Fraudster's Musings

Living the dream. D-blog.

2012-02-29T11:31:00.001+11:00

Think I blew my HbA1c result.

I've written about this before, but every three months or so I have this blood test. It measures how well I've controlled my hard-to-control diabetes for the past 12 weeks.

As I've said, I exercise, diet and adjust insulin doses accordingly to try to achieve the impossible - an HbA1c of 6, or under. Don't think it's ever happened. Since I've been pumping insulin it's been around the 7.5 mark. Still, better than it was on MDI - multiple daily injections.

And there are all those variables - stress - thanks for losing the passports, Al - heat, cold, mood, and the WTF x-factor. Beats me if I know what it is.

My last blog was about my tendency to catch whatever's thrown my way infection wise. (If only I'd had such skill on the basketball court - with the ball, but.)

So this is me the other night, perched on the edge of my bed, first at about 1 am. Checked blood glucose. 15. Seemed to match the way I was feeling: sore throat, runny nose, headache. Bolused it down. That is, I entered 15 into my insulin pump, which calculated the dose of insulin needed to bring the blood sugar back to the normal range. Pressed GO. That done, had a couple of paracetamol and fell back onto my pillow.

2 am. Same deal. Except now my BG was 15.5. Jeeze, I'm really sick, I thought, bolusing again.

4 am. I woke with a sore tummy and aching calves, for some unknown reason. And thirst. And razor blades in the back of my throat. Checked my BG: 20.5. Fark. Bolused again; about 4 units of insulin.

Drank some more water to quell raging thirst. Visited the loo. Whilst enthroned, feeling sick and knowing this high BG was going to throw out my upcoming HbA1c - yes, I actually thought about that at 4 in the morning (another stressor) - I thought to check my 'set' - the sticky patch where the cannula is inserted into me.

Well, where it should have been inserted. The patch was secure on my hip, but the little bit of tube had somehow popped out. I had no idea how long I'd been squirting insulin onto my nightie instead of under my skin.

So. Changed the set. Bolused 4.3 units, despite my pump telling me I already had this much 'insulin on board'. Cuppa. Read for a bit - Nick Earls, The Fix, love it - slept for a couple more hours.

BG 9 when I finally got up.

Time to get on with the day? Nah. Too sick.

A bit mental.

2012-02-28T14:07:00.002+11:00

Home sick today. Had about two days without illness. last week. The cold I'd developed on the last day in Saigon was over. The inevitable bronchial cough/no voice/sore throat thing had finally gone. Friday arvo, last period, and I'm strolling around the year 10 class room, TGIF-ing in my head, when one dripping young man requests tissues, miss.

Now I have been known to spray around a toxic student with Glen-20 - kills 99 percent of airborne viruses - but thought it was a bit early in the year to pull that one.

'You really shouldn't come to school when you're that sick, Jarrod,' say I, trying to hand him tissues whilst keeping out of the germ zone.
'I wasn't sick this morning, miss,' he snuffles, eyes and nose simultaneously streaming.
'Well, you should go home instead of infecting us all.'

Sound callous, don't I? But it's all said in good humour and Jarrod returns to his seat with his soggy tissues.

'Anyway, I've gotta work after school,' he says.
'Where at?'
'KFC.'

Great. Infect the entire neighbourhood.

Come Sunday, I'm shaving my 83 year old dad's face, trimming his hair, as you do when you're that daughter, when I get that feeling in the back of my nose. Avert my head to sneeze several times, razor in my right hand, left hand resting on dad's bald pate. Jeeze, I think. If dad gets this cold...

He's not a well man and he's just out of hospital after having surgery. But it's been a couple of days now and he's not showing any symptoms.

It's a bit of a bother that I seem to pick up everything that's going, given I'm a teacher. I've resumed my OCD vitamin pill popping. I'd let it go, given its alleged implications in early mortality in women of a certain age. Something I read somewhere last year.

Seems I'm going from one upper respiratory thing to another. Bit worrisome.

But perhaps more concerning is the idea that I'm writing about this, and if you've got this far, that you're reading it?

(Press publish? Yeah, why not?)

"This test is easy to perform."

2012-02-22T09:42:00.001+11:00

At the risk of alienating all three of my readers:

When you get to a certain age in Australia, you get this special invitation from the government. It's not dinner with whoever works out to be the Prime Minister after all the wrangling. Nothing like that. No, it's an invite to participate in a national bowel cancer screening program. Are you with me?

A large, flat box arrived in the mail yesterday. Contents: two sophisticated looking little plastic 'toothpicks' for want of a better description, two plastic tubes to pack them in and two large squares of some sort of paper, sorry, 'specimen collection sheets'.

Read the instructions before bed last night, because I can't resist a test, and I was between novels.

So this morning, on my day off, I was on a mission. (Quite nice to have a sense of purpose.) There's no way I can say this without sounding either twee using euphemisms, or crude, being myself, so I'll quote briefly from the 'instructions for sample collection'. Makes it sounds so worthwhile and productive.

"1. Empty your bladder [who else's?], then flush the toilet." Too easy.
"2. Place the collection sheet, printed side up, on the surface of the water in the toilet bowl. The collection sheet will dissolve within five minutes of being in contact with the liquid.
3. Pass the bowel movement onto the sheet - do not worry if it sinks below the water - it will not affect the test."

Okay, couldn't be simpler for a regular kind of gal. One, two, three. Done.

Stood up and adjusted myself, grabbed the blue ended toothpick out of the zip-lock bag and turned to survey the contents.

Lo and behold! The 'specimen collection sheet' was clearly a dud. Mr Whippy, presumably in a bid for freedom, had plopped straight through the sheet and was sitting way below the water line. Did I just imagine Mr Whippy was smirking at me, mocking me, saying 'you're not sticking that thing in me' as I stood, mouth open, toothpick held aloft between thumb and index finger?

Collection sheet will dissolve within five minutes? Collection sheet dissolves on contact!

Now I'm going to have to call the 1300 number to get another kit.

And given the penetrative-power of Mr Whippy, perhaps I'll need to pop by Chemist Warehouse and get a bed-pan.

Domestics in Melbourne

2012-02-18T18:04:00.000+11:00

My cousin's visiting me tomorrow. Big deal, you may think. But it is a big deal. She's my dad's niece, is ten years older than me and as far as I'm concerned, I've only met her once, being a migrant and having left England when I was just eight. She remembers visiting our family in Sheffield, but I have no memory of meeting her, nor her brother. Given that age difference, she would have been off my radar, just another adult.

She's lived most of her life, since she was twenty-one, in Holland. After retiring, she and her husband moved to France, to the Loire Valley. We decided to look her up a couple of years ago when we were in Europe. I'm fascinated by my distant - far away, that is - relatives. We discovered on that trip that there are two Loire Rivers, and my cousin didn't live in the environs of the one that the tourists visit.

Anyway, she's visiting tomorrow and we're going for a winery lunch somewhere near Nagambie.

But this isn't about my cousin's visit. It's about my toilet. Or rather, my toilet seat.

My daughter just came to visit. 'Ugh, mum, get a new toilet seat! It's disgusting. You can't let your cousin see that!'

It is. It looked good new about eight years ago, but there's a sort of skid proof laminate on the seat, cos god knows it could be dangerous otherwise and we wouldn't want to slip off. Anyway, the laminate has yellowed with wear, perished and flaked off a bit around the edges. Gets cleaned regularly, but it looks manky.

Thought I'd tackle it today with a bit of Jif - creme cleaner - and a scouring pad. After about half an hour, hugging the toilet bowl and scrubbing, I'd made it worse; more flaked off around the edges and more conspicuously worn. (And might I say it's the first time I've hugged the old porcelain for the purposes of cleaning? Hmm.)

'Al!' I yelled through the house. 'Help me get this toilet seat off!' He was doing something domestic, like preparing chicken, but he took his apron off and scooted through. He had a bit of a play with the sprung lugs at the sides of the toilet seat and tried to lift it off, as I had, but to no avail. Off he went and got a couple of alen keys - not sure of spelling - and tried to prise the lid off whilst depressing both lugs. No luck. I'm leaning on the window sill watching the sweat soak through the back of his tee-shirt.

'I've got no idea,' he said, throwing down the towel he'd been kneeling on.

'Built-in obsolescence,' said I, ' They probably make them like that so you have to replace the whole toilet. I'll have to get a plumber.' Yeah, dollar signs exploded in speech bubbles around my head.

I resigned myself to getting back on my knees and scrubbing the flaking laminate for a couple more hours. And then I had an idea. Check the internet.

Googled 'remove Caroma toilet seat' and bingo. There's a YouTube video, called, logically, Removing the Caroma Quick Release Seat. And it couldn't be easier. We should have pulled, not lifted, after we'd depressed the side lugs.

I'd rather not describe the eight years' build up under the seat, but suffice it to say, I've still got a bit of a grimace on my face.

Meanwhile, the toilet seat is soaking in bleach and I'm having a reviving chardy. Don't think I'll be able to get that perishing laminate off, but I might be able to freshen it up a bit for my cuz tomorrow.

And Al and I had a laugh.

Thanks for reading.

Ninh Binh Province, Vietnam

2012-02-06T11:15:00.001+11:00

Wrote this before it all went pear-shaped when we lost our passports and cash.

Interminable waiting for bus to Hoi An. Time seems to drag. It's 7.45 and the bus supposedly picks us up at 8.30, but no doubt it'll be late. (If we'd known what was going to happen at the end of that bus journey, we wouldn't have been so keen to embark on it.)

Have had a good stay at Ninh Binh. Quite spectacular, but the town itself has nothing to offer the tourist.

Booked a tour today around a few local attractions. They take us to see more bleeding pagodas but we're more interested in watching a man and his wife with a buffalo, ploughing a field in a rudimentary three field system way. Loved the goats in the mountains and the occasional herd of buffalo crossing the road.

Apart from that, it's all good. Vietnam makes me appreciate what I take for granted at home - like not having to work 29 days out of 30; being allowed an education, despite being female. Living in a comparatively pristine environment.

Young woman today rowed us around the caves. She's 28 and very pregnant with her third child. She did five years of schooling but wasn't allowed to continue, despite her obvious intelligence and facility with several different languages. She had to row the tourists around the caves. When she's not doing that, she's embroidering - much of which she tried to hawk to me, when I was captive on her little boat. Felt rotten for not buying, but we'd already been scammed into buying her and her husband - rowing with his feet - soft drinks and snacks. BTW, Al and I shared the rowing to assuage the guilt of being rowed around by someone ready to give birth any minute.

The Chilean chardonnay is going down well and we're looking forward to warmer weather in Hoi An. And more of a night life. Here, there is the hotel and not much else. The streets are for the locals and not really tourist friendly. Perhaps that will change, as long as people want to see monolithic mountains and glide through river caves - an almost spiritual experience.

Nearly scammed in Hanoi. The second sign?

2012-02-06T11:01:00.000+11:00

Wrote this on arrival in Hanoi, early January. Bit more backtracking.

Caught taxi at airport. Agreed on $20 US. Gave address of the hotel we'd booked. No worries.

