finding the silver lining

This morning it occurred to be that although I can be a worrier, I'm probably not the closet pessimist I always thought I was.
I mean, would a true pessimist look at these skies......

...... and hang these clothes?..........

I think not.

P.S. It hasn't rained yet either!

New Year

I find myself starting 2009 with a curious mixture of anticipation and trepidation. I'm looking forward to many things, and yet I am fearful of others. I am counting all my blessings, but looking over my shoulder as well. I know the anxiety is pointless, because 'que sera sera' - it's just how I am right now. I think having my brother in a war zone is messing with my head a bit. But he has made it in safely, and his position does not put him at the front line. Of course, I still worry.

It's been fun having time at home with my kids, as they enjoy their school holidays. Laura is drawing some fabulous, inventive pictures, and mucking about with plasticine. Benjamin is reading more every day, and watching documentaries about animals mating ('Whoops!' I thought as I actually watched to see what he was viewing. Thankfully, no pertinent questions followed). We all have fun playing soccer in the backyard, and playing 'Three of a Crime' (a card game) whilst lazing around on our living room rug.

Christmas was actually very easy this year - cold meats and salads, no fussing, no family tensions ..... lovely! My dear Fatty gave me a book on creative writing which I am devouring. It's amazing how some simple advice has made me want to write, write, write. I am scribbling away secretively. We shall see whether anything worthwhile comes out!

Now it is well and truly 2009. I hope you have all had some time to relax over the holiday season. Thank you for reading my blog and for all your kind, funny and interesting comments.

I wish you each a year full of happiness.

dear diary

Sunday:

Under the water I went, down to the blue-grey depths of the pool where it was quiet and half-lit, like the ocean. I swam breaststroke, pulling at the water with strong arms, kicking in great powerful sweeps. It was silent save for my own bubbling and swishing sounds. I thought of my friend fifi, who is part woman, part fish - I thought this is what she loves, this privacy and secrecy and intimacy in water. I felt hidden and invincible, and I wanted to stay down there all afternoon. When my need for air became too urgent, I burst to the surface in a great eruption of foam and pale flesh and trailing wet hair. Breathed in gulps, then more calmly. Then back under I went, like an addict.



Monday:

Like a traditional husband, I came home from work to find dinner being served. I sat with Fatty and the kids on the back deck and watched the fruit bats come winging past, to roost in trees near and far. The air was warm and soft on my skin. Laura and Ben were giggly and exuberant. Later, I read aloud to the children - Winnie the Pooh, from a childhood edition of mine, all tattered and smelling of dust and days gone by.



Today:

We boarded the train, my kidlets and I, and we stood in the foyer (if trains can have foyers), hanging on to rails. A woman sat nearby, in a pretty knee-length red dress and high heeled sandals, with ankle-high stockings on. I was mesmerised and fascinated. This lady was attractive, and otherwise well-dressed. She sat quietly reading, and gave no outward signs of mental illness. She looked like she wore the foot stockings simply because it suited her; they were comfortable, maybe cooler than pantyhose? She obviously didn't care that they looked odd. I didn't know whether to despair of her dress sense, or to admire her nonchalance.



The art gallery visit, much maligned by my son beforehand, was a great success. I decided that artists exist in another dimension altogether - their imaginations are exaggerated and immense; more creative and expansive and wondrous than my mind can even grasp. I am awed. My children were awed. We stared and gasped and pointed. I am still thinking over what I've seen.

innocent remarks

I'm not sure if all kids are this weird or if mine are weirder than most. They do have my DNA after all.

This is what my son said to Fatty and I, apropos of nothing, as we all sat eating dinner tonight.

"So! What do you think about each other since you've married?"

We both almost choked on the spaghetti, and I'm sure I snort-laughed. I went running for a pen so I could write down Ben's latest quote. When I returned, Fatty was soberly telling Ben that he was quite happy with his decision so far. (Quite happy? I needled. Just 'quite' happy? Not really happy, or plain happy? Just 'quite' happy??)

It was all laughter and happiness and fun and games, and 'isn't Ben funny' indulgence. And then Ben came up with his second quotable quote for the evening, as I was standing in shirt & undies, ironing a pair of pants to wear to a work meeting.

Ben (approaching me, peering at my legs): Are you wearing stockings?

Me: No, why?

Ben: Oh, no, you're not. So why are your legs all crinkled?

