I thought that I’d mentioned the chickens here, but maybe that was over on Facebook. Some time in the last 8 weeks or so we added three chickens to the burgeoning menagerie that is Chateau Temby. Caroline’s wanted them for quite some time and we finally managed to get around to building a coop and fencing etc and even putting some chooks in it in the hope of one day extracting some eggy goodness.
The local kindergarten had them from chicks and we picked them up for free when they were about 6-8 weeks old or so. Two white, one black that I lovingly refer to as Breakfast, lunch and dinner (I’ve got the names for the next two picked out – first comes fried, then Kentucky).
Now the only problem with free chickens is that no one has been able to tell us if we got the sort that will grow up to be hens or the sort that will grow up to be roosters. Not being much of a chicken sexer myself, I’ve opted for the wait and see approach. If it crows, its off to the zoo for dinner (for something lucky) otherwise, if it lays an egg, it stays.
As they grow, we keep looking for signs. No crowing yet, but the two white ones seem to do a lot of posturing and might just have slightly pronounced combs coming up. The black one doesn’t seem to have that development going on and doesn’t quite seem to be doing the posturing.
Every time that one goes out at night to shut them back in the coop, there the three of them are, up on the roost. White, black white. I think we’ve got a couple of roosters.
Ménage a chook.
Jul 19, 2011
Free TV
I’m puzzled. I don’t subscribe to pay TV here in Oz because I figure there’s enough crap for me to watch on the free stuff that I don’t need to pay. Lately though, as I watch free TV I keep seeing this commercial telling me how good free TV is.
I don’t get it.
I mean, what are they trying to do?
If I see the ad, then I am already watching free TV.
If I don’t watch TV, then I’m not going to see it. If they’re trying to attract people that don’t watch TV, they’re using the wrong bloody medium to advertise!
If I watch pay TV, then I’ve already made a decision to pay more than the nothing that I have to to watch what I want and so I’ve already decided that the free content that they’re advertising isn’t good enough for me.
What’s the frickin’ point? It must simply be there to annoy the crap out of me, because that’s the one thing that the ad is successfully doing!
I don’t get it.
I mean, what are they trying to do?
If I see the ad, then I am already watching free TV.
If I don’t watch TV, then I’m not going to see it. If they’re trying to attract people that don’t watch TV, they’re using the wrong bloody medium to advertise!
If I watch pay TV, then I’ve already made a decision to pay more than the nothing that I have to to watch what I want and so I’ve already decided that the free content that they’re advertising isn’t good enough for me.
What’s the frickin’ point? It must simply be there to annoy the crap out of me, because that’s the one thing that the ad is successfully doing!
Dressing in the dark
One of the joys of the combination of winter and school holidays is that I practically get dressed in the dark to avoid waking anyone up too much. This morning I did so and because I was feeling lazy, threw a vest on over an unironed shirt (oh the horror) so that I’d hide the wrinkles.
It wasn’t until about 10am that I looked down at the cuff of my sleeve and noticed what appeared to be white paint. Further inspection confirmed the fact that somehow the old shirt that I’d given to Emily to use as a painting smock had made its way back into my wardrobe and worse, in the dark it had made it onto my back!
It wasn’t until about 10am that I looked down at the cuff of my sleeve and noticed what appeared to be white paint. Further inspection confirmed the fact that somehow the old shirt that I’d given to Emily to use as a painting smock had made its way back into my wardrobe and worse, in the dark it had made it onto my back!
Jun 22, 2011
Bye Bye Grace
I am sad to report that things did not go well for our poor little bunny Grace. The vet tried inducing her to see if that would bring on the contractions and help and the first of the two babies was apparently delivered, but the second was simply too large and little Grace didn’t survive the birth.
I managed to beat Emily home and needless to say when she arrived she came through the door in tears and dissolved into a blubbering mess in my arms. Caroline had hockey, I was trying to cook dinner and then I was told that I would need to go and collect the body. So I whipped out and hid her in the garage so that we could try and get through dinner.
I’d cooked steak, veg and chips and when Emily sat down, she wasn’t prepared to eat the meat because “It reminded her of Grace.” She sat slowly eating her chip, occasionally sobbing, but when it came to the veg, it only took one look at a carrot for her to decide that she wasn’t going to be eating those either.
