What Price for Dignity and Comfort.

Lucky died at around five o'clock yesterday afternoon in a secluded room within Midland Hospital. He had been admitted to the Intensive Care Unit two Saturdays ago. Initially given a very bleak prognosis, he seemed to rally for twenty-four hours. After Sunday, he embarked on a long slow deterioration.

He was given medication to support his blood pressure and heart rate. Daily blood tests painted a poor picture. As long as he remained on a drug regime that needed to be closely monitored, he remained in ICU. Faint hope for recovery gave way to the unpleasant inevitable; Lucky was falling into the 80% that were not going to survive this admission.

Ceasing the supporting infusions were delayed as Lucky rebelled against his fate. He was afraid and battling to understand what was happening to him. A day of verbal accusations and uncharacteristic behaviour illustrated his fear and frustration. I am ashamed to admit I took his assaults personally. I should have seen beyond the words to see an elderly man facing death.

The weaning process off the medications took two days. Lucky was eating very little, drinking not much more and becoming increasingly agitated at night. Whilst he remained in ICU, there were nurses available to tend to him and give comfort to his family. Sandra and Darryl had stayed overnight with him, but they had not been left on their own with Lucky for any extended period.

One of the consultants on ICU whom we liked and trusted talked a great deal about three words - comfort, dignity and family. She assured us that  Lucky would be treated palliatively in an environment that would concentrate on keeping him comfortable and dignified.

Two days ago, he was transferred to an adjacent ward. Placed in a room accessed through an airlock, the staff received very little information and openly stated they were unsure how to nurse him. The first nurse we saw expressed his frustration with the lack of a plan. Michael and I had agreed to stay with Lucky overnight. There were other family members coming in and out during the day. One of the registrars remarked that this was the time to say goodbye.

We were informed that the staff would no longer be performing observations. Unless we rang the nurses' bell, there would be minimal nursing support. All his drip lines had been removed in ICU. By late afternoon, Lucky was finding drinking increasingly difficult. so swallowing was an impossibility. We realised that he would need a line inserted for pain medications. This was not a welcome thought.

As the evening wore on, Lucky became increasingly vocal and agitated. He was thrashing around in his bed, hitting his unprotected legs repeatedly into the bed rails. He also pushed his legs past the bed rails and needed one of us to place his legs back onto his bed as gently as possible. His purple fingers were curling inwards and clutching the rails like a terrified animal.

With the intervention of the ward co-ordinator, we had been provided with two recliner chairs but sleep was impossible for any of us. Lucky moaned and cried and tossed and turned. Around midnight, we requested drugs to help his obvious distress. A subcutaneous line was inserted into his abdomen. The last word we heard Lucky say was "ow". The staff expressed their concern about giving him too much morphine. We were incredulous.

We requested extra medication. After an hour, the nurses gave him a calmative as well as another half dose of morphine. We were berated for ringing the bell. One of the night nurses complained she had eight patients to look after and the other nurse had seven patients. We were asked - "Do you know it's only half an hour since you rang the bell?"

Lucky was soiling his pad frequently. We watched two of the night nurses changing him. They spoke forcefully to him to let go of the bed rails. They moved him backwards and forwards like a sack of potatoes. We struggled to recognise any decency in their treatment of him.

We then asked for an urgent review by the night doctor and an increase in Lucky's medication. This was refused. Finally, another dose of morphine started to sooth him. Or he was spent. Sometime between three and four o'clock in the morning, his cries became softer and subsided and his body ceased his frantic movements.

One of the night nurses was outstanding in her compassion. She listened empathetically to us in those grim small hours of the last night, offered us a cup of tea and coffee and obviously spoke to the other nurses about their lack of care. Around four thirty, one of the other nurses came into the room, washed Lucky's face and swabbed his mouth.

We both slept fitfully for a couple of hours. Morning shift began. Sandra arrived to be with Lucky. Michael was shattered. I was not much better. We grabbed tea and coffee in the cafe. Michael was so upset he could not return to Lucky's room. We decided to go home for a sleep. I collected our gear from Lucky's isolated outpost and we drove away, grieving not for Lucky's approaching death but for what had been the last night of his life.

Arriving home with relief, we slept soundly for three hours. Upon awakening, Michael could not face returning to the hospital that afternoon. He rang Sandra to explain his feelings. Lucky was quiet at last. Michael believed Lucky's spirit had left his body sometime during that awful dark night and relayed his belief to her as well.

