If I Only Had A Brain!

I have just experienced a few unsettling days. Fortunately, yesterday afternoon, I exited out the other end, more or less unscathed. However, I am coming to realise that this whole episode was a molehill that, with the advent of modern medicine, unwittingly became a mountain.

Let me explain. Twice, in the last few weeks, I have found myself inside the adoring orbit of our grandbaby, Imogen. The first instance was a one-night sleepover down in suburban Perth. Five days later, Callum, Bronwyn and Immy set out on a major expedition to Heavenly Beverley, to spend forty-eight hours in Station House.

We loved having them with us. The only downside was the sudden development of my enormous and painful knockers in the wake of their visit.

We were suitably amused. Take one uber-clucky Nanny and one uber-cute baby and my boobs went ballistic. Except the pain became intense and I was unable to wear a bra and needed serious analgesic relief, particularly to sleep.

We had arranged an appointment with our favourite quack, Doctor Stephanie, in Northam, for our usual forty thousand scripts and queries. I added my sore boobs to the list and expected her to laugh along with us and confirm my suspicions that my body had just had a baby overload.

Stephanie was concerned but not overly alarmed. However, she decided to order a prolactin test for me. This was duly done and I promptly forgot about any outcomes. Until the surgery rang me to book an MRI on my head at one of the radiological centres in the Big Smoke.

Apparently, my prolactin levels (the hormone used to produce breast milk) were through the roof. So, Stephanie wanted to discount that the cause was a pituitary tumour. I immediately assumed my secret identity of Anxiety Girl and promptly became Very Anxious.

The cost of an MRI was also prohibitive, which sent my Panic Inducing Index up a few more notches. I rang the surgery and asked if the test was really necessary. Yes, Stephanie wanted me to proceed. By this stage, my flight response had me revving up my wings for a quick take off.

Along with noticing every twinge and niggle, I became convinced that I did, indeed, have a tumour. We finally found a radiologist who would bulk-bill. The helpful receptionist asked I was having headaches or seizures. Headaches?! Of course, I was having headaches. I was so attuned to my internal workings by this stage that every ping or pop in my head was my tumour farting.

I duly had the MRI on Tuesday. By Thursday, I was a nervous wreck. Particularly as the very kindly technician had tried to reassure me by suggesting I see my doctor as soon as possible. Then, in this time of instant communications, my results became lost in cyberspace.

A series of frantic phone calls ensued. Finally, at five minutes to five yesterday, I received my results. My imaginary friend, my tumour, had never been. I was given the All Clear. Stephanie suspected my antidepressants were to blame for my spike in prolactin levels...

I felt strangely deflated for about three seconds. Then elation. I had a brain, but there was nothing sinister lurking within. Just my own sense of humour, my quirky responses, my less-than-logical ideas and my absolutely individual paranoia. Plus, a cauliflower, a jellyfish, two ghostly spirits and a love heart...I'd seen them in my films.

Sometimes, the simplest explanation really is the truth. I have been on antidepressants for a very long time. Why should my meds choose now to send my boobs berserk? I am now entirely sure that Immy was the culprit.

Will this stop me in my Nanny Kate driven urges to see our beautiful grandbaby? Not bloody likely. I plan to conduct an experiment and see if  Imogen's presence causes another surge in mammary activity. If so, this mystery will be put to bed. Along with my cauliflower, jellyfish, ghosts and love heart.

Thanks to Doctor Google...

This is a pituitary apoplexy. I was just having an Anxiety Girl apoplexy!

Clear as mud...

Can't hear the bloody music as the machine is louder!

Finally...

The likely defendant!

What's In A Name...?

The timing of Australian public holidays usually fills me with much merriment. Take WA Day, for example, which is held at the beginning of June. This is our only winter public holiday and has no relevance to the discovery of the Swan River, the founding of Perth, the declaration of the state of Western Australia or the Federation of the nation. WA Day used to be called the Queen's Birthday, who actually has that anniversary in April. I think somebody may have made a prize cock of themselves for designating WA Day in what is traditionally cool and rainy weather.

Anyway, I have digressed. Today is Australia Day or Invasion Day or Survival Day, depending on your point of view.  On 18 January 1788, Captain Arthur Phillip and his mob of convicts and soldiers set foot on the shore of  Botany Bay, which Joseph Banks (Sir to the riff-raff) had declared to be a fabulous spot to start the colony. Except there was no safe anchorage, no reliable water and no suitable soil. Our hero took one look, decided Banks was another prize cock and set off for Port Jackson, which somehow Captain Cook and the Endeavour had missed entirely back in 1770. He entered the harbour, dropped anchor and promptly founded Sydney. On 26 January 1788.

