Dialing 000 - it's easier than you think.

These stairs were like Everest.

Whoever said you can't teach an old dog new tricks?

Well they are wrong.

Yesterday I learnt how to call an ambulance and get on into it and maneuver my way through the A & E of a public hospital.

Firstly what I learnt is that you have to be quite worked up before you can ring 000. Oh sure there are always gonna be those kids who prank call 'em and make a silly old nuisance of themselves and I suppose some lonely old folk might call up from time to time just to sort some company, but for most of us I reckon we have to feel pretty fucking terrible before getting out the dialing finger.

Did you know when you ring 000 that you are sent to a national answer phone place and then you have to choose, not only the emergency service of choice but also you state, and then you get to talk to a very calm person who takes all the details all the while sorting the Ambos to get a wriggle on. The lady on the phone could have been forgiven for thinking she was dealing with a nut job, cos I was having a little weep. She was excellent.

3 Ambos arrived. I figured that lady on the phone must have a crystal ball which told her I was a big fat heifer and so reinforcements were railed in. We talked and walked and they ran out this sci-fi trolley bed out of the back of the truck, which one of the Ambos told me had been weight tested to 200 KG so I shouldn't worry about breaking it.

I felt like I should have been giving all the neighbours a royal wave as I lowered myself onto the trolley and then whimpered myself into a lying position and then by magical levitation I was in the truck and watching Stevie and Dog disappear off the horizon.

I had not been able to walk, or bend or move for going on 3 days, so I figured I had broken or fractured my hip.

Last week I was sitting minding my own business when a big fucking bird flew into the house. It came right at me. I could swear that it hated me and was on a vendetta flight.

It seemed personal.

I threw myself onto the concrete floor and huddled my head under my arms, and curled into a ball, and tried to remember to keep breathing.

The fucking bird was going nuts, shitting and flapping all around the kitchen.

Stevie didn't know whether to see to me or rid the house of the flier. He watched the kitchen turn brown and opted to grab the bird.

My brave soldier sent that fucker packing. Ah Bless him.

With a bit of a struggle I was righted, and then I sort of forgot all about it, until all of a sudden I couldn't walk. I left it a couple of days cos you know, I don't like to troop off to the doctors for every little thing.

So I rang the lovely Dr Jane and wondered what to do. I was blubbering and knew that there was no way I could climb into Stevie's truck or slink into my baby to go driving for an Xray, so an Ambo was the only real option. I sort of had permission from Jane so then I dialed 000.

That might have been the bravest thing I have done all year - yeh I know it's only January.

I was wheeled into the Robina Hospital Emergency waiting area.

Years ago in London I arrived at the local hospital in the middle of a Heart Attack. The A & E was less than salubrious. I remember being told to take a seat amid a mass of people in various stages of decay and bleeding out, and I just stood there taking up as very little room as I could and just said, 'NO.' There is nothing quite like a stubborn woman having a heart attack. The place was dirty and when I was finally admitted the only folk who seemed to be working were indeed the cleaners but they were the same ones who sadly left half full wee bottles in the communal loos and wodges of bloody stuff - literally, under the beds. I don't suppose they were the ones who left the poor soul at the end of the ward, unshrouded and uncurtained, but it had to be someone's job to see to the dead people, surely.

Anyway all this was rushing through my head as I tried to concentrate on something other than the fucking pain in my hip.

The day after Australia Day might well not be the best time to head to the local hospital.

There were all manner of injuries sustained during drunken frivolity, injuries which had only begun to throb as the booze wore off. Head, feet, arms, chin - all busted up and purple, and a woman who was puking into her own bucket. She just lowered herself into a corner on the floor. I felt badly for her kids who were doing all the paper work for her - they were only babies - grown before their time.

The A & E doctor laughed at my bird story- in a friendly, embarrassed sort of way, and ordered Xrays and a CT scan. I educated him about CML and told him that a documented side effect of the drugs is BONE PAIN.

I was offered all manner of class A pain meds and settled on a panadol cos at least I knew what was in them.

The Xray was easy. Then a wait in the Short Stay ward. Nice bed. Very starched sheets.