Me: (inwardly cursing my cellulite, hating my cellulite, wishing I had killer thighs and a bouncy butt) Oh, that's just what happens to legs as they get older.

Fatty looms around the corner grinning silently, herding Ben towards the bath before he can crush my self-image further.

Gulp.

I am not my cellulite. I am an intelligent, interesting, independent woman and it shouldn't matter what my legs look like.

Double gulp.

morning glory

My dog may be a grumpy old beagle who snarls if I try to trim her toenails, but she is very attuned to her owner. As I lay sleepless in bed in the early hours of this morning, she barked dutifully at the paper delivery van - something she never does. She sleeps below our bedroom, and she must have sensed I was awake. I am strangely fond of that narky old mutt.

Too much coffee yesterday has undone me. From midnight onwards I slept only in fits and starts. By five am I gave up on sleep, and simply lay thinking. As much as I like to get enough rest, there is something exciting about being the only one awake in the household; I can think with no risk of interruption.

I thought of Mama, my maternal grandmother, and I thought of her quiet laugh, the glass of sherry she often drank as she made herself dinner, her cornflower blue eyes, and her face at the moment when she died. I thought of watching my daughter on stage tonight at her dance concert; how she moves her little body with grace, while her face shows every anxious thought. I thought of my patient yesterday who unexpectedly told me I'd made her feel 'a million dollars'. I thought of how trying to Christmas shop for my brother makes me want to cry. I thought of my friend, Belly, and the incredibly gentle guidance she gives me when I need advice.

I tiptoed out of the master bedroom, feeling the lure of writing. I sit in a silent house, gazing out the window. The sky is the colour of faded jeans and the sun is sparkling on leaves and grass and flowers.

It's a new day, full of possibility and promise.

moustaches

Here in Australia, and in other countries around the world, the month of November has become a time for all men who are so inclined to grow moustaches. The idea has been generated by the Movember foundation, which aims to raise awareness of men's health issues, focusing particularly on prostate cancer and depression. Community-minded, caring and hirsuit individuals grow moustaches, and request that friends, family and colleagues donate to the foundation in support. Non-moustache-growers often give generously, whilst sniggering, hooting, and teasing the mo-grower unmercifully. I often wonder how permanently-moustached gentlemen feel during the general ridicule of the month of 'Movember'.

Schools sell fake moustaches to raise revenue, and my children will buy theirs today. They've been discussing what type they'll purchase (it seems there are different styles available for purchase. And here I thought a mo was a mo)

I give you the above information not because I am a good person who is aiming to promote men's health. I wish I was! I wish I'd thought of this as a genuine topic before now, but no! I am merely leading in to a comment made yesterday by my 6-year-old son. This is what he said to me:

"If you're a big person, and you have something wrong with you, or a moustache, would it be hard to get married?"

Seems a moustache rates right up there with a disability. Please dig deep.

thinking of you

She brought you home, swaddled against the biting cold, and laid you in the middle of the double bed. You slept there, wrapped up like the most unassuming gift - my brother. I felt expanded and light with sheer happiness; I felt as if I should hold my breath in awe. I slipped in every few minutes to watch your tiny chest rise and fall, to be sure you were alive and well.

Your head was dusted with the faintest blond fuzz. You smelt like warmth and comfort. I slipped my index finger into your curled-up hand, and you gripped on tightly. In my eight-year-old innocence, I believed this reflex hold meant you wanted me there. I stayed a long time, hunched over the bed awkwardly. I began right then to understand unconditional love; the ferocious and protective love I would have for you then and have to this day.

You have grown and gone now, far from here. You don't need my protection or care; you have a family yourself. You are no longer the chubby blond baby; you have grown beyond the shyly smiling, amiable small boy; you are stronger and more confident than the laughing, gangly teen. You are an adoring husband, a besotted father, and a military man who has been promoted quickly through the ranks. People like you; they are drawn to your understated leadership, your quiet assertion and wisdom. You are a good man.

Soon you will head into a volatile battle zone for several months. I know you are keen to play a part and to apply your years of training, and I am proud of you for your skill and courage. But fear clots in my throat and my stomach aches. And when I touch the soft blond head of my son as he sleeps, I think of you, my faraway brother, and my cheeks are wet.

Stay safe, be careful. Tell your enemies to beware your big sister.

