Tag Archives: The Big Whatever

Second time around

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Then we followed with desserts.

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I celebrated with a glass of chardonnay as well, something I couldn’t have done until I completed my course of medication, so it was a celebration in more ways than one!

Afterwards we drove to a lookout that overlooks our little Village – and yes we could see our house from there!

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While we were there I learnt from my sister that our paternal greatgrandmother had grown up on a farm only a short distance away. Her name was Hermine and she married my greatgrandfather Herman – yes Herman and Hermine!

Today was a beautiful autumn day and though the photos are a little hazy, I think the beauty of where we live is still evident.

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who didn’t get the memo?

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bed 1

Well, obviously the social director didn’t  liaise with The Big Whatever as I spent my birthday in bed and for none of the right reasons. I was felled by an attack of diverticulitis on Friday night and so was rather quiet all weekend. Quiet, except for the times I was clutching my abdomen and groaning in pain.

Saturday was my first experience of the local medical services. The weekend surgery is in the next town which is about 15 minutes away, so Mr FD was enlisted as my preferred driver (Driving with Mrs FD! I know someone had to say it!)

I phoned to make an appointment and was told that it was more or less turn up and wait your turn on the weekends.  I followed the suggestion that I arrive at 1pm when they would reopen after lunch. At the stroke of one o’clock I staggered through the surgery door only to discover the room filled with people who obviously possessed insider knowledgeable of the system and turned up before the allotted time.

The number of people meant I got to sit in the cheap seats at the back with the heathen children. What is it about the children of the great unwashed in that they have no fear of strangers and no concept of personal space? There seemed to be a number of scantily clad young women with hordes of snotty nosed children who wanted to share my seat with me (the children, not the scantily clad mothers, guys). They did not respond to the usual teacher stare so I was left to shudder and watch the time clicking by too slowly on the wall clock which ironically had a sign next to it, instructing parents to keep their children seated and under control at all times.

I counted off that I was about 7 down the list at one stage, but people kept coming through the door with great sob stories and children with broken bits and so they were whisked down the corridor ahead of all those waiting. Why should a small child in pain be assisted before moi? Anyway…

Close to an hour later and after a period of musing that perhaps the people who had already been seated at my arrival were actually waiting from last weekend,  I was overwhelmed by pain to the point where I thought I was going to pass out. I approached the desk staff and told them my pain level was 10 on a scale of 1 to 10 so they were kind enough to allow me to lie down on a bed in the nurses’ station.

An older nurse staffed this area. Well, she was walking about the area and eating an apple. She asked me by name, which she appeared not able to remember, even when she was reading it off the chart. She asked me a few questions and retuned every 10 minutes to ask me my name again.

The doctor arrived and the nurse relayed my name and information incorrectly, and so I explained the situation. I informed the doctor what I normally took for diverticulitis and he wrote a script. Not once did he ask what other medication I was on, or any other history – I was a new patient so I think he should have taken a few minutes to ask a couple questions.

Throughout the entire process I was more and more confirmed in my decision to stick with my doctor in the city, however to be fair I will give the doctors in the Village a chance. Perhaps a nonweekend visit will produce a better opinion. I know it is the country by that shouldn’t mean substandard service. Living in the country is no excuse for unprofessionalism, or poor customer service.

Anyway, the birthday had been postponed to next weekend when I shall make merry again. I shall also expect all the lovely birthday wishes to be extended again – just joking (possibly)!

Today is another day, and I am 55 years and one day.

[Thank you for all of your lovely birthday wishes. They did make the day so much less disappointing! As you can see by my mug shot, I look great for my age!]

blame it on the big whatever

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Dear Minerva the library assistant has been away ill, a relapse with the nasty flu. Now that there have been reported deaths from the recent outbreak everyone is being much more cautious. I am sorry that Minerva is ill, but it does leave me with two workloads.

It is alright if I am away, because that is me. Also my work sits until I return. Minerva on the other hand, her workload falls to me, so that doesn’t make me happy. Of course one does prioritise, and leave what is not important, but front desk duties wait for no Minerva, hence how I am allowed to complain. It is always about me.

I know, life is not fair, but we are talking about me, as we always do, and so it should be not only be fair, but heavily slated in my favour. The Big Whatever (TBW) appears to have written my plot line with too many complications and not enough happy resolutions.

The first thing TBW needs to do is make sure Minerva recovers, now. I am sure that I could get her to agree with me on that, so that is not entirely selfish…

Then TBW needs to smite two teaching colleagues and about 47 students.  Then I might just make it through the day without initiating mass stick action, though I am not making any promises.

All right Mr. DeMille, I’m ready for my close-up

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For awhile now I have been positive that I am imprisoned within a European art film, all very much a tale of flat lined mediocrity with lots of melodramatic down moments, but few and very far between miniscule high points. This experience is largely cerebral as are continental movies and I am constantly praying for Woody Allen to come out of the shadows and yell “Wrap!”,  as I want to move onto the Hollywood version with the happy ending. I crave escapism and some entertainment viewing others have the low life for awhile, if not for the rest of my life!

