Sorry girls, I know this joke is not that funny to us but I have to let the chaps have their bit of fun. Chris laughed – I told you he isn’t perfect!

The Medical

During a lady’s medical examination, the doctor says:-

“Your heart, lungs, pulse and blood pressure are all fine.

Now let me see the bit that gets you ladies into all kinds of trouble.”

The lady starts taking off her underwear but is interrupted by the doctor.

“No! No! Don’t remove your clothes… Just stick out your tongue!”

Incidentally, does my title sound like it’s a joke sent by a man or did you think the “Women” involved were sent by a man (sent mad possibly)? I hope the insertion of a comma makes my meaning clearer.

I try to be a good wife but, well, I don’t always succeed; the trouble is, that in trying to be a good wife, I may seem like a bad wife. I have always felt certain that any husband of mine would want to know his faults (as well as his virtues) and, on the assumption that no-one else would tell him, I find occasionally that I have to take on the onerous responsibility of pointing out some of his most annoying little problem areas.

Chris is a wonderful man and husband – as everybody keeps telling me (my mother adores him) – otherwise I wouldn’t have married him, naturally… and, being a bit of a flirt, I was very hard to pin down. However, now don’t be too shocked to hear that he is not absolute perfection (although my mum will disagree) and over breakfast this morning I felt obliged to inform him of a new fault. Actually, it’s not new but, for some unknown reason (perhaps my getting out of bed the wrong side) this morning I saw it as a fault.

I used to think that Chris’s ability to mimic others was charming, a gift even; but today, while I fuelled up with my usual dieters’ bran cereal with hot milk (to make it look and taste less like horse fodder), and Chris ate his lovely toast covered with lashings of butter and strawberry jam, I suddenly found him rather irritating. He wasn’t actually doing an impression of anyone at the time yet it occurred to me that he had taken on the characteristics (or foibles, as I saw them) of several other people.

“Do I know the real you?” I asked enigmatically (as a woman is apt to do when her hormones are a little off-beam – as I can see now).

“I should hope so after seventeen years together,” Chris answered, no doubt feeling hurt and shocked (and perhaps wondering how my hormones were faring).

He became quiet, after which I accused him of sulking, and he assured me he wasn’t, then kissed me before skulking off upstairs (which he always does when my hormones are up the creek). I came out to my studio to check my emails and download photographs, before setting to work to finish a water-lilies painting, when an email arrived from Chris; well, not so much of an email as a poem. And now I’m feeling contrite… because I do try to be a good wife. This is what he sent:

 
Hello, it’s me, your husband, here
at least I think that’s who it is
but sometimes things are far from clear
in terms of personalities

Am I the person that I seem?
You tell me that you’re far from sure
of who I am and what I feel
and if I’m less, or if I’m more

But let me tell you, sweetest heart,
I may, like blotting paper, soak
the ways and habits of a part
of all those friends and passing folk

Yet deep inside there’s only me
and, always there, lies love for you
and, Darling Angel, you’re the key
to who I am and what I do

So never be in any doubt
of who it is that loves you thus
the rules of love I never flout
IT’S ME WHO LOVES YOU, BETTER OR WUSS!!

Nevertheless, he’s not completely perfect – I assure you!

One of my Aussie friends has wallaby visitors every day. Of course, our mutual friend is very hospitable and always feeds his guests extremely well…

If anyone has any interesting or quirky photos suitable for my blog I would be only too happy to post them.

This morning we were out for a walk on the bridle path leading down to Dawlish Warren; no more cycling – it is far too cold nowadays for normal, non-Lycra wearing cycling folk like Chris and me to take to our bikes. But the sun was shining beautifully and it was the perfect morning to be out and about in the fresh air, which it was, fresh I mean, to the extent that I felt the need to wear a woolly hat and gloves (plus my new pink sunglasses from Spain, naturally).

Last night I posted a photograph of a poinciana tree on fire (seemingly), which came from a friend in Brisbane, and today I have photographs of stinging nettles on ice after the frost overnight. I had just taken the shots and my mobile phone camera was busy “processing” when two men and a white Staffordshire terrier came into view at the bottom of the path. The dog took one look at me and came bounding up to me. It ignored Chris altogether while it wagged it’s trail, rubbed itself up against my legs and craned its neck for my patting and smoothing attentions.

“Fancy that,” I began, “he really seems to like me!”

“He isn’t interested in me,” said Chris.

