*Draft*
My parents frustrate me enormously. The biggest issue is their decreased capacity for rationality as they get older. Sadly, this decline appears irrevocable. I'm sure this is a familiar story for children the world over.
But what a rich mine of comedy-gold this illogical behaviour brings! God bless them.
1. After a lifetime of upending most of the salt shaker's contents on every meal my father has heavily modified all aspects of his diet. And while this is a definite 'well-played sir' it has not been without controversy. There was the time we left the chicken shop without buying chicken - because they had run out of skinless chicken breasts. When I suggested to my father that we buy breasts with the skin on and simply remove these prior to cooking I was met with a withering, contemptuous stare. Apparently we needed the chickens whose breasts have never had skin covering them..After my sister and I recovered from our laughing fits dad was in no mood to purchase anything. We were lucky to get fish and chips on the way home.
2. And the time, well, it's every time actually, that we kids receive no information at all about things that are important. No Dad, I'm not exaggerating when I describe Mum's hospitalisation as an important issue. That required information to be shared among the family. I'm not asking for hourly updates via twitter, just a timely initial phone call.
This morning I received a voicemail from my father. I'd seen the incoming call from a blocked number and ignored it. Reviewing the message revealed the words that every child must prepare herself for but never wants to hear:
"It's Dad, I'm calling from the hospital.."
My mother is old, and somewhat sickly, so this is a refrain I have heard a few times over the years. But the initial feeling of dread while you wait for him to continue is simply awful. You're suddenly aware that your father's next few words may be confirming the death of your mother. Time stands still for a second or so, but that wait thwacks you hard in the stomach and makes you grip your mind. The only comparable feeling I know is when you have lost control of an automobile and are waiting for the moment of impact.
So, it turns out she is alive, but his message is otherwise short on detail. I duly ring the hospital and, after the obligatory ten minute period on hold, ask for the nurse's station in the cardio unit. I am eventually transferred, re-transferred, placed on hold again and then finally connected with, lo and behold, my father. He proceeds in his inimitable manner to, somehow, give me even less information than before - my father has an economics degree and I'm betting he topped the class when studying the theory of diminishing returns.
He then thrusts the phone at my mother as she is shuffling her way from the toilet to her bed. She sounds dreadful, but it is of course great to simply converse with her as 45 seconds previous I was steeling myself for news of her death. After perhaps 10 seconds of conversation she declares that she doesn't want to 'tie the phone up for the others' and that she is hanging up. Which she does, and with some efficiency too.
I am now a detective on a search for information. I try my sister, but she doesn't pick up. Temporarily beaten, I review my position and decide against ringing the cardio ward again.
Sunday, May 5, 2013
Monday, April 29, 2013
Umbrella Etiquette
*Draft*
Sometimes it's the simple things in life that us ordinary city folk seem to struggle with.
Like what to do with your umbrella when walking the crowded city streets. Just how hard can it be, I hear you ask? Hmm. Too hard for some. Thankfully, I've managed to distill an otherwise complex issue down to two easy rules:
Rule Number 1. How to carry a folded, or unopened umbrella. If your name is James Bond you may tuck your umbrella under your arm so that the point is aimed, chest high, at the person walking behind you. You can then vary the speed of your progress in order to stab these unfortunates through the heart.
If, however, your name is not James Bond then carry the damn thing with the point facing the ground.
Rule Number 2. How to carry an unfolded, or opened umbrella. In the normal course of events this will indicate that rain is falling. Which will, for some reason, inflict most people with a maniacal desire to rush around, cross against the lights, and bustle their way to the front of traffic light queues whilst simultaneously playing with their phone and generally just not paying the world attention. When people do all of this with an umbrella in one hand they unwittingly place themselves in the great city umbrella derby. These derbies are characterised by sudden (and often violent) clashes of umbrellas in the crowded congregation points of the city. And the increased risk of someone being poked in the eye..
In the face of this potential carnage, you can really only do one thing to avoid maiming a stranger. Raise your arm and thrust your brolly high. Come on people, it's not that difficult..
