What Is A Pile Of Ironing Worth?

Confession time. For half my adult life, I have believed that I possess a reasonable slash of autism myself, to compliment our neurodivergent superstar, Alex. This trait has manifested through a tendency to run off at the mouth, have verbal dyslexia, and more than a bit of OCD. Who else still likes to arrange matching pegs on washing? Or care how fitted sheets are folded? Or make sure towels are hanging right side on the rails. And don't get me started about toilet rolls...Plus, despite the fact ironing is not my favourite chore of all time, I do love a pile of freshly pressed tee shirts, pillowcases, shirts, dresses, and jeans.

And I have heard all the remedies to this situation. Put my washing on first thing in the morning and hang out immediately when the cycle is finished. What's this idea of "first thing in the morning"? I reluctantly left the boudoir after nine o'clock. I eventually persuaded Michael up close to ten o'clock. We just don't do mornings. 

Hang clothes immediately on hangers on the washing line... And watch them blow off...Peg tee shirts under the arms to reduce creasing...When I remember...Don't buy clothes that crease...We both love cotton...

Which I why I neatly stack the ironing in its basket, watching the pile grow exponentially as the days turn into weeks. Eventually, when the ironing pile resembles Vesuvius blowing its cool, I attempt to at least reduce the size. Last week I ironed all the pillow slips and tee shirts - all fifteen of them. I am seriously considering another onslaught tomorrow morning before I have my haircut and then open the Gallery. Somehow, I doubt this will occur because of our daily struggle to launch forth out of bed early enough.

This week has been a series of disasters, not all of my own making. Monday was the Anzac Day public holiday and we thought we'd open the Gallery. However, we eventually worked out that due to a quick trip to Perth, whilst some chap was released from quarantine and positive to COVID 19, we were supposed to shut the doors. Even so, the day was fairly unproductive, due to the sudden alteration of plans. Tuesday, we worked together to clean the house, tackle the washing, and mop the revoltingly filthy floors. Wednesday, I had earmarked to, at last, empty the ironing basket, whilst Michael dropped the car into service, received his initial Coronavirus vaccination, and visited his brother. 

Instead, Wednesday turned out very differently. My darling husband was very aware of the Black Dog nipping at his heels. The day happened to be his late wife's birthday, and although they had not had the most ideal of marriages, he was grieving for her and dreading having to leave home and be seen publically. So, when I asked him if he wanted me to accompany him, Michael replied in the affirmative.

Like a Whirling Dervish, I spun into action. We were on the road an hour later. On our way to Northam, I contemplated the series of events. Michael and I are seldom separated. We don't particularly enjoy being apart. But, I had been looking forward to demolishing the bloody ironing. So, I pondered those feelings.

Seven years ago, Michael spent the majority of April nearly dying from pneumonia. His recovery was slow. Six months passed before he returned to wellness. Then he was hospitalised again with severe and very scary asthma for another week. Until we worked out escaping to the Pilbara reduced his chest infections to zero, if we were lucky, every winter was a blur of fear that he would end up sick again.

Every morning, I wake up next to Michael and delight that he is part of my life. Almost twelve years ago was our first "dog date" at the Whiteman Park dog exercise area. For the following twelve months, we met whenever we could, often in difficult circumstances as Michael's children banned me from the family home.  I missed him horribly every time we were parted.

An awful chest infection, his weight plummeting to sixty-one kilograms, and the breakdown in his mental health galvanised me into action. Returning from a grueling job at Worsley Refinery near Collie, he was grey, stooped, and exhausted. He did not even attempt to argue when I ordered him into our bed in my duplex and took him for medical help the next day. He never returned to live at the family home, given the chasm between him and his son and daughter. A tragedy that Shakespeare could have written.

My considerations of Wednesday's changing agenda lasted a matter of seconds. Was there any comparison between supporting Michael versus catching up on a chore that did not actually matter?

Duh...

Coronavirus - An Organised World Wide Conspiracy ? I Don't Think So...

Before I begin this post, I wish to convey to anybody reading this not to take my occasionally bizarre musings too seriously. I mean, a conversation yesterday provided the spark for my latest pontification. And as the Cheshire Cat cheerfully pointed out, "we're all mad here. I'm mad. You're mad..."