There was already talk of a replacement bunny and it was interesting (and heart breaking) to watch Emily oscillate between the hope that would come with a new bunny and the devastation that was associated with the loss of the lovely little bunny that had just died.
After dinner we went out into the yard, found a nice spot under the fruit trees where Grace had liked to explore and dug a hole. Emily laid her to rest in the hole herself and then we buried her, said a prayer and marked the spot with a rock and some flowers. The boys were good enough to come out as well and I don’t think there was a dry eye when we quietly went back inside.
The rest of the night was hard, Emily continuing her emotional roller coaster and eventually I had to lay with her in bed to get her off to sleep, letting her talk her way through the issues, hearing her note that she and her brothers would have spent the money for the caesarean, but that Mummy wouldn’t. I had to assure her that I couldn’t spend the money either and that Mummy had had to make a tough decision that she didn’t like and that we’ll both second guess many times even with the sum that was involved.
I did have to laugh though when a little later Emily said, “Imagine if we had thousands of bunnies and had to bury them and when one died you tried to dig a hole and were like, ‘Oh we’ve dug up another bunny, guess we’ll have to try a different spot!”
Eventually she slept and thankfully didn’t wake up during the night. This morning she was philosophical, but still sad of course and asked me to take her out to where Grace was buried so that she could say hello.
I managed to beat Emily home and needless to say when she arrived she came through the door in tears and dissolved into a blubbering mess in my arms. Caroline had hockey, I was trying to cook dinner and then I was told that I would need to go and collect the body. So I whipped out and hid her in the garage so that we could try and get through dinner.
I’d cooked steak, veg and chips and when Emily sat down, she wasn’t prepared to eat the meat because “It reminded her of Grace.” She sat slowly eating her chip, occasionally sobbing, but when it came to the veg, it only took one look at a carrot for her to decide that she wasn’t going to be eating those either.
There was already talk of a replacement bunny and it was interesting (and heart breaking) to watch Emily oscillate between the hope that would come with a new bunny and the devastation that was associated with the loss of the lovely little bunny that had just died.
After dinner we went out into the yard, found a nice spot under the fruit trees where Grace had liked to explore and dug a hole. Emily laid her to rest in the hole herself and then we buried her, said a prayer and marked the spot with a rock and some flowers. The boys were good enough to come out as well and I don’t think there was a dry eye when we quietly went back inside.
The rest of the night was hard, Emily continuing her emotional roller coaster and eventually I had to lay with her in bed to get her off to sleep, letting her talk her way through the issues, hearing her note that she and her brothers would have spent the money for the caesarean, but that Mummy wouldn’t. I had to assure her that I couldn’t spend the money either and that Mummy had had to make a tough decision that she didn’t like and that we’ll both second guess many times even with the sum that was involved.
I did have to laugh though when a little later Emily said, “Imagine if we had thousands of bunnies and had to bury them and when one died you tried to dig a hole and were like, ‘Oh we’ve dug up another bunny, guess we’ll have to try a different spot!”
Eventually she slept and thankfully didn’t wake up during the night. This morning she was philosophical, but still sad of course and asked me to take her out to where Grace was buried so that she could say hello.
Bunny on hold
I think that the last time I mentioned the rabbits that had been added to our family it was because we’d just brought home a female of the species (Grace) and there was speculation about how long it would be before the burgeoning bunny love resulted in the pitter-patter of tiny paws.
We’ve been suspicious for a while now that this mile stone was evident and just a few days ago, things seemed to have been confirmed when young Grace was spied gathering straw from around the hutch and taking it into the darkened area. That is, she was nesting. Days later and there didn’t seem to have been any change though, so we continued to wait.
Today, Caroline called at work to say that there was blood in the cage and that Grace was making funny noises and she wasn’t sure what to do. She didn’t know if the rabbit was just in labour or whether she was in trouble and wanted advice on whether there should be a vet involved. It might seem strange to seek advice on whether to involve a vet, but for anyone that’s ever had pets, I’m sure you can understand the dilemma. This particular rabbit cost us about $60. That’s how much you pay to walk in the door at the vet and then if anything needs to be done … hand over your savings.
Clearly though, this was one of those occasions where professional help should be sought out and so despite our experience with Jack the Cat some years earlier (Must try to remember to link that sordid tale) I advised that she should go. To which the question was asked, “What’s the limit?”
Tough call. How much money do you spend to save a rabbit? Even if that rabbit is one of your little princess’ very first pets there has to be a limit. I couldn’t say. I advised that it would be best to go, find out and then make the judgement call when we knew where we stood.
