Just to add a bit to your (my!) blog, now that it’s daylight, I can
clearly see the damage below Riviera Terrace; it wasn’t overstating the
case to say the sea wall had been “ripped away! – it has simply
disappeared, leaving the railway lines actually hanging in mid air, like
you see in the movies, when the train has to inch its way gingerly
across just the rails, to the accompaniment of much creaking and
terrifying lurching!  And right below our house, the wall between the
railway line and the pedestrian part of the sea wall  has been
destroyed, and lies in lumps all over the track. Utter devastation!  I
guess it’ll takes weeks to rebuild everything.  Might sadly be the final
death-knell for our railway and sea wall!

Love you my mermaid; actually, it would be quite useful to be a mermaid
here at the moment!

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(So glad to note that my husband actually reads my blog!)

Chris’s email to me says it all….

NEWS FROM DAWLISH (my home):

Just to bring you up to date, it’s DAWLISH, specifically, hitting the National News this morning; there was great damage done by the storm last night, just as I thought. The town is cut off by road from Teignmouth (our neighbouring town) due to a fallen tree, but far worse than that, about 30 metres of sea wall down by Riviera Terrace, I believe, has been “ripped away” , to quote the local Spotlight news just now.  They had a reporter in his wellies speaking from under the arches at the station, where a section of platform has been washed away(!), and there’s damage all around.  Residents of Marine Parade were evacuated last night to the Leisure Centre (don’t think I’ll bother with the gym this morning!) when up to three feet of sea water came across the track and the road, and into their homes. This morning’s storm, which promises to be pretty well as bad as last night’s (95 mph reported in some places), is in the process of building right now, and, with high tide just an hour-and-a-half away, it’s all hands to the pump and red alert all round. I expect poor old Rob (my fireman, paramedic and piano-tuner brother) is pretty busy right now!

I’ll try to get some photos for you, but its not yet fully light, and, with the rain lashing down and the wind building upwards of 60 mph, I don’t feel that inclined to put my head over the parapet just yet! I may be able to get some shots from our house, of course, but the Environment Agency have apparently issued, for the first time, a “Danger to Life” warning  for all West Country coastal areas, so I guess the Sea Wall isn’t beckoning that strongly right now!

Anyway, just thought you’d like to hear the weather update; I see Geoff (our brother-in-law) posted a similar report on Facebook, replied to instantly by Lorelle (my old school friend in Australia)!  Anyway, at least I’m safe and snug here in the bastion of San Remo, and you begin to appreciate the great solidity of Victorian buildings like this when under severe meteorological attack. Poor Mary (my beloved sister) was so worried about me being on my own last night, but, as I told her, I’m probably in the safest building in Dawlish!

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I hope so! Isn’t Chris a dear for writing my blog for me?

It has never been heard of before (not in my tenure, anyway) – back home in Dawlish, Devon, the waves are crashing into the sea wall, flying high over the railway line and hitting all our windows, including the upper storeys (our house is on four levels). And the terrace is built into and above a cliff! Thank goodness we have double-glazing nowadays. I wonder how the old sash windows would have fared?

Apparently the section of the sea wall below our house is  being shown constantly on the news at home, and people keep phoning Chris (my husband, in case you are a newcomer to my blog) to find out if our house is still there. The Victorians knew how to build sturdy houses and the terrace is like a huge fortress fending off all that the weather throws at it. Not a drop of water has infiltrated; nevertheless, Chris says it is very exciting, if not frightening.

The same cannot be said for the sea wall, which is down in some places; or the brook and town centre, which is flooded; or some of the other houses in our pretty seaside town. Marine Parade, running parallel to the beach on the other side of the wall and railway line, is being evacuated. The trains have not been running for days and will perhaps be unable to start a service again for another week – the lines are covered in rocks and gravel!

Chris sent me this photograph that he took yesterday, when the waves were much lower. Unfortunately, the giant waves are at their height right now, at night, so no chance of even more impressive photographs. And to think that I’m so far away, on the other side of the world, enjoying the benefits of sunshine and gracious living (which I will tell you about in my next blog).

