From midnight Friday 10th October until midnight Monday 13th you may get your Kindle Ebook free. Just click on the image below and it should take you directly to Kindle Ebooks. Have a great read NEXT weekend! Look out for more links from my site NEXT WEEKEND. (Thought I was giving the promotion this weekend but got the date wrong – never mind, it builds the excitement!)
Confession of a Babysitter
Now I’m not going to mention any names (believe it or not, my blog can be a secret confessional, in case you have any embarrassing tales to impart) so please do not press me for the true identity of the guilty grandfather in question. But don’t get too excited because the confession I received by means of an email today did not relate to a crime as such, unless you consider a misleading omission a lie, and even then a lie isn’t exactly perjury unless uttered under oath – is it? In this instance the “omission” would hardly rate even as a venial sin (according to the Catholic Clergy – “The gravity of a lie [normally a venial – lesser- sin] is measured against the nature of the truth it deforms, the circumstances, the intentions of the one who lies, and the harm suffered by its victims.”) In other words, read on in the confidence that no real harm was done, but also that the circumstances were rather humorous.
A male friend of ours, living in a country other than England, was asked at short notice if he would oblige by babysitting his young grandson. I might as well just let you read the email:
I picked the little man up at 8 am and decided to take him to Victoria point. Not the part you know, but an area that is just great for little kids and adults alike. I bought a sausage roll and a pasty, plus a little milk drink to see us through till we got back to home here.
After our snack we decided to walk on the beach. Well, the tide was out and I mean out! There were 300 meters of sand in front of us and, as we walked out toward the sea, I noticed – or I thought I saw – the sand move. I wasn’t wrong, for there in front of us was the biggest army of soldier crabs I’d ever seen in my life! It was like watching a Napoleonic army on the move from a higher vantage point.
The vanguard in front were in a slight “V” shape, flanks to the left, flanks to the right, main body of soldiers in the middle and – would you believe? – a rearguard urging all before them on. Incredible!! Sorry but I never thought to take a photo.To be truthful, the little chap wasn’t overly taken with what I found quite fascinating, but he was okay after I pointed out that they were my friends. He found the swings and slides more to his liking, loads more fun than creepy crabs. So we did bond to a greater degree.
Chapter two.
We arrived home safely enough and it was time for his bottle of milk. While he had that I had a cup of tea and I coaxed him into a half-hour lay down next to me on the settee.
Four hours earlier his mother had said to me:
“You might have to change his nappy, he’s due for something later…”
Luckily for me, or so I thought – so far so good. As we lay there on the couch something wafted past my nostrils just as we were both stirring from our little bonding lay down with each other. Did I say “wafting”? Let me clarify. Something shattered my awakening like… you wouldn’t believe! I now know what it was and so do you – need I explain?
I was straight on the phone.
“When are you coming here?” I pleaded.
“Be there in half an hour” she said.
About an hour later…
“All okay?,” she asked.
“Yes”, I answered nonchalantly.
“He smells a bit,” she hinted.
“I think he’s just done something” I said.
“How long ago?”
“Two minutes, if that,” I fibbed.
Anyway to cut a long story short, she knew I was fibbing. I couldn’t bring myself to do it (change the nappy), and I do feel guilty; but, on the other hand, I feared breaking the bond between his nappy and his lovely little bum…
I’m sure the squeamish grandfather will be forgiven. Methinks it is time for the “little man” to be potty-trained.
A Place of my Childhood – Wellington Point (A Small Painting)
Just thought you might like to see one of my latest paintings, part of my new Australian series. This painting depicts the beach at Wellington point, a favoured spot that holds many happy memories for we Porch children (now all with grown children of our own); I remember Dad taking us for exciting walks on the cliff path above the beach. “Trust me, I won’t let you fall,” he used to say holding out his hand; and he never let us fall. I recall the last time Dad and I went there together, a few years before he passed away; we sat on the big roots of the same enormous tree, the boughs of which had carried we intrepid climbing Porch children while Dad stood watchful below, and decades later we felt nostalgic for the old days; and marvelled at the tree and the passage of time.
Wellington Point; happy, sad – mixed feelings; Australia, England – you don’t know where home is. But home draws you back, and back again.
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- Acrylic on canvas 24cmsx30cms
Nine Out of Ten Men Like to See a Woman Doing “That” (Apparently)
What could “that” be? What do so many men like to see a woman do? (Don’t worry, all will be revealed in a minute.) You may be surprised to learn that it is nothing obvious, like wearing black stockings and stiletto heels, or lap dancing, or cavorting to music in a provocative manner (pah, they can see that on the big screen up at the gym any time of the week!).
