Do you think about things in the shower? (Things other than your personal hygiene, of course.) I always do, but I don’t know if I’m odd. Usually it’s a case of me continuing my thoughts on a subject I’ve been talking to Chris about over our cups of tea in bed (our main conference area, and the other one is the kitchen table).

In bed this morning we were discussing changed values, altered perceptions of popularity and the need for celebrity, and the lack of modesty which often accompanies the aforementioned topics; in short, we conjectured on the reasons why there seem to be so many self-important people around nowadays. We considered the effects of the media and social networking sites (much as we love them); governments and political correctness (much as we dislike them); and Brussels…(which dictates nearly everything in Europe, and which spreads beyond the Western world, and around the world though the media and social networking sites….).

I was still thinking about the now casual general acceptance of pomposity (in my childhood big-heads were derided) when a memory of Jean Simmons entered my head. Jean Simmons? Who is Jean Simmons (you may be too young to remember or maybe you are not a film buff). According to Chris, one of my old (ex) boyfriends, not my husband, Chris, (I always chose boyfriends called Chris or David – that way you have a fifty-fifty chance of getting it right, as I may have told you before!), anyway OLD Chris used to think that the famous actress, Jean Simmons, was the most beautiful woman who ever lived, and he should have known because he was a film buff! She starred opposite Kirk Douglas in Spartacus.

Now if you’re puzzled as to why I was thinking about Jean Simmons while I was in the shower, pondering on why so many people are full of themselves these days; well, the reason is that, although she was a great Hollywood star, and exquisitely beautiful, she happened also to be a very modest, warm and natural lady. How do I know? How could I possibly know?  Let me explain.

Some years ago, during the early or mid-nineties, I was walking down the Strand in dear old Dawlish and I saw a lady coming out of Boots chemist. She was in her sixties, quite smartly dressed in a black and white check coat and a black hat. I recognised her straight away, perhaps because I’m primarily a portrait artist and observant when it comes to faces, and the rest of Dawlish folk out on the Strand that day just passed her by, not realising that one of the most feted beauties in the world was in their midst. Being an Australian, and therefore not over mindful of our place (because we think we are as good as the next man or woman, whatever his or her status), I approached the lady and said…

“Excuse me, but you are Jean simmons, aren’t you?

She smiled modestly (and charmingly – she had such pretty eyes and a soft mouth).

“Not many people recognise me these days,” she said in a way that let me know she was flattered.

“Perhaps I have an advantage being a portrait artist,” I answered.

“Oh, what’s your name?” she asked with interest.

I told her and pointed my finger in the direction of my gallery on the corner in the distance.

“My old boyfriend thinks you were the most beautiful woman in the world – and I couldn’t argue with him, especially after seeing “Spartacus”, I added.

“Oh, it was such a long time ago,” she said slightly embarrassed.

But her eyes lit up and she smiled like a girl who has heard for the first time that she is beautiful.

“My brother lives in Shaldon,” she changed the subject, “and I’m thinking of buying a house here. Actually, I’m looking for him now. Are you walking my way?”

So we walked together and chatted, and I wondered if she might not get bored with the quiet life in Shaldon; and about ten minutes later I took my leave, wishing her well and thanking her for the little thrill it had been to meet her (we Aussies aren’t completely impervious to certain people).

“It was lovely to meet you, too, Sally. Good luck with your painting,” she said at last, remembering my name.

I must admit that it gave me a great deal of satisfaction that day, knowing that all the townsfolk who passed up and down the Strand, many waving a greeting to me as they passed, had no idea that the pretty older lady with whom I was talking was none other than Jean Simmons. Naturally, it wouldn’t have meant anything to either the very young or non-film buffs. Forgive me if I seem a little immodest in broadcasting this event – just put it down to modern technology… or the urge for celebrity… or a sign of the times…

And, if you’re wondering… no, she didn’t buy a property in Shaldon. I’m afraid she may have thought better of it after our conversation!

How beautiful Dawlish is in the sunshine! It has everything: a pretty Brook lined with trees, wildlife (home to the black swan, not to mention pigeons and seagulls!), architecture, romance, excitement… you name it. Here are some photos taken a little earlier today on my mobile.

