I feel sorry for Carlo; he’s the dark handsome, half Spanish/half Italian (but born in Germany), forty-one year old singleton who has arrived at Lorelle’s place for a one night stay (she does Airbnb). Carlo would have liked to stay longer for a weekend of “relaxation and sunshine” on the Sunshine Coast but, truth to tell, we didn’t even want him here for one night – the inn is full! Earlier in the day the “bnb” website made an error and allowed the jet-setter, over in Brisbane for work, to make a reservation without Lorelle’s knowledge.

“Thank you for accepting me – see you later!” Carlo had emailed before getting into his hire-car and heading for the Sunshine Coast.

“Sorry, no availability until Monday,” wrote my friend.

“But I’ve paid already and have a reservation receipt number,” Carlo insisted (he writes exceptionally well in English).

Any number of emails were exchanged between Lorelle and Carlo throughout the day. Nothing was resolved but he was coming, rain or shine.

I’m spending the night with Lorelle (good job we’re like sisters) – hope she doesn’t snore. Carlo doesn’t know that I gave up my bed for him. He turned up in the rain and kissed both Lorelle and I on both cheeks (nice Spanish/Italian/German custom…but only when the giver is gorgeous).

Carlo went out for a Mexican dinner while Lorelle and I had garlic chicken at home (luckily we each had the same thing, considering the close proximity later on!). I hope Carlo, too, had some garlic in his meal because we girls have promised to play a dice game (that Lorelle always wins at) with him, that is if he hasn’t met the girl of his dreams in the Mexican restaurant. I assured him that the situation couldn’t be any worse and any nice thing would be a bonus. He raised a smile and showed his marvellous white teeth.

Oh, I hear Carlo has returned…alone. Poor Carlo. Looks like we’ll be playing that dice game I don’t quite understand. But maybe the rain will stop and the sun will shine tomorrow – I certainly hope so. In the morning I’m off for a spot of dog, cat and house-sitting at Maroochy River.

I wonder… if Carlo lost his hire car would he be called Carlos? No, he’d be called careless.

Cheryl’s father-in-law is ninety, lives in an old people’s home, and is not even in good shape for a man of his years. In fact (well, according to Cheryl) he isn’t at all handsome, has bad hips, wonky knees, and he sits around eating all day long (food is his only interest these days); therefore he has become a tad corpulent, especially around the middle, and with his frail legs… well, you understand he can’t walk it off so he sits around all day. He would be incredibly bored it if weren’t for his growing interest in food.

In case you’re wondering, I have known Cheryl – married to Rod (of the rotund nonagenarian dad with the bad legs) – since our primary school days; she was in my sister Mary’s class and later we all went to Wynnum High School and that’s when my friend Lorelle met her first. We’ve all kept in touch and I’m happy to report that we girls are faring much better than Rod’s dad, by the sound of it. Apparently, Cheryl’s husband overheard a deeply disturbing one-way telephone conversation this morning. It went something like this:

“Hello Dad! News? Really? How exciting, yes I’m all ears.

Yes, I’m already sat down. Hey, why should I be sat down? Is there something wrong? That’s a relief… yes, go on.

Yes, I remember the pretty chaplain at your old people’s home. Isn’t her name Janet? No, I didn’t know she was single. You’ve asked her what? To marry you? You? But you’re so… so… um… um… so much older. You must be at least thirty years older. Oh, thirty-six! Honestly Dad, if you’ll forgive me for saying so, I think you’re making an old fool of yourself. What will Janet think? I hope she didn’t take you seriously.

She’s what? Doing cartwheels? She can’t have accepted! Oh, Janet likes older men does she?. But you’re ninety, you can hardly walk, you’re fat – forgive me for being blunt – and you have no interests in life anymore… Yes, I know, Dad – apart from food.

She wants you to move out and live with her at her place? Janet will do all the cooking? You won’t have to do a thing, not even get out of your armchair to do the washing up? Yes, of course her legs and hips are alright – she’s thirty-six years younger than you!

Do I think Rod will be shocked at your news? Well, I’m looking straight at him and he looks pretty shocked to me. He’s coming to the phone….”

“Now don’t go getting yourself stressed out,” Cheryl said, passing the phone to Rod.

“Dad, have you gone out of your mind?” Rod asked. “Dad, Dad, what do you think you are doing? Dad, Dad, are you there Dad?”

“April fool!” laughed Cheryl. She had called the house-phone on her mobile. “Think I’ll call our sister-in-law and pass on the good news.”

And I believe that is exactly what our old school friend did.

Today it was “Arrivederci Roma” and “Hello Buddina” (and Lorelle and Sally) for three pretty German girls who are working their way around Australia. The Fräuleins, who had been working the last month in a pub in the outback town of Roma (famous for oil, gas and cattle stations, and situated four hundred and seventy kilometres west of Brisbane) seemed very pleased to turn up at Lorelle’s place (Airbnb), just a stone’s throw from the beautiful white sandy Kawana Beach and a short walk to shops and restaurants. After a rest, a dip in the pool and dinner out, the girls came back laughing and happy to chat with Lorelle, me and one other guest, Angus originally from Adelaide (not Scotland).

