I ask Sharon Crafter, over Facebook, if I can call now. She is on the phone to her Grannie.
‘You still have a Grannie?’
‘She’s my best friend.’
My Grannies never really took to the phone. It was mainly for relaying important messages, they much preferred face to face chat.
I turn to my husband. ‘I am going to break another rule on my blog.The door bells have also stopped ringing so I’m round the corner to Sharon’s house. Do you think it matters that I am bending rules?’
‘It’s your blog’ he sighed.
‘Well face to face communication has to be one step better than phoning as far as human interaction is concerned. And maybe George Clooney might want to be on my blog, in which case he can fly me to Lake Garda for my chat, face to face.’
‘He’s already got a girlfriend.’
It is freezing outside. Sharon shouts for me to come in.
If Kellie Desmond is Mrs Tittlemouse, Sharon Crafter is Mrs Tiggywinkle, hanging sheets around the house at 9pm having just got out of the ambulance (it’s her job, she’s not the patient).
Her enormous Golden Retriever, Artie, greets me on his hind legs and the three of us recall when my dogs spent the weekend at theirs. Artie is so pleased to have news of them on my clothes but Sharon says that Harry had regarded Artie suspiciously for the weekend, saying ‘I don’t do 35kg fur balls’ and Sparkler pretended he wasn’t there.
She begins telling me that they went to a birthday party for a Golden Retriever last week. Twenty six Golden Retrievers were there and a Mr Whippy ice-cream van to feed them all.
We spent a very relaxing evening talking. I often thought to myself that if it wasn’t for my blog, I wouldn’t be here laughing. We cover the topics of the clothes for children she is making, her work in the ambulance service, her business, she brings up my Dad, (note I did not bring up my Dad), we talk about quilting, bushfires, burns, horses, people from our shared past as Artie listens in.
She said that someone was mad as cut snakes, she said that ‘water finds its own level,’ she says that if life gives you lemons make a tart. She shows me a picture of a dish of risotto and calamari from a local restaurant and describes it so well I want to go out and order it. She sums it up by saying that risotto is either success or failure and never in between. I like that observation and think she could be talking about herself because she doesn’t do things by halves.
I leave at almost midnight and we both agree that we should make the doorbells ring far more often too.