Sandra rang us to let us know when Lucky died. We were incredibly sad. And we were so angry. Where had been the comfort and dignity for Lucky that we had been promised? After nine days in ICU, Lucky was taken and effectively dumped in a place that wasn't prepared to receive him and didn't know what to do with him. And his last night on earth was harrowing. Just as well the two of us were with him. With scant support from the nursing staff, we were continually challenged to prevent Lucky from hurting himself further in his high state of agitation.

This is our reality of Lucky's decline. Michael and I remain very concerned about some of the attitudes communicated to us. The staff's overwhelming desire seemed to be following drug protocols, rather than easing Lucky's suffering.

Midland Public Hospital is administered by St John of God, a Catholic organisation. We believe that their doctrine may dictate the care of patients. No abortions in this public hospital for starters. And what about easing the distress of palliative patients. We saw only resistance and excuses in our pleas for Lucky.

I will be writing to the new premier and the new health minister. The previous premier's name is proudly displayed in the foyer for the opening of this hospital. This public hospital's policies have been dictated by religious doctrines. This is not a hospital for all.  The former premier compromised the health of Western Australians ( particularly the Wheatbelt catchment) in agreeing to the terms for the administration of this hospital.

Deja Vu

Another morning has followed another night that we did not go home. Staying at the Rose and Crown, this time in one of their uber swish, ultra modern motel units. The familiar choruses of planes overhead and trains nearby. And no stairs. A bonus.

Michael had a rotten night, restless with an unwelcome bout of his reflux. Yesterday he had needed a neb due to congestion. Last night was a combination of air conditioning (I should have turned it off and opened the door), unease about Lucky and those disorientated jolts when we wake up in unfamiliar surroundings.

So, this morning we are a little worse for wear. I let Michael sleep on after I left the bed. A hot shower with plentiful water has helped. And we will have a slow start. We have been forewarned that Michael's children are coming to visit their grandfather this morning. So we have to stay away.

I am sitting here, surrounded by swirling thoughts, emotions and memories whilst Michael is having a long soaking shower. I thought I had become more used to hospitals and their smells, sights and scariness. Living with Michael is a reminder that I have to be on my toes. Especially as we are entering the cooler weather.

This has been an ongoing process over the last few days. I think I have finally worked out exactly which demons are at my door. Thirty years ago, next month, Christopher was born. Nine weeks premature with a host of health issues battering his baby body. How quickly I entered a routine of normality intertwined with chaos. I used to complete some housework whilst Vanessa (then seventeen months old) had her first sleep. Then I'd pack her and me off to the Children's Hospital, her to the Child Care Centre and me to Neonates to spend another terrifying day with my little boy.

Vanessa was already showing signs of distress but I was so wound up with daily crises that I didn't notice my daughter. This was a time of utter madness. On the surface, I was coping admirably, juggling a toddler, an absent husband and a critically ill baby. Those days in Neonates were the stuff of nightmares. We lurched from disaster to disaster. Necrotising enterocolitis and a metabolic disorder and Noonan's Syndrome and a horrendous congenital heart disorder. Coupled with severely premature lungs. He really didn't stand a chance. There was no happy ending.

My tiny Chris lived his forty-eight days in Neonates and died on a wild and rainy June evening. Suddenly I was left without a purpose. I'd become used to the ride. What on earth was I going to do with myself?

This is Ground Zero all over again. We are all dancing as fast as we can, trying to behave like this situation is acceptable. We are taking shifts sitting with Lucky so one of the family is always with him. He has been moved out of ICU into a sheltered room in an adjacent ward.  He has been disconnected from all the machines that go ping. He is sleeping most of the time, open-mouthed as if he needs to catch his breath. The miracle is now highly unlikely.

So Michael and I are with Lucky. Michael's holds his Dad's hand and struggles to listen to his odd whisper. Lucky's beloved Nana Mouskouri is singing in the background. I hope Lucky can feel Michael's hand and Sandra's hand and Darryl's hand and all the love enveloping him. So he knows he isn't alone.

For the best father-in-law ever.