The CT scan was easy. Then a longer wait in the Short Stay ward.

There was some food which I just do not want to dwell on and a lovely cuppa delivered by a chipper lady who swapped out my broken bikkies for some pristine ones. She was definitely a keeper.

We waited and waited.

I asked about the results and was told there was no fracture. YIPPEE!

I was told to wait for the doctor.

I am not a patient person.

I had been there for 6 hours and that was quite long enough.

WE packed my handie and were almost outta there when suddenly a Physio arrived with a pair of ancient crutches and stories about a mobility aid which could easily have seen her wearing one of those crutches as a necklace - not really she was fine, but the thought of a Zimmer frame was just too much to bare.

We told her we were going. She seemed surprised - surprised that we hadn't spoken to a doctor and surprised we were going.

She roused up some doctor who whilst he had the results of the Xrays and the CT knew nothing else. I gave him a quick education about CML and the drugs I take and we were outta there.

So it's excellent to know that my hips are intact.

It's less fucking fine to be able to add another side effect to my list.

This Bone Pain shit is right up there with the Shingles for pain in the arseness.

Today it seems to have improved, and whilst I am not back to running a 4 minute mile - as if! or spreading my knees further apart than is necessary when you play the pass the balloon game - don't go all smutty now! I am not diving through the meds drawer in search of anything full of  codeine.

That means it's a good day.

No fractures, so the fucking zimmer frame can wait for another day.

Recurring Dream of being lost and disorganised.

We said a silent goodbye to the little boy this week. Oh, heart in mouth, me not him.

On those lovely evenings when I can sleep cos the noise is ambient not industrial, I very often dream in vivid colour. The dreams are so very real, set in real places that I know well, and all too regularly I awake perhaps needing to pee, in real life as well as in the dream and I recall it all easily. Sometimes I try to go back to sleep so I can right any problems in the dream or just occasionally, enjoy the good times.

Very often, even though I am no longer teaching, I have dreams set in a school, quite regularly not one I taught in but where I actually went to school.

I dream that I am carrying a pile of books and I am looking for a classroom and a class and I am running all over the school. Panic rises as I can't find the room or the class and I am miles away from my staff room so I can't phone anyone or check on my paper timetable sticky taped to the wall above my desk - yes I am of that vintage.

Even though I am looking for my Drama class I know I am in the English Block or the Science Area, and I try to steer clear of the Admin Block for fear of getting into trouble.

Now I am not gonna pretend that I never made a late entry to class, but it was not the norm for me. I ran to time, had the required paper work complete and generally knew where each of the kids I was responsible for where, and mostly what they were doing. I was organised or super organised and very rarely I'll admit to having had no fucking clue what I was gonna do so just had to wing it, but all up I reckon I did a pretty good job.

So why would I be so very often having these dreams about being shit and lost and late?

Just occasionally it'd be cool to have a dream about being successful.

My darling Grandie started high school this week.

Yeh I know, it's a whole other conversation about why a government would settle on a return to school date in the week when there is a public holiday on a thursday, but let's leave that for another day.

The Darling boy is wonderfully tall and not surprisingly has quite the gobbie mouth, but he is still only11. He is still only a boy. He is still afraid of doing the wrong thing and he still wants to avoid trouble at all costs.

At the moment because there is no locker assigned, he carries his bag and his books and his lunch and his sport's clothes and sneakers and next week there will be a laptop and bag added to the mix. That's a lot! and it's a big step up from Primary school where it is all done for 'em. Big step, I reckon they need a long ladder and they need to scale it pronto - no safety rope or net.

He didn't have the right hat for sports - Mum wrote a note - Day 2 and the situation at the only uniform shop in the world where you can buy 'em is pretty dire, but he had a note. Whew! so no detention for uniform violation. He'd worn the only pair of thick white sports socks with the school letters printed on 'em in tiny font in a corner and there was no way they'd be washed and  dry for use again the next day, so ordinary white socks were sorted, except again he feared detention so a note was taken.

He might be the note KING.