“Yes, but I’m a dog woman these days, ever since Bella,” I explained unnecessarily. (Chris knows all about Bella – he should do – I forced him to read my book about Bella).

After much fussing, petting and gushing over the friendly white dog, the two men who had been accompanying the dog caught up.

“He’s so cute and friendly. He seems to have taken to me,” I extolled.

“He’s well-trained,” said the owner, “he always makes a beeline to nice ladies and makes the introductions for me!”

All four of us laughed, even Chris, and the two men and the dog carried on their way uphill while we continued down.

We crossed over the railway bridge at the Warren and walked back to Dawlish along the seawall, making it a circuitous route to home. At the “Red Rock Cafe” we met a lady with yet another Staffordshire terrier, this time a black one called Daisy, and again I was sought out for cuddles and petting whilst Chris was ignored completely. I felt rather pleased that I was so popular this morning.

A short time later we were still on the seawall when we came across the two men and the white dog on their way back to Dawlish Warren, having come almost full circle, as we had done. This time my phone camera wasn’t busy “processing” and I asked if I may take a couple of shots of my new four-legged friend. The owner must have thought I was crazy about Staffordshire terrier dogs and told me how to go about getting hold of one for myself; but I wasn’t listening, I didn’t like to tell him the true purpose of my taking the photos – it did not seem appropriate to tell him that really I was more crazy about blogs than dogs (even though I am a dog woman nowadays).

We were in Nerja, walking past the tourist shops and street traders, when my sister saw an old man who looked quite familiar.

“Do you think that is my old basket-weaver?” Mary asked me.

“It could be,” I replied.

I wasn’t sure because I remembered the incident rather than the man, and it was three years ago. That was when we were on a previous holiday staying in Frigiliana, the picturesque white village in the mountains just four miles from Nerja. On that occasion we had entered a small workshop where an old man was busily making a basket. There were no customers in the shop and the man’s eyes lit up when he saw us. Mary was intrigued and enchanted as she watched the man’s deft fingers weaving a basket; she also felt sorry for him because, not only did he look poor, but he also looked very hopeful that we might buy his wares.

“How much this?” Mary pointed to a basket, “Quanta costa, Senor?”

Eventually, the old weaver seemed to understand and held up his hands to signify thirty Euros. Mary left happily after paying the full price, much to her husband’s chagrin because she ignored his advice to haggle, and he had seen similar baskets elsewhere for ten Euros. Twenty minutes later the shop had shut and our party joked that the basket-weaver could now afford to close for the day after such an excellent sale. It had been something of a joke ever since – of course I remembered.

Mary approached the old man and looked at his baskets.

“Are you from Nerja or Frigiliana?” she enquired with a lot of gesturing by way of making herself understood.

He nodded his head and smiled when he heard Frigiliana. Perhaps he remembered Mary after all. I asked if I could take his photograph and he nodded when I held out my mobile phone in the manner of a camera. The old basket-weaver beckoned Mary to get close for a photo and he put one arm around her at the same time. Then he puckered his lips for kisses on both her cheeks (if not her lips).

“Ten Euros,” he said holding a basket towards Mary.

“You don’t need any more baskets, Mary,” I told her. (I could see her resolve was weakening.)

He beckoned me to have a photo with him and I let him put his arm around me and kiss me on both cheeks.

A few minutes later Mary struck an agreeable deal – two baskets, one medium-sized and one small, for ten Euros.

“What are you going to use them for for?” I asked as we walked on laughing.

“I don’t know, there are a lot of things these would be useful for…”

And you can see for yourself some of her ideas in the photographs below. By the way, when we retraced our steps a short while later the old basket-weaver had disappeared. How familiar!

This photograph was taken at 5.30am (three and a half hours ago) by a friend in Brisbane.

I came across this rather intriguing sign when I was out shopping for bread in Spain a few days ago. I hope nobody noticed me taking a photo with my mobile phone. People might have thought I was a bit of a bimbo…

It was almost as good as a flying dream; last night I dreamed I had a baby. Not that it is uncommon for me to have baby dreams, but usually my baby dreams are about a little James, my son. This time it was a tiny girl. I didn’t give birth to her – she wasn’t mine in that sense – a woman came to me and handed me a baby girl of of about two days old.

“She’s yours,” the woman said and she left.

I took the dark-haired little mite and put her up to my shoulder. She snuggled into my neck and made those sweet new baby noises, almost as if she was talking to me. I patted her back and smelt her hair, her skin… her newness. It felt like she was mine and I felt so happy and in love with her.