Sometimes it's the simple things in life that us ordinary city folk seem to struggle with.
Like what to do with your umbrella when walking the crowded city streets. Just how hard can it be, I hear you ask? Hmm. Too hard for some. Thankfully, I've managed to distill an otherwise complex issue down to two easy rules:
Rule Number 1. How to carry a folded, or unopened umbrella. If your name is James Bond you may tuck your umbrella under your arm so that the point is aimed, chest high, at the person walking behind you. You can then vary the speed of your progress in order to stab these unfortunates through the heart.
If, however, your name is not James Bond then carry the damn thing with the point facing the ground.
Rule Number 2. How to carry an unfolded, or opened umbrella. In the normal course of events this will indicate that rain is falling. Which will, for some reason, inflict most people with a maniacal desire to rush around, cross against the lights, and bustle their way to the front of traffic light queues whilst simultaneously playing with their phone and generally just not paying the world attention. When people do all of this with an umbrella in one hand they unwittingly place themselves in the great city umbrella derby. These derbies are characterised by sudden (and often violent) clashes of umbrellas in the crowded congregation points of the city. And the increased risk of someone being poked in the eye..
In the face of this potential carnage, you can really only do one thing to avoid maiming a stranger. Raise your arm and thrust your brolly high. Come on people, it's not that difficult..
Black Dog
*Draft*
I've spent my fair share of time with the emotional dejection we usually describe as depression. Oh yes, I had a real good go at it and for far too long.
The first thing requiring understanding is that being depressed is extremely hard work. It's a full-time occupation. Slackers need not apply, this is no nine to five position. It requires your unwavering attention, from eyes-open in the morning to eyes-shut late at night. I suspect a master's thesis requires less commitment.
Everything that you read and hear about it is true. The imagery of the black dog, the dark clouds; the feeling of helplessness; an inability to see a way forward. Worse, though, is the experience of feeling nothing at all. A standard day to day social interaction becomes a chore. The chance conversation with a stranger. The ordering of a coffee. The purchase of a good or service. All are a minefield to the emotionally dejected. Being weighed down by negativity does not assist with the niceties of greeting and small talk. It becomes a case of getting in and getting out while hoping for the least amount of conversation. It got to the point where I would dread being asked how I was, as I couldn't of course tell the truth - that's not part of the socially accepted contract. We always say we are 'well' or 'fine'. It is bad manners to reveal otherwise.
It's easier to hide it from friends and family. You become a master of emotional disguise. Or you simply lie. Living alone helps. When you withdraw from the social scene you can plead tiredness or play at being a homebody. In fact this tactical withdrawal is one of the simpler exercises you will face. Once you master that and establish your solitude you are free to play with the dejection and surrender to the voices in your head. Except that you don't. You do nothing. You are essentially paralysed, rooted to the chair or the couch or the bed. Whether you're being entertained by TV, music or a book, nothing really penetrates. The horrible status quo never changes. The misery is endless.
What they don't tell you is what you must face at the final hurdle. When the door to your soul re-opens and the sunlight finally returns. When the frost begins to melt. When the birds fly back and break again into song. Relapse.
It's not over 'til it's over..
I've spent my fair share of time with the emotional dejection we usually describe as depression. Oh yes, I had a real good go at it and for far too long.
The first thing requiring understanding is that being depressed is extremely hard work. It's a full-time occupation. Slackers need not apply, this is no nine to five position. It requires your unwavering attention, from eyes-open in the morning to eyes-shut late at night. I suspect a master's thesis requires less commitment.
Everything that you read and hear about it is true. The imagery of the black dog, the dark clouds; the feeling of helplessness; an inability to see a way forward. Worse, though, is the experience of feeling nothing at all. A standard day to day social interaction becomes a chore. The chance conversation with a stranger. The ordering of a coffee. The purchase of a good or service. All are a minefield to the emotionally dejected. Being weighed down by negativity does not assist with the niceties of greeting and small talk. It becomes a case of getting in and getting out while hoping for the least amount of conversation. It got to the point where I would dread being asked how I was, as I couldn't of course tell the truth - that's not part of the socially accepted contract. We always say we are 'well' or 'fine'. It is bad manners to reveal otherwise.
