I am still sneezing and my brother-in-law is still telling jokes; on the basis that you would, undoubtedly, prefer to hear a joke than to have detailed health updates, I shall tell you about the vicar’s new teeth.

The vicar’s new set of false teeth proved to be particularly uncomfortable at first, so much so that the poor man found it impossible to give his Sunday sermon the usual hour and a half, which the parishioners had come to expect. They were amazed, and somewhat pleased, that the vicar rounded off his short discourse after only five minutes.

On the following Sunday the vicar was still having difficulties with his teeth but the swelling of his gums had subsided a little and he was able to persevere and give a sermon of twelve minutes and thirty seconds duration. Unaware of the vicar’s new teeth, and the problems he was having with them, the congregation were perplexed as to the reason for their vicar’s change in style and length of delivery of his sermons.

A week later the vicar was back to his usual form, and moreso. He talked incessantly; he appeared not to pause even to take breath; after three exhausting hours the verger, taking pity on the congregation, and fearing that there was something amiss with the vicar, discreetly found Mr Wilson (one of the ushers) and together they approached the pulpit and led the vicar away. The congregation marvelled at the strange events. One person whispered rather loudly for the benefit of all, “That must have been the longest sentence in history!” and a titter went around the church.

A week on the vicar, who was an earnest man, thought he ought to explain his odd behaviour to his flock:

“Please accept my apologies for the peculiar sermons of late, he began, “You see, I was rather shy to tell you that I have recently had to come to terms with wearing false teeth, which were difficult to get used to as well as being very painful – hence the uncommonly short sermons…”

“What about last week?” someone (probably the same one who mentioned the “longest sentence in history”) called out from the back rows.

“Oh yes, that,” said the vicar, “I’m afraid I was in such a hurry that morning that I didn’t notice, and popped in the wrong set inadvertently – they were my wife’s!”

Obviously, this is a man’s joke. Sorry girls.

I am referring to my cold, of course. Things have got worse rather than better and I have spent the whole day sneezing with incredible force, so much so that I was forced to stay in and refrain from doing any helpful things…like cooking. At one point, when the others were all in the kitchen and I offered  to help cook lunch, four pairs of eyes looked aghast at me in the doorway.

“Certainly not,” said three of them together.

“We don’t want your germs,” added our friend  Alan with a laugh.

“Okay,” I said from my safe distance and they all looked relieved.

I sneezed my way throughout whilst reading “The Midwich Cuckoos” (the chosen book for discussion at our next bookworm meeting); I sneezed my way through a long and particularly unsatisfying game of Scrabble; and I sneezed, snivelled and cried through the brilliant film, “Death of a Salesman”, written by Arthur Miller, and starring Dustin Hoffman (still keep crying every time I think about it, even now as I write). In fact, even at this very moment I am writing my blog in between bouts of sneezes and it is taking an age to complete… and I am so tired from all the sneezing all day long… and the late night last night.

I am sat here in bed all on my own. Where is Chris? Well, luckily for him we have two spare bedrooms in our beautiful Spanish villa we are renting; before retiring to one of them Chris was about to give me a kiss goodnight when, observing a gigantic sneeze welling up in me, he thought better it and blew me a kiss instead. I didn’t blame him – the force of the ensuing sneeze would have surely sent him flying backwards out through the bedroom door!

I thought it was an allergy, it could be a cold, or it might be both; whatever it is, I haven’t been feeling too well. Last night I even considered bowing out of attending the Flamenco concert that was booked as a birthday treat for me but I had been looking forward to it so I wrapped up warm and braved the cold night air (it felt nearly as cold as home yesterday).

Sat here in bed this morning, snivelling and sniffing away, it’s hard to believe that for two hours last night I was so enthralled by Tomas Garcia, the “guitarra flamenca” virtuouso, that all signs of my cold vanished. I would love to tell you all about the  dancer who captivated our hearts as she played the part of a doll on top of a music box; or the beautiful and soulful singer whose voice was enriched by the perfectly matching tone of the maestro; or the drummers, or the clapping, or the standing ovation and the calls for an encore; or the modest acceptance of the audience’s rapturous appreciation… And I would love to tell you more about how brilliantly Tomas Garcia played and how you would hardly even notice that he has only one hand… But I can’t tell you because the magic cure lasted only as long as the magical concert and now I am sick again; I’m like the dancing doll on a music box – it seems that I come to life when I hear the Spanish guitar…

My idea of a perfect holiday is plenty of cycling, swimming and walking; even a conservation holiday (dry stone-walling etc….) sounds great to me. The thought of spending hours sitting around doing nothing or sitting in a car for most of the day isn’t my idea of fun. I like being active. So this morning when Chris asked me what I would like to do today I didn’t hesitate, I said, “If I had my way I would go for a long walk.”

