A Bike Ride

Dear Diary, As yet I haven't explained my reasons to Niece why I would like a dog, nor do I intend to, now that they have shown such disapproval of what I consider a simple act that any human being might make. As life is still difficult, today seemed to be the day most suited for a long bike ride.

After packing a small lunch I set off heading west ... go west young man ... hoping not to meet any buffalo, wagon trains, nor painted Indians. I guess I attended too many cowboy movies in my youth! Those days are long gone ... television caused the demise of many movie theatres, and I doubt whether today's young would consider a Saturday matinee exciting enough. Or perhaps they would actually enjoy such an outing. Popcorn and icecreams, sitting in the dark and watching a newsreel, cartoons, followed by the main movie figured largely in the lives of last century.

The day dawned sunny, after a cool night, and a light head wind made pedalling an act of exercise. As I wended my way I kept my thoughts focused on the return journey, when, fingers crossed it didn't change, would be of assistance. The roads were busy enough for a lady with intentions of a leisurely bike ride. Not having any particular destination in mind I meandered up side roads, some gravelled, some sealed; stopped to admire the paddocks green with crops peeking through the soil, and leaning over gateposts to listen to the noises of the countryside. A flock of galahs wheeled overhead, while their raucous less attractive cousins the white corellas, flew from a newly ploughed paddock rising like a dusting of dandruff onto a black jacket. Automatically I raised my hand to scratch my head, presuming the metaphor of corellas and dandruff caused that instantaneous reaction.

A small side road leading down to a river bed with water flowing over the spillway proved to be a wonderful spot to stop for a bite of lunch. Leaning my tricycle against an ancient tree I found a low branch to serve as a chair. The noon sun was warming. It would have been simple to have rested my eyes; maybe I did. For some reason a white movement on the spillway captured my attention. I stared in wonderment. An egret was fishing for his lunch, only a few metres from where I sat. He strutted along the river bank, stopping to peer into the murky water, strode along some more, and after finding the fish were elusive, took up a fishing attitude on the spillway itself, looking, like a child waiting to cross a busy highway, left, and then right, and left again. The fish were either not there, or were wise enough to keep hidden in the shadow of overhanging branches.

A noisy truck rumbled over the bridge. The egret took off, his long neck pointing forward as a global positioning system. I watched, entranced, until he was a white blob in the distant sky.

Dear Diary, that little episode completely made my day. I turned for home feeling refreshed ... a little escape from the mundane restored my faith in the world.

Decision Time

Dear Diary, I must apologise for my absence. Other pastimes captured my attention. As well the atmosphere has been, shall we say, cool.

My announcement about a puppy did not go down well. Niece screwed up her nose; in disgust I thought, whilst that man of hers declared that no dog was coming into his domain. Dear Diary, I kept out of their way for days, but decided that as I was quite within my rights in desiring a puppy, and as they were the ones showing a complete lack of regard of others' wishes, there was no reason for me to hide. Not that I scrambled under the bed whenever I heard them nearing my room ... that would have been childish, plus as I have a bed base it would be impossible to scramble there.

Last night as we sat at the dining table that Niece had spent some time prettying up; a crystal bowl filled with colourful blooms, the second best dinner set that is decorated with huge leaves that overpower most meals, damask tablecloth and matching napkins, which proved to me she had an attack of the guilts as to her ungenerous behaviour. I was a lady Dear Diary. Politely I asked for the salt and pepper, offered the gravy boat to Phil, and cleared the table between courses. Now that I look back it was almost amusing; excepting I was not amused; not that I consider I have anything in common with Queen Victoria.

The meal was a gourmet delight; Hester had taken endless trouble not only in the cooking but in presentation. To show my appreciation for her efforts I complimented the cook. But Dear Diary, I did let them suffer a while longer. At the moment I am contemplating the wisdom of bringing Briar home. How dreadful it would be if she was made unwelcome.

There were no recriminations over Greensmith and Redshaw, but then again they were confined to a small watery space. While they were colourful their lives did not truly add much to mine. Swimming around and around the glass bowl day in and day out must have been boring. The water plants swaying in the bowl were soothing to the soul, the flash of gold behind a larger plant did please the eye, but overall their existence added little to make my day exciting.

A puppy ... now that would add another dimension. I picture a windy morning, the sun not too high in the sky, with a puppy and I running [sedately] across the hilltop, my hair flying in the breeze, and a puppy chasing leaves in a surge of excitement. I could even knit a little jacket for the cold days of mid-winter; perhaps a rose pink cable version? That would definitely be different.

