Eyes Of Cyclone, Newt and Frog.

Good morning. Today I would like to talk to you about the best laid plans of mice and men. I'm in the wrong gender, but that's never bothered me before, so why worry about it now? At least this time I'm not holding my metaphorical penis* in my hand with nowhere to put it or nothing to do with it. Tonight's biggest plan was to be reading a book and managing a blog entry. I'm a hospital scientist and this is my lunch hour.

*I'm more often accused of having a pair of testicles, but what's the point of metaphor if you can't usea bit of (poetic) license?**

Bollocks***. Phone again.

**That sentence sounded way better in my head. Way.

***More metaphor! If you want real ones, you'll have to either go for your own lap (and if it is your own lap, you don't need directions from me), or find a willing participant in your bollock-yearning.

Instead tonight's shift has been a little busy. Check that understatement. Awesome, yes?

To which you must say, "yes awesome", and keep any eye rolling, sneering or giggling at my expense to a discreet minimum or behind discreet camouflage. Such as a pot plant. Not very discreet, I suppose, but right now I would like a pot plant. A big one. I want to hug a tree and a pot plant would do in lieu.

My head is strange this morning (could you tell?). This is the eye in the cyclone and the wind is making noises outside. Any minute now one of the lovely lads from theatre will appear at the door and a house will fly past the window - and me without my Toto*. Since I'm also on the ground floor, I don't want to still be here if the building gets picked up and dropped - a Biochemistry department falling on my head would be no fun at all (Special Chems or not). Also the resulting cacophony from the alarms as the power failed would be very off-putting. Although I might get the satisfaction of ripping the most annoying one out of the wall. Perhaps I should hope for a trip to Oz. Then again, Microbiology is on top of Chemistry and they smell, so maybe not.

*Unless I name that cockroach from a few months ago.

Or no-one is coming. Perhaps no-one will come until the day staff arrive and I will have worried for nothing. It isn't fear, exactly; I've been doing this for too long to be afraid of what might come next*. It's bouncy feet. Being on the balls of your feet, ready to go. With nowhere to go.

* Although I can, without fail, make the blood drain out of my face by thinking of the phone call I hope I never receive: "Hi Blood Bank, I'm calling to notify you we have multiple casualties inbound; we need to activate the Disaster Protocol." Or simply: "Code Brown". Get your spare trousers out, kids!

Strange that a code brown (external) scares me a lot more than our lovely other colour-coded codes. I'll see your code brown with a code black (personal injury*), raise you a purple (bomb**) and a yellow (internal).

Yellow (grab your other spare trousers, kids!) is supposedly for internal emergencies, which may include:

• gas leaks,
• chemical and/or biological spills***
• failure of emergency power supply
• blah blah more obvious things
• illegal occupancy

By whom? The feral cats hiding next to the car park?

*Presumably without a lawyer. I was thinking this whole riff on code black actually being about compensation claims, but it just fell apart.

**Kaboom. Kaboom-boom-boom.

*** And, as it says in the flip-chart, in the event of a chemical, biological or radiation incident, the first thing you must do is cover your mouth.

Time for me to start up machines and whatever else. Probably a good thing, because I seem to have broken the circuit between my mouth and my brain - or at least what passes for taste in my head. Someone asked me a few minutes ago what what placenta accreta is - and according to me it's a quick trip to a hysterectomy, thanks for coming.

Since I'm being offensive, I may as well say I always thought the cabbage patch in hospitals was not a coma ward, but a slightly more inventive name for CABG patients (coronary artery bypass graft).

Time to faff. And tidy. Night.

It's a Bit...Squinky.

Over New Year's our household had no hot water. It was only for a few days, and fixed quickly. I married Tim the Toolman, you see - although this time around there wasn't a mad dash for a new element in a shop - husbandly had a spare stashed away. Of course, you probably don't care about this, but I mention it because it was so little a drama. No waiting for a serviceman (with a big bill just for the call), no what-will-we-do-without-hot-water, just a lot of getting on with it.

SPOILER.