It was a little overcast when I set out on my bicycle this morning, there was even a shower as I closed the gates (electronically!) on my new abode; of course, it was nothing like the weather they have been having in England ever since I left (Chris told me yesterday that the spume from the recent – bigger than ever – waves, aided by ninety mile an hour winds, have been hitting our bay windows, approximately one hundred feet above sea level!). As for me, I just got a bit damp from a short cloudburst – no need for me to turn back – and I was dry by the time I reached my destination.

Actually, it would have been of no consequence to me whether or not I was wet or dry because my journey’s end was a swimming pool. The owners, daughters of my old friend Roland, were at work…

“Just let yourself in by the side gate, any time,” they had invited.

I hope they really meant it because that is exactly what I did. Their house is not far from their Aunty and Uncle’s (my place!), but it is at the top of the only hill to speak of around here, so I was hot upon arrival and eager to melt into the pool. A cursory check of the doors informed me that nobody was at home and the pool was to be for my pleasure alone – perfect. No neighbours were in evidence and the sun came out for me – bliss! Well, what can you expect of a mermaid?

“Come and I’ll show you how to work the dishwasher,” Sue said.

(This was last night, before the big day of their departure southbound with an enormous caravan in tow. You may be aware that I’m house-sitting for Sue and Glenn while they are away.)

Now I am a respectful person and usually do as asked by my hosts so I joined Sue at the modern sink-island (if that is what it is called).

“To be honest with you, Sue, I doubt if I will ever use the dishwasher, not with me here all alone. We don’t even use our one at home – whenever I suggest it, Chris says that he will wash-up instead,” I said. (I considered adding, “I’m not that lazy, anyway,” but thought better of it.)

“Oh I use it even when Glenn is working away,” Sue, (who is obviously not of the “old school” of thinking that laziness is a sin), responded in a refreshingly guilt-free manner.

I was glad that I had decided against mentioning the “lazy” word and took note of Sue’s instructions with renewed interest. In fact, my temporary new home has two dishwashers; the bigger one sits above the smaller one, thus no bending is involved in filling the machine on top. (Ours in England opens at floor level – a great deal of bending.)

“I always use the big one,” she said, “unless we have parties, in which case we use both!”

“But I wouldn’t use enough things in a single day to warrant putting on the dishwasher,” I argued half-heartedly.

“Neither do I,” Sue smiled enticingly, “it goes on when it is full, perhaps every two or three days.”

“You have that much crockery and cutlery?” I queried.

Sue acquiesced. Her grin suggested a certain pleasure was to be taken from using the dishwasher as a matter of course, regardless of the infrequency due to a dearth of dirty dishes.

All on my own after my breakfast this morning, I was about to wash up my cereal bowl and cup in the sink when, out of interest, I took a peek in the dishwasher. The drawer slid back very smoothly (and no bending) and I saw the breakfast dishes used earlier by Glenn and Sue. It would have been churlish not to send my own cereal bowl in with them. At lunchtime, and dinnertime too, my plates, cutlery, glasses and cups slipped in alongside the other malingerers. Just minutes ago I added another cup. The not-so-great unwashed all seemed quite at home in the nice neat dishwasher drawer; they do not smell, and there is still plenty of room… for tomorrow’s offerings.

Actually, it’s not my hat – I bought it for Chris – but I have, nevertheless, hung it up all over my new home (where I am house-sitting), as can see from the photographs…

Sue and Glenn set off on their caravanning adventure this morning and now I’m all alone, and ready to begin work on my new books. Bliss!

Incidentally, one of the neighbours called in to say goodbye to Sue and Glenn this morning – he is a tall handsome pilot. Not that I’m interested in anyone else but Chris, and he’s married and too young anyway. Still… how pleasant it is to have nice neighbours.

After writing my blog post, “Do I tell?”, last night, I went to bed and could not sleep. The events of the day kept going through my mind and I worried what Roland would say about the little incident between his new Subaru “Imprezza” (with the low mileage and pristine condition) and the stout post in the car park at Gumdale Parklands. Not my fault, of course, but I was at the wheel at the time. The policewoman had confided that she had done a lot worse to her own car in supermarket car parks, which I found somewhat consoling, but she wasn’t Roland.