Would I be allowed to bring a puppy indoors? Would Niece allow a dog flap to be fitted to the door? If not I would need to get up in the night should she need toileting. No Dear Diary, I am not wholly convinced owning a puppy is such a good idea. However, I will not let on to Niece and that man of hers for a day or three ... let them stew!

A Choice

Dear Diary, I am in a state of high excitement! The owner of the little dogs was home and delighted to show me the puppies, which are for sale. It must have been providence that sent me that way today.

Unfortunately, according to the dogs' mistress, a little fornicating had taken place, and the puppies were no thoroughbreds, would not be suitable to show, and sadly wouldn't be sold with papers. Such a small insignificant fact! I don't want a show dog; I just want a dog! While not particularly fussy as to breed, a smaller dog would be suitable. Dear Diary I can't imagine Niece allowing a huge Great Dane or a Rottweiler roaming the property. I can imagine the consternation the neighbouring cats might have though!

After showing me the brood I decided on one of the little girl dogs, a delightful black ball of fluff. [Already it is becoming obvious I could turn into one of those dog lovers that imagine their pet is their child ... I must avoid that situation!] The puppies need inoculations and a veterinary tests just to make sure all was well, though I am positive this little puppy will pass all tests with flying colours.

As I cycled home names for this little beauty flickered through my mind. Chloe? No, that was a cat's name. Liquorice? Too sweet for a dog, in fact rather daft the more I considered it. Bella? That is extremely popular today, but no. It is not easy, in fact I imagine parents have a similar problem in sorting a name for their offspring. I did decided not to ask Niece, as two many choices would only make the matter more difficult.

Would this new arrival fit into the basket of my cycle? Oh Dear Diary, I can take her on day trips where she can experience the delightful smell of the countryside. I must buy a leash, preferably one in a distinctive colour, and some toys. A mental list grew until I hardly remembered what was at the top of it.

Just as I turned into Niece's gateway a name sprung to mind. I would call the new arrival Briar.

"Hester", I called. "Guess what?!"

And not giving her a chance to reply I bounded indoors announcing breathlessly, "I have ordered a puppy called Briar!"

Out and About

Dear Diary, I am becoming slowly bored with the build-up of expectations and excitement. Niece has persuaded that man of hers to dig a new patch of garden and extolling him to plant it with vegetables as, she fondly imagines, Karen and Jake would prefer fresh home-grown vegetables to those purchased at the supermarket.

The house has had a spring clean, and it isn't spring. I was of the understanding that Karen and Jake were going into a home of their own in the vicinity. I sincerely hope so!

As a protest I wheeled my tricycle onto the footpath in search of adventure. Cleaning and gardening in excess is detrimental to my good health.

Freewheeling along with nary a thought in my head, the breeze flicking at the small piece of hair peeking from underneath my helmet, slowly my irritation cooled as I contemplated a destination. The beach was too far away; anyway the breeze would be almost gale-force there. My legs baulked at the thought of a hill climb. One day, I imagined, I would pack a small bag and cycle for days, stopping where an interesting view presented itself. Maybe I could buy one of those small tents that folded as small as a decent sized handbag? Smiling to myself I pictured Niece's face when she found out I fancied camping out. Her camping experiences fitted around large caravans and caravan parks that had all the mod-cons. Seldom did Hester and Phil cook on a BBQ; never were they tempted to cook with a camp oven, or over a tripod on an open fire.

The mental picture of them sleeping around a campfire and showering with a bucket of water elicited a loud laugh from me. The situation was enough to make most, who knew Niece, titter. As the ideas swirled in my imagination no real reason as to why I shouldn't, one day, attempt a camping trip rose to mind.

Hardly aware I had cycled beyond the town boundary, a barking dog alerted me to a situation that cyclists detest. Dogs chase cyclists! A near disaster of my youth crossed my mind ... as I had cycled to meet a friend one particular house that I had to pass had barking dogs. Usually a short 'shutup' deterred them. This particular day nothing I said worked. Quickly panic set in. Those in the know insist a dog knows when a person is afraid of them; I think they are correct.

As the dog continued to bark and rush towards the fence I was cycling by, and my earnest entreaties were ignored, it became obvious I could be under attack. That particular time, as the dog jumped the fence and came running towards me I lashed my feet out, swinging my legs in a wide arc in the hope the dog would not attack. I was lucky. The dog didn't attack; the owner noticing the pending altercation, called it to heel.

Today as I peered around for the source of the barking I became aware of a beautiful dog that had half a dozen gorgeous puppies tumbling in the yard behind a strong fence. Mother dog was simply guarding her offspring.

