The Naughty Finger

You know how in the cartoons when a character hurts their finger, it’s animated into this huge, red, pulsating digit? (I’m visualising Fred Flintstone going “Yeeeeeooooow!” as I write).

You do? Well that’s me right now. Except, if I’m totally honest there’s really no huge, red, pulsating finger, just rather a poor excuse for a cut on the end of my ‘pointer’ which has been giving me absolute grief for days.

And I’m getting no sympathy from my dog, Moses, either as it was an attempt to swat him that caused the injury in the first place. In fact, I can almost hear a smug little doggie “serves you right” as he reminds me that he was just trying to ‘help’ me when my finger connected rather sharply with some woodwork instead of him.

But the reason I am even writing about this is that it’s almost as if this sore finger has its own dastardly agenda. Whatever I’m doing it seems to find itself in an awkward (read ‘excruciatingly painful’!) spot.

I have a shower; it clunks itself on the soap tray. I try to dress; it gets itself caught in the elastic of my undies. I rummage through the cutlery drawer; it finds a couple of loose spoons to wedge itself between. I flick on the car blinkers; it goes one step further and whacks the steering wheel. It’s on a mission to make me notice it!

“Look at me!” it seems to be saying. “Don’t just go about your daily life like a normal, pain-free person. We have an ‘injury’ here, woman! Suffer!”

My handbag is like a mobile torture chamber. A simple search for the car keys has now become an exercise that must be planned with military precision. Firstly, the bag must be placed on a flat surface.

Then, using LEFT hand only (the non injured hand), items impeding the view of said car keys, are removed one by one. At NO point whatsoever in this delicate operation is the right hand permitted to engage in the activity. That is, until my mobile starts ringing in the bowels of the bag and ‘Old Righty’ goes into auto-response and dives foolishly into the fray.

Result? Me hopping around, waving my sore finger in the air like a mad woman and trying to stop myself from turning the air blue with expletives ….. and a missed call.

“Was it really worth it?” I ask Old Righty grumpily (yes, now I’m even talking to the thing). “You’ve just set your healing process back by about three days, I reckon.”

Old Righty just gives a sickening throb and says ‘Whatever’. He’s had his fun.

And then there’s night time. You wouldn’t think one could continue to injure one’s finger in bed, would you? But yes, that’s exactly what I can do.

After several pain-wracked moments of arranging myself under the covers, I attempt to roll on to my side, only to find Old Righty’s having none of it. He’s decided to wind himself defiantly into the corner of the sheet where he stays until he is ripped forth by the momentum of me doing my beached whale impersonation.

“Yeeeeeeeoooooow!” hollers Miss Flintstone as her pulsating, red, swollen digit wins again.

I lie there for the next several hours with my hand in the air in an attempt to keep the blood from flowing freely into the end of the finger.

“What the hell are you doing?” the spouse inquires after waking to find me looking like a zombie-fied, horizontal goal umpire.

Well, anyway, I think Old Righty might have won, afterall. I reckon it could be a trip to the doctor for some antibiotics in the very near future.

“I told you so,” says Old Righty, smugly admiring his latest bandage.

Argghhh! There’s nothing worse than the finger of scorn!

Location! Location! Location!

Isn’t it sad that the older we get, the harder it is to keep fit, healthy, trim, taut and terrific.

The kilos pile on at an alarming rate, the muscles hurt for days after a bit of exercise and the wrinkles and grey hairs seem to be competing to see which can multiply the most in the shortest space of time. Even the brain cells seem to be winding down. What was that other thing I was going to mention? Oh I forget…never mind ……...it might come to me in the morning……

Yes, it hardly seems fair that the human form seems so hell bent on dilapidation. After all, it’s not like most of us don’t take care of ourselves. We eat our fibre, drink our water, eat fruit and walk the dogs. What more do we have to do?

I mean, if I was a house, I would simply be in need of a renovation and some cashed up property mogul would come along and weave some creative magic on my tired façade. Some render here, some new stumps there, an electrical overhaul and a new roof, perhaps.