How about an aussie joke? This just arrived in my emails – thanks Rob!

A rich man living in Darwin decided that he wanted to throw a party and invited all of his friends and neighbours.

He also invited Colin, the only Aborigine in the neighbourhood. He held the party around the pool in the backyard of his mansion. Everyone was having a good time drinking, dancing, eating from the BBQ and flirting.

At the height of the party, the host said, “I have a three metre, man-eating crocodile in my pool and I’ll give a million dollars to anyone who has the balls to jump in.”

The words were barely out of his mouth when there was a loud splash and everyone turned around and saw Colin in the pool fighting the croc, jabbing the croc in the
eyes with his thumbs, throwing punches, biting the croc on the tail and flipping the croc through the air like some kind of Judo Instructor. The water was churning and
splashing everywhere.

Finally Colin strangled the croc and let it float to the top like a dead fish. Colin then slowly climbed out of the pool. Everybody was just staring at him in disbelief.

The host said, “Well, Colin, I reckon I owe you a million dollars.”

“Nah, you all right boss, I don’t want it,” said Colin.
The rich man said, “Man, I have to give you something. You won the bet. How about half a million bucks then?”

“No thanks… I don’t want it,” answered Colin.

The host said, “Come on, I insist on giving you something. That was amazing. How about a new Porsche and a Rolex and some stock options?’

Again, Colin said “No.” Confused, the rich man asked, “Well Colin, then what do you want?”

Colin said, “I want the bastard who pushed me in!”

There are much worse ways to spend a Saturday than teaching nine talented amateurs how to paint water-lilies in acrylics. I just wish I had been there for one more hour so that I might have finished my painting of Australian water-lilies (slightly different to English ones because they are smaller and stalkier, although they grow conventional ones too). I’ll have to finish it in the week – bet it takes longer to finish it than start it. Here is a photo of the painting so far.

Now I’m going to put my feet up and watch “Strictly Come Dancing”.

This week it has been weather for ducks – of all kinds!

“Shall we cycle or ride this morning?” asked Chris as we stood by our bedroom window and surveyed the grey mist outside.

“It might be a safer bet to walk,” I answered.

So we dressed in trousers, not shorts, and set off after breakfast.

“Which way? Shall we go to the forest?” Chris asked from outside our gate.

“How about walking through the woods first and carrying on down to Secmaton Lane if it looks as though the rain will hold off?” I suggested.

“Good idea,” Chris said, “So we won’t have too far to go if we have to turn back.”

It started to rain at a point when it was too far to turn back and we were only slightly nearer to home by continuing on; hence, at just over half-way through our longer walk we began to get wet. I thought of the conversation I had had at my “Bookworm Club” last Sunday, which went something like this….

“I wish I could go to Australia again to avoid the English winter” I said, (or it may have been something similar with regard to it being easier to lose weight in Australia).

“Oh, why is that?” asked our gorgeous leader, Reuben.

“Because I like the outdoors  life – getting up early and going out for a walk or a cycle ride before the sun gets too hot,” I answered, a little surprised that anyone would wonder at the advantages of spending our winter months in warmer climes.

“But you can do that here,” he said.

“It’s not quite the same especially not when it rains,” I laughed.

“Oh yes you can. I love running in the rain…”

“So do I,” chimed in Elizabeth, my niece.

“But it’s dark in the early mornings here…”

“The best time” said Liz, and Reuben agreed.

“Well I don’t see much evidence of such enthusiasm,” I remarked a tad sarcastically.(Obviously it’s not dark or wet enough when I go out.)

Chris and I were going up one of the steepest hills in Dawlish when the rain increased to a downpour; we didn’t feel like running. Our waterproof jackets proved not be waterproof at all and the nylon stuck uncomfortably to Chris’s arms (I had sleeves underneath); our wet trousers flapped around our legs; and it was hard to tell if the water at the ends of our noses were raindrops or dewdrops. As we passed a new estate still in the process of being built (where there used to be beautiful countryside) two workmen wearing hard hats (imagine the din!) crossed our paths. I held up my hands and laughed.