Know that the delight I felt when first we met is undiminished.

sneaking back in

I guess when you post as infrequently as I've been, no-one thinks you're dead/ill/seriously depressed when you don't post for a month. No-one leaves worried little messages saying 'Hello Jelly? Are you OK?'. Which is a good thing, because I am none of the above. However, it does make me realise that I need to write more often. After all, I have gotten to know (in a fashion) lots of lovely bloggers out there, and it seems my communication with you all has been slowly slipping away.

Like everyone, I get to feeling overwhelmed by the demands of work and home and life in general. I wrote an e-mail to a good friend of mine saying, tongue in cheek, "I've decided I don't want to see any patients who are sick. I want to see only happy, healthy ones, and even then only rarely." Sounds awful, doesn't it? In truth I think I was just a little burnt-out; in need of a break from work.

So part of the reason for not writing has been that we took a ten day holiday. Much to the shock of other parents at the school (some of whom actually tutt-tutted me!), this holiday was taken during school term. The photo above shows what our kids were doing instead of being at school. (Fatty and I like to think of education in more flexible terms!)

So anyway, I'm back - both physically and in spirit. I'll be visiting you all very soon.

farming out the kids

We headed off to Mum's farm on the weekend. It was overcast, and even drizzling at times, but the kids (ours, and our friends' son) didn't let that dampen their enthusiasm (smirk).

Laura and Ben made friends with Mum's latest rehabilitation projects - a pair of wallabies being prepared for release back into the wild.

Our friends' son wisely declined to swim (it was cold!), but our two took off up the creek on their boogie boards as if it was delightful, balmy weather.

The two boys were thrilled to be allowed to pick the last of the carrots (Mum saved them especially so the kids could pick them). The carrots were inspected, held aloft, washed under the tap outside, and then rapidly consumed. Vegetables never tasted this good!

The native flowers showed off their vibrant colours ............

and of course no visit is complete without a disinterested glance from one of Mum's cows.

Thanks Mum. We love to escape to the peace and solitude of your bush retreat.

dance party

We had a disco at our place last night.

I wore a purple dress with gold lame pants and gold platform shoes. The kids wore their version of disco clothes. We turned up the music in the kitchen, loud.

Laura left Fatty a note on the bed, on top of a silver 'Peter Allen' sequinned shirt. The note read:

"Put this on NOW and join us for the dance party!"

There was grooving and moving to 'Hot Stuff' and 'Give it Up', until we heard Fatty come in the front door, when we danced wildly to 'We Are Family'.

Despite having been at work for 11 hours, dear Fatty dutifully put on his bling, and even wiggled his butt for the camera. I knew there was a good reason I married this man.

We stayed in full disco attire for dinner. I felt slightly conspicuous wandering out on the back deck to pick parsley but I decided it was my civic duty to entertain the neighbours.

Brushing his teeth before bed, Ben sighed contentedly, "I've had so much fun tonight." I smiled, and had to agree.

in stitches

I think my son Ben may have been watching too many wildlife shows.

You would think the fact might have dawned on me when Ben chose to dress as David Attenborough for the fancy dress school disco. Every other boy was dressed in some sort of superhero outfit, while my son wore beige dress pants, a blue button-up shirt, and had his hair slicked over in a side-part. Nice.

I finally twigged that Ben's brain has been overtaken by documentaries when the following exchange took place:

Laura: Mum, have you ever had stitches?

Me: No, I don't think so

Ben: Yes you have, Mum. Remember? - you had stitches after giving birth to live young.

If that's not a statement to make a gal feel glamorous I don't know what is.

in sickness and in health

In general I'm a peace-loving sort of woman. Except when sparring at karate. Or when arguing with my husband. Except for those situations, I do try to be accommodating and understanding; I'm happy to 'go with the flow', as they say.

At work I am certainly no tough nut. If a patient tells me they've been sick, even if they appear to be thriving with good health, I tend to give them the benefit of the doubt. After all, some symptoms aren't readily apparent to the observer. A person may have pain, or nausea, and I have no way of assessing this definitively. Similarly, I try to be generous when a patient has emotional distress and doesn't feel able to attend work. I wouldn't say I'm a pushover, but I'm certainly not hard-line. If a patient is just feeling overwhelmed by life and is completely stressed-out, a day or two off work may prevent them spiralling downwards, and needing several weeks off work. I'm happy to supply a medical cerificate.

I can only recall a few instances in my working career in which I have refused to give a medical certificate. One I clearly recall was when a cheery young man told me he was going fishing the next day, and requested a medical certificate to cover him for the day. I had to try hard not to laugh as I refused this request. (I mean, couldn't he have at least tried to invent a sore throat, a stomach pain, something?!)

