But Wait. There's More... (to Loic and Manon)

We have really, really hit the jackpot.

Today is Day 3 of our newest HelpXers staying with us. Loic and Manon are energetic, keen, amiable, artistic and intelligent. And fun.

God, I hope they don't become bored with us too soon.

I am slowly learning more about them. So far, I have learnt that Loic's mum is Algerian and Manon is an artist (and an incredibly gifted one). Loic can plough through any meal with gusto, whereas Manon is slightly more picky. Manon's surname means "Black Cat" in English, which I think is pretty awesome. They love crumpets for breakfast. Their photographs tell their stories of people and places they have been.

Watching their body language and how they touch and relate to each other, they seem to have a very special relationship. I sometimes feel almost embarrassment observing them, even if they are speaking French and I don't understand a word they are saying. They remind me of  Michael's and my relationship, only I had to wait until I was forty-seven to meet the love of my life.

We are all still at the stage of being relatively polite, so my hope is that they feel comfortable enough to share more of themselves. And I'd love to see Manon paint in the Gallery. Her style is eclectic but very obviously from her heart. Maybe I can convince her as I get to know her better.

The dogs all adore them and that is the absolute sign they are Good Guys. Ruby's adoration is totally smell driven as she loves to explore their backpacks, their rubbish bin and any other delectable object they leave out. Sascha wanted to join them on the couch last night - a sure sign of her undying affection. And Pip is besotted with Loic. Given Pip's track record of biting undesirables in the past,  I trust his judgements implicitly. The cat has no taste and is currently ignoring them.

And the mammoth task of moving materials is being made so much easier with their arrival. For the last month or so, Michael had only had to glance at his extraordinary collection before he fled. The operation was just beyond him. Until now.

The weather continues cold and miserable. I am waiting with eager anticipation the arrival of spring. We want to take them out so they can start seeing some of this country. Both locally and further afield if time permits. Given the amount of rain we have had this year, the wildflowers alone (which have already started further north) will be spectacular and we know the Goldfields would be different from most other places they have been.

I have an ulterior motive of course. I have been watching them help Michael reconstruct his huge metal shelving unit in the workshop[. Given my uselessness at following instructions and my lack of spatial awareness, I am sure they would be far more useful than me in assisting Michael set up camping spots.

Introducing Loic and Manon

Out of the blue, we have received the services of another fantastic pair of HelpXers. Loic and Manon contacted us about two weeks ago, after months of travelling through Russia and China. Both twenty-nine years old, they chose us as their starting point for their year-long adventure in Australia. We couldn't be happier. And they were obviously after a hosting that was a little bit different.

The first day, they went out with Michael to chop and collect firewood. Given that winter is still hanging around, the supply of wood at the East end Gallery had become calamitously low. Welcome to Beverley - here's a chainsaw...

The afternoon was quieter. In fact, I was worried that they might be bored. Unlike us, they are young, lithe and energetic and have yet to succumb to any aches or pains. They did organise a few necessities, like a phone. They helped Michael serve dinner - roast lamb, roast potatoes and ratatouille, as I had gone on strike after cooking.  And they washed up the dinner dishes last night. Bliss.

This morning they had a long sleep in. I hope they are catching up on a few zzz's. Night flights are horrible and they endured a day of waiting around and then further travelling. Even fit young things get tired. As I left for the Gallery, Manon was wielding the vacuum cleaner. Happy days!

When Europeans talk about their countries, we get a hint of the size of where they have come from. Loic and Manon grew up in different parts of France - Manon in Chapelle des Bois, near the Swiss border, close to Geneva and Loic at Saint Raphael on the Mediterranean coast near Nice. We might think that coming across each other in a reasonably sized country must be a fluke. Not in Europe. Manon and Loic have known each other since school.

Chapelle des Bois is all about winter sports, hiking and horse riding; the activities one undertakes in a place that never gets very warm. In contrast, Saint Raphael is about the beach. Even there, Loic assured us that snow was not unheard of. Rarely, but snow on the beach? Brrrrr.

So here they are in little old Beverley. They appear to be able to survive without nightlife. They are both well read, like art, articulate and engaging. Loic's English is somewhat better as he lived in the United States for four years. Manon's English  is far better than a couple of our other French backpackers. We communicated with the delightful Simon Hoff last year using a lot of sign language initially.

