Mama

I've been avoiding visiting her. I tell myself it's because I'm so busy, but I know that's a half-truth. I defer spending time with Mama, my grandmother, because she is succumbing to dementia. She is no longer the woman I remember. Like a petulant child, I am avoiding unpleasantness - the sad discomfort of witnessing Mama's decline.

She once was an auburn-haired woman with sturdy arms and legs, capable of anything. My Mama raised seven children, and cared for her chronically-ill husband until his early death. Mama worked at a care facility for disabled children. She cooked a mean roast dinner and the best peanut biscuits ever. She chaired a women's writers group. Until the past year or two, she giggled like a schoolgirl at any mildly off-colour joke you could come up with. I went to see Mama today, in the nursing home where she now resides. My mother warned me beforehand that Mama's memory had deteriorated since I last saw visited. Mum wasn't sure if Mama knew who any of the family were any more.

As I walk in, I see her. Mama sits at table, snowy-haired and blue-eyed, looking so small. She is smiling in my direction. She looks pleased and surprised, though slightly perplexed. It must feel like when someone greets you at the shops, and for a moment you just can't place them. It must feel like that for Mama every day.

Mama knows her memory and language are failing. Over and over she starts to speak, then shakes her head in exasperation when she cannot finish. Tears fill her eyes, and she puts a hand to her forehead, "I'm going silly in the head". Her lips quiver as she tries to get a handle on her emotions. She repeats, " I'm so silly", and apologises. I touch her arm and tell her she's not; it's OK. I tell her I know she must feel so frustrated. I feel useless in the face of Mama's obvious pain.

Mama is touchingly concerned that my little son needs entertaining. She suggests a walk to a small sunroom.
"See the birds, they...."
"One of the other ladies put a ...."
Mama's sentences go unfinished as she struggles to grasp the words, or is it the thought itself that slips away? Eventually, another resident in a wheelchair comes and speaks to us. She describes how she has bought a seed stick and wired it to the fence, to attract the crested pigeons. I can see a bird now, feasting on the sticky treat. Mama's face lights up, as her meaning is finally conveyed; as we stand together watching the bird peck and fluff up its' feathers.

We walk to Mama's room, and she excuses herself to use the shared ensuite bathroom. A few minutes later, Mama opens the door to leave the bathroom, then hesitates, and slowly manoeuvres back into the bathroom to wash her hands. She washes thoroughly. She places a piece of paper towel carefully under the soap dispenser, where there is a small amount of liquid soap pooled. She takes the paper towel she has dried her hands with, and meticulously wipes down the taps and basin top. I am fascinated by her deliberation and thoughtfulness. I feel guilty to be surprised that Mama's nature remains essentially unchanged by her dementia. I know some people are changed. That must intensify the distress for their loved ones. But my Mama is just as lovely now as she ever was - gentle but prepared to have her quiet say, always thinking of others, loving, quick to smile. Her sparkling intellect has been dulled, but I remember it clearly - so clearly that I sometimes believe it is still there.

A cleaner bustles in to the bathroom, chatting breezily about how fast the toilet paper gets used in the bathrooms. Mama quips, "They must eat it, hmm?". The bustling blond cleaner laughs out loud. "I reckon they must!". Mama pipes up again, " This is my grand-daughter. She's a.... she's a doh....". Mama's eyes well up again, and she shakes her head.

The cleaner is well-meaning, but she has that high-pitched and over-exaggerated manner of speaking, as if talking to a child. " Don't worry love, you're doing fine, you speak really well", she gushes to Mama. I feel a prickle of annoyance. I don't want her speaking to my grandmother in such a condescending tone, however kind the intention. Mama is still insightful, she still knows she is losing her mind to dementia. To deny her the right to express the hurt and confusion she feels seems wrong.

Mama lifts her head up, wipes her eyes, and tries again. "She's a doctor!", Mama blurts triumphantly. The cleaner looks suspiciously at me - I am wearing ponytail, running shoes and cargo pants. I nod, and confirm that I really am a GP. I grin at Mama and she grins back, all proud grandmother. I'm so proud of her.

When it's time to leave, Mama insists on walking us to the front door. As she begins on her wobbly walker way, I realise I will have to escort her safely back to the dining hall before I can depart. We will become locked into a repeating cycle of accompanying each other to the car park and back to the common area. I find a volunteer who offers to walk with us.

On the front path, I kiss Mama's papery cheek. Ever-polite, she thanks me for coming by. Morbidly, I wonder if this will be our last conversation. I tell Mama that I love her as I hug her goodbye.

My mother tells me that Mama doesn't remember when people come to see her. The very next day she has no memory of ever seeing a visitor. Sometimes she is forlorn, believing that no-one ever visits, yet her youngest daughter comes by almost daily.

I will remember the visit in her stead. I will remember her as she was, and as she is now. She is a woman of infinite grace. She is my beautiful Mama.

Sunday morning mooching

It's a sleepy Sunday morning, and even the early-waking son obliged by sleeping in til 6:30 am. Ah, the sheer bliss! Mind you, I had initially been woken at 5:36 am by the rustling and shuffling of my beloved Birdman, as he gathered his equipment and dressed to go 'birding'. You know what they say - the early worm gets the bird. Or something like that.

So now the non-bird-obsessed members of the family remain at home, munching peanut butter toast, resisting the pleading looks from the beagle. I can't seem to relinquish my Thumper pyjamas in favour of daytime attire. Flannelette is just so darn comfortable (not awfully attractive, I grant you, but just sooooo cosy!)

I'm contemplating some housework, but contemplation is all I've managed so far.

Maybe after another piece of toast......

reclaiming girlhood (just for a few hours)

Picture this if you will - a big yellow room with two comfy couches, and lots of pillows. There is not a Lego brick in sight. "Bette Davis Eyes" is playing softly in the background. Someone with a bad sense of humour has put up posters of Wham and Kim Wilde. On the coffee table are two empty dessert bowls - remnants of ice cream cake still smeared around the edges. A platter of crackers, cheese, dips and fruit sits waiting to be devoured.

Two thirty-something mothers (with 4 kids between them) are lounging languidly on the couches, discussing topics ranging from travel to teething.They have watched a DVD of a recent 'chick flick'. When they can stop giggling about Fatty's latest birdwatching quote ("The channel-billed cuckoo is what I really want to see") and Ocker's desire for daily sex (ha-ha! double HA!), they will switch the TV on again to watch "Pretty in Pink". Or perhaps "Sixteen Candles". It doesn't really matter what it is, although having Molly Ringwald in the movie is guaranteed to make these mothers feel teenaged again. Grey hairs, wrinkles and all.

I've been looking forward to this night with Belly all week. The very thought of this evening has kept me smiling through tantrums, tears and ferocious messes. I've been unusually serene at work (even the lady who presented me with an 11-page handout listing her daily symptoms over a 4 week period did not disturb my equanimity). And providing our children's good health prevails, Belly and I will be there, on those couches, in less than 12 hours.

'Celebrate good times.....c'mon!'

the name game

I suppose many of you have pet names for lovers, spouses, friends, siblings? My friends and family do, too. I think Australians are particularly fond of nicknames and shortened monikers. Take my dearest friends - Belly, Chooky, KP, Tootie. Not a sensible name amongst them.

My father loved to call me anything but my Christian name. When I was small, he called me, depending on his mood, Chicken Pie, Toukie, Poobah (it's OK, I was a baby then so I didn't mind), and many other silly nicknames. If he called me my actual name, I knew things weren't looking good.

I hardly ever call my husband by his real name, either. I call him 'hon', 'lovie', 'darl' ..... and Fatty. Anyone who has read my blog a few times would have realised this: Fatty = Jelly's husband. I don't know why I began calling my beloved husband by this term of endearment. I suspect the word just popped out of my mouth. I could just as easily have called him Buckethead, or Tickle. But the other day, a blogger friend commented on the nickname. I realised I haven't made it clear that Fatty is not actually fat.

It's not that I worry you may all think I am married to a chubby man. Who cares what weight he is? However, I would hate you all to think that my husband struggles with his weight yet I choose to draw attention to it by calling him Fatty. The fact is, Fatty is not porky. Not even a little bit. He's pretty lean; always has been.

I remember going to a party, several years ago, where a drunken woman in a tie-dye dress plonked herself into Fatty's lap, and proceeded to berate me for daring to call him Fatty. She told me, with a serious face, that I was belittling Fatty, and sloshed her drink onto the grass as she gestured. I was astounded that she could take offence at a nickname that was so obviously NOT fitting. At the time, I was horrified at being so miscontrued. On reflection, I think the drunken hussy just wanted to get into Fatty's pants. And now I've completely lost track of what I wanted to say.

Oh, yes. That's right. I wanted to say this - Fatty is not fat. If he were, I would never call him Fatty. And one more thing - if you ever think of putting on a tie-dye dress, drinking way too much wine, and jumping onto Fatty's lap, well ..... just don't. Remiman and John Cowart - you've been warned.

So, wha'd I miss?

Has it been a week already? My life is spinning by crazily. I want to slow down, but then I also want to do all these things that I do.

Just to make life more tricky, we went camping this weekend. And as much as there was a fair bit of work involved, it was just brilliant! There are very few thoughts that thrill me as much as the idea that Fatty and I are building a strong family unit, and giving our children happy childhood memories. So whether it was Laura running half-exhilirated, half-terrified into the waves, or Ben (the city slicker) enthralled by the stars ("Look at all the lights in the sky!") - I found each moment golden.