A Brief Respite from the Maelstrom

Friday was a particularly awful day. We were all tired from a week of shuffling in and out of the hospital to be with Lucky. He was uncomfortable and crotchety. His condition remained the same and his prognosis remained uncertain. Visitors wore him out but he voiced his loneliness when on his own. For a man who had prided himself on being physically busy, Lucky's illness had become excruciating. And he was frightened and fretful. Who wouldn't be under the same circumstances?

We had all gathered early. The day wore on. I was on edge from weariness. Eventually, I had to leave. We had secured a room at the Rose and Crown Hotel in Guildford earlier in the day and I needed a break away from the emotion that was swirling around us all.

So I checked in. The Rose and Crown is a delightful pub and offers very pleasant accommodation. At over one hundred and seventy-five years of age, she is a grand Georgian old lady, the oldest operating hotel in Western Australia. Kathy on reception was a marvellously cheery and compassionate presence. She had upgraded us into one of the Heritage Suites on the first floor of the original building. I was almost overwhelmed, firstly by her empathy and then by the stairs.

Feeling rather like a pack horse, I gasped my way up and down the stairs several times, bringing in enough luggage for a remote expedition. By the time, I staggered into the Emerald Room for the last time, I was completely shattered. This was one of the few times I regretted my complete absence of fitness.

The bed was soft, luxurious and welcoming. I was enveloped in a cloud of warm crisp comfort. I had opened the French doors to the balcony overlooking the garden and I was eventually lulled to sleep by the murmuring of guests below and the warmth of the afternoon sun on the bed.

Michael woke me via the phone after five. I collected him from the hospital and we retreated into another world. We sat in the garden with our evening drinks and then were second in line when the restaurant opened at six. Beautiful food, a superb and outrageously expensive bottle of Shiraz and convivial surroundings transported us to a temporary paradise. Post dinner, we traipsed our way down into the cellar, Michael pointing out the entry to the tunnel that had used to traverse the underground to the river.

We retired to our room to watch Michael Portillo and his gentle railway journeys. Once in bed, our eyes progressively drooped towards full closure. We were both asleep by nine o'clock and slept soundly with only a couple of brief moments of wakefulness to attend to personal ablutions. If there were any ghostly apparitions flitting around, we were blissfully unaware.

A beautiful morning, we checked in our key before breakfast. We also had to report the commencement of some alarming eruptions from the loo. Horrified that we had somehow blocked the pipes, we were most relieved when Kathy assured us that the old lady's plumbing was in a somewhat delicate condition and we were not the only ones to experience burblings of water from the facilities.

We had a very friendly and enjoyable chat with both Kathy and Mark Weber, the owner of both the Rose and Crown and the Mahogany Inn. We discovered shared passions with Mark of historic buildings, earlier times of Western Australia and the delights of red wine. He remarked that Michael obviously had very discerning taste in choosing the Shiraz made in heaven we had consumed the previous evening.

The 1841 breakfast was luscious, substantial and fortified us for the rest of the day. We left, feeling more rested than we had for several days.

Back to reality.

Paraphernalia within ICU

Scary for patients and scary for families.

How Lucky was feeling...

So we stopped the world for a night...

and enjoyed wonderful hospitality...

Vale Rose and Crown!

Return to Reality.

Another Memorable Encounter with Centrelink.

Having had no correspondence from Centrelink for a couple of weeks, I knew this situation was too good to last. Yesterday, yet another automated letter was spat through our post slot in the front door of the Gallery.

Centrelink required me to submit bank statements from the last three months of 2016 in order to assess the correct amount of my "Age Pension". What the fuck?! I know I have been looking a tad ragged lately but I didn't think I yet resembled one of the elderly set.

What really infuriated me was these were exactly the same bank statements (give or take a month) that Centrelink had received from us thirty-eight days ago. Those same bank statement were to check Michael was receiving the appropriate amount of his Disability Support Pension, according to Centrelink. Even better, these are exactly the same bank statements we submitted to Centrelink in January this year after the sale of the house.

Give me strength.

I was already hyperactive and edgy by this morning. I had spoken to Lucky last night from his bed in ICU. He was very tired, slightly disoriented and difficult to understand.  This development worried me and I repeated my concerns to Michael. Hence we found ourselves on the road to the Big Smoke by eleven o'clock with the primary goal to see Lucky for ourselves. I was also revved up for a visit to Centrelink in Midland with the required statements. Again.