We watched the Doctor Who Christmas special (of course we did), The Doctor, the Widow and the Wardrobe and it was one of the best episodes I've ever seen. Don't read any further if you haven't seen it and want to (because I hate knowing even part of a plot - fair warning).

The Doctor helps a lady who has just lost her husband, but being the run up to Christmas, she hasn't told her children. She says, "...because then Christmas is the thing that took their father away." Husbandly looked over at me at this line, waiting for my head to start revolving, since my (foster) mother died on a Christmas morning. Quite some time ago now, but Christmas has been a bit like a semi-rotted chocolate box since. Sometimes it's a nice choccy and other times it's only fit for the bin. The only thing I could think was how nice it is to have a parent who protects you (and have a tear or two roll down my cheek). It would be entirely unfair to say I didn't feel protected as a kid, but true nonetheless. So it goes. (A violin starts playing somewhere, snort.)

SPOILER END.

I've had two days off this time, which really boils down to one since I spent the first day asleep. We have clean things! There is more ironing to do than ever before. Gak!

Today, or what's left of it, will be spent ironing and washing and possibly some more sweeping. It's a hard life.

Small lad is once again playing with the (actual) Lego, having put some away and then pulled the some back out again. I can hear a running dialogue in different voices of the good guys and bad guys having at each other, although sometimes there is only the tone with no words. Yesterday and the day before there was a lot of "nee-nor, nee-nor" as the police chased down bad guys on the plethora of vehicles that came with the kit. It's a hard life.

Husbandly is off somewhere still working on the solar heating things, honestly I just nod my head and smile (or shake my head and ask why). It seems to make him happy.

Tonight there will be roast lamb. Laaaamb. Mmmmmm, graaarrr.

One of the things I used to hate, and possibly still do, though not with the same passion, was being characterised. I loathe explaining something I think or mean and have the person say "so you mean 'X'", only they've got it wrong. It's another way of labelling - encapsulating the complex into a small, easily identifiable box. I know a group of people who do this, all to almost the same degree of certainty, and it's the certainty of the capsule definition that chaps me. It's a kind of first impression, where the meaning received is imposed over the meaning transmitted. Changing someone's mind about what they think you said or meant is more difficult than you would think.

Can you really know another person? Or is your knowing filtered through your own perception of yourself? Or is it a product of a categorisation according to what you think of them by their age, station, whatever?

I'm inclined to think mostly not (although spouses and children, you'd probably come close); yes - but if your knowledge about yourself is limited, you can't really know another; and yes, definitely yes - because we only have so much brain space and unless you're good friends with everyone, you're probably not going to invest the time in actually knowing someone.

Most of us conform to social mores - with more or less idiosyncracies - so categories can work. Of course, as I've said before, I'm a rebel, a crazy young kid (sure), so being stuck in a metaphorical box with a metaphorical label really burns me. For the most part it really doesn't matter, I guess, unless it's your nearest and dearest who have you wrong, but doesn't everyone want to be known? Not in the famous sense, but understood as a person? Isn't that why we have friends and loved ones?

Well, that got a bit ranty towards the end. Ah well. Small lad is getting a bit fractious (I've been typing for a while), so I'd better sign off.

I'm in the mood for coffee. You could join me if you were here, but since you're not, I'll raise my cup to you in your absence. Take care.

The Stocking Filler (Late, or Very, Very Early)

I should complain about the weather more often: yesterday the mercury rose to summer-like levels.

It's 5:00 am and an anaesthetist is waiting in a small room. A cockroach observes from an air vent, waiting for the doctor to leave: there is a crumb on the floor with the cockroach's name on it. Or would be if the names of cockroaches could fit on the surface of a crumb.

Yesterday small lad was playing his new Lego Star Wars III game - this was his best Christmas ever, or he was imagining it (I paraphrase). Since Christmas, if it isn't the DS, it's the (actual) Lego. It's so nice to get Christmas presents right! Onya Santa! Earlier in the morning he rescued me from my 2am sleeplessness - he doesn't remember what happened, but he appeared around three, bleary eyed and looking for a cuddle, so I escorted him back to bed and lay down with him for a bit. It's the quickest way to get the light off, believe me. Aside from the back pain from sleeping on the edge of the bed, I had a lovely sleep. So did he, which works out nicely for everyone.