I hope you've all had plenty of happy times over the past week... I'll be stopping by to hear your news very soon!

blogging blues

Lately, it seems there is never enough time. I feel like I rush from one place to another, and when I do have a spare moment, there are so many jobs I should be attending to. I feel that I'm letting some things slide that really should be done.

I love blogging, I really do, but sometimes, before I realise, I've been reading blogs for an hour. While that's OK now & then, I probably can't afford to do that every day. And the fact is - I often do.

I was really sad when I went to manababies site yesterday, and saw that she has shut down her blog. I will miss her sweetness and humour. Yet I could understand why, with her currently extra-busy life, the blogging had to go. As she said herself, 'it's time'.

I'm not planning to stop blogging altogether - I don't think I physically could! But I think I'll take a leaf out of John Cowart's book and take a short break. I think a week should do it.

I hope you all have a happy, healthy week. See you next Sunday :)

when three's company

I think blog world has gone to sleep. It seems everyone has closed their laptops and gone off to defrost their fridges, trim their nose hairs or do their tax. All vital tasks, of course, but still. I feel that I need to stir things up a bit.

I was over visiting John Cowart's blog, and read his excellent post about the bad choices made by supposedly smart people. It reminded me of a particular situation that I know to exist between three people in this very city. I know this because two of the people in this story were dear friends of my pal Chooky. I'm going to have to change names and occupations, but otherwise the story will be true to life. Here it is:

Sarah and Craig met at school. Their relationship began when Sarah was still half in love with another boy she'd been dating. Eventually Craig won her over, and in their early twenties, they married. They seemed very close and loving. They were affectionate together, they laughed and teased often, and whenever they were apart, they missed each other terribly. Sarah was clever, and completed her studies to become a social worker. Craig wasn't a natural at his studies, but did very well for himself, going into business.

A few years later, they had a gorgeous little boy. Sarah and Craig were doting parents, and continued to radiate happiness - they seemed a beautiful family.

There came a time when Sarah and Craig decided they both wanted to learn a sport - for fitness and for fun. They began having tennis lessons with Crystal - a stunning redhead in her early twenties (can you hear that alarm bell ringing?.... brrrrrring brrrrrring!). Crystal was a self-proclaimed lesbian, who was in a relationship with an older woman. Sarah and Crystal became friends as well as being instructor and student. Crystal confided in Sarah when her relationship fell apart, tearfully admitting she felt lost and hopeless. She had to leave her lover's house. Where, oh where would she stay? (brrrrring!)

Sarah and Craig offered Crystal the downstairs area in their house; told her she was welcome to stay as long as she liked. Things were looking rosy for Sarah and Craig - they could afford to be magnanimous. They had just found out they were going to have another baby.

After that, the details are hazy. Chooky was told by Sarah and Craig that they both admitted to each other one day that they each 'had feelings' for Crystal. Crystal apparently felt the same. So yee-haw! they became a threesome and have remained so for the past year. When their second son was born, they named him Crystal's surname.

My friend Chooky was shattered by all this, because she'd always thought that if anyone had a rock-solid relationship, it was Sarah and Craig. They'd always seen Chooky through any emotional crises with compassion and wise words. Chooky had always counted on Sarah's sensible and practical advice. And now, this 'golden couple' were no longer an exclusive pair, and all their marriage vows were broken. It was not the morality or sexual choices that Chooky struggled with (although she did find the whole situation quite confronting) - it was the shock of realising that you may never truly know a person - you may never really know what a person is capable of - even someone who is a close and treasured friend. That takes some getting over.

Chooky has tried to maintain a friendship, of sorts, with Sarah and Craig. She doesn't ask how things are going between the 'threesome', but Sarah often sounds exhausted by caring for the baby, and Craig seems to spend a great deal of time away from the house, letting the two woman do the child-rearing. It's a bizarre set-up. It's like something from a sordid midday soapie, only more sordid.

I have met Sarah and Craig on several occasions, and they seem perfectly friendly, intelligent and interesting people. I just don't know if they're ever going to manage to be happy again.... if they ever were.

geeky li'l ol' me

Have you ever found yourself feeling about 12 years old again, and just as awkward? Have you ever been in a social situation that should have been easy, and yet struggled to find your way? This happened to me last week, and it made me feel such a nong. To be more precise, the whole interaction made me feel faintly silly and staggeringly dull. How does this happen to an otherwise reasonably well-adjusted woman in her thirties? I thought I was past these kinds of feelings - where you doubt yourself socially, and wonder if anyone truly enjoys conversing with you (or is everyone secretly mouthing 'Help! She is SO boring!!' behind my back?!)

Weird. A few hours with someone who:
a) seemed to be in a ho-hum sort of mood
b) is naturally slightly reserved
c) yet is normally interesting to talk to and likeable, hence I actually care whether or not we get on together ....
.....a few hours of stilted conversation with this person, and I felt so small and pointless. And that is exactly how I felt a lot as a kid. At least, I felt like that whenever I had to interact with the 'cool' kids - you know, the ones who could talk to adults with ease, speak in public without blushing/shaking/stammering, the ones who seemed to brim with self-confidence. (Looking back, I realise a lot of their 'confidence' may have been an act, sheer bravado. But at least they had an act!)

I've been trying to shake off those old feelings of inadequacy ever since. Because although I was a self-conscious, uncertain child, I have grown into a woman who believes herself to be friendly, genuine, occasionally funny and no more boring than anyone else. Or perhaps I should clarify that most of the time, I believe this. Some days I just have to re-convince myself!

So, is it just me? Or is someone else prepared to admit to sometimes feeling nong-ish too?!

Fatty and Jelly twitter together

An honest-to-goodness conversation I had with my husband late last night:

Fatty: "I'm really excited about my Latham's Snipe." (he had gone out bird-watching earlier that day)

me: "Yeah?"

Fatty: "Yeah." (thoughtful pause) " I actually was hoping to see a Buff-Banded Rail, or even a Spotless Crake. But I ended up seeing the Latham's Snipe."

me: (unsure how to respond to this suddenly frighteningly nerdy man lying next to me) "Mmm. That's good, hon."

Silence. Fatty undoubtedly planning his next birding adventure in his head. I'm still in shock at the oddity of the conversation we just had. I wonder if Fatty might end up being a trainspotter one day. I kiss my funny husband goodnight, and lie on my back, soundlessly memorising the bird names Fatty just mentioned, so I can write about it the next day.

worst case scenario

At the dinner table tonight:

Benjamin - "Do you know what the worst thing in the world is?" (pauses briefly) " Being dead."

Laura - "No! Mummy said that sometimes people are really, really sad. That could be worser."


I guess that could well be 'worser'. Severe depression must feel like the deepest crevasse, the blackest night, the loneliest place on earth. How strange that my five-year-old daughter was able to remind me of that fact this evening. Children sometimes have the keenest sense of the truth.

Major depression affects approximately 6% of the Australian population. Too often it goes undiagnosed and untreated - especially when sufferers hide their distress, or complain more of the physical symptoms, such as fatigue, insomnia or problems with memory or concentration. I suppose we all need to be vigilant in watching our nearest and dearest for warning signs. And that includes ourselves.

Of course, for those transitory blues or momentary stress-outs, there's always chocolate. It has proven mood-elevating benefits (I'm sure I read that in the New England Journal of Medicine, or was it Who Weekly?). With the amount of Old Jamaican Rum dark chocolate I ate tonight, I should be cruising through the rest of the week, happy as a clam!

I'll let you know how it goes.

small humans go feral

Over the past 24 hours, my children have morphed into evil creatures. I want to make a list of their misdemeanours. One day when I am driving them crazy (dribbling, muttering spitefully about their spouses, getting lost in the grocery store), this list may soften their hearts towards me.

In the past day, my angels have:

1) foraged wildly in our store-room, tipping out the contents of several boxes of carefully-sorted old toys onto the floor

2) decided to refill the paint pots in the easel downstairs - in the process, spilling paint onto themselves, the floor, the couch (eeek, not the couch!), the hallway (from their feet, as they trotted down to the bathroom to get a cloth to 'clean up'), the bathroom sink, counter, floor, and the shower recess. I'm not sure WHY there was paint in the shower recess. It was one helluva mess.

3) brazenly ripped some plants out of the ground when we visited friends yesterday evening (causing me to have to send one child to the laundry and one to the spare room, where they sat, wailing mournfully, as if I was an unnaturally mean mother)

4) shoved the other, violently (Laura did this to Ben)

5) bitten, in retaliation (Ben did this to Laura)


There were other more minor incidents, (such as sneaking peanut butter from the jar with grubby fingers, when my back was turned), but the crimes I've listed were the major ones. I figure if I have to put up with another 365 days X 15 years of this, I'll be well within my rights to become a truly crotchety old lady. I'm going to start right now with the muttering.....

thinking, thinking

I've been quiet lately, I've realised. No post for almost a week. The fact is, I've been thinking (which could be a dangerous thing - but here I am, bravely thinking away regardless)

One of the medical magazines I read is running a writing competition. The prize is a trip away, a flashy dinner, a laptop computer, and being published (published in the magazine, that is). And seeing as I once got a poem published in the local Sunday newspaper when I was ten, I figure I'm ably equipped to win this competition. Easy as pie.

Actually, I'm interested in the laptop and the trip away, and I'd like to give the writing a go, but I'm extremely daunted by the idea of trying. The requisite is: 1000-3000 words, theme is 'Time'. What would I write about? Could I even write that many words? (without writing things over & over like, 'I must not pull grey hairs out with the tweezers'). Could I manage a work of fiction, or should I write something from real life? The task seems fraught with difficulty. I feel silly even discussing this, because I doubt I would be able to concoct any kind of competition entry. Even if I could, what would be the chances of winning an Australia-wide competition?! The whole idea is just ridiculous. And yet, maybe if I start to enter writing competitions now, I will start to write better prose. Then one day, when I'm as old as the hills, I might just win something. I could peer with rheumy eyes at my new laptop and smile a crooked smile at the achievement.