Stops for road works and random breath testing hampered our progress. We didn't arrive in Midland until twelve thirty. We went straight up to see Lucky in ICU. A restless night, breathlessness and a frequent cough were not adding up to anything other than misery for my darling father-in-law. He had lost all interest in food and was very uncomfortable, but still with his trademark stoicism and good humour. We met with one of the consultants this afternoon, who spelled out what we already knew. Lucky was very frail, very unwell and his body was attempting to cope with many problems.

We went to lunch and decided to return home for the night but come back to Midland tomorrow morning. Michael stayed with Lucky and Sandra whilst I launched forth to Centrelink. By this stage, I was furious at a complete waste of my time.

The queue to the 'meet and greet" inside Centrelink took about ten minutes for me to reach the front of the line. Then, in a caring and sharing way, I let rip with my frustration at having to produce the same documentation three times in three months. Apart from all the other assessment and adjustments of our pensions that had taken up hours and hours over days and days.

The poor sod greeting me was actually sympathetic. He thought the reference to "Age Pension" was appalling, especially as I receive a Carer's Payment. He couldn't understand why Centrelink seemed to require the same statements when they already had them on file. He promised to photocopy them immediately and give them back so I could be on my way.

The line behind me was open mouthed. Applause and the thumbs up gesture followed. I hastened to add, in view of his rapid response, to insist I knew Centrelink staff were blameless but I would go to jail if I killed the responsible politicians. Came a gruff voice from the back of the line - "but it would be worth it!"

My statements handed back, I reiterated that I was clinging to the faint  hope that this would be the end of communication between us and Centrelink for the foreseeable future.

We live in hope.

Home this evening. We are hoping for the best but preparing for the worst. We are off tomorrow - very early for us. We would be really chuffed if you could send Lucky love and light and ask the universe and the gods to look after him.

Fools to the left of me, jokers to the right...

stuck in the middle with you.

And the winner is...!

Lucky and Judy at our wedding.

At the Sofoulis Family gathering, May last year.

Twists and Turns.

Six days since my last post. Where to begin? We have experienced the good, the bad and the ugly. The fear of endings and the excitement of beginnings. We are currently shattered, out of our usual routine and have no clue when life will settle again from its current uproar.

All was progressing swimmingly towards the end of last week. We had scored some free insulation batts from our friend Zelda on Tuesday and stopped for dinner with Lucky and Sandra. All seemed unexciting. Wednesday was the usual house and Gallery cleaning prior to the beginning of our working week.

Our new home was powering on. The slab had been laid, the house frame had been started. We remained slightly nervous that we haven't received our loan documents in writing yet. But we had been given the go ahead to proceed with the house. Suddenly, the Station Estate (preliminary title) had come to life. Rooms were recognisable, courtyards were obvious and our enthusiasm was high.

The first inkling that all was not well was on Saturday afternoon. Michael's appeared in the Gallery, washed and dressed, urgently seeking my attention. Sandra had rung. Lucky was unwell and was in Emergency at the Midland Hospital. We closed the Gallery early and left for the Big Smoke.

The news wasn't good. Lucky is an elderly ninety year old gentleman with a number of health issues. His breathing had been laboured and his blood pressure had dropped through the floor. We were told to expect the worst. After several hours, he was moved into the Intensive Care Unit. Then remarkably, he rallied and we decided to come home.

Sunday morning's prognosis was mixed. We discussed our options. We decided to leave the dogs locked up inside the Residence, ask our friends Jan and Greg to feed them and stay close by the hospital for the duration. And so, we returned to Midland, to the hospital, to confusion and uncertainty and prepared to sit it out.

The following day, I drove Vanessa up to Beverley to hold the fort and look after the animals. We hoped that beyond all odds, Lucky was actually improving. So we hoped we'd only be away one more night and Lucky would be well enough to be promoted to a ward.

Monday night I was wrecked.  I had driven all afternoon to take Vanessa up to Beverley. I was horizontal by eight thirty. Michael and I shared a king single bed once more. This was not conducive to a sound sleep.

Tuesday I was becoming more aware of the hospital, ICU and the staff. I started asking questions. Hospitals are terrifying places and family members of those was are very ill tend to sit passively. There were some puzzling issues. Lucky was repeating himself, was crotchety and insistent he had not said statements we'd attributed to him. He was cranky he'd only sat in a chair for a short time. And he was still having chest grumblings and clearing his throat frequently.

