Today I went to Jimboomba! Don’t you just love that name? It has to be Australia – doesn’t it? Perhaps I like it particularly because my son is called Jim, although he prefers to be called James (but only by strangers). Talking of strangers, I am no stranger to Jimboomba; in fact, my sister, Mary, and I spent a week there last year, though not at the same place I visited this morning. We found it a little too bushy and snake-ridden for our liking as a holiday destination but it is a great place for a day trip, especially if you love horses or you enjoy the wide open spaces without having to travel too far from civilization.

Oddly enough, my doctor and his wife (back home in England), for whom I painted the mural inside the American “Air Streak” caravan last spring, have a daughter with a young family who live in Jimboomba; and today I delivered some presents from Mum and Dad. I had thought I would stay an hour or less but I was made so welcome that I spent most of the day with them – and even went to the equestrian training paddocks where Ellie’s partner, Anthony (pronounced with the “h” – as we Aussies tend to do), was busy training riders and horses how to jump fences.

To be honest with you, I am not really much of a horsewoman (or at all really); nevertheless, I tried to show a bit of interest in the horse talk, and there was plenty of it. Hence, now rather tired, I will let the photographs speak for themselves…

I would like to tell you about something remarkable called “Cloud Shooting”, but you will have to wait until tomorrow because I am going to bed.

I have to get ready to go to Jimboomba (delivering presents down on the stud farm – all will be revealed later) so this morning I shall leave you with an email and photos from Chris, our lovely man with the news updates in Dawlish…

Darling, thought you might like to see the scene down below as it
develops – high tide this afternoon, rough, but not terrible; work seems
to have been suspended for a few hours,  guess to let the tide retreat a
bit.  You can see the sea’s still getting through the gap, but I believe
they’ve done their concreting, so there’s now a little more protection
for the house.

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

What a relief! By the way, did you know that David Cameron (our English Prime Minister) visited Dawlish two days ago?

Perhaps you have never wondered what Australians talk about after dinner; or perchance you are Australian and already know that we sometimes like to have a bit of snake chit chat. Having finished our barbecue lunch, we were relaxing and chatting around the table; I don’t know who started the conversation but we were discussing our favoured subject of snakes. Incidentally, the we who comprised the small gathering on this occasion were my brothers, Bill and Henry, Henry’s girlfriend, Diane, and my old boyfriend, now just  good friend, Roland – my niece, Loretta, had left early to go on to another party..

“I’ve seen two snakes since I’ve been back,” I announced proudly (well, I was still alive).

Everybody looked suitably horrified and nodded to each other as if to say “She’s still alive though – well done to Sally!” Few people really like snakes, and certainly not in our family – not after a childhood in Gumdale.

“I used to have a recurring nightmare about snakes when we lived at Gumdale,” Bill said, “In my nightmare I was always backed up into a corner looking out – I thought it was safer to look outwards to see them coming for me – but they drilled through the walls behind me to get at me.”

Bill winced and we all winced with him, in sympathy.

“I had nightmares about snakes every night of my life until the age of ten when we moved to Wynnum,” I joined in, wincing, “Sometimes I lived in a tree-house in the jungle, like Tarzan, where I was safe but whenever I walked on the jungle floor bags of snakes would open up in front of me…”

“Why were you all so traumatised by snakes?” asked Diane, “I, too, grew up with snakes but I never had nightmares. Although my uncle nearly had a heart attack when he thought there was one in the thunder-box once, but it was just a bit of paper that had fallen against his back.”

Bill, Henry and I glanced at one another knowingly. Bill was about to answer when I beat him to it.

“Well, let me tell you about the time Mum was in the old sentry box toilet and there was a black snake coiled around the inside of the door knob…” I began excitedly.

“That was me in the toilet with the snake coiled around the door knob, not Mum,” Bill interjected, “And how do you think I managed to get out?”

He paused to heighten the suspense before telling us.

“I had to climb up and crawl out of a gap under the pitch of the roof.”

“And, you won’t remember, Henry, because you were younger, but Mum got Mr. Conelly to come over with his gun to shoot it,” I added (and Henry nodded vigorously to confirm his memory was as good as mine).

“No, it was Mr. Pigooli (not sure of the spelling but that’s how I always heard it – think he was Polish!),” Bill corrected me, “and…”

“Mr. Pigooli shot it then,” I asserted.

“No, you wouldn’t believe what he did – he grabbed a piece of fibro and threw it at the snake!”

“Did it kill it?” I asked stupidly (because fibro isn’t very heavy and it would have taken years for the snake to develop asbestosis).

“Of course not, and the worst of it was that the snake got away and went under the toilet box – I never wanted to go in the toilet again!”

Everybody laughed, even Roland, (who didn’t have any snake stories from his soft, English childhood), because we all knew that nobody ever really wanted to go in those nasty, smelly old thunder-box toilets.