I am not sure if he is running around wondering where the hell he is meant to be, and very possibly there is safety in numbers and he can herd along with the others, but if he is spending so much nervous energy worrying about where he is meant to be as he is about getting into strife about stuff beyond his control, I can imagine that his dreams might be as panic driven as mine.

I sure fucking hope not.

We know not to ask too many questions and to wait for details to percolate up in his brain, but I so want to grill him about everything.

He seems to be enjoying himself.

I sooo hope so.

Georgiou Group - SHUT DOWN!

This is the vac truck that slurps a trench at between 80 -115 decibels. Georgiou Group have  been using it day and night when a fella with a shovel would be quieter and far more efficient.

It's been quite a battle and the frustration has been agonising, in fact it has popped up all over Stevie in the form of painful Shingles, so now we are both medicated and neither of us in the way clearly described by the Georgiou workers to the local police. No not a nut case pill amongst us, although even if there were it should make no difference.

The appalling noise has been one thing. I mean imagine a jack hammer firing off right by your ear while you are strapped to a chair and the enemy interrogators are asking for your inside leg measurement, well I reckon it'd take but seconds before you spilled your guts and told 'em everything they wanted to know and then your mother's deepest darkest secrets just for good measure. All those spy films with pulling off of finger nails with rusty pliers or attaching electrodes to bollocks, well that's just all for effect, because the best form of torture is prolonged exposure to really loud thumping vibrating shit pitched NOISE.

I must have sent 2 dozen emails in complaint, and apart from JP Langbroek, our State pollie, I've got nothing back. Oh sure there is the automatic response which says to expect a reply in 15 working days, but no real response.

Phones have gone unanswered, people in person - though not very senior I must admit, have given gormless bullshit, to me and the police.

But yesterday we ramped up the offensive.

Stevie wrote emails signing off including his qualifications which read impressively if indeed these fools know anything about road engineering or qualifications or road building or noise.

I did a letter drop to neighbours giving them complaint contact possibilities, and I sent more than 100 emails to local people about the same, because both the Main Roads people who do actually answer the phone and of course the Georgiou liars who answer the phone have said that noone else has complained, and even though I thought that was extremely unlikely, I believed 'em cos I just do not expect people, in the course of their paid employment to be lying arse wipes turds. But you know what? Lots of those people have been ringing me and emailing me to tell of their complaint experience, none of which have been pleasant.

So late yesterday after 10 hours of far too loud vac machine sucking ( a little job which could have easily been knocked over by 2 blokes with shovels and brooms in less than half the time, in relative quiet - this is how Stevie would have sorted a little trench digging) a pleasant young bloke arrived with a metal shed and some sound equipment and he planted it right by our side fence. Alleylouya. (Yeh I am not religious and spell check didn't help me here, but I bet you get the idea.)

There should be church music playing and desperation has lead me to thinking about kneeling down and praying to this wonderful thing.

Minutes after he installed it, and they saw it, the fucking noise STOPPED!

A man with a broom and a shovel appeared.

Then they all took off.

I had received an email from Georgiou about 10.30 in the morning outlining the work for the week and they said there would be 24 hour a day noise all week. I guess this is what galvanised us into action, cos 24 hour a day noise of 80 decibels and more, is more than anyone should endure.

We spent a lovely evening with friends having a scrummy dinner and Stevie had a few beers in celebration and then we rolled home. I pulled up at the work zone which was meant to be trenching in water pipes right across our street all night.

There was a Front end loader on a low rumble presumably trying to boost the ambient noise levels being recorded, and a bloke with his Darth Vader stick.

I parked up in the car par park which was part of my EXCLUSION ZONE as dictated by the police but the time frame had expired so I was pretty sure I was not gonna be arrested, and walked around to Bundall Road where I took a decibel reading of 80-82 and a photo of the equipment on a rumble doing nothing. I shouted out the reading to Stevie and next thing you know, even the Digger was gone from the street. The work zone was left empty and dark. Yep it was an ordinary suburban street.

Bloody brilliant.

Best night sleep I have had in weeks.

I would doubt it was so good for the folk living anywhere near Salerno Street cos the noise there I guess was on going. I would encourage you folk to ramp up your efforts. Insist on sound equipment to measure the noise at your houses. This is mandated in the Code of Practice. Down load a decibel reader on your phone.