Over breakfast (bran flakes, in my case – still  dieting, even on holiday) we decided on our action plan; our dear friend, Alan, who is older but sprightly, did not feel up to mountain climbing (well, walking up a mountain), hence he opted to stay back at the fort while we younger ones agreed to look for a famous spring up in the mountain, in the Parque Natural above Nerja. It would make a change from the gorge walk which we know quite well from past expeditions.

We set off after breakfast, at about one in the afternoon (well we are on holidays, and we did have a spot of housework to do too); I put on my trusty little pink knapsack (with “COOL ONE” printed on the front, which tickles my fancy because either it’s true or it’s ironic, rather nice either way) filled with drinks, sandwiches, fruit and sunscreen.

A couple of hours later Mary, my lovely sister, asked the time. Geoff, her husband, said “Three o’clock”.

“Is that all?” Mary asked, “It feels like we’ve been walking for much longer.”

“That’s just because it’s all uphill,” I said, “I’m sure we’ll be there soon.”

“How many miles have we been so far?” Mary asked.

“About two,” the men answered within seconds of one another.

“That can’t be right, it feels much more like five miles,” Mary insisted.

Time passed and the dirt track mountain path wound on and on, ever upward. Young chaps with tubes attached to their mouths (we thought it was oxygen!) rode manfully on mountain bikes, passing us easily on the way up.

“What time is it Geoff?” Mary asked again.

“Twenty minutes past three.”

“How long is it since I asked before?”

“Twenty minutes,” said Geoff.

“It can’t be! Are you sure?”

A little further on we came to a signpost informing us that it was only another two kilometres to the recreation ground. Another mountain top loomed above us from behind the trees.

“If it’s up there I’m not going a step further,” Mary looked fed up.

“Neither am I,” I agreed supportively.

“Don’t be ridiculous, that’s another mountain,” Geoff laughed.

Up on the recreation ground we finished our picnic lunch (as you know we were running later than usual today); we also met a Polish girl who was dying of thirst and required our help to search the area for a water tap, which Mary managed to do, and we felt very glad that we had been there to aid the girl – it made our walk so much more meaningful. We didn’t make it to the famous spring – we reckoned that, as there was no water in the river after the dry summer, there probably wasn’t any water in the spring either, and it was another walk….and it was getting late…the sun would be going down soon…

We made it back around six this evening. Alan had been on a long, uphill walk too – he went into Nerja on his own and met some interesting Norwegians who, like he, had stopped to take a breather on the uphill path. Alan suggested we should put on some music to have with our glasses of wine and Chris found an orchestral compilation of classic pop songs. The first song began to play and we all laughed – it was “A long and winding road”, written by the Beatles.

We were in the Lidl store in Nerja just a few minutes ago, and I was standing behind a gentleman in the checkout queue when I heard him answer his wife, “I don’t know”. My immediate reaction, after noting that he spoke to his wife in English with a German accent (and thinking it odd but clever), was to sing aloud the rest of the line to the famous old hit song “I Don’t Know Why I Love You But I Do (Babe)”; however, I held myself back, thinking to myself, “He will think I’m peculiar if I burst into song at the checkout”. But I couldn’t help myself, and, reasoning that there was no harm in being friendly, I leant close and told the man that I was tempted to sing.

The man’s wife looked my way with interest too. They both laughed when they realised that I wasn’t a weirdo.

“When I was about sixteen,” the German man began, “I used to work in a garage, putting petrol in cars, and one day a man couldn’t pay for his petrol, but he did have a stack of vin… – what do you call them?”

“Records,” I answered.

“Yes, records. And do you know, that song was one of them!”

“No!”

“Yes,” he beamed, “And do you know who sang it?”

“No.”

“Well it was Clarence “Frogman” Henry!” he said informatively.

So there we are – what odd things happen even on holiday. And, yes, I know that there isn’t a “babe” in the song – I just think it sounds better!

A recently married young Spanish Senora phoned her mother.

“Oh, Mama,” she cried, “Pablo is such a bitter disappointment to me…”

“What’s the matter Isabella? You’ve only been married for five minutes… I thought you were so in love with him…”

“I was, Mama, but now we’ve had our first fight… Oh, I should have listened to you and Papa. I’m packing my bags and coming home.”

“Now don’t be so hasty Isabella. I have a better idea. Let’s really make him pay – I’ll come to live with you instead!”

If you read my blog yesterday you may have been perplexed as to the meaning of “”shovelling” in Chris’s birthday poem for me, after all, shovelling doesn’t rhyme with drivelling! And to think that I spent well over an hour typing out the poem in full on my little kindle using my prodding wand (never again).

