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.

faraway friends

Have you discovered that there are certain blogs you just keep coming back to above others? Have you found yourself drawn to someone's way of thinking, or the way they express themselves, or their sense of humour? Have you felt a sense of connection with another blogger in another town, another country, another continent, but felt unsure as to whether the connection was real?

I have often wondered what it would be like to meet a fellow blogger. Would they be as they seemed on their blog, or would I find them to be completely different to how they represented themselves in writing? Would we chat easily, or would the conversation seem forced and superficial? Would the experience be a thrill or a disaster?

Well, now I know. I had the opportunity to meet with an effervescent blond blogger whilst we were both on holiday, and she was just as I'd imagined.

We met for breakfast, and despite my fears that we would have some embarrassing sort of greeting along the lines of - "Are you...... are you, um?..... Are you a blogger? I mean, are you meeting...um..... another... well.....I'm Jellyhead anyway!", this thankfully did not occur.

I was quite nervous. I confessed this right away. Yet we chatted away for almost two hours, and I had a great time. I think I rambled on too much. I walked away wondering if my blogpal would report back to her husband that 'Jellyhead' was aptly named. I told myself not to worry because I knew my blogger friend was a positive and forgiving type.

From my point of view, the sense of friendship was not imagined. Even though we had never met before, it seemed we knew each other a little already - rather like you might feel seeing an old school friend you hadn't seen for years, but still remembered fondly.

It's incredible that you can meet and make friends that, but for the internet, you would never have known. It blows my mind, and it renews my faith in humankind.

wedged

I knew I'd gained a couple of kilos on holiday, but this fact became cruelly evident to me when, during a game of hide-and-go-seek with my kids, I became wedged in Ben's dirty clothes hamper.

After being 'found' by Ben, I tried valiantly to free myself. I wiggled and wriggled. Laura offered me a hand and tried to help. Nothing worked. I was stuck at the hips. I sent the children to get their father, who was glued to the football on TV.

From my seated position in the blue container, I could just discern the conversation in the TV room.

"Da-ad. Mum's stuck in Ben's dirty clothes basket."

"What? She's what?" (this snorted derisively)

"She's stuck! She tried to hide in there and now she can't get out!" (this accompanied by gleeful twittering laughter)

Muttering grumpily, and taking his time, Fatty stumped through the house to Ben's room. By now I was grinning widely. I can always lose those extra kilos, but I believe I have set a new record for klutziness, and that can never be taken from me.

Fatty began to smile despite himself. "How on earth did you expect to fit in there?", he scolded. I gave no reply, merely lifting my arms up in supplication. Fatty pulled and heaved. My bottom remained firmly stuck within the depths of Ben's laundry bin. Fatty sighed, and tried lifting me from under my arms. Still I stayed hunkered-down tight. By now I was giggling, and Fatty's frustration only made me laugh more.

"We'll have to lay you down", decided Fatty, as he eased the laundry hamper into a reclining position. I was by this stage weak with laughter. Finally, I came unstuck, worming my way to freedom and lying leaking tears of mirth on Benjamin's bedroom floor.

I haven't laughed that much since Laura did her puffer fish imitation.

tropical tripping

Last year, around this time, my dear friend Chooky whisked me away for a birthday treat weekend up north. We sat on the beach and talked, we dangled our legs in the pool whilst drinking mango daiquiris, we ate lunch on a veranda looking straight out to the azure blue waters you can see in this photo. That night we ordered room service, drank hot chocolate with marshmallows, and watched 'Under the Tuscan Sun' on DVD.

I should make it clear that Chooky is not a wealthy woman. She just scrimped and saved to do something truly special for me. Most years we celebrate each others' birthdays with cards and small, inexpensive gifts. Sometimes we make more of a fuss, and last year was the fuss to end all fusses. I had such a brilliant time. And I was so blown away by the beauty of the place that I vowed to drag husband and kids to the same town one day.