Then last week, there was Unhappy Chappie*. Mr UC came to see me with a long list of requests - scripts, referrals, results and the like. I scurried to try to fulfil Mr UC's wishes. After twenty minutes, I had whizzed through it all, and was wrapping up the consultation. He then piped up with one more query:

"Could I have a medical certificate for the next couple of days please?"

"Why? " I queried, concerned (and also imagining further lengthy discussions about this new problem!). "Are you ill?"

"No", Mr UC replied blithely. "It's just that I've taken today off to trim all my hedges right back, and I always get a sore back the next day, so ... I take another day off afterwards."

I blinked. For a minute I was speechless. Then I ventured tentatively, "So, is your back any worse than usual at the moment?"

"No. No, it's fine right now. It's just that I like to get the hedges done in one fell swoop, and the weekends can be busy, so..... you know..... I take the full day, no kids around, get it done." I sat, stunned. "And then I pay for it the next day", he finished.

"Well," I began gently, "I can give you a certificate saying you attended for a doctor's appointment today. But I can't give you a certificate saying you're sick. Because you're not sick in any way."

Mr UC's eyebrows shot up. He glared at me. "But Dr Doodlehead* always used to give me a certificate for this. Every spring!".

I smiled wanly. "Um, well ...... I can't speak for Dr Doodlehead, but ...... it's not legal for me to give you a certificate to trim your hedge. And if your back gets so sore from doing all the hedges in a one day, then .... as harsh as it sounds .... perhaps you shouldn't be doing it all in one go."

Mr UC's eyeballs bulged. He muttered to himself something about 'Dr Doodlehead never had a problem with this'. He seemed to simmer down though, and took his prescriptions, and thanked me as he left. But later that day, the practice manager e-mailed me, saying 'I just had a complaint from a most unreasonable man. See me about this sometime."

Anyone who knows me would know that I am not a person brimming with self-confidence. I have an average amount of confidence, I suppose, but with my work is probably an area where I have the least confidence. I have had patients complain about me a few times in the past, and it has always upset me quite a lot, and made me question myself. But this day last week, when I got the e-mail, I just laughed. I laughed out loud in my room, and I decided not to spend a moment worrying about displeasing this gentleman. Because you can't please everyone, and you can't trim their hedges either.



*Patient and minor incidental details have been changed to protect the guilty!

on being the Mum

Now & then, when telemarketers ring, they mistake me for a child. I answer the phone as I always do: "Hello, Jelly speaking!", and they respond sweetly, "Oh hi! Is your Mum or Dad there?". I usually pause, laugh, and then assure them that I actually am an adult of the house. As they bumble and stumble over their words, I briskly dispatch them, telling them we are in the middle of dinner/I'm at home with a sick child/I'm just not interested in their product - whichever excuse happens to be true at the time.

Today, a young man telephoned. I answered in my usual way, and he politely stated his name, and his company, then asked if my parents might be around. A little tired, a little testy, I sighed and snapped, "I'm the Mum!". Then, realising just how silly that sounded, I added quickly, "and I'm not interested in re-financing the mortgage".

Not missing a beat, the young chappie chirped, "Well, take it as a compliment!"

"Mmm", I humphed. "Thanks anyway. Bye."

I hung up and began to grin. My words echoed back to me in my mind. "I'm the Mum!" I repeated to myself incredulously. I rang my husband at work, giggling. "I just told a telemarketer 'I'm the Mum'!", I snickered. Fatty didn't seem to find it particularly funny.

Perhaps I am over-tired. Perhaps I am losing it. Perhaps I am snowed-down under the weight of cooking and scouring the bath and ironing and homework and folding and swimming lessons and work and childrens naughtiness and husbandly misdeeds. I've finally cracked and my family will be very sorry they were ever less than deeply loving towards me. Because dammit, I'M THE MUM!!!

crash

There we were, having a perfectly lovely Sunday. There she was, silently coasting away from us down the hill, as Fatty and I chatted to a friend who'd chanced by the same playground.

There was a godawful crash of metal-on-metal. "What was that?", one of us exclaimed. I moved around to where I could see the metal pedestrian bridge. There was a kid on a bike, sprawled over. Our friend, who was closest, ran down to help, Fatty following. I stayed where I was, thinking there were plenty of helpers. Then I saw the green shirt, and heard her begin to cry, quietly. My girl.