And they have skills. Loic is a carpenter by trade but has worked in a variety of other professions. Bartending was big on his list whilst living in the United States. Having a cheerful easy-going disposition is a must in hospitality. Manon has worked as a disability carer, in hospitality and in other jobs. They have been together for about three and a half years and they obviously have a great rapport and a close relationship. Travelling tends to bring both the best and the worst out of us, so if they have survived that, they should see a lack of drama as a couple.

Today the kids and Michael began the Big Project. This is the sorting, culling, transport and repositioning of twenty years of found metal objects, the remainder of Michael's tools to move, thousands and thousands of nuts and bolts and a kitchen sink. The only items to stay at the House that Rocks, for the time being, are our gardening tools and camping gear. Ye Gods, I hope they don't leave in the interim.

Who knows how long they will stay. Two or three weeks is their initial timeframe. Then after that? In ten days Michael will find out what having his stent entails and when he needs to have this procedure. We are still planning a Goldfields' camping  trip for late September into early October.  If they like us and we like them, we may have an extra two joining us. We'll wait and see with bated breath.

Our newest HelpXers

Where is Chapelle des Bois?

Not a huge metropolis!

Where is Saint Raphael?

The Saint Raphael coastline.

Discoveries

Denese is my friend and a woman of many talents. Artist, parent, masseur and now learning to be a forensic healer. Rhodesian by birth, Australian through circumstance, Denese is like a deep, still pool of water, cool and inviting, but with her emotions held close to her heart. Perhaps this is the spirit of Africa alive within her soul.

Forensic healing. I'd never heard of this term until Denese asked me if I would consent to be a practise subject for her training. Easy to agree. And then, I promptly forgot about my forensic healing session. Walking up to her house on a breezy morning, I had some vague idea of a questionnaire and kinesiology and listening to beautiful and soothing music whilst lying comfortably on her massage table.

Denese greeted me, all floating skirts and relaxed, loosely fitting top. She looked beautiful, dressed in the soft shades of the earth. Her living room was warm, due to her fire and the heater. We chatted about forensic healing and what to expect over the next hour or so.

Part science, with the study of the body movement, part intuition, part investigation and part release, forensic healing is designed to allow the practitioner to locate "blocks" by gentle manipulation of her client's arm. As I understand, only women are currently trained to be forensic healers.

The questionnaire was both tedious and amusing, as I find most documents of this type. My warped sense of humour tends to have a field day with some of the earnestly sincere questions that are asked. I often wonder if others out there also enjoying picking fun at these dry and essentially humourless fact-finding statements.

Then on with the first forensic healing. Denese informed me there would be more than one session. She began searching for my blocks. Moving only my right forearm, she began her investigation into my memories. Do not ask me how she does this; all I know is that she identified two intense events in my life - when I was a toddler and when I was fifteen.

The first "block" was fascinating to me. I have always prided myself on remembering - not necessarily names, but faces, facts, friends and family. I have been bothered by my lack of memories as a young child, almost none until I was four or five. Because memories are so important to my sense of self, I have endlessly mulled over this nothingness of early childhood.

Under hypnosis, I have been able to glimpse my "place of origin" - standing in my cot in a bedroom and a flash of myself, in a dress, cardigan and shoes and socks running with a dog in a backyard. I guess I would have been between one and two years of age.

As Denese uncovered this early time of my life, she reacted as if she had been physically slapped. She took a step back from me and drew in a sharp breath. She had seen me, crying in that cot. We discussed this scene. I thought about my position in my family - the youngest of four and the only girl. I know I was adored by my Dad and my next brother up in age. This was Michael - my childhood friend, confidante and companion who tolerated a little sister with endless good humour. And my mother? I know she loved us all, but caught up in her own private hell, she was erratic, unforgiving, inconsistent. As a child, I remember going to Michael for comfort, or Dad. Rarely my Mum. Truth is, I was afraid of her.

So maybe I'd been left in my cot to cry. Fear of desertion has been an all too familiar presence. That terror of mine may have started by a simple act of a harassed mother unable to deal with her four children all at once. Just having this explanation to ponder was immediately helpful. This may have been the key to my missing early remembrances.