Or better still, wouldn’t it be great if I could just flog off the old body and upgrade to a new “residence”?

I can just imagine the advertisement for that!

For Genuine Sale

Renovators Delight
Female Human Body
Circa 1960
Solid construction
Rustic charm
Some ornamental features

Give the old girl a new lease on life!

Yes, buyers, this yesteryear beauty may be in need of renovation, but with a little TLC, some spakfilla, a good paint job (and perhaps even some minor earth moving equipment), she could be given a whole new lease on life!

The following minor defects have been identified:

• Sagging awnings
• Creaking frame
• Cracked external cladding
• Leaky plumbing
• Loose wiring
• Faded roof tiles
• Bats in the attic

So Hurry! Hurry! Hurry! buyers.

This little beauty won’t last!

(Inspection by appointment only. Bring wine)

Dem Bones!

Picture this. A friend of mine, living in London at the time, is heading to Gatwick airport to pick up his wife from a plane trip.

My friend -- known as X -- is in a hurry as his wife’s plane has already landed and he promised to be waiting for her. After several weeks away on business for the couple’s orthopaedics company, the wife is understandably keen to get home.

Nearing the airport, X whizzes (upon reflection, a little too swiftly) through a roundabout. Unfortunately, given that it’s only a few days since a terrorist scare in the vicinity of the airport, the place is crawling with police. Sure enough, Mr Plod pulls X over.

“’Allo, ‘allo, ‘allo,” says Mr Plod (well, actually he probably didn’t say that; I’m just setting the English scene here, folks).

“So wots the big ‘urry, Sonny Jim?” says Mr Plod, leaning in the car window.

“Well, you see, officer,” gushes X, trying to look appealing and innocent, “I’m late to pick up my wife from the airport. And you know how cranky these women can be if we’re late, don’t you?” X tries a conspiratorial wink for good measure.

Mr Plod’s not buying.

“Would you mind removing the keys and stepping from the car, sir?” he asks.

X looks anxiously at his watch and sighs. He opens the door and gets out. The Bobby checks his licence then motions towards the rear of X’s car.

“Do you have anything in the boot, sir?” he inquires.

“Nah…” says X automatically, before suddenly remembering something worrying. His heart rate quickens and his mouth suddenly becomes dry.

“Umm,” he squeaks, “ahh …..actually I do have something in the boot. But, um, it’s, well……..” his voice trails off as the Bobby raises a quizzical eyebrow and motions for X to open the trunk.

“But it’s not quite what it seems!” cries X, his voice now shrill and somewhat desperate.

“Just open it, Sunshine!” says Mr Plod (well, okay, maybe I’ve watched too many episodes of the The Bill; perhaps he didn’t really say ‘Sunshine’).

But anyway, X, looking paler by the second, reaches down to unlock the boot.
“I can explain!” he wails. “It’s not as bad as it looks! Honest!”

By this stage Plod is getting cranky. He reaches forward and hoists the boot open himself only to find he’s looking at every policeman’s worst nightmare.

Lying in the boot is a complete adult human skeleton!

“What the…?” shouts the policeman recoiling instantly from the car.

“It’s okay – it’s fake!” shouts X, trying to sound all perky; like he hasn’t just opened the boot of his car and exposed what appears to be human remains to an edgy policeman who’s been on an active hunt for terrorists and other maniacal killers.

“We’re in ‘orthopaedics’!” squeals X emphatically. “It’s a demonstration skeleton, that’s all!

Plod takes Xs keys from him and eyes him nervously for a few minutes while radioing in to headquarters. A few minutes later, he’s confirmed X’s story.

X heaves a sigh of relief and returns to his car.

“Thank God you didn’t find the drugs in the glove box!” he jokes as he’s about to drive off. Unfortunately Plod is not in the mood for levity.

“I think we’ve had enough hilarity from you for one night, sir,” he says gravely.

X concedes it’s probably not a good idea to be teasing someone who has a gun.