The sound engineer, tested my phone app yesterday and it was as accurate as his, and even though he said the readings may not stand up some places, as they are accurate it would be difficult to ignore 'em altogether. Take readings, email 'em to yourself and anyone else who might help.

Remember that the formula for acceptable noise is 10 decibels higher than the RBL (usual noise) and 5 decibels more at night. That does not sound like a lot, but the scale is exponential.

Take the readings and take the photos and make the calls and send the emails and call me if you are gonna protest and I will join you. I rather doubt the police will send too many paddy wagons.

Of course Georgiou are now not working. I suppose that when my blessed sound monitoring device is gone they will be back at it again, but at least I am learning the complaint procedure and the machine should be there for at least 5 days so we will be that much closer to a TMR response - 15 working days and all that, and I know that there is an army albeit small, of local people who are equally pissed off.

Let Georgiou Group make their damn road, but let 'em make it according to the Code of Practice, and let 'em use some basic civility.

I am feeling hopeful, but that might just be the effects of a full night sleep.

Police Encounter

She stood there, stoically in the pissing down rain huddled under her brolly.

She refused to move.

The police came.

The senior officer grabbed her roughly and shoved her onto the footpath.

She stood there, stoically in the pissing down rain, huddled under her brolly.

The Police disappeared and then returned.

Officer Bully Bill Barely a Beard angrily asked her what meds she was on and had she been diagnosed with mental illness.

Argie bargie ensued. Her smart mouth flowed.

Officer Older Gal, told her her behaviour was not normal because she wasn't being intimidated and going meekly where most folk go.

The officers were getting wound up. She was reluctant to dance to their tune. She just wanted to stand there and watch.

The rain had stopped.

Officer Bully Bill Barely a Beard AKA BBBaB, threatened to arrest her if she didn't move on.

She was standing on a public footpath.

Officer BBBaB issued a MOVE ON order and then with some difficulty in completing the maths equation of adding 6 hours to 9pm to come to a 3am end game, he set out the exclusion zone and pointed out it's perimetre.

The threats of arrest forced her to move.

Where was Mr Democracy in all this?

He had not been invited to the party.

Shame on Georgiou Road Builders and the Queensland Main Roads Department

Remote controlled thumper and Darth Vader waving his big red stick

There must have been something wrong with the truck cos these 3 did not move from this spot in the hour I was there.

I like a party as much as the next gal. Oh I remember! The flashing lights and the thump thump thump that makes it's way from your feet to your chest. Back in younger days, I enjoyed perving on the smorgasbord of fellas lined up around the walls eyeing up the talent and doing fuck all else. We'd all crawl home at dawn and then there'd be that sort of jet lagged nauseous feeling plus a bit of a hangover for the rest of the day or maybe 2 depending on how far back into my youth I go. Yeh I do love a party. But I was only ever good for one a weekend, bit of a lightweight I know, but that was my lot.

The Party House which is the Road Works has come alive and their Do's have escalated in frequency.

I haven't slept since Sunday.

Yep Sunday was good.

Saturday was OK too.

Last week though was a melted mess of 'what the fuck are they doing NOW?

So I reckon in nearly a fortnight I have slept for 2 nights.

And that is just not enough!

I have lost my sense of humour.

I went looking for it at 2.30 this morning hoping that the fuckers working - not really working, I am being KIND, might have dug it up.

I have never seen so many men standing around doing utterly NOTHING in one place in my life and that might be because I am lucky enough to have only ever spent mere minutes at Centrelink, where these bozos, would, I am sure fit in very nicely.

The person in charge of this road project is protected by a cloak of secrecy. His name and contact details are held onto tighter a than good old girl's grab of an old man's cock. And the one thing that all the Main Road worker wankers that I have had anything to do with are good at, is reciting that they can do whatever they like cos it's in the agreement.

One fella today, whose name escaped me told me it was all just too bad that I lived where I do. Yep It's just too bad.

My State Member, Mr JP Langbroek got on the case today, and he got a letter back, lucky him I reckon, but in any case he forwarded it to me.