Well, now I know where we stand. Grace is up the duff, there’s a big baby blocking the way and it would appear that she needs, get this, a caesarean.
Which of course leads directly to the question – What would it cost for a dwarf bunny of about 3 months in age to have a caesarean?
Answer: $1200.
Thus, the answer is no. Now I just have to wait to find out what happens next:
Bring the rabbit home and hope for the best? Or
The rabbit get’s put down and one explains the cycle of life to their 8 year old daughter.
Look's like tonight is going to be one of those fabulous character building opportunities.
We’ve been suspicious for a while now that this mile stone was evident and just a few days ago, things seemed to have been confirmed when young Grace was spied gathering straw from around the hutch and taking it into the darkened area. That is, she was nesting. Days later and there didn’t seem to have been any change though, so we continued to wait.
Today, Caroline called at work to say that there was blood in the cage and that Grace was making funny noises and she wasn’t sure what to do. She didn’t know if the rabbit was just in labour or whether she was in trouble and wanted advice on whether there should be a vet involved. It might seem strange to seek advice on whether to involve a vet, but for anyone that’s ever had pets, I’m sure you can understand the dilemma. This particular rabbit cost us about $60. That’s how much you pay to walk in the door at the vet and then if anything needs to be done … hand over your savings.
Clearly though, this was one of those occasions where professional help should be sought out and so despite our experience with Jack the Cat some years earlier (Must try to remember to link that sordid tale) I advised that she should go. To which the question was asked, “What’s the limit?”
Tough call. How much money do you spend to save a rabbit? Even if that rabbit is one of your little princess’ very first pets there has to be a limit. I couldn’t say. I advised that it would be best to go, find out and then make the judgement call when we knew where we stood.
Well, now I know where we stand. Grace is up the duff, there’s a big baby blocking the way and it would appear that she needs, get this, a caesarean.
Which of course leads directly to the question – What would it cost for a dwarf bunny of about 3 months in age to have a caesarean?
Answer: $1200.
Thus, the answer is no. Now I just have to wait to find out what happens next:
Bring the rabbit home and hope for the best? Or
The rabbit get’s put down and one explains the cycle of life to their 8 year old daughter.
Look's like tonight is going to be one of those fabulous character building opportunities.
Jun 21, 2011
Thugs
I’ve been playing organised soccer since I was about 8 (yes, a bloody long time ago) and have seen some crazy shit in that time. I’ve been involved in two games that were abandoned, one due to its descent into an all out fight (that I didn’t bother getting involved in) and another because it was only a trial and the opposition were so far from playing within the spirit and rules of the game that our coach called it off early before someone got hurt.
They are the only two times in my career that I can recall not shaking hands with the opposition. This weekend makes it three.
The last couple of games we’ve played, we’ve played some thugs. Guys that don’t particularly go out of the way to stay within the laws of the game and that will take every advantage accorded them when the referee is lax on a rough tackle. I’m kind of getting used to be kicked and pushed and held every time I go near the ball. After all, it’s not tiddly winks and I’ve played some hard games of soccer in my time. Hell, I’ve even hurt some people with some tough tackles, but it’s always been accidental as I’ve always gone for the ball.
This weekend the ball was down the far end of the field, our opposition having cleared it out and I was making my way back to the half way line as the defence pushed us out when someone decided that it would be a useful tactic to come from behind and plant a full-blooded fist into the middle of my back. It fucking hurt. I didn’t see who it was as I dropped to the ground in pain and because it was so far behind the play, no one else saw what happened either. It pissed me off even more than it hurt and it still pisses me off a couple of days later.
This is amateur sport. I don’t get paid to be there but I show up because I enjoy the game. It’s actually the first time I’ve ever really even remotely considered the ‘R’ word (that would be retirement of course) and even then simply because of how much it destroyed my enjoyment of the game. I mean, had I been scoring a heap of goals, or even threatening to, or perhaps been the most outstanding player on the pitch, I could consider it a compliment that someone thought they needed to go that far to take me out of the game. Had I been an utter bastard and previously crash tackled one of their players or something, I could explain it as revenge. The reality is though, I can’t think of a single thing that I did during the preceding 20 or 30 minutes that warranted such an attack.