Not a good idea at all, Sunshine.

Winners are Grinners

I’ve always thought of myself as a fairly ‘non competitive’ person. Not for me the ‘stoush to the end’ for winners glory. “I’m a lover – not a fighter!” I would cry if challenged to any kind of sporting duel.

However, when I reflect more closely on my personal history of competition, I find that I was not, in fact, the little mouse who stood in the corner of the court/stadium/spelling bee podium and let everyone walk, run, throw, smash balls (or verbs) all over her. No, I could hold my own and did so in quite a feisty fashion.

First there was netball. After the insult of not being picked for the top Grade 6 team, I set about forming my own little team, known (perhaps somewhat unfortunately, upon reflection) as “The Way Outs”.

We were a motley little crew with more artistic than ball-throwing talent. What hope did we have – sickly looking in our pallid lemon-coloured tunics -- against the vibrant and physically superior ‘A Team’ resplendent in their royal blue shifts with snazzy gold lettering emblazoned on their bibs? Not much hope at all, seemingly, but that didn’t stop us -- and we even made it to the semi finals that year.

Then there was tennis. For years I played all around the district. On hard court and lawn, in all kinds of weather. As a young mum, I dragged babies and toddlers (and everything but the kitchen sink!) to stinking hot, dry, out of the way places -- just to play tennis.

But even though I could whack my way around the court pretty well, I never quite managed to work my way up to Number 1 pair in the Mixed round. Usually I ended up playing with my spouse (never a good idea if marital bliss is your ultimate aim) or got landed with the ‘fourth’ guy who always seemed to think he was John McEnroe but played, in fact, more like Elmer Fudd.

So why am I ruminating about my competitive spirit? Well, since taking up golf in recent times, I have played in several competitions; most recently in a Mixed 4 Ball tournament. Our team, two men and two women, headed out to the first tee with no real hopes of winning. However, as our Stableford score mounted encouragingly we realised we may well be actually in the race and started getting excited. With each extra point earned we hopped madly around the greens doing “Hi Fives!” and “Woohoo-ing!” much to the bemusement, no doubt, of our fellow golfers.

As we made our way back to the clubhouse, our Captain tallied up the score and excitedly informed us that we had 100 points. This, he assured us, was a very good score for Stableford. But was it enough, we wondered? Especially given that we were nearly all relative beginners (which kind of explains why our scores were so high; it’s not hard to be competitive when you have a handicap of 39!) Surely, we thought, there will be plenty of higher scores than ours.

However, when the announcements were later made at the 19th Hole, we found we did, indeed, have the top score. Unfortunately we shared the same score with another group and lost on a countback -- so even our rubbish handicaps couldn’t save the day.

But anyway, as I gathered up my prizes (six balls and a golf towel) I couldn’t help but feel pretty smug and pleased with myself.

“Watch out for us next time!” I whispered silently to the team who had pipped us at the post (conveniently forgetting that they are all on one figure handicaps and are therefore still actually much better players than us. My competitive tail was up!)

And now, my pretties, to figure out how I can keep my astoundingly high handicap and still win lots of golf in the future!

Cue ‘Evil Laugh’. Bruuhhhaahha!

Kermit and the Conference of Gloom

The other day I attended a conference which was, to be frank, my kind of conference.

You see, unlike many other conferences I have attended, there was no boring 1.5 hour monologue by some boooring (yes, albeit very clever) academic, waffling on ad nauseum about his or her particular bent and expecting us poor, pathetic, ignorant lay people to be similarly enchanted.

No, in stark contrast, this most recent conference was comprised of short, sharp spurts of information, delivered in neatly packaged twenty minute lots and including plenty of activities to keep us engaged and occupied.

After the conference, I commented to a colleague about my comparative enjoyment of this kind of forum to the dry ones I had previously experienced.

“So you don‘t really like the ‘adult learning model’, then?” he asked politely.
“No,” I replied honestly, “give me the ‘Sesame Street model’ any day. Short snippets of info and fun and not a wordy powerpoint presentation in sight!”