I was not that surprised that Denese identified the next traumatic block, which began when I was fifteen. I have spent my life trying to minimise, to lessen, to downplay, to ignore this series of events and the aftermath that continues to cloud so much of what is me.

At eleven years of age, I was the youngest in a large rambling family. Four years later, I was essentially an only child. My two eldest brothers were a thousand kilometres away and my beloved brother Michael was changed forever due to his inability to cope with a  move to another city and the inadvertent destruction of our family.

I survived by having two constants in my life - a Cardigan corgi named Snoopy and a Siamese character filled cat, Coco. They remained faithful and loving throughout some pretty awful times, allowing me to unwind and debrief and be assured of their attachment to me. We became a close-knit threesome as they fended off the often nasty and sad realities that made my life miserable.

Then came the bombshell. There was no discussion. We were moving, yet again, the fourth time in five years, into a unit. Mum and Dad had sold the family townhouse to finance a new house back in Queensland. My animals would have to be given away.

I persuaded a family I babysit for to accept my nine-year-old dog and six-year-old cat. I hoped to maintain some contact with them. but even that had to stop. The animals would be heartbroken every time I left them again. The babysitting had to stop.

I'm crying as I write about this. Forty years later. Except now, after the forensic healing,  I have decided not to dismiss this grief. I can't. Whether others may think I have created too much out of an event long ago, that is their problem, not mine. My family of origin vanished completely when I was fifteen.

My wound of loss has remained. I am hopeful that now I have chosen to finally "own" this trauma, that it may lessen with the passing of time. So that these beloved four-legged ghosts of the past can take their rightful place in a special compartment of my heart.

And I may heal.

Thank you Denese.

 Artist, friend and now Forensic Healer

 Snoopy

Coco

Beginning of a new journey

How to Master Procrastination, Dilly-dallying, Dawdling and Puttering...

I happen to be married to the most gorgeous, brilliant, loving and patient man on the planet. Michael and I had been waiting all our lives to meet each other. Love at first sight for me. Affection moved more slowly for a cautious man who had been previously hurt. His attachment to me blossomed slowly with my ability to make him laugh, to break or alter items with breathtaking regularity (particularly when camping) and to surprise him by a thought, a word, an act.

And his need for thinking, for judging, for weighing up his options are a part of his psyche, as much as his need for love or for comfort or for safety. His procrastination is another partner in our relationship. He craves time for consideration before making any decision. Another stutter in his quest for coming to a conclusion is his reliable knack of not listening to conversations I may claim to have repeated over the previous days, weeks or months.

He often looks at me with blank surprise when I ask his opinion of a reasonable pressing decision. Or he may just shift uncomfortably, pleading more time for thought. Or he may decline to discuss that particular item, just because he doesn't want to deal with the situation at this point.

Which can be frustrating for me, as I tend to do the opposite. I make decisions quickly, sometimes disastrously and occasionally visionary. I am often very surprised when a plan does eventually come together.

Probably my greatest triumph involved selling my house and moving Michael, the animals and me, lock, stock and barrel to Heavenly Beverley. All done on the spur of the moment. Getting married was another of my rapidly initiated decisions. As was kidnapping Michael from SJOG hospital when a certain specialist was trying to kill him. In hindsight, that could have gone horribly wrong. Thank God it didn't.

My worst split second decisions involve the melting of thongs, the breaking of my ankle, the burning of my fingers and the misguided belief that I could squat on crutches and successfully have a wee in our backyard. I did finish my call of nature as I fell headfirst into a very large pile of mulch.

So there may be much to be said for mulling over thoughts before making a logical decision. Even Michael has had an exception to his usual procrastinating ways. His snap decision was all about the Forbes Building, way back in 2011.

This was really love at first sight. There was no logic, no objectivity and no wasting time. He had to have this crumbling, broken, smelly, leaking mess. He had been born to save her. I had to walk through the bowels of the building on at least six occasions before I could catch even a glimpse of Michael's vision.