It's 5:02 am: Doctor Darling holds Gemma close in his manly arms as her tears dry prettily on her cheeks. They move apart and look deeply into each other's eyes, finally acknowledging their feelings for one another. Gemma tilts her head up, lips parted softly, and the breathless sexual tension is marred by the man in the front row eating popcorn with more noise than an industrial grader breaking up a road.

I surfaced somewhere around seven, but husbandly was sprawled in our bed, so it was off to the lounge with me. Sometimes I have trouble re-adjusting my sleep pattern. Meh. So it goes.

It's 5:10 am. There are cats. They are all thin. They sit in rows. They look alert. They do not shuffle. They watch us silently, us people hiding behind a gate. I expect Alfred Hitchcock to appear any minute. I hope he is walking some dogs.

Tonight I'm in the glory of Blood Bank, forever, amen, whatever. Whatever is, for the third year running, the most annoying word in the English language. Lucky it.

It's 5:20 am. Inside the room we watch the rain rill prettily down the windows, four girls in armchairs. By turns we feel: romantic, intellectual, consumptive or restless. It depends on how the light strikes us. Or perhaps it's the whalebone in our corsets.

Who reads this blog? Somebody must be, or I would have no stats (unless Google really is mucked up), but who are you? Not that I'm complaining, it's much nicer to have an audience rather than shooting these missives into the ether. But the country stats are weird (I'm geographically limited - I don't have many overseas friends). Please email me, go on, you know you want to....

It's 5:30 am. My alarm has gone off; the power is out and it is pitch dark. I have barked my shins on very piece of furniture in the house. I am trying to get to my phone, because the alarm is going off for a minute every five. It is annoying, but it will do as a torch. As I finally reach it (face down, I'm navigating by sound, not light), the alarm cuts off and out of the speaker comes James Earl Jones' voice reciting "The Raven". My hand stops, a foot, two feet - how can I tell? - above it. Well I'm not picking it up now. I've just stepped into a horror movie.

The sun is coming up. The mornings always look grey here. Our ground-floor windows face another five-storey building, and south, and haven't been cleaned in a very long while. Will you sleep better tonight, knowing that? You probably will. Unless your fevered brain is tortured trying to imagine finely-gritted windows imparting a grey tinge to the morning sky. Imparting. Tinge. Dig it.

It's 5:50 am in the airport and four security guards are running away from the terminal. They pelt across the tarmac as though the proverbial hounds have been released. Big Matty just took his shoes off at the check-in desk and the smell is terrific.

Is facebook a bad idea if friends read your entries, but never post any of their own? I had a friend comment (verbally, with mouths and everything) on something I'd posted, and then a guilty moment, because I thought I hadn't read my feed properly. I hadn't seen anything from my friend for, like, you know, ever. But when I got home, I hadn't missed any posts. So I wonder, is it a bit like watching someone through a window, to see if you can get a glimpse of them in their undies? Or picking their nose? (I suppose that depends on the friend). I don't really worry about twitter, so colour me contradictory on concerns.

It's 6:05 am. A man lurks in a rhododendron bush just outside a door. As people walk out he intones "You'll be baaack" in a deep voice. As they enter he squeaks.

In five minutes time I will get up and shut down machines. Then I'll start them back up again. It sounds rather futile, doesn't it? Then I'll put things away. Or not, because probably the phone will ring. And I will answer it. And I will have to do something because of the person who has rung me. I want a big red button in this lab. An emergency stop like we have at TAFE. I never cared about the big stop buttons when I was at TAFE, but now I don't have one, I'd like one. I'd like to hit the emergency stop button because it is all big and red and funky. But of course, I'd then have to explain why I hit it (because we have to call in an electrician to start everything up again), and I don't think a goofy grin and an "I felt like it, because the button is big and red and funky" would cover me.

It's 6:20 am. Heavens, is that the time?