I suspect The Big Whatever (TBW) is using montage in a manner not to produce the greatest emotional response in the audience, but to leave me limper than a linen tea towel after Christmas dinner. Locked in a drifting sequence of vaguely defined, ambiguous episodes that intertwine across time and place I feel that TBW is being unfairly authorial towards me. All I asked for was some simplicity in life, but instead I get bizarre alternate worlds and elements of surrealism!

How about you – Hollywood classic happy ever after, or art house experimental?

toeing the line

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Mr FD was talking, yet again, in his sleep early this morning. First it was an “Oh God!” as though he was both surprised and beseeching, but in time it became obvious that he was fighting with someone in his dream (I moved to the edge of my side of the bed, ready to hit the bunkers) “You @#^%# !” Then just as suddenly he rolled out of bed and went to the bathroom. When he returned to the bed I asked him who won and he couldn’t remember any of it. I guess it was God 1 : Mr FD 0, again.

His altercation had woken me from my own dream. I was checking messages on my mobile phone and there was one message that contained a male voice quietly and calmly reading verses from a certain middle eastern holy text. I had visions of Cat Stevens on my message bank. Hey, it was my dream!

I told Mr FD I had received the call.

 

“Well, that’s a cheap way to get a message out.” he replied

“Robbo calling the fallen?” I knew where I stood on the list.

“Please hold for a message from God,” he said assuming a voice several levels lower than his own.  (Why do we always assume that the Big Whatever has a deep baritone voice, when maybe BW sounds like Jerry Lewis in his hey day?)

“Oh God (unintentional witticism) what if he had an Indian accent and I hung up on him? “ (If I suspect the voice on the end of the line is a telemarketer I usually instantly hang up. One poor gentleman once called back seven times trying to get through to Mr FD on legitimate business).

 

Mr FD was no longer listening, too involved in his own impersonations, “God on line one… Reverse charge call from heaven.” He was having a jolly time amusing himself.

 

I let him enjoy himself, it’s his birthday today and he was probably having the most fun he is going to have all day.

Who said there isn’t a Big Whatever?

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I was having a little whinge to one of the library assistants this morning about my mood being in the trenches  when the bell rang to signal class time. It was my one and only class for the week, and I was about to welcome a new class rotation.

I wasn’t looking forward to the class as it is a subject, career studies, that the students don’t enjoy. There is also no assessment so they don’t even try. There are 6 teachers taking the year, and we are all teaching a different area on five week rotations. Yes, the teacher librarian gets to teach study skills. Very original.

But lo, it turns out that the class I received on this rotation are lovely; or least they were lovely today.

I went back to the desk and said to the LA that I had proof positive that the end of the world was nigh as I had just had the perfect lesson. This was merely the rally before the end, obviously.

But damn, it was fun while it lasted.

remember, remember

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It was reported at the weekend that fame is indeed fleeting. Fame however, lasts more than 15 minutes. On today’s market it lasts 71 years.

 I find the ring of that 1 on the end of 70 to be strangely reassuring and so the number holds a note of authority for me. I mean, if they had done the usual and rounded it off to the nearest 5 and called it 70 I might have scoffed, but the fact that it is a solid sounding 71 makes all the difference in the truth game.

The sad news is that lasting fame, unless you are in the league of the Big Whatever, Shakespeare, or Santa Claus and the elite of the fame crowd, has decreased from 120 years to 71 years in this age of fleeting attention spans. Such is the pace of value these days!

 More than once I may have somewhat inaccurately quoted some person that I have forgotten, or never known the name of, that : you live as long as the last person who remembers you survives. To me that is fame; when family and friends remember you, even when you have passed onto the Big Wherever. So in that way, my grandparents live on, as do my Dad, and family and friends. They are famous in my world, the world that counts.

 The writer of the article was explaining that the likes of Stevie Wonder would be forgotten very quickly. I hazard an easy guess that if I asked any 8th grade class who poor Stevie Wonder is, that it would draw blank stares already. Fame is a generational, as well as a cultural, construct, is it not? I hope that I haven’t spoiled Stevie’s day, but I suspect that poor Stevie can console himself by phoning his accountant and requesting an update on the number of zeros on the latest balance from his bank account.

As mentioned, some identities, are timeless and cross generations as well as cultures. Take Flamingo Dancers (metaphorically speaking) for instance. A legend in my own mind, and now of course yours! Such fame is infinite. The masses love me. I don’t need anyone to say it, I don’t need my face on the cover of magazines, or be on Larry King’s last lovefest show, for proof. We famous just know when we are famous, and we know how much the little people like you depend upon us to brighten their day. We all know how I brighten your lives, don’t we now, dahlings (no need to reply, I can feel the luv from here)?

 So, as you toil through your ordinary lives, don’t fret that you will never be famous. We have proof that not only is fame fleeting, but fame is shrinking every day. Hardly even worth it. Warhol’s 15 minutes really will be the bar someday soon.  Some things are eternal and should be left to the worthy – Flamingo Dancers for instance.