The local aborigines, who had been resident for an extremely long time, hoped these white weirdos would pack up and push off. Alas for them, they were shafted left, right and centre and the ramifications of the Pommy landgrab are still being felt over two hundred years later.

"Girt" the gloriously unauthorised history of Australia and "Dark Emu", which chronicles the Aborigines' agricultural and other land practices should be read by every Australian school child to get a far more balanced view than the boring and dreary muck packaged up as Australian history. I am currently ploughing my way through "Dark Emu", so I'll wait until I've finished before giving my summation and review.

To say we enjoyed "Girt" would do author David Hunt a disservice. We read the book as part of our Northern Jaunt last July and were frequently helpless with laughter and at the mercy of one of the funniest and most informative books that we have had the good fortune to have and to hold.

Not that our narrator painted a rose-coloured account for us. Convicts, the military and free settlers were all scoundrels, with plenty of drunkenness, debauchery and demolition all happening on a frequent basis. Burning down a rival's home was the first call rather than the last straw. Murder, stealing, bribery and corruption were all rife. The first settlers nearly died through agricultural incompetence and instead of asking the locals how to grow some tucker, the Poms ignored any hint of Aboriginal land management and set out buggering up the country for the next couple of hundred years.

Back to Australia Day. Or whatever else it's called. Right smack in the middle of summer and just before the kiddies return to the classroom, an extra day off means the beach or a barbeque or a citizenship ceremony. Here in Heavenly Beverley, the local pool offered a sausage sizzle, raucous music and a bombie competition. Our great friend and wrestling world champion, Mister Greg Burley, did not disgrace himself and was placed second in the competition. Jan was delighted to have scored a pull along trolley for her craft supplies as their prize.

Australia will be the topic of conversation in Country Expressions (our Writers' Group) later this afternoon. This session promises, as ever, to be exceedingly entertaining.

And I ask, what is more Australian than leaving my homework until ninety minutes before it's due? I rest my case.

David Wenham as a far sexier Aurthur Phillip than he actually was...

This Continuing Mission Of Joys And Surprises

January is always an odd month for me. I remain filled with optimism for the new year, but Significant Anniversaries have a habit of knocking me off course with unpredictable and irksome results. We all have our personal Klingons on the Starboard Bow.

Mum's birthday kicked the ball off for me. She would have been ninety on 5 January. I have been trying to write a post about her ever since. I want to honour her, but she was a manipulative drama queen. I have loved her, but I don't miss her. She was the ultimate mistress of catastrophe and drove wedges throughout the family. Attempting to unearth a memory of her unconditional love has proven to be rather problematic. And I can't forget that she left Dad to fend for himself when he had adored her for over sixty-five years.

I didn't see Mum at all in the last period of her life. I bailed out of Dad's ninetieth birthday celebrations in December 2014 as I doubted my resolve to deal with her. This decision provoked guilt and confusion and a lack of closure. Communication between us became harder and more strained. Then, shortly before she died, she rang me out of the blue.

I have pieced together her final weeks from the rest of the family. I knew she'd been in hospital for three months after a fall and had been branded a difficult patient. She had become terribly thin and claimed that her pain relief was ineffective. Hence, she was referred to a private rehabilitation centre.

Mum didn't like Eden much either. They wanted her to gain weight and she wasn't having that. Apparently, she left Eden with her pain relief still a work very much in progress. She was back in her unit, by herself, when she spoke to me.

I tried to keep the conversation light. I filled her ear with fluffy and uncontentious details of our lives. I regaled witty stories of the dogs and cat. I can still hear her laughter. When we finished the conversation, I felt as if we could start afresh. But then she died.

However, that is the most wonderful memory I have of her. Clear, unambiguous, uncomplicated mirth generated by the antics of our animals. That's the recollection that I will hold of her.

I have also weathered another anniversary of my twins' stillbirth. I was hit hard this year. Why? Fucked if I know. Too much alcohol, which loosened my tongue and uninhibited my behaviour. The ultimate agony - a fight as we were both angry. My retreat into a well of despair. And the long way out. I am still recovering.

