Rest in Peace beautiful man-cat Prince

The prognosis was not good.

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Prince’s liver was failing him and he was anaemic. His teeth were bad. The vet had suggested we help him along because it might otherwise be a life of constant medication and control, neither of which Prince has ever tolerated.

I have loved him like a best friend. A companion and a patient. A naughty boy and a belligerent uncle. I cared for him and I think he cared for me. His life in the bush has been a liberating one. Formally he’d been a skittish city cat, he was always a little bit on edge. He loved having his face brushed, and being patted and loved on his terms only. He would follow me where other cats feared to tread – he ‘owned’ this 500 acres as if it were all under his control, following me to houses with bouncing dogs and loud owners. Yet gone are the days since we’d shared roasted chicken (Saturday afternoons, his favourite lunch with me)… and he loved nothing more than lounging in the sunshine under 2 or 3 favourite trees and sunny spots. And drinking water from running taps.

I remember those earliest days of getting to know him (about 7 years ago) and his daily visits and watching him negotiate the neighbourhood. I asked the neighbours if he had an owner and they insisted ‘he’ was a ‘she’ named Princess. ‘Are you sure?’ I asked, ‘Because that looks like a male cat to me.’ Turns out… I was right. When I decided to move out, I took him to Lort Smith Animal Hospital to determine whether he was an ‘owned’ cat, just to discover that despite his having been desexed and microchipped, the people on that linked phone number denied all responsibility.

I visited him every other day at Lort Smith and hoped I could keep him. This beautiful cat became ‘Prince’ in my care (and thanks to Lort Smith investigation into his genitalia). After 8 days we belonged to each other legally and by choice, for the term of his remaining natural life.

Rest in peace my friend. I can’t believe you’re gone…

Darling Prince,

I once took you to a privately-owned cattery for a ‘holiday’ while I went on holiday to Brisbane. The owner was initially snooty and suspicious of me (typical cat-person) until she took you in and judged me entirely differently because of how lovely she thought you were. You single-paw-edly changed her attitude.

I hope I gave you a better life than what you had. You once lived on that Brunswick street and several neighbours fed you until you moved into my unit, and kept me company. For 6 months you knocked on my door, i let you in, and you slept on my bed and then told me when you wanted to go out again. You were smart, loving and funny. You were selective and particularly loathed other cats. I’m sorry we recently brought in two young cats to the house. That really pissed you off.

Once you had an altercation with the neighbours’ dog who chased you and had you in his jaws while I was holding my baby. My children’s father stepped in and flogged that dog with a big stick and you survived; angry; yet you didn’t hold a grudge. Since then, that dog would come and sniff you and never again tried to bite you and you lived. You survived a dog attack and from that time you owned that damn dog. You walked past her countless times and she stayed away. You were brave and fearless.

You moved house with me four times, and some of those times were really stressful. You managed to ‘cope’ with two babies and seemed to like them despite their obvious inferiority.

I like to think you finally found happiness here, in the bush. (At least, after the dog attack everything settled down and no-ne ever tried to hurt you again).

You hated the vet more than you hated the cats and now I understand why.

Love you buddy. I miss you already. I still have to drive to collect your permanently asleep body from the vets. I told the children she was putting you to sleep. I thought that sounded better than death.

Always yours.

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My delicate Man-Cat

As if to prove a point, I feel it’s only fair to share the lovely, gentle man-cat that is my Prince.

When she was a baby he would sniff and kiss my baby daughter. Delicate.

He didn’t even swipe her with his claws until she was at least 3. And seriously, that time, she started it.

One day, years ago, he made an alliance with my boy-child baby.

With a shared curiosity in guinea pigs, either or both would climb into the guinea pig box as soon as my back was turned. And he didn’t even catch and eat one.

And neither did the cat.

He would show the most intense affection in a gentle ‘head-butt’. As a mutual show of love, and he was calm and chatting in his cat-way, I could lean down to him and he would butt his forehead against mine. Only a small number of people experienced this from him and it left us feeling extremely chuffed and privileged.

