Monday, May 31, 2010

Doctors: A love/hate thing

My well-being has been maintained by many doctors over the years and for this I am grateful. Some have been attractive, others not. Some were naturally warm, others rather cold and businesslike.

But there are three basic types:

One makes you feel like a patient;
One makes you feel like a client;
And one makes you feel like an exhibit.

I don't like the latter.

BiscuitWatch 6: Soggy Biscuit

We've had some quite heavy rain over the past few days.
Great for the garden, not so good for Biscuit:


Buddy wasn't looking too happy either:


Mick and I gave them some bread rolls, which they snaffled up, then out came the carrots.

Biscuit has become quite adept at grabbing the carrot out of my hand.
Keeping it in her mouth and not dropping it on the other side of the fence, however, she's yet to master:


Mick had to get out the rake again to push it back in.

Auction artefact #13: Mystery pen-knife hanky

In one of two lawn bowls bags (both with bowls inscribed CSB) that Mick bought at the auction was a hanky tied up, containing something which rattled in a mysteriously metallic fashion.

When we opened it, we found eleven pen-knives:


I arranged them in order of size, not interest.
In terms of a favourite, it's a close contest between the King George V 1935 Jubilee souvenir listed with all the Kings and Queens of England, and the little pearl-handled number with the teeny-weeny (albeit dangerously rusted) scissors:




Why this handkerchief lucky-dip prize was in the bag, we have no idea. 
Is there some sort of connection between lawn bowls and pen-knives?
Was the original owner a gentleman by day, hooligan by night?

I love that we'll never know.

Mirror, mirror...

I saw myself in the mirror this morning and gave myself quite a start.
This facial scar is jarring, to say the least, especially with the stitches still in it.

But then I had a breakthrough, of sorts (this could be the Zoloft speaking).

My new appearance is likely to elicit pity from adults, cause revulsion in teenagers and prompt small children to run screaming in the opposite direction.

Not bad for no effort.

Sunday, May 30, 2010

Auction artefact #12: Leadlight lampshade

When we moved in, the kitchen was cursed with a fluorescent tube light, like a tiny convenience store.
Fortunately, Mick scored a leadlight shade at the auction, so now it's more Art Deco disco:


If only it rotated slowly...
What baffles me is how a green and white lamp can cast those orange rays of light.

(Stupid) Girl Power

Much has been written about the alarming increase in female violence, crime and anti-social behaviour in recent years.
Nowhere, it seems, is immune.

This is the latest spate of graffiti along the riverside, courtesy of the charming young ladies of Maitland:




Sadly, and predictably, such expressions of female liberation quickly turn nasty:


Meanwhile, a new contender has emerged to challenge the dominance of Drip and Smell.
Welcome, Sneak (wearing a tiara, no less):

Scarface 2

I was hoping to regale friends and strangers alike with the tale of a valiant riverbank knife-fight followed by a casually smirking, "You should see the other guy."

Alas, I ended up with "I got glassed by some drunken skank":

Saturday, May 29, 2010

Beware the bitch in Ward G3

I only had one portion of my surgery done at John Hunter Hospital – the lip-wedge extraction.
The whole neck-slitting business will to have wait until after I get a PET scan done from Calvary Mater Hospital (all this is being done back-to-front, for some reason; the two hospitals don't appear to get along and I have to be my own middleman).
Anyhow, last night I was given a "single room", which in reality means four patients curtained off from each other.
Given that one poor old bloke next to me was attached to a nebuliser (basically an air-conditioning unit) and another woman couldn't stop throwing up, I didn't have the best sleep.

Then I was awoken early this morning by a nurse who was affixing a baggie to my drip. I quietly asked her, "What's the time?"
She barked back at me, "Ten to seven", then exited my little cubicle, leaving the curtain parted.
I asked, again quietly and politely, for her to close the curtain, at which point she snapped, "NO, I'm sick of these curtains, they're always getting in my way. I'm always tripping up on them." She then flung them open as far as she could.

The curtains fall at least a foot short of the ground, by the way.

Another nurse came in and when I explained I wanted some privacy, given my mouth had just been sliced up, she took her colleague's side. "What's your problem?" she asked me, somewhat sarcastically. "You look like a supermodel compared to some of the other patients here."
Charming!