And we duly became the proud parents of the Forbes Building. When I consider how much we've achieved, I am truly gobsmacked. For procrastination, delaying, waffling have at times caused the project to grind to a halt. Along with a complete absence of money and Michael's semi-regular rest cures in hospital.

Lately, procrastination has been all about avoiding the moving of twenty years of Michael's metal collection from home to his workshop behind the East End Gallery. His reluctance to begin this task goes way beyond reticence. He has not known where to begin. Even though our house will be sold at some stage and his stuff does have to move, Michael has resisted for at least a couple of months.

Naturally, I have solved his paralysis with one of my quick and amazingly simple decisions. We have new backpackers arriving on Thursday. Once more, Michael will run out of excuses not to proceed and the job will get done.

Until the next time!

 Michael's problem-solving

or this...

or this...

or this.

My problem solving (usually minus the STOP or the THINK)

That's what it boils down to....

And somehow, regardless of the decision-making techniques we use, most of the time, we turn out OK!

Damn This Traffic Jam...

There is a little ditty by James Taylor, one that I hadn't thought about for years.Until yesterday morning...

Damn this traffic jam, how I hate to be late, it hurts my motor to go so slow.
Damn this traffic jam, time I get home my supper'll be cold, damn this traffic jam.

Well I left my job about 5 o'clock, it took fifteen minutes go three blocks,
Just in time to stand in line with a freeway looking like a parking lot.
Damn this traffic jam, how I hate to be late, it hurts my motor to go so slow.
Damn this traffic jam, time I get home my supper'll be cold, damn this traffic jam.

Now I almost had a heart attack, looking in my rear view mirror,
I saw myself the next car back, looking in the rear view mirror,
about to have a heart attack, I said,
damn this traffic jam, how I hate to be late, it hurts my motor to go so slow.
Damn this traffic jam, time I get home my supper'll be cold, damn this traffic jam.

Unlike the last few days, morning actually dawned brightly with blue skies and a warming sun. Considering yesterday's maximum had risen to only a chilly thirteen degrees, we were relieved at any improvement to that temperature. Particularly as this is the Beverley Agricultural Show Day.

We could hear all the opening kerfuffle of the show all the way from the House that Rocks. The day looked like we may have the odd spit of rain, but we were crossing our fingers for the least adverse weather as possible.

Alex, with his trusty offsider and support worker Pascal, arrived in a very excited state at about a quarter to eleven. I was about to fly in the shower in preparation for opening the East End Gallery.  A squall was passing briskly by as they came through the front door. Even the rain couldn't dampen Alex's spirits. The Beverley Show has always been one of the highlights of his social calendar.

And for fear of sounding biased, our town puts on a great country show. I could tell that there was a bit of a crowd around when I drove down the main drag to the newsagent to buy the Saturday papers. Cars were everywhere. They were crawling along Vincent Street, queued to turn into Forrest Street and generally dawdling in search of an elusive parking spot. Peak hour, with an urban-like crush of traffic, all heading for one destination, was alive and well in the throbbing temporary metropolis Beverley had suddenly become.

Much to our surprise, a stream of visitors kept coming through the doors of the East End Gallery. Most of these guests had already been to the show and regaled us with tales of produce and sheep, art and crafts, delicious treats in all shapes and sizes, sideshow alley, camels and alpacas, rides and show bags. There were even delays for punters entering at the main gate.

We were having a great day in the Gallery as well. Spiders, sterling silver jewellery, our "Gippy up Horsie", Rambo the sheep and one of Shirley Gillis' iconic "old ute" paintings all found their ways to new homes. I offered to deliver Helen's purchases as well as other bargains she had picked up before stopping at the Gallery. She and her family had sheep and rams on display at one of the main tents. This was an easy request to fulfil.

Whilst I was there, armed with my camera, I was able to take some photographs to share the happiness of yet another wonderful Beverley Show Day. I talked to some of the participants and stall holders. I met Craig Alford, of Armadale Mower World, who had driven a ride-on mower around the country to bring awareness of mental illness and other health issues. I met a couple displaying their wholly electric car, designed to catapult us all into a quiet revolution and end our reliance on fuel. Good luck to them.

Last night we sat on our back verandah and watched the fireworks that signal the close of the show. We revelled at the glorious white, yellow, pink, blue and green fountains lighting up the sky with the drama of the accompanying booms.