It's easier to hide it from friends and family. You become a master of emotional disguise. Or you simply lie. Living alone helps. When you withdraw from the social scene you can plead tiredness or play at being a homebody. In fact this tactical withdrawal is one of the simpler exercises you will face. Once you master that and establish your solitude you are free to play with the dejection and surrender to the voices in your head. Except that you don't. You do nothing. You are essentially paralysed, rooted to the chair or the couch or the bed. Whether you're being entertained by TV, music or a book, nothing really penetrates. The horrible status quo never changes. The misery is endless.
What they don't tell you is what you must face at the final hurdle. When the door to your soul re-opens and the sunlight finally returns. When the frost begins to melt. When the birds fly back and break again into song. Relapse.
It's not over 'til it's over..
Friday, October 15, 2010
Train Pain
I am a recent convert of the I-drive-my-car-to-work brigade. Wow. I had no idea it was like this. Dog eat dog. Or, dog ate dog - and then spat it out. There is a real 'not if I can cut you off first' mentality in the mornings. It's Sydneyesque. Chill the hell out people - it's only work you're rushing to and risking everyone's lives for. Some of those red lights that you guys run are almost green again....Sheesh..
Saturday, October 9, 2010
Street Cred. Part 1.
I've decided that I should carry a guitar when walking around the streets. Or, at the very least, a guitar case. At this point the plan is to definitely carry one pretty much anywhere I go on the weekends, and to probably carry one to work with me during the week.
Why, I hear you ask? Yes - I definitely heard you ask, let's not digress unnecessarily.
Because it looks cool (that's why). Ever so freakin' cool. Dress it up with a suit (yeah, I have big plans), dress it down with jeans; or shorts. Just take that baby with you. Everywhere. Playing tennis on the weekend? Don't forget the guitar. Ducking into the (in)convenience store for milk? Don't forget the guitar. Dropping 'round for a booty call? Don't forget the guitar. Important meeting at work with the boss reviewing KPI's and discussing xmas bonuses? Don't forget the god-damn guitar.
It's so simple. Why haven't I been carrying one up to now? More importantly, why haven't you?
Why, I hear you ask? Yes - I definitely heard you ask, let's not digress unnecessarily.
Because it looks cool (that's why). Ever so freakin' cool. Dress it up with a suit (yeah, I have big plans), dress it down with jeans; or shorts. Just take that baby with you. Everywhere. Playing tennis on the weekend? Don't forget the guitar. Ducking into the (in)convenience store for milk? Don't forget the guitar. Dropping 'round for a booty call? Don't forget the guitar. Important meeting at work with the boss reviewing KPI's and discussing xmas bonuses? Don't forget the god-damn guitar.
It's so simple. Why haven't I been carrying one up to now? More importantly, why haven't you?
Saturday, October 2, 2010
Winter 2010
Well then. Now that it's mostly over, I feel safe in the following remark: Is that your best Melbourne? That all you got? You can't make winter any colder, wetter, windier; any more disagreeable, distressing or just plain, downright torturous?
Is it that I had come off a 12 month sojourn in Brisbane and have thus become a little 'soft'? Was I, in the male athletic world's vernacular, a little 'gay' to begin with? Perhaps it was due to me being squirrelled away each day in a Southbank office block doing the 9-5 slog, and getting smashed by the frigid winter winds every time I ventured outside?
Or, was it the three nights each week that I spent outdoors as a sports coach, exposed both to the elements and the nightly tribulations foisted upon me by my athletes?
Just why the heck did I find winter 2010 such a damn struggle?
No matter really. It was freezing. All winter. Every night. Far too cold. Not happy Jan.
Is it that I had come off a 12 month sojourn in Brisbane and have thus become a little 'soft'? Was I, in the male athletic world's vernacular, a little 'gay' to begin with? Perhaps it was due to me being squirrelled away each day in a Southbank office block doing the 9-5 slog, and getting smashed by the frigid winter winds every time I ventured outside?
