More Joy. (continued).

Jim McBeath’s impeccable arithmetical instruction was soon forgotten. Not many weeks after Joy Mulligan had been told her speedometer reading must be divided by six and multiplied by ten to approximate kilometres per hour, she was pulled over.

As they do, the motorcycle cop parked his shining white BMW behind her car, withdrew his booking sheets from the pannier and took down her registration number. Meanwhile, Joy, consummate jazz singer and delightfully evil little bugger, was working up a reservoir of tears behind her big blue eyes.

By the time Constable Plod arrived beside her open window, she presented a picture of devastated innocence.
‘Do you know what speed you were doing, driver?’
‘Only ninety,’ she sobbed, indicating her old MPH speedometer.
‘I clocked you at a hundred and forty five!’
‘A hundred and forty five!’ she repeated, shocked. “No way this old car can do more than ninety!’
He looked more closely and the penny dropped.
‘Ninety miles, he corrected, that’s almost a hundred and fifty. Didn’t you know?’

With a good Catholic name like Mulligan she was probably OK with a Saturday night fib that could be confessed away on Sunday.

‘How silly!’ she cried. ‘Of course it is!’
Tears flowed as those big eyes pleaded for understanding.
‘Oh, I am so sorry, Officer! I had no idea!’

He softened.
‘All right,’ he sighed. ‘No more than sixty-five on that speedo. OK?’
She swallowed hard and smiled her best winner.
‘ Sixty-five,’ she repeated as if memorising a lesson. ‘Sixty-five. Right, got it. Thanks you officer!’
His hands left her window sill.
‘Take care.’ He advised as he turned back towards his bike.

She pushed the stick into reverse in her anxiety to get away and let out the clutch.
Back the car jumped, narrowly missing the retreating officer and knocking his machine off its stand, stopping with its bumper in contact with his newly scratched paint.

He reappeared to find her slumped in the seat with more tears running down her lying little cheeks.
‘Am I under arrest now?’ she cried as he stopped safely short of her door.

‘Madam!’ he shouted. ‘You are not under arrest. I never want to see you again!’ He then stepped forward and leaned into her window to spit his anger.
‘Get the hell out of here!’

Even before he had struggled his cycle to its wheels, she was a half kilometre along the highway, speeding ahead. She could hardly wait to tell the story.

Colonoscopy three

Peter Cairns, organist, pianist, singer and entrepreneur, died four years ago from cancer of the colon, as they say, survived by his wife Suzanne and three infants, the youngest only two.

Pete was one of the toughest blokes I have ever met. His life story is one of overcoming adversity and of hard work. And in a way, it was his work ethic that killed him.

Always in a hurry, he could scoff a steak in less time than I could swallow a sprout. There was never enough time to fit everything in, but his professional preparation for gigs was always impeccable. He brought the whole box and dice and lumped it all in and set it up without help. Lighting and sound, incidental music tapes, bags of scores, one for each instrument covering every song in the repertoire and one special bag that looked like the others, but no matter which instrument you played, that bag was visited. In it was a selection of the best spirits money could buy, free with compliments from Pete, that saved us many dollars in visits to the bar!

But that was not all he did. He had a music store, repaired and hired pianos in the hundreds and in the last few years of his life started a corporate garbage disposal service, which he ran solo. He made money but he treated his body like the enemy. Pills were popped to keep going and he never complained about being sick or having too much to do. No time to be sick, he just kept on.

But the lump and what it was doing to his bowel could not be ignored. He finally deigned to take himself to a doctor who diagnosed bowel cancer and ordered him into hospital immediately. Typically, Pete said he was too busy now and could he ‘have it after Christmas’.

The doctor told him if he didn’t get it our right away he ‘wouldn’t see Christmas’ but it was all too late. They did what they could, took out the primary and many secondaries over two operations, extending his life by many months, but it spread to his lungs and eventually his brain.

Typically, he worked right up until his death, doubled over and in great pain, dulled enough by whatever Medicine could offer for his last performance to be as professional as any other.

But Pete was the mate who urged me to have my first colonoscopy. There in the hospital, with tubes going God knows where, clearly just hanging in, he was more concerned with my health than his own.

So, after visiting my GP yesterday for his verdict, I thought it important to pass on the results and urge you, despite having to drink ‘prep’ and sit on toilets every few minutes for a day or so, to get tested. If there are symptoms or even if you are merely worried, go do it.

