Wallet Attack!

When we think of our pets - past, present or future - we tend to only think of the love and companionship we share, the times they lick our tears away and the moments that we treasure for the rest of our lives.

These delightful images are obviously not frequent in the case of the Problem Child. The Beagle from Hell has caused us more than our fair share of stress, angst and financial pain. She is and will remain until she leaves for the large dog bed in the sky, a pinnacle of mayhem, of disaster, of unforeseen behaviour and a completely one-eyed obsession for food, any food, at all costs.

We have rushed Ruby to the vet for eating over-ripe Cocos Palm nuts. When the fruit turns orange, it is toxic to dogs. Not that she considered the consequences of this action. She nearly died, confounded an emergency vet who didn't have a clue and ended up saved by a dash to another vet who always has valued animals over people. Thanks, George.

Then there was the time Ruby lay in the sun until she was suffering from heat stroke. Another death-defying drive to the vet, an overnight stay with rest and fluids and she was as right as rain.

Ruby also is the proud recipient of a collapsing trachea, a pronounced overbite, a saggy belly, an ongoing battle with weight, a reluctance to exercise, a lack of height and a snore that can be heard from the other side of the house. She looks for any form of food at any time of day or night and often makes extremely dubious diet choices, which may be to her detriment.

And does she give a toss? Never...

Take last week for example. The Beagle and Madame Cat, both coincidentally named Ruby, required a double trip to the vet in order to fleece us of a great deal of cash. Her Feline Majesty now attends the vet every three months for monitoring of her blood pressure and kidney function. Now that her conditions are stable, she only causes us to cough up about two hundred dollars for blood testing and observation. All this attention has not changed her attitude for the better. She still regards us with a sour expression and demands unremitting worship as a deity. Now that she has difficulty jumping, she pulls herself up the side of the bed right next to Michael's ear, much to his discomfort.

The Problem Child managed to brew a whopping ear infection that rapidly went from bad to hideous. How she acquired this bug is a mystery, as she had not been sticking her head into unpleasant places and as her ear slammed shut, the inner chamber has remained unseen. Hence the presence of a grass seed or other foreign object has not been ascertained.

She is currently on antibiotics and steroids in the hope that her ear may recover enough to allow us all to see what is going on Inside. Then, on top of the current six hundred dollar outlay, she will need a snooze on her side to allow the vet to hose out her aural canal known as the Twilight Zone and hopefully end the infection.

Not to be outdone, the Terribly Alert Jack Russell is still snorting and hacking with his bout of reverse sneezing. We have just started him on a trial of Zyrtec (!) in the aim of treating any allergy he has somehow developed. We have ruled out any other nasties, at great expense, and Pip will be much happier, we are sure when he ceases the dreadful rattles that are currently afflicting him.

At least the Pirate Parrot is only moulting at the moment. And being rude, as ever...

In the Beginning, the Beagle exuded an Aura of Cuteness...

Until she started to reveal her True Colours...

With a snore to rouse the entire household...

No Shame Whatsoever...

And with the steely determination of a battering ram...

Meanwhile, her Feline Majesty practised her hovercat skills...

Her own version of Julie Bishop's Death Stare

Her climbing abilities ( at the sofa's expense)

And illustrating her keen displeasure for those underlings living under the same roof...

Before, inevitably, retiring to bed without disturbance

Words are unnecessary, thanks to this appropriate caption

After chomping my flowers!

 And our very alarmed Pip only wishes to be loved...

And sleep on the comfy seats too!

Close Up And Personal

Doctors' waiting rooms are unusual social settings. Consider the dynamics. We sit in a communal space, often not very large, with chairs lined around the walls, looking at each other when we may prefer not to do so. Or consciously avoiding any eye contact whatsoever. Murmured conversations are kept to a minimum, as accusing or surprised looks may fly across the room at a fellow patient breaking the unwritten rule of silence. Which is why I love to chat with Michael as we sit there.

A visit to the quack may be a confronting, uncomfortable or enlightening event.  Sometimes all of these at the same time.

Within lifts, where we are crammed together for relatively short periods, the only concern is who to blame for the fart that just slips out. Frequently, nothing is said anyway, as everyone is far too busy gazing at the floor numbers to identify the farter.

Or hairdressers. We are, once more, lined up in chairs. However, whereas going to the doctor may be an unnerving occasion, having our hair done is to be enjoyed. Yes, I have had my fair share of disaster perms and colours in my time, but the overall experience tends to be on of enthusiasm, entertainment and positive expectations.

