Taff Down Under 22

A while back I was talking on the phone to me Mam. “Any news,” I asked, “Somebody forgot Mothers day again.” was the pithy reply.

Buggery. It’s not my fault, they have Mothers day on a totally different day over here. So anyway, to make up for this heinous sin I decided to be a good son and send her some stuff on the Ozzie mother’s day. I did an order online with “Interflora”. The deal was a bunch of flowers and a box of chockies. Fine.

We also sent a card, a nice traditional Ozzie mother’s day card, and timed it to arrive on or about the same day as the flowers were due. No problem.

We were also juggling both our mothers’ birthdays, which happen in the week after mother’s day. Our mothers were born two days apart, they both hit 70 this year, strange co-incidence eh?

So anyway, I rang me Mam on Ozzie mother’s day, and the card and the flowers had both arrived, and were, and I quote, “lovely.”

No chocolates though. So we had our usual long chat……

I e-mailed “Interflora” and complained that the chockies hadn’t arrived. They wrote back blaming it on “human error.” They offered to deliver a large box of chocks in compensation, I agreed.

Later that week I rang again. “Oh I got the chocolates, they were…..lovely.”

Ok, so for Mary’s birthday, her and her sister Wilma were spending the week down the coast, at the house we rent for Xmas. So we decided to spend the weekend with them. No problem.

Well one problem before we even started. LeeAnne got a phone call at work from a panicking Mum saying she’d driven the 160 kilometres to the coast, but lost the keys for the house. They went through all the possibilities, up to and including CIA conspiracy and alien abduction, but after a brief “end-of-the–world” discussion, she remembered leaving them at a bakery halfway between Canberra and the coast. Don’t ask me why she needed a set of house keys in a bakery, I don’t know. Anyway, she drove all the way back and got them, then back again to the house in time to collapse in a nervous heap.

LeeAnne’s ex, had given her a really nice car, a Mazda 626 station wagon, as he was fed up of seeing her drive Bethy around in our death trap Hyundai. He’s a very nice chap like that.

Our “high and dry” has several cracks in its windscreen, drinks oil like petrol, and has random brakes, so I could see his point.

So we set off from my work at 9.00 pm and headed for the coast.

Lovely having a car we could get all our weekend away kit, plus dog and cat in, without us having to sit on each others lap. Looking at the petrol gauge I saw the tank was also full of petrol. What a kind man, he’s even filled it up for us! After ten minutes the “petrol empty” light started flashing. Luckily this happened while we were just within the city limits, another 20 minutes and we’d have been bloody miles from a petrol station.

Ok, so the petrol gauge is knackered, but it’s still a nice car, and he’s still a nice guy!

We got down to the coast without mishap, and settled in for the night.

The next day we did some shopping, went in the sea for a paddle, and had booze up in the evening. It’s winter here, but it’s still warm enough to go in the sea, just. We had some lovely sunsets too.

On the Sunday it was my Mam’s birthday, so I gave her a ring. The present I’d ordered hadn’t arrived; we’d both got our mothers DVD/Video combinations for their birthdays. The birthday card we’d sent, one of those singing ones, with Rolf Harris doing a little ditty when you open it, had arrived though.

“Oooh,” she says, “it’s a lovely card, but why did you send two?” I puzzled over this, then answered, “we didn’t.”

“Yes you did,” she replied, “one with the flowers and one with Rolf Harris.”

“Mam, the one with flowers on was an Australian Mother’s day card, for Australian Mother’s Day!”

“Oh was it boy? I’ll have to read it again.”

Nice to be appreciated.

 

Slight deviation; Mary comes up with some crackers too. The other day her and LeeAnne were walking around one of the Lakes in Canberra. Naturally Le–Anne had taken our dim mutt with her. Mary also has a dog; a vastly overweight and arthritic black Labrador called “Chibby”. Chibby wasn’t on this walk as “it would be too much for her.”

At one point on the walk Mary turns to LeeAnne seriously says; “I may buy a pram so that I can bring Chibby down to the lake and push her around in it, she’d like that. What do you think?” LeeAnne’s reply; “You really don’t want to hear my answer to that question, mother.”