It was a revelation.

The Nightworks are only occassional!

The Noisy work is completed early in the evening so as not to disturb the locals.

Workers are instructed at the start of every night shift to be as quiet as possible so not to disturb.

The work is being done according to the agreement.

Well I'll be buggered.

The scuttle from the dickwads I have actually spoken to is that this site is gonna be Nighted - no not KNIGHTED until, 'September, or maybe October, depending on the weather and other delays.' This wee sentence they can remember and happily deliver in a loop. When I suggested that they actually learn to use their own brains in lieu of spewing forth sections of a manual, well I'd like to say they were offended, but actually I don't think they understood what I was getting at.

So Ho Hum to the OCCASSIONAL bullshit.

The loudest part of the work is the 'making good', repairing the mess that they make earlier. This requires thumpers - 2 of this evening and a remote control hideous noise thing and 2 front end loaders beeping and scraping and 3 tip trucks playing boy racer,  and 2 gormless fools on penalty rates scraping with a shovel even though they were told to keep it down to a dull roar and there is a nice quiet broom right next to 'em.

Noise management I fucking don't think so!

I took videos and photos as I stood there and I reckon they must have just been thrilled cos last week saw a bloke, presumably in his PJs, stand in the middle of the road, blocking the path of the trucks and the Loaders. So my obvious complaint was mild in comparison, although I am sure a couple of 'em would have liked to call the police and have me removed.

What beggars belief is that there are just so many of 'em standing around doing completely absolutely utterly fuck all. They stand in little groups of 2 or three and lean on things.

No fucking wonder it is taking so long.

No fucking wonder this Union driven Government is slowly going broke.

No fucking wonder I fancy taking a shovel and sticking it where the sun don't shine, and as it's night time I am spoiled for choice in this regard.  

It's now 4 am and I am not certain but I think maybe the shift is finished.

So now I can go to bed.

Fucking yippee!

Sherlock Holmes AKA Nosy Cow

I know this is not a Sherlock hat, but it's the one I wore today while we went a sleuthing.

Years ago we knew a couple who thought they fancied a sea change, well actually it was a paddock, snake and bad roads change, so they bought a shed on a big bit of land and then proceeded to be as happy as 2 people could be, all that way from a pub or a restaurant or a shoe shop or a doctor or whatever, except for shitting neighbours ticked off with the city-slickers who came to Hobby. Yep they settled in. They put in a loft bedroom and a kitchenette in the shed, along with salvaged air-con units and windows and doors removed from our place before we knocked it flat.

He bragged that their little idyll was a mere 30 minutes from town, but that must have been by helicopter cos I reckon it was more like and hour and a quarter. 

We visited a couple of times.

It was not my cup of tea.

A big argument ensued not about my beverage of choice, and we have not surprisingly never been invited back.

It's not the place I would ever just want to whip on by, cos it's so far fucking out of the way, but today we took off to Canungra for a coffee and a little look see and we thought we might test the old grey matter by trying to find our way back to this place. Again it's unlikely that anyone has ever just stumbled upon it. It takes some finding.

My phone maps showed a rough picture of where it might be and we typed something into the SatNav, and then disregarded her instructions altogether.

We forged slightly damp causeways and drove along some dirt tracks cos we went the wrong way.

A bit of tooing and froing and we stumbled upon it.

Again my phone was useful cos the phone number on the front fence was in my directory.

We were in the right place.

We had remembered how to get there.

Now it's not like finding a house in the burbs, where you can go by the design or the colour or the fence or the cars parked in the drive. This is out in the truly-ruly sticks, where trees grow and die and dams fill up and dry out and slummy looking houses are planted in tiny plots right next door to someone else's vast open space.

The shed was barely visible from the road and we wondered if there had been a little added to the side of it. We didn't see any cows, but imagine they could easily have been idling away the afternoon on the other side of the hill.

I can admit that I have not missed trecking out to this place. There have been things I miss as a result of the barny, but this bit of bush is definitely not on the list.

We saw a sneaky black snake making it's way across the road and after that I was done in. I wasn't getting out of the car and I was worried about - perhaps it's an urban myth, the snake wrapping itself around the tyre and finding its way inside. I really must google whether that's possible before I egt back in the truck.