“Lovely day for a walk,” I said loudly, in case they couldn’t hear under their hats.

“You ought to trying laying bricks in it,” one of them responded (whether or not he heard me, he got my gist alright).

We climbed the muddy path up to the now disused golf course. The wind was at its wildest at the top and it turned my wet strands of hair into fine lashes that whipped and stung my face. The grass was long and wet; and I pointed out that our feet would probably smell of dogs’ wee (as has happened before under similar conditions). Chris said “it isn’t a case of grass-cutting but cost-cutting”, which is bound to be true; and one day they’ll sell the useless land, that used to be a lovely well-kept golf course, for yet more building; and the dogs won’t be able to use it for their toilet; I won’t be worried about my shoes smelling of dogs’ wee because I won’t be allowed to walk up there either. One day…

Back on our busy main road all the vehicles had their headlights on full. Most of the cars that passed by us paid little heed to the effect of their cars going at speed through the streams of water at the sides of the road, and our already wet trousers were further drenched; conversely (and interestingly), all the trucks slowed down in an effort not to splash us.

Every item of the clothes we wore earlier this morning had to be wrung out and hung out to dry. Funnily enough the storm has passed and the sun has come out. It isn’t such a bad day after all. We should have waited.

Did we enjoy walking in the pouring rain? Well, we laughed alot, but no, not really, I’d still prefer to spend the English winter in Australia, where I can get up early and be out before the sun gets too hot…

A few months ago, when Bobbie (our youngest) announced that she was planning on making changes in her life and moving up to London to live with her boyfriend, I thought, “Good on you, Bobbie”. It wasn’t like she was a young girl leaving home for the first time; she hasn’t lived at home full-time since she left for her second year of university down in Plymouth, where she carried on living until just over a year ago. Of course, Plymouth is only forty miles away, not exactly on the doorstep but not remote either; and then she returned to Dawlish to live independently in Mary’s ground floor flat under the old Porch Galleries, which was on Granny Porch’s doorstep, but everyone respected her “space” (so to speak). I thought of myself at her age – a young mother of a seven year old Jim, living in Australia, travelling back forth, not quite knowing where to settle, and very much involved in my own life – and I understood exactly why Bobbie felt the need to spread her wings.

Bobbie has been packing away her things and preparing for the move for weeks; she has taken some suitcases up to Martin’s already, to lessen the load; she has been talking about the last weeks of her work at Totnes, the last days, the goodbye party, the last day… We knew she was going, it was no surprise, we have had months to get used to the idea, we have been excited for her, we have been happy for her… but it hadn’t hit me yet…

Even yesterday, when Mum phoned in tears saying, “Oh Sally, I know I don’t see that much of her, but I shall miss her. I’ll miss the knowing that she’s there…”, it still hadn’t hit me. It struck Mum first because Bobbie left the flat yesterday; and Mary was struck next because she came over to say goodbye as we were packing things into the removal van; and Mary said, “I shall miss her, Sally; just not having her there will be funny.”

Bobbie came home with us last night. We had very well-cooked (slightly burnt) chicken for dinner (I had put it in the oven to cook while we were at Bobbie’s flat for the final packing into the van), and Madeleine came over later to spend the last hours of this era with her childhood friend. Bobbie walked her half-way home and Chris and I went to bed. I found it hard to sleep. I think Chris did too. He had restless legs; they wriggled every ten seconds (I kept count) and when I could stick it no more I called out into the darkness, “You kick your legs every ten seconds!” After that he made a valiant effort to control the jiggling.

I must have gone to sleep eventually because Chris woke me at ten to six this morning with a cup of tea that I couldn’t face. Bobbie was getting ready upstairs when I walked through the kitchen; Chris was somewhere else; the tumble-drier was tumbling away and a hot damp fug was in the air; and with nothing better to do, and no-one to talk to, I decided to take a shower. While I was still in the shower Chris called through the door, “We’re off now”.

Damp and in my bathrobe, I stood by the front door and hugged and kissed Bobbie goodbye.

“It’s so exciting for you,” I said, trying to be cheery, “and it’s not like we won’t be seeing you. We’ll see you soon – won’t we?”