I dashed down. She had stopped crying already, but was pale and sweaty. Her chin was dripping blood. I held the gaping cut together with my bare hands to stop the bleeding. Fatty ran off to get the car.

In the ED, they joked with her and checked her over. Her jaw was tender and swollen just near her left ear; she couldn't open her mouth far. The doctor suspected a fractured jaw and I felt slightly sick, but the Xray came back clear. The jaw was only badly jarred. Sweet relief!

Laura lay still and dry-eyed as the doctor injected the local anaesthetic. She closed her eyes and said not a word as he stitched and snipped, stitched and snipped. We took her home and she went straight to sleep, uncomplaining.

Later she woke, whimpering and sweating, her eyes wild and scared. It took me ten minutes to calm the shaking.

Now she is languishing at home on her soft diet of yoghurt and mashed potato. I am kissing her and stroking her cheek and telling her she is the best daughter I've ever had, which makes her laugh.

It's good to hear that laugh.

nothing much is really something

The book I am reading right now................





The people I am spending the morning with....

The dog I am forgiving for stealing the last piece of date loaf .................

The flowers in my world........

Nothing too exciting going on here folks, but that's a good thing.

Mama's funeral was beautiful. The readings were words from her children, and words Mama had written herself. The mood was respectful, loving, sad and humorous all at once. Afterwards, my brother and sister and brother-in-law all congregated at our place. We had lunch together, and sat around chatting and drinking coffee. Ben showed off his burgeoning reading skills; Laura offered some of her more intricate drawings to be duly admired. Photo albums were pored over, and we discussed the funeral, and Mama.

Last night I made homemade pizzas and read to the kids lying down in bed.

Tonight I'm off to the movies with Fatty.

Tomorrow we're going bike riding, then having friends over for drinks and a sunset dinner on our back deck.

It's more than enough for me.

she is

On my way home from the nursing home today, I stopped at traffic lights. As I waited, I pressed the buttons on my phone, sending my friend a text message. The last word of the 3-word message kept coming up wrong - at least it was not what I was intending to say. Although I kept pressing 'options', somehow each 'wrong' message struck me as incredibly true and right.

My message said this:

'She is good'

then

'She is home'

then, finally, what I was trying to say all along

'She is gone'.




Mama, my darling Mama, may you fly free and rest easy.

a close shave

I'm often running late. Not more than five minutes usually, but just a wee bit late. If I set my mind to it, I can be perfectly on time, of course. It's sheer laziness when I time things too finely, not allowing for lost hats, the applying of sunscreen, or the kids' last-minute toilet stops.

My running-latedness extends to school drop-off, too. I'd say fifty percent of the time I'm just 2 or 3 minutes late dropping off Ben (he starts earlier than his sister). Usually there are other kids still arriving, and the teacher is still chatting to parents or children. I tell myself it's not such a big deal.

My children, however, are not impressed when we are running late. They hate being bustled along, and they hate the thought of not being punctual. (Bloody neurotic kids - where do they get that from? Don't answer that please it was a rhetorical question) Laura once asked me plaintively, "Why are we always late for school?". I snapped, "We are not always late for school! And anyway, if you stopped dancing around in your underpants instead of getting dressed, we'd probably be on time!". Suitably chastened (or perhaps just frightened into submission), Laura gave up her protest as we pulled up to the school. Three minutes late.

The truth is that it's usually my fault when we're late. I get wrapped up reading blogs, or I take too long to make the lunches (do these kids of mine really appreciate my fancy salad wraps? I sincerely doubt it), or I just can't get my hair to look fit for public viewing. So I try to admit this to the kids, and apologise.

Last Friday, we were properly late. I'd taken extra time to wash my hair, and to shave my legs (lest I turn into some sort of hairy wildebeest). We arrived to find the class seated, and the roll being taken. I kissed Ben and told him to have a good day. He scuttled in, anxious to be marked as present.

I was chatting quietly with another mother when the teacher aide burst out of the classroom. She was breathless and laughing.

"Ben just told us it wasn't his fault he was late - it was because his mum had to shave her legs".

I think I may have been taught a lesson.

Shave your legs in utmost secrecy.

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

Last-minute addition: Feeling somewhat shamed by all these very punctual commenters, I must add that I am never late for work (in fact I always get there early to check results etc), and I am never late if meeting someone out somewhere. So obviously I am capable of being efficient, if I only shave early enough!!

hearing right

I've been trying to become a better listener.