I should note all the other nurses were perfectly professional and friendly.
In case you're wondering, the "nurse" with the curtain issues is shortish, stout and looks like a younger Jennifer Saunders in a bad mood.
No other nurse would tell me her name – I respect the sisterhood, but this sour-faced harpy doesn't deserve the position she holds.
She'd make a better parking officer.

The fact I will have to return to the same hospital and spend a week there for a neck bisection fills me with absolute dread.


I'm just glad to be home, even if I am on an all-puree diet.

Wednesday, May 26, 2010

Hopefully not the last post

In October last year, I finally quit the ciggies. A pack-at-least-a-day habit.
In November, I was diagnosed with squamous cell cancer on my lower lip.

If there is a God, he has an evil sense of humour.

I had radiation treatment, which due to the Christmas break didn't finish until January 8. Six weeks all up. My tastebuds, along with any Yuletide spirit, were obliterated.
The fact I was being zapped by machines named Titan and Phoenix, as if they were superheroes (or at least pro-wrestlers), somehow made this bearable. It's the power of camp.
This is Titan, I believe:


After a few weeks, the hair at the back of my head had fallen out; I looked like I'd given myself – in the throes of drunken nostalgia – some tragic nod to A Flock of Seagulls. Also, I'd had to have all my lower teeth extracted, plus a top one. My dental plate, reliant as it was on the one upper tooth the hospital removed, subsequently didn't fit properly and was often popped in my pocket when people weren't around; it was soon lost somewhere along the Hunter River, probably because I got excited by the sight of those bloody cows across the other side. Remember?
In other words, I'm another Maitland hillbilly.

It was all fine for a while, the hair grew back, my sense of taste returned, I had new teeth organised...
But bugger me, I found out last month the cancer's back, and this time it requires surgery.
A lip-wedge extraction, which sounds like an extreme-pole-dancing manoeuvre, will be followed by some throat-slitting to remove lymph nodes.

Irradiated skin doesn't heal as well as it would otherwise so I imagine, should I get through all of this, I might resemble one of three characters:

1) A Bond villain, physically and emotionally crippled by a sense of injustice and unfulfilled vengeance; the personification of damaged goods.
2) An extra from Deliverance – unfortunate unattractiveness used to maximum advantage.
3) Someone so woefully inept he couldn't even accomplish suicide. This, I don't think I could handle.

I must concoct some suitably thrilling/glamorous/butch scenarios immediately.
A riverbank knife-fight comes to mind, but then I've always been open to suggestion.

[Two weeks after I wrote the above and saved as a draft.]

Well, I just received a call from John Hunter Hospital. I'm scheduled for surgery this Friday.
Quicker than I thought!

Tomorrow morning shall be spent with mum and dad, giving them an antiquing tour before they catch the train home, then I'll wait for an afternoon phone call from some hospital person to give me my "fasting information".
I can only imagine this means "don't eat anything". Not so hard.

Thankfully the Zoloft has kicked in. (To the uninitiated, that's an anti-depressant – named, I presume, as a combination of "zombie" and "aloft". Rather apt.)

Wish me luck!


Update: Just found out I could be in hospital for a week or more. This keeps getting worse...

Update 2: Having mum and dad staying for two nights was lovely, but occasionally frustrating. We also had several fits of laughter. 
All in all, quite normal.

I'm ashamed to admit it took Mick to ask them the simple question of why they moved to Australia from Belfast for me to hear the story. (Our family has never been big on nostalgic tales.)

Anyhow, not yet married, 19 and 20 years old, they were walking through miserable, rainy Belfast weather and saw a big poster, presumably of a beach, saying something along the lines of "Come to sunny Australia!"
They looked at each other and decided, why not? They got married, had the requisite tests and were on the Oriana within three weeks as ten-pound Poms.

I really should have known that... 

Monday, May 24, 2010

Auction artefact #11: Murdoch's bowler hat

Murdoch's of Sydney, according to the leather band inside the bowler hat Mick bought at the auction, was "Where The Good Hats Are". Strangely, also stamped in gold, on the other side, is "All Fur Made In England".
Fur?

Anyhow, it's size 6-and-seven-eighths, which doesn't come close to fitting either Mick or myself, should we be possessed by the urge to wear it. Still, from Charlie Chaplin to A Clockwork Orange, the bowler hat has had its moments and I've always been partial to them for some reason. This particular one is a fine example.