Five polyps were removed, three pre-cancerous in this, my third colonoscopy. With ten polyps gone, I guess I am a veteran of ‘innuendo’. I have never had symptoms. So if it had not been for Pete, I would not be here either. Some people leave holes in our lives when they go but he left a crater.

Joy oh Joy! (Mulligan)

Her car was old, so old we were not surprised Joy Mulligan’s little Toyota got the blame when she always seemed to arrive late for the gig at Tuggerah Lakes Memorial. Not very late mind, just enough to cause me, the person responsible, to suffer palpitations as curtain time and her arrival seemed to happen together. For those who do not know Joy, she is a tiny (under 5ft) red headed bundle of scatty Jazz talent and one of my favourite people.

She did have a long way to come, over a hundred and fifty kilometres north from Sydney along the F3 where the speed limit was basically 110KPH, so speeds up to a hundred and twenty kept most drivers under the radar. But her constant complaint was that her old car could not get there.
‘Bloody stupid thing!’ she would rave. ‘Can’t get it over ninety!’

This went on for so long we eventually learned to relax as time ran out night after night until Jim McBeath, mate, veteran drummer and congenital smartarse, innocently asked:
‘Umm, Joy, what model Toyota is it?’
‘Sixty-five, why?’
‘I see, so what’s its top speed?’
‘Only ninety. Why?’
‘Kilometres?’
‘Of course, that’s what the signs say, dummy!’

Jim paused while he did the arithmetic.
‘Joy, old mate, your speedometer is in miles,’ he laughed. ‘You’ve been doing nearly a hundred and fifty!’
Her hand flew to her mouth.
‘Oh shit!’ she said as I looked at my watch. ‘Sorry guys.’
Just in case you missed it, she was not upset because she had been seriously speeding.
She was devastated her long time excuse had passed its use by date!

Bang bang! You're alive!.

Fireworks.

No longer innocent of terror,
And despite loss of trust,
Fake machine gun bursts
Bring laughter and joy.

Safe and joyful 4th of July!

Prompted by Magpie Tales

Colonoscopy.

It all went well, polyps removed and assurances given along with the bill.
Luckily, despite numerous financial challenges, I have maintained medical insurance, so that was taken care of and I must say, my experience was as pleasant as it could be, made so by gentle and expert people in an unrushed and quiet private day clinic. Even the canula went in first time with no pain. So the following cheeky little jibe is about the bill, not the people. Well, I must say the doctor did look happily well fed.

Specialised medicine.

I love colonoscopies
And complex appendectomies!
With scalpel sharp
I work my art,
Commanding gen’rous fees! Boom! Boom!

This illustration was not included in the instruction sheet or I would have had to ask what was up there! I mean, if he could become President....
Note, filed under 'funny odds and ends'.





Pic from http://www.indogram.com/gifs/colonoscopy.gif

Dying to say no.

This true story has no funny twist or punch line. It is a tragedy, the telling of whch was prompted by Gabrielle Brydon's posts on mental illness.

Going back a bit and omitting names to spare some good people pain, I recall the many suicides, all men, tragedies that happened during the twenty-five years I spent in the small and to me, supportive community of the Dooralong Valley.

This one triggered a long period of reflection and I pass on my thoughts for your consideration.

My story concerns a young man who seemed to have it all. He was famous, commanded huge fees for his daredevil motor cycle show and seemed to be the master of his destiny. I met him when he called in to see his father, who was working on my property at the time.

When he stepped out of his Corvette, I was surprised to see how petite he was. Almost feminine looking with features, had they been on a girl would have been pretty. His persona was in stark contrast to his father’s big bluff English Midland. I was surprised by his gentle manner. It did not fit the daredevil image but it was the stress in his sad young face that came back to haunt me a week later.

His dad had just signed him up for a very lucrative tour of England to follow his current commitments. Then the headlines shocked Australia. I read that he booked into a hotel in Melbourne, bought a gun and shot himself dead. His father was devastated. He had lost his child, always tragic for a parent, and was totally at a loss to understand why his son, with so much to live for, had become so depressed he blew his brains out.

So, why did he do it? Nobody knows for sure because he said nothing and I think that is the clue. Here is where my ponderings took me.