With that image in mind, I'm going to return to thinking. Time...... what could I write about on the topic of time? (reader input is beseechingly requested!)

conversation, child to great-grandfather

We went to a Chinese restaurant with my grandfather last night. Grandpa is 92, and though his eyes are watery and his back is hunched, his mind is sharp. He's a living wonder, and a truly good man.

As we ate, Ben decided to speak with his great-grandfather.

"Grandpa?"

Grandpa, being slightly hard of hearing, continued to munch his stir-fry vegetables and rice.

"GRANDPA!", Ben shouted.

Grandpa looked up, and turned his head slowly, to see who was bellowing his name.

"Yes, Ben?"

"I can't see your smile", Ben explained.

Grandpa looked puzzled, and turned to me. I reiterated what Ben had said, unsure if Grandpa had failed to hear Ben's comment, or if Grandpa had heard and was understandably perplexed.

"Can't see it for the rice, hey?" Grandpa grinned, as he chewed and chewed.

"It's because you're so old", Ben pronounced, and resumed his meal. I widened my eyes across the table at my half-brother, and we smirked, embarrassed. Grandpa either failed to hear the comment, or wisely chose to ignore it.

Grandpa and Ben sat chewing together. I pulled out a scrap of paper and wrote down their conversation, verbatim. It seemed important to remember.

morning march

I started today by going walking with my pal, Chooky. She is a bitingly-funny, clever and gorgeous woman, who is paradoxically prone to sadness and self-doubt. Whatever her mood, however we spend time together, I love to be with Chooky. We've known each other since we were twelve.

We walked in the chilly dawn, with a pale moon still hanging low in the sky, like a drunken dinner guest who had lingered too long. The sun was already rising, though it wasn't warming us up much! We strode along the streets at a cracking pace, dragging the beagle reluctantly behind us (What's wrong with you, oh my hurrisome owner? You don't want to sniff the gutters?! But there's a DEAD BIRD to snuffle!).

For awhile I felt slightly queasy. I think it may have been the mountainous terrain we were traversing (or at least the small hill we started our walk by climbing). Or maybe my body was in shock that I was denying it coffee. Whatever the cause, I soon felt good again, as Chooky and I walked and talked. We talked of friends, we talked about men and love, we spoke of children, we discussed body image. We listened to each other. We teased each other.

It was cold, it was ridiculously early, but it was a sparkling way to start the day..... just Chooky, the beagle and me.

"No one listens to me!"

......These are the words that I wailed, as I finally left my consulting room this evening. The receptionist laughed her throaty laugh, and didn't try to console me with platitudes. She knows I'm telling the truth... or at least a partial truth. The fact is, as much as you might think that patients come to see a doctor to get medical advice, this is often far from the reality. Why seek advice from Dr Jellyhead, when you can consult the latest issue of Woman's Day? Why ask my humble opinion about a symptom when you can google 'sore throat' and conclude that you have acute thyroiditis? Why bother to ask the GP what they think, when your neighbour can tell you across the fence that you definitely have what she had last week? (which needed that particular medication to clear it up). Just figure out your own diagnosis, then come to the GP to demand the appropriate tests/medication/referral to a specialist. (Am I sounding a little bit *TETCHY* here?!!!!)

Today, a young man of 16 came to see me with his mother. The boy, 'Nate', walked in with a slight limp, and his ankle was mildly swollen. He explained he'd played a game of football the previous day, and noticed his ankle to be sore as he came off the field. He couldn't recall noticing anything amiss before that moment. No pain, no' snaps' or 'cracks'. This morning he found the ankle was more sore, and had swelled up.

Now this boy's mother was a nurse, and as much as I have great respect for nurses in a medical sense, they are often terrible patients, and terrible patients' mothers (Heather, don't hate me for saying this! I'm not referring to you! And I'm sure doctors as patients must be the all-time worst!). Nurses have seen too many dodgy doctors, they have seen too many serious illnesses and complications. The nurse patients that drive me crazy have reached the stage of distrusting everything a doctor says, and fearing every illness or injury is their (or their child's) last. I understand this, but nevertheless it drives me nuts.

So I see Nate, and check him over thoroughly. His ankle is minimally swollen, not at all bruised, stable, and he was able to bear weight easily. It is not broken. I'll run up & down my street naked tomorrow if that ankle is broken. ANYWAY. I tell the mother why I think it is a sprain. I tell her that it would be extremely unlikely that someone could break their ankle and not notice it. I ask her to continue with the treatment she's given Nate so far. And, to appease her(because I know she's worried), I give her an X-ray form, to use if the ankle gets worse, or doesn't improve over a few days.

Sound like sensible advice? Well of course it was - I'm full of sensible advice. Ask me any question, I'll give you the sensibullest advice you could ever imagine. But did the bad bad Nate's mother take any notice of what I said? Nooooooooooooooo she did not. Later this afternoon, we got a from call from the local X-ray facility, asking a question about Nate's X-ray form. Nate and his mother were there, getting the X-ray already! HMMPH! Pah! Stomp! *Various other noises of the temper tantrum variety*

I'm nothing but a writer of slips, a paper pusher! I am a referral service!

Also, I'm a whiny baby. Whining in my blog, over and over...... nooooo-one listens to meee!!!!

truth is stranger than fiction

Yesterday morning, I went to my usual Friday morning gym class. I think I have mentioned before how I go to an energetic class involving boxing and running and a muscly instructor. Although, being married, I never notice the instructor's muscles. Much.

So yesterday I breezed into the gym, only to notice a distinct acrid smell in the air. There was a smoky scent, and another woman asked the instructor, "What is that awful smell?" It turns out there had been a fire the previous day. This fire started when some towels in the cupboard spontaneously combusted!

The towels had been used by the massage therapist who comes to the gym, and although they had been washed, apparently there was some residual oil in them. The towels had then been tumble dried, and stacked in the cupboard while still slightly warm. They began to smoulder. Smoke was eventually seen coming from the cupboard, and as soon as the doors were opened, the fire took hold in earnest. The owner, who was either incredibly foolish or incredibly brave (depending on how you look at it), picked up the stack of burning towels, which was not yet ablaze top and bottom, and ran outside. As he threw the towels onto the footpath, the extra oxygen to the now separated towels caused them to burn up in a WHOOSH of flames. It was a Towelling Inferno.

There's a lesson in this story somewhere...... maybe - if you see smoke coming from a cupboard, tell someone else, then leave the building quickly? No, that's not it. I'm not quite sure what it is, but someone's bound to know. John Cowart?

future women

My daughter went to a jazz ballet class today. She's never been before, but her friend goes to this class, and Laura wanted to try it out. I sat in the foyer, spying on these miniature dancers, as they hopped and stumbled and skipped around the room. It was amazing to see that these little girls are showing already who they will be when they grow up.

One little blond looked haughty and ambitious, at the tender age of 6 or 7. She held her chin in the air, she spoke only to one or two others, and she her face was china-doll beautiful. This girl is bound to be a school prefect, and she'll probably be the Queen Bee in the 'in' group of girls. Of course, I could just have a wildly overactive imagination.

One little girl was unlikely to be the Queen Bee at school. She clumped when the others tippy-toed. She landed with a thud when the others sprang lightly. Her timing was all wrong, and her movements were awkward. She yawned and looked over at me with huge, limpid brown eyes. This doe-eyed child had thicker limbs than all the other girls, and her body was stocky. She will probably never be skinny; she may never be graceful. Her eyes were arresting. I hope someone tells her she is lovely, often.

I remember being a little girl, and I don't think I have changed much since then, in essence. At the dance class, I would have been scared, without visibly quailing. I would have been frightened of any criticism from the teacher, trying my hardest to get the moves right. If another girl had been dismissive, or mean, I would have chewed my lip, hard, trying to quell the tears. In time, I would have started to chat, getting more & more animated if anyone responded. I would have been just like the little girl yesterday with a fraying ponytail of mousy-brown hair - not outstanding, and just a little more fearful than the rest.

Yesterday, watching my daughter, I was glad for her. Because, like I would have done, she was concentrating hard, focusing on the dance steps. But between dancing, she never so much as looked like chewing her lip. She smiled, she twirled, she giggled with some of the others. Her confidence was a joy to behold. As she stepped in time to the music, and flicked her little hips side-to-side like she'd been born to wiggle (1-2, 1-2-3!), I felt my heart grow huge with pride. What a wondrous creature my daughter is! She is like me in some ways, but in many ways she is un-like me. And I couldn't be happier to know this.

FIVE THINGS

Mama Bear tagged a few of us to do this meme. Now that I have written mine, I am concerned I may have ended up disclosing some slightly odd stuff. But at least I don't have model airplanes in my closet!

5 things in my freezer:

1) 2 blackened bananas (you know, for the banana cake I've been intending to make for, oh, 5 months or so)
2) a large chicken - dead, beheaded and de-feathered, of course. I looooove cooking roast chook!
3) Sara Lee rum 'n' raisin ice cream (there's gotta be ice cream!)
4) a golf-ball sized hailstone, stored assiduously by my children since the last hailstorm
5) leftovers in tupperware, for those nights when my frown is larger than my smile

5 things in my closet:

1) a short winter skirt that I once wore with tights and boots, but now could only wear with a very long skirt over top. It needs to go. I need to face reality.
2) a mouthguard, chest guard, shin guards and sparring gloves in a backpack (for karate)
3) my wedding top and skirt, hanging forlornly, wishing they would see the light of day again. Sorry guys.
4) bridesmaids dresses. Like the wedding outfit, they wait in vain.
5) handbags I have known and now know to be ugly.

