What's In A Name?

Names are particular and sometimes peculiar labels. They invoke faces, personas, connotations, memories, recognition, love and occasionally fear or anger. I prefer to think of that opening scene in "Love Actually" of people greeting each other with joy and affection and amazement. The vast majority of the names I recall are all to do with love.

Muddy the Red Heeler, beloved by Ryan and named after the blues musician Muddy Waters, passed from his sweet beautiful life on Saturday. His death and that of all the pets we have adored are always painful as they mostly die before us. We are left with grief and regret and longing. We are also left with all that was wonderful, funny and special.

Muddy and Ryan came into our lives whilst we were still resident at the House That Rocks. Ryan parked his bus in our spare paddock and Muddy was immediately inducted into the Gang of Four. Not that he ever put a paw wrong. The Beagle was the bane of his existence as she perpetually worked out how to remove the lid of Muddy's biscuit. And consume vast quantities of the canine diet delights.

I remember Muddy as security detail in the Gallery, Muddy as Ryan's trade assistant, Muddy as the Dog around Town and Muddy ever reluctant to leave the comfort of our tile fire. And when I think of Muddy, I see the face of a handsome red dog rather than that of a Black American muso. Call me a Philistine if you wish...

On the other hand, the name Ruby fills me with annoyance, disbelief, disturbance and exasperation, all mixed up in a messy package along with pure love. How else would we put up with the antics of the Beagle if we didn't love her with all our hearts? On the reasonably frequent occasions that she has had to be carted off to the vet, we have been consumed by anxiety and dread. And where would I find the outrageous fodder for my posts about the Problem Child if she wasn't here anymore? Ye Gods, I can feel my heart reluctantly melting as I write this...

Ruby, otherwise known as Madame Cat, is also Michael's nightly dominatrix. He always sleeps better if she is just within the reach of his outstretched hand. We have often considered that hospital stays would be a great deal more tolerable if the Fickle Fairweather Feline was permitted to board with him. Though she would be pretty useless helping him to the loo.

Recently, the Cat has begun costing us a small fortune. We had been profoundly relieved with the news that her blood pressure is now under control, her renal disease stable and her eyesight not deteriorating any further. However, monthly check-ups at the vet are our penance.  This involves placing the said indignant cat in her carrier, enduring a fifty-minute feline yodel all the way to Northam, leaving her for blood pressure monitoring and a blood test, paying a King's ransom and suffering the plaintive yowling all the way home. Then, of course, there is the special diet and the daily tiny tablet that we have to plant in the back of her protesting mouth whilst she is wrapped up like a burrito.

Then there is Red. the Pirate Gallery Parrot, Red from the "The Shawshank Redemption" and "RED", the laugh out loud (and quite violent) movie featuring some of my acting idols. When a film has John Malkovich, Helen Mirren, Bruce Willis and Morgan Freeman (amongst others) in a high voltage sendup of the CIA, it certainly delivered as a seat-of-my-pants ride rather than a dud.

Red the Parrot is a typical Australian bloke. Rude, messy, opinionated, with a squawk that rattles one's head internally, he only speaks when he wishes, has more facial expressions than I ever imagined a bird could possess and bitterly resents having his wing clipped. Very much like some Australian males, now I come to think of his traits. Once, whilst being bird-sat, he greeted Vicki with the fantastic opening lines of "Hello Fathead. Give us a kiss?". Needless to say, she declined.

Sure, there are names that I would prefer not recalling. However, in the great scheme of things, there are far more names in my repertoire that conjure delight, amusement, respect and love. Always love.

Somewhat unfortunate names...

Now for something completely different...

Who's been eating my biscuit...

Muddy, flat out at the East End Gallery...

Madame Cat's opinion of her carrier...

 Sod off...

Madame Cat on our bed...

 It's the BEAGLE...

Incarcerated in the Gallery...

As our pre-wash cycle (before she became too heavy)...

Gallery Pirate Parrot...

Are you paying attention...?

Here's looking at you, kid!

Decisions...Decisions...

Is it just me or is 2018 hurtling past us at an obscene rate of knots? Time is rushing away from us, yet the speed of completing tasks hasn't kept up the pace.