It seems that really, contrary to popular supposition, most men are drawn to the less common sight of a healthy-looking specimen of womanhood dressed unprepossessingly in old work clothes with paint stains and an old frilly apron over the top, her unwashed hair tied up in a skewiff ponytail, her face and arms besmirched with spots of drying mortar, and similar drops on her legs and shoes (not pretty sandals but ugly “crocs” in hot pink); and, perhaps most importantly, she works at a task more usually associated with men – like bricklaying or re-pointing a brick wall. Take yesterday, for example…
No sooner had I mixed the mortar in a bucket – three parts sand to one part Portland cement (thanks to Google, and coincidentally, I was born in Portland, Victoria) – than a car drew up to the pavement where I was working…
“Excuse me,” said the driver in order to get my attention (considering that I was bending down at the time). Two sets of eyes peered at me through the open window but the driver, a man in his thirties, did the talking. “Is there a Tesco, or similar, supermarket around here?”
“There is a Sainbury’s straight along this road for about a mile and on the right,” I directed.
“You’re doing a good job,” he smiled, looking momentarily from me to the wall, which hadn’t been started yet (at this session).
“Not nearly as good as you could do, I don’t doubt,” I laughed. I had noted some spots of powdery mortar, not dissimilar to my own, on his cheery face.
“We’re doing the same as you on a place down the road,” he admitted but he didn’t offer to take over from me.
Ten minutes later they drove past from the other direction and tooted the car horn – fellow artisans… or trowel mates.
It was neither the sunniest nor the warmest of days and yet the whole world seemed to be passing by on my stretch of pavement, and many people I saw twice. It seemed that nearly every time I bent down someone (mostly men) would pass by and say:
“I like to see a woman doing that!”
Folk were so pleasant and cheery that I had occasionally to stop my work and respond to the words of encouragement and wonder. It’s uncanny how many bricklayers are out there. One even offered me an apprenticeship, to which I declined on the basis that he probably couldn’t afford to employ me because I would be “too slow”; he argued that I would get faster but I just laughed and went back to my wall (didn’t have the heart to tell him that my heart wasn’t really in bricklaying).
I was bending down again when I was interrupted by a different comment.
“I’ve done that!” came the voice of a man from Somerset (or so I thought).
He was nice, rather younger than most of the middle-aged bricklayers who had passed by.
“Are you a bricklayer?,” I asked, more for fun than anything else – after all, a bricklayer wouldn’t put it like that.
“No,” he laughed and showed a set of sparkling white teeth, “I work for Rolls Royce.”
“In Somerset?” I showed off my great knowledge.
“Bristol,” he informed and went on, “I re-pointed my wall, just as you’re doing, and as I reached the bottom of the bag of sand I found, in another plastic bag, a sausage of cement!”
“Did you pull out the sand and start again?”
“No, it went in alright and looked alright; the funny thing is that, after five years the sand is still there and the wall is still standing,” said the nice-looking, youngish Bristolian who is down in Dawlish for two weeks.
We continued chatting for quite a while until at last I thought I had better return to the wall before the mortar was dry. And no, I didn’t ask his name – thought he might mistake me for being single (especially as I was doing a man’s job outside) – but it occurred to me that any single ladies out there looking for “Mr Right” might have greater success meeting him by her front wall than on a modern dance floor. Of course the danger is that the dreamboat may be after you for your expertise as a bricklayer, in which case you would have to tell him “There is mortar life.”
Apple Picking and Blackberry Picking Down on the Farm
Mary and I went over to see Rosie and the dogs (Jazz, Malachi, Inca and little Sasha) on the farm this afternoon. We picked apples – eaters and cookers – in the soft light of late afternoon and, as the sun was setting and turning the clouds a coral pink, we walked up to find blackberries in the hedges bordering the upper fields that overlook the beautiful valley and the sea in the distance.
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- Mary Pippins
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- They like to help pick up the apples
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- Caught red-handed
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- Pink and red
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- All good cookers
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- The pickers and the bountiful tree.
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- Enjoying his apple
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- Adorable donkeys who love apples!
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- A coral glow
So That is What Happens When you Ignore Some Emails…
I borrowed this photograph from the Facebook page of my good friend Lorelle in Oz.