It's time for me to stop fooling around in bits and pieces and start fooling around in earnest. (Not Ernest, I don't know where he's been aside from the squeaking as I came in to work tonight). Take care of yourselves, all ten peoples.

Ah! The Clock is Always Slow; It is Later Than You Think.

It’s New Year’s Day! Happy New Year! For some reason small lad is swanning around rugged up like the middle of winter – this summer is not so much a summer as slightly warm with daylight saving. Disappointing.

Today I’m fighting the battle of the gorge after the champagne and amounts of nibble food partaken of last night (the heartburn today is teeeee-riffic!). One of my ears is a bit spinny as well, so I’d better not lean down too fast or I’ll topple over like a Terry Gilliam animation in Monty Python.

After my last entry I had some lovely silence in my head, where I wasn’t telling myself anything. Nothing. Zip. Tranquillity. It was a nice place to be in, but the world will rush in, as it does, so that lasted about a month. Then it was a case of telling myself far too much and beating myself up rather a lot. Sigh.

It would be nice to give my brain a holiday, especially the parts monitoring just how badly I’m screwing something up. It gets tiresome.

Since I’m now a recluse (I’m thinking of getting a membership badge) big groups of people freak me out a little. So Christmas shopping was approached with a contradictory mix of “eek!” and “grrarr!”, but it all worked out in the end. I must be doing something right, because I got asked in shops where “x” might be as if I was staff and everything.

There was a Christmas event I didn’t attend, which made some waves of an interesting stripe. One of the guests opined that I hadn’t shown up because of her. Since we're all friends there, way to put people on the spot. Way. Go you. (Actually she asked if, not opined that, but I wanted to use "opined" in a sentence. Opined. Dig it.)

Guesty then went on to say that nothing was her fault; it was the fault of someone else (I’m going to call that one Else).

Else, Guesty and I worked together in my old job. Else was having rather large issues at the time – bad divorce, almost no visitation, previous breakdown under her belt – and having trouble with the job. Since I’m big and mean and tough I report it. Cue about eight months later, I’m frustrated beyond belief and I blow up. Else tells me I should “take it up with management”*, to which I reply that I have…big mistake. For the next year after this I have Guesty and another, let me call her Quitty**, telling me how I don’t understand how bad it all is, I’m unhelpful, blah blah blah. And blah. It takes me a while to figure out just how much is being said behind my back, because prior to this Guesty and I, at least, seemed to have been pretty close friends***.

So Else is using me as a scapegoat. That was no surprise really; working with her was always a foray into being questioned over everything I did. Mostly I flicked it off (to which Else would be saying, “really?” “are you sure?” ad infinitum – so you either flick it off or become a mass of neuroses – and I have enough neuroses). Even at its worst though, I felt pretty sorry for Else – because she couldn’t seem to take any responsibility. In the finish, to make the long story short, she leaves for greener pastures. Guesty and I have a conversation about the things Guesty has said over the last twelve months or so – to which she replies “I never said that. If I’ve ever given you that impression, I am very sorry – you’ve always been…” blah blah, I can’t go on with it, I really might vomit. That was the last lie I was willing to listen to. (Yeah baby, there were more, yeah baby yeah). I haven’t been in touch since.

*If there’s one phrase used by the barely competent I can’t stand, it’s “take it up with management”. As if that’s got anything to do with the discussion: yes, congratulations, you’ve said the threatening thing so now I’ll back down, soooo not, you’ve just effed up good and proper and I have to fix your mess. Grrrraaarrr I want to smash.

**”Quitty” because during all of this she made a point of telling me I should quit my job because a) the system had screwed me (different pay grade by qualification – I was in the lower grade with the higher qualification) and b) I would never get anywhere here. On separate occasions. Strangely, because professionally I’d been part of something really big and good and quite successful and I’d gotten into the higher grade, just before this little shit nugget was dropped.

***I suspect that the pleasantries in the middle of the backstabbing had to do with husbandly and his amazing fix-it prowess, but maybe I’m far too cynical for my own good.

