not just old but VERY old. Oddly enough, just a few minutes prior to the unwarranted revelation, I had felt great out riding on my bike, and not at all old. Now I don’t normally take too much notice of what seven-years-olds say, especially with regard to ages because everyone over the age of ten looks old to them, but I was surprised that none of the adults in the room took her to task and it was left to me to tell the child that she had been tactless and insensitive. Hey, I must be really old because I still believe that children should be taught about such old-fashioned notions as social graces and respect for one’s elders. If I feel somewhat alien I can guess how bizarre the modern world seems to people of my Mum’s age – it must be terrible.

Anyway, this morning I was re-pointing our brick wall from the pavement side and I was thinking, “Am I very old?” (and feeling quite down), when our neighbour, Ron, came out from his gate. He waved, smiled and called out, “You’re always so busy”. He was about to get into his car but stopped and came back onto the pavement to say, “Your flowers on the terrace look beautiful, Sally!” I put down my trowel and mortar, and ran up and gave him a kiss (he must have wondered at the perhaps over-zealous response to his kind remark).

A little while later, when the wall was well and truly thick with mortar, a young tradesman came along to the back of his parked van and looked at my efforts.

“Are you any good at re-pointing?” I asked.

“You could buy one of those mortar guns that you use like sealant guns, running a line between the bricks,” he shook his head and smiled.

“It’s not finished yet,” I answered, “it will look okay when I’ve scraped some of it off…”

Some minutes later still (by which time I was scraping merrily away), another neighbour came by. He stopped and stood in the middle of the pavement to observe my workmanship. He rubbed his chin.

“You should have wet the bricks, Sally, – before starting the mortaring,” he said like an expert.

“Oh really, I didn’t know…”

“Didn’t you have a sharp-pointed trowel? You should have used a sharp one,” he said knowledgeably.

“It’s all we had,” I offered, holding up my blunt ended trowel.

“What are you going to use to cut in?” he continued.

I held up a piece of plastic pipe.

“Oh, the bucket-handle approach – that’s what they call it in the trade,” he said like a man who knows the trade.

“Want to help?” I asked.

He chuckled, shook his head and left me to it.

I was washing off the excess (after using the “bucket-handle approach”) when a lady said, “A good job!”, as she kept on walking by (so as not to stop me from my work). How heartening! It was starting to look better.

I was back with a fresh bucket of water and two sponges when another lady walked past and called out admiringly, “A good job, well done!”

The tradesman came back to his van and I asked him, “It’s not too bad – is it?”

“No, it’s alright,” he conceded. (I take it “alright” is a great compliment coming from a tradesman – even if he was a plumber).

At last, while I was admiring my finished section of the wall (I had only enough mortar for one quarter of our wall) a little boy of about three or four came along on his tricycle and stopped about twelve yards from me to wait for his mother and grandmother, who were trailing behind. I asked him…

“Do you want to come and look at my wall? Do you see I’ve been filling in the holes? What do you think?”

The little chap walked his trike down to where I had been working and inspected the wall. He looked at the area of wall that hadn’t been done and came back to look at my finished section. He may have been too young to speak, he may have been too shy to speak, but he nodded his head vigorously and smiled broadly. He made it clear that he thought I’d made a good job of it. I expect he thought I was a very old bricklayer!

Not surprisingly (assuming you read my last blog entry), I, too, wrote about the wonderful “Winter Week-Day Break in Paris” that Mary and I escaped to one February many years ago. After writing my blog yesterday I hooked out my file of old hand-written stories and found an unfinished, ( and much crossed out) story called “The Escape”. Like Mary, I began my account by waking up to the sound of birds on our first morning in Paris – it was magical and just as Mary depicted – and flashed back to the memorable train journey the previous day. Here is a just a section of the short story….