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And here he is modelling his tame and sexy belly.

Although that arm in the air was not intentional (he’d caught his claw in the couch cover and rather than immediately jump to rescue him, I photographed him first).

Neither of us were injured in the course of this incident.

Immediate Vet Care

This morning I had to take my cat to the vet.

After missing for 2 days I finally found him slumped behind a decrepit bike against the fence about 50 metres from the house. He could barely raise his head.

So certain was I that the vet would declare him terminal, I have cried a river.

The father of my children reminded me that vet’s job is to fleece people of all their personal savings and to be wary. I was so wary that I burst into tears when the vet DIDN’T suggest immediate euthanasia, instead some blood tests, anaesthetic, a clipping and a scale and clean of his rustic, old-man teeth.

I was embarrassed to ask what that might cost because… because how DARE I LIMIT MY LOVE FOR MY CAT TO MERE DOLLARS (or this was what I felt terribly guilty about when I asked about the cost anyway).

And the cat seemed to find energy in his mere hatred of all things vet because they could not get near him for love nor money to check his teeth, let alone stick a thermometer up his bum. For an angry and tired old man-cat, he was fucking furious.

So the outcome of the initial consult was: no-one can get near him unless he is placed under immediate anaesthetic (and despite my pleas to the contrary: they think he’s the Hannibal Lector of cats).

So the vet breaks it down.

Consultation $65

Anaesthetic $172.50

Blood test & analysis $99

Clip $50

IV, Fluids. Etc (it feels like $$$) probably another $250.

Scale and clean – oh just whack another $200 for good measure.

So, there goes my bank account and lucky we’ve got a pantry full of beans because we’d be fucked otherwise.

And I agreed to it because of this: when I rang the father of my children, in tears and thinking we’d be almost destitute affording this damn vet bill, he said ‘I can make some more blocks to cover it. He’s your love and he was there for you when you needed him. You do what you think is best.’

Cried a bigger river.

And thank Buddha for medicare because if the costs were this high taking people to the people doctor, we’d have a much smaller population.

And then the vet asks me to sign a piece of paper to say I understand my cat Prince might die anyway.

Fucking fleecers.

Catholic guilt

Forgive me Father, for I have sinned.

It’s been months since my last blog. I have been busy raising children, feeling frustration, tearing my hair out, in and out of hospital for a weird bowel problem (not an obstruction – and that wouldn’t be as funny as one might assume), and just sleeping and eating and stuff. And I would never confess to a priest because I think you are all about as trustworthy as an armed sociopath.

It’s not that I don’t care for religion, or believe in God – rather I don’t care for organised religion and my version of God might be a very different version of your God and I won’t preach about mine if you don’t preach about yours.

For many years I wished I had been Catholic and was once voted amongst my peers as being the most demonstrative non-Catholic for showing classic Catholic guilt. However, where I sit – there aren’t enough Catholics demonstrating guilt but denial and subterfuge, all wrapped in several evil packages.

I say several because pretty sure George Pell isn’t the only evil pretender to reach high levels in the Catholic bureaucracy.

But enough about that, it’s back to me.

I wished I could have gone to confessional and been absolved of all my ‘sins’ (because I believed, without a doubt, I was full of them) only to ‘discover’ late in life that I was never a perpetual ‘sinner’ (as I believed) but a liver of life, and a doer of deeds. That is all.

Not bad, necessarily, not good, necessarily. Just did stuff. Good stuff, dodgy stuff, funny as hell stuff and living my life stuff. No real time for regret because it’s all just a learning curve in the end. (Pardon the pun – ‘the end’ like ‘my derriere’ and bowel problems. I’d laugh if it were funny).

Maybe this is God’s way of telling me I give him the shits?

A lamp. A Movie. An existential Crisis.

I’m having a small existential crisis. That started with a lamp.