Even dentists' waiting rooms are different. Most of us are united by fear. A bit like being a member of Robert Scott's Antarctic expedition. We sit there in mutual terror, giving encouraging smiles and engaging in short empathetic conversations. Having said that, our current dentist, the incomparable Vincent, does try to allay my anxiety throughout the appointment and Michael, being my personal foot masseur, does distract me from having a grown man climb inside my mouth.

Anyway, last Tuesday, we trooped off to our general practitioner with our metre-long list of enquiries, referral requests and prescription renewals. We have taken some years to find Stephanie, our current GP and we are delighted to have encountered her. She is a witty, approachable and attractive fifty-something Australian rural doctor so Michael can understand her and I get to enjoy her ensembles of matching shoes and glasses. And she knows her stuff.

We started, as ever, by signing in and sitting in the waiting room. The telly was on, so at least there was already noise instead of deathly silence. I observed the Usual Suspects. A kid brought from school by his Mum, quite a few singles, some even chatting to one another (!) and an elderly lady sitting opposite me with her daughter/carer (?) and her walker.

I briefly gazed at her with a friendly expression on my face. Her demeanour would have curdled milk. Next to her, the female companion was studiously avoiding her and was busily attending to an Item of Utmost Importance on her phone.

I felt some sympathy for the old dear. She was obviously not enjoying her twilight years and was making damned sure that everyone around her was aware of her bitter misery. There are those in the world who chose to be angry and twisted and fortunately, they are fairly easy to identify. Every now and then, I try a friendly smile and a cheery "hello", which always falls flat. However, I refuse to be drawn into the furious darkness and will make eye contact and smile at every opportunity.

Then, our time with Stephanie had come. Prescriptions and referrals were written, advice was given, a new regime discussed and possibly awkward ailments were examined and dismissed as "nothing to worry about". We shared a few stories, engaged in much laughter and left feeling pleasantly relieved and uplifted. Oh, the delights of double appointments when we can talk and draw breath in a much more relaxed atmosphere.

Back to the waiting room to wait for blood tests. The ancient crone was busily sharing her unpleasantness with the practice nurse. I sent a quick look of understanding to the besieged nurse, hoping her ordeal would soon be over.

The blood tests were quick and relatively painless, even though my veins collapsed and refused to come out and play. With a bit of hydration, and the sneaky use of a syringe to extract my reluctant blood, the procedure was over in a couple of minutes and we made our getaway.

I was reminded, yesterday, that not all our senior citizens are like Lady Macbeth. A delightful couple named Stan and Fay made their cheery way into the East End Gallery. Stan is ninety-three and Fay is eighty-nine. Both sprightly and fully cognisant with the world, they were on a jaunt through the Wheatbelt, staying in Bed and Breakfast establishments. Stan and Fay had only just given up caravanning and Stan had stopped riding a motorbike at the age of eighty, due to the pleas of the family. They were determined to continue having a great life and promised to look us up on the internet. Stan's only grumble was that he didn't particularly warm to Facebook!

We will be returning to the waiting room on Wednesday. Michael's sugar levels are a tad wonky and he is in need of a Stern Lecture. Not that Stephanie will deliver such a speech. Instead, she will tell him what's going on, what to do and then have a good laugh about life, the universe and everything.

Stay tuned.

My automatic default position...

First world problems in a lift...

Michael before a haircut...

Myself likewise...

Usually, a happy outcome!

Terror at the dentist...

Can you open a bit wider?

 

 Where we find Doctor Stephanie...

 Madame Misery...

The relief when we leave the surgery!

And a remarkable likeness (!) to Stan and Fay, our hip and modern elderly guests in the East End Gallery.

A Very Busy Night

As the spring weather continues to be changeable, I often find myself a tad chilled, primarily because I am not wearing quite enough clothes, particularly in the evenings. Yesterday was a good example. I put a load of washing out under a blustery and threatening sky. By the time I finished, my fingers were cold and I was unexpectedly very tired as well.

The Invictus Games opening ceremony was a bit of a dud and I decided to hit the sack. His Majesty stayed on the sofa and switched over to "The Battle of Britain". Ye Gods. I felt and heard every thundering duel between the Luftwaffe and the RAF over the skies of Mother England.

Michael was completely oblivious that he had cranked the television to full throttle. Having recently been cleared of hearing loss, he accuses me of mumbling softly (!) if he misses what I've just said. He became thoroughly alarmed when he thought I'd uttered: "I'm off to get my hammer"...when my actual words were "I'm off to get my camera". He may have considered I was still shirty at him after turning into a grumpy bastard at Bunnings the other day. And I have never been told I mumble in my entire life.