 

The next day we played “Crazy Golf” at a totally mad crazy golf place, and me and LeeAnne made up from the blazing row we’d had the night before. Arguing is fun, but making up is much nicer.

We went back to the beach and spent some more time in the sea, then me and Bethy took the dog along the coast for a walk. Half way round the bay, flying just over our heads was a magnificent sea eagle. I stood there in awe, until Bethy said, “I’ve seen bigger ones than that.”

I pulled out my camera climbed up a sheer cliff face, fought my way through a wood infested with poisonous snakes and spiders, just in time for it to fuck off somewhere else. You’ll have to take my word for it.

We drove back on the Monday as LeeAnne had to go to work.

Talking about mother’s day, the day before mother’s day I was at work. I seem to work all the bloody weekends going at the moment. Anyway, I was cruising around looking for a gift for LeeAnne, and a card. Bethy always makes her own cards and she’s very talented, so I haven’t got to worry on that front. Well anyway, to cut a long very boring, story short, I was passing an electrical shop when I saw the perfect gift.

Before you start being smutty, it was a DVD player.

Why a DVD player you may ask?

Well we’ve talked about buying one for yonks, but that is all we do, talk. So this was a perfect excuse to go and buy one for all of us. They’re as cheap as chips at the moment, and they seem to be re-releasing everything ever recorded on DVD.

But by buggery they are good aren’t they? At the moment we’re watching end-to-end “Fawlty Towers” on DVD as Bethy loves the show. The picture and sound quality is superb, better than the original broadcasts even. We’ve rigged ours through our stereo to get wide separation of sound too.

 

And as I was saying, everything ever recorded is coming out on DVD, LeeAnne has her heart set on the complete series of “Catweazel”, Bethy wants all the Harry Potboiler films, and I’m after the fourteenth episode of “International Gang-Bangs”.

 

Ok, I’m lying a bit, what I really want is the whole “Boys from the Blackstuff” series on DVD. Put it on your “Xmas presents for Taff” list now. (But if you have “International Gang Bangs XIV on DVD, burn me a copy please?”)

Oh, talking about DVD burners, guess what’s next on my shopping list?

Slight aside; last night we watched, much to LeeAnne’s disgust, Cher’s farewell Tour, on TV. It was a live show, with her doing a running video commentary between songs. Quote of the night was: “I have to do all these costume changes, otherwise all the drag queens in Miami will think I’ve lost the will to live” The camera then cut to a large group of very suspect “Cher look-alikes” in the crowd.

The stage show, and the dancers and acrobats, were phenomenal, the backing band were good even if the guitarist was trying to re-write the “heavy metal book of cliché’s”. It’s a bit pervy though a bird pushing 60 dressed up in leather and lace an prancing about like Britney? She’s a fine testament to her surgeon. I thought it was fabulous, a camp spectacular, I simply must have the DVD, darlings. Me liking Cher? The world really is ending.

 

The other thing that’s great about DVD players is you can burn all your photographs onto a CD, and then view them on TV. It’s bloody incredible the way that viewing your photos on the big screen brings them to life. It’s not just the size of them, but with them being back lit really makes them more “alive”.

I sent my mother a disk with 211 photos, mainly of us in Oz. Mam said that she enjoyed the scenic ones of Oz that I included. That was foolish of her as she’s going to get another picture disk soon, jam packed with my scenic shots of Oz*. (approx. 1000 of them!)

Remember I was telling you about the place I go mountain biking, the miles and miles of off road trails? (Course you do!) Well the other day this happened there;

Good job I wasn’t on the bike there at that point then?

 

I took LeeAnne and Bethy out for a spin the other day, back to revisit Booroomba Rocks, hopefully this time without any life threatening events. We stopped off at that lovely strange old village shop, the one I got the fizzy pop and chilli crisps at the last time.

LeeAnne pointed out something I hadn’t noticed; “The shop keeper obviously knows his clientele well, look at the stock.” Ok, so I looked around the shop, didn’t notice anything odd. So when we got outside I asked her what she meant.

“Well apart from the usual loaves of bread, tubs of marge did you notice anything odd?”

“Errm…Nope.”