Half-way along the hair-raising ride into Hanoi the driver gets a call on his mobile. It's the guy who'd touted us at the airport. He has brief exchange with Al, who's not happy. Now we have to pay $40 US. What are we going to do? Babes in the woods.

So Al agrees to the new fee.

We're taken to a different hotel. Another tout assures us that this is the hotel we'd paid for. 'My family has many hotels.' He's nodding and solicitous; obsequious. We are shown a hotel well away from the old town, as far as we can remember. Led up a flight of dingy stairs and shown an okay room. But it's not right.

Al's happy enough to stay there, being desperate for the facilities - the bathroom. But I'm not.

'I want hotel we saw on internet,' say I, in assertive, but hesitant English, dropping direct and indirect articles, as you do.

'This is hotel, but different one. No room in other hotel. My family have many hotels.'

'No. We have been in Vietnam four times.' Somehow this hits the spot. Okay, now we're descending in the lift, and a taxi is summoned. The tout goes his own separate way and we're driven some distance to the heart of the old town, and this hotel, where I'm now typing.

It's okay. Not as good as the photos on the net, but it suffices. The room's warm; the bed sheets are clean. The mattress and pillows are firm but friendly. I've already tried them, being exhausted after the flight. I had an hour's kip. Funny how a four hour time difference after a plane flight can totally throw out your system. I'm working on avoiding hypos by reducing basal rates. Seems okay so far, but we've bought, after lots of searching, some carb supplies should the need arise.

Good to get off the streets of Hanoi for now. Frenetic and grotty. Looks better at night, cos the dirt's not so conspicuous.

And feel quite proud of having foiled the scammers.

Melbourne to Singapore, with 'extras'.

2012-02-06T10:53:00.000+11:00

Little bit of back-tracking here. This is something I wrote en route to Vietnam. Should have seen it as a sign of things to come, perhaps?

I'm only writing this because we're in the middle of a four hour stop over at Changi airport and this kills time. Gets a bit tedious dawdling up and down. I've had 500 ml of Earl Grey tea from Starbucks - well, half an hour ago. But I've just had another to stave off boredom, and flush the system, I suppose.

We're due to catch our flight in 75 minutes. Should be in Hanoi noonish.

So, the flight.

Al booked two seats together on our flights to avoid the third wheel clambering over one. As a result, we were practically sitting in the loo - only a wall and the backs of our seats protecting us from the constant flushing. Glad about earplugs. But that was okay, really.

What was terrible was the vomiting woman - 20 or 30 something and travelling solo. Probably because no one will travel with her. She started retching, immediately after take off. I turned to see what the noise, immediately across the aisle, was, and saw this ET type, hunched looking straight at me, poking two fingers down her throat and holding her mouth over her 'hot towel'. She'd considerately turned away from the passenger immediately next to her. At least we had a half metre aisle between us. But I got the full force of it. My gorge rose, of course, given I'm a sympathy vomiter. Perhaps worse than her very public retching was the accompanying loud braying that punctuated the entire 7 hour flight. And being ill, every time food was served she started up again, so all of us sitting around her had to try to eat with that going on.

Look, poor thing. There's nothing worse than travel sickness. But couldn't she use the sick bag? Or the toilet, immediately next to her? And what's with the need to make that noise?

So that was the first part of our $1700 flight over.

Home

2012-02-04T11:46:00.000+11:00

Brief update.

Finally picked up our passports with visas attached at 3pm on January 31.

(Have I ever felt such relief in my life? Maybe. There were those two instances during two C-section births, when I was lying on my back, ready to be delivered of my babies, and the obstetrician started the op and released the amniotic fluid! That felt good. Oh yeah. And the babies were healthy.)

All right. I suppose the healthy babies were a bigger relief. But I digress - and use a cliched expression at the same time.

After we'd got our documents sorted, everything went smoothly, even the six hour stopover during which we watched,and enjoyed, some animated film starring a Kung Fu panda. It tilled in a few units of time.

The air at Melbourne Airport smelled sweet, and I breathed in great lungfuls of it while we waited, in perfect Melbourne morning weather, for our son to pick us up.

My vitreous floater - the eye prob - seems stable and the ophthalmologist has reassured me that it'll be okay for now.

Yesterday I wore my voice out teaching a full load of year 8s and 10s and telling the other staff of my intrepid travels. Nothing like getting straight back on the bike.

So now I'm back, did all that trauma really happen?

Next stop, Munich in May. Can't cancel. Already locked in. Think I'll carry the passports.

Stranded in Saigon. Still.

2012-01-31T16:53:00.000+11:00

When you lose your passports just before Tet in Vietnam, you're in for a long wait.

I've been trying to see my detention in Saigon as a wonderful experience. Get to immerse myself more in the culture. Was so excited to be returning to Vietnam and hanging about for a couple of nights in steamy Saigon bars drinking cheap wine and watching the traffic chaos. That part of it hasn't been bad either. We've knocked back a few bevies between us, Al and I. Self-medication for sure. But we've been here twelve days now.

It takes two days to get your emergency passport. Once Tet is over. You go to the 20th floor of the new Vincom Centre in District 1, pass through a friendly security check and then you're in quiet, pristine air-conditioned surrounds. A beautiful, personable Vietnamese woman with impeccable English, sits behind glass and listens sympathetically as you relay your story. You shed a few tears of relief that you're there making progress; finally organising your precious passports.

The middle-aged Aussie woman ahead of you has a worse story to tell. She was attacked by two men on a motorbike, who nearly ran her over, then fought with her to get at her bag. She had it under a jacket and across her shoulders. They won. She was on the way to the airport; just stepped out of her hotel. Her travelling companions gave her some money to tide her over, then caught their own flight home, leaving her alone to sort it all out. During Tet. She hadn't left her hotel room except to taxi to the consulate.

You fill in a new passport application and write a statement explaining how you came to lose your documents. BTW, make sure you pack a few spare passport photos. We had. We thought we might need them to get visas to visit Cambodia. As if. But they came in handy.

It's Friday, so you have to wait through another weekend. You finally return to the Consulate and collect your passports the following Monday. Huge, inexpressible relief.

But wait, there's more.

You have to take a letter, and your passports, across town - two dollar taxi ride - to the Vietnam Immigration centre. It's a pushing, shouting, crowded run down official building. Total confusion for us idiots abroad. We take a place at the back of a shuffling mass of people. Couldn't call it a queue. It's edging forward and we don't even know if we're in the right place. I hold our spot while Al does a recce. So relieved when he signals me over. He's found the right counter to line up at.

Remember, keep smiling. Speak slowly. Don't shout. Don't lose temper. It get you nowhere. (Learned that lesson when me, Al and sister, Reggie, got thrown off a Vietnam cycling tour a few years ago.)

We're interviewed by a cross, uniformed officer. He inspects our documents, reads our police statement, shakes his head. "You. Photocopy. All this. You go. Over there." He waves us off and we get into another touchy push of people. Another grump snatches our documents. Photocopies them.

Back to the other guy. "You come back yesterday,' he says. "Counter 6. Three hours."

"Tomorrow?"

He laughs at his mistake. "Yes. Tomorrow."

It's 12.45 pm here. Killing time on this blog waiting for 3 pm pickup. Can't relax until those passports with visas are in our hot little hands.

Stranded in Saigon. Day 9.

2012-01-29T20:01:00.000+11:00

Been spending lots of today, Day 9 in Saigon, Day 15 in our stranded-without-passports adventure, trying to think of reasons to be grateful that I'm in this situation. Hmm. They're not flying thick and fast.

Met a couple of English tourists on Friday, the day we finally organised and paid for our passports, which should be available tomorrow, or the day after - ie.: before our rescheduled flight on Wednesday. That was good. This couple was our age; they'd arrived in Saigon from England, via Hong Kong. We met them at a crossroad bar when we were feeling buoyant, and not a little drunk. We shared travel stories, as you do, and decided to have dinner together. Lovely. Contact with people who speak idiomatic English, albeit with a London slant. No matter.

At the end of the first evening, decided to meet up and swap stories the following evening, which we did. That meant they'd had two entire days walking around District 1, I suppose. They'd been to a couple of tourist meccas and done the done things. They'll be in Nha Trang now. They decided that after two days in Saigon, they'd pretty much had it and needed to move on. Really enjoyed their company. Even took photos of them and swapped email addresses. But sorry, new BFFs. If it's a choice between meeting you, and blinking ourselves back to January 14 and not losing our passports, I'll take the passports.

As I was saying, for us, this is Day 9 of Stranded in Saigon.

I know my way around now. After breakfast, we do this amble down through a park, down the seafood aisle in Ben Thanh markets, down a few streets around there towards the Saigon River - wide, muddy, fast flowing wash with vegetation scudding along. Water lilies? Not real sure. We walk up through the manicured garden displays in some CBD area. Stare up at the buildings, swig from our water bottle and walk on, holding onto each others fingers, like elephants, trunk and tailing it. No public displays of affection, please, in Vietnam. Won't get started on what apparently is allowed cos I don't want anyone reading my anonymous blog, tracking me down and making me stay here any longer.

The food is definitely good and cheap. Try Vietnamese Kitchen. Couldn't tell you where it is, but it's good. They don't rush you from course to course, and by god that Johnny Walker hit the spot after today's shit walk.

Back in our air-conditioned hotel room now, showering off the shit walk grime and I inadvertently found something that I think the Vietnamese - and the Europeans - do really well. Much better than Australians, who should adopt this practice. English guy last night told me it wouldn't be too hard to plumb in, and I'm thinking of investigating the possibilities when I'm safely home in Aussie.

It's a very useful gadget; easily operated. Serves a variety of functions - foot washing; shoe washing, and that little frisson of delight, bum washing. I'm talking about that hose, hanging by the toilet cistern. Extremely useful, especially when one's paper may not be flushed tidily down the toilet.

Still would have rather not lost the passports though.

Just sayin'. Cheers from Fraudster. (More sanguine than even she realised; second detached retina seems to be hanging in there. Year 10 English, last period Friday Feb 3 is looking awesome.)

Fine dining in Saigon.

2012-01-25T21:36:00.000+11:00

Thought we'd try out a more 'upmarket' looking Saigon restaurant; a place with several smiling, solicitous uniformed wait staff in red monogrammed shirts and black pants. A bigger place, with polished wooden tables and chairs, it looked reasonably appealing after our morning 'shit walk'.

(Today's 'shit walk' featured a middle aged man on a motor bike, riding through the park. Yelling something unintelligible, while riding his motor bike, he corralled a younger man who'd irritated him in some unknown way, and beat him with a piece of bamboo.)

But back to New Pearl restaurant. We ordered our 'Lip-ton tea, fresh milk', and snack of choice, deep fried bean curd and Hong Kong spring rolls. The tea came quickly.

A considerable time later, so long that we were going to cancel the order, out came some squishy fish-fingery looking things and a plate of dog biscuits. Except the dog biscuits were harder than dog biscuits. I know, having tried a doggy treat back in my childhood. (Al was surprised at this. I thought everyone had eaten at least one dog biscuit.)