“So what was it like in Roma?” asked Lorelle.

“Well,” said Katarina, “it was good for a month but that was long enough.” (And the other two acquiesced with vigorous nodding of their heads and laughing.)

“I bet there were about six people there,” I joked.

“No,” said Katarina, straight-faced, “thirteen!”

The girls, Angus and I burst out laughing.

“But,” Lorelle felt obliged to find something positive to say, “I imagine Roma would be a good place to find a husband…”

“What do you think Angus?” I asked.

“I think the interesting ones probably left at an early age,” Angus smiled at me.

“I expect there are some nice farm boys there…?” Lorelle turned to the German girls.

The girls giggled uproariously and Katarina explained:

“Let’s just say that,” she said (in extraordinarily good English), “after a while, our expectations were somewhat lowered – we thought things were looking up if they had hair and teeth!”

And for those of you who may have been hoping to find out more about the song “Arrivederci Roma” – the lyrics and other interesting snippets, including a rendition of the song sung by Dean Martin (with weird lip movements – suggesting jiggery-pokery) are below.

“Who is the fairest of us all?” Do we all wonder that as we sit in the hairdresser’s chair? I use the word “we” very loosely because I never go to a hairdresser and not everyone else does either, at least not to a ladies’ hairdresser – take Roland, for example. This is his experience as related to me over the telephone earlier.

“I went to the hairdresser’s today,” Roly began. “It was my first time in a ladies’ hairdressing salon. What I mean is that I’ve been to unisex salons before but only where the sign for men’s hair cuts comes first. On this occasion the sign was definitely for ladies, and the “We also cut men’s hair” bit was an add on at the end.”

“That’s nice,” I replied (but I had a feeling he had something more to tell), “how did it go?”

“The hair looks alright but… I wasn’t too crazy on the wall of mirror – floor to ceiling – full frontal me!” he said.

“Oh dear! How close?”

“No more than five feet, and there was nowhere else to look but at myself,” his voice sounded anguished, “And the light…”

“Neon, was it?”

“Oh yes, full blast harsh neon. I could hardly bear to look at my reflection and all the lines,” he bemoaned.

“You shouldn’t have worn your glasses,” I suggested.

“I didn’t. Oh Sally, I had no idea that I looked so old. Luckily, I was on the middle chair and there was only one other customer, to my left.”

“Nonsense, you are quite handsome… for a man of your age,” I comforted.

“But that’s just because you never wear your glasses,” he rebutted.

“Anyway, why were you lucky to be on the middle chair?” I was bemused.

“Because, had it been busy, there would have been a whole line of faces looking at me in the middle. I remembered what you told me – that I should smile more often – so I tried a sneaky half-smile and hoped that the lady to my left wouldn’t notice…”

“And did she?”

“I don’t know, I was too busy smiling at myself in the mirror,” Roland replied. “Anyway, then I saw my neck and I tried stretching it like a tortoise to get rid of the line below my Adam’s apple.”

“What line? I never noticed a line…”

“And you won’t do. In future I’m going to go around stretching my neck like a tortoise!” Roly paused while I laughed then continued. “By the way, the lady to the left and her hairdresser, and my hairdresser had a really strange conversation about waxing.”

“What kind of waxing?”

“How should I know? Apparently the old method of heating wax is very painful and out of date – now they use sugar. They heat sugar and rip it off. I said it sounded painful and they said it was… but not quite so painful as hot wax. Then I suggested they might like to try using a blow torch…”

Methinks the ladies were having a bit of fun with Roland. And I daresay they had noticed all his strange antics in front of the wall to wall and floor to ceiling mirror; They may even have thought he looked quite handsome, if a bit over-pleased with himself and tortoise-like, especially for a man of his age.

I’m writing my blog and suddenly a cup of coffee turns up on my desk but I’m so engrossed trying to download photographs (of about 20 pixels) which will not appear that I haven’t said a thank you to the coffee-maker and bringer.

“Thank you for the coffee,” I call out from my office at the rear of the house.

“Eh?” comes a voice from somewhere.

“Thank you for the coffee, Roland!” I say very distinctly and a much louder.

“Eh?” comes the voice again (through several walls).

“Crikey, he’s a bit deaf (like Chris),” I think to myself but I don’t say it out loud for fear of offending him (I don’t mind telling Chris but he’s my husband!). Instead, I try again, even louder and with perfect enunciation:

“Thanks a lot Roland!”

“That’s OKAY!” Roland calls out very clearly and he pops his smiling face around the door.

“Is that what you said on each of the previous occasions?” I ask laughing.

He just grins. He’s too polite to call me a deaf bat.