You see I am on holiday in Spain and I did not bring my computer (would have taken all my weight allowance – travelling with Ryanair!); hence, my blogs must now be written on my clever little kindle, which is so clever that it likes to show off by way of trying to predict everything I write, which would be great if it always got it right. It doesn’t. In fact, it’s worse than that, sometimes it doesn’t approve of what I write and it changes it when I’m not looking or expecting it. So that is why the word “shovelling” appeared so incongruously in the poem; naturally, as all you poets out there will have guessed already, the word my Kindle took such exception to was “snivelling”! (I just had to override it again!)

Oh, and apologies too for the double-spaceship (spacing), which ruined the intended fast tempo of the birthday poem – it doesn’t run so well in ponderous double-time. Now I must leave you and go for a dip in the sparking bleu pool. Wish you were Herr (here)! Ja vowel!

It’s my birthday. It’s also the birthday of the actress Demi Moore, the Italian actor, Luca Zingarelli, and my niece, Elizabeth, so Happy Birthday to one and all. It’s Remembrance Day too, and many will be sparing a thought for those lost in the Great War. Did you know that Ned Kelly, the Australian bushranger, was hanged in Melbourne on the eleventh November? I doubt you would know such trivia unless it was your birthday too.

I awoke this morning to beautiful sunshine; I drew back the curtains and looked out on the pool – yes, we are in warmer climes, Spain – “Oh we do like to be in sunny Spain!”

Now before we go out for the day I wonder if you would like to read the humorous poem Chris wrote for my birthday? It is meant to be read to the tempo of the song “A Modern Major General”, by Gilbert and Sullivan…..

THE BLOGGISTA’S REFRAIN

I am the very model of a blogger on the Internet

My website’s up and running and on Google I’m not hard to get

I’m always at the ready with the best blogging material

On matters often physical but sometimes quite ethereal

I sit at my computer seeking subjects inspirational

I’ll faithfully impart them in a manner conversational

I’m searching high and low to bring you something “fascination…al”

And hope that all who read it will regard it as sensational

I’ve followers in Germany, Espana ans Australia

I aim to be successful as a blogger, not a failure

And hopefully the folks who come to read my daily offering

Will buy my books and paintings and assorted works I’m or offering

My younger brother Robert thinks my blogs are simply “drivel…ling”

And that my written words and thoughts are sure to bring on shovelling

But when I asked if he’d studied all five hundred blogs of mine

He looked askance; admitting that the maximum he’d seen was nine!

But who cares if a brother lacks the necessary sympathy?

He may be great at piano, and can recognize a symphony

But what he doesn’t realize is there’s method in my twittering

To reach the buying public one relies on blogs and Twitter ing

You see, to be successful as a writer and a novelist

I hear the modern way no longer uses just the pen-and-wrist

Progressive scribes today now live and die quite electronically

We blog, and clog up Facebook, tweet and Twittering most chronically

And so, it stands to reason, I am told by the community

Of bloggers, great and small, that I must seize the opportunity

To maximise exposure and to practise self-publicity

And use my blog relentlessly, empowered by electricity

So when you’re on my website reading blogs with great tenacity

Just spare a thought, and realize that I write with true veracity

For, truth to tell, my blogging is another way to write a book

And soon, I hope, you’ll “get on down” to Amazon and take a look!

If I was shipwrecked on a deserted island, or lost in a foreign land, or in any sort of crisis, I would not be scared if my brother, Bill, was with me. Reminding myself of that has been a comfort in the last few days.

Bill has always been my hero, the perfect brother, my protector and my protagonist; he was even my apologist on occasions, like when I was five and split a boy’s head  open when playing with stones on the way home from school, and Bill took me to the boy’s mother and said, “I apologise on Sally ‘s behalf – it was an accident.” (I never threw stones again.) Whenever I cried it was Bill who used to console me and try to cheer me up in our tree-house. He could walk on his hands, build canoes out of scrap corrugated iron, fix bicycles, and later, cars and boats; and now he can fix houses, and build sheds and boat-houses.

And now that we are adults with grown families of our own, and we live on different sides of the globe, I still feel that special bond that comes of a lifetime of being a much-loved little sister. All we younger siblings feel it.

The “world’s worst typhoon”, according to some reports, hit the Philippines a few days ago and Bill, his wife, his mother-in-law and his eldest son were on holiday in that region at the time; I have been telling myself that they will be alright – with Bill at the helm. This morning we heard news reports of 12,000 dead souls as a result of “Yolanda”……. and then received news from Australia – Bill and his family are safe. I cried…..