Al tried to bite into a dog biscuit. He barely made an indent, just a few little teeth marks, which we surveyed with amusement. He then tackled it with a knife, slicing motion and full bicep press. No luck.

Decided to return the dog biscuits posing as deep fried bean curd. A waiter removed the dish. Half a minute later, his male supervisor and an authoritative woman in very tight aqua jeans and black high heels returned with our dog biscuits and told us to eat them.

We can't, we said. Too hard.

Bemused they looked at each other, at the dog biscuits, at us and seemed reluctant to accept our verdict.

So Al picked up his knife and demonstrated that indeed the little brown squares were impenetrable. But they still wouldn't have it and pushed the plate towards us.

Look, we don't want them; too hard. I demonstrated the consistency of the biscuits by rapping several times on the wooden table. Seeing Madam Aqua Pants' still incredulous look, I leaned forward and mimed taking a bite out of the corner of the table. Also picked up a chopstick and demonstrated that I couldn't bite into that either.

Finally, the plate was removed. But when we tried to get our bill, the waiter indicated that we must stay and eat some more dog biscuits that would be ready in five minutes.

No, we don't want them, just the bill, said Al, miming the bill using the universal signal of scribbling with an imaginary pen on the palm of his hand.

You must eat them. Five minutes.

No, just the bill.

The only way we were getting out of there was by paying for them. Not much, of course. It's Saigon. But enough for a waiter, or chef perhaps, to 'lose face' and maybe his job.

Stranded in Saigon

2012-01-23T18:03:00.000+11:00

Went out for a 'shit walk' in Saigon this morning, for about two hours. There's nothing wrong with my bowels, it's just the environs of Saigon are less that appealing at the moment. Dirt, stench, broken pavements, constant traffic noise. Beep beep and more beep. I've learned to cross the roads like a native. Basically, don't look, just walk steadily across. If you look, you might panic and try to dodge. Not a good idea. Motorcycles, cars, buses tend to avoid the pedestrian. I say that yet sister, Reggie, got a nasty bump from a motorcycle when she was walking along the pavement a couple of years back.

Saigon is actually a fascinating place, as is the rest of Vietnam. That's why we're back for a fourth visit. I'd highly recommend it, and could just about suggest a great travel itinerary for anyone who's interested. The food is brilliant, and cheap.

This trip, however, has wiped any smug travel smart-arsed-ness right off my dial. Have already said how bleak you feel when you've done something really dumb that was avoidable. Well, it's gotten worse.

I'm focusing, in my mind's eye now, on a man on a skateboard this morning. He was resting his pelvis, where his legs used to be, on the board. He was propelling himself with a short piece of dowel with a handle on it.

Who am I to complain? Always someone worse off. And we're not in a tsunami or anything.

But we're dealing with our own little bit of shit due firstly, to 'our' carelessness - not mine; Al's. (Just sayin'.) Secondly due to Tet.

After we'd reported the loss of our passports to the police in Hoi An, and obtained the required 'letter' we rang the Australian Consulate in Ho Chi Minh City. An English speaking woman there told me to get to HCMC ASAP because it takes 48 hours to get an emergency passport and exit visas. We are due to fly out of Saigon on January 27.

We visited Sinh Tourist - best travel agents BTW, with offices in the major tourist places - and were told that we couldn't fly south, nor could we catch the train, due to having no passports. We had to brave another 'sleeping bus'. (Only try that if you're young, flexy, thin and have a bladder that can endure. It's lots cheaper than flying though.) We also found that the buses were pretty fully booked, due to Tet travel, so we had to wait for three days for seats.

Another 20 hours on buses. Awful.

We arrived in Saigon on Friday at six. Of course the Australian Embassy would be closed for the weekend. Stymied again, we tried to make the best of it; find our 'happy place' which usually involves a walk, a look-see round a local market with squirming live things in shallow bowls and copious amounts of alcohol. (It has a calming effect.)

What we weren't expecting was that the Australian Embassy would close for the entire duration of Tet. It's possible that it may open tomorrow, but chances are it won't open until January 27, our departure date.

And what I personally wasn't expecting, was that the retina in my left eye, like its counterpart on the other side, 12 months ago, would partially detach from my eyeball this morning. Didn't see that one coming. At least I know what's happened and that I'm not having a stroke or a diabetic retinopathy bleed. Didn't know that when it happened last time. Quite hair-raising in the list of scary stuff that can happen to you if you're getting on in years and you happen to be short-sighted.

Have to say that my resilience is amazing me. And there is a certain symmetry in matching scrawls on my eyeballs.

Fingers crossed that our luck will change and the Australian Embassy will be open tomorrow.

Down and out, nearly, in Vietnam

2012-01-15T16:25:00.002+11:00

Ever wondered what it's like to lose your credit cards, cash and passports in a third world country? Al and I are in the process of finding out.

Also finding out about sleeping on cramped buses overnight, then swapping to another cramped dirty sleeping bus for the second part of the journey from Ninh Binh in north Vietnam, via Hue to Danang and Hoi An. Big ride that one. Potholes. two lanes. Suicidal traffic. Top speed maybe 70 k, occasionally, but mostly about 50. All up, about 20 hours. Because foolish me wanted to do the overland trip, rather than flying and seeing nothing. Didn't the fact that we were the only old people on board tell me anything?

Picked up sleeping bus in Hanoi originally. Thought it seemed all right. Was only a 2 and a half hour journey. Bus was near empty. We can do this, we thought. Not bad at all.

But Ninh Binh onwards was quite different. Caught the bus an hour after it was scheduled to leave. Told through hand gestures that after removing and plastic bagging our shoes we needed to squeeze down the back. Hard enough in itself. Two sleepers were left. In a dark, barely ventilated, coffin-like pod. Immediately started hyperventilating of course. Sat hunched over for a while - no head room. Eventually battled claustrophobia and settled. Slept, sort of, through a bumpy dream beleaguered few hours of the night. Not so poor Al. He's tall and didn't fit.

Ordered off bus at Hue. 'You take taxi. Meet at office. 1.30.' Can't describe - nor want to - the tone. Let's call it imperative.

Which office? Where?

Some local touts put us in their dodgy van and 4 k and 'three dollar US' we were there.

Quick lunch, then onto a different older bus for the Hue to Hoi An leg. More spacious, but grotty, with a suspicious little stain where a previous bumhole had been on my lift -off mattress.

Who cared? Al was totally bloodshot, but I'd snatched a few naps along the way.

Finally arrived in Hoi An, a place with which we're quite familiar, having sojourned here on three previous visits.

Maybe that caused us to relax a little. Or perhaps it was relief to get off the bus after 20 hours. But that was when Al left his money belt on the bus.

Upon discovery, he left me forlorn on a darkening corner and ran back to the drop off point. We'd already seen the bus leave but the driver was contacted within 20 minutes of us leaving the bus. He hadn't picked up any more passengers, and 'he knew nothing'. And that's the line at Camel Travel, the bus company. What can they do? We're the idiots abroad.

Sunday today, so police and Australian consulate are having a slow day. We have a bit of cash, given my secret emergency stash. Who knew I'd need it?

The worst thing: that feeling of despair, sick in the tummy, when you're a grown up - old now - and you've done something really dumb. All the rest is a first world problem which I hope will be fairly easily resolved tomorrow. Spoils the beautiful Hoi An day though.

Christmas Cheer.

2011-12-23T20:02:00.000+11:00

For some unknown reason, we had our Xmas breakup at the local lawn bowling club - the last bastion of the White Anglo-Saxon Protestant and/or Catholic at leisure, maybe. No idea what to expect, apart from the stereotype of the elderly Aussie lawn bowlers' hangout.

Signed in - Fraudster, C/- The Windsor, Melbourne. My nostrils were assailed by something foisty, faintly mothbally, and something else; essence of je ne sais quoi.

'Don't like the smell.' Fraudster curls lip, sneers a bit. 'Smells of old.' I'm sitting there at noon on Thursday before Christmas, kitted up to out-do a Christmas tree.
'Quite like it,' says Work Husband, guarding his pot of beer. 'Reminds me of my great-grandfather's house.'

The rest of the staff arrive.

'Don't forget to sign in.'

We sit in a bar around capacious ten-seater Formica topped round tables. As people make their way across the enormous wooden dance floor, some of them trying out a few tap steps along the way, their faces, too, take on that look of searching for the source of the odour.

The brick bowling club dates from late 'fifties or early 'sixties.

'Perhaps someone could pop back to school to get some music,' a teacher suggests, given the echoey bleakness of this old people's place, bedecked with pennants from bowling comps past. But that wasn't to be.

'We're here for a spit roast. You can bowl later if you want to.' That's our officious, put upon staff association leader, who'd organised the venue and catering.. (A coup was mooted by some of the young things last year, but ultimately no one either cared that much come the new year. Or dared.)

I sipped my 100 ml of Chateau Cardboard wine and tried, unsuccessfully, to savour the ambience, like waiting for a game of bingo to commence.

We lined up like refugees for our 'meals'. It was the usual spit roast fare, or what was left of it by the time I got up there, not being one to enjoy queuing for fifteen minutes in a pair of, for me, moderately high heels. It was nutritious, I suppose. The beef end was quite tender. I don't eat much.

Then the floor show:

An aussie gent, sixty-something, Ted, in washed out striped polo shirt and shorts, unceremoniously held up a used Bandaid - sticking plaster. 'If any lady's lost the Bandaid off of her nipple, I've got it here.' Embarrassed laughter ensued briefly. Is that what the old 'ladies' do to prevent high-beams penetrating their bowling shirts?

Unabashed by lack of appreciation for his jest, Ted held up the wire stopper from a bottle of champagne.

'How long's this wire?' he shouted.

'What do you mean?' called one of my colleagues.

Ted frowned, a bit put out. He spelled it out for the idiot.

'If you unravel this wire, how long is it?' Jeez, dumb teachers or what?

'Why?' called another temeritous soul.

Finally he explained that it wasn't a trick question, but a competition. Ah! The correct guess would win a bottle of wine. Next question:

'How many hankies high is a horse?' Huh?

'Men's or ladies'?' called a female teacher, getting into the spirit of it. He reached behind the bar and produced an ironed, folded men's handkerchief. Ostentatiously, he shook it out, grabbed it by two diagonally opposed corners and held it up for his captive audience. Can't remember the answer. I'd downed three 'cardies' by that stage.

I approached the bar. Ted was the barman now, floorshow being over.

'Diet coke, please?'

'You don't look like you need a diet coke,' He narrowed his eyes; leered at me. Perhaps I only imagined him licking his already wet lips. Wink.

'Ahahah!' Hilarious. 'Thanks, but I'd like one anyway.'

'But you don't need it!' He cast a raunchy eye over me, grinning lasciviously.

'Oh! Ha ha ha, too kind.' I tittered 'Can I have a diet coke, please?'

'You don't need one, love.' Same deal.

'Look, I actually have diabetes. Can I please have a diet coke?'

At that he changed tack; beckoned me along the bar, away from the others waiting for drinks.

Here we go, I thought. Wants to share his own diabetic trials, or those of his dead grandmother. Go with it.