Imagining myself jumping a motor cycle over twenty one buses night after night for years, I realised there would come a time after yet another close shave, when the bike did not quite hit full power and with the target ramp coming up a bit short, fear would replace exhilaration. Doubt is death to a daredevil. At that point I think I would have been over it and retired.

But wait a minute. I remember as a child doing dangerous things for my dad. I trusted him to keep me safe and in retrospect much of that trust was misplaced, so I do understand how it could have been, that this young man with the soft face and shy personality and with the stakes so high, could not say no to his dad.

Years had been invested, as his backyard jumps grew from fantasy fate-tempting tests of his worth into a marketable asset. It was fun to begin with and for a kid who craved approval, his fear of danger was probably less than fear of paternal disappointment. Then, as expectations grew into millions of dollars, the little power he had over his own life was abandoned. Calling a halt was no longer an option. He feared death less than her feared disappointing his father.

I am not blaming his dad here. Had he suspected his son’s mental state, he would have cancelled everything immediately. But like everyone in the team, he was carried along by euphoria and saw no reason to question his own motives at the time. The kid had always been a daredevil and apparently loved it. To see past that into his son’s psyche was beyond his ability or experience, so he never pondered why this inexplicably brave boy did what he did, apparently welcoming each escalation of danger. He could not have realised his son could have been risking all for fear of losing his dad’s approval.

So what is the message here? I guess you are ahead of me and maybe always were wiser. Although he is still alive, I lost a son too, not to suicide as we define it, but to the long drawn out suicide of heroin addiction. I can’t say which is worse; losing a child to sudden violence, or watching his slow destruction over days, weeks, years and decades. It is a sadness I carry always, along with the suspicion, that had I listened more then, things might have been different and now it is too late. Hindsight may be a wonderful thing but it can be exceeding cruel.

‘Ware you sit!

Wearing false teeth has its rules
And here’s one for silly old fools:
“Don’t leave your dentures
On chairs, seats or benches.”
You could lose the Family Jewels.

Second bite

The Magpie Tales toothbrush came at a bad time. So much guilt. If I’d known I could live this long I would have taken better care of my teeth! This picture is of a foot pedal operated drill, similar to the one used by my first dentist who visited my school to see to the teeth of poorer students. See the notice explaining its use and imagine a dentist jigging around, pedalling energetically while trying to perform delicate caries removal in the small mouth of an eight year old. That was me. The eight year old, not the dentist!

In case you were wondering, he stuffed up and had to remove four teeth. Then he sent me back to class with a note that I should be sent home. What they all forgot was that our farm was four miles away and there was no transport, so in the heat of sunmer I walked home with a mouth full of bloody cotton wool. Mum was not happy. She hated me missing lessons!

Many many years later, only two years ago I lost my first permanent tooth, a very expensive root canalled/gold capped molar that had reached its use-by-date, and was offered a referral to a specialist who could do an implant for $5,000. Although I could have scraped it together, I put it off, knowing I could never afford a second one, and barring my prior demise, would finish up with one implant standing ‘like a tombstone in a ghost town!’

I digress to tell you that a four year old once told me, oh so seriously, that a cemetery is: ‘A place where dead people live.’ I assure you I did not laugh… not until later.

So with three teeth suddenly giving me merry hell, crunch time has arrived. Now there is no choice. Dentures it will be. So, I will talk to Dr Dan on Monday and arrange an end to the pain as soon as possible. Wish me luck and join me in thanking science for anaesthetic!

(Pic from Wiki)

Quit while you're a toothbrush..

When I was young I cleaned the teeth of little boys and girls.
I kept their molars squeaky clean, incisors bright as pearls.
But now I’m old I’m given only yukky things to do,
Like ridding tiles of mould and grime and clots of birdie poo.

“You think that’s bad!” said Toilet Brush, in tones of fear and dread.
“You should see the mess they make and where they put my head!”
So now when I’m unhappy and my life I would amend,
I think of poor old Toilet Brush, all flushed and round the bend.

The end.

Inspired by Magpie Tales

Sniffer dogs

'Dogs are the best friend of man,
So they say, but I'm not a fan.
Their raison d'etre?
To wee, shit, etcet’ra,
And smell every anus they can!

(Response to Lena's and Gabrielle's dog blogs).