My son, almost 4, decided to lead my salt-rock lamp around the hard-brick floor on it’s cord like a puppy dog. And was unpleasantly surprised when the electrical cord snapped, thereby rendering my lamp useless. A gift from my youngest sister – this lamp actually meant something to me, so to see it snapped on the floor, in a pile of rubble and detritus, made me feel intensely angry. I had been making dinner, for fuck’s sake, my few minutes of non-interuption rudely thwarted at the conclusion of children’s meals placed upon a table. I had a bit of a shit fit (the type that turns you into a red-faced banshee madwoman) and started screaming blue murder and ran out of the house slamming the back door in a hissy. And I eventually found a quiet spot where I sat by myself for 2 hours to calm down. Hoping their father would handle it better than he handled me (which was to hiss at me ‘what the hell do you think you’re doing, it’s only a shitty lamp, shut-the-fuck-up!”) And so on and so forth…

I probably have to give you some background. My sister is 15 years younger than me, and as luck would have it, we didn’t grow up together, in the same house nor the same area. When I was born – in 1969 – my mother was single, her boyfriend had absconded as soon as he had an inkling she was pregnant, and she hid her pregnancy right up until the day she had me. Whereby it was a total shock for her Mother and Father to discover that their daughter was indeed giving birth next to the fireplace, and perhaps not just fat, as they’d hoped. Soon after my birth my maternal grandfather carried us to hospital in a horse and cart. Yes, you read that right too. They still had a horse and cart and yes, while everyone else drove around in Holdens, Fords, Hillman Hunters etc they were still in a horse and cart… I was shipped off to a city hospital, about 200 kms or so away, and put up for adoption after my little heart murmur had subsided…

There’s a whole lot more to that background, but I’m going to nip it in the bud and fast forward 25 years. Or more. That’s when I met my biological family for the first time.

It went well.

We have slowly, gently, carefully and respectfully built up our relationships over the past 20 years (yes, I am now 45 and it is almost to the day the 20th anniversary since I met my older brother and 3 younger sisters for the first time. Yes, you read that right too. My bio-mother had given birth at just-turned 15 to a boy and her parents had tried to pretend he was theirs, and when I came when she was just 21 – well, too much. But I digress, it went well. She’s a lovely lady who keeps to herself mostly, and doesn’t like to cause trouble.

I kept somewhat of a distance over the years because I didn’t want to over-ingratiate myself on my new/old family AND I didn’t want to piss off my existing family because – YES I was lucky enough to grow up with a Mum, Dad and younger brother after all. They were the only family I had known since i was 4 months old. As fucked up as we are, and that’s pretty twisted sometimes (Christmasses were always shit by the end of the day)…

Anyway, fast forward to my age of 45 and my youngest sister got married and it was great. My gift to her was 65 jars of mixed condiments, relish, marmalade, jams and jellies – which she used as ‘name-plates’ on the tables so people would know where to sit. And have a special, home-made gift to take with them. As the wedding guests got progressively drunker there was an all-out battle to secure a jar of relish. Somebody even offered sexual services for a jar of relish. If only I’d been better prepared…

Anyway, to thank me my sister gave me a petite salt lamp that changed colours (rainbow reds, blues, greens) and I loved it. I’d always wanted a salt lamp, and now I had one, made all the more special because my sister gave it to me. But after the destruction of it, David’s insistence that it’s just a ‘cheap piece of shit’ and my beautiful son’s almost genuine ‘sorry’, I was still stewing inside about losing it.

My sister and I had only shared gifts when we first met, and she’d hand-made cards and I never really bonded with her until this year. Partly age difference and my fear of ‘getting too-involved’ meant I kept a respectful distance, maybe too far of a distance, so it took us a long time until we ‘clicked’. Her marriage made that happen, sort of, finally. So this lamp was infinitely special to me, and close to my heart.

Anyway. So today I take my children to a birthday party and they had a great time. The 3 of us did. And we went shopping, and kept a look-out for kangaroos as we were coming home (one day I will explain the horror of road-kill, but not now). And so, quick fast forward to me sitting on the couch at 8:45pm alone again on a Saturday night and back to boiling point about my fucking useless piece of salt rock now the fucking bits have been ripped out of it…

What to do….