5 things in my car:

1) crumbs
2) tissues
3) street directory
4) dinosaur mini-torch
5) 1-2 children, depending

5 things in my purse:

1) gum
2) baby wipes
3) ibuprofen
4) diary
5) roller mini-bottle of perfume my daughter gave me for Mother's Day. It is very floral, and very stinky. I pretend I love it.

5 things in my wallet:

1) photo of my hubby and kids,
2) photo of my brother and sister
3) stamps
4) ticket stub from the last movie I saw
5) old shopping list that reads:' floss, fly spray, salt, bread, beer, wine, crayons, paper, mags'. I don't know what occasion these items were for, but it sounds like it would have been fun. Except for the flossing, of course.

I'm done, all done. Who else feels like rifling through their belongings? Feel free to leave an abbreviated version of this meme in the comments section. I'd be interested in your freezers and closets, in particular!

tenuous connections

I used to visit her every day. She made me smile, giggle and laugh out loud. She had a knack with words that fascinated me. She was soft and sweet; she was sharp and sassy. And underneath her jokes and banter, there was always her raw and brutal grief, a grief that I wished with all my heart I could wipe away.

This woman was not an actual friend of mine. The 'visits' I speak of were visits to her blog. Yet I had read enough of her humour, and taken in enough of her pain, that I felt I was beginning to know her. Then, just over a month ago, she fell silent. Every day I check to see if she has written. Every day I see the same words, dated several weeks back.

Whenever she was going to be away, or knew she would be busy with her family, my fellow blogger would mention it in her posts in advance. She posted almost every day. Her last post was chatty, cheeky, light-hearted even. Now I wonder if she was actually fighting off a terrible despair, even as she typed those teasing words.

Where are you, my friend? Are you overwhelmed by your loss? Are you struggling with a new difficulty? I hope more than anything that you have someone to hold your hand and stroke your forehead. I worry that something awful may have happened to you, and I shake that thought away.

Wherever you are, please know that you are remembered, with compassion and fondness, with respect and admiration, and with a big smirk at the thought of all your cheesy puns. Please take care. You are one of a kind.

thinking back

Before we went to Canada, I wondered if perhaps we'd bitten off more than we could chew (so to speak). I know that these days, hip and happening parents go trekking in the Himalayas with their 3 week old babies, but I have never been hip and happening. I thought Fatty and I were adventurous whenever we ventured out of the house with our first child. I thought we were extremely bold when we took our infant son and two-year-old daughter on a domestic flight to visit their grandparents. So to take a trip overseas - let's just say it was a big step for Fatty and me.

It's been a real confidence boost to see that, with some careful planning, and a lot of plain good luck, too - we managed it. We managed it, and we really enjoyed it (So there is life after children!).

One of the best things about the holiday, for me, was working together with Fatty. We are very different sorts of people, who often go about things in quite different ways, yet we worked in parallel to make the holiday run smoothly. Sometimes, tangled up in the details of day-to-day living, I fret over our disparities. I forget that we're a good team. We complement each other - yin and yang.

It was good to spend time with our kids, too. They were amazingly tolerant of all the tedious things about travel, and they were full of joy and vigour when it came to sightseeing. We talked, and walked, we ate and laughed. We had running jokes that continued the entire trip. We were just a regular, happy family on holidays, but I felt like the queen of the world. I woke up smiling every day.

Now life has returned to its usual pattern, but I am renewed. It's been brilliant to travel in Canada. Best of all, I did it with my sweeties.

back in the saddle again

As I dressed for work yesterday, I gave myself a little pep talk:

"Come on, it'll be good to see everyone there."

"I'm sure your brain hasn't really atrophied during your four weeks off work."

"It'll probably be an easy morning; stop getting your knickers in a knot!"

Armed with a suitably perky smile, I strode into work, greeting various other staff members, and replying that yes indeedy, my holiday HAD been good. Very good. Too good!

The morning was running pretty well, and I was beginning to relax, when I called in 'Jenny'. She looked uncomfortable yet sheepish at the same time, as she explained she'd had this chest and left shoulder pain since yesterday afternoon. "I'm sure it's just a pulled muscle, but, you know, dad was only 62 when he died of a heart attack".

Right. "Let's just go get you on some oxygen," I suggest firmly, leading her to a treatment room. In many ways, a patient having angina or a heart attack is a straightforward scenario to manage (unless they go into an life-threatening arrhythmia or actually arrest in the surgery- which luckily is not too often). You have a certain formula to follow - check this, give that. Of course, as a suburban GP, there is one vital action to be taken - something a good doctor learns early, something that requires great wisdom and intellect. Want to know this most important step? Oh, alright, I'll share the secret. In an emergency, the most crucial job is .... asking the receptionist to call an ambulance. Pronto!

The ambulance arrived, with two burly paramedics. I had been about to insert an IV, but seeing as the paramedics can do IV's standing on their heads, and considering I only insert an IV about once a year (if that), I let them take over. Unfortunately, Jenny had tiny veins, and when one of the ambulancemen tried to put in a drip in Jenny's hand, it went right through the vein.

Now usually I am not especially confident as a doctor, and I would never put myself forward to take over a situation. But it just happens that the one procedural skill I have always been good at is inserting IVs. Even as an intern, I would be called to do the difficult drips. Once, a third-year resident saw me passing near the emergency department, and despite that fact I was on a day off, and was wearing a checked flannel shirt, called me to try to insert a drip in the arm of a large Fijian lady who'd already been 'stabbed' by various doctors half a dozen times (I don't know what the poor lady thought of the lady lumberjack who was poking her with a needle, but I got the drip in!) So it was very unlike me, but when the paramedic started talking about trying another vein in a position where the drip will often block up or fall out, I tentatively approached. "What about this vein here? I could have a try, if you like", I offered. "Sure doc", one of the ambulancemen replied. Now I really felt under pressure. Trying to get a wide needle into a small vein - was I going to stuff this up, and feel like a real goose?

No! I didn't stuff it up! Hooray and hallelujah!

It's amazing what a buzz I got from such a simple task. I can't explain why I should feel so pleased about such a silly thing. I suppose when skills don't get used, you wonder if you still have the skills at all. But it's OK. I can still whack an IV in.

And all of you who have nodded off can now wake up. This post is over!

holiday happy-snaps

Hello! I've missed you all! (The occasional post from far away is just not the same)

We arrived home yesterday afternoon, and are all in pretty good shape today. I have phoned my friends, chatted to my mum, slept in my own bed (ahhhh), and patted the dog. All is right with the world!

I thought I would post some trip photos (Lake Louise, Butchart gardens in Victoria, sea otter from Vancouver aquarium)... hope you like them.

"You make me feel so young..."

Whenever I hear the smooth notes of a Frank Sinatra song, I am taken back, way back, transported to the time when I was six or seven, to when I was small and my parents were still happy together. Perhaps there were stirrings of dissatisfaction and dissent between my mother and father, but my six-year-old self had not noticed anything amiss. I knew I was loved, I knew my parents loved each other, and my world was composed of the three of us.

Every night, both parents would kiss me goodnight. I would lie in bed, with the golden light from the living room spilling down the hall and glowing softly in my room - not enough to keep me awake, but enough to chase away my fears. With my door ajar, I could hear the rise and fall of my parents voices as they talked. The words were indecipherable, but the murmur of their conversation was a sound that I loved. If my parents laughed about something together, I felt that my life, at that moment, was utterly perfect. It was one of my favourite times of the day.

Sometimes, Mum or Dad would ask me if I wanted some music to listen to as I fell asleep. They had given me a recording of 'The Nutcracker Suite', and I remember listening to its familiar refrains as I drifted off to sleep. But mostly, I would be serenaded into the Land of Nod by the music my father loved .... Ivan Rebroff, the music to Dr Zhivago, but mostly, more than any other, Frank Sinatra. And if you have to listen to the same man singing, night after night, I can assure you that Ol' Blue Eyes was an excellent choice. His honeyed voice, his perfect pitch, his corny songs of love - they still appeal to me now. It's not that I don't love many other types of music - rock, pop, blues, classical, country/rock. Yet Sinatra's music still draws me in, holds me, soothes me, reminds me of when my world was much smaller. It reminds me of the warm yellow walls in my room, the kiss of my mother, the chuckle of my father, and the simplicity of a six-year-old.

Though my life has changed a lot over the past 30-odd years, and though my parents' marriage did not survive, one thing has remained constant. I know that both my parents love me dearly. And that knowledge I have carried with me like a talisman throughout my life. That, and the uncanny ability to sing the lyrics of any Frank Sinatra song you may care to name .....


"You make me feel so young
You make me feel like spring has sprung!"

Mum, it's your birthday!!!

Now I know you don't all know my Mum, but take it from me - she is a divine creature. So please join with me in wishing the sweet Jellyma a very HAPPY BIRTHDAY !!!

Happy Birthday Mum. I'm sorry I'm not around to celebrate with you, but I will make it up to you when we return.

Hip hip....hooray!

Rocky Mountain Highway

Everyone, everyone, I am so excited! Just now, I was peacefully eating some dinner with my family, at a restaurant in the Rocky Mountains, when a large elk sauntered past our hotel!!! I kid you not! I asked the waitress if this was unusual, and she tucked her hair behind her ear and calmly replied, "Well, it happens. We are right in the middle of a National Park, so ya. They walk through here sometimes." Incredible!

