I was in the huge Hyperdome shopping mall when I noticed a “Choice” discount shop (one of those shops that sells anything and everything at low prices); in fact I was just about to walk past the store when I had the thought:

“I wonder if they have any pretty (but cheap) serviettes?”

You may think that was a funny thought, but perhaps you aren’t house-sitting like me. If you were, you might realise that a conscientious house-sitter does not use up the owners’ serviettes (or anything else) willy nilly – things must be replaced so that the house will not be denuded by the time they return. I had already used a number of Sue and Glenn’s nice red napkins.

Sure enough, the “Choice” store, my store of choice, had a reasonable range of paper napkins, and all in the fashionable colours to suit the fashionable décor of my temporary abode: the cheapest ones were plain white (around a dollar for one hundred) but there was a choice (of course) – the quality white ones were two dollars for fifty; likewise, the red napkins were two dollars for fifty, as were all the coloured serviettes. Next to the orange ones were some very chic black ones but I reckoned they were too funereal for ordinary dinners (but maybe alright for a charred grill). Beside the black selection (fifty for two dollars and one hundred for three dollars) was the perfect choice for my table – fifty black and white polka dot paper napkins that reminded me of a new top I had bought recently.

Yesterday afternoon my old friend Roland joined me for dinner. The modern white table looked very stylish indeed, dressed in the best red, white and black table mats, shining silverware and sparkling glasses (dishwasher gleam), and the pièce de résistance… the pretty polka dot napkins! And no, I was not wearing my new spotty top to match, however, the tomatoes on top of the cauliflower cheese were colour coordinated with the mats.

“That was a damned fine meal,” said Roland wiping his mouth with the spotty serviette.

“So glad you enjoyed it,” I giggled.

“I haven’t had a home-made cauliflower-cheese in years,” he continued. “The packet cheese sauces don’t compare.”

I looked at his earnest face and I giggled again.

“That’s a strange response,” my friend looked somewhat perplexed.

“Sorry, but you remind me of Desperate Dan – you know, the comic book character!”

I tried to stifle my giggling.

“What do you mean?” he asked with a look of worry across his face, “I had a shave this morning…”

“Are you sure?” I mocked, and burst out laughing, “Go look in the mirror!”

“And, being blond, I have never even had a five o’clock shadow,” Roland came back laughing. (As you can imagine, the black dye had come out of the spotty serviette and gone all around Roland’s mouth.)

I laughed and hooted for considerably longer than he did and I believe he left thinking me a laughing jackass.

Incidentally, please keep this under your hat as I’m planning a few more dinner parties whilst I’m here.

Do you remember the creepy film called “The Stepford Wives”, about a place where all the housewives love housework and cooking; and they wander around looking very beautiful in their strange frilly aprons; and they are crazy about their boring, plain husbands? Well, that’s me (not the last bit though – my Chris is very handsome and interesting), and it is not for the first time in my life, either.

Years ago, when I lived in Shailer Park (not far from here, actually – it must be something in the air), I used to get up at five in the morning, make breakfast and packed lunches, do the washing, hoover all the carpets, sweep and mop every tiled floor, clean the bathrooms, wash the dog (if he would let me) and bake cakes or pastries… all before nine o’clock every single day.

My sister Mary was so impressed with the Stepford wife Sally during her  stay with us that she resolved to do the same when she returned to England.

“I’m going to change my ways and become a Stepford wife, like Sally,” Mary announced to our father.

“I don’t know about Stepford, more like Steptoe”, quipped Dad, dryly. (He was alluding to “Steptoe and Son”, the sitcom about a father and son team of rag and bone men, whose house was chaotic.)