Anyway, sheesh, even having left stuff out it’s a bloody long spiel. I wasn’t perfect in here either; temper, temper, I’ve got a temper, but never mind all that. This distance on I still feel pretty sorry for Else: I don’t think she’s capable of better, which means she’ll constantly have enemies and nothing will ever be her fault. On the other hand, I have nothing but contempt for Guesty and Quitty – friends of Else or not, it was all pretty crap.

That contempt hit a new low after the event I didn’t attend. Guesty was trying to blame Else for showing up at my farewell*. Some friend; blame the incapable one for something you did. I know some of that is unfair – Guesty likes a bit of drama and didn’t (doesn’t?) always think of ramifications, but tough noogies, she made me miserable – Guesty. Not Else, credit where credit’s due.

*Else showed up. I knnoooooww!. For pure gall, I stand in admiration.

I’ve also had a few events to go to where other attendees looked rather unhappy I was there. In one case it was assumed (why?) I wasn’t showing up at all and the dirty look I got will keep me going for a few months. Snort. Maybe I should stick with the recluse thing...except I'd miss out on:

1.Driving behind a car with the number plate MUM-291. Is there a MUM-666 out there? Is her other name Rosemary? Or has the Devil gone for a daughter (who has since reproduced)?

2. Fruit pots, brought to me by Woollies, awesome last minute snack when I've been lazy in the food-to-take-to-work department.

3. A rather loud phone conversation where a lady (?) was telling her last date that she thought he (or she) hadn't been on many dates. She moved away before I could hear any more. She had nice legs, just to enter into the reportage.

4. The Harry Potter Exhibition. Awesome. I want the clothes.

5. They make CC's corn chips with guarana now. Why, oh why?

6. Sitting on a train going past people's backyards: one has a pool with no ladder, and two doors down is a pool ladder with no pool. A feud in progress or a coincidence?

7. Watching a Mum train her child (over a period of years) to wait for the toast instead of trying new foods. Just give the kid the damn toast. Or not. Don't hold off for hours and then give in; the kid will just keep doing the same thing, and while parent-etiquette prevents eye-rolls, said rolls are happening, believe me.

I finished reading Sewer, Gas and Electric: The Public Works Trilogy (just to keep some narrative in this overly-spaced-apart thing) and I love that book. Hilarious, well paced and full of little nuggets to give one to thought*.

"The ultimate consequence of denying reality is always failure. Scratch a worthless bum and you'll discover an irrational man." - Ayn Rand, the hologram. Very certain is our Ayn.

* As opposed to giving one to drink, to the earth, to be married or to the blood-brain border patrol**.

Is it bad to sidebar a sidebar?***

** Try saying that three times fast. While drunk.

*** Well it isn't a footnote. Much as I like them, i don't have the little horizontal line and smaller-print below said line.

I had my grammar corrected by Google. And Google was right (technically - I stand by my use of tense, since I was watching the movie at the time, it was in the present). How mortifying.

My shifts generally go quiet in the depths of the night (can you tell?), when little is stirring except rogue cockroaches scurrying past the tea room*. Sounds great, doesn't it? Work goes quiet, there's nothing to do, how too, too marvellous. What it really means is I'm struggling to stay awake. To the extent where I think: "Hmm, I feel a bit sleepy eyes, oh my head's going down (a submarine klaxon sounds) 'we're going down, Captain!' head going for bench, what bench, that bench, clunk." and out like a light. I surface when the chute system goes (I'm sitting right next to it) or if the phone rings. Bleary-eyed and probably puffy, I'll get up and work or speak on the phone. It must be hilarious to watch, from passed out to "HELLO, Blood Bank! Lateonenite** speaking!" I've probably alarmed a few people that way.

*I've only seen one in the whole year-and-a-bit I've been here, but allow me the poetic license, okay?

**of course I don't say Lateonenite, but perhaps I should. My name gets mangled into Stacey, Tracey, Therese, Vanessa, and on several memorable occasions, Elizabeth. Or I could give up and call myself Barry.

So this is Barry, signing off – I’ll try on the next entry to talk less about myself.