Today, Beverley will ease back to normality. Little traffic, no hold-ups. But our whole town will be buoyed by the success of yet another brilliant show day. Want to add country friendliness, cheerful hospitality and a break from the hustle and bustle? Add this date to your diary for next year.

Beverley is looking forward to meeting you.

Before we became Beverley Hillbillies, I thought sheep were little creatures on gambolling legs...

and I was not expecting to come face to face with Rambo!

Now here's an excitable boy.

Look Mum! No engine.

Because this is a fully electric car!

Who says we're backward in the sticks?

This bloke drove around Australia on a ride-on mower to raise awareness of mental health and other issues.

Craig Alford, you are a star.

Can I load a cannon on mine?

All the thrill of the show for our country kids.

George, I say George.

Yes, Mildred.

Is it nearly home time?

Definitely for the energetic.

Much more my speed.

Still life at the Beverley Show.

However, there were also show bags galore...

and arts and crafts a-plenty.

Catching a lift back to the farm.

Not for the faint heated

How country kids learn to drive!

What a Beige Assault of a Census.

After all the kerfuffle, failure, chaos, and fiasco of the Census launch last Tuesday, I was mildly surprised to see the Census log in details had arrived in my inbox on Sunday night. I had not expected the disaster of the website crash or the hapless oversubscription of the phone lines to be resolved so quickly. I was quite sure that I would be still waiting, with bated breath of course, for the materialisation of the all important Census information for at least another week or so.

This rapid resolution of their internet woes presented me with another challenge. I would now have to gee myself into the Right Frame of Mind to actually open and complete the Census. And with all the dread and doom flying around this data retention, I was concerned that the document was going to be rather daunting.

On the other hand, I hoped that the Census would require, what I considered, to be more relevant details of our lives. For example, with three dogs and a cat, we are in desperate need of  a doggy daycare here in town. If the Census was innovative at the least, questions such as dog and cat ownership, were in my opinion, vital to future planning for the country.

After watching the idiot box, I resolved to ignore the elephant in the corner no longer. With courage in hand, I opened the ABS website and loaded our individual twelve number code. Which immediately took me to a new page with a new password. Which I then had to enter in order to proceed. There were about as many doors getting to the Census as there were accessing CONTROL headquarters.

The moment of truth. But instead of a trumpeting of triumph, the Census itself was rather like sitting on a whoopee cushion. A short, rude interruption which was instantly forgettable.

The questions were basic, banal and boring. There was no chance to add private vision to the document. The process took less than fifteen minutes to complete and submit. And that was after I had to go back to my details to check an answer.

There were limited chances to be individual. I answered as "Kate" as I saw nowhere on the form I had to use my full legal name. Which is a tiresome trio of titles I dislike. And I do hope the computer has some sort of reaction if it reads I've had seven babies. Which I have. And I have been neither promiscuous nor uninformed. I was the unfortunate target of sheer bad luck on a number of occasions.

After completing this driest of documents, I retired to bed and tried to sleep. Naturally, my brain wouldn't turn off from the pointlessness of actually conducting the Census. So, here I was,sitting at my laptop, thinking of all the government departments and other agencies that have  all the same information, plus a great deal more, than what the Census required me to answer.

A number of banks, insurance, and superannuation organisations, Medicare, the Electoral Commission, the Department of Transport, the Shire of Beverley and the greatest of them all, Centrelink and its Big Brother, the Department of Human Services all have far more data about Michael and me than the Census required.

Which begs the question - why have a Census at all? The government has all this information at its fingertips, hidden away in a variety of different compartments in a multitude of departments. There is an information superhighway bulging with details about us all. What's the problem with using all the previously gathered tidbits rather than wasting a great deal of money on a long winded Census?

Due to my offbeat sense of humour, the Peter Principle reared its cheery head again and provided the answer. The problem with collecting data is that Somebody has to collate, administer and distribute all the humdrum bits and pieces about us all to Somebody Else. In order to do Something. Or at least to pretend to do Something. Which if you have departments full of bureaucrats rising to their ultimate level of incompetence, nothing much actually happens. At last, an adequate definition of government!