I think you’d fit in well around here then. He had one tooth brush, one tube of toothpaste, one deodorant, and one of several other items on sale.”

“Yes?”

“Oh that and fifty odd cases of Bundaberg rum.”

I had to go back in and check, she was right. I really must do something about my drinking you know.

So we drove on towards the rocks, I pointed out where I had parked my car, and then we drove the 5 K to the car park where I’d accosted the old couple. LeeAnne, to be fair, didn’t hit me once. I think even she was in awe of the distance I’d hobbled, and the unkindness of the people who had refused me a lift, even if I did look like Freddy Krugers less handsome brother.

We set off up the last 1½ K to the point where I had taken my tumble, I wanted to see if there was any blood on the rocks still. But Bethy got tired halfway there, so we came back.

The other day was a public holiday, but I was working. On public holidays, we normally work 9.00 am to 5.30 pm, not on this one.

I was working with a diamond geezer, and a superb nurse. One of our last calls of the day was to a young lad who we knew was going downhill a bit and who we suspect was not exactly compliant with his meds. We got there and Jim (not his real name of course) let us in.

We started a conversation which gradually got more and more bizarre. He started telling us how he had taken to closing his eyes while driving at high speeds around Canberra. He knew this was safe as, he is “totally invulnerable” as “God is protecting me”. When we asked how he knew this, he told us that he had been having long conversations with god, mainly via the TV. Ok, dodgy.

He then went on to tell us that god had given him a specific role. When we asked what that role was, and we should have guessed this shouldn’t we, it was of course the role of the “Angel of Death.”

This role mainly seems to consist of driving at high speeds with your eyes shut, listening to god on the TV, and, naturally, waiting for god to tell you who he wants killed.

Ok, worrying enough so far?

I spot, just next to the sofa Jim is sitting on, something vaguely and unsettlingly, familiar sticking out.

“Erm, Jim mate, what’s that sticking out from next to the sofa?”

“That’s mine, I take it everywhere, just in case I get the call.”

He pulls out a cheap, but big and sharp, Japanese katana. (Sword)

Ooops!

Ok, so I ask him if I can have a play with it as I have a background in martial arts. He agrees. I consider legging it for the door once I’ve got my hands on it, but the thought of struggling with him when we have that between us isn’t appetising.

I reluctantly return it, giving the nurse the nod that says “yes it is a fucking dangerous bit of kit, let’s leg it, pronto.”

So we do the; “We’d like you to come to the hospital with us, so the doctor can have a look at you, see if you need anything else in terms of medication,” routine. This roughly translates into; “we’d like you to come to hospital where we can smack you with a liquid cosh and bang you up for a few weeks.”

Unfortunately he is wise to that as he’s been given the “valium good night kiss” far too often.

Ok so we retreat tactically to the office, and get the SWAT routine going. The nurse gets the cops up to speed, I get the crisis service onboard, and we lay plans. The Nurse informs Jim’s mum of our plans, as she’s back from work and at home with him by now. We all meet a couple of streets back of the house. Three squad cars, eight cops, all armed, a paddy wagon, an ambulance, and two cars full of mental health staff.

The nurse called the shots. “Me and Taff will go in, try and reason with him. If we can get him to come in voluntarily so much the better.” Head cop won’t have it; “any situation where a weapon is involved has to have two officers minimum in on it.”

Ok, the two of us and two plods go and knock on the door. Mother opens it and informs us that what we are doing is “against her better judgement.” Well sorry love, if the Angel of Death gets word from god that your daughter is to be sacrificed tonight, it wont be your “better judgement” that is up in court, but my clinical judgement, my career, and my livelihood. So get to fuck with you.

I go in first, and catch the whole of the families flack. I get screamed at by sister, threatened by dad and brother, and cried at by mother. Water off a ducks back. This goes on for the best part of an hour, there are advantages to being half deaf. After they have spent this time venting at me, the nurse steps in and does the “Mr Reasonable” routine. In the end Jim decides to hand the cop his sword and come in the squad car with me and his dad to hospital for assessment.

Outside, one of the cops tells me that I was very brave to take on his sister, her tongue being more lethal than the sword. Clever tosser.