I slowed down, finally hopping off my tricycle to take a closer look at the puppies. Dear Diary, I remembered I had promised myself a dog after the demise of Greensmith and Redshaw. Perhaps one of these little beauties would settle with me? Should I knock on the door, though in doing so I would need to negotiate the gate and path that was obviously the domain of Mother Dog and the puppies.

The Letter

Dear Diary, Today was a red letter day. Perhaps not a red-letter day, but certainly a letter day.

Niece came bouncing into the lounge where I sat trying to concentrate on a particularly obscure Cryptic Crossword, and wondering at the same time why I just couldn't put it away and forget all about it. But ... these things are sent to try us! The dictionary lay on the floor, pieces of paper and a pen and a pencil near the chair, all in readiness for an inspired thought. They were few and far between.

Hester hurried in, waving in obvious delight a letter. I looked! Letters in this day and age are an oddity. Some days I wonder if the art of letter writing has disappeared with the turn of the century. This letter appeared to particularly magnificent. Just imagine, Dear Diary, a magnificent letter. The mind boggles! Not only could it be called magnificent, but also elegant. Two pages closely penned ~ in ink ~ on parchment-like paper.

For a moment this epistle reminded me of the aerogramme of last century. These small letters, while important for keeping in touch particularly with family overseas, invariably had one serious downfall. The writer began the aerogramme with carefully spaced words, telling of their latest adventure. As they reached the final space it seemed they always remembered another scintillating piece of news. It was at that stage the writing became smaller, and cramped, and often the last sentence was glued down upon sealing. When the recipient opened the mail words were missing.

But this letter today was no aerogramme. This letter came in a matching envelope and it was obvious Niece was excited.

Not wishing to hold her up on imparting its contents, I placed my pen on the floor near the dictionary ~ I had no inspiration for the remaining clues and wondered why I bothered.

Looking expectantly towards Hester I waited for her news. She was clearly thrilled with its contents.

"Aunt Alice", she trilled, this is the most wonderful news!"

I waited.

"This letter is from Karen and Jake! After their visit they decided to put their little flat on the market. It sold almost immediately!"

"Where are they going to live?"

"That's the most wonderful part Aunt," Hester replied. "Just before take over date they are both handing in notice at their work and are coming to live in our town! Oh isn't it just marvellous?"

I agreed, thinking that Karen and Hester had a lot of catching up to do, but deep down had a small reservation. Karen and her mother were very much alike in their ways. While this move is lovely for them both, I do wonder.

An Opportunity

Dear Diary, small adventures occur when one least expects them, and once in a blue moon we make a discovery that defies the law of generalities.

As I peered at my watch [I really must either buy, or pass a hint to anyone who will listen for a watch that has an easily read face], it became obvious I had time to spare. No shopping beckoned, the afternoon sunshine had gone into a snoot and hid behind fluffy white clouds; the wind whipped around the shopping precinct, and I did not feel inclined to stand at a bus station for ages, yet wasn't keen to move too far away. A small building beckoned, its older facade reminiscent of a bygone era. The windows were shining, and the door open inviting passers by to enter, while a sandwich board sign on the pavement announced the first week of a new Op Shop, the profits to be distributed among several local charities.

Dear Diary, an Opportunity Shop is an Aladdin's Cave! Many fascinating finds hide within. Treasures that belonged to another, often discarded when an elderly relative left this world and not wanted by family, find their way to Opportunity Shops. Thank goodness Niece isn't with me! She is particularly fussy; hints that goods for sale in this type of establishment are second hand, inferring in a haughty manner that second hand means second best. Only once did I persuade her to enter a Thrift Shop. She, hesitatingly, stood on the threshold, sniffing that particular aroma that sometimes inhabits these places that house pre-loved articles, and rather rudely I thought, announced in a carrying voice that the air stunk! This was a few years ago, and being less circumspect than now, I told her to grow up. Today, Dear Diary, I would phrase that a little more gracefully.

Never again did I bother to ask if she wanted to purchase goods from the Op Shop. When I did arrive home with a treasure in a plastic shopping bag, I made sure I washed and ironed it before wearing it. Invariably she ooohed and aaahed at the wonderful cut of a skirt, or the designer label I allowed to be prominently displayed. At the same time I maintained a diffident expression as I suggested the garment in question was an old one that I found in the back of the wardrobe. While she may have looked suspicious, there were never any direct accusations of fibbing.

This shop had a brightly painted interior, a warm beige with a hint of pink; the colour of the paint suggested that a few cans of left-over paints had been mixed in one large can. The overall effect was inviting. A highly polished wooden table acted as a counter. As I approached that table a lingering smell of lavender drifted towards my nostrils. It reminded me of my school-days when we had to polish our school desks with polish. Some children brought floor polish from home, while others used a lavender furniture polish. I begged my parents for a tin of lavender polish and weekly spread a small amount over the top of the desk, polishing it to a high sheen with an old pair of bloomers; the polish and bloomers I kept in a biscuit tin that held shortbread given as a Christmas gift years earlier.