I rest my case...

Right. Back to the topic at hand. Why don't I believe that some evil organisation unleashed COVID 19 with the desired intention of killing a staggering number of both Americans and Indians? Maybe the tinfoil hat brigade has a valid point? Maybe this exceedingly nasty virus wasn't the result of environmental and habitat destruction and bringing some rather exotic creatures into a wet market in Wuhan? I have to admit that I find the transmission of the virus by 5G technology a tad far-fetched, but could there be a sophisticated and coherent organisation out there ready for world domination?

Yeah, nah...

This previous train of thought could have been gaining traction until I mentioned the adjectives "coherent" and "sophisticated". There is no possibility that a worldwide evil entity could be infused by either of those words, hence the probability of such a party releasing the Coronavirus is a nonsense. 

Has anybody ever known any ponderous and populous agency to be efficient or logical or knowledgable or nimble or proactive? Me neither...

Take the extraordinarily pompous Department of Home Affairs, for example. Apart from its deplorable title, Home Affairs is, anecdotally, poorly run, overstuffed with bureaucrats, with the mentality of the Keystone Cops, the compassion of Medusa and an enormous waster of time, revenue and resources who have imprisoned a Tamil family at vast taxpayers' expense for three years, with no valid reason, whilst publishing memos about acceptable clothing standards (no sleeveless blouses please!) for their staff, even if working from home.

The mind boggles...

On a state level, the Housing Authority (now part of a super-department named Communities) really does appear to be trying their best, despite lapses of internal communication that inevitably lead to situations that could be included in a comedy sketch.

I have had discussions with a very pleasant and accommodating housing officer and also maintenance about two issues in Alex's unit - an ill-fitting toilet seat and peeling paint above his shower recess. We believe the peeling paint is a signal of moisture in the ceiling of his unit, due to the fan venting into that enclosed space, rather than out into the open air. As Alex has severe asthma, mould is not a desirable bed-fellow and we wish this issue to be resolved toot sweet. However, in their wisdom, a dodgy toilet seat is superior in importance to the possible presence of mould. As a result, I was rung by a very pleasant plumber named Joe on Friday morning. I had given the information that Alex worked on Tuesday, Wednesday and Friday, as well as his phone number for contact purposes. Neither of these facts had been passed onto Joe, who was on his way to Alex's unit to fix the toilet seat. And he had no knowledge of the ceiling issue, which apparently was deemed less serious...

Ye Gods...

Then, of course, there are the Departments of Stealth and Total Obscurity. Centrelink and the NDIA are neck and neck for outstanding excellence of performance in these two areas. 

I have previously mentioned the giant virtual heads floating throughout the corridors of Human Services, rather like soft and drunken dodgem cars, due to the invisibility of actual persons. The mountains of hard copy information provided repeatedly on numerous occasions, and seemingly never viewing the light of day. The inadequate and contradictory responses given by staff, if one can actually get through on the telephone. The realisation that a trip to Centrelink for lodgement of one of their complex and confusing documents will swallow at least half a day.

Dealing with the NDIA has been rather akin to the search for the Holy Grail. Upon its smooth transition of Alex's disability funding from the previous agency, I was hopeful that, given the tremendous drum roll for its launch, the National Disability Insurance Agency would become a friendly space for disabled people and their carers, easily navigatable, with flexibility for alteration depending on the client's needs. I was burnt out by thirty years of advocacy and I needed a break.

No such luck. My quest to divert some of Alex's existing funding for a reverse cycle airconditioner for health purposes was initially refused because all monies must meet the needs of his daily functioning. This excuse infuriated me. Alex's daily functioning would be pretty bloody awful if, for the lack of stable temperatures in his unit, he suffered a serious asthma attack, chest infection or heart arrhythmia.  

This fiasco has been trundling along for over a year. At last, I appear to have stumbled across a sympathetic troubleshooter from within the NDIA itself. Thanks to some questioning from WA senator Glenn Sterle's office, I was rung, and taken seriously (!), which culminated in a chat last week with my secret contact. I am finally hopeful that we may actually be successful in this enterprise of obtaining and installing the air conditioner in Alex's unit. This would be just sensational.