It was quite simply utterly piss weak and gutless of the fucking wanker that did it; behind play and without provocation and perhaps that is what shits me most of all.
The Pub with no Grub
On the Queen’s birthday weekend, with no sports commitments for once, we decided that we’d drag the caravan and the kids away and go see something other than the inside of our house for a day or so. After much debate we decided to stay in Meningie on Lake Albert. We left reasonably late in the afternoon, and arrived just after sunset, setting up in the fading light before heading into town to find something to eat.
I was looking forward to a good country pub counter meal and was happy when it was actually open as it hadn’t appeared to be when we’d driven past it an hour or so before hand.
At the outset, things looked good. Not a bad menu and 6 choices of kid’s meals as well. It was when we started to order that we became a little suspicious. Sam decided he’d have the mini hot dogs, but they were out. Neither did they have the mini pizzas, nor the chicken satays. By the time half of the kid’s menu had been eliminated, he’d basically given up and settled for a bowl of chips and some garlic bread.
We went to the salad bar whilst we waiting for our food to arrive, but that was a short-lived revelation. They’d run out of bread rolls (more were in the oven) the salad selection was less than desirable and the vegetables … well let’s just say that I didn’t bother.
I think Emily’s food was the first to arrive, a plate of dinosaur shaped chicken nuggets. That’s it. No chips, no sauce, nothing; Just a pile of little dinosaurs on a plate.
Sam received his bowl of chips and happily there wasn’t too much wrong to report in that little piece. Michael’s schnitzel was fine and Thomas had a score. The kid’s schnitzel had been delivered as an adult meal. Twice the food, 1/3rd of the price!
My steak arrived next and I have to say there’s nothing quite like splashing out on a nice piece of fillet … and having them serve up over-cooked porterhouse. At least the pepper sauce was ok. Caroline was good enough to complain on my behalf whereas I was at that point already where I was just going to eat, run and never return. Somewhere between my almost finishing my steak and Caroline’s arriving Sam was informed that they didn’t have any garlic bread!
After wondering if Caroline’s steak was still at the abattoir, it finally arrived, resplendent in it’s seafood sauce, though strangely, lacking anything else. Mine came with chips, Caroline’s did not. One wonders if they’d run out. Her fillet was also a porterhouse and whilst she ate it, we listened to the table next to us complain about all the issues that they’d had with their meal to the poor waitress who had to cop all the crap. Apparently there also wasn’t any pavlova.
The kids were keen to stay for dessert, but Caroline and I vetoed, telling them we’d go to the service station and buy them an ice cream, because at least there was a good chance that they wouldn’t have run out! We were probably right, but won’t ever know because it had closed. D’oh.
On the way back to the caravan park we did find somewhere else open (ironically a lot closer as well) and they even did dessert. So we stopped and bought the kids ice cream. A shame that when Sam and Thomas ordered the lime topping that they’d run out though!
So that was our adventurous first meal in Meningie. Suffice to say that for the second night, we went to the supermarket, bought some nice fillet steaks and I cooked them perfectly at the van.
I was looking forward to a good country pub counter meal and was happy when it was actually open as it hadn’t appeared to be when we’d driven past it an hour or so before hand.
At the outset, things looked good. Not a bad menu and 6 choices of kid’s meals as well. It was when we started to order that we became a little suspicious. Sam decided he’d have the mini hot dogs, but they were out. Neither did they have the mini pizzas, nor the chicken satays. By the time half of the kid’s menu had been eliminated, he’d basically given up and settled for a bowl of chips and some garlic bread.
We went to the salad bar whilst we waiting for our food to arrive, but that was a short-lived revelation. They’d run out of bread rolls (more were in the oven) the salad selection was less than desirable and the vegetables … well let’s just say that I didn’t bother.
I think Emily’s food was the first to arrive, a plate of dinosaur shaped chicken nuggets. That’s it. No chips, no sauce, nothing; Just a pile of little dinosaurs on a plate.
Sam received his bowl of chips and happily there wasn’t too much wrong to report in that little piece. Michael’s schnitzel was fine and Thomas had a score. The kid’s schnitzel had been delivered as an adult meal. Twice the food, 1/3rd of the price!
My steak arrived next and I have to say there’s nothing quite like splashing out on a nice piece of fillet … and having them serve up over-cooked porterhouse. At least the pepper sauce was ok. Caroline was good enough to complain on my behalf whereas I was at that point already where I was just going to eat, run and never return. Somewhere between my almost finishing my steak and Caroline’s arriving Sam was informed that they didn’t have any garlic bread!