So, one year later, I am travelling with my small family in tow, back to this wondrous place. It will be a different sort of holiday - less lolling and chatting, and more snorkelling, swimming and sandcastling. But there'll still be that blue water and that soft sunshine.There'll still be that fine white sand to walk along, hand in hand with my husband, as we watch the kids run ahead of us.

I say bring it on.

gastrointestinal grievances (warning - graphic details may offend or cause significant queasiness)

If it's not the dog's vomit that plagues me it's my children's. I suppose I should be grateful that until last night, neither dog nor child had spewed for a few months, but when my daughter hurls on the half hour for most of the night, I am nowhere near grateful. I'm not exactly grumpy, though, because after all I'm not the poor little body wracked with wretching. I am merely the holder of the bucket, the passer of tissues, the cleaner and the comforter. Much worse to be the bucket-filler. Still, I am weary. I need to sleep tonight in case tomorrow night brings another chundering child. Or heaven forbid, a sick moi. I am no good at vomiting. I have no style; no guts (he he) and definitely no glory.

Although I consider myself fairly stoic (rightly or wrongly), I admit to being a complete wimp when it comes to my stomach. I can go to work with a thumping migraine, I've walked around on a broken leg as a kid, I've given birth with but a whiff of gas. But give me a touch of nausea and I am a whimpering baby, a wuss, a sook. When I reach that point where I know that everything I've eaten is coming back to greet me, I feel panicky and desperate. I'd sell my first-born to stop the whole nasty business (well, maybe not my first-born but absolutely my dog). I mutter and shiver and shake and feel like bawling. I'm pathetic.

My son has inherited his mother's lack of vomit aplomb. He cries. He begs me to tell him when it will all end. He shakes and quakes just like his old ma.

My daughter is a calm, serene spewer. She coughs, spits, rinses then rests. She doesn't complain - I suppose she sees no point.

I feel a bit of a fraud bemoaning my lack of sleep last night, when it was not me bringing up my dinner with odd assorted chunks of what may have been pancreas. Really I ought to just go to bed and be glad I'm not (yet) ill.

Wish me luck (because I've grown quite fond of the dog)

planet of the apes

So, today I found myself standing up in front of a very large crowd (several hundred people), doing a gorilla impersonation. This is where my life has taken me.

Fatty, Laura, Ben and I were singled out by the compere of a large theme park (mean! mean! mean compere!) and I didn't want to be a party pooper.

I wasn't very good.

interference

You know, I don't get annoyed easily. Well, maybe I do, but I'm certainly not the type to get furious at the drop of a hat. And when I do get peeved, I am usually over it pretty quickly. I either say my piece, or I make myself think about what difficulties the other person may be dealing with, and that snaps me out of being angry. But this week I've been bothered by a couple of things, and I'm still stewing.

The first annoyance began when a patient, 'Victoria', returned to see me after trying a medication I'd prescribed her. I asked her how she was going with her tablets - were there any problems? Victoria reported that the medication itself wasn't bothering her, but that it was hard to remember to take it for 3 nights on, 3 nights off. I frowned. "The chemist told me to take it that way", Victoria explained. I felt myself getting steamed-up.

"Well, that's unusual", I replied. "This was a prescribed medication. The chemist should call me to discuss it if they feel there's a problem with the directions." And indeed that would be the professional thing to do. However, this chemist, without even having the courtesy to conference with me, had advised a patient of mine to take her medication in a fashion which will mean she never gets the full effect. Victoria may as well be taking jellybeans for all the good it will do her taken in this way.

I am the first to admit that a good chemist is the saviour of many a patient. There have been a few occasions where a chemist has called me to check my prescription directions, and has saved me from giving my patient an excessive dose of a medication. None of these medications would have caused a fatality, but they would have made the patient feel pretty awful. And as much as I try my best to be safe and careful, one day I could make a mistake that has the potential to kill a patient. Chemists watch for these errors, and they truly save lives, and save our doctoring butts.

That said, I object to having my directions completely over-ruled, without so much as a phone call. It is rude, it is presumptuous, and it has been to the detriment of Victoria. And I think I need to make a quiet phone call and politely express my thoughts about what occurred.