Or, was it the three nights each week that I spent outdoors as a sports coach, exposed both to the elements and the nightly tribulations foisted upon me by my athletes?
Just why the heck did I find winter 2010 such a damn struggle?
No matter really. It was freezing. All winter. Every night. Far too cold. Not happy Jan.
Wednesday, May 26, 2010
Mind Games for Foodies
I thought, you crafty little so-and-so. OK, this is war.
I will not be outplayed at the water cooler, and certainly not by THAT girl from the Account's section. I mean, who wears Culottes anymore - it's not the eighties honey...
"Crushed walnuts are OK" I replied, "but are they the Persian or Butternut variety? Did you know the butternut ones are extremely high in fat?" I watched her smile wobble for a moment before she regained her smugness.
"Oh, definitely the Persian ones" she replied, a little too gaily. "They're sooo expensive - but then all my greengrocer's produce is organic - do you buy organic?" Now it was my turn to falter. She stared at me evenly, as I withered ever so slightly. Temporarily beaten, I retreated to my usual fall back position of delivering the truth in economical portions. Sometimes, intemperate people call this lying.
"Oh yes. Have done for years." She tilted her head thoughtfully, seemingly awake to my every move. "Hmmm" she uttered softly, while her eyes screamed 'liar, liar'.
"Have you tried Goji berries?" Unshackling myself from the burden of honesty, I was inspired to turn defence into attack. "I've had so much more energy after eating a scoop of these every morning".
She brought her glass to her lips and drank. Was she now playing for time? I quickly pushed on, growing in strength, like a young lion circling a fallen prey. "It's really hard to get the genuine berries, I have them flown out from Tibet for me each week".
"Really", she replied, drawing the word out in preparation for her ambush: "I suppose the Dalai Lama brings them out for you in person?"
Bitch. I'm sure the colour drained from my face before I realised I'd thought it and not said it. I then opened my mouth to assail her with a witty rejoinder - but found myself bereft of anything approaching prudence.
"Bitch". The word escaped from my mouth, but I did manage a half-smile in a forlorn attempt to soften the invective. Surprisingly, she smiled in self-satisfaction as she turned, wordlessly, and strode the walk of the winner back to her desk.
Accounts girl 1, arrogant charlatan Nil.
I will not be outplayed at the water cooler, and certainly not by THAT girl from the Account's section. I mean, who wears Culottes anymore - it's not the eighties honey...
"Crushed walnuts are OK" I replied, "but are they the Persian or Butternut variety? Did you know the butternut ones are extremely high in fat?" I watched her smile wobble for a moment before she regained her smugness.
"Oh, definitely the Persian ones" she replied, a little too gaily. "They're sooo expensive - but then all my greengrocer's produce is organic - do you buy organic?" Now it was my turn to falter. She stared at me evenly, as I withered ever so slightly. Temporarily beaten, I retreated to my usual fall back position of delivering the truth in economical portions. Sometimes, intemperate people call this lying.
"Oh yes. Have done for years." She tilted her head thoughtfully, seemingly awake to my every move. "Hmmm" she uttered softly, while her eyes screamed 'liar, liar'.
"Have you tried Goji berries?" Unshackling myself from the burden of honesty, I was inspired to turn defence into attack. "I've had so much more energy after eating a scoop of these every morning".
She brought her glass to her lips and drank. Was she now playing for time? I quickly pushed on, growing in strength, like a young lion circling a fallen prey. "It's really hard to get the genuine berries, I have them flown out from Tibet for me each week".
"Really", she replied, drawing the word out in preparation for her ambush: "I suppose the Dalai Lama brings them out for you in person?"
Bitch. I'm sure the colour drained from my face before I realised I'd thought it and not said it. I then opened my mouth to assail her with a witty rejoinder - but found myself bereft of anything approaching prudence.
"Bitch". The word escaped from my mouth, but I did manage a half-smile in a forlorn attempt to soften the invective. Surprisingly, she smiled in self-satisfaction as she turned, wordlessly, and strode the walk of the winner back to her desk.
Accounts girl 1, arrogant charlatan Nil.
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