I had to tell him. My conscience insisted and Chris (my husband back in England) thought that our friend would understand, and even be happy to know that I was alright. Besides, having written my blog post last night, it was already “out there”. How did I tell him? Was I brave enough to tell him outright? This is how…

“Roland, have you read my blog recently?” I asked over the telephone.

“Which one?”

“You haven’t read the one from last night then.”

“No. Why?”

“Sorry,” I said, “but I can’t talk to you until you’ve read my blog. Read it and I’ll call you in ten minutes.”

(You may imagine that I also sobbed a bit and mentioned the fact that I hadn’t slept properly.)

“The car looks alright,” he said ten minutes later. (I had been careful to post an “after” photograph of the car looking unscathed.)

Roland took the news extremely well and seemed quite unperturbed about the broken plastic bit that fits inside the wheel arch, and will have to be replaced sometime; he reacted quite as well as he did many years ago when I told him (over the ‘phone) that I had driven through his lounge-room doors. Little incidents are the stuff of happy memories. It is nice to know that I shall never be forgotten.

And now I need to catch up on my sleep as tomorrow I shall be moving twenty or so miles south down the Pacific Highway to take on house-sitting duties for friends.

I’ve never had a car accident on the road. My record remains untarnished tonight… sort of. I did once drive through my boyfriend’s lounge-room glass doors, accidentally (naturally). Funnily enough, the incident which I am going to relate to you (in confidence, please!) involves the same old boyfriend, now just a dear old friend. I have to tell someone so I am choosing you – even if you don’t give me any useful advice, perhaps writing about it will help me to decide whether or not to come clean. Wouldn’t it be funny if this was the one night that Roland, my friend, can’t sleep and gets up in the middle of the night, and thinks, “I must read Sally’s blog!” Hope not. If I have to tell him it might be best to tell him face to face. Oh dear, I’m feeling very anxious about it again. And to think that only five hours ago I was having such a great time…

After going to Wynnum Plaza to recharge my sim card and buy felt circles to stick under the legs of the chairs in Bill’s dining room I found myself driving over to Gumdale, a few miles away, where I spent my childhood until the age of ten. Incidentally, as you might have gathered already, I was driving the lovely new car that Roland has lent me – the impresser! So I drove up Molle road and stopped outside of our old house – the one that Mum and Dad had built on our three and a half acres – and I got out and took some photographs. At the gate I stood for some minutes just looking at the house, trying to conjure up memories of what it was like inside; the driveway did not seem be as long as it used to be but I know that is always how it appears when you go back.

My reverie was interrupted by the sight of an elderly gentleman walking from the house in my direction. When he reached the half-way point I raised an arm in a wave and he smiled and waved back.

“Hello,” he said as he approached the other side of his gate.

“I came here years ago – we used to own your house…” I began.

“I know,” he smiled with satisfaction because he remembered our meeting over twelve years (nothing wrong with his marbles!).

Mr. Burroughs and I chatted away for thirty minutes or so; we talked about my family, his family (Mary went to school with his son who is a carpenter and earns more money than his architect father ever did), land drainage, snakes (there are still red-bellied black snakes in the bush at the rear), dirt roads, town water, dust, the creek… and just about everything that two people who owned the same property at different times could talk about. We shook hands several times, meaning to part, and then one or another of us would think of something else that was not only relevant but vital and the conversation continued with renewed interest. His daughter drove up and while her father wheeled open the massive gate I told her:

“I’m just chatting up your dad!”

“Good luck,” she said merrily.

She did not stop. Two minutes later I could see her, feeding a flock of pale yellow galahs down by the house (Mr. Burroughs told me there were sometimes as many as sixty of them).

At last I shook his hand more meaningfully and I left for real. I wanted to go to the very end of the road, past the American boat-building yard (where, as children, we used to collect the Coke bottles and get the deposit back at Crockford’s shop), to the creek where my dad used to take us fishing and crabbing.