Rictus smile on my face, I indulged him. He waved me closer, the better to hear his confidence. Okay.

With one elbow on the bar, grinning, catching me in an eye-lock, he recited some doggerel. For about two and a half minutes. A long time for me to smile and occasionally shrug politely, to feign interest. Wasn't really focused, given 300 ml of chardy, that early in the day. But the protagonist of the poem, a dog, was 'piddling' here, there and everywhere. Meanwhile, a heavily made up, coiffed bowling club lady, ceased polishing the bar, to lend a delighted ear.

The rhyming punchline of his recitation, which he'd waited perhaps forty-five years to deliver? 'That dog's got diabetes!'

Unbe-fucking-lievable.

'Can I have my diet coke now?'

'No, you can't. We've only got Pepsi Max,' he said, grinning like an imbecile, pleased as punch.

Merry Christmas.

That piece of doggerel? The piddlin' pup.

Being at the mercy of tradies.

2011-12-16T18:02:00.000+11:00

I ‘hooked up’ – to use modern parlance – with my husband,Al, because he was tall, good looking, well built and athletic. Chemistry. He also cooked breakfast when I hadsleepovers. He was, and remains, kindand considerate.

When we moved into our rental house, we didn’t have to do homemaintenance. Al did paint the bathroomonce. It looked all right. Who cared? We were renting. He alsoinstalled a bamboo blind in our front room. He got it backwards so the draw string was on the inside, against thewindow. No matter. He removed the blind and got it round theright way.

Al cooks. Everynight. The best spaghetti marinara everon Saturday nights. He continues to givegood breakfast in bed too. He's been a great dad to our two kids. He can do complex mathematical calculations in his head in an instant. He's a fair gardener. He can do heaps of stuff.

But he can’t do ‘home maintenance’. And neither can I.

As home-owners, therefore, we’re at the mercy of trades-people.

After 25 years I decided it was time to replace a grotty jerry-builthall cupboard. Do you know how hard itis to get a tradie to even return a call?

After hours searching the net and making phone calls, leavingmessages that didn’t get responses, finally got through to a carpenter who seemedinterested in taking on the job. Heasked me to phone through some photos, which I did. He sent back some rudimentary drawings thenquoted close to $10,000 to build a largely chip-board, melamine lined two doorcupboard. WTF? An entire bathroom renovation not that longago cost that much.

Perhaps he didn’t want the job so over-quoted it.

The only other person who returned my call - a ‘handy man’ - was Costa.

Costa said he’d ‘make a few calls’ to his friend the cabinetmaker and see what he could do. Havingdone that, he quoted less than half the price of the other tradie. With only two options, I ‘commissioned’ himto do the job.

Here was the rub. Hewanted, up front, $3,500 – most of the cost - before he’d take on thework.

‘Youse’ve got to see it from my point of view. If youse back out, I’ll be stuck with acupboard I can’t do anything with.’ I suppose that was a fair call. He seemed polite. Didn’t let the blackstrands combed over his bald pate put me off. Bells were ringing, but I gave him a cheque anyway.

‘Youse’ll have your cupboard finished in five weeks, oncethe cheque clears,’ he said, writing a receipt in one of those receipt booksyou can buy in the stationery section of Big W.

That was on October 14. On December 8, we were still waiting for him to start the job.

‘What youse’ve got to understand,’ he said when I called, ‘is that everybody wants the job done before Christmas.’

‘But when I gave you a cheque on October 14, you said itwould take five weeks. See it from mypoint of view. I’ve paid you $3,500 upfront, and you haven’t started the job yet.’

‘I’ve been a business man in this area for twentyyears.' Costa was arcing up. 'Do you think I’m gonna run offwith your money? $3,500 is nothing, anyway.’

‘It’s a lot of money to us.’ He couldn’t really argue with that. Moved me up his priority list.

The other source of anxiety? What if he was crap? I’d handedover heaps of money without having any idea whether he was up for the job.

Costa almostfinished the job yesterday, December 15. He proved to be polite, and did a clean job, but he kept weird hours. He only did half days.

‘Are you doing another job?’ I demanded. Well, I was interested in knowing how it worked. ‘Or do you have to lookafter your mother?’ He’d told me when I’d interrogated him at the first meetingthat he was thirty-eight, single and lived with his mother. Amazing what a nosy person can discover.

‘Mornings just don’t work for me,’ he said a bit too loudly.

So Al and I took two consecutive days off work to let himin. It’s taken three half days and acouple of unscheduled after hours visits to do a job that could have beencompleted, as far as I could tell, in a day and a half..

The door knobs aren’t quite aligned, but overall, he’sdone a good job. I trust the $400 I’m still to pay him will be enough incentivefor him to return in the new year and ‘finish the seams.’

Meanwhile, I needed an electrician to replace the thermostatdisplaced by the demolition of the old cupboard. Booked the electrician; took yet another dayoff work. The bastard didn’t front. No call; nothing.

At that stage I was prepared to live without heating until autumn – it’ssummer after all. But Imade one last internet search and called some random electrician. Lo and behold, someone answered the call.

Next day, right on time, two thirty-something sparkiesarrived and briskly completed what looked to me like a tricky job. Up and down the ladder; ‘fishing’ for flexbehind the walls, as they do. Swept upafter themselves. Great legs.

I was curiously aroused.

And as soon as Al gets home, he'll cook dinner. I've only had to replace the cupboard once, but I get dinner every night. So you can stay, Al.

Diabetes Pity Party Over

2011-11-20T12:36:00.001+11:00

Bit hung over from the Diabetes Pity Party. Should never have gone there. Shouldn’t have indulged. It’s too addictive. Like alcohol - well, middle range chardonnay* - diabetes could control mywhole life.

Used to regularly visit, and comment on, www.diabetesforums.com. It was hugely supportive when I first startedpumping insulin and needed some insight from other pumpers. But it became repetitious; tedious. Hundreds – probably thousands – of PWDs bangingon about diabetes in its various forms.

I’m sick of reading and thinking about diabetes. It’s enough having to live with it. But I’m caught in a bind. On one hand, I’d like to ‘unfollow’ all thosediabetes Tweets/Twitterers/bloggers (whatever!) because they make me focus more on allthat stuff. On the other hand, there aresome brilliant people blogging/vlogging very effectively about diabetes. The social media thing has allowed me tocorrespond with some of them. Communicating withlike-minded people is a massive part of why I write.

And another thing. Mybrief dip into the Diabetes On-line Community seems to have revealed a strangecorrelation between PWDs and Christianity. As a born again atheist, this really gets up my wick. I won’t go into that one. Enough there for a whole conference.

So I’m going to cull a few people on Twitter today. I don’t need extra crap – albeit aboutdiabetes – to read. Get enough of thatfrom my less able students of English.

Time to get the diabetes cart back behind the horse.

Can feel my hang-over lifting already.

* Confession: I'll drink cheap chardonnay. In fact for want of something better, I've imbibed that awful 'Dalat White' when travelling in Vietnam.

Diabetes Makes Me Cry

2011-11-18T10:11:00.001+11:00

A former endocrinologist – the ‘brilliant young doctor’ whocared for the diabetic part of me for 25 years – wrote a letter to my GPexplaining that he was giving up his small private practice. In the letter he said that working with mehad given him an insight into the ‘psychological burden of living with diabetes’.

It’s the emotional side of diabetes that’s so hard. Because it just doesn’t go away. And it gets worse. (Hello, burgeoning retinopathy!) A relentlessjourney.

Here’s my tilt at Diabetes Awareness for the second BlueFriday.

Yesterday morning, I was sitting on a wooden ‘park bench’ inthe foyer of the building where I’d just had my three monthly visit with myendocrinologist. I needed to take aminute. to recover.

My bike pannier bag was beside me – I’d cycled the eight kinto town. I got my phone out and called my husband. I told him my HbA1c was creeping up – 7.8 forthose in the know. I lost control of mychin, lips and voice at that stage and a few tears leaked out. (The HbA1c ideally should be under 7 to avoid 'complications' - retinopathy - blindness, kidney and heart disease, neuropathy, and the rest.)

Trying to control this bastard condition is nigh onimpossible, despite my best efforts.

A week prior to this appointment, I’d attended the localpathology centre for a fasting blood test. ‘Small sting now,’ said the nurse, as usual, before digging into thevein on my left arm. Easy to say. Those injections inevitably hurt, but they’reusually quick.

I go through this process – the blood test followed by theendo appointment, where I find out whether I’ve been a ‘good enough’ PWD –person with diabetes - every three or four months.

Too easy.

But my blood result – my HbA1c - is too high. My endo is sympathetic and we’ve worked outsome sort of ‘action plan’ which I won’t bore you with.

This is the thing. Diabetes is my ‘dark passenger’ – apologies to Jeff Lindsay of Dexterfame. I try to hide it when I’m goingabout my daily business, trying to pretend I’m normal and as capable as thenext person. But it affectseverything. I rarely sleep for more thana couple of hours at a time for fear of hypos – when my blood sugardrops to dangerously low levels. Have towake up and test my blood sugar to be sure. Every morning begins with a finger prick test so I can feed the datainto my pump – that little genius – and it can calculate my insulin needs so Ican infuse the right amount into my body – through a cannula that’s insertedinto some part of my ‘trunk’. (Getsrotated/reinserted every three or four days. Fun.)

Any carbohydrates eaten must be accounted for and balancedagainst the amount of insulin taken. Thepump calculates it all, with a bit of input from me.

If I’m cycling to work – 7 undulating kilometres – I have tofactor that in, too. Which in thesehappy insulin pumping days means reducing, for ninety minutes, the rate atwhich insulin is delivered. I pedal hardup those hills, but I usually have to stop mid-ride, to check my blood sugaragain. I struggle to get those numbersright. If it’s too low I have to stop;eat some glucose; drink some juice. Ifit’s too high, well, I’m laughing because I can pedal flat out for the rest ofthe ride.

You know, I’d really love to just take off on my bike and justenjoy the ride, without having to prepare for it and monitor it.

So, finger pricks. About ten a day. Fewer on my daysoff when I don’t teach. Wouldn’t want tohave a hypo when I’m in front of a class of 25 teenagers, most of whom areready to pounce on any vulnerability. And the pump? It’s doing itsstuff 24/7.

As a PWD – Type 1 – I can never be spontaneous withoutserious risk to my health.

A few of my stats:

I’ve been cycling for about 50 years. I’ve been a secondary English teacher for 32years. I’ve been in a relationship withmy husband for 32 years. My son is 25and my daughter is 23. I’ve had Type 1diabetes for nearly 31 years.

Can’t seem to shake it off.

And BTW, I'll be glad when Diabetes Awareness Month is over. Cos I'm sick of thinking even more about it.

Blue Fridays

2011-11-04T11:30:00.000+11:00

Blue Fridays in November is about diabetes advocacy.

I’m supposed to wear blue every Friday in November andadvocate about diabetes. The thoughtdoesn’t thrill me.

There was no Diabetes On-line Community – DOC – when I wasdiagnosed in 1981. There was no line toget on.