Messing About on the … Harbour
The Sunday ride to Cockwood was somewhat deflating. As you may know, it’s incredibly tiring for both the rider (me) and the pumper (Chris the stalwart) when your bike has a tyre with a faulty valve; it is a case of pump, pump, pump, then ride as fast as you can for as long as you can (until your bottom can feel every tiny stone and you begin to worry about the rims of the wheels); then all over again pump, pump, pump – and dash, dash, dash – and walk, walk, walk (up the steep hills) and so on.
It’s amazing what a difference a new inner tyre with new valve (they are integral nowadays) makes; I felt like I was riding on air, which I was at last, after months of making do with a gradually increasing emission of air from my rear tyre. Eurphoric to realise that my usual fitness had not all but deserted me, I rode like an athlete (albeit a ‘ride for fun’ style of athlete) and in next to no time we had ridden to Cockwood Harbour.
To top it off the tide was in and the sun came out to welcome us, and the members of Cockwood Boat Club were out in force (well, there were four of them). One gentleman had made it out on a tender to his fine-looking catamaran and another chap paddled over in his rowing boat to a larger boat, which was moored close to the edge of the harbour wall above which Chris and I had parked our bikes and were walking.
“Is this your boat?”I asked as the man stepped on board.
“No, it’s for sale. I’m just inspecting it,” he replied with a smile (it seems that most boating people are friendly and happy to talk about boats).
“How much is it?”
“One thousand two hundred pounds,” he came back.
At that moment another small rowing boat, bearing two men, came onto the scene;a man with a cap rowed to one of the many sets of steps on the harbour wall and the two got out and sat on the railings at the roadside where they opened a flask.
“I hope you don’t mind that I took photographs of you coming in,” I said, “But you looked so picturesque.”
“No, we don’t mind,” the man in the cap looked at me with a smile of recognition, “you took some photos of me before…”
“That’s right,” I remembered him too (although he appeared quite different in his cap and high green waders), “I still have the photographs – you were picturesque then too”.
“Why don’t you buy a boat yourself?” asked the friend of the man with the cap and he pointed to the boat that was for sale. “That’s a lovely Orkney Long-Liner!”
“An Orkney Long-Liner? I’m not in the market for a big boat. (A rowing boat is more the ticket!) I wonder if the owner would take less than twelve hundred pounds for it,” I pondered.
“One thousand – without the outboard motor,” his eyes twinkled with glee.
“How do you know? (he chuckled) Is it your boat?”
“One thousand two hundred with the engine,” he continued to chuckle.
“I suppose it’s expensive to moor a boat in the harbour?” I queried.
The two friends looked at each other and laughed.
“Twenty-two pounds a year,” they agreed.
“Wow, that’s cheap,” I looked at Chris.
Chris smiled in his quiet negative way and said nothing.
“You can have my boat for one hundred and seventy-five pounds,” Den said (he’s the man in the cap).
“I could afford that! I could go fishing in it,” I turned to Chris who was still smiling negatively.
“Or, you could join the club for ten pounds a year and take out the club tender for a bit of fishing – there are plenty of eels and the mackerel come right in here” suggested Alec (the man without a cap).
“I could sell them to the pubs,” I had it all planned out in two seconds flat.
“But,” said Den, “if you take the tender out you have to bring it back whenever club members need it to take them to their boats…”
As you can tell, readers, this all needs some consideration. For now I’m going to settle for joining the Cockwood Boat Club – the man who inspected the Orkney Long-Liner came along and he just so happens to be the Vice Lord Admiral (or something like that) of the club. The forms will reach me in a few days and my membership will begin in January. I can hardly wait till next year to go fishing in the harbour with Chris (apparently he can be my guest). It is my hope that the other members will be equipped with their own tenders by then (Den could sell someone his) so that I’ll have enough time to catch a few nice flat-fish such as plaice.
Oh, speaking of flat-fish, that reminds me, the tyre stayed up and I’m buoyant about it!
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- “Do you think he’ll buy the Orkney Long-Liner?”
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- Age before beauty!
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- “A lovely day for selling a boat, or two boats!
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- “It goes like a dream!”
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- Back on April 18th
And here are the words to Messing About on the River, written by Tony hatch.
When the weather is fine then you know it’s a sign
For messing about on the river.
If you take my advice there’s nothing so nice
As messing about on the river.
There are long boats and short boats and all kinds of craft,
And cruisers and keel boats and some with no draught.
So take off your coat and hop in a boat
Go messing about on the river.