Take our wall, for example. Now completed, we have been given a beautiful bespoke piece of architecture by Kernowstone, led by the competent and amiable Mark Libby and incredibly hardworking offsider Joel. However, the brick paving still has to be laid, three weeks after the project began. Thus, we have ongoing issues with dusty Beagle pawprints all over the floors, the lounges and even on our bedhead,  evidence that the Problem Child attempted to break out the high window. Ye Gods...

The result of time flying versus the relative snail's pace of our half-finished jobs has resulted in alternative decision making. We had hoped to be leaving tomorrow on our first expedition with Lily and Digger. We had planned an eight-day trip to familiar spots, to become used to Digger's foibles, his size and his manoeuvrability. This break has had to be postponed, but we aren't really that upset.

We have been delighted that, after three years, we are welcoming an ever-increasing stream of guests into the East End Gallery. Suddenly, I have much less thumb twiddling time. I have been trying to write this post for two days now, however, I am actually thrilled with every interruption. The delays in our out of doors work at Station House have meant our uninterrupted presence in the Gallery.

The autumn days are currently glorious. Not enough rain yet to satisfy the farmers, however, but I am sure that too will change in coming weeks. All the old-timers swear our reliable winter rains only begin towards the end of May.

The cooler nights have unfortunately caused my troublesome knee to resume its duties as an informal barometer. On Monday morning, arising from bed with a most unattractive limp, my knee uttered an enormous cracking sound. Due to this nasty circumstance and with our first caravanning adventure on hold, I have brought forward my appointment with the Boy Wonder. Hopefully, this rotten joint will have its last laugh in the very near future and I will have a spanking new knee with reduced pain and the ability to walk without swearing profusely. The Mother of the Groom has a date with destiny on 4 August. I refuse to be the Crooked Woman for this momentous event.

Finding ourselves with little on the calendar this coming week is a pleasant change. Monday and Tuesday are looking wonderfully free and easy. I may even get into Digger to begin some unpacking after all. Pip still has his dental checkup on Wednesday and I am hoping his behaviour at the vet's does not descend into the thrashing, snapping and the frightful use of diarrhoea as a chemical weapon. Wish us luck...

And I also need to return to Pilates. My recent attendance has been appalling and my aches and pains have returned with a vengeance. Thus, I hope to make an appearance at Wednesday morning's Pilates class in order to stretch my muscles, avoid farting and preferably not die.

Enough rambling. Time to close up and go home. There's a glass of vino and a pile of rubbish waiting to be burnt...you beauty.

Where is 2018 going?!

Ready or not!

 Butter wouldn't melt...

in the Defendant's mouth.

Bollocks...

But I will be fighting fit by August!

 And in the meantime, the Beverley Hillbillies are loving our Gallery!

I COULD be a Pirate...

Since my date with the Dermatologist to the Stars, Doctor Daram, I have found my thoughts drifting to the possibility of alternate personas. My somewhat warped sense of humour is in full flight. I have a reasonably impressive set of stitches on my cheek, a bung knee and an available and rude parrot. I could colour one of my lenses suitably black. Then I could be a pirate...

I am over my knee. This bloody piece of my anatomy is giving me ongoing grief. I only have to swing one way or the other and somewhere inside my knee bites me on the bum to remind me who is actually in charge. My ease of movement is being dictated by a poxy joint.

I am back to see the Boy Wonder in the middle of May. I have a pressing social engagement on Saturday 4 August. Callum and his beautiful fiancee Bronwyn are being married. I would really prefer to be an upstanding Mother of the Groom rather than rocking up as Hopalong Cassidy. The time has come to consider a knee replacement as soon as possible. Recovery time could be tight but I hope that if I'm a Good Girl, I could stay on my feet on their wedding day minus my unfashionable version of the Alexandra Limp.

And if all goes pear-shaped, I could have the ultimate fallback position - become a pirate.

We discussed our childhood aspirations over dinner last night at the Top Pub. Friday had been canned as our usual pub night as I was still sporting a whopping great bandage on my cheek and I hadn't been able to wash my face or hair. Disaster. So instead, we rendezvoused in the beer garden on a beautiful Saturday evening. Most of the Usual Suspects were holding up the bar and we enjoyed delicious meals outside, far from the madding crowd.

The divine Jan George joined us for mutual reverie. Jan had always wanted to be a teacher or a dancer from a very young age. She recounted a hilarious story of her mother pulling her hair back into such a tight bun, ready for ballet, that Jan sported a perpetually surprised expression for the entire day. At the stage, she had no inkling of becoming the artist, muso or amazing singer.

