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Music to my ears

When I lived in my last house my neighbour, Marie Jo, used to sing while sweeping her steps, which she did most days.  She had a beautiful voice, soft and melodic and she was an early riser so often I would be woken up at dawn by her singing.  Don't ask me why she felt the need to sweep her steps at dawn but if it made her happy that is all that counts.  Now I live in an apartment where all my neighbours' windows are open all day and night.  I don't hear much noise from within  the apartments, only conversations that go on across the courtyard between the neighbours, all friendly.   Outside my apartment I hear the constant singing of birds.  They gather in the bushes and walls where the cats can't get to them.  I never get tired of hearing birds singing.  

Next week I will play golf, the second time this year and clearly not often enough to avoid humiliation.

Our international group that meets on a Saturday can cause confusion, language wise, even between English speakers.  An 'outhouse' to one (barn or shed) is a toilet to an American, and hilarious conversations  followed when the French, Italians, English and Americans tried to describe the word 'muff'.  Distinctly rude in some languages.   Café talk has taken on a whole new meaning.

I spoke to my grandson in Australia yesterday.  What a boon modern technology is.  When I went to work in Sudan, we didn't' have the internet or mobile phones, or even ordinary phones.  There was no postal system and the only way to communicate was via a telex machine in my office.  One day the British Airways pilot arrived in Khartoum waving a British newspaper.  'We've sunk the Belgrano', he shouted.  Blank faces stared at him.  'What's a Belgrano?' I asked.  By that time the Falklands war was nearly over and we hadn't known it had even begun.

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