There are boats made from kits that reach you in bits
For messing about on the river.
Or you might want to skull in a glass-fibred hull.
Just messing about on the river.
There are tillers and rudders and anchors and cleats,
And ropes that are sometimes referred to as sheets.
With the wind in your face there’s no finer place,
Than messing about on the river.
There are skippers and mates and rowing club eights
Just messing about on the river.
There are pontoons and trots and all sorts of knots
For messing about on the river.
With inboards and outboards and dinghies you sail.
The first thing you learn is the right way to bail.
In a one-seat canoe you’re the skipper and crew,
Just messing about on the river.
There are bridges and locks and moorings and docks
When messing about on the river.
There’s a whirlpool and weir that you mustn’t go near
When messing about on the river.
There are backwater places all hidden from view,
And quaint little islands just awaiting for you.
So I’ll leave you right now to cast off your bow,
Go messing about on the river.
Through the Bedroom Window
Of course I mean the view from our bedroom window, curtains drawn back to greet the morning, and nothing but sea before us; if you peeped your head around from the other side you would see Chris and me sat in bed, and enjoying our cups of tea. Well, there’s not always nothing but sea, sometimes a passing fishing boat catches our attention; or canoeists, or sailing boats that come in close to shore.
On this grey, misty morning a relatively large vessel, accompanied by a smaller boat, chugged into view and lingered in the patch of sea right in front of our window; we wondered what they were doing. At first I thought they were fishermen. I rushed upstairs and grabbed my Canon camera with the telephoto lens. The best of the shots are below.
Diagnosis Dodgy
Not “off the cuff” today, more like “off the bicycle-clips”. Thanks Roland.
An elderly man went to see his doctor.
Elderly man: “Doctor I have a pain in my left leg”
Doctor: “Well let me look at it for you and we’ll see what seems to be the trouble, hmm… I think I know what the trouble is, just as I thought – just part of growing old!”
Elderly man: [in a raised voice] “Can’t be doctor! Just can’t be!”
Doctor: “I’m sorry, but I’m afraid that is what’s wrong with it, are you questioning my diagnosis?”
Elderly man: “But doctor, there’s nothing wrong with my other leg and it’s exactly the same age!”
Dying for a Nice Cup of Tea
My younger brother Henry called me from Australia this morning (two of my lovely brothers live in Brisbane). The conversation went something like this…
“I made a nice egg jaffle for myself a little while ago,” began Henbone (that’s his family nickname).
“Umm… Sounds good. So you still have your jaffle irons?”
“Don’t you?” Hen was surprised.
“No, we just have a sandwich-maker but we never use it because I’m always on a diet…”
“Never mind,” Hen said sympathetically, “but let me tell you what happened. I had made this delicious-looking jaffle – it was all golden brown, crisp and done to perfection, if I do say so myself (Henry lives on his own as present) – and I had made a steaming hot cup of tea to have with it; both the tea and the jaffle were on the dining room table, and I was just about to begin my meal when I noticed that the kitchen tap was dripping. In the few moments it took for me to walk over to the tap and turn it off something most peculiar happened…”
“A cat had come in and started to eat your jaffle?”
“No,” Henry laughed, “that would have been preferable.”
“A dog?”
“No,” he derided, “nothing nearly as nice as a dog or cat.”
“A gecko or a possom?” my mind raced to other creatures. (Surely a nasty snake would not want to snaffle an egg jaffle!)
“Well,” Henry continued (seeing that I couldn’t possibly guess), “you know those flying cockroaches can get extremely big? This one was the biggest cockroach/beetle type of insect I have ever seen – nearly as big as the circumference of my cup – and there it was… It looked as though a bomb had hit the table. Tea everywhere, all over the table and even over my jaffle! As soon as my back was turned the giant cockroach had obviously kamikazed, from a great height, and with great force, straight into my cup of tea.”
“He was dead then?”
“If the impact hadn’t killed him the scalding hot tea would have finished him off, he was floating on the remaining two-thirds of tea in the cup,” my brother confirmed.
“You didn’t feel like giving him mouth to mouth resuscitation?” I alluded to the time that Henry had brought a drowned child back to life.
“Not this time Sally, I threw his big ugly body out onto the garden.”
“And did you eat your jaffle?”
“No, it was sodden and unappetizing, besides, I was put off. But I made another cup of tea – I was still dying for one.”
Here are some photographs of kamikaze-style cockroaches and others – with thanks to the cockroach lovers who took the original photos.