heart block

Last night I had a very elderly patient with complete heart block.   I was asking her whether she would want a pacemaker.  I explained, "This heart block means that you could faint and never wake up."
"Oh, that sounds lovely dear, " she replied. To be certain she understood I said, "I mean that you would die." "Oh yes, I know. My husband's waiting for me."

So later, I dreamt that I abandoned the night shift team to sit by her bed and read her book to her. In my dream, it was very important that she heard the ending before she died.

Today I walked past an Amnesty International stand on Smith street.  As I passed, one of the   volunteers said to the other, "She's a doctor, you know."  This freaked me out.  Either I was hallucinating or I am less anonymous than I imagine.  I told Jason to keep a close eye on me for evidence of psychosis.

Anyway, tonight we rode into the city and saw the Pajama Men and drank scotch, so now I am happy. And probably sane.

old person music holiday

We just had a holiday- a week off working and studying for this goddamned exam.  So I had a lot of things to pack in!!

First up was the Boss: Bruce Springsteen and the E street band show at Hanging Rock.  Now, that was an awesome show.  Not an awesome show for a sixty-three year old. An awesome show.  I am unclear on how he has maintained such vigour at retirement age.  Perhaps the crowd surfing every night is keeping him in shape?  Perhaps he took fewer drugs than, say, Neil Young?  Or perhaps he is still on drugs?

Whichever way he's done it- if I am that awesome at 63, I won't mind if I'm dead at 64.

Anyway, the Rock was beautiful, we drank scotch and danced up a storm with some bikers ('Sons of Anarchy') who offered us some of their olives.  Jesse drove us all home with a few back-seat encores of 'Dancing in the Dark.'

Then we travelled up to Byron Bay on our Paul Simon Pilgrimage.  In contrast to Bruce Springsteen, Paul Simon is old.   He looks like Paul Simon dressed up as an old man.  But his voice is still amazing.  And we managed to see some other acts: Wilco, the Melbourne Ska Orchestra, Tony Joe White, and this guy who is basically the Henry Wagons of Canada.

We camped a couple of nights out of Byron, then settled into a forest 'retreat', where we basically lay around and read for 5 days.  I read three books, watched three films: (Down by Law, Brokeback Mountain, The Silver Linings Playbook) and swam every day.

Get back in the kitchen

Our good friends Tara and Nico were recently approached by the Herald-Sun to appear in a weekend feature on 'stressful kitchens'.  That is, kitchens that are stressful to cook in due to size, design or some such.

Tara and Nico have a really great house, and in truth their kitchen is quite big.  It has a six-seater kitchen table.  But it's old and doesn't have much bench space, so I suppose that's why they were chosen.

On the day they called, Tara was working and Nico was at home with their baby.  The photographer insisted on arranging a different day, so they could photograph Tara in the kitchen with her daughter.

I can't even covey how much this infuriates me.

Get back in the kitchen, Tara.

No New York

It has finally happened.  I am sick of reading novels set in New York.

I am half-way through 'Triburbia' and I just can't be bothered.  No more lofts, no more wealthy artists, no more stoops.  Grrr!!

This is worthy of note because my love of contemporary American fiction was overwhelming.  Overwhelming.  My book club friends could only look on and laugh as I earnestly spoke of my love of Jonathon Safran Foer, Siri Hustvedt et al.  And to be sure, I still love them.  At best, their intelligence and imagination sparkle off the page.

My admiration of these writers was tempered when I read 'The Tin Drum'.   My favourite 'New York' authors have an enormous stylistic debt to Gunter Grass.

So, here are my favourite books set in New York, which I whole-heartedly recommend.

1. Let the Great world Spin by Colum McCann
2. What I Loved by Siri Hustvedt
3. Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close by Jonathon Safran Foer
4. My Misspent Youth (essays) Meghan Daum
5. Just Kids (biography) Patti Smith

But for me, it is time to move on.  

catch

So here is my secret: I am *surprisingly* good at physical skills.  Throwing and catching, playing table tennis, kicking a footy.

To be clear, I am not good at these things.  However, I am nowhere near as bad as anyone expects. Whenever anyone sees me throw a ball, they remark, "Lucy, you weren't as bad at that as I thought you would be." Or, "Wow!  I was certain you'd be terrible at that but...".  And not just once: the same people frequently comment each time I do anything requiring hand-eye coordination.

It used to frustrate me but now I revel in the advantage to being unexpectedly good at something.

My secret weapon: acting like a total klutz whilst actually having at least average hand-eye coordination and agility.

Lemon Lime, not Bitter

Based on the Lemon Lime and Bitters test (sens. 98%, spec 85%), another of our good friends is pregnant.  This takes the current count of pregnant friends or new parents to approximately 73.   Every time I hear about another pregnancy, I have an urge to move somewhere exotic, immediately, and return when all the baby-making is done.

Of course I am excited and happy for my friends.  But I think my dream last night nicely illustrates my current attitude to pregnancy:

I was 12 weeks pregnant.  I did not want to be pregnant.  I was walking across a huge, windswept desert plain.  Actually in hindsight it looked like the scene from The Master where they take turns riding the motorbike.  

I saw a beautiful blanket fly past in the strong wind.  I wanted to get the blanket but it got caught in a very tall tree. 

At the end of my walk I arrived at a building with no windows.  I was scared of the building, but I could hear my friends inside.  I entered the foyer of the building, but then I got scared so I tried to leave. The door had locked behind me. 

I think the subtext here is pretty clear: Having children is like living in a windowless building/prison in the middle of a desert.  

Feel free to remind me of this post when I am pregnant.

SoJo, NoJo, GheTTo

Collingwood is so hip it had to been subdivided.  I live in a little corner called Ghetto Collingwood.  It's near the flats, the Tote and more empty shops than you can poke a stick at.

It is not without its charms. We have the Keith Haring mural, and the awesome Collingwood Technical school.  If I were rich I would buy 'D Block':

The flats are surrounded by big gum trees, so we have plenty of birds and wildlife.  Our friend Keith, who has his home and studio across the alley from us, has a theory that Ghetto Collingwood is quite safe from theft because thieves don't shop in their own neighbourhoods.  So far this has proved correct.  I once left the key to our car sticking out of the boot lock, with the car parked in the street, for nearly 48 hours.  Whoops.  But no one took it.

But it's also quite ghetto.  A few weeks ago someone pooed all over the fence near our carport, and left a pile of dirty toilet paper.  The junkies shoot up on the park bench across from our house.  And Jason is convinced that our milk bar is actually dealing mainly in drugs.  I was skeptical on this point.  But there are always little groups of people waiting just around the corner from the milkbar, or behind the trees, arguing, "No, you go in this time!"

Home sweet home!