Michael's childish dreams included either being an artist or a racing car driver. He also confessed, that in his teenage years of early sexual stirrings, he longed to be the hero, saving the damsel in distress tied to the railway tracks from a horrible fate. But wait, he wanted more. He could never understand the reluctance of the aforementioned hero to swoop the lady in question up in his arms immediately after rescue. Michael longed for her to be so eternally grateful to him that she would allow him to have his Wicked Way with her...Gold, just gold, Michael.

I initially wanted to be a monster. This was the occupation my brothers had picked out for me. So when some doddery maiden aunt asked me about my thoughts on an adult role, I would respond that I was going to be a monster. The looks I received in return for my earnest affirmations remain with me to this day.

Later, I really wanted to be a nurse. And so I entered the world of hospital-based training on 1 January 1979. Yes really. Florence Nightingale would be outstripped by Nurse Stewart-Hosking. My double-barrelled name was deemed necessary as there was another Nurse Hosking in my intake. I quickly fell into the routine of study blocks and ward shifts. There was a definite hierarchy. Our group was thrilled when we were able to swap bedpans and bed making with the newer recruits for more exciting injections and dressings. One memorable night shift saw me wandering the hospital in search of an elderly gent who had gone AWOL. I eventually recovered him in the hospital kitchen, having a quiet and enjoyable midnight snack.

All female nurses were required to "live in" for the first six months in cell-like rooms that we decorated with scarves and pot plants and nicknacks. The Senior Sisters ruled us with iron fists, once raiding our rooms because one of us lit some incense.  Returning after midnight to the nurses' quarters without a late pass incurred their withering wrath. And no men were allowed to enter the hallowed chambers. The blokes bypassed this decree by waiting until the Sisters went to dinner and then waltzing up the corridors.

I had left the hospital accommodation when I suffered the ignominy of not finishing my chosen career.  This circumstance was brought about by a gravel road, an inexperienced boyfriend driver and a car rollover. So that was that.

I tried all sorts of weird and wonderful paid and unpaid positions. Knife salesman for the Sporting Wheelies, house cleaner, receptionist, admin assistant, bank employee, behavioural therapist, aged care worker and Education Assistant. I also attended uni sporadically but never finished my Arts Degree. And I am the parent of three fabulous adult children.

Fast forward almost forty years. Ye Gods. If anybody had suggested to me ten years ago that I would be married to a metal artist and running a country gallery, I would have fallen off my chair laughing at such a ludicrous thought. And yet here I am, in a life I love with the man I love.

And, of course, I could also be a pirate!

So true...

How I view myself as a pirate...

How I would probably look as a pirate...

And now for something completely different with Jan George...

The Villain, the Damsel in Distress and... Michael!

Woe is me!

My hero!

Never get these two confused...

Turn The Other Cheek

I am a bit sore and sorry for myself this evening. Yesterday was yet another date with the delicious Doctor Daram, dermatologist and MOHS surgeon to the Stars. Let me describe Daram. Half Croation and half Indian, he is utterly gorgeous, has a wicked sense of humour and explains everything he does. I could easily fantasise running away with him in a flash until he utters those magic words, "Down to your bra and knickers, Kate". Oh, the agony and the ecstasy.

These close encounters of my wobbly bits happen with monotonous regularity. In spite of my fair inherited British skin, I barbequed myself every summer until I was sixteen. Hats? Forget them. Mum bought me a banana palm woven hat that stuck into my scalp every time I wore it. Thus, hats were anathema and I would spend many a night radiating enough heat and light to power a small town.

A skin specialist scared the shit out of me when I was in my final year of school. Referred because on a spot on my cheek, it turned out to be completely innocuous. However, the sensitive geezer warned me, in no uncertain terms, that I'd end up with a melanoma by the age of twenty-five if I didn't cover up and use sunscreen. Sledgehammer advice worked like a charm. I took his directives from then on.

However, the damage had already been done. I have been having bits of my anatomy burned off, cut off, creamed off and then more cut off again for twenty years. The first skin specialist to chop a piece out of me was an arrogant bugger, who whilst taking a basal cell carcinoma off my upper arm, left me with a massive infection and an impressive haematoma. Choice.