Back to World War II on the telly. By this stage, Michael had the volume at such a level that I could have sworn Bomber Command was in our living room. He had also put the Problem Child and Mister Pip behind the barricade in the laundry and swore he hadn't heard the Beagle's howls of miserable protest. I let them out into the house, reminded Michael to secure them when he came to bed and returned to the comfort under the covers. Eventually, my tiredness overcame the noise and I fell into a sound sleep. For a while.

I woke hot and itchy and "The Battle of Britain" was still raging within the confines of Station House. Having had eczema or neurodermatitis all my life, I find the rash flares up when I am overheated in bed. The other day, Michael asked me what neurodermatitis was. I replied that it was irritable itching brought on by difficult husbands...

Trying not to scratch, I rose from the bed and dabbed cream on my inflamed feet. Back to bed. I was aware that at some stage, Churchill's RAF was triumphant once more and the guns had fallen silent. I woke, again, to the guttural snores of a Beagle in our bedroom. Michael hadn't put the Canine Clowns to bed in the laundry.

Up again. The dogs were safely secured Behind the Barricades and I was making my exhausted way back to the bedroom. That was when I noticed that quite a lot of vino had been thoroughly enjoyed with gusto. By Michael, whilst co-ordinating all those skirmishes in the sky.

After crawling back into bed, I was distracted from sleep (again) by an unwelcome and unpleasant poking in my ear. Perhaps Michael was planning a new career in audiology. I didn't care and let him know my feelings in precise terminology. His response was to roll on his side and blast an enormous fart in my general direction. Not to be outdone, I retaliated in kind.

Perhaps the wafts of methane rendered us both unconscious at that point. I remembered nothing more until I woke this morning, feeling somewhat out of sorts and longing to stay in bed. No such luck.

I may well resort to a sleeping tablet tonight...

The Second World War came suddenly to Station House...

Those magnificent men in their flying machines...

In the skies above our sofa...

A quick history lesson

What the dogs were behind whilst the battle was raging...

And where they both preferred...

Bloody itching!

Michael during another good night...

Then hostilities moved to our bedroom...

But all is forgiven on a new day!

Dangerous Liaisons

My darling husband Michael is a practical and logical man. He is a talented metal artist, a master welder, an ingenious renovator and a meticulous planner. Whilst others could enter a project with a "she'll be right" attitude, Michael will have taken measurements, drawn diagrams and worked out every requirement before launching forward on the task at hand.

His latest quest is to create a white picket fence between our front brick piers. He has held out for a white picket fence when I wasn't necessarily keen on the idea. Perhaps, somewhere in his dim, distant past, he had longed for a white picket fence that was denied him...

Last Tuesday, we headed for the wilds of the Big Smoke and Bunnings to collect the aforementioned pickets. Unbeknown to me, Michael's inflamed carpel tunnels in his wrists were giving him the whoops. Instead of saying, "Kate, I'm in pain today so please cut me a bit more slack", he bottled up his discomfort and turned into Obnoxious Man. Grumpy did not even come close. Helping him locate and load the required pickets caused me such serious angst that I almost inserted one up his nose.

Against my better judgement, I gritted my teeth until the Bitter End. The condition that I stayed at all in the bowels of Bunnings was that he would allow me open slather in the gardening section. With no whinging.

I left him to pay for the bloody pickets and fled to the open air. Bliss. I wandered up and down aisles of delightful and agreeable plants. As I was looking for colourful flora for our east facing guest room patio, I took my time and considered many specimens on their merits. Then the boom lowered..."I want to go home. Isn't it time to leave yet?"

I sent Michael away before I stabbed him between the eyes with a handy stake. As we moved towards the checkout, his complaints continued...what are all these plants for?...haven't you enough pots?...you're spending too much money!

He confessed his physical misery on the way home. I sucked in a furore of frustration and resolved not to kill him on the spot. Instead, we arrived home, unpacked and gratefully enjoyed a pizza and vino with gusto.

The pickets remained in the back of Lily until yesterday. Fired up with enthusiasm, he set up the pickets to undercoat them outside his workshop. Michael really loves working outside if at all possible. He was ready to roll. Until he tried to open the lid of the paint tin...

Which refused to budge. With irritation, he grabbed a large screwdriver to prise open the lid.,.A minute later, he appeared inside the Gallery with his face, glasses and shirt splatted with undercoat. "What happened", I innocently asked. "I don't want to talk about it" was his brusque reply.

With much laughter, we washed his glasses, mopped his face, ears and neck. He confessed that as the paint tin opened, the contents splashed with gay abandon. Undercoat 1, Michael 0.