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

I was tucking Laura into bed last night, and had already kissed her goodnight when she called me back. "Mum?"

"What, love?" I enquired.

"Mrs D (the librarian at Laura's school) says 8 o'clock is too late to go to bed".

My frown from earlier in the week reappeared.

"Don't worry sweetie, she's not your parent", I soothed.

"But she says it's too late for going to sleep", Laura persisted.

"Well, she's not your parent", I reiterated. "Daddy and I will decide what's best for you".

I felt my annoyance rise anew against the chemist, and now against this teacher, too - advising my patients, and my daughter, without knowing the full details. The chemist did not know the full clinical details of my patient's condition. And this teacher does not know that Fatty & I have been trying to deal with Laura's nighttime insomnia, because of which Laura has been lying awake from her 7:30 bedtime until 8:45 or 9 pm most nights, tossing & turning. Mrs D doesn't know that we have recently instigated a new plan involving making sure Laura gets plenty of exercise each day, playing soft lulling music in her room at bedtime, and putting her to bed a little later, so she has less time to toss & turn. This may end up being a temporary measure, until her anxiety about getting to sleep dies down. But last night Laura was asleep within 20 minutes, and that has been a huge relief for both her, and for Fatty and I.

I would be happy for a chemist, or a teacher, to raise an issue with me. There have certainly been times when I have taken on board advice from either of these professional groups, and changed my way of doing things. I just don't like it being done behind my back.

This tirade is now over.

innocence

I took my daughter shopping for shoes today. It's getting too cold for sandals, and black school shoes are not acceptable casual footwear for discerning seven-year-olds. We bought a pair of lurid hot pink sparkly sneakers. And then, as you do when you are sucked into the vortex that is a large shopping complex, we ended up looking around more, buying more. Purple flannelette PJ's with dogs on them for Laura, and a stripey blue jumper for Ben.

After a couple of hours of shopping, we stopped for coffee (for me) and hot chocolate (for Laura). We sat peaceably opposite one another, chatting and people-watching by turns. Laura acquired chocolate crescent shapes at either side of her mouth.

Eventually we headed for the car. Laura remarked that when she got home, she'd like to lie on her bed and read. "Oh yes, me too, " I rejoined eagerly.

"You can't lie on my bed to read, " Laura corrected gently.

"Yes, I can!", I argued. "If you scrunch over, we can lie side by side, and each read our books on your bed". Warming to my theme I added, "And when there's an interesting bit, or a funny part, we can read it out loud to each other!"

Laura paused, and then mused, "Well, yes, we could do that. You could read bits to me if they were appropriate for me to hear".

I laughed to hear this small girl speaking in such a dignified manner. Leaning down, I hugged her around the ribs and tickled her. "If it's appropriate, hey Louey?!". She sounded so grown-up.

"Well," Laura persisted, "you might not read it to me if was about someone being injured. Or if someone in the story was saying rude things.... like 'rack off you moron!'."

Just as Laura blurted the words 'rack off you moron!', a man walked past us, and did a double take. Meantime, I walked hand-in-hand with Laura, and marvelled at her innocence. Somehow I thought the world would have tarnished her more by now.

I know that this can't last. But for now I revel in my daughter's trust and purity. I kiss Laura's soft forehead and feel a thickness in my throat. She is all that is good in the world.

Allen

He seemed to appear from nowhere. One minute I was sitting at the long, low table, drinking wine with some old high-school friends, and the next minute he was there.

I didn't see him arrive in his too-big checked suit. I didn't see him lay his cane down, resting on the bench seat beside him. But I glanced up from conversation and there he was - a wizened old gentleman, hunched at our table. It was 11 o'clock at night.

I stared, astonished. I was at a city bar, with music pumping, and lipsticked women chatting to business-shirted men. There were a few silver-haired men in their forties or fifties, but there were no Zimmer frames. This man who had joined our group was well into his eighties. I nudged my friend Kylie, who is divorced, and murmured that there was a new member at the table. She grinned and quipped, "I know you guys try to set me up with any man who is actually breathing, but I'm not sure that this guy is!" I followed her gaze. She was right! The octogenarian was leaning off at an angle, eyes drooping. Was he having a stroke? Had his heart stopped? Was he..... dead? I moved to get up, but just as I did, Mr Checked Suit sat upright. He blinked, and resumed examining his hands.