I read in a book recently that to listen to someone fully and attentively is to give the other person one of the most precious gifts in the world. Reading those words struck a chord. I thought yes. Oh yes.

My closest friends are all incredible listeners. When I have a problem, they focus. They hear me out; they take time to comprehend. They let me express my fears. And this time and kindness that they give to me is of untold value. I believe that without their friendship, I would find life wearying and difficult.

My children seem to talk to me an awful lot, as I suppose all children do. They tell me what they've read, they ask me how to spell words as they write, they ask obscure questions which stump me and secretly frustrate me. Sometimes the flow of endless chatter feels like a tidal wave of words, and I want to shout "STOP! Stop this infernal talking!" Yet at the same time I am delighted that I am still privy to their worries, their queries and their day-to-day stories. And I want to be someone to whom they can speak, knowing that I will give them my full attention whenever possible. I want them to say, when they are grown, that they always knew they could talk to their mum.

At work, I listen to people all day. I hear their problems, I ask questions and hear their answers to my probing. There is a lot of conversing involved. Because a lot of talking occurs, I sometimes kid myself that I'm a brilliant listener. I begin to believe that I am well on the way to winning the inaugural Australian GP Listening Trophy 2008. Then I catch myself wondering what I'll cook for dinner, or I hear myself butt into the patient's story with a premature question, or I ask something my patient has already told me. Occasionally I ask the same question three times. Oh yes sirree, there is plenty of room for improvement here.

I suspect I am even worse at home. After all, I have already, in my delusional mind, won the listening trophy at work, and by the time I've lugged that sucker home, I'm exhausted. Fatty tells me about his footy team's injuries and I make vague 'hmmmm' noises, as if that should suffice. Laura tells me her dream from the previous night blow by blow and I fight desperately to retain enough detail to sound like I was paying attention. Benjamin explains his drawing of underground worms to me at length, and I stare and exclaim at the wonderful squiggly creatures while my mind is figuring out when Laura's jazz ballet fees are due.

So lately I've been trying to pay more attention, and by doing this, to pay more respect - to the people I love, and to the patients who entrust me with their medical care. It's hard work, but I'm enjoying the challenge.

(No-one's awarded me any trophies yet, but I'm sure it's only a matter of time)

seeing the world

The beagle and I went walking today. It was late in the afternoon, a clear day, with just the slightest chill beginning to touch the air.

Only minutes into the walk, we encountered a white-haired older woman, walking her beagle. The two dogs snarled half-heartedly at each other, then subsided as they realised their owners were stopping to chat. The lady and I discussed beagles and their insatiable greed. The woman suddenly asked, "Is this Millie, from Smith Street?". When I replied in the affirmative, she smiled indulgently. "Oh, Ruby and Millie always growl at each other", she laughed. The two dogs stood staring off in opposite directions, like bored teenagers. The woman and I bade each other farewell. I was amused to realise that we knew our respective dogs' names, but not each others'.

I took a route past my friend Belly's house. I knew she and her family were out, but I walked past anyway. I felt a pang of loneliness. The dog and I passed by.

Up a steep road went Millie and I, to my very favourite street. It is a crescent at the top of a hill, and from there I can look out in all directions. The sun was glowing orange in the distance, turning the sky along the horizon a soft tangerine. I felt that surge of happiness that I always feel at the sight of natural beauty.

Down through suburbia the dog and I plunged. We passed a man and his son, kicking a football to each other across a quiet street. The boy, perhaps five or six, watched Millie and I intently as we strolled past. He piped up, "Dad, I wish I had a soccer dog!".
"One that likes to play soccer", he added, in explanation.
"Me, too", his father replied good-naturedly.
I grinned to myself as I strode along.

Closer to home, Millie and I passed a slim, athletic-looking couple. From a distance, I thought they were in their twenties. As we passed, I realised they were in their fifties. Their faces were a little lined, their hair was greying, but I could tell they had been a handsome couple in their youth. They were still a good-looking couple now. I wondered if they were ever sad; wondered if they ever missed the recognition that used to be given to them because of their younger glory. They nodded hello to me and kept talking amiably to each other. They didn't look sad at all.

Our street was bathed in every shade of yellow as the dog and I reached home.

missing

I miss everyone in my life.

What I mean is - I never have enough time to spend with anyone, so I miss everyone.

I'm tired.

I'm going to burrow under the doona.

I miss everyone.