Other things that have amazed or intrigued me:
- the majesty of the mountains (compared to these, Australian mountains are just hills. Bumps.)
- the ginormous portion sizes. I tell you, it's just as well we've been piggybacking our kids on trails and walks every day, or we'd be very FAT by now. Of course, I realise there is always the option of not eating everything on your plate. But that's hard if the food's good!
- cute squirrels which seem to be everywhere, leading me to suspect they could possibly be regarded as vermin here. I am sincerely hoping that is the case (or at least that they are as plentiful as they seem) because I unfortunately squashed one yesterday. Sorry squirrel.

I am having trouble getting time to comment on all your blogs, but I am still reading when I can. Best wishes to you all,

the travelling Jelly

At first I was afraid, I was petrified.....

but I survived!!

Hello everyone, and thank you for all your farewell messages. Unfortunately for you, I have not kept quiet long (just long enough to get over a spot of jetlag), and I'm back!

The plane trip was pretty good all told, and no-one got hysterical - not even the kids. We are now spending a few days with our friends on Vancouver Island, pottering about doing short trips here and there. It is all so beautiful, with warm, sunny weather (which I'm told is not quite usual for this time of year) and I can see snow-topped mountains almost everywhere we go!!!!! It's so good to be here.

I have even driven our rental car several times, and have managed OK (though I have been driving as if I am about 90 years old- shoulders hunched up, fingers gripping the wheel tightly, forehead furrowed). Fatty, on the other hand, tried to annihilate his entire family today by swinging onto a highway on the wrong side of the road. I yelled, 'Wrong side, wrong side!', and quick as a flash we were once more driving legally and safely again. Whew.

I hope all the rest of you are driving safely and on the correct side of the road this week. Take care everyone. I will write another update soon.

PS: I may also post the odd piece of writing that has nothing to do with our trip (you know, just me raving on about whatever), and there may even be a guest post or two. I do try to keep you al entertained!

O Canada!

Ever since our children (the dear little blighters) were born, Fatty and I have taken a week's holiday here and there with our kids - almost always at the beach. We have had bucketloads of fun, but at the same time it's always been so good to come home, too. So what on earth were we thinking planning a trip involving 3 weeks and 5 days away from home, with a 25 hours worth of travel just to arrive at our destination?? I'm a little nervous about how it will all go, to say the least!

I'm also relishing the idea of four whole weeks off work. And I'm looking forward to spending time with our two sets of family friends, and doing some slow, drive-a-little, stop-a-lot exploring in beautiful Canada with Fatty and our kids.

I won't be visiting T, Mackeydoodle, or Franny. (Try to look disappointed instead of relieved, people!) I would love to sit and have chocolate cake somewhere with each of you, but with two small children in tow, we won't be travelling extensively, and won't even make it into Alberta, or anywhere near Ontario. But I will think of all my Canadian blogfriends as I travel.

Bags are packed, tickets and passports are at the ready, I have a large packet of baby wipes readily accessible....now is there anything else I cannot depart without? (Maybe I should have packed sedatives. I can see how sedatives could be helpful. For me, of course. A valium or 4, and I just wouldn't care if Ben was screaming his lungs out. Pursed-lipped passengers could turn in their seats to frown, and I would smile beatifically and slur, "Peace, man. Feel the looooove!") We leave in the morning, so wish me luck!

I will try to post now and then, and will have access to the internet most places we're going, so say hello if you drop by. Take care everyone!

Jelly

Once upon a time....

.... there lived a tall, willowy young woman with remarkable green eyes. I should say that she was usually willowy, but in fact at the time this story took place, she was rather portly. Her legs and arms were still slender, but her belly was round and taut. She was not quite 25 years of age, and she was about to have her first child.

This particular day, Green Eyes was tired, and her back ached. She was a stoic type, though, and she carried on with her busy day regardless. Green Eyes was married, but her errant husband was away, doing study in another country. So she was on her own as she went to the doctor for a routine check-up.

The doctor examined Green Eyes, and raised his eyebrows in surprise. "You're going to have this baby tonight", he remarked. "Better go straight up to the hospital". Green Eyes was surprised, too - but she obediently did as she was told.

Up at the hospital, the midwife took one look at Green Eyes, standing calmly, bag in hand.

"Are you in labour? Why are you here?"

"Well, Dr Knowitall sent me here", Green Eyes murmured, feeling like an unwelcome guest.

"Well, come on then", the midwife bustled. "We'll get you settled in bed for the night."

An hour later, Green Eyes began to have contractions. The contractions became steadily stronger, and Green Eyes breathed heavily, bracing herself for each wave of gripping pain. Midwives appeared, and raised their eyebrows in surprise, just like Dr Knowitall had done. After an hour of pain, Green Eyes began to feel a compelling desire to push.

Half an hour later, on the evening of June 23rd, a baby girl was born. Green Eyes loved her instantly.

And Mum, I love you, too. Thank you for carrying me in your body, for labouring alone to have me, and for raising me to be a woman who tries to emulate you in mothering my own children.

shortest post ever

Hello and Happy Tuesday to you all! It's Franny's birthday today, so please wish her all the best if you get a chance.

I've run out of things to say already. But that's only because I've just been blabbing away in a guest post for my friend, Heather. Are you curious? Keen to visit Blog Blah Blah? I'll see you there then!

do as your Motherkitty tells you

Not so long ago, I was tagged by my friend Motherkitty. So here we go....

7 things to do before I die:

1) clean under the fridge
2) get a secret tattoo on my hip
3) have a fling with Liam Neeson (just jokes, Fatty...no, really...truly I wouldn't... not unless Liam begged, anyway)
4) train for and swim the swimming leg of a triathlon - my fleet-footed friend, Chooky, would do the running leg, and we would recruit someone else to do the cycling.... Val? You'll have time to train, being soon-to-be-retired and all!
5) travel around Australia with Fatty in a campervan, drinking cups of tea all around the country
6) go back to Uni to study languages (and then, with my brushed-up French, go stay in a cottage in France for a summer!)
7) become a weekend respite carer, once my own kids are grown and gone

7 things I cannot do:

1) get a tan
2) add up in my head
3) take criticism without getting defensive
4) throw a ball (I have been told I 'throw like a girl')
5) install or use most electronic devices
6) say no to dessert
7) survive without my female friends

7 things that attract me to my husband:

1) his ability to apologise mid-argument, if he believes he's in the wrong (it always takes me some 'cool-down' time before I can apologise)
2) his strong morals
3) his broad shoulders
4) the crinkles near his eyes when he smiles
5) his intelligence
6) his tolerance of my flaws and foibles
7) the fact he is a kind father who spends a lot of time with our children

7 books I love:

1) God of Small Things - Arundhati Roy
2) Cloudstreet - Tim Winton
3) My Family and other Animals- Gerald Durrell
4) Charlotte's Web - E. B. White
5) About a Boy - Nick Hornsby
6) Little House on the Prairie (and rest of series) - Laura Ingalls Wilder
7) The Great Fire - Shirley Hazzard

7 movies I'd watch over & over again:

1) A Fish Called Wanda
2) Gallipoli
3) When Harry Met Sally
4) Last Orders
5) Four Wedding and a Funeral
6) High Hopes
7) Muriel's Wedding

As for tagging 7 people.... I will simply ask anyone who feels inspired to consider themselves tagged!

Happy weekend everyone!

the pangs of parenting

I'm astounded by the reaction to my last post - not so much the number of comments (though there were quite a few), but the length of the responses you all wrote. Thank you. I so enjoyed hearing all the different perspectives, and I think I learnt something from each and every comment.

I also realised that one thing that weighs so heavily on me, as a parent, is a matter that some older bloggers still feel guilty over, and that bloggers with young children agonise over, too. (I am not alone - oh joy, oh joy!) It seems all parents worry that they are not spending enough time with their little darlings.

We all believe that all those other Marvellous Mothers and Fantastic Fathers are spending hours every day reading, painting, singing, and talking face-to-face with their kids. We all believe we are the only bad parents who read one book, then try to put a load of washing on; we fear we are the only evil mothers (or fathers) who put the paint and paper out for the kids, then sit down nearby with coffee and a magazine. Yet I suspect we're almost all harbouring this guilt.... so most of us aren't acting like non-stop entertainers/teachers/life coaches. We're just parents at home. Besides caring for children we're trying to get the kitchen clean, trying to pay the bills, trying to stay sane with the odd spot of blogging!

One of the most guilt-assuaging theories from the book I read ('Perfect Madness' by Judith Warner) was about this very issue. While giving our children time and affection is obviously important, Judith Warner discusses studies, and relates comments made by educators, which suggest that the modern concept of child care - of interacting for hours, providing numerous activities, directing their play by joining all their games - may not be ideal. Teachers are beginning to despair of children who are not only self-centred (after having non-stop parental attention), but who are also unable to play spontaneously, to create, to think for themselves. Who knew? It turns out talking to your kids every now and then as they play, maybe giving them a few props to play with (dress ups, Lego, even cardboard boxes!) and just letting them explore their world with our intermittent participation .... just doing what a lot of us do anyway.....turns out that is thought to be just fine.

