Rollercoaster

You know how they say listen to your body and do what it tells you?? Well did so a handful of weeks ago only to discover the ‘girly bits’ were behaving badly and from the first pretty picture with way too much colour showing up and lying on a guerney outside theatre it was a mad gallop over four weeks down a sometimes fragile and slippery glass road.

With all the appointments, tea and sandwiches after a quick visit to day surgery, scans and dyes and lots to think about, get cross about and yes a tad teary about, last Tuesday arrived very quickly. Sitting in a sunfilled hospital room, reading the latest Scarpetta and eying suspiciously the ‘one size fits none’ paper undies that even Bridget Jones would have thought twice about it was time to bid farewell to the ‘girly bits’. Clad in said panties and dinner ladies hat, blue striped smock, anti dvt socks and sporting the latest in shaves, the tuft, down to theatre where the lovely Prof H, an absolute gentleman and a scholar was waiting. A couple of hours or so later, now also wearing pumping and massaging green trimmed leggings…rather like pared down cricket pads… self administered pain relief gadget glowing and babbling probably incoherently into the phone it’s all over.

With three little patches covering the keyhole cuts and a tender bellybutton, camera portal to what boldly goes on in the abdomen and surely at least a kilo lighter it’s time to continue along the now less fragile and slippery glass road.

Thank you, in hospital, to the ever smiling nurses who now know more about my bodily functions than they would surely ever want to know…and when pray did grey compressed cardboard become the material of choice for bedpans and other sundry bowls… Prof H again who took the time to phone family after the op to tell them all had gone well and answered my questions after questions with good humour, patience and interest and the special visitor who snuck in with Thai fishcakes and flowers.

Thank you, outside hospital, for the car rides in fancy cars and the watchful eye of a bouncing Buddha, all of you who listened or read as the tale unfolded and those who are now ministering chicken soup, lifting the heavy loads and dreading the sound of ‘the bell’ and call for attention.

Mossie Head

Now if these two intrepid gals don’t look like the real thing and following in the footsteps of Vita S-W travelling to Tehran and Gertrude Bell, traveller, writer and archaeologist extra-ordinaire and full bottle on all things Arabic then mossie heads are not THE required headware for would be Goldfields explorers.

Flies, and yes these should really be called Fly Heads, are an irritating and unstoppable part of bush wildlife the majority of which lurk quietly in the bush and are rarely seen unless startled from a sun baking  doze. The bush fly, sticky little beastie, attracted to any exposed area where moisture may be presumed to be in miniscule amounts, arrives the moment the car door is opened and a rush of aircon air floods out into the dry, hot day. Those that don’t swarm around eyes, nose and mouth do a Heathrow landing pattern hover and land on shirt backs.

This face net, with stylish camo patterned skull cap that sits happily on top of head, cap or hat was such a godsend. We could laugh!!!, talk, blink, take photos and even pop a glass of wine under the veil for an uncrunchy gulp of the glorious Languedoc red without the usual Aussie salute of a swipe at the face accompanied by atrocious swearing and truly enjoy the wide rusty red, salted pan and blue Goldfield horizons to say nothing of sitting astride C Y O’Connor’s golden pipeline carrying the golden drop east to Kalgoorlie.