On going to bed last night here at Rosie’s farm I rather expected I might have a visit from Inca, the black Labrador who had slipped in under cover of darkness and kept me company for most of the night last time I slept over; I didn’t expect to open my door and find Horsey the cat (well that’s what she answers to) curled up on the right side of my bed, as if waiting for me to take my place on the left side, which I decided to do, considering she looked so cuddly, comfy and warm (it was cold and I hadn’t bothered to put the heater on). However, just as I was about to get into bed, Inca entered the room and looked imploringly at me.

“Okay,” I said and she jumped up and took her place at the bottom of the four-poster.

Horsey endured the intrusion for five minutes but she was miffed, and departed with her nose in the air. Inca, obviously delighted, quickly took her rightful place beside me and rested her head in the crook of my arm, and put her paw in mine as we had done before.

Perhaps half an hour had passed when I heard another set of paws clicking on the tiled floor; in one bound agile Malachi (another, but slightly heavier, beautiful Black Labrador) was at the foot of my bed and trying to push my legs apart. For some time I lay on my back with my left leg straight and my right leg skewed at a strange and uncomfortable angle. The dogs’ bulk took up any slack in the duvet cover and the whole of my left-hand side, including my bare left foot, was getting cold; I wished I had opted for thermal socks and my polar bear onesie rather than my pink and black leopard skin onesie, which was much thinner.

I returned to bed ten minutes later, having disturbed my bed-mates who then needed to go out for some “air” – and the other dogs, Sasha and Jas, joined them (making the most of the general disturbance and the open door); but this time I was thermally protected and bearlike. And on this occasion Malachi beat Inca to the favoured spot beside me and the younger dog had to make do with the area of bed beyond my bent knees. Malachi was treated to the same kind of loving caresses that Inca had gone into raptures over; but she could not decide which she liked best – being stroked under her chin or on top of her head and around her silky ears; therefore, every so often, she moved her head – either under my hand or over my arm – and deep sleep eluded us both, although we dozed in a particularly warm and pleasant manner. I had pulled the hood of my fluffy onesie over my head and was cosy, regardless of any shortage of duvet.

At some point during the coldest hour, when I was half-asleep, I was brought to full consciousness by rapid breathing and two little paws reaching up to my bedside; it was tiny Sasha, and behind her was Jas, the eldest and largest of the quartet. I turned on the light.

“What do you want?” I asked, “Do you want to come onboard?” (I hoped they would see that there was scarcely room for one more, even a small one.)

Sasha stood on her hind legs and surveyed the bed-top. Realising the hopelessness, they chose the next best thing – a breath of cold air! They all went. Afterwards Sasha and Jas retired to their usual mattress and we three four-poster wallerers went back into the bedroom; Inca snuck in first and Malachi had to take up the lesser position. She couldn’t bear the come-down and headed off for her basket by the Aga.

Just as I had begun to snooze, I felt a heavy weight at the end of the bed and a gigantic body was forcing my legs apart – Jas!

I slept lengthwise across the bed, with the pillows against my back (which was quite good for keeping out the draft); but it wasn’t a long sleep… soon it was time to get up and feed the animals.

No sleepwalking shenanigans tonight – I’m going to shut the door.

Here are a few photographs of the lovely fire, Horsey the cat and my other bedfellows.

I could tell he didn’t like me. He hadn’t liked me last time I was farm-sitting and nothing had changed – I felt sure of it. He had a cockeyed look that he used to good effect to hide the fact that he was watching my every step, whilst pretending to have a great interest in  well-upholstered hens, or ducks, or goats; wherever I went he followed. He was tailing me – the light was failing and he was tailing.

“What is he doing?” asked one of the gaggle of ducks as they huddled together to confer.

“He’s tailing her,” said the most astute of the five, the one with the longest neck.

“Let’s get a bit jumpy – that should warn her,” they agreed. They had an antipathy to stalkers. Their number had been greater until they had dealings with a rusty coloured and bushy tailed stalker of their own last year.

My stalker, too, was a fine looking chap, apart from his shifty eyes and deformed feet. In spite of his odd toes which went out to the sides at funny angles, as if they were broken, he walked and stalked rather fast. In my green Wellington boots, I had to run out of the duck enclosure to avoid a confrontation. I kept on running, through the hen pen, and the power walking stalker managed almost to catch me up at the gate, which I closed rapidly. Unfortunately, it was a five bar gate with a gap underneath and my lithe stalker limboed easily under the bottom bar and followed me to the stable, where I hid behind the wooden door to the food store. Mr Nonchalant stopped at the threshold to the stable, perhaps to catch his breath, ostensibly to pick at some food I had thrown there a few minutes earlier. All the while I was aware of his beady cock-eyes looking at me.

Malachi, the faithful black Labrador, stood guard outside the stable and the stalker strutted off in an appearance of having business elsewhere. I came out of hiding bearing some of the goodies from the storeroom and went to the goat pen. Only moments after the hungry goats had made short work of their dinner I turned to leave and saw my attacker, his fine feathers ruffled and his wings outspread, jump into the air like Bruce Lee. His funny shaped feet, with talons spread, missed their mark and I ran to the safety of the stable again.