"I wonder if anyone has taken his order?", I worried out loud to Liz. I had only just met Liz, but I had already discovered she was smart and kind and brave. Liz didn't waste time worrying. The intrepid young Liz marched over, and sat down next to the elderly fellow. I watched as they conversed. Liz eventually disappeared into the bar, returning a few minutes later with a cup of coffee.

Liz had discovered that the suited man lived eight blocks away. He took his coffee with 5 sugars. When he gave Liz the money to buy the coffee, he had pulled out a wad of fifty dollar notes, and begun peeling off bills, telling Liz to buy drinks for herself and her friends. Liz had, of course, declined.

When Liz had asked the barman for a coffee with 5 sugars, the barman had cried, "Oh no! I forgot Allen's coffee!" The barman told Liz that Allen owned a huge chunk of nearby inner city land, and that he came to the bar every night for a cup of coffee.

I like to know that there are always these lovely quirky souls in the world who refuse to fit the stereotypes. I like to know that Allen can wander down at almost midnight and drink coffee at a city bar, where the barman knows his name, and knows how many sugars to put in his coffee.

I like that people are endlessly surprising, and that there truly is magic in everyday life.

love in a cold climate

Yeah, yeah, I'm a bad dog. So what? You still feed me.

Sometimes I almost hate our dog Millie. My regular readers know this already. When this 'family' pooch snapped at my infant daughter, (for taking a nut Millie was chewing on) I was furious. When Millie bit the friendly builder who stuck his hand through from the neighbour's yard, I was mortified. When I find her sleeping on the living room couch, and she merely raises her eyes to me, but doesn't budge, I despair of her awful canine behaviour. And when Millie burrows under the fence into the neighbour's yard (a new habit she's acquired), I'm well aware that it's not just Fatty and I who are seething with irritation. But just when I think she is a nasty mutt who cares for nothing except food, she softens my heart with proof that underneath all that acting out, there is genuine affection for her owners.

This morning, I braved the snow, icicles and blizzards (although I could be exaggerating again) to go buy bread. Millie was already inside the house, luxuriating in the warmth of our small heater, curled up on her comfy dog cushion near the back door. She gazed at me hopefully as I put my shoes on, and then looked doggy-disappointed when I reached for the car keys. I strode callously out the front door, without a backward glance.

I returned with a still-warm loaf, my breath smoky in the chill morning air as I rushed from the car back to the house. And there sat Millie, waiting for me on the veranda. She leapt to her feet as I arrived, tail wagging enthusiastically. In spite of the fact the rest of the family were awake and clustered in the cosy kitchen, Millie had chosen to keep watch for her mistress out in the cold. I bustled into the kitchen, telling Fatty about our winter-braving watchdog. "She loves me!", I exclaimed. "She really does love me!" I'm such a sucker for love.

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

Later in the morning, I passed Laura's doorway and noticed a small note stuck to the outside of her uniform.

Before I reveal the contents of the note, I should explain that lovely Louey has been in trouble a few times a week lately - mainly for being forgetful. Water bottles are left behind, hats lost, library books not packed (and all this despite repeated reminders). Even the daily things - such as hanging her bag & hat, and retrieving her reading folder on arrival at school - are regularly undone or half done (she'll walk away with hat still on, or without remembering anything to take into class). It's not deliberate - she's just a dreamy soul - but sometimes it drives her parents spare, and we get cranky with Laura-Lou.

Today I had to grasp the very sharp metal object that had penetrated my heart, and rip it painfully back out. Because this is what Laura's handwritten note said:

1) be good

2) be kind

3) try hard

4) be sencabal (sensible)

Laura, my sweet Louey. Forgive me for my own impatience. Forgive me for making you feel anything less than wonderful, just as you are.