I suspect it’s got personal

I could not get a rescheduled appointment with the oven man – who, you might remember, did not turn up the other day – until today, when, they promised he would be here first thing. Nine o’clock.

Ten thirty and not a sign.

Can I just say, the people installing the sky light totally rock.

Looks like there will be no muffins again this week. Though when we are in the kitchen, we will be able to see.

UPDATE: the oven man has arrived. And on the day that I am getting a hole cut in my ceiling and my roof, the heavens have opened up. Which I’m not complaining about. I’m just saying it’s kind of bad luck for that patch of carpet.

FURTHER UPDATE: the oven man has finished. $202.73c!!! And not even knocking off the 73 cents for goodwill in light of inconvenience caused and so on and so forth. The peace lily has bounced back a treat after that short period of neglect. The rain has stopped. You aren’t at all interested in this, are you? No. I’ll be off.

Saturday shopping, Central Market 10 am

Although she could not read minds, Adelaide knew, from the way the woman’s made-up eyes flicked a look in the mirror and then another not quite at Adelaide, that she, Adelaide, should not have said to this black-haired woman whose lipstick was on straight: oh, I have a shirt like that isn’t it a beautiful blue.

Next time, thought Adelaide, she, Adelaide, would almost smile in the mirror, let the woman almost smile back; and then they would both look down to their hands, make sure they had rinsed off the soap, before they both reclaimed their trolleys and their own Saturday lives.

Eight pm

There’s really nothing on television, we’ve got no DVDs (though have you re-watched The Games lately – that one of the 94 metres 100 metres track – that is really, really, really funny) and I’ve got a to-do list filled with urgent and important things…but I really want to make up my jumper tonight. It’s all ready to go, and then I might get a few wears in before next winter.

As they say on facebook: ThirdCat is undecided about how she will use these last precious hours of the day.

PS Not yesterday but the day before a really cool thing happened to me. Can’t tell you what of course, because that would jinx it. But it is bloggingly cool.

PPS If no one comes up with a better name, the dog will have to be called Chips since that’s what one of the children has thought up. It’s an okay name, but you know, when your life is filled with a station wagon, a pedigree dog and bordered by iceberg roses, you’d like a name a tiny bit racier than Chips. The mister likes Brezhnev (he still hasn’t recovered from that walk we did through Lenin’s Tomb, which shows you just how old we are).

PPPS I shouldn’t’ve got my hair cut yesterday. I told her if you cut it too short on top, it will spike and I’ll look like Kim Wilde, but she had no real idea of the seriousness of looking like Kim Wilde. It’s a good haircut, but [insert predictable diatribe about getting too pudgey]…plus, it’s my brother’s wedding on the weekend and there will be photos, and, of course, other people’s wedding photos are all about ME.

Well, that took care of a bit more of that precious time, didn’t it? If you’ll excuse me, I’m off to clear the sink.

Did I tell you I hate spring? And balloons.

I’ve been trying to pretend it isn’t happening for about two weeks, but today I could stand it no longer, and have taken a puff from my inhaler.

And I can breathe. A proper breath.

I have a very tense relationship with this condition. Every couple of years, I go to a doctor, and she (I always go to a woman these days) diagnoses me with asthma and writes a prescription for an inhaler, and I fill the prescription, use it twice and then let it sit on top of the fridge until it expires (expires – geddit?). Why would you do that? I don’t know. I just feel really uneasy about the diagnosis, and don’t like pumping shit into my body.

Now, the thing is, that last year, the doctor I went to did a pretty thorough analysis of things, even getting me sent off for an MRI of my brain. I was feeling very, very dizzy for about four months, which is probably because I don’t get enough oxygen. But she was good and thorough.

Even though I knew there was nothing wrong with my brain, or any of the other things we checked, there’s nothing quite like those square-panelled ceilings with all those little holes which you count while you’re waiting for the radiologist to return, to make you think yeah, but…what if? Is there?

Anyway, that’s an aside, because I tell you there’s nothing in my body not supposed to be there. Nothing sinister and that lump at the base of my neck has gone again now. And so has the other one.

So I dunno. Maybe it is asthma.