I am hoping that January's final milestone - a miscarried baby thirty-five years ago - on 28 January treats me more kindly. I have to find ways to balance this crazy few weeks every year. And it is not as if I have to look far - I just need to focus on the daily comedy that is us - the Beverley Hillbillies.

Michael - the gentle, logical, practical, kind and loving man of mine - also supplies me with exquisite hilarity. Forgetting to tell me that dinner guests were unable to come until they didn't...arrive. Trying to work out why his shirt looked weird - his buttoning up was mismatched, so he resembled a village idiot for a minute. Chasing his tablets all over the floor before Stella consumes them.  Leaving his breakfast muesli within reach of Stella's tongue. Playing with danger by leaving his thongs in Stella's line of sight...again. (There appears to be a pattern emerging here...) Complaining of cold and then sticking his feet out of the covers. Losing track of items as he's using them - the lid of Pip's dog biscuit had to be searched for this evening.

I have decided that I will be glad to see the back of January. And I need to embrace the calm of Jean-Luc Picard along with the bravado of James T Kirk. And to boldly go where we haven't been before.

Ladies and gentlemen - engage.

Live long and prosper...

A Reasonably Rewarding (And Entertaining) Start To 2020

Just over two weeks gone in January, and at last, my daily horror of bushfire coverage is easing and I am no longer glued to cyberspace for that reason alone. Not that I actually want to banish the chronic tragedy still unfolding. The only way to maintain the rage and push for effective measures to combat the drought and heat and fire is to keep viewing the reports and images for as long as it takes. Complacency and Mister Murdoch's media empire would have us lessen our focus. We must not dare.

On a brighter note, we have enjoyed grandparenting our delightful little grandbaby, Imogen. We have launched forth to the Big Smoke to stay with Callum and Bron and Immy and they have reciprocated, packing enough gear for a two-night stay that rivalled the supplies for an expeditionary force.

I was able to give them a proper break, albeit a short one. Out to dinner at the Freemasons Tavern on the first night and I cooked a casserole on the second. I took Callum's neglected feet In Hand and gave him two treatments that I considered to be as pampering as he'd receive in an expensive day spa. Not to miss an opportunity and so he wouldn't feel left out, I also gave Michael a scrub, soak and moisturise as well.

I am revelling in my Nanny Kate role and was properly poohed on during their last morning. I had forgotten that small breastfed babies can produce rumbling noises rivalling a major volcanic eruption and cover themselves and their caregivers in a torrent of "scrambled egg shit". Bliss!

After Imogen's wash and second change of clothes for the day, we waved our family goodbye and returned to more mundane matters. In the afternoon, I travelled with some trepidation to the Telstra shop at Midland Gate, one hundred or so kilometres down the Hill. I had tried - unsuccessfully - to download and print off the last detailed Telstra bill, so I would have a hard-copy reference for my tale of woe. I was told that my Telstra hotspot had no internet access. Oh, the irony...

The response - "just pop into your nearest Telstra shop" - when I attempt to solve a seemingly insurmountable issue would try the patience of a saint. Driving for ninety minutes and then waiting for a turn with the supposed Pooh-Bahs in the shop is often a particularly awful exercise and only to be undertaken with a cool head and a good book with an alcoholic chaser.

As I had come prepared, I waited for a surprisingly short period until I was summoned by staffer Suresh. I recited my well-worn complaints. Like a government razor gang, I slashed through unnecessary charges. A Platinum service that was supposed to guarantee an Australian voice. Never had. Gone. The NBN internet service that had caused us only problems and the use of an unsecured booster. Gone. A mailbox that I had never used. Gone.

Naturally, I had to spend money to save money. In order to change the hotspot's data capacity, I had to buy the unit at whatever price Telstra pulled out of their collective bottom. Then, I was able to increase the data usage to 100 GB a month for fifteen dollars less than 18 GB. Once we have dealt with this item's cost, we will be ninety dollars better off each month. I think we actually came out of these wranglings better than Telstra. However, time will tell.

This evening, I have begun the hunt for better commercial building insurance. Put through by our financial institution to an independent broker, he was squabbling with his SatNav in his car whilst trying to listen to me. The intermittent interruptions of "turn left here", "your destination is on the right" and "you have arrived" caused me to break into laughter as our hero tried to silence the annoying additional female voice present in his vehicle.