We did see a rabbit or a hare hopping on its merry way and a lovely looking working dog, out for a bit of a stroll in between sorting the cows or whatever, and this was pleasant, but not even close to joyful enough to entice me back.   

I enjoy this sort of re-visiting.

I like to go back to my childhood home and see what I remember and what has changed and I always pop in to my old Brisvegas addresses if I am anywhere nearby, just to see if I can still recognise 'em. It's cool to note the changes and compare the now to the then. 

I don't know why today was the day to go well and truly bush, cos we have often tripped out to Canungra or The Beau and have not bothered. It could be something as simple as it was hot out and the aircon was pumping and Dog was happy so why not.

Maybe Sherlock could dig up a reason, or maybe Freud?

Do you like to go a Sleuthing?

TRUMP V ELLIOTT Make up and stuff.

Melania Trump reckons it takes at least an hour and a quarter to slap a bit of lippy on, and because of this she is redesigning a room at the White House especially for this activity. The room needs to offer perfect light - not sure what that is - but I reckon anything can be bought for a price.

It is of course possible that this is all just utter cods' bollocks from a dishonest cheating American Press, but it seems plausible that a former makeup artist would want somewhere lovely to get out the paints. I wonder if she is gonna continue to paint him orange, and  I wonder if that's gonna stain the Whiteness of the place.

In any case, I began thinking about my rigorous beauty regime.

Bit of Lippy makes all the difference huh?

Yep that's the lazy cow extent of it. Slide on some lippy but only onto the bottom lip and then do a bit of smacking sound and wipe off anything that might have smudged onto my teeth.

If I am going on a date I will try and disguise some of the bags and wrinkles and adult pimply mess and sometimes if I can work up the enthusiasm and effort, I might try to colour in my eyes a smidge, but mostly I reckon I am so completely out of practice that clown makeup is the end result.

It's like anything. It takes practice to be good at it.

When I would head out to work with a full face on, I needed an extra 10 minutes of so, cos I was pretty quick and confidence comes with experience. Now that it is such a rarity it just is something that I need to work up to, like maybe I need to think about it at lunchtime and then have a little sleep and dream on it and then gather up the splodge and line it all up and turn on the fan cos it's a sweat making job. 

There are lots and lots of things I would rather do than colour in my face.

I start with the brown gloop, which my skin finds claustrophobic. I put it on and mostly then wipe it off and then when I am happy that my skin still looks like it did before, I put a line of green eye liner under each eye, a bit of mascara and then for the full effect, I rub some pink powder stuff on my eyelids with my finger. Oh and of course then there's the lippy. DONE.

So how the fuck does anyone spend more than an hour splashing shit about?

Firstly I don't want to look at myself close up for that long. They must be either very pleased and proud of themselves or they must spend a great deal of time sobbing about their flaws, and I guess if they do that then they need to spend even longer covering shit up.

I can be showered, including hair washing, and made up and dressed and outta the house in 30 minutes. If it's hot I might take a little long, but that's only cos the makeup ends up sliding down onto my chest and I need to mop it all up and start again. The starting again almost never happens.

And it's not cos I am not a girlie girl. I reckon I am. I just don't like the way the makeup feels on my face.

A lovely friend of mine, did my makeup one night many many years ago. I just let him go his hardest. I was going out to some sort of pseudo posh thing and thought an effort was required. He did the big Ta - Da reveal when he had finished, and I looked into the mirror and I didn't recognise myself. I didn't like feeling like a fraud. 

I could easily fall into a screaming irrit heap if I spend too long thinking about my face. Fuck knows it ain't what it used to be. But as it's the only one I have, it'll have to do, and I find it strangely comforting to be able to recognise myself when I see my reflection. 

The space filled by make up when I am travelling is approximately one hundredth of that used for the cartage of all the just-in-case drugs and all the usual shit. It just is not that important to me. 

And I suppose I am lucky, cos I am not the one looking at my face. And from my side I see the face of a young, wrinkle free, bright eyed, woman. 

Lucky me!