While I was not particularly interested in clothing this time, I did need to fill in time, so wandered around, fingering jackets and woollen jerseys some that would no doubt be purchased for the wool, pulled down and crocheted into squares for a warm blanket.

In the corner stood a bookcase with a variety of books for sale. There is one thing, Dear Diary, that I dislike about bookshelves. To read the titles it is necessary to bend one's head sideways. A crick in the neck is the unpleasant result! As I was straightening up to move along a little further I happened to notice a copy of Anne of Green Gables, by Lucy Maud Montgomery. This book was one of my favourites as a child, and while I had watched the wonderful television series, I had lost my original copy of the book. I suspect it was loaned to a friend and not returned. I don't know Dear Diary, whether it is my age, or whether I tend to spend some time remembering the past, but I occasionally have the urge to re-read these childhood classics. Who could not be entranced by Anne's adventures?

I picked the book up and opened the flyleaf to refresh my mind of the story. Imagine my utmost surprise when I read the inscription on the facing page. It was my old book! Memories came flooding back as I recalled how it came into my possession ... it was a school prize, and while the ink was faded, my name was inscribed on the label. Dear Diary, of course I bought the book. As I still had a few minutes I related the saga to the lady on the desk ... she smiled and told me that many similar tales abound.

Travelling Children

Dear Diary, the days are indeed cooler, though if one finds a sheltered sunny spot it is most pleasant; the nights exceptionally brisk.

The household is quiet. No word from Karen, which leaves Niece feeling sad and neglected. After a huge sigh I enquired as to what was wrong. There was nothing wrong! Why the sigh? I didn't ask. Silence is often the better part of valour.

This morning after a sudden urge to catch a bus and go to town, I hastened through ablutions, dressed warmly, and hurried to the bus stop. Bus trips can be rather fun affairs if the traveller is aware of her, or his, surroundings. The riders this morning were true to form.

Settling into a seat not too far behind the driver, characters began to show themselves. Across the aisle sat a young mother with a pre-school lad. He sat quiet ... for the first five minutes. Boredom set in, and Mother, after one or two half-hearted attempts at seducing him into good behaviour, gave up, allowing him to turn around on his seat and poke his tongue out at the elderly couple directly behind. At first they ignored him. He persisted, his face screwing up grotesquely as he slid his tongue in and out of his rather large mouth like a lizard catching a fly. The gentleman, dressed in a sober grey suit, with a tartan waistcoat [I heard later it was Tartan day today, so guessed had some Scottish heritage], a pale blue shirt buttoned tightly at the neck and held even closer with a striped tie in pale sky blue and a deep navy. On his lap sat a darker grey fedora, which was in remarkably excellent order considering they were the fashion for gentlemen when I was young, leaned forward as if to say something to the child. How I wished Hester were with me. Then again, I didn't. She would not have tolerated the tongue sticking out episodes from this pre-schooler! A few sharp words from her tongue may have embarrassed him so that he would have sat down and faced the front! The gentleman changed his mind, which was rather a shame. Instead he began an animated conversation with his wife, who was dressed in a style reminiscent of a much earlier period.

Dear Diary, as I sat and appraised these elderly folks I thought how neat they were in appearance. Shiny shoes, his outfit was sparkling as though it had not long come from the dry-cleaners, and her dress and matching coat in a warm woollen fabric of mid blue with a beautiful butterfly brooch on the coat lapel, and black shoes were dated, in the eyes of some, but to me, marked this couple as fastidious, but with taste.

The mother of the lad, her nose in one of those gaudy magazines full of the comings and goings of movie stars, continued to not notice her son's behaviour. Other passengers were beginning to whisper among themselves about his behaviour, when a voice from a few seats behind bade him sit around and face the front. I have to admit, Dear Diary, I thought the admonisher extremely courageous! It is not the done thing to admonish children, especially if they do not belong to your family. Was World War 111 about to break out?

Just as suddenly as he had stood up and began showing us his tongue, which Dear Diary, was unremarkable as tongues go, the boy sat down and began to whimper. The mother turned to him and told him to be quiet! He did as bid!

The rest of the journey took us through the countryside where cattle grazed on limited pastures, and where hay was strewn conveniently as a supplement.

Shopping was uneventful. I poked around a few shops, purchased a magazine to peruse in a quiet corner in the shopping mall where I ate a salad roll.