But a juggernaut such as the current Australian government initiating a pandemic? This lot couldn't organise their way out of a paper bag. Are any of them fit for purpose? Do any of them have any grasp of their portfolios? On the other hand, perhaps their hypocrisy, incompetency and dishonesty is all part of a cunning plan to disguise their true mission of world domination.

Now, where did I hide my tinfoil hat?!

Welcome to the NDIS

Orchestrated by the NDIA! 

Meanwhile, at Centrelink...

Or phoning Centrelink...

What is offered...

Leading one to feel...

Where's my tinfoil hat?!

More Unexpected Consequences Of Becoming Ag-ed...

My darling Dad was a wordsmith. He was a master of alliteration, of exaggeration, of pronunciation, of the obscure and the amusing. He loved to refer to himself as "your ag-ed father" with the emphasis on the "ed". His knowledge and adoration of language kept him keen as mustard, even as his body failed him. Right up until the final year of his life, he would read the broadsheet newspaper "The Australian" from cover to cover each day, though his recollection of important events might have become a trifle hazy.

Dad taught me about the joy and brilliance of language. I also have begun to refer to myself as "ag-ed", to honour him and also acknowledge some surprising and not always welcome changes in the second half of my life. I do plan to get my telegram from whichever figurehead is the fearless leader of Australia when I turn a hundred.

Anyway, I digressed. My brain is seriously leading me into unfamiliar territory. Take embarrassment, for example. I have always had difficulty spelling that word, and now I find myself occasionally suffering from it. A first for me. This morning, I was watering the outside pots in my passion killer and ugg boots, as is my practice and I was suddenly overcome by the urge not to display my polka-dotted dressing gown and woolly slippers in full view of the populace. Why? I have opened the Gallery in the same attire and not felt any disquiet about the outfit. Hell, I even made a sale...

So what was my problem? I couldn't fathom this weirdness of my logic until I started thinking about the last couple of weeks. I have been poked, prodded, stabbed and examined. I am still sporting what appear to be small crop circles around my boobs and torso, courtesy of the sticky discs required for recording ECGs. I have been reminded that hospitals are not places of rest and that boredom and fear are everpresent in equal amounts.

The bad news is that I have been referred to as "obese", which is a word I truly dislike. What's wrong with cuddly, round or just fat? Plus, having to stand, repeatedly, on the scales is not my idea of fun. I have also become aware of bits of me that cause pain. Back, neck, knee, wrist, chest, head all take turns to give me the irrits. So far, all the tests and imaging I've had only suggest an overweight and stressed woman with reflux. Bollocks.

I have been told to exercise without causing injury (!) and to lose some of my kilograms. 

I suppose I should be grateful for advances in modern medicine. Over the last eighteen months, I have been shown that I do, in fact, have a brain of sorts, an abdomen full of extremely functional organs, and a heart age of fifty-two with no suspect anomalies at all. 

A very long time ago, the suggestion was made that I may have "Munchausen's by Proxy" disorder while we were on our voyage of discovery towards Alex's autism diagnosis. So, I am rather sensitive at the merest sniff I may be a hypochondriac. Hence, some vague annoyance as to the causes of a fluttering-bird-in-my-chest sensation and occasional breathlessness. Yesterday, in a fit of pique,  I chose to ignore any twinges and accompany Michael on a late afternoon walk with our canine fatheads. Which I very much enjoyed.

Maybe stress is the answer. During another entertaining appointment with our GP, the excellent Doctor Stephanie, she suggested that there may be some correlation between my breathlessness and the stresses I am currently experiencing.

"But why?" I protested, "I've been stressed for my entire adult life!" 

"Aah", responded Stephanie, "but you're fifty-nine now...!" Plus she suggested a trial of Somac for reflux and spirometry sometime in the near future.

I rest my case.

PS does anybody else get annoyed with stiff witchy-pooh hairs that cling stubbornly to one's chin?!

Absolutely!

I think my dressing gown and I are more than just friends!

Being poked and prodded is not fun...

Now that would be fun!

...For my specialist appointment!

Exactly!

About thirty-five years!