No, the gorgeous male in question was not my handsome pilot neighbour, although I saw him (Richard) today too, but only from a distance, and not alone – he was with his children, his parents and a dog that was attached to a fishing rod by way of a leash. But I’ll come back to that when I have told you about Mason…

It was because of Mason that I was up with the larks and racing out of the house at 7.45 this morning; I had decided to expend some energy by walking to meet Mason for our second date (it’s okay, Chris approves) but I ended up running because I was running late. He had to wait only four minutes – it was okay. We thought we would walk to nearby Alexander Clark Park.

On the way we stopped for five minutes to watch a palm tree cut being cut down expertly (it was fascinating and the tree- fellers – two, not three – gave us a thumbs up at the end); we were pleased to see two magpies (“for joy”;) we calmed a couple of ferocious dogs; we were approached by a weird looking big bird that had come out of the bush, and we were rather wary and unfriendly (it might have been a dangerous casawary but it was probably just a bush turkey) so it took the hint and walked off disconsolately, back into the bush; and I picked flowers for Mason, by way of adding a bit of romance to our walk. Mason (not actually a “Worshipful Master” or even an ordinary, normal mason) didn’t talk much but he showed his appreciation by making all the right noises; on the other hand, I talked a great deal, not from nervous excitement as such, but because I thought it would make him feel more comfortable.

“Want to go on the swings?” I asked.

My handsome date pulled a face. Regardless, we went on the swings and a wobbly thing like a giant spring with a seat on it. Neither of us was impressed and we decided to simply walk instead. It transpired that Mason isn’t as keen on exercise as I am – he went to sleep for forty minutes or so – but he perked up when we arrived at my house. After a lunch of boiled eggs and soldiers (we shared the same plate for added intimacy) Mason had a bath. Fresh and clean, he snuggled up with me on the sofa… and I fell asleep; he was more interested in helping me to water the plants and hang out the washing (apparently he has a penchant for pegs).

My gorgeous boyfriend is, of course, way too young for me – he is only sixteen or seventeen months old and is the nephew of Sue and Glenn. Not only am I taking on house-sitting while they are away, but also their baby-sitting arrangement on Fridays.

Going back to the incident of the dog on a fishing rod in the afternoon, later today; well it was such a strange and amusing sight that I sat for a while on a chair by the front door and tried to make out what was happening. Richard’s little boy and girl rode their bikes around the turning circle (my grand house is the last in the road) whilst I stared at the scampering tiny dog on the end of a fishing line. After a while the boy, wearing a green tee-shirt, pulled up to a stop in front of my grand gates, which I had left open in an attempt to appear friendly and not too mysterious.

“Are you staring at me riding my bike?” the six-year-old asked, fixing me fairly and squarely in the eyes.

There was something comical and rather beguiling about the precocious lad. Oddly, I didn’t feel he was being rude; on the contrary, he seemed just very interested to know whether or not he had my attention – I believe he wanted to make my acquaintance (typical male!).

“No, I was looking at your dog, actually,” I said, getting up and walking over to him, “Is it really attached to that fishing rod?”

“Yes, my granddad uses it as a lead,” he answered, as if that was the most natural thing in the world.

The boy’s sister drew up on her bike to join in the conversation.

“You must be the handsome pilot’s children,” I said to the pretty ten-year-old with flowing long hair under her helmet.

“That’s right,” she replied, “My name is Jade…”

“And I’m Drew,” the boy drew closer, “Would you like to see my hair?”

Drew took off his cycle helmet to reveal a head of thick, dark hair which stood up in long spikes , in spite (not spike) of the helmet (which usually has the opposite effect on normal heads of hair!).

“A great head of hair! Have you just had it cut?” I enquired.

“Yes, every day, it has to be cut every day,” he said earnestly.

Not wishing to be left out, Jade took off her cycle helmet too.

“Oh what lovely hair, you’re the fair one,” I admired.

“She sprained her ankle on her skate-board just now,” Drew drew attention to her bandage.

And so – I won’t go on with the entire dialogue – today has been very much a kiddie day, and I enjoyed every minute of it!

Tonight I retire to bed much more at ease than last night. The storm abated and the next high tide, I am told, arrived not so high and stayed within its normal bounds; the waves did not not venture above the roller-coaster railway line and into the hole that was a road until  just an hour after the Dawlish sea wall was breached. At present he engineers are arranging for special quick-setting concrete to cap the most vulnerable areas before the storms return.

But perhaps you know this already because you may have heard it on the news; I have it from my man on the spot, quite literally.

After a tearful prelude to bedtime and an understandable lack of sleep, I was heartened a little this morning to receive these photographs. You may think it strange of me, especially as you can see the utter devastation of the higher part of the sea wall, under the railway line, but that is my reasoning – the lower part of the wall is still intact. Hitherto I had imagined that whole sections of sea wall were completely gone and that the sea would erode the base of the cliff into which our terrace is built.

Chris remains in good spirits (maybe for my benefit) as he goes to bed. He feels safe and confident in our old house, and I have every confidence in his good judgement.