He smiled politely, no doubt ‘noting to self’ not to expect too much of me in terms of academic prowess or stickability.

But it’s true. I’m not a sticker when it comes to boring stuff. And I mean no disrespect to any speaker in saying so but, unless you keep me entertained with startling insights, humour or the odd magic trick, you can forget it. I will switch off quicker than a lightbulb in a greenie’s outhouse.

Not even some of the great orators of the world could keep my attention if it decided to so wander. For example, I can see me in biblical times with my Bedouin brain awandering. At the Sermon on the Mount, there I’d be fidgeting and checking my wrist-sundial every five shadows. Who were the Beatitudes anyway? I’d be wondering. Saint John, Paul, George and Ringo?

As Churchill delivered his moving “We shall fight them on the beaches!” speech, I’d have probably been doodling idly and wondering what was for lunch.
When JFK blasted out, “We choose to go to the moon!” I’d likely have been watching ‘Adventure Island’ (NASA’s space program not being exactly the thought fodder of most rural Australian kids).

But, oddly and in stark contrast, my attention was fully there for Lord Spencer as he railed against the paparazzi over the death of Princess Diana. It was a gut-wrenching time during which I came to better understand the pull of ordinary people towards celebrity. On the day of Diana’s funeral I sat in front of the telly and cried for six hours straight. It was both pathetic and enlightening to realise that someone I’d never met could move me so much.

Getting back to the speeches, let just me clarify one thing. If you are going to throw in a little humour, please make sure your audience will get the joke.

I recall an engineer friend who was preparing a speech for an international conference. He ran his speech past me beforehand, complete with (what he thought was) a very amusing joke. My non-amusement was palpable but I tried to cover it by suggesting perhaps I just didn’t understand engineering humour. He unfortunately didn’t take my hint to rethink his ‘joke’ and went on to include it – apparently quite unsuccessfully -- in the speech.

And so, here’s my public speaking advice in nutshell:

Keep it simple. Keep it quick. Wear a muppet costume……….. and get off as soon as possible!

OOO Boy!

A friend and I were recently discussing our wonderful police and emergency services and admiring the fantastic job they generally do in responding to all manner of crises.

During this conversation, I raised the question of how the 000 emergency hotline manages to deal with large numbers of calls, all coming in at once, such as when a major emergency like a flood, storm or fire occurs. For example, I wondered if they ‘queue’ calls or whether the calls ever go to an answering machine until an operator can get to them.

My friend (who apparently had some insight into such matters) informed me that 000 service centres generally have an ‘overflow’ system, whereby if all the lines are busy, calls are diverted to other parts of the organisation or to other ‘manned’ sites. That was a relief, as the idea of hearing a recorded message when one is in the middle of an emergency is a scary thought.

But this got me thinking about what such a scenario might look like and made me giggle. Imagine. You dial 000 and a recorded voice says something like this:

“Hi. You’ve called Triple O, the emergency specialists. Our operators are all busy dealing with someone else’s crisis at the moment, but please hold and one of our friendly team will be with you shortly.”

You then hear the piped music. ‘California Girls’ pumps chirpily through the phone before this next round of info:

“Thank you for holding. Your emergency is important to us so please keep holding. Or if you would prefer to be transferred directly to the department that deals with your specific issue, please select one of the following options:

If you have an axe-wielding maniac hacking through your flywire door, please press 1.

If there’s a seventy foot gum tree (or part thereof) imbedded in your lounge room, please press 2.

If you’re trapped by the huge huntsman spider that’s on the wall between you and the nearest exit, please press 3 (ya sook!)

If there’s a runaway car protruding from your front fence, please press 4.

If you’ve misplaced your children, please check under the beds, in the laundry basket or in your neighbour’s lounge room, then press 5.

If you’ve misplaced your husband, please check the couch thoroughly, then press 6

If you need an ambulance, please check that you have cover and, if not, take this opportunity to get some (dial 123SICK for some great February deals! Buy one paramedic and get an ashen-faced work experience kid for free!) Then press 7.