After wondering if Caroline’s steak was still at the abattoir, it finally arrived, resplendent in it’s seafood sauce, though strangely, lacking anything else. Mine came with chips, Caroline’s did not. One wonders if they’d run out. Her fillet was also a porterhouse and whilst she ate it, we listened to the table next to us complain about all the issues that they’d had with their meal to the poor waitress who had to cop all the crap. Apparently there also wasn’t any pavlova.
The kids were keen to stay for dessert, but Caroline and I vetoed, telling them we’d go to the service station and buy them an ice cream, because at least there was a good chance that they wouldn’t have run out! We were probably right, but won’t ever know because it had closed. D’oh.
On the way back to the caravan park we did find somewhere else open (ironically a lot closer as well) and they even did dessert. So we stopped and bought the kids ice cream. A shame that when Sam and Thomas ordered the lime topping that they’d run out though!
So that was our adventurous first meal in Meningie. Suffice to say that for the second night, we went to the supermarket, bought some nice fillet steaks and I cooked them perfectly at the van.
May 28, 2011
Open for Inspection - Part 2
There are times when I’ve probably been considered to be over-sharing information. Just so you’re warned; this is likely one of them.
As noted previously, I left work early enough to go home and go through the preparation process in the splendour that is home rather than at the office. I had been considering attending soccer training prior to the actual experience though I was a little concerned that my energy levels would be low having not eaten for most of the day.
The time came around for the first part of a 3 step process of ingesting ‘cleansing agents’ for want of a better word and I mixed up this substance that looked kind of like milky water. After staring suspiciously at it for a while, I faced my demons and skulled it. I couldn’t face the thought of starting slowly only to find out that I couldn’t stand it and yet be faced with the ingesting the remainder.
It was probably a wise choice. Although not overly offensive in terms of taste, it didn’t sit particularly well and did rebel enough to put the thought of puking in my mind. I managed not to though and went back to sitting around to wait for it to take effect.
Well before we reached that point though I had to go through preparation ‘b’; another concoction that this time had to be drunk over the course of an hour … a whole litre of it.
It had a kind of lemon flavour to it was a little more viscous than water and quite simply, didn’t hold any sort of appeal at all. A bit later again and I had to do a second dose of preparation ‘a’. Second time around I knew what to expect. The fear of the unknown had been resolved only to be replaced by the fear of the memory that was still so recent in my mind. I survived.
Then it was back to the waiting. It’s not a fun waiting time because you know what is supposed to happen. You’re just not quite sure how long it will take or just exactly how it’s going to be.
We’ll chalk it up as ‘not fun’. You know those horror days in your life when you manage to contract diarrhoea and can poop through the eye of a needle? When you have no choice but to shit even though its really only going to produce a warm stream of unpleasantness from the anus? Yeah, well now you’re getting the picture. Now you know how I spent the rest of the night. Afraid to fart because quite simply, nothing good was going to come of the experience, not wanting to crap but having too, knowing exactly what’s coming out and knowing that as much as you might like to hope so, it’s not the last time.
Caroline and the kids ate dinner, I hid in another room, biding my time between visits to the dunny and wishing that it was all happening to someone else. At least I was eventually allowed to sleep.
I’d hoped that by morning I’d have been done with it all because I’d cleansed the system enough the night before. Such wishful thinking! Of course I wasn’t done. I was mostly done, but like Miracle Max said, mostly dead isn’t all dead. Neither is mostly done all done.
Eventually it was time to go in for the actual inspection.
Having undressed the lower portions of my body and donned that stunning piece of attire that is the hospital gown, I was wheeled into the room where all the action was to take place. The anaesthetist stuck a needle in my vein, pumped something into it and waited a while to ask me if I was feeling sleepy (I was supposed to be sedated, not complete zonked). I hadn’t noticed a thing and told him as much. This resulted in something else being stuck in my vein and beyond that I really don’t recall a thing until I woke in the recovery room. I’m quite happy about that, as should you be. It means no graphic description of the actual inspection itself.
After a while, when I felt less woozy I got to see the specialist who advised that they’d only found a single polyp that had been removed and that would be sent to the lab for analysis. Only one is possibly good, none would have been better. And couldn’t he have asked if I wanted to see it rather than just waving the little sample jar in front of me?