Our journey the day before had begun most promisingly with our excellent seating arrangements on the inter-city train; it was worth the traipse through four carriages to find the right seats – with a table and, even more importantly, facing a rather attractive man in his early forties and dressed for town in a crisp white shirt, tie and grey suit. “I see you like cricket,” I remarked, after some minutes of watching the man as he studiously avoided eye contact by pretending to read his book with a photo of Ian Botham on the cover. He seemed quite surprised to be spoken to but the man smiled when he looked up at the girls on the other side of his table. “Oh… I used to play years ago… before I got this, ” he replied, patting his stomach. I hadn’t noticed until that very moment that, indeed, the man had a small paunch. Suddenly, I felt embarrassed and at a loss for words. I was desperately trying to think of something sympathetic to say when Mary piped up with a touch of indignation in her tone,  “What’s the matter with having a little fat tummy?”  Straight-faced, she paused as if waiting for an answer and then cast her big brown eyes down to her own little bulge. All three of us looked at each other and burst out laughing. Being the younger sibling, and therefore always slightly behind, I very much wished that I had had the quick wit to say it first but I admired Mary all the more because she did have it. We sisters hadn’t lost the knack for making the most of a good train ride, as we used to in our teens, and James, the geologist, remained our happy and attentive travelling companion all the way to Paddington. As in the old days, we parted with an exchange of addresses, not really expecting to see James again (he was probably happily married anyway – the subject didn’t crop up), but content to know that the friendship could have become more than transitory had we so desired.

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Funnily enough, although twenty odd years have elapsed since I wrote that, I recognise myself in my writing and realise that I haven’t changed. I hope that’s not such a bad thing!

Today I am happy and relieved for my “Innocent Flirt…” book has been reviewed by Create-Space and gets the thumbs-up. Hooray! I have ordered the proof copy and if that looks okay my book will be available in paperback quite soon! At last, after all the editing, the amendments and cuts, not to mention the misery of staying in for most of the week learning to master Word functions, I can allow myself to feel excited about it.

Would you like to read the composition that my sister wrote many years ago, after our wonderful trip to Paris? She sent it to me in an email two nights ago and I found it so beautiful that it moved me to tears. Mary captures perfectly our first morning together in Paris, not just awakening to the sound of birdsong and the atmosphere of the city, but also the excitement and the special bond between sisters…

This morning I was awakened by birdsong, and I turned to share it with you, but you weren’t there and I felt so lonely.

The birdsong reminded me of Paris. Do you remember?  We had such a beautiful five days there. I don’t think I’ll ever forget that morning. It was very, very early and the birds just sang.  Not the usual chirping, but true birdsong.  It was the birdsong of romance.  The birdsong one can only dream about.

We slipped out of bed and opened the shuttered windows so we could hear it the more. The whole thing was beautiful.  The room was calm, bathed in the soft morning light and we whispered as we revelled in the song and the thrill of being in Paris, such a beautiful city.  A breath of a breeze caught the lace at the window and filtered the sweetest air.

Paris seemed so still then.  All the vivid activity of the city had ceased.  It was as if everyone had stopped to let the birds sing and fill the air with their song.

We lay awake and talked softly and before we realized it, Paris was wide awake, the hum and buzz of the city was beckoning us.

Breakfast was brought to us by a smiling black woman. She greeted us with a beautiful “Bonjour” and we returned her greeting.  How I wished I could speak Francais as well as you.  I really felt as though I belonged in Paris, although normally I don’t have any affection for cities. I don’t know what it is about Paris;  the architecture, the river, the beautiful bridges, the language or the Parisians themselves.

Do you remember when we bought the scarves from that tiny shop at Tuileries?  I can just see the girl now carefully gift wrapping our inexpensive presents.  It’s strange how such a simple task as buying a scarf can remain so vivid a picture.

And the fun we had at Montmartre, buying all those sexy French swimsuits –we bought six  and it was February!  I honestly don’t think it would be the same if we went again.

Those few days with you were magic. I wish I was artistic and could recall those memories in a beautiful way. If only, I could just write well. I was so very happy those few days.  I’ll always treasure those memories. Thank you for coming with me.

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I think Mary can write – don’t you?

Last night I had a very compelling dream , so engrossing and bewildering that I couldn’t rouse myself from it and it seemed that I had been dreaming it all night long; now I’ve awoken much later than usual and I’m still thinking about the dream and what it means. I haven’t even had breakfast yet (such as my breakfasts are). I took a shower, dressed and came straight out to the studio and my computer because I’m afraid I’ll forget it if I don’t write it down soon.

I dreamt that I was walking along the river beach at Teignmouth (three miles from Dawlish and to where my family first came to live from Australia). The skies were dark and foreboding as if it was evening but the beach was crowded with strangers to me; yet I wasn’t alone, I carried a smiling baby of about six months. It wasn’t my son, James, or the twinkles in my eyes that never made it, but my baby brother, Robert, and I was carrying him as a child does, with my arms crossed around in front of him and his arms over mine. I walked past shops (that don’t really exist on the river beach) that had lights on inside and each time I tried to enter one the light went out and the shop was closed. I lost “Robbie” and searched to no avail for what seemed hours…

Suddenly, I wasn’t on the beach any more, I was at Mary’s (my sister) watching a video of myself on the river beach and the sun had come out. I was so relieved that I hadn’t lost Robert after all. I tried to wake up but the video kept going… and my eyes were transfixed.  And I wasn’t alone at Mary’s place – a roomful of people watched with me as my life as a beach-babe unfolded. Every time a new boy came on the scene someone would ask, “Who’s that, Sally?” or “Oh Sally, was he your boyfriend too?” or “I don’t like the look of him!” I wanted to wakeup. I couldn’t wake up… At last the sun appeared behind the bedroom curtains and brought me back to reality.