So, having wasted less than half and hour on filling in the Census, I have had much more entertainment writing this post. And my concerns about data retention? I shall not lose any sleep worrying about my intimate details pointing to some misdemeanour. And as Michael succinctly pointed out -  "who cares if they keep my data for ninety-nine years? I'll be dead!"

Lastly, I remember the Census being infinitely more fun when we had to colour in the circles on the form.

You are now entering "The Twilight Zone"...

 Whoops! Failure to launch...

What I hoped the Census would seek...

Ye Gods!

Why nothing happens in government.

Protocols and Procedures - PFFT!

I suppose this had to happen at some stage. For the first time, and hopefully the last time, I was underwhelmed by events at Joondalup Health Campus last Thursday and Friday.

Michael's angiogram was booked for the morning list on Friday. We were planning on travelling to the Big Smoke on Thursday after closing the Gallery. Staying with the kids in Banksia Grove for two nights and motoring back to Beverley on Saturday. That didn't sound too onerous.

Except the hospital kept chasing us to see the anaesthetist and attend the pre-operative clinic on Thursday. Eventually, we caved into the pressure and adjusted our departure time. The wondrous Poppy Juillerat offered to Gallery sit at the eleventh hour. Using logic and reason to back up her argument that we should let her loose in the Gallery, we gratefully accepted.

The pre-operative clinic involved seeing a nurse, who already had accessed Michael's file. All his previous history, including his surgical notes from the Mount Hospital, were in her hands. We then moved onto the anaesthetist. This perfectly nice chap asked us some questions, ordered some blood tests and agreed that of course, I could stay with Michael in the Day Procedure Unit before he went off to be stabbed in the thigh. Apparently, this was as close to a Royal Dispensation as I could get.

Our admission time changed from 7.45am to 6.30am to 6am. Awesome. And it was still only a Cattle Call. We duly arrived, registered, sat and waited, completed paperwork, sat and waited and then we were escorted, en masse with two other patients up to the Day Procedure Unit.

First almost international incident. What? I wanted to enter the unit with Michael? Who had given me such authorisation? When I answered "the anaesthetist", I was grudgingly allowed into the inner sanctum.

Usual cubicle with bed and chair. The groovy gown. Which Michael is always incredibly self-conscious about wearing, so he asked me to loosely do up the ties. Just as well I was there because our nurse was not present to help him.

We listened to confusion being openly discussed in our hearing. Did Michael need the pressure stockings or not? Did they need to put a cannula in his arm? Or not? After the well-oiled machine of H4, the Day Unit was a bit of a letdown.

The piece de resistance by our nurse. She needed to shave him Down There. Now. Drop your dacks, Michael. She started with the electric razor. Then "Ooh you are hairy!" was announced to the universe.

I watched Michael mentally disintegrating before my eyes. So I offered to take over. She obviously had lots of other more important tasks. "Oh, would you?" No problem, I replied. And Michael might feel more comfortable with me shaving him.

She gratefully left. I completed the job.  Second almost international incident. I asked Michael if he wanted me to go with him to the Holding Bay. He answered in the affirmative. I had to receive the Blessing of the unseen Ward Co-ordinator in order to do so.

On our way up with the very pleasant young orderly, I asked Michael again if he wished my presence. Particularly, after all the Fuss I was causing. He nodded emphatically. I kissed him goodbye when they arrived to take him in. Apparently, I would be phoned when he was finished.

I headed in the direction of the cafe and enjoyed breakfast and four cups of tea. I caught up online matters for an hour of so. About 10 o'clock, I returned to the Unit to inquire about Michael's location. At the exact moment I was asking the reception staff about Michael's status, I noticed the ever so friendly sign instructing me not to ask about a patient. I was supposed to wait to be Rung.

The reception staff duly answered my question. He was Still In. I found out later he was actually Out, twiddling his thumbs and bored out of his brain lying flat on his back in the Unit. They had allowed him to have a sandwich and a coffee. There had been no anaesthetic, except for a local. And no anaesthetist. Which begged the question about the rings we had jumped through at the pre-operative clinic the previous day.