At the hospital my favourite consultant, does the assessment. Jim tells him all about the driving, the sword, the word from god, the voices on TV, and just to add some new twists to the plot, demons rearing up out of the patterns in his lounge carpet who tell him his family may be evil in gods eyes. We listen rapt, and dad shits himself.

The consultant hits him with 30mg of liquid diazepam, and I get to go home, at 9:00 pm.

A 12 hour shift on a public holiday? That’ll pay for a nice bottle of scotch I think.

Dad reported back to the family what he had heard at the assessment. The family now thinks the nurse is the bee’s knees, they still think I’m an arsehole, but there you go.

Oh another guy we’re treating at the moment, confided to me the other day that he was, in fact, “Jim Morrison of the Doors” in his last life, and that he’s going to go to America soon to reclaim his fortune. How come these nutters were never “Joe Bloggs the shithouse cleaner” in a previous life?

 

You remember I was blathering on (ok, I was blowing my own trumpet!) about getting a short story of mine published each month in “Soaring Australia?” Well I’ve started getting fan mail. Getting them was ever so ego boosting, so I decide to boast about it here.

Ok get your hankies out, it’s time for the sad tale of the million dollar moggie.

Ok, regular readers of this crap will know all about Tiger, our cat. For those of you who don’t, here’s a brief summary.

Tiger was found as a stray, and adopted by LeeAnne and Bethy’s dad when Bethy was about 18 months old. So Bethy has always had Tiger about. Despite being taken in by the family, and getting his nuts cut off, Tiger never lost his street edge, and was the terror of the neighbourhood dogs. Dogs who made the mistake of thinking this cat was a soft touch, and chasing him, soon found that the victim became the aggressor. Innumerable dogs have found Tiger hanging off their heads by his front claws while trying to tear their throats out with his rear claws.

But, as we all do, Tiger got old, and was diagnosed with diabetes, and put on two tablets a day. Forcing these down his throat resulted in several interesting scars on my hands until I got the knack of it. Due to the diabetes he lost most of his teeth, and got very a fat stomach through eating constantly, but shed weight due to not digesting his food properly.

But despite being old diabetic and fat and toothless he still had a swagger and a vicious temper, and was still a character, and made Barnum’s life hell. LeeAnne always said that once he got to the point where he needed injections for his diabetes, he would only get one injection, a final one.

His health over the last few months has been getting worse, and we were thinking that maybe it was time for a final trip to the vets.

Then one night, one cold (-6), miserable, drizzly night, he went out for a shit and didn’t come back. Ok, we were thinking it was kind of him to save us the vets bill, but we were still concerned. He was gone for over 24 hours. As it was my day off the next day, I made up some “have you seen this cat, he’s old, diabetic, and needs his medication” posters, neatly avoiding the word “reward,” and went around the neighbourhood sticking them on lampposts.

As I got back to the house, a movement near the bins caught my eye. There, under the hedge lay the cat. I picked him up, he felt as if he weighed nothing, and brought him in. I put him on the living room floor, he tried to walk but collapsed, just fell over. I put some ham slices under his nose, he tried to eat, but couldn’t manage it. The dog came over and took the ham away from unde his nose, “That’s it matey, you really are fucked aren’t you?” If the dog can attempt that, and still have a functioning eye left in his head, then the cat is shot.

I made Tiger a saucer of sweet tea, his favourite drink, and went and phoned LeeAnne at work, “I’m sorry Babes, Tiger back, but he’s not long for this world.” LeeAnne got hold of the vet, he’s on her welfare committee, so he’s got a vested interest in keeping her sweet, and arranged for us to go there at 5:45 that evening.

I then had to go and collect Bethy from school, on the way home I broke the news to her. Her reaction was, as you’d expect, rather tearful.

My respect for this kid grew in huge leaps when we got back, she sat with the cat, never leaving his side, stroking him, and moving him when he pissed himself and was unable to move out of the damp. Then LeeAnne came home and we had a crying festival.

I know, I’m getting soft in my dotage, I’m filling up as I type this.

So the time came, and I drove us, in a haze of tears, to the vets.