At length, when I had finished feeding all the animals, the bad tempered cockerel gave up the game of cat and mouse; it was nearly dark and he headed to the chook-house (not to be confused with cook-house – chook is an Australian term for chicken). Malachi, Inca and I headed for a meadow on a hillside where they love to run through the long grass and take in the views of the farmstead below and the sea in the distance; they went on ahead while I clambered up the hillside in my wellingtons… and my socks slid off my feet and  disappeared into the toes of my boots. And when I reached the top I saw my companions’ black tails wagging as they ran through  the grass.

Incidentally, I’ve discovered that the cat is called “Horsey”. When I stood at the fence by the field with the horse, and I called out, “Horsey!” to get the horse’s attention, the cat shot out like bullet from the hedge on the other side of the field and was with me in ten seconds flat. He was a bit disappointed to be offered a carrot.

Did you read about the twenty-three year old “Beautiful Curves” beauty queen who recently tweeted the acerbic tycoon Lord Sugar, asking if she could call him Sugar? I very much doubt that Lord Sugar had any idea that the saucy young woman had once been nineteen stone, had since a gastric band fitted, and is now fourteen stone when he tweeted back, “Yes, no problem, as long as I can call you fatty”. Methinks the plus-size model is seeking her fifteen or so minutes of fame.

I fancy that Lord Sugar will have been asked the very same question many times in his sixty-seven years and I’d bet that his response was simply his stock answer. I reckon he might even be familiar with this old joke…

Three couples on holiday in a Spanish hotel shared a table at breakfast. One couple was American, the second was English and the third was Irish.

“Would you pass me the honey, Honey?” asked the handsome Texan in a mellifluous voice.

His pretty wife lowered her head coquettishly and passed her husband the honey.

Continuing the game of flirtation at the breakfast table, the English gentleman asked his wife:

“Would you mind passing the sugar, Sugar?”

His wife nearly fell off her chair with the shock, regained her composure and, with a look of loving concern, passed him the sugar bowl.

Not wishing to be outdone by the silver-tongued men around the table, the Irish husband spoke up:

“Would you pass us the bacon, you big fat pig!”

For some reason – I can’t imagine why – shortly after awakening this morning I found myself remembering another morning, well over twenty years ago, when I awoke in a “hotel tent” on a plain in the High Atlas Mountains…

I was an adventure seeking young artist who, accompanied by an exciting and worldly explorer friend, had gone to Imilchil (the home of the nomadic Ait Hadidou tribe) to experience an amazing and famous wedding fair, of three days duration, that is held every September. What makes it so unusual is the fact that the women choose their bridegrooms!  Of course, I intended to paint a new series of paintings depicting all aspects of the wedding fair and the beautiful brides in their striking headdresses and jewellry.

Upon our arrival, following a long, arduous and treacherous drive up narrow mountain roads of rock and dust (and no barriers to prevent you falling thousands of feet to your death), we were greeted by officials (or perhaps they were elders) who led us to the “hotel tent”. The hotel for intrepid visitors was a huge tent, white on the outside and lined with sumptuous red and green cloth panels patterned with gold; down the middle was an aisle, on either side of which were rows of beds, or, more precisely, mattresses. Each mattress, laid directly on the sand, had two sheets and a rough brown blanket on top; the sides of one mattress were so close to the next that, in effect, the sixty beds looked like two long mattresses separated by an aisle up the centre – the pillows were on the outer sides, by the tent walls. Unfortunately for us that year, the day before there had been a flash-flood and half of the mattresses were still soaking wet. We were lucky to find a couple of dry ones about half-way into the tent.

At the end of the day and some of the night, when tired and sated by exotic food and the entertainments of ritual singing and dancing displays on red carpets in the firelight, we returned to the hotel. The plain was cold at night. We put on every item of clothing we had brought with us, including our coats, and still we froze. I was grateful that both my friend and the stranger close beside me on the other side were big men and produced a good amount of heat, though not enough to induce sleep. I was happier when the stranger rose early, whilst it was still dark, and I commandeered his blanket, feeling as I did so, a vain tug from another hand – I wouldn’t let go! Warm at last I managed to sleep.

I awoke to the sound of a farmyard. For some time I lay awake with my eyes closed, allowing myself to come to my senses gradually; I was aware of the sunlight filtering through the roof and walls of the tent, and it was no longer cold; I listened to a donkey honking, deep and sonorous, and rather near; and a little farther away a large male pig snorted and puffed.

Suddenly I was wide awake and I sat bolt upright. In the same instant a French lady, on the mattress directly opposite me across the sandy aisle, also sat bolt upright. We looked at each other; then we each looked down to the side – I at the large donkey next to me and she at the snorting pig next to her – and back to each other again; and we burst out laughing. Roars of laughter came from the end of the tent where a group of Arab lads, sitting on a hillock of mattresses and cushions, had been watching all from their vantage point. The great hilarity roused the snorers, and other sleepers, from their slumbers and soon everyone was laughing.