But that was many years ago. This morning I was going to take a cycle ride before beginning work on my current book when it occurred to me that perhaps I should hoover all the floors, mop all the mop-able floors, wash my sheets, clean the bathroom, disinfect every surface, remove every speck of dust, hoover the car, clean the car…  I worked like a slave – the house is quite large – and with an unusual obsessiveness that reminded me of the Shailer Park days. Everything had to be moved, every corner sucked – luckily there is an excellent hoover here (we don’t sweep tiled floors, we suck them) – it runs through the walls of the house! You simply pop the end of your nine-metre hose into one of the holes in the wall and, bingo! The suction is incredible – once or twice the hose became separated from the rod part and sucked me on the arm; I tell you, if I were as skinny as Mia farrow or Victoria Beckham I would have disappeared into the walls forever!

Shall I tell you about modern mops? In case you are old-fashioned, like I used to be, there is a new-age mop that is not made of string or sponge – it is a flat piece of plastic that breaks in the middle so one can fit a special towelling sleeve (dampened) over it, then you press it flat again and, bingo! You are ready to mop the whole house. I only had to wring it out twice, but then again, I didn’t really need to because the house was perfectly clean anyway.

After all my endeavours I had a nice games of darts by myself, before taking another shower and cleaning the bathroom again… You see I find that I have turned into a Stepford wife…

News from home comes from Chris, my weatherman husband on the spot. (I always had a feeling that his great interest, bordering on slight obsession, with meteorology would come in useful one day!)

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Well, we seemed to have survived yet another assault here in the South West – today’s storm tipped the scales at 85 mph, lots of structural damage around the place, but not here on the coast, as it happens.  It’s died down now, but moved on to Wales and the North West, where the News tells us the wind increased to hurricane force – 120 mph on the Lleyn Peninsula in North Wales – and debris flying all over the place in Blackpool and, I dare say, Sykes-land (our friends live in the Lake District).  State of Emergency declared, and unprecedented flood in places that don’t usually flood.  When will it all end?  Not yet, apparently, because we have yet another big storm heading in to hit us here in the South West on the weekend.  Oh what a beautiful morning etc etc.

Anyway, we’re still okay here, I’m glad to say, and tomorrow is expected to be quieter.  I won’t bore you with any more tiresome weather news, Darling, but, of course, it’s all rather on everyone’s mind here in Old Blighty – or was it Old Frighty?!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I didn’t think it was too boring. You can tell he is a closet weatherman though – can’t you?

It was pretty hot after lunch today. The clouds had cleared and the sun was beating down outside. I felt thirsty and went to the special drinks fridge in the garage to get a zero calorie Coke (yes, I’m dieting again, as usual – nothing much to report yet but I live in hope); well I was walking back through the garage to get to the side door when I noticed, for the first time, a cabinet on the wall, which had the name of a pub on it. I was intrigued. “Could there be a dart board enclosed behind those small doors?” I wondered. And there was.

Feeling rather sporty nowadays, after my glorious introduction to cloud-shooting the other day (and yesterday – another arrow in the bucket! But it bounced back out, honestly!) I thought I might try my hand at darts too. There was a blue line on the concrete, which I gathered meant that that was the correct distance for serious gamesters.

At last, after a great deal of trying, unsuccessfully, to fit my size 10 feet (Australian sizing) in the three inches of space between my car and the blue line, I decided that it was not quite the thing to throw darts when on tiptoes. I had to allow myself the advantage of three extra inches over the blue line. Aided by a big gulp of slimming Coke, I composed myself – it felt good to have the can of drink at hand and I could quite understand why darts players are usually armed with a pint of beer (authentic professionals do not worry about slimming, perhaps because added weight gives stability).

So, eventually, I threw the first dart with great force and it hit the board sideways and fell straight down onto the concrete. The second dart dangled by its end for a tantalising few moments before joining the other on the floor. The third fluked a triple nineteen. Bolstered with renewed confidence, I retrieved the darts and tried again. This time I hit a bullseye first off, as you can see from the photograph (no trick photography or cheating), but I soon got bored – no fun playing on your own -and I went cycling instead. My bike, seemingly with a will of its own, sent me in the the direction of the Hyperdome where it is impossible to be bored and I bought another hat for Chris, in case he doesn’t like the other one.