So we get there, and we’re sat in the room, and the vet’s poking and prodding, and I’m wanting him to get it over with. And he chips in with; “Well I could do some tests to see how bad he really is.” We umm’d and aaah’d, and considered if it was worth putting the cat through any more hassle. In the end I just said, “Fuck it, he’s worth it.”

So the vet took some blood and came back and said; “Things aren’t as bad as they seem. His blood sugars off the scale, his potassium is non-existent, he’s totally dehydrated, he’s lost 40% of his body weight, he’s exhausted and full of cold. But I think I can get him back to normal.”

Ermmm what to the who, with why?

Just to underline the gravity of this pronouncement, Tiger leaped out of LeeAnne’s lap, and attacked the vet, “Come near me with a fucking needle, would you son?”

Or at least that was his plan.

Unfortunately he had miscalculated a) how fucked he was, b) how far away the vet’s bench was. Instead he launched himself at the vet and ended up splatted on the floor, not helping his condition one bit.

So then the vet went through what he was planning to do, and how much it would cost. Both these can be summed up as “lots”. In the end he gave us an estimate of “between $400.00 and $600.00.” I looked a Tiger and wondered if I could give his neck a quick twist while no one was looking, but shit out of it as it looked like he was getting his vicious edge back.

So we left him there and went home, emotionally exhausted, but more happy.

A couple of days later I went to settle up the bill so far. I got to the counter and told the girl I was there to pay Tigers bill.

“That’ll be $945.00 please,” she said with no apparent malice. “Nah, you keep him,” I said and tried to run away.

$945.00?

Just to rub salt into the wound, when LeeAnne phoned up to see if he was ready to come home, she was informed that he needed another night there to get his potassium levels stable. She picked him up the next day, along with insulin, 100 syringes, and a $27.00 bag of cat food, which in total added another $140.00 to his bill.

We now, or rather I now, have to inject 7 ml of insulin into his neck twice a day. It’s not nice for either of us, but the difference is gobsmacking. It really has given him a new lease of life, he looks four years old, he’s put on at least double his previous body weight, and is back to making Barnum suffer daily.

Having said all that, I’m still having a pair of gloves made out of him when he does croak, just to recoup some of the cash.

To add insult to injury I got stopped the day after picking him up for not having “rego” (tax) on my car, $450.00 fine. Shit.

Ok, here’s the bit where you get to take the piss out of me, but heed the warning at the end.

I’ve finally given in and gone and got fitted for hearing aids. My work was suffering, LeeAnne and Bethy were fed up with repeating everything they said to me at least five times, fed up of having the TV so loud the neighbours were asking us what we intending watching each night so they could have the same channel playing, the mother in law was getting on my case (the cause of LeeAnne and my big argument at the coast, in case you were wondering) and basically I had no choice.

I have had to accept that I am deaf. I’ve lost between 40% and 60% of my hearing, and have extreme tinnitus.

It’s not been easy facing up to this, it seems such an old spaz thing to have to do, wear hearing aids. Don’t get me wrong, I have nothing against people who wear them, it’s just that I don’t want to.

I went and saw an audiologist specialist, and I’m getting the best “in the ear” hearing aids available. Yes at great expense, as everything in life seems to be recently.

I pick them up on the twentieth.

Here’s the warning; don’t be the first person within smacking distance to take the piss out of me for wearing them. I have a whole load of pent up frustration I need to get shot of over this issue. So for your own safety get anything you want to say off your chest while I’m on the other side of the planet eh?

 

Right, to end on a happy note. We visited an accountant the other day. It’s a bloody strange tax system they have over here. I wont go into it, as I know next to sod all about it, and it’s a very boring subject. The accountant, a young guy wearing cargo shorts and a t-shirt, took us though the intricacies of the system. We nodded at what we thought was appropriate points, trying to look like we understood what the hell he was on about.

The bad news is that even though I make no profit on the rent at Trevilley, I have to top up the mortgage from over here, it still counts as income. The good news is he somehow wangled a tax rebate for LeeAnne of $450.00, and me one of $4000.00. I knew the bastards were over charging me!

 

Well there you go, another long boring letter you can now delete.