Then came the rest of the day which involved eating again at last as well as waiting for that joyful moment when would be able to once again let rip with a joyful toot without fear of soiling myself! What a wonderful moment it was.
Now it’s the wait for the results.
As noted previously, I left work early enough to go home and go through the preparation process in the splendour that is home rather than at the office. I had been considering attending soccer training prior to the actual experience though I was a little concerned that my energy levels would be low having not eaten for most of the day.
The time came around for the first part of a 3 step process of ingesting ‘cleansing agents’ for want of a better word and I mixed up this substance that looked kind of like milky water. After staring suspiciously at it for a while, I faced my demons and skulled it. I couldn’t face the thought of starting slowly only to find out that I couldn’t stand it and yet be faced with the ingesting the remainder.
It was probably a wise choice. Although not overly offensive in terms of taste, it didn’t sit particularly well and did rebel enough to put the thought of puking in my mind. I managed not to though and went back to sitting around to wait for it to take effect.
Well before we reached that point though I had to go through preparation ‘b’; another concoction that this time had to be drunk over the course of an hour … a whole litre of it.
It had a kind of lemon flavour to it was a little more viscous than water and quite simply, didn’t hold any sort of appeal at all. A bit later again and I had to do a second dose of preparation ‘a’. Second time around I knew what to expect. The fear of the unknown had been resolved only to be replaced by the fear of the memory that was still so recent in my mind. I survived.
Then it was back to the waiting. It’s not a fun waiting time because you know what is supposed to happen. You’re just not quite sure how long it will take or just exactly how it’s going to be.
We’ll chalk it up as ‘not fun’. You know those horror days in your life when you manage to contract diarrhoea and can poop through the eye of a needle? When you have no choice but to shit even though its really only going to produce a warm stream of unpleasantness from the anus? Yeah, well now you’re getting the picture. Now you know how I spent the rest of the night. Afraid to fart because quite simply, nothing good was going to come of the experience, not wanting to crap but having too, knowing exactly what’s coming out and knowing that as much as you might like to hope so, it’s not the last time.
Caroline and the kids ate dinner, I hid in another room, biding my time between visits to the dunny and wishing that it was all happening to someone else. At least I was eventually allowed to sleep.
I’d hoped that by morning I’d have been done with it all because I’d cleansed the system enough the night before. Such wishful thinking! Of course I wasn’t done. I was mostly done, but like Miracle Max said, mostly dead isn’t all dead. Neither is mostly done all done.
Eventually it was time to go in for the actual inspection.
Having undressed the lower portions of my body and donned that stunning piece of attire that is the hospital gown, I was wheeled into the room where all the action was to take place. The anaesthetist stuck a needle in my vein, pumped something into it and waited a while to ask me if I was feeling sleepy (I was supposed to be sedated, not complete zonked). I hadn’t noticed a thing and told him as much. This resulted in something else being stuck in my vein and beyond that I really don’t recall a thing until I woke in the recovery room. I’m quite happy about that, as should you be. It means no graphic description of the actual inspection itself.
After a while, when I felt less woozy I got to see the specialist who advised that they’d only found a single polyp that had been removed and that would be sent to the lab for analysis. Only one is possibly good, none would have been better. And couldn’t he have asked if I wanted to see it rather than just waving the little sample jar in front of me?
Then came the rest of the day which involved eating again at last as well as waiting for that joyful moment when would be able to once again let rip with a joyful toot without fear of soiling myself! What a wonderful moment it was.
Now it’s the wait for the results.
May 27, 2011
Open for Inspection
I went to the doctor recently just because I needed to be told that I’m fat again to have a check up and although there was nothing really wrong with me (I won’t bore you with the intimate details) due to family history, we decided that it was probably time that certain things were checked.
Now when I say certain things, let’s be specific. We’re talking about the last bits of the digestive system. Yes, its time for a colonoscopy. Can we say excited? Today is preparation day which means that since 10am I have been unable to eat (good for the diet, not for the soul?) and later today I get to drink some fluids that will apparently assist with the cleansing of the bits to be inspected. Given that this commences during work hours, I made the decision to leave the kit at home and meet it there, rather than bring it to work and experience the full joy in the confines of the office environment. It’s probably kinder for everyone that way.
So there you have it. Part 1. Before the real fun begins. I’ll be sure to keep you updated.
