Threat or promise?

On the road to Morpeth:

Spectacularly uneventful

The past fortnight has been a wash-out. I've accomplished nothing. I've barely left my chair in the living room (in my defence, it does recline).

Life has been so singularly dull, in fact – a painkiller fog with the occasional thunderclap of anxiety – I had to resort to my camera to remind me what, if anything, happened.
Not much, as it transpires.

While we're on the subject of cameras, I killed my last one on the day before I said buh-bye to Mater Hospital – a small drop to onto a concrete surface, sufficient to destroy the display. Fortunately, I was able to extract the last photos I'd taken.
I think they're quite apt in mood:

I have a new camera now, which has so many different shooting modes it's making me feel a little depressed about my lack of activity. Luckily for me, it works just fine from my armchair.

Which brings me to the one noteworthy event of the past week – the opening of rugby league's State of Origin series on Wednesday night.
For some reason, they insist on performing the national anthem at these things. Most of the players don't even bother pretending to know the words any more:

Far worse, though, was the performance itself. Or at least the shameless cross-promotion:

Who is that? No, it can't be, surely.
Does look like her though, doesn't it?

Well yes, it's Annie! Little Orphan Annie!
In full costume:

Singing Advance Australia Fair in an unaccountably chirpy manner.
She even closed with her trademarked "plucky" pose:

At this point, I screamed. In a manly fashion.

Tickets to Annie: The Musical undoubtedly still available.

21st-century man

Where was I?

Oh yeah:

Mick took me to the Calvary Mater the Monday morning before last so I could be hooked up for my third round of chemo.
I got home this afternoon with a left forearm that looks like I borrowed it from Tom Hardy.

Okay, so that's an overly shortened version of a long, involved medical story, but here's a précis:

I have very few platelets, so no more chemo for me.
Hospital food has not improved.
Neither has the quality of visitor conversation.
Some doctors insist on having a mute colleague/registrar/intern follow them everywhere to take copious notes and smile reassuringly at what they presume to be appropriate moments.
Invariably, this will be my doctor, as opposed to the sundry others who appear to have a grasp of "quality of life" rather than "legal indemnity".
I now have more decisions to make, but with a doctor I at least trust.

Anyway, it was all rather unpleasant but with a happy incidental: Dad bought me one of those portable scanners they've been advertising relentlessly on TV.
Thanks dad!

I can now turn all those magazine and newspaper clippings of my old writing and give them online life.
Details to come.

And, of course, I plan to spoil Suzi rotten.