There are similarities between being the Front-of-House at the East End Gallery and becoming aged. The link is tenuous, I grant you, but I find myself undertaking or being undertaken by two quite distinct activities on quite a regular basis.
The first activity involves moving items and artworks around the East End Gallery. Friend Tracey felt obliged, and quite rightly, to tell me she was tired of seeing my arse in my chair as she passed the Gallery. The location of my desk, and my arse, would be far better served by becoming a display area in the front window. Of course, she was correct. I had just never thought about my arse in quite that way.
Yarn Barn proprietor extraordinaire, Robyn, knowing my propensity for falling over and hurting myself, offered to help me swivel my desk by one hundred and eighty degrees and leave space in front to create a far better view than one of my arse. I then spent several hours perfecting the 'Look'.
In between all this Movement at the Station, Brian and Jean dropped in with more of her little girl dresses, whilst Brian brought me two new plants for my jungle. Brian was also responsible for his gift to me of a dunny door. When he enquired whether I would like a dunny door, I was incredibly flattered. What else could a girl possibly want? I have yet to find a permanent use for my dunny door, but I feel quite comforted in having such an item should I ever need one.
The weekend in the Gallery was relatively brisk, except for Sunday afternoon, which was excellent, as I was spending most of my free time ensuring Tracey would no longer see my arse as she passed. Then, as I was almost finishing this project - still chaotic in a smallish section of the Gallery, a charming family wandered in and dropped $128 on my desk, delighted with three pieces produced by Gone Potty, who is our chief pottery queen up the road in York. Just before closing, a travelling couple from New South Wales thoroughly enjoyed visiting both the Gallery and Michael's Man Cave. Because of their lack of space in their caravan, they picked up a pile of tourism information, our brochure and one of Jess Edward's lovely cards. All in all, an extremely satisfactory finish to Sunday and creating a total absence of viewing my arse from the footpath.
This morning, we travelled to the Big Smoke for yet another appointment with that MOHS Surgeon to the Stars, Daram Singh. This could be construed as a regular event, (rather like my energetic efforts in the Gallery) due to my aged status. Like it or not, all the damage I did to my body a very long time ago is coming back to bite me on the arse. Actually not so. This particular affliction was actually on the right hand side of my nose.
Now Daram is a sneaky bloke and there is not a single photograph of him online. This is probably a practical way to keep women of any age swooning at his feet. Half Croation and half Indian, he is a glorious being to stand before every six months. Whilst literally glowing in his presence, Daram will then utter those truly magical words - "Down to your bra and knickers, Kate". *sigh*
At our last visit, I was hopeful that I had dodged another skin cancer bullet. Alas, no. Hence we arrived at Daram's rooms at nine o'clock (!), having risen reluctantly from our bed at five and left at seven. Ye Gods, that was bad enough but then I endured, with assistance from Daram, his lovely nurse, Michael and a squishy stress ball, the several thousand local anaesthetic injections (I may be exaggerating) the removal of yet another Basal Cell Carcinoma from my nose and a skin graft, taken from behind my ear, neatly stitched onto the gap left on my hooter.
I am sure Daram arranged my appointment to be first on his agenda, due to my habit of uttering, loudly 'fuckity, fuckity, fuckity, fuck!' in times of stress and discomfort. Obviously, he doesn't wish to upset his following patients, maybe waiting with trepidation for their turns.
Michael took a photograph of me mid surgery, before the graft was added. I deleted this said photo, due to my resemblance to a horse's arse. I had a nose the size and colour of W.C. Fields after a bender and due to the position of my head, looked like I had about four hundred chins. Not flattering in the slightest...
Anyway, much to everybody's relief, Daram made sure he had given me clear margins around the removed cancer and completed his extremely neat needlework. I reeled out of his rooms after three hours and we retired to the Midland Tavern for a bite of lunch and a glass of fortifying and medicinal vino.
After collecting my antibiotics and pain relief, we turned Lily in the direction of Station House. Gratefully arriving just before four o'clock, I fell into our bed and slept for over two hours. Michael gently woke me after six o'clock and we have enjoyed a quiet evening. Interestingly, the graft site is far sorer than my nose.
Stella and Lexi were delighted to welcome us home, the cat demanded food and the wonderful Michelle had cleaned the house. Bliss! Now imbibing my last glass of delicious vino, I shall soon retire back to our boudoir after another antibiotic and more pain relief, and hopefully sleep the night away. Without any possible public view of my arse.