Now that I’ve written it down it doesn’t seem so bad and I understand it all. Robert sounded a bit down when he sent me an email a couple of days ago, and when he was a small boy, much adored by his elder sisters, he had said that coming to England was  “like the lights goes out”. Before closing down my computer last night I found that Mary had sent me a beautiful piece of writing, which she had written years ago after our special Paris trip together (that had similarly inspired me to write an essay). Admittedly, I went to bed with a bad headache (after all my book printing frustrations during the day), it was late, and much later still when sleep came to me eventually. Yes, of course, my book – very soon about to become available in hard copy!  Many aspects of my life before you – out there – impossible to take back… What a nightmare!

Sometimes I wish I was more technologically minded. If only that were so I might have finished publishing my “Innocent Flirt” book on Amazon’s Create-space Publishing (paperbacks) days ago. Instead, I’m labouring over the simplest of tasks (probably) because I’m so unaccustomed to all the ins-and-outs of resizing, trimming etc…. which is vital to get right or everyone will see at a glance that I’m a rank amateur. My head reels and my brow furrows as every day I plod on in the night and have to give up until the morning. I seem to be going at a snail’s pace… which reminds me…..

Yesterday morning, while Chris and I had our cup of tea in bed, we watched a snail climbing up the handrail of our outside steps; it was a perilous and arduous uphill climb for the snail, especially as it was wet and slippery (the snail must have had to use its body as a sucker). Sadly for the creature it was heading in the wrong direction for food – the summit was nothing more than a bare, slippery round finial – and it seemed to sense that something about his “snail nav” had gone amiss. He turned veered off to the right – no, that looked dangerous , he turned to the left – equally as frightening, so he persisted up to the post upon which held the finial. Bang! He hit the post and I could no longer bear to watch his suffering.

I ran (in only my panties and night vest) outside in the rain and helped the snail onto the summit. Was he happy? Well, didn’t appear to be very happy. He recoiled! And then he was definitely unhappy when he fell off onto to quarry tiles – oops! I picked him up and put him back (more carefully this time) and he played dead for a few minutes before setting off back down the wooden mountain.

To be honest with you, I’m really not at all fond of the slimy, plant-murdering blighters so I had no qualms about sending him down to the railway line below (to meet some of his friends) but I missed and he landed on the grass. In a way I was glad that I was such a poor shot. What I really wanted to say is that, if perchance you happened to be on either of the trains going by our place yesterday morning and you looked up and saw a strange woman wearing only a vest and pants, out in the rain, photographing a handrail, well you were wrong – I was photographing the snail!

What’s so strange about that? I know at least two other snail hunters.

!

Firstly, a good night’s sleep has changed my mindset and on reflection I have decided not to tell you about the trials and tribulations of yesterday just yet. Think I’ll let the grass grow a bit before telling you the story of an injustice that has befallen a wonderful person who is very dear to me. In truth, the story is still in the making and highly likely to have a happy conclusion so it should be worth the wait.

Talking of grass growing, as you can see by today’s heading, I feel that I’m growing as a person (well I wouldn’t be growing as a cat!). Now usually, when I awake in the morning and glance at my naked reflection in the full-length mirror on my way to the chest of drawers, I think, “Oh my goodness, do I really look like that?” It is so disappointing to realise that my efforts at dieting, no matter how half-hearted, do not seem to be paying off. Of course, it isn’t a very nice mirror, not like the one at the end of the passage leading to the lounge-room (which cheers me up no end when I come upstairs from the bedroom!). Anyway, the reason I feel that I’m growing (in the good sense) is that when I saw my reflection today I didn’t experience the usual dismay, instead I surprised myself by thinking “You look firm and smooth”. It suddenly occurred to me that my skin had filled out rather pleasantly and that perhaps my body is now the size it should be and definitely wants to be.