Back then, I was admitted to a hospital in country Victoria, where I’dfailed the glucose tolerance test, taken during a family holiday. I slumped soon after that hit of glucose and wascarried, by a doctor, to a hospital bed. I raged for a bit; had a cry for a couple of hours. But I responded well to a single shot ofinsulin. By the time my family arrivedthat evening to hold a vigil at my bedside, I was cracking jokes about beingable to eat as much powdered mustard as I liked because it was ‘free’,according to a pamphlet I’d been given. Carb-free, for those not in the know about just one of the elementsinvolved in managing diabetes.

Spent the following week in an eight bed very public ward atthe Royal Melbourne Hospital. Successfully injected myself on the firstattempt. Surprised by how easy and pain-freeit was, despite my former horror of injections.

Each morning, for the rest of my life, it was emphasised, I wouldrequire a single injection of a mix of long and short-acting insulin. I’d inject myself, after I’d gauged my bloodsugar level.

Like this: firstthing in the morning. Emptybladder. Ten minutes later, catch thenext bit of pee in a jug. In a testtube, using a dropper, mix six drops of this urine with six drops of water. Drop a tablet into it. The cocktail fizzes. Check cocktail’s colour against a chart. Thus see how many ‘pluses’ of glucose are inone’s pee - how sugary it is. Take more or less insulinaccordingly. (How primitive!)

Had to do the same thing in the evening, at six o’clock. Carried my little chemistry setaround with me. Often did this procedurein the ‘ladies’ at the local pub on a Friday after school. What larks.

And the other thing was that I had to eat by certain times,because on only one injection a day I had to eat when my insulin ‘peaked’ in itsaction, otherwise I'd have a hypoglycaemic reaction. Low blood sugar. Bad. (And they are!) This had all been explained tome during that steep learning curve week in hospital. I’d also been given a crash course in carbcounting by a dietician who drummed into me the nexus between carb counting andgood blood sugar control.

Back then there was no nutritional information onfoods. The only sugar free soft drinkwas Tab Cola. Gold Crest manufactured a ‘diabetic’range of cordials.

I was discharged from hospital with a supply of syringes,insulin and testing gear. It didn’t lastlong. We didn’t have a National DiabetesSupply Scheme back then. I tried to buysyringes in a pharmacy across the road from my school and I think thepharmacist called the police! I foundout from the local diabetes association that there was a 'diabetic friendly' pharmacy in the citywhere one could buy one’s supplies without suspicion. Syringes weren’t cheap either.

There was a sort of ‘tourist excitement’ to all this whichturned into ‘culture shock’ after about three weeks. It was a hell that I endured for a year, atthe end of which I was wraith thin and constantly sick with a variety ofailments that thrive on excess glucose in one’s system.

And then I found a brilliant young doctor who was intomultiple daily injections and ‘home glucose monitoring’. Lucky for me.

That was thirty years ago.

It’s my day off today. I’m wearing a blue-grey tee-shirt and blue jeans. Quite sure I won’t be telling people aboutdiabetes today, other than through this blog, which perhaps five people will read.

We’re not supposed to talk about people ‘suffering’ fromdiabetes. But you know what? I have suffered. And apart from battling with this conditionon a daily basis, I’ve had to suffer people’s ignorance and insufferable,almost prurient curiosity about it.

Tip: when you meetsomeone with Type 1 diabetes, don’t ask them if they should be eating whateverit is they’re about to eat. And don’ttell them about your grandfather, or other close friend, who died of diabetes. We don’t want to know.

Could go on, but no one likes a long blog. If you’ve read this far, cheers.

Mae West, Mum and Me

2011-10-21T10:50:00.000+11:00

Visited a friend the other day; a new mum. She’s called her beautiful daughter Mae. This isn’t about my friend or herdaughter. This is about me and my agedparents.

My parents live a ninety minute drive from me, so I don’tsee them as often as I’d like. Inhindsight, pity that fifteen years ago, they sold the house, five minutes fromwhere I now teach, to make a sea change. Was a good move for them, back then, when they were in theirsixties. Now that they’re elderly, andmy dad ailing, they’re a bit far away.

Nonetheless, most days I call my mum to keep up with theminutiae of her days and to keep us both in each other’s loops. This is the thing: despite being brilliant, hilarious and thevery archetype of what a mother should be, age is taking its toll and my mum’smemory is going a bit. Which led tothis.

“Visited my friend and her new baby this arvo,” I said. Minutiae, as I’ve already said. The stuff of conversation.

“Oh, lovely! What didshe have?” Mum sounds genuinely pleasedwith the news of a former colleague of mine, someone she has only heard of inpassing.

“A girl.”

“Lovely! And what hasshe called her?”

“Mae,” I say.

“May?” Mum soundsincredulous, for some reason. She raisesher voice to enunciate her thoughts more clearly. “May?” she repeats. “M-A-Y?” She spells it out, in case you hadn’t worked that out from how I’dwritten it.

“No, mum. M-A-E. As in Mae West.”

“Mae West? What MaeWest?” She sounds puzzled as if I’mdeliberately trying to trick her by throwing some gobbledegook into theconversation. “Mae West? I don’t know anything about Mae West.”

“Of course you do, Mum. Mae West, the film star.” Why amI explaining?

“I’ve never heard of her. Must have been before my time, “ says mum. And why don’t I let it go there?

“She was a sexy platinum blonde. She said ‘Come up and see my some time, big boy’.” I do my best Mae West impersonation. “And ‘Is that a pistol in your pants or areyou just happy to see me?’”

“Never heard of her.” Mum is dismissive. If she hasn't heard of Mae West, I must have invented her.

“Mum, she was as famous as Marilyn Monroe. Of course you remember her.”

“I know Marilyn Monroe. But I’ve never heard of Mae West. Dad! Dad!” She invites my dad - never calls him by name -into the conversation. “Dad, do I know MaeWest?’

“Lusty Busty,” pronounces mydad in his profound bass voice with its Yorkshire accent. He'll be sitting in his chair, his walking frame to one side, a glass ofred on the table beside him.

Laugh at my dad. He does the memory for both of them thesedays. My mum’s as fit as a trout and welaugh about the fact that for the first time in her life, she is, due to memoryloss, living in the minute, like everyone says you’re supposed to do all yourlife. My dad’s still good on theone-liners, but it takes him all his time to get around and his fine motorskills – dental technician, talented musician, carpenter, a man who couldrepair anything – have gone. And now I’vemade myself cry.

Better give my mum a call. I’ll tell her it’s Mae West

Night Flight

2011-09-30T14:46:00.000+10:00

Interesting flight to Darwin last night.

I'd been randomly allocated a window seat. After I'd herded onto the plane and found it, a couple about my age, fifty plus, were in the process of appropriating the window seat to store a large flat framed, bubble wrapped piece. Suppose they couldn't believe their luck on a packed flight. Seemed a tad miffed, I thought, to relinquish the floorspace they'd used and stow the item in the overhead locker. The woman - thin lips, tan leather jacket, skinny jeans, menopausal black dyed concave bob - had removed her knee high boots. In black socked feet, she unfurled herself, distractedly stood, and slotted her piece in the locker. Oddly, she ignored me and sat down again.

"Perhaps you'd like to move over?" I inquired politely, thinking they could both just shift over one.
"No, I'm staying right here, thank you very much!"

Bit aggro. Think she thought I was going to boot her out of her allocated seat. She was shaking her head, glaring at something indeterminate. Her partner, a grey loose-jowled man, chin sunk on his chest, just stared at the seat ahead. Perhaps he was jammed in. Thin-lips was determinedly having that aisle seat. I didn't care except I'd had a soaring blood sugar all day, probably a rebound from my near-death gastro in the previous 36 hours. Now I was dying of thirst - a diabetic thing - and knew I'd need a pee at some time during the flight.

"Well, I'll have to climb over you." I was sing-song, smiling, indulging a couple of children.

At this, something clicked and they clambered out. Bit of a struggle for him, clinging to the seat in front and shuffling sideways.

"And you'll have to forgive me climbing over you during the night," I belled, beaming, shuffling into my seat. "Old bladder, ha ha."

During the night? Who was I kidding? I thought, sitting heavily on my crossed seat-belt before wresting it out. It was 3 a.m.

Amazing how much urine one's bladder can hold, in extremis, despite considerable discomfort. Once in, I could not get out. Had there been an emergency, perhaps a crash, with assistance from flight attendants, the blob next to me could perhaps have been induced to prise himself out. He reeked of a few too many at the bar prior to take-off. He was in an inert Can't Be Fucked, alcohol induced torpor.

Glad I'd relieved myself of those last few drops back at the airport toilets.

The armrest between me and my companion was raised and he'd taken the opportunity to ease himself about a quarter onto my seat. Hmm. What to do?

"Would you like the armrest down?" I carolled, clicking it into position under a roll of his flesh. He rested his arm over it, as one does, and I was okay. Still had one completely to myself on the window side.

Beyond him Thin-lips had assumed the position: facing her husband, legs drawn up towards her chest. Quite flexy, I thought.

Blob inclined himself towards her, in so doing, resting his back fat right over my arm.

I was irate, and perhaps more irrational than usual. It was 3.45 a.m. I'd had no sleep since 9.30 the previous a.m., and prior to that I'd been on a drip in the ER for five hours following 18 hours of explosive gastro.

I swore under my breath. That achieving nothing, I whimpered for an instant, pinioned as I was between back fat and the aeroplane wall. Hmm. What to do?

Tapped him on the arm. He blinked awake and slowly turned to gawp at me.

"Excuse me? Is she your wife?" No more sing-song. Assertive now, I nodded towards Thin-lips.

He registered the question; cogs creaking round.

"Yes."

"Well, would you mind leaning on her instead of me? These days I don't even let my husband get this close."

He gawped some more, bemused perhaps. Maybe he thought he was having an alcohol induced dream. At this stage, ready for sleep or what passes for it on a plane, I'd pulled my orange hood up over my head, my bespectacled 55 year old face was peering at him, and around my neck I had, due to air pressure, an over-inflated blue neck support pillow. He obeyed anyway.

Unfortunately, when he dropped into deeper sleep it was no holds barred. He rolled over 'in bed' onto me, to mouth-breathe into my face.

Confession: I can't even bear this with my old man and consequently we sleep, in our queen bed, in our little compartments, our heads separated by a pillow (affectionately known as 'the barrier') standing on its side.

Drunk, Blob was comatose. I pulled my hood around my face, cleaved to what remained of my $300 seat and the side of the plane and prayed for a swift flight.

Me at Highpoint.

2011-09-07T19:01:00.000+10:00

I'm in the changing room in Target, Highpoint - I've hit the fashion heights, clearly. There's a discarded coat-hanger on the bench and a used tissue on the floor.

I've stripped down to my socks and undies on the bottom. I'm keeping my top pulled securely down over my trunk lest my abdomen escape from the top of my knickers. I don't want to see it. I've selected five pairs of pants to try on. It's an interesting exercise being in one of those rooms with the reveal-all mirrors. I try to avoid looking at myself above my hip line. Muffin tops would be putting it politely. Think I've got the opposite of body dysmorphia. I go about my life thinking I look okay, and then I see the reality in Target when I'm trying to have a nice shop.