Now we just need a suitable hatstand. Until then, we've had to improvise:

Auction artefact #10: Royal typewriter

Behold, the Royal typewriter:


Isn't it glamorous? Far more His Girl Friday than Murder, She Wrote.
We're not quite sure how old it is but it isn't missing any keys and appears to be in working order. It came with red-and-black (!) ribbons in their original packaging, plus sheets of carbon paper (I can cc. the old-fashioned way!) and something called Meteor adhesive tape, the purpose of which I 've yet to determine.

Most importantly, we have the instruction manual:


I can't remember the last time I used a typewriter, but I'm quite looking forward to having another go.

BiscuitWatch 5: The stampede

Mick and I were in the dining room discussing my parents' impending arrival (or at least the appearance of the house for when they get here tomorrow morning), when I noticed a flash of black horse out the window.

Our neighbour had finally let them in the paddock again and they couldn't get in there fast enough:



Of course, they quickly got down to business:


Biscuit was reliably adorable:

Sunday, May 23, 2010

Auction madness

Mick outdid himself at yesterday's auction.
The haul includes two lawn bowls bags (with bowls all engraved CSB plus a surprise hanky containing 11 old pen knives), various kitchen paraphernalia, a fab old typewriter and a bowler hat, mercifully more Stan Laurel than Liza in Cabaret.

Oh, and convict handcuffs:

Saturday, May 22, 2010

Auction day

I slept in. No-one's home.
Mick must be at the auction.

I feel a strange mixture of fear and excitement, not unlike that of a child expecting a present to turn up and genuinely not knowing what it will be.
I think it's best that I just wait for his eventual return...

Hey, Ulo!

Are you reading this, screaming at me to write honestly, or am I hearing things?

Brief glimpse of the past

I have no idea why this train was on the tracks, but Mick made me take my camera out:

Friday, May 21, 2010

Be very afraid (I am)

There's another Vickers & Hoad auction in town tomorrow and Mick has scoured the inventory.
He's already circled an alarming number of objects.

Watch for the bloke flailing card #285.
The bidding on the radios and the bowler hat (!) could get ugly...

Wednesday, May 19, 2010

Someone, burn the Hot Seat

How do I loathe Eddie McGuire hosting Millionaire Hot Seat?
Let me count the ways.

1) On Channel Nine's increasingly barren mantelpiece is Antiques Roadshow, a veritable Fabergé Egg, which has been gradually chipped away, at least five minutes time-wise, by the Talking Boonie doll that is Hot Seat. That the latter is the mutant spawn of the wretched Eddie vehicle Who Wants To Be A Millionaire? makes it all the more aggravating.

2) Five more minutes of Hot Seat does not equate to more questions, just more Eddie; i.e more self-satisfied, empty airtime and "human interest" blather – contestant battling illness, accident, retrenchment, irreparable hair-bleaching...

3) Eddie used to be the CEO of Channel Nine and is reportedly making around $5 million a year; he's an openly-Armani-clad idiot who feigns the attributes of the average Aussie. His continual (deliberate?) mangling of the English language is universally greeting with warm, comforted chuckling, which I find both infuriating and depressing.

4) He name-drops constantly and fawningly. Any male of any celebrity value is invariably a "top bloke". This is never used in a sexual context.

5) Any Hot Seat contestant who seems genuinely intelligent is apparently instructed to hide this affliction. Thus, we're constantly presented with extended, awkward, faux dimness... and that last-minute "lock it in".

6) Most other contestants are genuinely, staggeringly ill-informed; you can be guaranteed that every show will include at least one of them saying "[topic of basic knowledge] isn't my strong point, Eddie."

7) Intellectual strong points are rarely celebrated in Australia, let alone rewarded.

8) Given the above, and the mix of questions running the gamut of arcane sporting statistics to the minutiae of the lowest of popular culture, no-one will ever win a million dollars.

9) It's taken Eddie McGuire almost a decade to learn how to pronounce properly the word "millionaire" (I refer you to #3 and share your disgusted/envious recoil).

10) They have just added a contestant heart-rate monitor to proceedings:


Are they actually trying to cause a coronary attack for ratings or this this yet more evidence that Channel Nine is scraping an empty barrel?