“Yes, of course,” Bobbie replied, “I should think we’ll be down in January.”

“But we shall speak on Skype and phone?”

The door closed against the dark rainy morning, I thought about January , three months or more away, and Christmas disappeared, and then it hit me… 

The phone rang last night and Chris answered.

“Oh Chris!” Mum whimpered, “I was about to go to bed when I realised I’d lost my hearing aid.”

“When did you last have it?” Chris asked.

“Pardon? I can’t hear very well because I’ve lost my hearing aid. I don’t know when it came out but I’ve searched everywhere… and that’s hard when you’re registered blind. Oh Chris, I just had to tell someone, I hope you don’t mind.”

“Of course not, now don’t worry, it’s bound to be there… or somewhere,” Chris assured her very loudly.

“No need to shout,” said Mum, “anyway, I’ve looked everywhere and I’m so frustrated… I want to pull my hair out! What am I to do?” Mum cried.

“Well there’s nothing much you can do now; why don’t you go to bed and I’ll come down first thing in the morning?”

So that is how it was left.

This morning Chris drew back the bedroom curtains to greet another grey, drizzly day – our promised Indian summer – not cold but miserable and so dark that we had to put the kitchen lights on when we went upstairs for breakfast.

By the way, (just out of interest), the scrambled eggs managed to curdle even though I cooked them in a porringer – Nero Wolfe (the television gourmand detective played by Canadian actor Maury Chaykin) was right about the perfect scrambled eggs requiring 40 minutes on the lowest of heat. I gave the curdled ones to Chris and started again. Don’t bother to use a porringer – boiling water is too hot – the second lot curdled too. It happened on my plate, before my very eyes. And eggs are awful without toast – but I’m going to be good today.

My resolution to be good also meant that I intended to take the correct amount of exercise regardless of the atrocious weather outside.

“I’ll walk down with you to Mum’s,” I told Chris over our curdled scrambled eggs, “then we can carry on walking afterwards, perhaps through the little forest past the school and home by way of the Leisure Centre.”

“You want to walk in the rain?” Chris queried.

“It’s only drizzle.”

Mum was eating her porridge (I wonder if she used a porringer for cooking her porridge?) when we arrived. She looked pale and wan, as you do when you’re upset, perhaps after the tempest and hair-pulling, when you’ve resigned yourself to the fact there is nothing more that can be done and only a miracle could make a difference. The miserable grey day could not have helped her downcast mood.

“You won’t find it,” she began in an unusually small and forlorn voice, “I’ve hunted high and low, on my hands and knees; I’ve been through every drawer and cupboard, every corner, every recess in the house; at the back of the settee and the sides of every chair…”

Mum held her head in her hands and wept.

Chris and I set to and checked every likely spot and every unlikely spot. We went off in different directions but covered the same area TWICE; hence, when I felt down the sides and back of the sofa (for the second time myself) Chris was a little annoyed.

“I’ve just checked that!” Chris said a bit shirty.

“Keep your hair on!” I retorted.

“I told you both it wasn’t anywhere,” said Mum, even more shirtily, “Why doesn’t anyone believe me?”

Feeling slightly panicked by this time, I phoned Mary, my sister, to ask her to search her car because she had taken them out yesterday. Then I resumed my search in the bathroom again.

“It’s not there,” Mum said assertively, as one who had searched with a magnifying glass several times already.

“We’ll have to phone the hospital to see if Mum can get a replacement,” I suggested, feeling beaten and resigned. The prospect of our walk was rapidly diminishing under the need for action to be taken.

Chris began to dial the hospital number when I had another idea… I opened the kitchen bin, which was full, and had a ferret around in the top.

“Oh Sally,” said Mum, rather appalled that I had my hand in her bin.

My hand was amongst the potato peelings when I heard a little sound.

“Did you hear that?” I asked.

No-one answered. Mum is quite deaf and Chris is a tad deaf himself, but they both believed me when I said it again, and Chris helped me retrieve the hearing aid.

All’s well that ends well: Mary had torn out everything in her car but it probably needed a good clear out anyway; Mum has her hearing aid back and Chris did her the favour of taking out her rubbish; and we had a shorter walk than intended but it was too vile to be out walking in any case. As for my diet, well, I always try to be good but I’ve gone off scrambled eggs for the time being.