Thinking he was still in the Cath Lab, I imagined that the surgeon must be tackling Michael's arteries. So I went off to purchase some new joggers, an extra shirt for the Gallery and some DVDs. I met Callum at the shopping centre as I had inadvertently knicked his wallet that morning. After turning his house upside down, he had rung me and requested that I look in my bag for his missing wallet...oops.

We returned to the hospital after 12 noon. Now I was becoming seriously worried. I was about to ask, again, against protocol, of Michael's condition. Before I could make a complete idiot of myself, Michael texted me to say he was dressed, sitting in a lounge and waiting for discharge in about another half hour. I texted back to ask if he wanted company. Yes.

Third international incident. Could I join him in the Unit? A blank look was the initial response. Then "No, he hasn't been discharged". I repeated my request, to be told I could join him Shortly.

So, we began texting each other. He was climbing the walls. So was I. Nothing was happening. I was tempted to engage the doors in combat but decided to cool my heels for the Duration.

The doors finally opened and Michael and the discharge nurse ushered me into a room for me to sign his discharge paperwork as his Guardian. We were officially given our Get Out of Jail Free card.

We were both shattered. After grabbing a bite of lunch, we returned to Callum and Bron's house  for an afternoon kip. Our spirits were further restored by the kids shouting us dinner at the Mullaloo Beach Hotel, Callum's work venue.

The amount of time Michael had spent having the angiogram was, perhaps, half an hour, an hour at the most. He spent seven hours in total in the hospital, mostly on his own. Now I am not criticising the Unit on his care. He came out alive. That was the important outcome. However, he and every other patient in the Unit could have been treated somewhat differently, if they so chose.

Hospitals are scary places. Even if you are a grown-up. And hospitals are undignified and embarrassing. Michael was mortified to have to seek help from a nurse to use a bottle. This was something I've done for him, but nobody else has. And the comments about his hairiness on the Unit just about caused him to disappear into himself.

As far as I could tell, there was no medical reason for carers or supporters to be excluded from the Unit. There was a chair in each cubicle. I was helpful, particularly for Michael's emotional well-being. And when he was waiting for discharge, what was the rationale for keeping him in the Unit Lounge on his own? Michael observed that the nurses did not appear to be run off their feet. In fact, he mostly heard the general chit chat of the nurses' outside lives.

I am happy to stand corrected if there is a legitimate and compelling medical reason for isolating patients in the Day Unit, some of whom may wish their partner or parent or supporter with them. Michael is one of those who is excruciatingly unsettled by hospitals. He does not want others to perform intimate functions for him - he wants me there. And as long as I believe that protocols and procedures are the only justification for the Day Procedure Unit policies, I will continue to accompany him into such places.

A familiar view of Joondalup Private Hospital...

Michael's anxiety is ever present...

and he feels vulnerable and embarrassed 

as do most patients. So give us a break.

Nemesis

Two of my favourite murder mysteries are Agatha Christie's "A Caribbean Mystery" and "Nemesis", both featuring Miss Marple and the enigmatic Jason Rafiel - though Mr. Rafiel is actually deceased in the second book. There is a scene when a very much alive Mr. Rafiel names Miss Marple as Nemesis, one who cannot be vanquished.

As Miss Marple aged, she appeared to become sharper, shrewder, quicker and the symbol of justice. Another character in one of the Miss Marple stories described her as "the most terrifying woman alive".

If Miss Marple is the nemesis of evil and wickedness, my own private nemesis is a completely different, inanimate object. My nemesis is a lifelong destroyer of my self-esteem, a challenge that I have set myself time and time again, in the vain hope that I become confident and assured instead of disheartened and miserable.

My own terrible secret is that I cannot make scones. I remember the first attempt. I would have been about 10. I was really keen to make afternoon tea scones for an old client of Dad's. With the dogged optimism of a child, I produced flattish rock scones. They would have served very well as door stops, or wedges or weapons to decapitate very small zombies. I actually can't remember if I tried them myself. Forty years later, my scones were still a source of great amusement for Mr. Wilbur Robbins.

I must admit that for a very long time afterwards, my psyche would shy away in horror at the mere thought of scones. I don't think I attempted them again for many many moons until I moved to Beverley. Then I searched for the fool proof recipe for scones and was introduced to the lemonade variety. My first lot presented in the usual disastrous manner of soggy, stale rock cakes. A second batch was more successful and my honour was saved for a particular morning tea.