Shortly after I awoke with these feelings of love, Chris entered the bedroom with a nice cup of tea for each of us. He got back into bed and we both sat up for tea and a chat. Chris had a lovely smile on his face.

“I had such a good dream last night,” he began excitedly. “I won a prize on the Internet – one of those ‘You are the millionth visitor’ type of things – and I had to go to London to collect my prize. I was so thrilled. And when I got there it was so exciting and strange. You’ll never believe what my prize was…”

“A million pounds,” I guessed.

“No, it’s weirder than that. I had won YOU! You were wearing a long evening dress (not one of yours) and you were standing inside something like a shower enclosure, and the curtain went back, and there you were – my prize! That was the end of my dream but I woke up feeling so good.”

I’m not sure what it all means, if anything; I do have three dear step-daughters who I love as my own; and is it possible to be a dream girl after sixteen years of marriage? Whatever the reasons for our dreams, we were both extremely happy as we flew down the stairs to breakfast.

The moment I woke up this morning I knew that I was okay; my cold, allergy,or whatever it was had gone, which was just as well because I was tired of sneezing, and my nose was red and sore.

A Spanish friend of ours (my niece’s boyfriend actually) came around to see us, bringing with him a typical Spanish breakfast of fresh bread, tomatoes, cheese and prosciutto (delicious, especially so because he prepared it), and we had such a good time sitting around doing nothing but chatting and eating that the day disappeared – the only one of us who had any exercise was our elderly neighbour, Alan, who went out for his constitutional, up the steep winding slope to the town centre and back.

By the evening we had almost given in to the lethargy and nearly succumbed to staying in.

“I don’t mind not going out to that Flamenco bar,” I said to Chris, hoping that he didn’t want to go out either.

“I don’t really want to go out either,” Chris picked up my lead. (I had a feeling I could count on him.)

“What about you, Mary – how do you feel about going out?” I asked.

“I’d be happy to stay in and go to bed early,” answered Mary.

“What about you, Geoff?” I turned to my brother-in-law.

“Whatever you like,” he said very agreeably.

Alan is a tad hard of hearing and had missed the conversation thus far; I called out:

“And how do you feel about going out to the Flamenco bar Alan? Would you prefer to stay in and get an early night if we’re to be up early to go to La Alhambra tomorrow?”

“Oh, I would love to go if that’s what all the rest of you want to do,” he replied.

So we all smiled and nodded, and we roused ourselves from our laziness, and we spruced ourselves up to go out after all.

Some hours later, slightly before midnight, we stepped out onto the street outside the Flamenco bar – or rather, I should say we danced out onto the street – and Mary and I clapped loudly, stamping our feet at the same time. Just at that moment an African couple walked by. They looked at us, laughed and shouted:

“Ole!”

“Ole!” we said back, and we carried on dancing.

And now it is time for bed. We have to be up early in the morning. I am so glad that Alan wanted to go out. It’s so good to feel well.

“Are you sure that this is steak?” I asked Chris as I took the thin piece of red meat out of its wrapping.

“Well it had a picture of a cow on the front and it is red,” he said defensively, “and it is marinated – that may be what you’re picking up.”

The sliver of meat seemed hardly thick enough to be called a chunk, a slab, a fillet, a hunk, or any word you might associate with a juicy steak. I sprinkled it with salt and garlic, and popped it into the hot pan with the fried onion. It didn’t exactly sizzle, nor did it go brown, but I turned it over as per usual. It smelt nice but it looked peculiar.

“Surely Spanish people are not so different from us,” I thought, “What do they do with all the bulls after bullfights?”

It seemed unlikely to me that anyone would regard the odd bit of meat in the pan as a hearty steak. But what do I know? Although it did not brown, I guessed the steak was done, and I dared not overcook such a thin piece of meat. Just before taking it out of the pan I ran a sharp knife down the middle to cut it in half (Chris and I often share one piece, especially when it comes to lunches and snack meals).

I had to laugh; no, it wasn’t horse meat, and it wasn’t still alive or anything gruesome like that… Simply, it was layers of thinly sliced, already roasted beef and I had merely heated it up! Nevertheless, it tasted quite nice, if a bit salty, but there is no denying that it was a touch disappointing because it wasn’t actually steak. One day we really must learn a few basic words of Spanish, if only to avoid making silly misteaks.