Oh, what a relief. We're doing OK after all. Join with me now as I sigh happily.....ahhhhhhh!

perfect madness

I'm reading a book called 'Perfect Madness', and it is doing me the world of good! This book is about how our society has become SO child-centred, that we forget parents are not just parents, but people with needs such as time alone, exercise, intimacy with their partners, and intellectual challenge. We forget that nourishing our marriages is vital, not just for ourselves, but also for the sake of providing happy homes for our kids. We sometimes become so focused on the immediate demands of our children, that we forget part of our responsibility as parents is to provide good role models for our sons and daughters, who will one day be parents themselves. We need to show by example that most parents need some time away to pursue an outside interest, be it work or hobby or sport, and that this is normal; it is not bad or wrong. Being rejuvenated by time apart from our kids makes us better and happier parents all the rest of the time.

This book also deplores how crazy we let our lives become.... taking our children to endless rounds of play-dates and birthday parties.... driving around to soccer, ballet, swimming, piano lessons... baking chocolate fudge at 11 pm for school bake stalls...attending P&C meetings...working (in the home or in paid work)...organising (library books, school forms, lunch money, packed lunches...the list never ends)...shopping for food, clothes, and birthday presents for all those birthday parties our kids attend!.....and that's without even mentioning all the feeding, bathing, dressing, entertaining, soothing and settling of our kids!! I know I am guilty of taking on too much, and then becoming stressed and cranky and tired. I think we need to draw the line sometimes. We need to say 'No, sorry - I won't be able to, this time' more often. Because although we might like to think we are superhumans, we are not, and we and our children suffer when we overextend ourselves.

Now any parent out there who is reading this, and who loves the frenetic whirl of activity, who thrives on each parenting challenge and never tires, never needs a break.... please don't comment!! You will only make me feel inadequate. For those of you who can relate to anything I've said... be kind to yourself this weekend. And don't feel guilty if you take a moment (or preferably at least an hour!) for yourself. You deserve it!

For those of you whose children have grown and left home - I congratulate you for the job you have done in raising your children. Enjoy your weekend, too!

dreaming of a nap

You know the saying short-term pain, long-term gain? Well, it is just as true when you turn it around to be 'short-term gain, long-term pain'. In my parenting life, it is always exactly like that. Whenever I try to cut corners with my kid-wrangling, there is always the price to be paid.

Last night, my three-year-old son woke and summonsed me. He was sitting up, wide awake. Cheerily, he informed me that the bed felt wet. I pulled back the covers. Yep. Feels wet, looks wet, is wet. Funny that.

For some reason, I had been silly enough to stay up until half past 11 the night before. It was just so peaceful. I was reading a great book by Kate Grenville. I was relaxing. Manababies will understand. So in the wee hours of the morning, with the cold floorboards chilling my soles, and my soft bed begging me to hurry back, I chose to ignore the wet sheets. I wiped down and re-dressed Ben in dry clothing, and scurried to The Big Bed (as it is called in our house) with child in tow.

I should explain that our bed is a smallish Big Bed, as Big Beds go. Fatty and I fit well in said bed, but add a squirmy child, and I, Princess Sleeper, can only achieve fitful slumber. I knew this, but I thought ..... I'm not sure what I thought actually. Perhaps something like cold, cold, sleepy, find bed again. So in hopped Ben and I, and we were certainly all warm. Warm, but awake. Or rather, Ben and I were awake, tossing and turning as we bumped knees and hands and feet and the mattress bumped with each movement. Fatty was fast asleep. He could sleep with a bugle playing in his ear. Or in a bed full of caterpillars (which I suppose is a more appropriate analogy for last night).

An hour later, I had to admit defeat. I stripped Ben's sodden sheets, I remade the bed, I reinstalled Ben with cuddle sheet and toy puppy. I answered a few more questions about the habitat of crocodiles. I refused to answer any more questions about crocodiles. An hour and a half later, we both got back to sleep. It could have been 15 minutes, if only I'd remembered the short-term gain rule.

Ben slept in so late that I had to wake him to take Laura to school. He's fine, he's bright as a button. Now, do you think he'll notice if I just rest my eyes for a minute......

the useless doctor (um, that's me)

One of the things it's taken me a long time to accept in my work is that I can't fix everybody. I can't cure all ills, and I can't ease all ailments. Were I to be the smartest, most innovative GP that ever walked the earth, I still could not eradicate all disease and suffering in my patients.

It may sound silly that this should be such a revelation to me, but such is the ethos of doctoring - we are taught to investigate, diagnose and treat. Textbooks are even written with diseases described under these very headings. Medical students are led to believe that they will save countless peoples' lives, riding in on their high horses to rescue the sick and the injured, then galloping away again (preferably with some very shiny medals pinned to their chests). No-one talks about the many, many patients for whom the medical profession can do very little.

Take the most common of illnesses...a 'cold'. What does the doctor say? "Rest, take some decongestant, maybe some paracetomol, rest, and ah, rest. Yes. Hope you feel better soon. Plenty of rest now. Bye!". I said just that today to someone. Maybe not as perkily, but conveying a similar message.

What about stomach wogs? "Ah, yes...rest, take fluids, and above all rest. Get better quickly. Did I remind you to rest? O-kay then! Bye!"

In actual fact, it has been quite awhile now that I have been comfortable with the futility of my advice when it comes to these minor illnesses. I quickly realised that time healed these diseases, while my role was merely to reassure. It has taken me a bit longer to discern that for other, more serious conditions, I must also accept that my role is supportive not curative.

Mrs I, a thin, worried-looking lady in her 60's came to see me today. When Mrs I first started coming to see me about a year ago, my heart used to sink just at the sight of her name on my schedule. YES, I know that is not very nice of me, but I'm trying to be honest here. The woman's very name was enough to give me a migraine. I dreaded the consultations. Mrs I always had about 7 complaints for me. Many of these complaints had been extensively investigated, and multiple treatments had been tried. Mrs I was now coming to see me, she explained at the time, because Dr 'Bloggs' (another doctor at my practice) 'doesn't listen to me anymore'. Poor Dr Bloggs. I think his well of empathy had run dry. I, on the other hand, had the deepest empathy- for Dr Bloggs.

Every time I saw Mrs I, I tried my darnedest to sort out some of her problems. I had to page back through her computer file; I had to retrieve her paper file. I detailed all her symptoms. I organised some more investigations, where I felt it was appropriate. I suggested a few treatment options. I suspect I sighed a lot.

Nothing I did made a scrap of difference. Every test I ordered found nothing useful. Everything I advised caused Mrs I to retort, "Yeah, I've tried that doctor - it didn't help at all". Eventually, I simply said to Mrs I, "It must be so hard to put up with all these problems. You must get very frustrated."

Every time I see Mrs I, I check her over, and I listen to her telling me what is bothering her. I do nothing to fix her ailments ...... not because I am unwilling, but because I do not know how. And yet - Mrs I treats me as if I am someone special to her. She is always thanking me, though I can never figure out what for.

I went through 6 years of medical school and 3 years of family physician training, and no-one ever told me that I would do so little, for so many people. I'm slowly getting used to it.

And Mrs I, I'm sorry. You have had a hard life, and you deserve all the kindness in the world. I'm learning. Thank you for teaching me.

hark! do I hear whistling?

They say hope springs eternal, and that's surely a useful concept to embrace. So, although in my heart of hearts I felt sure Fatty had not been perusing my blog, I asked a tentative question:

"So, are you planning on doing any whistling later today?"

Now you would think this was a rather odd question, wouldn't you? You are probably thinking right now Why did she ask THAT? Fatty MUST have queried why she would say such a thing! But, no, no, you ignorant-of-the-ways-of-Fatty people. You forget he is NOT a curious man. You forget he is NOT fascinated by his utterly fascinating wife (outrageous!). So his reply went something like this:

"Whistling? No, no whistling. You know, I've never been able to whistle very well." (begins to demonstrate.....various hissing/faint whistling noises emanate from Fatty's pursed lips) "I can't hold a tune for some reason." (warbling whistling starts up again)

I smile with my back to Fatty, as I stand at the kitchen counter. He may be somewhat less intrigued by my thoughts than I'd like, but I am amazed at how he has reacted to my opening conversational gambit. I'm sure anyone else would have snorted, "Whistle? Later this evening? What the hell are you talking about, woman?". Dear Fatty must be so used to the weird workings of my mind that he simply 'goes with the flow'. Possibly it would be exhausting to be too curious about how my mind works.

I turn back to my gorgeous, bad-whistling, accepting husband. "I can whistle pretty well, actually." I launch into a lilting rendition of 'How Much Is That Doggy in the Window?'. Fatty laughs. I bring our coffees over to the couch.

And there was no more whistling of any kind.

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ADDED NOTE: I can see from the comments so far that I need to clarify something. Fatty and I had coffee on the couch. You know, made from beans, a hot beverage. Coffee! So stop with the sniggering and giggling.
And, no, whistling isn't some sort of a prelude to intimacy in Australia, unless you count the wolf whistle. And frankly I don't think wolf-whistlers quite have romance in mind!

That said, I think whistling to indicate interest in a romantic interlude is a mighty fine idea - thanks Susan! Perhaps, 'How Much is my Doggy...' was just not the right song choice! Now, how would I whistle, 'Sea of Love'?.......

whistle for me, my love

In my marriage, there are a couple of 'issues' which crop up again, and again, and then once again, just in case we'd forgotten. I suspect other marriages also have their own recurring conflicts. (If not, we are in deep trouble!)

Sometimes I find it depressing how nothing seems to change. Sometimes I find it vaguely comforting....here we go again, where I say 'blah blah', and he says 'dum de dum'. Mostly, I just accept that two people can never live together in perfect harmony, and that we both do try to make each other happy. We may not get it right all the time, but mostly we do. Our arguments have become less frequent and less heated over time.