All was explained after I voiced my queries to the staff. He had developed a urinary tract infect - that explained his fuzzy forgetfulness. He also had a chest infection which they had been treating and was the reason the staff wanted him more upright. However, when he was sitting in the chair, his blood pressure had dropped away so he needed to be returned to a more horizontal position. And there were issues about weaning him off a drug that was helping to support his blood pressure.

After the nurse coordinator Chris advised us that Lucky was unwell but stable, and encouraged us to have a break, we came home last night. The dogs were ecstatic. Vanessa had taken Ground Control. Our bed had never felt so good. We were still restless but we slept.

Today has been a recovery day. We have done very little. We have attempted to be kept in the loop by contacting ICU twice. This has been less than ideal. So we are making the trek down the hill again in the morning and gauge the situation first hand.

And hope for the best outcome for Lucky.

The Sofoulis Squat's progress.

And what we hope for Lucky in the near future.

Happy Birthday, Big Dog.

Sascha, our grey gentle blunderdog turned fourteen years old yesterday. What an occasion, what an event, what a triumph. If dog years were recognised, Sascha would be receiving her telegram from the Queen in the near future. And large breeds like Weimaraners aren't generally long-lived due to their size. To still have Sascha around us is like a golden bonus every day.

Sascha is skinny and bow-legged, lumpy and bumpy. She is certainly not as beautiful or perfect as she was in her younger years. In fact, she is a prime example of growing older disgracefully. She lurches up the hallway like a drunken sailor. Her method of lying down is to drop with an almighty thump. She enjoys her early morning strolls and is becoming quite well known on the main drag. She farts like a brewery horse and is prone to old lady accidents if she can't get out the door immediately. Noah's flood would sometimes be preferable. She also has cataracts and either her hearing is reducing or elderly willfulness is increasing.

Yet she is adored by all, especially us. Pip has been her shadow for the past ten years. Way back in 2007, Sascha would howl piteously when I went to work. So, I hit upon the idea of a companion for her. Due to space constrictions, a smaller canine playmate was necessary. A match made in heaven; they looked at each other and fell in love.

Ruby, who wandered absently into our lives as an adjunct to Michael in 2009, usually gives no opinion or expression at all. With concentration and intelligence similar to Dory the fish, Ruby gives little clue as to her emotions. Unless Sascha is absent for any length of time. Upon reunion, Ruby becomes as close to animated as is possible for her. Quite extraordinary.

Madame Cat grew up with Sascha, hence she is far more tolerant of her as a compatriot. They even would sleep together as a young dog and kitten. Once Pip was on the scene, she withdrew into a fairweather fickle feline. Ruby's arrival was greeted by the Cat with utter contempt and continues as such to this day.

An ongoing source of exasperation and amusement has been the issue of bedding for Sascha. Back at Brooking Street, the dogs had graduated into double doggy bunk beds due to space constraints. No such luxury in the Residence. So we have been using a mixture of old cushions for their sleeping pleasures. Gradually these have all fallen apart from repeated washing, chomping or disintegration from overuse.

The climax to this issue was earlier in the week. Sascha was insisting on poking, prodding, nuzzling and nosing a cushion the size of a postage stamp on which to sleep. She would gaze at me with her wide pleading eyes, trying to convince me to solve her dilemma and magically materialise a larger cushion. After exposure to both her expression and her endless pacing I crumbled. She now is the chief recipient of a very large dog bed. Needless to say, the other two dogs hop up with her as much as possible.

Sascha has appeared to settled into the chaos of our temporary accommodation and the progress of our building site with consummate ease. In fact, out of all of our four legged children, she is by far the most placid in the face of our current living conditions. Maybe old dogs can learn new tricks.

Yesterday she had additional treats for her birthday. Today, after closing the Gallery, we will take all three of the Stooges to the oval. And there, she will lope inelegantly away from us with a joyful burst of sheer pleasure.

Happy birthday, Big Dog. To infinity and beyond.

In The Beginning, there was Sascha...

And then Madame Cat came into our lives...

Followed by Pip...

And Finally the Problem Child.

And all was well...

Except for the Cat...

Who made her feelings known...

Until she became Michael's Mistress...

And Behold, the Double Dog Bunk Beds...

Now replaced with one jumbo-sized shared arrangement

And Pip remains on guard whilst the Ladies sleep...

And Madame Cat is still not amused.