Recently, I saw an interesting television programme, “The Men Who Made Us Thin”, which revealed that the concept of “ideal weights” was first conjured up by an American insurance assessor back in the Forties or Fifties (?). Apparently, overnight millions of normal-sized Americans became labelled as overweight and the fantastically lucrative diet industry was spawned. The idea spread across the Western World  and ever since we’ve been dieting, a circumstance which the body hates and as a result we yo-yo but end up getting fatter – well, most of us.

I feel so much better since I saw that programme. It’s a great relief, not only to shed the burden of guilt for feeling hungry, but also to consider that I may not be as overweight as I had suspected.

Lunchtime is approaching. Chris has gone down to the town. Before he left he asked me if I wanted anything “delicious and naughty?” brought back.  Naughty? “Shall I have some fish and chips?” I asked myself. No way, my new mantra (“The Dukan dinner makes you thinner….”) is now firmly embedded, surprisingly, as are the guilt feelings of a life-time. “No thanks,” I told Chris. After all, it appears that although I have grown I haven’t  grown quite as much as I had hoped – groan! Excuse me while I grab some salad from the fridge and admire my legs in the flattering mirror at the end of the passage.

It has been an odd day, full of anxiety and highs and lows, but as the day draws to a close I’m happy. It’s too late, and I’m a little too tired, to go into it on my blog tonight but I shall reveal all tomorrow if you don’t mind. Luckily, I can nearly always seem to call upon interesting snippets or poems (as in this case) to amuse my readership – at least I hope that you are amused or entertained! This morning I received this poem from one of the poets amongst you. Isn’t it a joy to hear that people are in love?

IN LOVE!

 You always used to tell me “Go shopping, it’s the place to meet and greet,
Well I went shopping yesterday and I must say it worked a treat.
The vegetable area was first in line as to me they should be first in the trolley,
There’s no point of putting a cream cake in first, that’s stupid and utter folly.

The meat was next, followed by the bread and, of course, the eggs on top,
For I’m not only a good looking 61 year old – I actually do know how to shop!
Detergent, toothpaste, soap as well, you know the stuff you use every day,
Sorry if I’m boring you but I’m leading up to what I have to say.

I turned the corner and, lo and behold, a beautiful sight did meet my eyes,
My chest started heaving, I could feel my pulse, and I could even hear my sighs.
What is that in front of me, begging me hither and to stay for a while?
I don’t know how to say this my dear, but I’m in love with the confectionery aisle!

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How cruel to write of the confectionery aisle when I would so dearly love a nice line of rich dark chocolate at this very moment! I had a sliver of pork tenderloin and a few mushrooms a short while ago and now I’m thinking how good it would be to round off my mean little meal with something sweet. I must recite my new mantra – “A delicious Dukan dinner makes you thinner, while pud’s for Billy Bunter make thighs like thunder!” It’s a rather long mantra, which makes it hard to sink in.

Back to the subject of love, when I entered our lounge-room this morning I found Andy and Flea having an innocent cuddle in an armchair (see photo). I think they really are in love – well I didn’t put them there. I also have a feeling that my sister, Mary, wondered where her reading glasses got to yesterday….

If it seemed a little quiet from my end this weekend you can guarantee there were plenty of things going on. It will soon be midnight, by which time I hope to be in bed. Goodnight wherever you are and I’ll catch you tomorrow.

One of my blog readers, who signs himself as “a country bumpkin”, kindly sent me this joke in response to my earlier blog posts…

A young bull and an old bull were on the top of the hill overlooking their herd of
bovine beauties grazing in the valley below.
The young bull said ” I think we should run down there and make love to some of
those good looking heifers?”
The old bull said ” Take it easy son, we’ll walk down there and make love to the lot!”

As you can see from my photographs this morning, swans sleep in Cockwood Harbour when the tide is in. I’m no ‘swanologist’ but I have never seen so many sleeping swans before, which may not be such a surprise because the tide is usually out when I cycle to Cockwood (yes, I know the tide can’t buck nature and it must come in twice a day, just not normally when I’m there!).

Whilst we were watching the sleeping swans a train intruded upon the peaceful scene and the sun broke through the clouds, suddenly it was a nice sunny morning and the swans roused themselves from their sleep.One even swam over to wish me a good day, or was it to look for breakfast? Unfortunately for the swan, he soon discovered that I held my mobile phone in my hand and not a scrumptious piece of pink bread and he swam off rather disappointed. Next time I’ll try to remember to bring some bread from the freezer (we’re not eating bread at the moment – not officially anyway – still dieting, but not very wholeheartedly).