Finally, I drove along Chelsea Road to the turn off for Parklands – my favourite fishing spot. There was just one other vehicle in the car park so I opted for parking on the empty side. The sky was overcast and evening was drawing near, and yet there was still beauty in the scene of the creek from the decked area where soft fisher-folk, like me, do their fishing in comfort with shaded seats and baiting tables with drains and running water. Feeling very happy and content, I wandered back to my car, and as I did so great numbers of fishermen arrived.

The car park was nearly full and a large ute, parked directly behind me on the opposite side, had left me little room to manoeuvre. Slowly I inched my (Roland’s) car back and turned the wheel. My window was down and I popped my head out to see…just as a jutting piece of wood snagged on my bumper, by the wheel-arch… Did you know that cars are made of plastic nowadays?

I was on my knees trying to push the bumper into position – it had dislodged on one side and was hanging down by two inches – when the police car pulled up beside me on the road.

“Can you help me please?” I asked. (Was that the wrong thing to ask a policeman?)

He got out of the police car and pulled up his belt as he stretched to his six-feet three. (Policemen always do that when I talk to them in their official capacity.) He wasn’t very skilled at pushing the bumper back into place, and neither was the lady policeman who, nevertheless, was extremely sympathetic and agreed that the jutting piece of wood was a great hazard and impossible to see – I was not at fault. The policeman made a joke about me drinking but we women ignored that one.

The kindly Australian police couple escorted me to the main road, just to make sure that the bumper didn’t fall off (which it didn’t) and I took it easy driving home to Bill’s.

The car looks great – really impressive – again. Bill is a marvel – my brother used to be a mechanic – but he says it really needs a new bit of plastic. He’s going to try to find one for me tomorrow. If he does, and he puts it on, then I do not need to tell my friend that anything untoward happened to our car; but if he can’t find the proper Subaru bit of plastic then I will have to tell him – won’t I? This is my little quandary….

There were some sausages left over from Australia Day, now beyond their sell-by date; there was a magpie who took note of my gesture from his vantage point in the poinciana tree – he made the call; and before long the lawn was like a scene from “The Birds”. My friend, the one who always comes close to talk to me, did so again and seemed not to mind too much when I bent down to take his photograph. I reckon he knows I admire his pluck (and his eyebrows).

Last evening there was an almighty crash outside and Bill ran out ahead of me to the back yard.

“It’s just a possum,” my brother said, pointing to the possum hiding in the roof of the carport, “he knocked over the basket on that shelf.”

“How cute,” I responded.

“Yes, but you don’t want them living in your house – they carry diseases,” he answered.

I remembered the possum that used to come most nights to our house at Gumdale when we were children; he used to sit on the meter-box under the window sill and wait for his bread and jam. Nobody worried about diseases in those days, all the same, I took Bill’s word for it; and of course, you wouldn’t want one actually living in your roof and clattering around – they are quite big animals.

Bill went back indoors to find the humane possum trap (if caught the possum might be sent on a trip to Gumdale, which is still a bit bushy even these days). My phone rang and I sat down on a garden chair to take the call (well, it was a chatty conversation). After a short while I noticed a golf ball come whizzing out from under my chair, between my feet on the concrete and up towards the grass – it went so fast that I thought it was a ping pong ball at first. Lily the chubby cat (three of us are feeding her at present) came bounding from somewhere behind me, caught up with the ball and sent it back and forth, up and down the concrete floor of the carport. All that extra food has given Lily lots of energy.

What a surprise when I went out to feed the chooks and the magpies this morning! I surveyed the scene beyond the back door and realised, with some satisfaction, that our Lily is an extremely clever cat for, quite obviously, she has developed her own form of the French game of Petanque (Boules) – see the photographs and judge for yourself. To think that if the possum had not knocked down the basket of balls from the shelf Lily would never have discovered her talent. Perhaps the possum and the cat played Boules together all night long? Lily is a tad lethargic, yet hungry, today. Or maybe I’m talking fanciful balderdash?