One by one I struggle into these enormous pants - my size - and one by one I drop them into a heap on the floor. The pants look crap but I quite like my asymmetrical haircut. Haven't seen it from this angle before, Not bad at all. It compensates a little for the disappointing elephant-crutch duds. I've worked up a sweat at this stage and check my blood glucose in case I'm having a hypo rather than a menopausal flush. I'm okay, but I've had enough of Target.

I abandon the trouser shopping. After all, I'm supposed to be buying a present for my old man's birthday.

I'm in Big W next, opportunistically buying a bra. Well, they've got my style and size. This presents a problem though. I want to browse the rest of the store but I'm not carrying a shopping basket so I must carry this enormous black bra with its massive moulded d-cups. Try to tuck it inconspicuously under my bag but to no avail. This bra has a life of its own. If it had wheels I could have ridden around in it.

Run the gauntlet of Level 3 - yes, madam is having a nice day, but no, she's not interested in boxing lessons, nor organic cosmetics - and decide to buy a USB from Dick Smith.

Next stop, Just Jeans. Really must get something for the old man. The alarm goes off as I try to enter the store. I fling out my arms, as one does, as the assistant rushes over to accost me. I rifle through my bag. The USB is the culprit. I'm asked for the receipt, which I proffer. Good to know they're all looking out for each other at Highpoint. Nothing to see here, I think, given a small crowd has gathered behind me to gawk as we swing various items through the sensor. They're rewarded with a viewing of my incredible living bra. The shop assistant kindly peels off the metal label from the packaging of the USB and I'm in.

Now I'm having another hotflush/hypo special combo. Surreptitiously check my blood sugar again before resuming my jeans shopping. All good.

Despite my earlier trouser disappointment I'm tempted by the two pairs for $100 offer. Pair for me and a pair for the old man. He's easy to buy for. Thirty-four inch waist. He works out; has hardly changed shape in 32 years. I have a moment of euphoria in the changing room when I find a pair of jeans that fit - albeit below the muffin top line.

So I pay for the jeans and head for the exit and WTF? I'm bleeping again. The assistant rushes over and now the d-cups are once again being passed back and forth through the sensor. That's what you get for being environmentally friendly and bringing your own carry bag. But once again, it's the USB. The shop assistant obliges with a pair of scissors and liberates the USB from its attention seeking plastic packaging and sod the guy in Dick Smith who didn't de-magnetise it, or whatever he was supposed to do.

Back for more tomorrow. The old man's pants didn't fit.

Brief update on daughter, Didi.

2011-08-27T12:05:00.000+10:00

It's my niece's birthday lunch today; a chance to catch up with the young relatives.

The venue is about three k away so the old man and I plan to cycle there, rather than have to worry about driving and the rest.

Daughter has been living away from home now for about six weeks. It's all good. Can't be bothered detailing it at this point, given I've got about five minutes to spend writing.

Surprised to get this text message from my daughter, who lives about four k away in the other direction from the venue.

"I don't want to drive. How will I get there? K [housemate] isn't home. [Presumably Didi would have cadged a lift.] Could dad maybe drop me off at Sydney Rd then go home and get his bike? Or can T [brother] drive me?"

Well, dad isn't up for a ten k round trip at this stage on a Saturday, sorry Didi. Catch a tram.

She's still our baby girl.

Visit to the eye specialist.

2011-06-25T15:14:00.003+10:00

I’m sitting in the ophthalmologist’s waiting room, rugged up against winter outside; bag on my lap; umbrella gripped between my knees. Gloves off; book out. (I’m rereading The Secret River. Should link to it to get more hits on my blog.)

It’s a busy Melbourne practice. The waiting area is L-shaped. Two busy receptionists field a constant stream of patients. An elderly woman, flanked by two assistants, hobbles by. “You’ll be okay, mum,” says one of them, a woman about my age, like she’s said it a few times already. She’s guiding her mother by one elbow and reassuring her a bit too loudly. “You’ve just had a little bleed.”

I’m immediately imagining my not too distant future; daughter leading me, perhaps a little impatiently, when I suffer ‘the little bleed’; or the ‘Falling Curtain’ or “Failing Sight. Having already experienced the first two Fs one must watch for, Flashes and Floaters, I’m living in Flagrant Fear.

I reread the same line in my book. Try not to think about it.

Next, a doctor instructs an orthoptist - his assistant.

“Where can I put Mrs M?" she asks him. "Just a cataract check?” As if that’s nothing.

“Room three’s free.” He sounds mildly fed up and detached on this Friday afternoon. He swings a door open to confirm the room’s availability.

The orthoptist leads a seventy-something woman with a well cut silver bob and seats her in the room. “Yes, that’s right, just click whenever you see the stars.” Orthoptist is a young Sybil Fawlty now, singing the instructions, but not really there. She leaves the door open to attend elsewhere. There’s something awful about this elderly woman’s exposure to the busy waiting room. Try not to look at her perched on a stool, using the mouse. Think of my own mother. She’d be freaking out if someone left her alone with a computer, let alone with the prospect of loss of vision.

Force my eyes back to The Secret River.

It’s my second visit to this doctor. I’d needed a change from my previous ophthalmologist who I'd tolerated for several years. Apart from his supercilious attitude, his hand stank as though he hadn’t washed it all day. Doctors, even if they are just looking at eyes through whatever that little device is, should wash their hands regularly. Or wear gloves.

I made the change to this new doctor after a recent eye emergency. My retina had partially detached from my right eye, causing a terrifying ‘visual disturbance’. Cracks in my vision; looking through a shattered window. What larks. (That’s how Pip and Joe Gargery talk to each other in Great Expectations. Do yourself a favour. Read it. Brilliant. But I digress.) Don’t want to sound cavalier about my eyesight. I’ve worn specs since my mid teens and my vision has gradually deteriorated to the extent where I’m just this side of legally blind. Throw in diabetic retinopathy, the legacy of thirty years of Type 1 diabetes and now this scrawl of a floater on my right eye ball. The point is that I’m apprehensive, no, scared, sitting with my book, reading the same line over and over without comprehension.

Could do with a little compassion, or someone with basic interpersonal skills. Instead, I got the doctor.

Hearing him calling my name in the waiting area around the corner, I close my book and gather up my bits.

“That’s me,” I announce. Rush over.

This doctor looks unremarkable. Late thirties, tall, round-shouldered, dark blue suit pants, white and tan striped business shirt, short wavy fading brown hair; wearing specs with another pair hanging around his neck. It’s the mildly fed up doctor from earlier. I hadn’t recognized him from my previous visit – despite having made notes, as I tend to.

“Put your things over there.” Ushering me into a room, he indicates a green leather two-seater couch. I do.

“Take a seat.” Expressionless voice. He gestures at a chair. I sit. “Thanks for coming in earlier,” he intones. The appointment that I’d made five months previously had been changed the day before. “Do you work?”

“It’s my day off, but I’ve been working all morning anyway.” Who cares? Certainly not Mr Personality.

Silence. Hmm. So, we’re playing that game, I think. None of that small talk that oils the wheels of human discourse. He’s reading the display on his monitor. Checking my file, I suppose. Or Twitter? I can’t see the screen from my disadvantage point. He types very slowly with two index fingers. Still he doesn’t speak. It seems I am not there. I try to find comfort in the silence. I don’t. It continues for about four long, awkward minutes.

With all due respect to his straight ‘A’ HSC score – he’s HSC vintage – and his years of academic excellence to achieve such career heights, what a shiny arsed wanker.

He stands. He speaks.

“Just going to put some drops in your eyes.” His voice is rehearsed-modulated, fake; someone humouring a tedious patient at the end of a long shift. Hands me a tissue and I’m terribly grateful. “Look up at the ceiling. Just some local anaesthetic. And another one. Keep your eyes closed for a few minutes.” He leaves me alone in the room with the door open. Now I’m exposed to the waiting room, sitting there like a pillock with its eyes closed, imagining everyone gawping at me. Mere paranoia. When five minutes later I dare to open my eyes, I glance out into an empty waiting area. An old man ambles carefully past. He’s looking at the ground ahead of him.

A fairly standard eye examination ensues. Chin on the papered chin rest; forehead pressed against a papered metal bar; look straight ahead, to your left, to your right, at the ceiling, at the ground, at my right ear, my left ear. A blinding bar of light repeatedly passes painfully across my vision. I fight against my instincts; try not to flinch as I stare at the sun.

“No change at this stage,” he drawls, finally, back to staring at the computer screen. Probably has too much eye contact, given his job, and thus he avoids it during any other interactions.

“Keep your sugar levels under control.” Easy for him to say. “Cholesterol. Blood pressure. Probably looking at laser surgery somewhere along the track.” I try not to care.

He picks up a recording device and dictates a letter into it, still staring at the monitor. It seems I’ve left the room again but I’m still there. Listening in like some naughty kid in the principal’s office, I know that the letter contains two paragraphs, has been cc-ed to my GP and endocrinologist and that my case will be reviewed four to six monthly. I didn’t catch the other medical jargon. This is all the time my $80 consultation will buy me. At least my endocrinologist waits until I’ve left the room before dictating her letter.

He’s both efficient and ludicrous. While sitting there I wonder what would happen in my own teaching job if I was arrogant and had poor communication skills. Somehow, he, and many other doctors I’ve encountered in the last forty or so years - with a couple of brilliant exceptions - are above having to lower themselves to my plebeian level; having to be nice.

But on the positive side, his hand doesn’t smell. I can tick that box.

Back for more in four months.

She's leaving home.

2011-06-17T17:12:00.000+10:00

A pink flamingo, about a metre high, stands on my right. on its two shiny black legs and little black webbed feet. It’s looking back over its plumed tin torso. Its beak looks like a mini banana. Beyond that is a box filled with newspaper wrapped crockery. Further behind, and filling the usually sparsely stacked shelves of my workroom are pots, a kettle, a second-hand microwave oven and who knows what else. My spare room has temporarily become the repository of my daughter’s ‘glory box’. She’s not getting married. She’s just stockpiling prior to moving out.

For me, it’s bitter-sweet.

Yep. She’s leaving home. My baby girl. My Didi. The second of my two adult children. She’s twenty-three. As with everything in my children’s lives, her imminent departure – she leaves in about six weeks - is both a signifier and an opportunity for vicarious enjoyment. There’s one thing about my daughter: she lets me share – especially if I’m carrying my credit card.

I first moved out of home at eighteen. My sister, her friend and I moved into a tiny two up two down terrace in Fitzroy in 1974. This was pre-gentrification, pre-uber cool bohemian Fitzroy. No phone. No mod cons. No heating. (Quite third world actually if some of the places I’ve stayed in in Vietnam are any indication.) Just our single beds, taken from home and a bean bag each: two black and one yellow. We rented a black and white TV. Any other furniture came from the op shop. I upholstered an old bridge chair in brown and red corduroy patchwork. (It’s on my right just by the flamingo. Good investment. Probably paid fifty cents for it.) I was a student cycling up the road to what was then Melbourne State College. Also had the mandatory VW.