Something that has always driven me crazy is when Fatty doesn't listen to me. It wearies me even to tell you the details, so often have I tried to explain to this dear man what I would like from him. It is all rather like shouting into a gale-force wind! The fact is, I am fascinated by people, and love to hear their thoughts and feelings, whereas my beloved husband is fascinated by IPods, birds, football, and composting bins. Hence, my chosen topics of conversation often bore him silly.

One night, not so long ago, I spoke to Fatty about how I had realised how I had judged someone too quickly. (I had met the mother of one of Laura's school friends, found her to be a bit bossy and gossipy, and decided she was not someone I wanted to spend any time with. In time, I discovered she was an incredibly thoughtful and generous person, with a huge heart). I was amazed by the lesson I had learnt from being too quick to judge - I thought what I was discussing was terribly interesting. Fatty, on the other hand, was showing his ennui in no uncertain terms - yawning, lying staring up at the ceiling, making no response other than an occasional disinterested 'mmm' or 'uh-huh'.

When I finally snapped, and told Fatty how awful it made me feel to have him barely bothering to interact with me, he explained in not-so-many-words that what I was talking about bored him (my husband is nothing if not honest). He was not trying to make me feel bad, he continued, it was just that the subject matter left a lot to be desired. WELL. In my steeliest voice, I replied that not all conversation was for the sole purpose of entertaining him. I suggested that he would never treat a stranger in the street in that way.

We talked it through, and I admitted maybe I don't sound riveted, either, when he talks about who's been injured in his favourite football team. We are different, and that is part of the attraction. I conceded I would try to pick my moments - for example not chatting away merrily at bedtime (but why can't I? It's so much fun; just like a sleepover!). Fatty decided he would try to show more interest in my thoughts and feelings. He vowed to .... drum-roll..... start reading my blog! (yes, folks, my posts are eminently accessible to my life partner yet he NEVER reads them)

So now, my dearest Fatty, I am checking to see how you're going with that resolution of yours. The signal that you've read my words will be this - when we go to bed tonight, whistle the call of the magpie softly into my ear.

I can hardly wait.

Today at work....

.... I saw the radiant 'Kayla' who, after several months of failing to conceive, and a heartbreaking miscarriage, is halfway through a healthy pregnancy - a little brother or sister to her boy, 'Mikey'.

I spoke with a brave woman who is living with the fact that she and her husband have endured six unsuccessful IVF cycles thus far.

I congratulated a young woman who was rather startled, yet thrilled, to find herself pregnant after the first month of trying for a family.

A young pharmacist told me how she and her husband have only one child, by choice, because one child was 'more than enough!' for them to handle.

I discussed the treatment for a sexually-transmitted infection with a young woman who has recently has her second termination.

It's a funny old world. Life on this planet is glitter-good, brutish-bad, wonderful, awful, and all the shades in between.... but always, always fascinating. What a strange but enthralling day it's been.

I try never to forget what a magnificent gift I am given by those who entrust me with their confidences. Their stories I carry with me, often seared into my memory. I can't help but feel my life is so much richer for what these people have shared with me.

home alone

Here I sit, in a silent house. No husband, puttering and muttering around. No children, arguing over the plasticine. Even the dog has vacated the premises. It is quiet and still. You may be wondering how I got so lucky - is it my birthday, or perhaps have I taken a 'me' day? Am I taking a day off work to nurture my inner soul?

Well, no. No, negative, nup, uh-uh. I owe this day alone at home to the joys of...how can I put this delicately... gastrointestinal distress. Or I could use a good old Aussie term 'the collywobbles'. Let's just say my guts are crook. It's all fun, fun, fun here at the house of Jellyhead.

You know, I withheld some vital information from you all about our holiday last week. It's not that I wanted to be deceptive or anything - I just didn't want to be a moaner and a groaner, a whiner and a wailer. And let's face it - it's really not terribly interesting for people to read about diarrhoea and vomiting, is it? I tried to spare you, especially those with squeamish sensibilities. But the fact is, Laura got sick on the first Saturday of our week away, then Fatty and Ben followed on the Tuesday. They remained a bit under-the-weather for about 5 days each. So while we still had some fun, Fatty and the kids were below par, and I spent a lot of time getting up through the night, cleaning up and washing. (Now you know part of the reason I was soooo glad to get home)

I consoled myself with the fact that I was the un-chosen one. By the start of this week, I thought I was in the clear for sure! Well, you know now that I was sadly mistaken.

It's awfully peaceful here, though. And I don't feel THAT bad. I think the worst may have passed. I'm starting to feel guilty about not going to work which is SO dumb, even from the point of view of not infecting any of my poor patients with this bug. So here I sit, idly blogging, wondering what all the rest of you are up to.

I think I might proclaim this WHINING DAY. Now that I have whined, I want to hear some complaints from the lives of you, my blogpals. It will make me feel better, truly. They say misery loves company, so let's form a great big company of woe. Let's block out all happy, grateful, appreciative thoughts, and concentrate fully on all our frustrations! T, your hubby took your car keys to work, and you ended up locked out of the house to boot - let's hear an outraged diatribe from you, please. And Motherkitty, we know you still have plenty of knee pain and stiffness after your recent surgery - surely you can manage a small gripe? There must be more of you with something negative to say - help me out here.

I need your whingeing support, friends. Over to you.....

why did the emu cross the road?

I can't help myself - I have a pressing need to show you a few holiday snaps.

The animal pictures were from an outing to a nearby wildlife park.

The bird photo was taken by Birdman (of course!), while I snapped the photo of the bush cottage. If you look closely at the cottage, you can see the avian-lover out front, peering into the trees through binoculars. The spotter is spotted!

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Before I go, one last thing....

Haaaaaappy Biiiirthday to yoooooou, Happy Birthday to you, Happy Birthday dear Heather, HAPPY BIRTHDAY to YOU!!! Heather (aka Tootie, my recent guest poster) is another year older and wiser and lovelier today, so go congratulate her if you have a minute!

there's no place like home

I'm feeling just like Dorothy at the end of "The Wizard of Oz" - truly glad to be back home. They say home is where the heart is, but for me, home is where my house, computer, wardrobe, washing machine and dog are. Assuming my family is there, too, of course.

I firmly believe that one of the most important roles of The Holiday is to make you realise how you feel about your everyday life. I once took a vacation with Fatty (pre-children) and realised that I wasn't happy with my life. I was working way too many hours, and was getting burnt-out. On that holiday, I dreaded our return to 'normal life'.

This past week, we combined visiting Fatty's darling parents with a 2-night stay away in a country cottage (the photo is from just near the cottage). As much as I enjoyed the break, I also found myself looking forward to returning to our day-to-day routines. I wanted to come home and pat our beagle. I wanted to blog. I wanted to sit with Fatty on our comfy couch. I'm keen to take my kids to their swimming lessons, and to go to karate class. I want to see how everyone is going at work.

I am reminded that every part of life is precious, whether glorious or mundane.

*****************************************************************

*THANK YOU Tootie my sweet friend, for keeping the home fires burning! For those of you who would like to read more from the very entertaining Tootie, go here. Some of you already visit her blog, and I'm sure many others will become new fans! *

What's in a nickname?

It's still me, Tootie.

A question was asked in the comment section of my last post. A reader wanted to know the story behind the name "Jellyhead."

Well, I do believe it's because Jelly can be a little bit of what we Americans like to call "airheaded." Despite her medical degree and her obvious intelligence, it would seem that she sometimes walks around with her head in the clouds. Aren't we all guilty of the same thing from time to time?

I, myself, went to my credit union the other day and asked them to call the branch across town because I was certain I had left my driver's license in the carrier there. The nice girl behind the counter was very sweet and courteous and she called the other branch, waited on hold for several minutes while they searched for my license, and then sadly informed me that my license was not at the other branch. I frowned slightly and wondered aloud, "Where could it possibly be?" Just then, I opened my billfold to place the cash I had withdrawn from my account, and the cashier exclaimed, "There it is!" Yes, folks, my license was staring out at me from my billfold. It was right where it belonged all that time. Imagine that! Even worse, I had been looking for it for a week! Yes, I think we can all be a jellyhead at times.

But I really must protest that some of you seem to think my nickname, Tootie, is self-explanatory. It really isn't. It has nothing at all to do with any flatulence on my part! Nor do I have a habit of tooting my own horn. Nor do I sound like a train whistle when I blow my nose. Honest. Cross my heart and hope to die. Here's how my nickname came about:

Apparently, nicknames are the norm in Australia. Jellyhead's real name is used in it's shortened form by her friends. She really does call her husband "Fatty" a lot of the time. She calls her daughter "Louey." She has nicknames for all of her good friends. She was recently lamenting that calling me by my real name seemed much too formal and asked if she might call me by a nickname. I had no problem with that except that I have never had a nickname. My name is impossible to shorten and no one has ever called me by anything else. I set Jelly to the task of coming up with a nickname. She tried "Nicki" but my grandmother stubbornly insisted on calling me by that name (which is a shortened form of my middle name) when I was born despite my mother's obvious irritation. So Jelly didn't want to be like a stubborn old lady. She begged and begged me to give her something to work with. I reluctantly admitted to her that my father's nickname for me has always been "Tootie Brown." Don't ask why. I have no idea. I mean, the "Brown" part is because I always had dark skin. The "Tootie" part was invented out of thin air. Jelly was bubbling over with happiness. "Oh, I LOVE Tootie! Can I call you Tootie, can I?" My husband was a witness to the conversation and he said, "Yeah, did you tell her she can call you Tootie only if she has a death wish?" See, I have always been reluctant to share my nickname with anyone. That's why my husband was so surprised when I sighed, "I guess." It is a testament to how much I adore Jellyhead that I have bestowed upon her the honor and privelege of calling me by my childhood nickname.