Tuesday, May 18, 2010

BiscuitWatch 4: Autumn Chill

I've sensed a distance for a while...

At first she refused to look at me..


Then, from the kitchen window, I noticed a certain post-attack Siegfried-and-Royness between her and Buddy...
Almost as if the magic had never been there:

I'm at a loss. Not even a mini-donut consoles her...

On the bright side, we're turning a half-wine barrel into a fish pond!

Mystery photo moment

This is one of those photos where I think I had to be there, even though I took it.


It's time-dated May 15, so it's in the aftermath of the Melbourne Storm salary-cap scandal, but that's our Deputy Prime Minister Julia Gillard inadvertently wielding what looks like a light sabre, about to behead Australia's most beloved gay music-TV-mumbling legend Molly Meldrum (remember when Boy George kissed him on the mouth on national television after their first concert back in 1980whatever??!).

I took it at 12.40am or so.
Why?

You tell me.

Who made Steve Guttenberg a star?

I'm sorry, but ever since that Simpsons' Stonecutters episode I can't take the Masons seriously.
Not that I ever really did. Far too many overblown outfits and rituals for my liking. And does the handshake involve a little palm-tickle (I really hope so)?

Whatever, I must say, their local Masonic headquarters (just around the corner from the Metropolitan Hotel) are seriously, fabulously, jaw-droppingly camp:


The compass! The pentagram over the side-gate!!
Notice how I didn't get out of Mick's car...
I was a little scared.

What if they track me down and make me go through some sort of initiation rite?

By the way, how on earth would you describe this, architecturally?
Islamic Rococo? Greek Orthodox after a secret liaison with Moroccan queen?

In any case, a fine and underrated example of Maitland's allure.

Think of the truckies

They have feelings – and, apparently, safety issues – too:

Bob's Gaolbird Barn

Bob's Bird Barn was, at one point, a fine establishment on High Street.
This was until recently the last remnants of its signage (it's since been completely destroyed):


It's long been a derelict building, in dire need of repair and the eviction of squatters who've commandeered the top floor and have been menacing people along the riverbank lately.
Twice, one neighbour has been accosted and his mate slashed with a knife. The neighbour has the balls to fight back; I don't.
These presumably meth-fuelled arseholes are ruining what has until now been a lovely, peaceful part of the world. I no longer even think of walking along the river at any time even approaching darkness.

Whether the police know the extent of their activity is a matter of suspicious conjecture. I sort of doubt they care.
Whether or not any of these dickheads go by the monikers Drip or Smell sort of intrigues me though, I must say...

Kind of where I wish I were


From my favourite Simpsons episode, with the Guatemalan Insanity Pepper.

Kind of how I feel at the moment

If only I looked so glamorously distraught.


That's Joan in Harriet Craig, by the way.

Saturday, May 15, 2010

I've been distracted

By health "issues".
By shit ing nen erak aksi.
That was Oompa Loompa for ''my bad'.
And I  somehow have an attraction to these power lines:


Can't you just whiff the promise in the distance?

Prolonged absence

As if anyone noticed.

Saturday, May 8, 2010

Scattered by cushion

Emotional attachment to inanimate objects can be fraught.

I have few possessions of real value (apart from a cocktail cabinet I bought during a weak moment and the computer I'm currently typing on) but I'm very fond of certain things.
One is a Mongolian lambswool scatter cushion. First of all, I love the very term – scatter cushion. Like occasional table and lazy Susan, it suggests a certain nonchalance.
Also, it was given to me by Blair, my ex-boyfriend in New York, some 15 years ago. It's one of a few tangible memories of both him and my time there.
I've been stroking it intermittently ever since...
Yesterday evening, I noticed it wasn't in its usual spot. An hour of searching yielded nothing.

Cue decor-related panic attack and paranoid fantasies.
Had we been struck by a gay cat-burglar with a fetish for soft furnishings? Even worse, had a visitor stolen it?
Mick eventually told me I was being ridiculous (his interest had understandably shifted at this point to the Australia/NZ rugby league match on TV) and promised to look again in the morning.

After about 20 minutes he found it. At some point, in the throes of napping, he'd managed to wedge it deep in the bowels of the living room sofa-bed.
How, we may never know.