Was a big shock for my mum when the pair of us moved out. She'd taken my eleven year old sister back 'home' to England for the school holidays. She’d left us alone with my father, who was inclined to rage and sulk. He was insufferable without my mum’s calming presence so my sister and I left. He didn’t try to stop us and he couldn’t if he had. (As a parent, I can’t imagine how she coped on her return to discover her eighteen and nineteen year old girls had left home.)

In retrospect, this is awful. I went on to suffer the most torrid relationship break-up, the emotional pain of which I could never have foreseen. Because let’s be honest. I’d moved out of home so I could have sex. Suppose that’s what drove us all out back in the seventies. The previous generation got married and pregnant, not necessarily in that order, at the same age. (Thank god for the pill.)

Twelve months later and six months after my relationship break-up I was huddled on the floor in the bare white passage, just inside the front door. Rejected again, I was sobbing uncontrollably, my face pressed against that bleak white cold plaster. Probably banged my head a couple of times for good measure. Inconsolable. Ah, the pain of nineteen. We didn’t take many photos in those days, technology being what it was, so the forty or so photos show us laughing fit to burst, looking gorgeous. Impossibly young. As if. Nineteen seventy five was the worst year of my life. Of course, there’s no photo of the sobbing head banger by the front door.

I moved back home to recover emotionally and live it up on my twenty dollar a week studentship, rather than spending that pittance on food, rent and petrol.

Daughter Didi is having an entirely different experience of moving. She’s done lots of the done things already, being the child of relatively permissive try-hard baby boomers. Moving out now is a positive, natural progression.

I’m missing her already. But very glad she’s taking the freaking flamingo with her.

Assault

2011-05-27T17:20:00.001+10:00

First whole Friday off in my new part-time status saw me cycling into town, doubtless smiling beatifically again, locking up my bike in Swanston Street and unexpectedly wandering down memory lane.

Here's one of the unbidden memories.

About fifteen years ago I was assaulted while I was in town. I'd been at my regular Friday writing group at the CAE in Degraves Street. I don't think I can do myself justice by describing what I was wearing that day, but I think I looked good in my 'nineties' over-sized printed shirt tucked into wide long pants, cinched at the waist - hey! I had a waist! - with a wide belt. My straight brown hair was waist length and I was wearing it out. It was probably glossy in the sunlight; attracting attention. I offer this vague description of myself, because when I've second-guessed why this assault occurred, like many victims, I've tried to imagine it was something I did, or how I looked, that prompted it. (I've often thought the perp could have been a former student who finally saw his opportunity.)

A friend and I were having a coffee outside a cafe. There wasn't the parade of cafe tables lining Degraves Street that you see today; just a few tables and chairs outside the cafe that's almost on Flinders Lane. It was a sunny, warm day. I felt relaxed, chatting with my friend. Loved those writing group sessions. It was an ordinary Friday, in the days before I'd returned to full-time teaching. Elbows on the table, holding my cup in both hands, I glanced to my right and noticed a khaki clad skin-head. He was sauntering along the footpath. He wore an open frock coat over a singlet and trousers tucked into boots that laced up to his knees. He looked out of place; menacing. I noticed all this in an instant; registered it; resumed my conversation. Seconds later I fell forward onto the table with the force of impact. It felt like someone carrying a loaded suitcase had turned suddenly and inadvertently slammed the case into the back of my head. Cups rattled in their saucers as I sprawled across the table, momentarily stunned; head aching already from the blow. Next thing, my friend's on her feet. "You bastard!" she shouts in her cultivated Brighton tones. She shouts it again fiercely, waving a fist. I look up to see people gawping at me. I turn my head to the left and see the slowly receding back of this new romantic romper stomper thug. Evidently, he'd punched me at full force with a closed fist as he'd walked behind me.

I was quick on the mobile phone - a brick. Called 000 and a couple of police walked up from Flinders Street, passing by the psycho who'd slugged me as they did so. He hadn't sped up his pace. I wondered how many other women he'd hit from behind as he strolled around the city that day. By the time the police got to me and heard what had happened he'd disappeared.

I'm still wary when I sit down at tables in public places but I'm over the nightmares I experienced for a while. One of the worst things about the experience was the lack of response from the people who witnessed my assault. Suppose it's the bystander effect.

Cheap thrills on Ebay

2011-05-19T17:48:00.001+10:00

Back in the day, when I was a student teacher, I had to fill in a survey. One of the questions was "What concerns you most at this point in time?" Had a brief think. World peace? Poverty? Infant mortality in third world countries? No. Whether to get my hair cut or not. At the time I wrote this trite response I knew what it said about me: vacuous; self-absorbed; typical Baby Boomer. But hang about. My hair was seriously Brethren long and it's hard to make a decision like that. What if it looked shit short? (It didn't, but I grew it back anyway.)

All of the above is by way of an explanation for the empty-headed musings that are to follow. I concede that there are all sorts of serious issues worth my contemplation but I choose to dwell on domestic minutiae. Crap really, but it passes the time.

So. I bought a reasonably expensive washing machine a couple of years ago. Did my research, courtesy of Choice magazine. Won't make that mistake again. This $1200 white monster, this 'top loader with front loader action!!' that we could barely fit through the laundry door, entangled and twisted my washing to such a degree that it took me half an hour to unravel everything before I could hang it on the line. To add further joy, it covered everything in chalky lint. I swear that machine grinned at me as its digital read-out told me to balance my load or put it through its clean cycle. Became a bit obsessed with this problematic machine. Rang the customer help line and got advice on all sorts of tricks I could try to optimise my washing pleasure. Nothing worked.

Given my workload had increased exponentially, decided to cut my losses and get another machine. And thus began my Ebay fun. It's illicitly thrilling trying to sell something one knows is a dud. Advertised it at $500 'still under warranty', because it was. Had lots of interest, but everyone wanted to know why I was selling it. So I became an 'empty-nester, downsizing'. Sounded legit and sort of was, except both kids were still living at home. Found a buyer who was happy to collect the machine and even ranked me as 'great to do business with!'. I'd like to think that whoever he bought the machine for found a way to minimise the just-been-through-with-a-tissue effect. But ultimately, who cares? Pig in a poke, but at least they got it for $700 less than I had twelve months earlier.

My second trepidatious foray into Ebay trading was to buy a packet of iPhone screen covers for the princely sum of about four dollars. You'd think I was committing to a Winnebago given the sweat I worked up hovering over the keyboard, deciding whether to press a key. Can't explain my irrational fear. Suppose it could have been something to do with my own duplicitous dealing in white goods. My little packet of six covers arrived promptly and in good order. It's not the seller's fault that I can never get all the air-bubbles out.

My next Ebay moment came about as a result of my Cinderella syndrome. I can't resist certain shoes. They call to me through the window. In the shop, they looked great on and they felt, well, tolerable. Convinced myself I must have them and isn't that what credit's for?

So here's me, on my second wear of my 'gorgeous black leather and patent flat lace-ups; Wittner Cosmic Size 39' - still have my vague copy-writing skills - whimpering in pain as I'm cycling home from work. The problem was the stitching line on the right shoe sat directly on a pressure point on my foot. On my second hill the pain was so excruciating that despite the cold and risk of detritus on the footpath, I removed the offending shoe and clomped, up and down, one shoe on, one off, all the way home.

And like the washing machine before them, those shoes began to mock me for wanting so desperately to go to the ball. Offered them gratis to several people, but no takers. Suppose my slim footed niece, who politely declined, didn't want to look menopausal in her old aunt's shoes. Couldn't bring myself to drop them off at Savers, given they'd cost me $130 and were barely worn. So I tried to auction them off on Ebay. As if. Clearly there's a method to selling on Ebay but whatever it is, I haven't managed it yet. Could probably do a course, or something, but I fear that would eliminate the idiotic thrill of the potential sale.

The starting price for the shoes 'that sadly don't quite fit' was $19.99. (Tried to elicit sympathy to lure a buyer.) Suddenly (be still my beating heart) I had one bidder and one watcher. I started barracking for the bidder, genuinely wanting whoever it was to get a bargain. Felt some sort of vicarious excitement. Don't think that's how it's supposed to work. As it happened $19.99 was the ending price as well. The lucky winner, who'd spotted my shoes among the gazillions on offer, agreed to pay the sum, plus about five dollars postage and handling. Unfortunately, after I'd queued for a good fifteen minutes in the post office I had to pay eight dollars. Note to self: weigh the shoes at the post office next time before you try to sell them.

Hope the successful bidder a. isn't a second-hand dealer; and b. hasn't got a fat right foot. .

Hair today.

2011-04-23T17:10:00.000+10:00

I've been thinking lots lately about when and if I should go grey. At what stage should I give into those silver threads sprouting near my crown and along the part? What keeps me, and others, vainly dyeing, or augmenting, our hair?

Studied an older woman as she jaywalked in front of our car pushing her old vinyl shopping jeep, if that's what you call them. She wore a plain brown knit top, a grey skirt, flesh-coloured stockings and sensible black shoes. But her standout feature was freshly coiffed lividly dyed sparse dark chocolate hair. It was combed back around her forehead and ears; short on her neck. Her face, as she peered around at the traffic, was weathered, lined, some would say haggard, but the hair could hold its own stand up gig

Used to dye my hair a gingery colour in my mid-forties. Stopped that after my daughter told me I looked like the alcoholic woman in that film Requiem for a Dream. Hers was an orange dye job gone horribly frizzily wrong. My daughter was going for a cheap laugh, and she got it, but I think I made a hairdresser's appointment the next day. Reverted to something akin to my natural colour.

Interestingly, there are quite a few women teaching at my school who have the potential for grey hair, but none has dared to achieve it. Perhaps it's something about not wanting to give the teenagers any more ammo than they already have by virtue of their lack of manners, audacity and strength in numbers.

Many years ago, a male teaching colleague who used to drive to and from school with me, begged a favour. On the way home, would I mind going with him into the supermarket to buy a packet of hair dye? He didn't want to suffer embarrassment at the check-out, having the assistant smirking at his dark little secret. So I stole with him up the hair aisle, and interpreting his surreptitious sign language, grabbed the box of whatever it was and paid for it, while he stared off, pretending he wasn't with me. Apparently, he started dyeing his hair when he'd turned snow white in his mid-thirties whilst teaching in Africa. "I didn't want to stand out," he said, as I hung onto the steering wheel, trying not to laugh. As if his dyed hair would have camouflaged him amongst the natives.

A couple of years ago, I was in the pub with my old man and his work mates, checking out the seriously springy brown curls of one of his crew. "Do you dye your hair?" I asked him. (Yeah, I'm nosey.) I judged him to be middle aged, if the profusion of eye-brow, nose and ear hair was any indication. You know how it gets at a certain age. I suppose it could just have been a natural accompaniment to the mop of curls. "Yes," he conceded, having another sip of his pot. "Same," I said. (Well, I have these conversations with women all the time. Why discriminate? I was interested.) It was only after he left that the assembled group let out a collective guffaw. They'd been working with Jack for years. He'd been wax bald since his early twenties and had one day turned up to work in a curly wig. From that day forward, he didn't mention it and neither did anyone else, well, not to him. He even had a series of similar wigs that he wore sequentially to simulate hair growth. Evidently I was the first one to call it, but I didn't get it quite right.