What of work? “Tomorrow is another day…”

Some puns forwarded by my brother, Robert. Well, we all need some pun in life!

         A man’s home is his castle, in a manor of speaking.

Dijon vu – the same mustard as before.

Practice safe eating – always use condiments.

Shotgun wedding – a case of wife or death.

A man needs a mistress just to break the monogamy.

A hangover is the wrath of grapes.

Dancing cheek-to-cheek is really a form of floor play.

Does the name Pavlov ring a bell?

Condoms should be used on every conceivable occasion.

Reading while sunbathing makes you well red.

When two egotists meet, it’s an I for an I.

A bicycle can’t stand on its own because it is two tired.

What’s the definition of a will?
(It’s a dead give away.)

Time flies like an arrow. Fruit flies like a banana.

In democracy your vote counts. In feudalism your count votes.

She was engaged to a boyfriend with a wooden leg but broke it off.

A chicken crossing the road is poultry in motion.

If you don’t pay your exorcist, You get repossessed.

With her marriage, she got a new name and a dress.

The man who fell into an upholstery machine is fully recovered.

You feel stuck with your debt if you can’t budge it.

Every calendar’s days are numbered.

A lot of money is tainted – Taint yours and taint mine.

A boiled egg in the morning is hard to beat.

He had a photographic memory that was never developed.

A midget fortune-teller who escapes from prison is a small medium at large.

Once you’ve seen one shopping centre, you’ve seen a mall.

Bakers trade bread recipes on a knead-to-know basis.

Santa’s helpers are subordinate clauses.

Acupuncture is a jab well done.

“What would you like to do?” Roland asks me. (He is my old boyfriend from years ago – now just a dear friend.)

It is gone four in the afternoon and I have called in on my way home from visiting Ellie at her horse farm (see my blog post entitled “Talking Horse”). Now I am not really one for just sitting about doing nothing, so if a good friend asks me what I would like to do I usually answer honestly.

“Honestly?” I look at him with an expression that says I am hankering to do something more exciting than to sit around having a drink, and I have had enough chit chat, considering I have spent the day talking horse ( not hoarse, of course, of course, of course…).

“I think I know what you want,” he shakes his head but he means yes, “but it’s a bit of an effort….”

“What about using the small one? Won’t that do?”

“Come on then,” he beckons me outside. (I do not need to twist his arm too much because he is very soft-hearted.)

We walk over to the shed and I help him to bring out the special square resin target (with a heart, lungs and liver line- printed in the middle), the smaller bow, a quiver and nine arrows, some of which are different lengths and weights. We normally use the life-size resin deer but I am happy to use any target because I just love archery.

Funnily enough, I find that I miss the resin deer; after all, it is more rewarding to lodge an arrow in a  fake deer’s slender ankle or pretty ear than to hit a line drawing of a lung on a box. It seems that we both feel the same way.

“I’m going to show you a trick now,” Roly announces as he brings out two white plastic paint buckets from the shed and arranges them thirty metres or so from our stick which marks the spot to stand.

He holds the bow and arrow horizontally and aims the arrow up into the sky in the direction of one of the buckets.The idea is to send the arrow at the perfect trajectory to enable it to rise extremely high whilst at the same time progressing forwards to its target, the white bucket. You have to take into account the wind and the height reached. Roland sends off every arrow, soaring very beautifully and landing like slalom poles around the buckets, but not in them.

“I’ve never been able to do it,” he admits, “Of course, it is incredibly hard to achieve, especially with all the variables, like the wind changes, the differences between one type of arrow and another, and the dual considerations of height and distance. I don’t know what the probability of getting an arrow into bucket would be, but it’s not very likely. Let’s see who can get nearest the bucket”.