Commiserations to Commander Colin

I wrote this post in my head whilst I had my shower. Now washed and dressed for the punters, I can give full rein to my considered version of the Western Australian state election. I have read, with much amusement, my fellow commentators' opinions and observations. I can add to this post mortem as somebody who actually voted in this massacre.

The WA election result is a rout. There was nothing of the "It's Time" theme that the former premier used to justify the Liberals' disastrous showing.

No, Mr Barnett and his party do not deserve tea and sympathy. I listened to his speech conceding the defeat of his government. There was no demonstration of awareness, understanding or empathy with the electorate. And with the co-operation of the Federal Liberals, Mr Barnett had shafted his conservative partners, the Nationals, to try and attract votes with the lunatic One Nation Party.

Epic fail. And I believe many West Australians actually thought long and hard about their votes in order to send a very loud and clear message to the newly departed. Which the former premier appears to be blind, obtuse or plain dumb to this fact.

Most of my friends would consider me to be very much to the Left. Except I can also be the classic swinging voter. Give me a local member who actually makes some sense, listens to my issues and supports the electorate and I will vote for that person. Those reasons drove my choice for the Nationals' Mia Davies. Having said that, I then placed the Labor party at the top of my Upper House (the house of review) choices. I numbered every box carefully, all fifty-one of them. This form of voting was a first for me. I really analysed every candidate. I actually felt the power.

Following Mr Barnett's woefully inadequate concession speech, I watched the speech of our incoming premier, Mr Mark McGowan. He was gracious, thankful and reasonably humble. Surrounded by his family and the party faithful, he was everything that Colin Barnett was not.

Western Australians are holding our collective breaths to some extent. Mr McGowan has been given the mandate to govern our state. We don't mind if he disappoints us or can't deliver on all those pesky promises.

Just listen to us, please. And never lie to us.

This coming Friday, we are being honoured with a visit at the Hotel Beverley by our fearless Federal Member and Minister for Social Services, Mr Christian Porter. A Pint and Politics with Porter. A Chat with Christian. On Saturday morning, he is taking part in the Beverley Triathlon. What a golden opportunity to mingle with his electorate.

Except I know and he knows and the Liberals know that this is the beginning of the run-up to the next Federal election. Mr Porter wants to start gauging his seat. Meet with the masses. As a consummate politician, he understands the need to keep crunching those numbers.

I am a round,  middle-aged woman with dyed red hair. I love big colourful earrings. I wear a lot of hand-me-downs. I am married to the light of my life, Michael. He successfully applied for a Disability Support Pension after his health was wrecked by both his work in the mining industry and personal reasons. I am his carer. Our daughter Vanessa currently receives a Disability Support Pension. God love her - she wants to work in a government graduate programme when she completes her masters. My son Callum has endured the swings and roundabouts of the hospitality industry for nearly ten years. My younger son Alex also receives a Disability Support Pension. In the last seven years since he left school, he has not been able to obtain any ongoing employment. And not for want of trying.

So, I am looking forward to seeing Mr Porter at the pub this Friday afternoon. To listen to him. To hope for more than just party rhetoric. For signs that he genuinely cares for his constituents and wants to make our lives better. Or at least that he will make decisions designed for the good of his electorate and thus himself and his party.

I hope the state election has rattled every conservative politician in Canberra. Because they should be rattled. Our Western Australian federal politicians seem to lose all connection with their state when they make the trip to the wilds of Canberra.

As for Mr Barnett, I will not be shedding any tears for his loss. I expect there to be much blood letting through what is left of the Liberal ranks. A leader who orchestrated such a disaster will not remain at the top. He will retire on his parliamentary pension and ponder how this defeat came to be.

Insight appears to be a rare trait amongst the power brokers. Maybe this election will jog a few psyches. Maybe even for the better. Either way, the boom has been lowered.

The Commander, the Heir Apparent and that one Relative everybody has in their families.

The Incumbant and his missus casting their votes in the sanctity of Cottosloe...

whilst the Family Man casts his vote in the deep south!

 A thumping victory for Labor's Mark McGowan

 Whilst Mia Davies, quiet achiever and our Nationals state member increased her majority in her one hundred thousand square kilometre electorate of  Central Wheatbelt.

And what will Mr Porter be saying this coming Friday afternoon at the Hotel Beverley?

Stay tuned.