This is not the first occasion that painting has caused chaos. Back at the House that Rocks, Michael decided to paint the feature wall of our guest room a shade called "Red Terra" after he'd consumed a few vinos. Stepping off the edge of the step ladder, he swan dived into the paint tray. Of  Red Terra. One wall was supposed to showcase this colour. Instead, all walls, the ceiling and Michael bore testament to this particularly rich colour.

I believe that Michael and paint have a dangerous love/hate relationship. He may be coming to a point that he needs to be supervised with this product. At all times. This situation is particularly gratifying to me as I am usually the one within our relationship who attracts disaster.

Stay tuned!

Michael's default position when he is in pain...

Usually, one of my favourite places!

What I was tempted in insert somewhere into Michael...

What he should have done stepping off that ladder...

The result was not as pretty...

Michael versus paint tin...

The tin won!

Springtime in Beverley - Beautiful One Day, Close All Watertight Hatches The Next!

After the particularly changeable weather during the Beverley Heroic, the first few days of this week were just delightful. The rain cleared, the sun shone with all her brilliance and yesterday, we received our first taste of summer. True, the wind was blustery but warm. I expect that I will tire of days with degrees in the forties come December or January but at the moment, the hot sun and endless blue skies tease me with their impending arrival.

I was galvanised with a blast of energetic endeavour in the back patio yesterday afternoon. Whilst Michael, Jan and Greg all snoozed after our delicious Long Lunch with Poppy (a marvellously free spirit who is housesitting for our friend Lynn), I pulled on my gardening hat, grabbed a water bottle and dashed outside for a spot of gardening.

The patio overlooks the pharmacy backyard, a tumble of hardy natives and taller eucalypts providing a pretty and shaded picture. I potted up nine new arrivals for our garden. I ran out of potting mix and was assisted by the ever-reliable Marcus who brought over three additional bags from the local hardware shop. That's one particular joy of living in "town centre" - being able to purchase heavy bags of soil and have them delivered by trolley to the garden five minutes later. Bliss.

I have missed having a garden dreadfully since we left the House that Rocks. That half acre (two thousand square metres) of outdoor paradise was too much for us with the advent of the East End Gallery. We needed to work in the garden every day, given the challenging conditions in the Wheatbelt and that commitment became untenable.

For over a year, I nurtured my potted floral "garden" outside the back of Michael's workshop. Then, at last, our main courtyard was completed and I could move most of my beloved pots into its inner sanctum. I have watched with intense satisfaction the progress of my plants over the winter. The frangipani, sheltered from the worst of the rain and chill behind the two-metre brick wall has started sprouting its spring leaves. Michael's adored Golden Cane Palm will never ascend to the heights of those growing in tropical climes but has come through winter unscathed. This first of our courtyards has turned on a riot of colour, which boosts my spirits on this cold and overcast day. I may even undertake a bit of pruning after I leave the Gallery, after donning my trusty Ugg boots and a warm cardigan.

We have just about completed the metamorphosis of what had been a wasteland of sticky clay and unforgiving rock. The front courtyard just needs the picket fence between the brick piers. Michael's new Emporer Mandarin tree is resplendent in its enormous pot. Annual lobelias, two climbing jasmine and a purple daisy make up the floral border behind the fence. And now, the back patio has been turned into another little outdoor sanctuary for ourselves, family and friends.

Our three Chinese Tallow trees have also come through the past months and are covered in new foliage. I have trimmed off the dead wood, added some delicious dollops of fresh potting mix to their pots and given them a drench of Seasol. My aim is to get them in the ground before next winter. Then we will be able to say the job is truly done.

In spite of the rain and the cold, I have thoroughly enjoyed today. The garden has been given a cooling shower, which means I don't have to water. I have welcomed a handful of guests into the Gallery, including a fascinating couple who live in Dubai. Michael and I enjoyed lunch together before he returned to Station House to mount up the vacuum cleaner.

I have placed Jan George's second issue of "Glimpses From the Road" books in the Giftshop next to her larger prints. I have watched the world go by and written this post. I have arranged some of Beverley V's latest hats, a delightful and colourful trio designed to be worn in the garden.

That every cloud has a silver lining is my mantra for this rainy day.  I may well have to buy one of Bev's Garden Hats for me.

In the Beginning was dirt and rock (and no privacy!)

Then came Dory...

And our front porch and carports...

Foundations of our front wall...

Back paving almost completed...

Just waiting for the pickets...

and introducing - the back Patio...

Main courtyard - September 2018

Meanwhile, in the East End Gallery -

Jan George's "Glimpses From The Road"...

And hats, hats and more hats by Beverley V -