New storms are forecast for tomorrow… perhaps they will not be as bad as predicted. Please God that they will be little storms farther out to sea!

I’m done for tonight. I pray that our terrace will still be intact in the morning.

Amongst the photographs of the devastated sea wall I have added some photographs of Dawlish, taken on the eleventh of December – not even two months ago.

I just spoke to Chris over the telephone and I’m horrified to report that OUR terrace is the last line of defence against the sea now that a huge hole has opened up on the road at sea level. The tide is out at present and there are throngs of engineers and workmen swarming around the hole that edges the foundations of Riviera Terrace.

My friend, Jo, and her family have been evacuated; also Bob and Anne, and June; they are our neighbours – just a two minute walk down the cliff path from our seaside entrance.

There are more storms forecast for Friday. Chris says that we’ll be alright at San Remo – the sea wall is still in place – but I want to cry…

The photographs have just come in. I am crying….

Over to Chris…

Just seen your blog, so maybe you’re still up and about; quick update
newsflash – the breach in the sea wall is so serious that the sea has
“eaten up” the road right up to the front doors of Sea Lawn Terrace (just down from our terrace).

Both terraces (Sea Lawn and Riviera) have been completely evacuated, and the police are not allowing anyone down there.  Engineers are worried about an imminent collapse of that part of the terrace, oh its all a bit concerning.  Of
course, we’re alright up here, but it seems we’re the remaining front
line at San Remo – Coastguards (up the road but lower in the cliff) has been evacuated as well!

So our “hole” is now international news, apparently. I’ve had phone calls from
all over, even my cousin Jean, to see if we’re alright – rather
touching.  Anyway Geoff rang me a minute ago to say they were at
Sainsbury’s and would I like them to pop in for some moral support?  I
expect they’ll be here any minute, so I’ll call off now, my love.

————————————————

Oh dear!

It was the worst of times, it was the best of times, it was the age of strangeness all round.  Would it be altogether too flippant of me, while the weather rampages my home town of Dawlish, to tell you a nice little secret about my temporary home in Australia? Chris and all my family, neighbours and friends back home are safe and well, if disconcerted about the freakish weather and its consequences, like the railway line hanging in mid air (as described by Chris in my previous blog post); perhaps it is good to brighten the mood with a little levity.

“Help yourself to anything in the cupboards and everything in the fridge and freezer,” Sue had said emphatically before leaving on her interstate caravanning adventure with Glenn, “Things will go to waste if you don’t use them.”

At least an hour had passed since their departure before I checked out the fridge and took a fleeting glance in the pantry.

“One or each of them is a ‘sweet tooth'”, I thought to myself as I noticed, amongst all the condiments, dressings and healthy tidbits, there were four chocolate Matchsticks on a plastic tray and an almost finished bar of chocolate caramel (which I sampled despite not really being a fan of milk chocolate).

On a different shelf on the other side of the fridge were two packets of opened – not quite finished – biscuits; Lemon Crisps and chocolate shortcake triangles – none of which are my favourites (and anyway, I don’t eat biscuits because I am always on a diet).

“Sue and Glenn are always on a diet, like you,” my old friend Roland had told me.

Towards the end of my first day I had sampled the Lemon Crisp biscuits and, surprisingly, found the salty sweetness quite to my taste. By the end of my second day, on account of all the energy I had expended whilst cycling and swimming, the Matchsticks disappeared completely (apart from the unopened packet underneath the opened packet) and I was happy to be rid of the temptation every time I opened the fridge – after all, I am on a diet.

Today was my third day, a day of arduous hoovering (the suction is terrific and terrifying!), and it was overcast; in fact, I was going to take my bike out but it rained and I did a bit more housework instead. In between wiping down worktops I occasionally found myself in the fridge again, and the last few squares of chocolate caramel went the same way as the Matchsticks. Once again, I was thoroughly pleased to be rid of temptation (even though I don’t care for milk chocolate). Truth to tell, the milk chocolate shortcake triangles weren’t as bad as I anticipated either (but there are still some left… probably for tomorrow).

Come dinner time I was not particularly hungry, strangely enough, however I thought I had better concoct a light meal for myself to curb any hunger pangs later on (otherwise I might go mad and eat the wrong things). I went to the pantry in search of inspiration. On the highest shelf was a glass cannister containing pasta shells and twists.

“I know,” I thought, “I’ll cook up some pasta shells with diced tomatoes and onions, nice and healthy.”

As I took down the jar, another larger glass cannister was revealed – it was filled to the brim with individually wrapped chocolates of all descriptions. Horrified, I returned the pasta jar to its position as soon as possible.

My dinner was rather bland, fat-less, sugarless and unappetising (in spite of all the herbs and seasoning), which is a shame because there is enough left for lunch tomorrow. Tomorrow will be the day I start my diet in earnest, honestly; those biscuits are going into the bin right now. I don’t even have a sweet tooth and I hate milk chocolate…. It’s funny how  I am always on diet – just like Sue and Glenn, according to Roland.