I arrived on time (a rare occurrence) but was made a little late (the norm) by having to sign up again at reception. While I waited a tall man came up behind me and tickled my ribs.

“Hello Byron,” I turned around.

“So you knew it was me?”

“I hoped it was you – who else could it have been?” I laughed and he was called away.

A few minutes later I was signing forms, still at reception, when a nice strong arm slipped around my waist.

“That’s nice,” I turned around to give Byron a peck on the cheek (well, what is a girl supposed to do?).

“I haven’t seen you in ages. Have you been away?” asked Byron.

“No, just busy with work and visitors, but I’m going to mend my ways and come here more often.”

On my way to the changing rooms I could hear distant music coming from behind the heavy swing doors that I had to pass; and over the beat of the music I could hear shouting.

“Not Susan then,” I thought to myself, “but it’s a Monday, Susan should be in on Mondays, or am I mistaken?”

In the changing rooms, still two rooms and two walls from the pool area, I could hear the music and the shouting even more clearly. I considered changing my mind instead of my clothes but my resolve to be good got the better of me and I decided to give it another go.

I had hoped to sneak into one of the shower cubicles unnoticed; however, recent improvements had taken place since I had been last and the cubicles had disappeared, and now there are several open showers under bright lights, so that any late arrivals are under the spotlight. In disgrace, I showered facing the wall while perhaps all eyes were on my bottom.Yet, perhaps not… not while the twenty five or so ladies present were already well underway with “bootcamp aquacise”.

Susan was off and a young man with red hair and a red face to match was taking her slot… very loudly. “Mr Bootcamp” was a young chap dressed in rugby shorts, rugby shirt, long rugby socks and… rugby boots? No, rugby boots have spikes – don’t they? He must have worn trainers, they didn’t make a clip-clop sound, not that anyone could hear anything above the cacophony that was his shouting over the blaring modern music with no melody (that nobody recognised).

The back and middle of the pool was occupied to such an extent that I was obliged to take up the largest space available, at the front – directly in front of Mr Bootcamp. He had a repertoire of about eight exercises that he repeated throughout the session, varying them only in degree of difficulty – kick low, kick a bit higher, kicker higher still; lift arms so far, a bit more, lift them into the air (you get the picture). The earnest young man kicked, squatted and lifted to the sound of his own voice, and he got hot, sweaty and well-exercised; we kicked, squatted and lifted to the sound of his voice, and we didn’t break into sweat, or even get red in the face, because the exercises are much easier to do when you’re almost weightless in the water.

Mr Bootcamp seemed troubled that we didn’t go red in our faces from our exertions so he shouted…

“Come on! You know why you’re here, if you want to lose weight you’ll have to put more into it!”

I did tell you he is young.

Now Susan takes a different approach: she seems to appreciate how hard it is to speak over loud music (and may not like shouting) so she leads her classes by example from the side of the pool, through various routines of exercises to suit the music (almost like dancing in water). She invites her class to choose the level that suits an individual’s needs best and understands that some will exercise at double speed whilst others will be slower, according to discrepancies in age and levels of fitness. She also finds music that people recognise and like, and she was sensitive to our pleas for no more of Abba’s “Mamma Mia” (after two solid years of it – we all used to like it, but not any more!). And, importantly, she does not insinuate that we are too fat.

Towards the end of the session Byron came in to have a word with the lifeguard (who probably had to take out his earplugs), and as he passed by me he gave a secret little wave which lifted my spirits (as I lifted my arms dutifully and dully), and which may or may not have been noticed by the other ladies who were all behind me (hopefully). Byron understands that women need a little levity and before he left he lightened the mood of the entire class by scooping up a handful of water and putting it on the inexperienced Mr Bootcamp’s sweaty face.

Back in the changing room I overheard two ladies extolling the virtues and methods of Mr Bootcamp. Maybe they liked the masterful approach of the rugby team coach, or perhaps the more effusive admirer was the young man’s mother. Whatever the reasons, he was a hit with at least two of the ladies. Byron, on the other hand, was a hit with all.