The relief, I'm embarrassed to admit, was immense.
But at least it's safe, if a tad bedraggled:

Auction artefacts #6-9: Musical mystery tour

That mystery record box is like a magician's sleeve.

I have no idea when/if we'll ever get around to listening to these, but I had to share.
We could host a seriously trippy dinner party:


 



You'll note that's Dannii's old face, circa 1992. Pretty!
Kamahl isn't looking too bad either.

Thursday, May 6, 2010

A hex on Hexham

That foreboding electronic display lived up to its potential on Tuesday:


It always seems to happen at Hexham. I'm not being a smart-arse; it does.

Mick, however, even in the absence of a street directory (which was in the house for some reason as opposed to the car, but that's another matter), managed to get us to my doctor's appointment – through ingenuity, instinct and some intermittently nerve-fraying bend-taking driving – only 20 minutes late.

In other words: on time.
Don't you love modern punctuality?

Best. Mash-up. Ever.

Looking back at my recent posts, that Eurythmics/Bronski Beat effort isn't nearly as good as I thought it was after that weekend YouTube bender (it's what I do in lieu of alcohol these days).

I know this is several years old, but if you haven't heard this, please do.
 If you have, enjoy again.

The price of charity

The Salvation Army is an esteemed organisation with charity shops all over the country. It's long been beloved for its bargains, although it's undergone something of a makeover lately.

Our local outlet moved to larger, more salubrious premises last year and its merchandise reflects the change of location. The front window now regularly features furniture that would not be out of place in the fancy antique stores down the road and this afternoon I was stopped in my tracks by a simply faaabulous Art Deco chrome-and-Bakelite smoking table – for $150.
It ain't what it used to be.

It's perhaps fitting, then, that they haven't removed the signage from the building's previous tenants:

Monday, May 3, 2010

Searching for Bertie

Our house is raised about six feet above street-level, so effectively there's a whole other house beneath us. You just have to duck occasionally.
It's somewhat underutilised:


Still, it's recently become home to a blue-tongue lizard, whom Mick decided to call Bertie. Why?
Why not?
His hidey-hole is directly below the bathroom:


Bertie himself has proven impossible to photograph. He doesn't mind you approaching but seems to know instinctively when a camera is being produced and disappears into one of those concrete blocks.
So far, we've worked out he quite likes bananas, but is especially fond of raw mince.

For those of you unacquainted with the blue-tongue lizard, here's a larger one I came across a few streets away a while ago.
Sadly, it didn't poke its tongue out but I assure you they are, indeed, blue:

Critters of The Bend #4

I have no idea which species of spider this is, and can't be bothered trawling through websites to find out, but it sure knows how to spin a web.
Any more elaborate and it could almost be considered crochet:


(You do realise you can click on all these photos to make them bigger, right?)

I also love its sense of location, setting up shop, so to speak, in our just-beginning-to-flower camellia:

Monday view

Ever since we had the internet connected (and certain days' newspapers delivered), my walks into town along the river have become less frequent.
Nevertheless, if you do so on Mondays, you can be confident you'll find evidence of a popular weekend activity for local youths: Push The Shopping Trolley Down The Riverbank.
I don't know if they actually ride in them like wheelie-bin jackasses – part of me worries for their safety; the other part, not so much:


In any case, I prefer to view it as Maitland's off-shoot of the annual Sculpture By The Sea exhibition.

I call this Clean-Up in Aisle Four:


Yours for $1,000 (price negotiable).

Saturday, May 1, 2010

Sweet Smalltown Boy



I know I should be in bed, I just couldn't help it.

Button abuse

Gambling – excuse me, gaming – is a vice I've somehow managed to avoid. Having a father who worked in the betting industry perhaps has something to do with this.

Still, I'm dazzled by the cheap allure of the pokie room:


The low-rent Las Vegas vibe has been given a speakeasy edge since pubs were forced to hide them from view of outside foot traffic or general pub patrons. Now you have to sneak into them.
It makes you feel dumb and dirty.

Most of all, I like the visuals. It's a new generation's version of spray-painted panel-van art.
Same, but different:




All so aspirational!

I have noticed, however, a darker trend emerging.
Dead people no longer need legend. In fact, skeletal is preferable:


My pic of Skullmagic didn't quite work because we were being shooed out of the venue as it was after closing time...


... but you can see my concern.