I’m going back to the doctor in a couple of days. And she’ll say how are you and I’ll burst into tears because I always do even when there’s nothing really wrong. And that gives me the shits. And my little boy – I’ll have to take him – will say can I have a balloon. And I think I’ve told you, I hate balloons. But I’ll let him have one, because otherwise he’ll chuck the shits, and yes, I know, the key to good parenting is consistency, but there you go. And then I’ll go and fill the prescription for the inhaler, because I’m a bit worried about using last year’s. Even though it seems to have worked.

I’ve got an appointment with my acupuncturist booked.

Anyway, enough about me. How are you?

And we hadn’t even got to lunch

The blind lady, having measured all of the windows, flicked past the samples from which I was intending to make my final selection, saying oh, they’re a bit tacky aren’t they…the kind of things the Asians choose. And later, when I explained that I was glad she had decided not to postpone our agreed meeting time because I’d already spent half the week waiting around for the oven guy (and no, he still hasn’t come) she said well, it wouldn’t really worry me, I don’t like to bake, I don’t really like to cook and then gave a loud laugh and looked at me in a meaningful way before she said I know! An Italian lady who doesn’t like to cook! and then told me a lot of details about her home life and the good care she takes of her sons. While my own sat in front of PlaySchool making demands such as ‘more toast please!’.

I ordered the blinds anyway, because I have used the company before and they are reliable and their prices are good and they do what they say they will do.

On the tram, the man across from me says – after my boy has done the ticket and told the whole tram that if there’s a red cross that means you’ve put it up the wrong way – I used to work for this mob I smile and nod, though I am expecting some long story about the way things used to be in the days when the young ones stood up to give you their seat, but he says until the accident, and the first thing I knew about the deaths was when the policeman said ‘you’ve been cleared’. And then he shakes his head and he looks at my little boy and says and all I had was glass in my eye.

Fair weather? Foul

The wind, in great and consistent gusts, is hot and drying. It carries dust which fills my lungs. My breaths are shallow, my sneezes many. I try not to rub my eyes, but they are bloodshot (and match my bruised, grazed skin). The dust is a haze down Goodwood Road and across to the hills. The fire danger is high.

I have been wearing a jumper all day, not thinking to take it off. Until now. Relief as stuffiness goes.

The door is left open by boys. The wind has chased even them in from their games of cricket and monster traps. The coats of dust on the floor and the kitchen bench grow.

Even my teeth feel gritty and dry.

I bring the still unplanted trees inside, and put them in the laundry sink. The ones we have planted could die. The water restrictions say buckets only for gardens. But I am thinking of sneaking out with a hose. We need the trees to live. I won’t of course.
I’ve checked the worms. They’re fine. Thriving. They seem not to have bloodshot eyes.

I already told you once. I hate spring. Especially when it comes before winter is gone.

wound update

I know you don’t care, but I find my wounds fascinating, so herewith an update.

Face: healing. It must be, because just now when I went to buy the bread and the papers, the bakery guy said ‘gee that’s an interesting bag…I haven’t seen you bring that one before…where did you get it’ and then said ‘so what’re you doing today’ and didn’t even look like he needed to ask about my face.

Knees…you should see the bruises. Huge. Gi-normous.

Teeth: watching brief.

Wrist: stiff.Beautiful black pants, bought for my Melbourne appearance: less special than they were.

Ego: still shattered, but am able to laugh about it a little.

Confidence in own athletic abilities (already marginal): further diminished.

Likelihood of returning to scootering: nil.

Fussing about children and possible injury: excessive.

Sometime between 8 am and the Second Coming

You know when you book the oven-fixer – the one who never quite fixed the dishwasher, but it’s who the people recommend and if you use anyone else warranty, guarantee blah blah blah – and it’s two weeks before he can get there, and even then they can say nothing more definite than sometime between 8 am and 1 pm and so you arrange your entire day around being there then, and then at 10 am he rings and says I’ve got caught up and you think already and he says can you be there later in the day and you say well, yes…what time and he says it will be after four and you say well, I did have something to do, because you did, on account of making sure you were here all morning, but you know there’s no point complaining, because then it will be another two weeks of not having a decent oven and of therefore making dry muffins and of children rejecting even your cakes, and if you were a decent mother they would never be so ungrateful…

…and you have to remind yourself, there’s worser places to live.

UPDATE: well, bugger me, and who knew…5.30 pm and he still hasn’t rocked up.