If there’s a snarling dog attached to your leg, please press 8 (and try not to yowl into the phone too much, okay?)

If the storm water drain outside your house now appears to be flowing inside your house, please press 9.

If your spa bath isn’t operating at the right temperature, please press 10.

Yes, we here at Triple O cater for ALL kinds of emergencies. No job too big or small. And yes, we DO deliver.....eventually…..

Now…. if you can just keep the compression pack on the axe wound, chainsaw the tree off your telly, flick the spider outside, hoist the car off your fence, locate the kids and hubby, drive yourself to the hospital, feed the dog something other than your shin, unplug the stormwater drain and press “On” on your spa, you can get your life back to normal and we can go back to checking out Ebay.

Thank you for calling Triple O. We really do care. Just not today.”

Collectible Chaos

Over the years I have known many people who collected items such as antiques, dolls, guns, china, books, artworks and Elvis memorabilia. And while I have always admired the single-mindedness of these people to devote so much time and energy towards their hobby, personally, I found the whole idea a bit boring.

I mean if you’ve got one of something, what the hell do you need another one for? was my view. And why, oh why, I asked myself, would someone be interested in collecting ugly seventies glass vases and plastic travel clocks in the first place? I just couldn’t see the point. In fact, I even wondered if these collecty-type people were ever so slightly unhinged. I mean, didn’t the need to surround oneself with hundreds of similar looking items, only to keep polishing and rearranging them, smack rather heavily of obsessive-compulsive behaviour?

However, as I’ve become older, while I would certainly never profess to becoming a collector myself (not unless you count hoarding old makeup in my bathroom cupboard) I must admit that I have perhaps started to gain a better understanding of the collector’s motivation.

After all, to these people it’s not just about staring admiringly at their latest acquisition as it takes pride of place amongst its four thousand cousins on the shelf. It’s quite often about the challenge of finding it in the first place. The thrill of the hunt. The adrenalin of the kill (or, in this case, the auction). The triumphant moment when that funny little object of your desire is finally in your hot little hands. THAT is what collecting is all about.

Of course, I must admit this is mere speculation on my part. Collectors world-wide might hunt me down and boil me in hot wax for saying these things about them, but I don’t mind going out on the occasional philosophical limb. (In fact, I’m thinking about starting a collection of philosophical limbs. What do you think?)

Anyway, having watched ‘The Collectors’ on TV for some time now, I feel I can speak with reasonable authority on this matter. I have seen how these collecty-people’s eyes glaze over when they talk about their latest ‘find’. Their hunter-gatherer instincts are strong. It’s a prehistoric penchant for getting stuff and keeping it. Lots of it.

The only difference between regular people and collecty-people is that regular people like to get lots of different stuff, while collecty-people like, well, all the same stuff. It’s their prerogative of course, and I will defend the right of all collecty-people to go forth and collect as much as their little collecty-hearts desire.

So what has led me to wax lyrical about all things collectable? Well, you see the spouse has started collecting ceramic beer steins. Mostly from Germany and other parts of Europe and damn it if those colourful little jugs aren’t sucking me in too! I find myself gazing at them inexplicably as I sip my morning coffee. I find myself talking about them to visitors and examining them closely. I even started cataloguing the little beasts!

And I am actually getting a bit worried about the spouse too. He seems to need to buy these things on a regular basis. He becomes fixated when his eyes drift to the Stein Shelf and he seems to need to touch them rather more often than is, I feel, strictly healthy.

What on earth has happened here? Have we created a pair of ceramic-collecting monsters? Franken-Steins perhaps? Is there any hope for us, or will we soon be collecting all manner of collectables? Will our house become so full of 19th Century Dentistry Equipment, Commemorative Tea Towels and Scowly Faced Baby Dolls that we will need a guided tour just to get to the toilet?

I certainly hope not. And just to make sure, I think it’s best if I stick to my ‘philosophical limbs’. At least they won’t need dusting.