I must say that, as much as I enjoy guest posting on Jelly's site, I am missing her so much! I am sure I am not alone. I know all of you are anxiously awaiting the day when Jelly brings her own honest, yet witty, style back to the blog.

Come home soon, Jelly! We miss you!

Blogger Trivia

G'day, mates! It's not Jelly. It's her American friend whom she affectionately (or laughingly?) refers to as Tootie. The reason she calls me Tootie is divulged on a need-to-know basis only. I could tell you but then I'd have to kill you. Or feed your children chocolate candy and espresso and send them back to you. Choose your poison.

When Jelly and I first started getting to know each other, we played a fun little game where we shared one mostly silly trivia fact about ourselves and one not-so-silly fact. It was a great way to get to know each other fairly well in a short period of time. We no longer play the game because now we know enough about each other that we can hold an animated conversation without difficulty.

One of my not-so-silly facts is that my parents divorced when I was six years old. It affected me greatly. One of my second grade teachers told my mother, "Your little girl is the saddest child I have ever seen." Because my parent's split was quite violent and they remained hostile toward one another throughout my childhood, I worried myself sick during our weekend visits with my father. I cried when I left my mother because I felt that my loyalty should be to her and that I was betraying her by leaving. I cried for the entire 30-45 minute drive back home to my mother's house at the end of the weekend because I feared that I might never see my father again since he had been in my life every day one moment and the next he was inexplicably absent. Not to mention the fact that he missed several of our weekend visitations and my brother and I sat on the front steps watching for his truck to pull around the curve and up to our house and finally, when the sun began to set, dejectedly shuffled back into my mother's house knowing that Daddy had forgotten about us once again.

I shared that fact with Jelly because it explains a lot of the issues I have had to tackle in my life as an adult. I have great difficulty trusting others and I fall apart when I feel invisible or forgotten by those I love. I panic to the point that I break into a cold sweat and feel nauseated when I place my trust in someone and then feel abandoned by them. It is an area in my life where it is easy to see that I was crippled by some aspects of my childhood. I always feel it is important to share such facts when I make close friends so that my neuroses don't come as such a surprise deeper into the friendship.

On a lighter note, one of my silly trivia facts I shared with Jelly is that I have to eat things on my plate in a certain order. I eat all of my meat, then my potatoes, then my salad, etc. You'd be surprised how many people pay attention to the way other people eat. It also just so happens to be my pet peeve for people to watch me eat. For that reason, I consciously try to eat more like a normal person; a bite of this and a bite of that. I am always secretly thrilled when I have the rare experience of observing someone else who eats the way I do. I used to think it meant I have a highly organized brain but one look in my hall closet dispels that theory.

In honor of mine and Jelly's friendship, I thought it would be nice to ask all of you to share a fact or facts about yourselves that you believe to be unique or silly or just plain weird! Jelly will be so entertained to read of your quirks upon her return!

~Tootie

you say hello, and I say goodbye

I once saw a card that so perfectly encapsulated my nature that I laughed out loud, standing by myself in front of the card rack. The card said, "I worry too much", and inside it read, "and that worries me."

I am about to go on a week's holiday. I am aiming to stop fretting about how much I fret, and even stop fretting altogether (at least as much as I am able!). There will most likely be a post or two from a VIP guest blogger (no, not JellyMa this time) while I'm gone. So there'll be no need for you, my blogpals, to fret at all.

I hope you all have a very happy week until I next visit your blogs!

Jelly

win or lose?

If I wasn't careful, I could end up one of those perpetually dissatisfied people - always wanting more. More success, more clothing, more holidays, more children even! I resist these urges; I fight my own greed and hankerings by telling myself in a stern voice how lucky I am for all I already have in my life.

At the karate competition on the weekend, I had only one opponent. She was tall, she had bleached blond spiky hair, she had a Nordic accent, and her name was Katarina. Katarina the Viking Queen gave me a thrashing. I tried, I really did, but I was completely outclassed. This woman had been on the State karate team, for Pete's sake! She well and truly kicked my butt.

Now, in my moments of rationality, I can tell myself Jelly, you are a mother and a wife and a doctor and a carrot-cake-maker and that is enough. You do not need to win karate competitions as well. This is what I tell myself, and as you can see, I give myself very sensible advice. HOWEVER..... I am often surprised to discover my competitive streak, lurking evilly under my 'oh-I'll-just-give-it-a-go-and-won't-that-be-fun' facade. I try to be pleased for simply entering the fray. I know that Katarina the Uber-Fighter has probably fought a hundred or more sparring bouts to my now one-bout history, and that I should be happy to have come away physically intact. But dammit, I wanted to win! Or if not win, at least not lose so decisively! Now you know my secret - I am a sore loser.

While I was fighting Killer Katarina, her coach was yelling out from behind me. "Keep going, keep it up, you've got it in the bag. Wait for her to come in, you've got it wrapped." It was all true - KK had it all over me. BUT DID THE COACH HAVE TO TELL THE entire AUDITORIUM? Mean man. Bad man. Stinky bott bott man (whoops, some three-year-old humour snuck in there)

So, like I said, for a day or so, I secretly nursed my wounded pride and wished I'd done better, wished I was better than what I am, in many ways. Then, today was sunny and the clouds were like caterpillars (or so Ben told me) and I laughed at work and kissed Fatty on the lips when I came home again.

My ungrateful thoughts have blown away. The house is still. I sit here typing, in a pool of yellow light. Peace and contentment are mine tonight.

superwoman

It's good to realise that one of the women I admire most is my own mother.

This is not to say that Mum and I have some sort of cloying, mutual-worshipping relationship. We are quite different personalities, and sometimes we frustrate each other. It is never very much, though, and never for long.

Earlier this week, Mum stayed at our place overnight. In the morning, Fatty reported to me solemnly that the car I usually drive had a flat tyre. Fatty was running late for work, but he offered tentatively, "I guess I should change it for you now?" I motioned him away with my hand, " No, you go. Mum and I will change the tyre."

I don't know whether to be proud or ashamed to admit that I have never changed a tyre unassisted. I am a feminist, and have always aimed to be a woman who is independent and self-sufficient. However, every time I have bravely and briskly begun to change a tyre, a delightful MAN has come along and changed the tyre for me! In general, men in Australia are quite gallant, in a flannel-shirted, beer-drinking sort of way. They may be sexist and macho at times, but they will always stop to help someone in need. I believe in encouraging this honourable behaviour, so I have never turned away a knight in shining armour. Also, it is much easier and faster than doing it myself. So much for my independent streak.

After Fatty tore off in his hatchback, making haste before I could change my tyre-changing mind, Mum and I headed for the flaccid-tyred car. First step - loosen the bolts. I stepped up to the fray, because after all I am 25 years younger, and I lift weights in the gym, OK.

Nnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnngh. Oooooff! Unnnngh. Uh!!

After much straining and striving, I had 2 of the 5 bolts loose, but the others were holding fast. Mum slowly moved into position. I didn't see much point. After all, if I, Superstrong Jelly couldn't loosen the bolts, what hope would a grey-haired, ancient.....HUH?? Mum performed the whole operation with brains as well as brawn. She held the tool (don't ask me the name of it) at the horizontal, so that she could lever her weight onto it; she bore down with her body and her farm-strong arms, and BEHOLD the bolts loosened. Wow.

This woman, my mother, has been a kind and accepting mother to her three children. She has worked as a special education teacher and achieved success with children who no other teacher had been able to help. Mum can sew (she made the Senior Formal dresses for my sister and I), she can knit (she recently made throw rugs for all three of her children's homes), she can cook anything and everything. Mum can herd cattle, repair water pumps, plant trees. She paints, she concretes. Mum is involved in community charity groups. And now, she changes tyres for her daughter, too.

My hat is off to you, Mum. You are the quiet achiever, but I've noticed, and I couldn't be more proud.

Jelly has wobbled back home again

Hello!!!! I'm back and I'm better than ever! (or so I tell myself). It was a happy visit with Writer and Ten. By day, Fatty and our kids strolled in parks (like the one in the photo), rode a ferris wheel and went to the museum. In the evenings, we banished the kids to bed, so we could have Big People conversation and some wine.

While I was away, my mum obligingly stepped in to keep you entertained. THANK YOU all for welcoming my dear JellyMa so warmly. I thought she did a great job of guest posting, too.

Today has been a frantic, crazy day and the rest of the week promises to be just as mad. The culmination of the chaos will be on Saturday evening, at which time I will be (how on earth did I let myself be talked into this?) sparring in a karate competition. Let me explain here that I have participated in several competitions, but have always avoided the fighting. Because I am a scaredy cat. I attend a special karate academy for nervous middle-aged woman called Yellow-Bellied Chicken-Livered Karate Academy.

In competitions, the sparring is supposed to be 'feather-touch only' contact, but.... there are errors of judgement, or even deliberate hits. So while I am happy to spar at my club, where there are no 'aggro' members, I'm not sure what vein-bulging, beefy, angry women I may have to face up to on Saturday. My instructor has already advised me that, as I have no hope of looking intimidating, I should try to appear 'ice-cool'. Hard to do when you're about to wet yourself with fear. I may try the 'if-I-wet-myself-you-could-get-wet-too' look. (Sorry about the toilet humour. It has been a long day)

To bed to bed my sleepy head...