We hope that this will be a final saving to a budget in a state of flux. We are very keen on a monthly direct debit for the insurance, to avoid the truly dreadful bill shock we experienced in September. Perhaps, somebody in property insurance assumes anyone who owns a building can afford the highway robbery of rising insurance. That summation does not fit with our pensions. As 2020 rolled over, our Centrelink payments rose by about five dollars in total.

Even if a review only leads to a minor reduction, all savings help. We are determined that 2020 will not be as financially stressful as last year. Thus, we can plan for our winter safari.

And let's hope we start having real progress in bushfire mitigation measures before the coming spring.

Perhaps Mister Murdoch could return to the US permanently...

And take Scotty from Marketing with him!

We must never forget these images -

This little boy lost his Daddy to the bushfires...

Luckily for us, we have a little baby to love named Imogen...

Stella at home at Cal and Bron's!

Station House 13 - 15 January 2020...

Onto dealings with Telstra...

Looking for savings...

A necessary evil...

In order to plan our next Great Escape to the North West.

Dirty Deeds Discovered...

Along with many other Australians, we have not benefitted from the concept of "trickle-down economics". Those who do actually make a quid are those in charge of "trickle-down" economics. So, the rest of us, the great proletariat, spend our time playing bill roulette, shopping strictly to the List (unless we can participate in an excellent Special) and hope that the fridge and washing machine do not suddenly give up the ghost.

Not that we are poverty-stricken by any means, compared to the genuinely poor. We have a home, a car, a caravan and we run the airconditioning when the weather is hot in summer or cold in winter. I had just become weary of the endless cycle of attempting to budget when most of our pensions disappear on direct debits or loans on the day we received our payments.

We are currently unable to pay our latest Telstra bill. So this week I resolve, much as I loathe the idea, of visiting a Telstra shop (again) and review our plan to reduce, rather than raise the cost (again).

Telstra, in my opinion, has lowered its standing to below that of used-car salesmen. In order to discuss my bill with the telecommunications giant, I can only do so by attending our nearest Telstra establishment, over one hundred kilometres away. For other queries that could be answerable by phone, the majority of their call centre staff are overseas with quaint names and pronunciation of English I don't understand. Each time I have gone to Telstra for assistance, I have required a cut lunch, a water bag, endless patience and a good book. The last twice we have been there, our bills have gone up, rather than the promised down. Give me strength.

However, I do live in hope. I have just undertaken a major review of all our insurances, except for the Forbes' Building insurance, which we are tackling on Friday. And surprise, surprise, we were dumbfounded to learn that our long-time insurer has been fleecing us for years. And when I announced my intention to change health insurance, I was told by Western Australia's largest health provider that - I would not get the same level of care with another fund and I would not be able to attend our hospital of choice.

These were both bald-faced lies. However, I had done my homework and checked both these "facts". I had enlisted the help of a comparison mob to find equivalent health coverage and was breathlessly told by our original health fund that the staff accept commissions. Duh...did I believe they worked for nothing? The sour grapes were caused by that fund's refusal to be part of this marketing body.

Just to be fully informed, I spent an hour or so in the office of our new health fund, checking all the fine print. I also confirmed that our new fund was delighted to cover us in the same hospitals and the same ancillaries as the previous crowd. In fact, we will receive more rebates than before. The icing on the cake was that we will save over fifty dollars a fortnight...

Are we with...a particular health fund? Not anymore. Given their aggressive language and quite false attempts to keep our business, I decided that parting company was in our best interests. And then I started thinking about all the other insurances we had with this company.

In a conversation with our principal financial institution, the subject of insurance arose. Later that afternoon, an amiable and competent chap named Sean rang me to discuss the state of our other direct debits - cars, caravan, house and contents. After much preliminary discussion, I revealed the figure that he needed to beat was one hundred and ninety dollars a fortnight.

He paused, then nonchalantly announced he had halved our insurance payments. Actually more than half.

My turn to be speechless. Which doesn't happen very often. I asked Sean to check. He confirmed the details. And when he sent through the details via e-mail, I went through each policy with a fine-tooth comb. All was above board and as he had explained.

So, I will launch forward into battle in the coming days with Telstra, followed by an investigation into our commercial building insurance.

So far, we have reduced our outgoings each fortnight by a whopping one hundred and forty-six dollars and seventy-five cents.

Not bad. Wish we'd undertaken this task last year...