It is my turn. I take to this cloud shooting lark like a duck to water. I am a tad over-zestful and send one or two arrows precariously close to the neighbour’s property but all is well, the neighbours are taking the wise precaution of staying indoors. One of my arrows falls only twelve hundred centimetres wide of the mark – Roland’s best was not dissimilar – and I am thrilled.

Several goes later, we have collected my friend’s arrows (all wide of their marks) and we are walking back to the starting place stick when I suddenly have a premonition…

“Next time I shall land one in the bucket!”I call out.

Roland laughs.

The first two arrows are the long wooden arrows; I get carried away with the pleasant feeling of my muscles pulling against the string of the bow, and winning; thus both arrows go too far and drop into the boughs of a bordering gum tree. Chastened by the experience, I send the next three carbon-fibre arrows at acute angles upwards (almost straight up) and the arrows drop elegantly but very short of the buckets.

Arrow number six is one of the stumpy little gold ones with red and black flights that really need renewing. I aim, make allowances for a light breeze coming from the right and ping the arrow into the air. It feels good as it leaves my fingers. It looks good as propels from the bow. The arrow reaches its apogee and begins the descent; it gathers speed as it drops… right into the bucket! I am overwhelmed with joy, and would like to scream and jump up and down; I look at Roland’s face of disbelief and his theatrical walk away; and I restrain my natural urges.

“I told you I would do it!” I say modestly.

“You said you would do it,” he agrees, “It’s remarkable, unheard of, and not a fluke, but let’s not  talk about it ever again.”

And here are the photographs.

*By the way, cloud shooting is a dangerous sport. Do not try this at home. My little arrow came down with a force that sent it through the bottom of the bucket and into the earth beneath – think what it could do to a person. It should not be attempted without the supervision of a trained archer (like Roland), and a huge block of isolated land.

I don’t know why I chose that title except for the fact that it has a “Hello” in it; several hellos might have been more apt, or “The Importance of Saying Hello” (possibly, though it’s not catchy), but I like the Lionel Richie song, and now you know that it isn’t quite right it may as well stay.

My doorbell rang this lunchtime. From behind the screen-door I could see my next-door neighbour, Wendy, standing at my gate.

“Hello,” she began, “you must think I’m terrible for not calling on you before but I have been ill.”

We were looking at each other through the prison-like bars of the gate so I pressed the remote button and one side of the gate glided back smoothly and serenely.We were still talking through the bars because it was the other side that had slid back; of course, I walked through and joined Wendy on the pavement.

“I’m sorry, I would invite you in but I’m getting ready to go cycling and swimming,” I answered.

Nevertheless, we chatted for several minutes outside.

Two hours later I was riding back from a blissful solitary swim at the house of my friend’s daughters when I noticed a young mother pushing her toddler in a buggy while an older child of about four was straggling behind. I smiled a greeting but did not speak.

“Hello!” called out the baby.

“Hello,” I replied, laughing with surprise.

“Hello!” called out the four-year-old.

“Hello!” I responded yet again and the mother and I laughed.

Heartened by the friendliness of the folk around these parts, I said “Hello” to the “Goth” schoolgirl who sat in a bus-stop.

“Hello,” she said, happily, yet quite surprised, as she ran her fingers through her boyfriend’s hair (he was on the phone).

At the beginning of Lakeland Court (my street) I recognised the car of Richard, the handsome Pilot. He saw me, too, and we slowed down to mouth the word, “Hello”, and wave vigorously.

A little farther up the road two girls came whizzing down on their skate boards. I thought one of the girls looked like Jade, Richard’s daughter. I didn’t have my distance glasses on so I wasn’t sure.

“Is it jade?” I asked as they approached, but by then I could see that it wasn’t.

“Hello,” I said anyway.

The girls beamed and their fair hair shone in the afternoon sunshine – they were a picture of health and innocent youth.

“Hello,” they called back (I had passed them by now).

I kept going to my house at the end of the road and I was smiling to myself.

Sorry, but you will have to wait another day to read about about my exciting exploits as a cloud shooter.