My cousin's middle aged bloke had a generous seventies Robert Redford-esque ash blond mane. He was sitting with me and my old man (bald, number one) out on the patio. We'd had a couple of drinks in the sunshine and had arrived at that level of relaxed intimacy that naturally led to me getting personal and complimenting Gerry on his excellent hair, given his age. He modestly accepted the praise; turned his head just so, possibly to catch the afternoon sun's rays through the trees. Much later, my cousin told me that he was wearing a wig. Apparently, when he undresses, the hair comes off too, leaving a scant fringe of hair around the neck, which during the day is deftly blended with the wig.

So in the butcher's this morning, I'm standing behind three oldies, studying their hair. The gent on the right looks like an aged ballroom dance instructor. A thick black youthful wig adorns his old head. His shirt is white with fine black stripes, open at the collar, under a black cardigan. He's wearing matching slacks and black pointy toed slip-on shoes. He paid for his meat from a massive roll of cash that he pulled out of his pocket on his missus's order. She has an almost ubiquitous - for a Saturday morning - brown-orange bad home dye by the looks, all fluffed out to disguise the alopecia. The woman next to her is one shade lighter, but it's the same look. Must have been a sale on in Chemist Warehouse.

And there's me standing behind, wondering at what stage I transmogrify into that parody of my former self or whether I'm already there. Actually, think I'm overdue for a root boost.

Sleepless in Rutherglen.

2011-04-20T18:56:00.002+10:00

Have done some big bike rides over the last three days. Glorious days of exercise, food and wine, followed by hellish nights, I might add. Had another night of horror last night.

It's not down to the old man's 'adventure dreams' either. Although they keep me busy. He shouts, cycles his legs, scraping me occasionally with his lethal toenails, and rants in what could pass as the devil's voice in an episode of Supernatural. Or it's doof, doof, doofdoofdoof fists into the middle of my back where I'm suddenly some nemesis he's taking a swing at. (Well, that's his excuse.) The other night, like a magician doing the table-cloth trick, he whisked off the bed clothes and flung them into the air. But it's not that. His antics are mildly diverting.

I usually sleep well for four or so hours, then groan as I check the beacon digital clock and see 2.20. Try not to think of it. Think of something else. Sing American Pie in my head, then 999 Bottles of Beer on the Wall, then, fuck it, I'm wide awake.

Thus I lie there for at least the next two hours before drifting into a light sleep, invariably to be awoken again by the night-time adventurer beside me. I shake him, punch his arm, slap him, beg him to wake up and swap to a different dream, but to no avail. He seems to be able to nod off and take up where he left off, after an ad break. But I'm back to listening to my heart-beat and feeling for lumps.

Basically, my insomnia's down to alcohol abuse, and don't we all put it away when we come up here to
Rutherglen a couple of times a year for a bit of cycling. And wine.

Did a bit of reckoning this morning, after another wakeful night. It's just too easy to imbibe here, without even thinking about it. But think about it I did.

We'd cycled about ten k yesterday before having a tasting at Cofields. Generous, delicious sparklings. Who can resist? And their sparkling shiraz is excellent. (The enormous tastes could have been down to a new cellar manager. Unfortunately, she'll probably learn.) The marsanne viognier hit the spot, so we decided to take a glass each out on the lawns. By my addition I was up to about 350 ml of 14 percent proof.

Roll down the road to Pfeiffers and about another 100 ml in obligatory tasting. Started with an evaporative reisling. That's how it felt. Don't know the correct terminology. Steely? But from my perspective it just disappeared in the mouth. No need to swallow or spit. Evaporative. But not like metho. The chardonnay was delicious so bought a bottle to have down on the bridge. Sister, Reggie, supplied the picnic. All good fare that I won't bore you with. Suffice to say, it hit the spot, and I had to laugh when she produced a vintage sixties table cloth to complete the idyllic picture. Another couple of bevies and I was up to about 650 or so ml, but not feeling it, unless really enjoying the gum trees, Murray tributary and bird song with my lunch was a sign.

Continued the pedal for a few flat k along to Campbell's. Didn't even bother with a tasting. We were on a chardonnay roll, so took a bottle onto the lawns to watch what was left of the sunshine setting over the vines. Ker-ching. Another 200 ml or so. Time to head back to Wine Village, our very comfortable lodgings in Rutherglen, for an apres cycle glass or two. According to my rain-man reckoning I was up to about 1.15 litres by now. Further glass of Campbell's chardonnay up at Poachers Paradise, a more than worthy accompaniment to my special Seafood Laksa with Hokkein Noodles and Coconut Milk. Despite a 29k cycle, and notwithstanding the fact that I hit the Diet Coke and coffee at that stage, clearly I'd put away about 1.3 litres of 14 proof delicious wine ON MY OWN!

In conclusion, I'm my own worst enemy suffering self inflicted sleeplessness and feeling like shit in the small hours. Or perhaps it was the country seafood laksa??

(BTW, have cycled 45k today and feel awesome because FOR THE FIRST TIME EVER in Rutherglen, I haven't touched a drop.)

Picture Framer.

2011-04-14T14:32:00.001+10:00

I'm thinking of my exhortations to my Year 8 Writing Class to begin at the interesting bit, then backfill, but I'm not sure whether there is an interesting bit in this musing. It was for me, but perhaps you had to be there. I'll try.

My cousin's been staying with me, on and off, for the past three months, using our place as her Australian base. She wanted to buy us - my old man and me - a parting gift. Thus, she offered to have one of my son's drawings framed. Seemed like a good idea, and something I'd been meaning to do but never got around to. Thus the plan for the first weekday of my vacation was to locate a picture framers close by.

My son sketched this picture on black cartridge paper with what looks like white chalk. There's some charcoal shading too. It's quite big, about a metre by god knows what; maybe sixty centimetres. It's from a life drawing class he took when he was about nineteen. We were all overwhelmed by the beauty of this portrait of a woman, breasts hanging, eyes closed. I didn't think my big goofy boy, who at that stage spent lots of time stomping around the house making animal noises, had it in him. Prior to that year, he'd done maths and science subjects, thinking he'd be an architect, or some-such. Now he was a budding artist. The other thing about this portrait is it's done several years under his bed, unprotected, amongst indescribable, unmentionable filth that's shocked even him. I rescued it last year after he'd finally finished his Communication Design degree and cleaned up his room, thinking to start fresh. By that stage the picture was crumpled, and a bit torn around the edges, but still, well, a work of art; an almost careless yet very accomplished study.

Which is how we ended up at a local framers. It's in Sydney Road, only a block or two down from the Coburg shops, in that no man's land stretch that's not yet fashionable. (Give it time, now that Brunswick's the new Fitzroy, it won't be long 'til Bohemia creeps further north.) The shop didn't look like much from the outside. Thought it might have been closed, but it wasn't.

"What can I do for you ladies?" This dark-haired stocky, smiling guy was rubbing his hands together as we approached. Told him the story and he cast an oh-oh sort of eye over the crumpled picture. "Hmm," he said, frowning, "I'm going to have to glue it and I can't guarantee that it won't get creases and I'm worried about smudging it." Spreading his hands over the picture like a Reiki healer, he mimed how he was going to have to press to get the wrinkles out. Didn't seem to be a problem from my perspective, but I rang my son for his advice. They had a bit of craftsman to craftsman talk and decided the whole gluing procedure wouldn't be a problem. Seemed a bit ridiculous to worry about a couple of creases from my perspective. Whatever the framer did was going to liberate Ms Tits from down the side of my wardrobe and would have to be an improvement.

"So, have youse got a particular frame in mind?" Good teeth and a very accommodating attitude, I thought. I had no idea. "Did youse want a mount?" Interesting. Cousin Butterfly, however, knew what he meant.

Our framer was a bit of a know-it-all but savvy enough to make Butterfly think he agreed with all her suggestions for frame and mount.

"Do you want ordinary glass or matte?" he asked.
"Oh, I think ordinary," said Butterfly, on what pretext, I don't know, but she sounded like she had some artistic reason for her choice.
"Glad you said that!" he chimed. "That's the best. The matte can make it a bit dull." I'm quite sure if she'd said matte, he would have agreed and had a stock reply - the ordinary can make it a bit bright?

I didn't really get it so asked what he meant. He waved to a display over my shoulder. I swung around. "See those pictures there? They don't even look like there's any glass on them, whereas with your ordinary glass, see how it brings out the colours?" I looked at the frames he indicated. He had a point. I wandered in a bit closer to study the matte finished photos. They were a framed series of four photo portraits of what I thought were four pretty young girls. Initially, I thought they were sisters given the variations in age, hair styles and clothes. These were black and white head and shoulder shots of back-combed made up early sixties debs, by the looks. Special party frocks, ribbons and strappy dresses. Clear, beautiful faces. In the centre of the frame was a small square inset plaque, inscribed with Greek capital lettering.

"Who're the women?" I asked, mildly interested and my usual nosey self. Thought it'd be some old relic from a customer who hadn't returned to collect it.
"It's my mother." I was still studying the pretty faces.
"Wow. Pretty woman."
"She passed away in 1971. When I was two. Her and my little sister. And that's me sitting on dad's knee." Instantly, I had tears welling up. "It's a passport photo. You didn't have to have a separate photo for a child back then. It was just before we went back to Greece. After my mum passed away." In the black and white photo, his father has short, rocker-style hair. He's wearing a checkered sports jacket and an open necked shirt. He has a hollow eyed look; a blank, empty serious stare for the camera. His wide-eyed similarly serious two year old son is perched on his left knee, The pretty young woman above had died in childbirth.

I don't know the framer's name, but I'm calling him Dimitri now. Dimitri was far from maudlin, although his eyes shone with empathy at my reaction. However, it seemed life improved on the return to Greece. His dad, unable to make a match with one of her older sisters, courted and married the fifteen year old girl next door who'd been looking after little Dimitri while his father worked.

"People can't believe how young my mum is," Dimitri laughed. "She's only thirteen years older than me. I call her my mum. She is my mum. She never made me feel that I wasn't her own. I didn't find out until I was sixteen that she was my step-mum. How would I know? I couldn't remember."

"Where's your dad now?" Dimitri was trying a couple of different frames against the picture.
"He's here, working." Almost on cue, a small grey haired man shuffled across the back of the workroom behind the shop.
"Doesn't mind you talking about him?"
"Nah. Doesn't listen. He's got selective hearing."

There was something wonderful about being in this family business where Dimitri, his brothers and his dad work together. I'm wondering what else I can have framed for the sake of a bit more chat.

Meanwhile, I could see that Butterfly and I were doing a bit of a dueling writers thing, wondering who'd get dibs on the story. If I was a better writer perhaps I could eke it out into a sixties Captain Corelli's Mandolin. Sadly, I'm not.

The frame will set Butterfly back 175 bucks. But the experience was a bit priceless.