PS – some posts here just lend themselves open to way too many titles. This was one of them!
Now when I say certain things, let’s be specific. We’re talking about the last bits of the digestive system. Yes, its time for a colonoscopy. Can we say excited? Today is preparation day which means that since 10am I have been unable to eat (good for the diet, not for the soul?) and later today I get to drink some fluids that will apparently assist with the cleansing of the bits to be inspected. Given that this commences during work hours, I made the decision to leave the kit at home and meet it there, rather than bring it to work and experience the full joy in the confines of the office environment. It’s probably kinder for everyone that way.
So there you have it. Part 1. Before the real fun begins. I’ll be sure to keep you updated.
PS – some posts here just lend themselves open to way too many titles. This was one of them!
May 25, 2011
Over Excited
Saturday night just gone was the Swiss Club of South Australia’s annual fondue night. It’s something that we’ve been going to for a number of years with the obvious pause in attendance due to living out of the country. It’s always been a pretty good night and certainly guaranteed to get you just about the best cheese fondue that you can.
Last Saturday though, Caroline had spent most of the day in bed with flu-like symptoms and I had played a game of soccer in the afternoon and I simply didn’t really feel like making the effort to get there.
Caroline dearly wanted to go, but wasn’t sure that her health was up to it, but in the end we both soldiered on, knowing that once we dragged our sorry arses out of the house that we’d have a good time.
The cheese lived up to expectations and all was good up until the point that Caroline’s mum had a bit of a turn. One minute she was sorting out money for cocktails, the next her hand was shaking a little and suddenly she blacked out. I immediately grabbed my phone and called for the ambulance whilst Caroline propped up her mum.
The last time that I had called an ambulance it had been for Thomas when he’d managed to spurt blood in large quantities from his head on a wet and rocky path near Port Lincoln. I was caught somewhat by surprise when they started asking for the address. I knew that we were at the Austrian Club, but they wanted a specific address. Having rushed outside so that I could be heard when making the call, I then had to run around inside to find someone that knew the actual street address, the whole time not being able to check on how Connie was doing particularly because as with any crisis a crowd had gathered.
It seemed somewhat counter productive to me, when someone is clearly in distress, to surround them and add to the confusion, heat and noise in the room, but there wasn’t a lot I could do whilst on the phone to the ambulance. Fortunately by the time that I had finished talking to them, Connie had already regained conciousness, though was sick and disorientated.
The Ambos duly arrived, did their thing and loaded her into the back for ride into hospital to be checked out and monitored for the night. Given the riot of emotions that accompanies such events, the rest of us decided to call it a night.
Happily I can report that after the night of observation that Connie returned home, though it was certainly more excitement than we’d bargained for from a fondue night!
Last Saturday though, Caroline had spent most of the day in bed with flu-like symptoms and I had played a game of soccer in the afternoon and I simply didn’t really feel like making the effort to get there.
Caroline dearly wanted to go, but wasn’t sure that her health was up to it, but in the end we both soldiered on, knowing that once we dragged our sorry arses out of the house that we’d have a good time.
The cheese lived up to expectations and all was good up until the point that Caroline’s mum had a bit of a turn. One minute she was sorting out money for cocktails, the next her hand was shaking a little and suddenly she blacked out. I immediately grabbed my phone and called for the ambulance whilst Caroline propped up her mum.
The last time that I had called an ambulance it had been for Thomas when he’d managed to spurt blood in large quantities from his head on a wet and rocky path near Port Lincoln. I was caught somewhat by surprise when they started asking for the address. I knew that we were at the Austrian Club, but they wanted a specific address. Having rushed outside so that I could be heard when making the call, I then had to run around inside to find someone that knew the actual street address, the whole time not being able to check on how Connie was doing particularly because as with any crisis a crowd had gathered.
It seemed somewhat counter productive to me, when someone is clearly in distress, to surround them and add to the confusion, heat and noise in the room, but there wasn’t a lot I could do whilst on the phone to the ambulance. Fortunately by the time that I had finished talking to them, Connie had already regained conciousness, though was sick and disorientated.
The Ambos duly arrived, did their thing and loaded her into the back for ride into hospital to be checked out and monitored for the night. Given the riot of emotions that accompanies such events, the rest of us decided to call it a night.
Happily I can report that after the night of observation that Connie returned home, though it was certainly more excitement than we’d bargained for from a fondue night!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)