Now what made me think of that? Oh yes, now I remember.

Not only is my sister the kindest, sweetest, most caring, and intelligent woman you could wish to meet, she is also very beautiful, which is why I cannot understand why she considers herself to be ‘invisible’ – meaning that nobody looks at her anymore. The revelation came out during a long chat we had over the telephone a little earlier.

At present Mary is house-sitting for friends in Brisbane, which makes her comment even more incomprehensible since everyone knows that Aussie men are real macho men, or at least they used to be. Nowadays strange new laws have been introduced in an attempt to curb the Australian he-man’s urge to wolf-whistle (and make a normal girl’s day); happily, ute-men – the drivers of those half-car/half truck utility vehicles – and often, the male cohorts in the passenger seat, are about the only men left in Australia who are brave enough to flout the ridiculous law; however, even they may do so a tad more discreetly than they used to.

“Are you having fun?” I asked Mary.

“Well, I’ve lost over a stone and I’m nice and brown and healthy looking,” my sister replied.

“That’s good, but have you met any interesting people?” I delved.

“I had a lovely time with Lorelle and Kaylene up on the Sunshine Coast,” she said.

“I know that, but what about now that you’re back in Brisbane?”

“I’m afraid the cat will die inside the house if I stay out too long. I do go out though, just not very far. It’s so hot Sally!” Mary explained.

“So you haven’t met any people since you’ve been house-sitting?” I queried, amazed.

“When I was out shopping in Corinda yesterday I met a nice lady – older than me but not old – and she was all on her own after losing her husband and her son. She cried as she told me,” Mary’s voice quaked.

“So you’re telling me that you haven’t been chatted up since you’ve been away?”

“Nope. I think I’m invisible these days. It’s what happens when you’re middle-aged,” Mary answered.

“Rubbish,” I contended, “I don’t feel invisible so why should you?”

“You’re younger.”

“Yeah, eighteen months,” I said in disbelief, “And no hot-blooded Australian male has shown any interest in my gorgeous sister over there alone? I can’t believe it!”

“Honestly, it’s true – well, no-one apart from two ute-men,” she laughed.”

Tomorrow Mary plans to risk leaving the cat inside, with plenty of water and food (and kitty litter), and she’s going to go into the city to take in an art gallery, or museum, or swank along South Bank – anything to get out. She’s going to wear some cute new navy and white cut-off pants and white top (great against a good tan); she’s going to wear mascara and red lipstick – she will look like an Italian fimstar. She will not be invisible! (I hope that Geoff, her husband here in England, will not mind that I gave Mary a bit of a pep talk!)

What do you do? We all ask that of strangers when we meet socially – don’t we? Or, if the person is young we add the word “want” –  What do you want to do? My problem has never been in putting these questions to others but always in answering them sensibly.

Why only yesterday Chris and I were at Rosie’s dinner party for nineteen people (and very charming it was in the big barn which has a retro-chic, rather Bohemian-style, interior); some of the guests we had never met before, and amongst those was an artist whose reputation and work I was familiar with – the barn used to be his studio (now he works and lives primarily in Barcelona). He’s an attractive man – imagine a cross between Richard Burton, Tom Jones and Dylan Thomas (maybe he has some Welsh blood in him) – and you can tell he’s an artist by his hair, thick and slightly dishevelled, and the flair with which he carries off wearing a green scarf and woolly jumper. Somebody must have told Mike the artist what I do and, towards the end of the dinner party, he collared me.

“What do you paint?” he asked.

Now you might think that is a simple enough question, but considering that most people within a three-mile radius (the epicentre of my fame) know me or, at least, know of me, I was taken aback a little.

“I used to be a portraitist, mainly, but now I paint anything,” I said rather lamely and boringly.

Modesty prevented me from elaborating and awkwardness made me wish that Mike would talk about himself, or something else. We talked about Dawlish: our views on my hometown (and his for a time) were two sides of the same coin – my side was the shiny one.

Later on, whilst pondering over the peculiar conversation and my inability to talk with ease about one of the things I love to do nearly every day of my life, I recalled another conversation I had several years ago with the then retired head of the art department at my old college. We met quite by chance at an art exhibition.

“Hello Sally!” an aging gentleman beamed at me.

“Hello John!,” I began after the pause of recognition, “How amazing that you can remember me after all this time, especially as I dropped out in my first year!”

“How could I forget you? Do you remember your interview? We wanted to laugh…” he chuckled.

“No, it was so long ago. What on earth did I say?” I dreaded to think what he was about to tell me.

“Well, the other tutors and I were sat behind my table and you were sat on a chair in front of us. You were wearing a wearing a red, white and blue striped miniskirt.” (I remembered that nice miniskirt and nodded.) “And, when the others had finished asking their questions, I asked you, ‘What to you want to do in life?’ and you said….” John tried to hold back his laughter.

“What did I say? Become a famous painter?”

“You said, ‘I want to marry a millionaire’!”

How embarrassing! At my art college interview! Remembered forever, not as a great artist or writer, but as a comedy act! But it did sound like me. Please, let’s not talk art or what I do or want to do – what do you do?