Scones were banished from my mind for some years after that fluke. Then, with the passing of the unpleasant memories, I wondered if I was really was that woeful at scone making. Surely, I could overcome this jinx and triumph at the Holy Grail of perfect, plump, soft scones.

My wonderful friend, Stacey Dowding, Ringmaster and Major General at Greendale Community Centre in Armadale asked if she could make a return trip to the East End Gallery with her merry bunch of feisty seniors. She had brought about thirty intrepid oldies up last year. That had been an experience that was hard to forget. There was nothing frail or feeble about this group. If tea wasn't ready or there weren't enough cakes, they would let me know, fiercely, ferociously and with both barrels.

I have planned cupcakes. And scones. Packet mix. Ought to be foolproof. I made the cupcakes the night before. A winner, as ever. In the morning, rising later than I'd hoped, I messaged Stacey on Facebook as to how many old dears would be arriving for afternoon tea in Heavenly Beverley.

Sixty would be invading the East End Gallery around two o'clock.

Galvanised into action, I sprang into the kitchen. I read the instructions. I put the mixture in a medium sized bowl and added the milk. I already had the rolling pin out and the bench floured. I mixed until the blob started resembling dough. Then I deftly manhandled the dough onto the bench to knead and roll.

The dough wrapped itself around every one of my fingers and the two palms of my hands. I tried shaking the stuff off, peeling it off, using a flat knife to ease it off. All that happened was that further items and utensils were being covered in the stickiness too.

Eventually, I called Michael for help. He poured flour onto my hands and the bench, which cascaded over the edge of the bench.Bits of dough had been flung to all corners of the kitchen and the floor. I persevered with kneading and then decided to roll.

I asked Michael how high two centimetres should be, Half an inch, was his reply, Then I asked how high my rolled dough was at this point. About one centimetre. Bollocks. I flipped half the dough back onto itself to have another roll and reach the required height. The whole exercise was beginning to go horribly wrong.

Eventually, my weird mini frisbee scones were finally in the oven. I prayed to every deity I could think of for the allotted amount of baking time. The Moment of Truth.

I had outdone myself in this latest catastrophe. The discs that emerged from the oven were crumbly, tasteless and exceedingly tough critters. They wouldn't even have passed muster at communion.

Now I had a bench covered in flour glue, myself covered in flour and dough and Pip, grabbing titbits as they fell, covered in flour too. In fact, it appeared a white tsunami had swept through the entire kitchen. And I still had sixty seniors arriving in a few hours. And no scones.

I flew down to the local bakery and begged for scones. They didn't make scones. In a split second, I bought half the cakes in the shop. Then across the road to IGA to pick up another trusty cupcake packet.

My carrot cake muffins worked. As they always had. Cleaning the kitchen was a nightmare. I ended up scrubbing the kitchen using a scourer with my fingernails as attachments And doing my best Cinderella (before the ball) impression scrubbing the kitchen floor. But this had to be done. I knew I would not have the energy later.

Four buses roared into town at three o'clock. Stacey was her usual unflappable self. They came, they saw, they ate, they emptied the urn completely and another kettle as well. They gave donations for the afternoon tea. A few ladies bought cards and one of Mick Cotter's letter openers. Stacey, bless her cotton socks, bought two spiders to take home.

Just over an hour later, they left town in a shower of sparks. We were shattered. Poppy Jay had joined us just before the hoards had arrived. As  I collapsed, Poppy and Michael tidied up. I had never been so grateful for their help. Poppy then convinced us to let her manage the Gallery for the next two days. We were too tired to argue and gratefully accepted her wonderful offer.

We retired to the top pub for dinner. I was over any more cooking or washing up or cleaning. A few vinos soothed my aching back and throbbing feet.

There are two distinct morals in this story -

• Stacey Dowding should become a National Treasure for her daily services to these amazing older Australians
• and I should never, ever attempt to produce scones in any way, shape or form again!

The Dream

The Image

The Unravelling

Subsequent distress

and how much dough I had all over me...