Happily for our house, just above the railway line and seawall at Dawlish, the storms over the weekend were not as bad as predicted. Chris took photographs of the repair work in the sunshine. The huge crates in front of the breached wall contain tons of granite rocks.

Do you remember “Mister Ed”, the old American situation comedy show about the acerbic talking horse? (We loved it  when I was a child.) It starred the gelding palomino, Bamboo Harvester, Allan Lane (the voice of Mister Ed), and Alan Young who played the architect owner… Well, I’m not going to discuss that, except in passing because you may have started to get excited thinking that I was going to write about Mr. Ed. Sorry to disappoint. In truth, I really want to talk horse, or rather, I would like to tell you about some of the horse-talk that I was party to yesterday during my visit to Jimboomba (love that name). Naturally, one is bound to have a bit of horse-talk when one calls on people whose living it is to train horses and riders, even when your own experience of horses was limited to Sunday treats as a child – riding old nags that used to wander off into the bush at will and, with the help of a sharp twig, cantered only on the way back to the stables (a gallop was out of the question, and they used to turn around and nip our legs!)

So there I was, with cherubic baby Rowan in my arms, out on the verandah; my friend’s daughter, Ellie, and her four-year-old, Kai, were there too. We were about to depart for the training paddocks in Logan Village when an attractive woman, dressed in a St Tropez-style white blouse over Levi jeans, turned up to book a lesson and have a horse chat with Ellie. I sensed they would not be too interested to hear about my ordeals with the bad-tempered old nags at Gumdale years ago, so I kept quiet, smiled occasionally, and listened. From time to time my mind wandered… but sometimes my ears pricked up.

“So how much did she get for Roger?” asked Julie-Ann (in the baseball cap and nice white blouse).

“About thirty, I think,” answered Ellie.

“Thirty? That seems alot for Roger,” Julie-Ann’s eyebrows furrowed.

Thirty dollars sounded quiet cheap for a horse to me.

“It might have been less – it could have been fifteen…” Ellie conceded.

“Blimey!” I though to myself.

“Are you talking thousands?” I asked them, incredulously.

They smiled their answer back at me.

“Well how much is a normal horse?”

“Anything,” said Ellie, “from a couple of hundred – the price for horse meat – to a few thousand, or thirty thousand – even millions!”

“Horse meat?” I thought of the horse meat scandal back in England.

“I know it sounds terrible,and I’m a vegetarian, but dogs have got to eat too,” Ellie felt uncomfortable.

We all looked at her dog called Bailey. He was well-fed. I turned cuddly baby Rowan over on my lap so he could sleep safely with his arms, legs and head free, and I patted his bottom (I remembered that my Mum used to do this with Henry and Robert… and all of us, probably). I was thinking nice thoughts about babies when the horse-talk conversation took precedence again.

“Grant is so much better educated than Clara,” Julie-Ann quipped.

“It happens,” said my friend’s daughter knowingly.

“When she asks him to do things he just looks at her as if to say, ‘I can’t be bothered – you’re way beneath me’. She’ll have to get rid of him,” added Julie-Ann.

“What’s he worth?” asked Ellie.

“I don’t know. What do you think? Thirty thousand?”

Like an alien actress, I nodded. I was glad the answer wasn’t “Two hundred dollars”.

And now for the lyrics to Mister Ed, courtesy of the show’s archives.

Hello, I'm Mister Ed 

A horse is a horse, of course of course, 
and no one can talk to a horse of course, 
that is of course, unless the horse, 
Is the famous Mister Ed! 

Go right to the source and ask the horse. 
He'll give you the answer that you'll endorse. 
He's always on a steady course. 
Talk to Mister Ed.

People yak-it-ti-yak a streak 
and waste your time of day, 
but Mister Ed will never speak, 
unless he has something to say... 

A horse is a horse, of course of course, 
And this one will talk 'til his voice is hoarse. 
You never heard of a talking horse? 
Well, listen to this... 

I am Mister Ed