After that delightful episode, I only let various GPs remove or burn suspicious spots off my body. Until I noted a dot on the base of my nose that Molescan hadn't even seen.

A referral to Daram Singh led to an inspection and major surgery on the left side of my nose. MOHS surgery is not for the faint-hearted. With a local anaesthetic block (which was not that painful), Daram removed the minimum amount of skin and tissue around a basal cell carcinoma the size of a five-cent coin. This involved him removing the cancer almost cell by cell until he confirmed he had reached his safety margins. Three times over six hours, he excised the cancer and checked the margins under the microscope until he was satisfied there were no rogue cells left. Then he rebuilt my nose, which took nearly an hour.

Daram and I have been best buddies since that day. He has shaved and burned bits of my skin about every three months. His last scrape of three areas - two of my upper arm and one of my left cheek - surprised us both. An innocent-looking"mosquito bite" dot on my cheek turned out to be my second squamous cell carcinoma. Although not totally nasty, these bastards can spread and cause havoc. And so, it had to come off.

The SCC was taken off my left cheek yesterday morning. Daram assured me he was giving me the equivalent of a mini facelift by using my natural lines to our advantage. However, he then spoilt the party by cautioning me of bruising and swelling from my left eye to my neck. "Hang on a minute", I exclaimed, "you're giving me a mini-facelift whilst adding to my turkey neck!" Hmmm...

Once again, my face appears to be a pseudo textile artwork. Daram's stitching is very neat. I was able to forgive him for all the local anaesthetic jabs that had preceded his surgery once I realised he'd finished the task.

Until the next time.

Tiny, isn't it?

Same place. Much smaller than this mosquito bite.

Hmmm...

My saviour next time!

Life as a Bittersweet Symphony

An overcast and somewhat gloomy autumn day here in Heavenly Beverley. Every now and again, the sun is trying to break through the heavy curtain of clouds, to add warmth and brightness. Sitting here, watching the boys continue working on our beautiful brick wall, I am once more reminded that life consists of light and dark, shades of grey; love, joy and peace mixed simultaneously with fear or regret or sadness.

A Bittersweet Symphony.

Thirty-one years ago, my third baby (and first boy) was born in the very early morning of Easter Saturday. Nine weeks early, we were initially oblivious to the rollercoaster struggle Christopher would face in his forty-eight days of life. He was tiny, less than one and a half kilos, but once he was cleaned up, pink and ventilated in a humidicrib within Special Nursery, we were convinced all would be well.

I'd had a traumatic three-day long labour that had ended in another emergency caesarian section. Thus I didn't see Christopher for the first whole day of his life. Wheeled down to view him on Easter Sunday, paediatrician Ronnie Hagan had placed an Easter chick inside his humidicrib. I remember Ronnie reassuring me that we would be taking our baby home in three or four weeks.

Easter Monday was our descent into Hell. Changes that occur within a neonatal heart, switching cardiac vessels and chambers on and off from its foetal operations created havoc inside Christopher's body. As that awful day wore on, diagnosis after diagnosis, a transfer to the Children's Hospital Neonatal Intensive Care Unit and the strong possibility that he would die caused my world to collapse.

But he fought, with every fibre of his battered little body. Red haired, fierce and cranky, he hung on through every crisis thrown at him. I held him, finally, on his eighth day. He weighed almost nothing. He was unable to gain any weight throughout his short lifetime. He had a monstrous combination of cardiac defects, premature lungs and a metabolic disorder. Eventually, I realised that he was going to die, having denied this possibility until his very last day.

Detached from every bit of technology except his ventilator, I held Christopher in a comfy chair in his corner of Neonates. Outside, the winter rain raged, weeping with me. As soon as Christopher's Dad arrived, I handed him over. And so our baby died.

Fast forward to present. I have three fantastic adult children. I am married to the love of my life. I am shortly to become the Mother of the Groom. We are living in a beautiful new house, whose exterior is starting is bursting into flower. Michael has his first ever new car. And we have just taken delivery of our stunning caravan.

Memories that are rich and precious. Lives that start out in a particular direction and then change paths, with or without warning. Gain and loss. Roadblocks and detours. Surprise and disappointment. This is what shapes us, nurtures us, defines us.

Without the dark, we never appreciate the light. But when the light returns, we should embrace it wholly, and feel its warmth envelop us.

The bitter and the sweet.