Performing the Watusi Quickstep.

Michael and I are not dancers. At all. And how the ex and I created a passionate ballroom dancer as one of our children is a complete mystery. Callum began dancing at twelve years of age and before he retired from competitions, he and his partner Francesca reached the top 10 in their level at the Australian Championships.

I think Callum has finally given up his quest to teach me to dance. I live in hope. Our last altercation about dancing was when Cal tried to persuade us to learn the waltz for our wedding. Michael and I refused point blank. Callum countered that he wanted to wear a jacket to give me away to Michael. And so my son wore his suit jacket in order to escort me to our ceremony under the shade house. Thus, Michael and I  were saved from a fate of dying of embarrassment.

Occasionally, I convince myself to try a  "Dancing for Dummies" class locally. Ten years ago, I loved Ceroc classes. I even bought dancing shoes. I felt safe and confident in the Beginners' group. Then I was pressured to move into Intermediates. Naturally, the pace was faster and more complicated. All my comfortable pleasure vanished. I never went back.

There are a couple of local dance options here in Beverley. I am still hemming and hawing about giving a dance class another go. I know dance is great exercise and I am less likely to hurt myself than I would at boot camp, run by the inimitable Lyn. So I just keep vacillating and enjoying my evening strolls.

There is one dance I am proficient at performing from time to time. The Watusi Quickstep is a naturally free-flowing dance with changeable steps and an absence of all rhythm. Think Isadora Duncan crossed with Animal from the Muppets and that is the basis of the Watusi Quickstep.  There is no need to have lessons and the dance will occur quite spontaneously in the most unexpected locales.

Michael has also learnt the Watusi Quickstep by osmosis. He insists he was quite controlled and steady on his feet prior to meeting me. Now he is as professional as I am. The only explanation is that he has absorbed my disaster genes.

Let me elaborate. The other night Michael retired to bed, having spent the evening enjoying some very good red vino. Just a tad too much. Over the course of a couple of hours, he became very chatty and animated. The climax of all this activity was the appearance of the Watusi Quickstep. Our bedroom fan had been emitting a repeated vibration on oscillation which was increasingly annoying to Michael's somewhat inebriated mood. Launching forth out of our bed, he resolved to restore the fan to a customary quietness.

I was only vaguely aware of Michael's movements as I was endeavouring to become unconscious. I caught a glimpse of Michael attempting a quasi-tango with our standard fan. The fan appeared to be resisting his advances. Then, resigned to her fate, she became putty in Michael's hands and relaxed. My last view of Michael and his impromptu dance date was of them both descending to a horizontal position, accompanied by a suitably spectacular crash. The Watusi Quickstep had struck again.

I'm afraid I may have uttered a few choice words in response to this episode. Michael was uninjured. The fan was not so lucky. The occasionally irritating noise had become a full blown protestation of a wounding assault on her being. The following morning, Michael was required to take the fan apart in order to restore her to full health. And eat humble pie.

Smugness is not one of my better traits. And I really should learn never to be smug, as the universe always retaliates in kind. Yesterday, I unsuccessfully tried to enter the Residence without performing the Watusi Quickstep. Epic fail. Somehow, my feet, the dog leash and the Beagle all joined together, like a whirling dervish of entities hurtling towards a most unpleasant fate. I grabbed desperately for the wall to break the inevitable fall. My pose was that of a stricken lover who was sinking into quicksand. Rather rapidly. My left knee was first to make contact with the very hard and uneven concrete floor. Then, in a sequence of moves, not unlike a dance choreographed by the frenetic Martha Graham, I writhed and rotated into my end routine of coming to rest on my back and head.

Michael, hearing the series of thuds and my response of expletives, was quickly on the scene. He hauled me into the upright position, examined the graze developing on my knee and commiserated with my other aches. He knew better than to laugh. Clever chap.

This has been a most memorable couple of days. Maybe I should give away all thoughts of joining any form of exercise class. Obviously, movement is not my forte. Unless, like my darling husband, I have consumed a suitable volume of acceptable vino.

Think Isadora Duncan and/ or Martha Graham...

add the Animal

and there you have the Watusi Quickstep!

Michael's dance partner...

and what he thought he was doing...

Gravity taking over.

My dance partner (in crime!)

The first routine was OK.

then there was the "oh bugger" moment

and wishful thinking for my landing.

Finally, recovery time.