Put on a Charlie Kaufman movie.

Synecdoche, New York.

So much emotion and personal carnage wrapped up in one movie that sums up my life in 2 hours, and everyone’s life, and then no-one’s life because it’s all fiction and so way-out as to be the biggest falsehood ever and existentially so meaningful as to exist as the truest expression of loneliness, loss, longing and the willingness to find meaning in existence as I have ever witnessed in just one film. And then I’m eternally grateful to Charlie Kaufmann and infuriated at the same time because I think ‘why did I have to buy this and watch this now?’ ‘Why did he have to make such a painful face-slap that is also the biggest kindness one can bestow?’ ‘Why?’

‘Why didn’t I just watch ‘A Million Ways to Die in the West’ and just be done with it?’…………..

I watch the burning house and think that house ‘was always going to burn to the ground’ because that’s the stupid thing that people say when houses burn, because there must have been something wrong for a long time to make it burn so. But it burns for the whole film. She (Caden’s flirtation, girlfriend, confidante) buys the house burning, it etches a blackness in her lungs that ultimately means her demise, all the scenes in the burning house leave you wanting fresh air, it really is that dense and consuming.

And Phillip Seymour Hoffman, as Caden Cotard, ageing disgracefully and losing so much, his wife Adele (Catherine Keener) suggesting that we are all ultimately disappointed by people – and I agree – because ‘familiarity breeds contempt’ and i think of what I am doing to compromise my relationships with my children and I am scared. I am breathless. She leaves him, taking their child with her, and before he knows it, Caden’s daughter is 11 and tattooed and engaging in sexual expression with Maria, her mother’s friend, and then, she’s 17 and she’s more tattooed, distant images of her flash across in miniature paintings. He doesn’t see her, he can’t find her, she is completely disembodied, as his ex-wife’s ‘friend’ blocks the way to his daughter. He reads about his little girl’s life in her lost diary, so there’s even a brief similarity to a Harry Potter book I read a few months ago – a diary with links to another person, from another place and time… BUT, in Harry Potter the book is not actually a diary, it is a vortex, it is a means of communicating between a Tom Riddle and an innocent in order to manipulate an outcome. In Synecdoche the pink diary is all Caden has of his growing daughter. No person, just the crudest insight into her most personal thoughts. Which he has no right to read. He learns about her this way, in brief and sharp notes until her tattoos kill her, and as an ageing woman finally, as the flowers on her arm die, they take her too and she sees her father for the first time since she was 4 years-old and forces her father to ask for her forgiveness, and acknowledge his own homosexuality, which he does (and it’s a lie) and she refuses to forgive him and she dies. This is made more painful by their wearing of head-pieces to translate their communication because his daughter now knows German before English, she needs his words translated into a familiar tongue and that is no longer his language.

And all the while he has remarried a woman (Michelle Williams) who starts out optimistic and ends up pessimistic, tarnished and grey by age and disappointment, complaining about the actor that Caden has hired to play him, who touches her inappropriately. They have a daughter he constantly calls by his first daughter’s name, only to pang a damaged heart again and again. She is again 2 dimensional. We see her, we don’t understand her, we don’t know her. I don’t think we even hear her speak. The opposite of his first daughter who we don’t see, we just read in words, briefly scribbled down a page. The forbidden diary. Taboo revealed.

I had trouble remembering to breath….

Then the psychologist whose feet are choking and bruised from the tight straps of her too-tight shoes flirts with him, and shows him her leg, always pointing to one of her self-help books as if she’s some sort of Narcissist who speaks to him through the pages, just to abruptly stop. There’s no help. There’s no real life-lessons there. She has no real means of easing him out of his frequently tense situations that he continues to find himself in. It’s a falsehood. All the while his relationships progress and he has that second child (a girl) to his actress from his first big play – ‘Death of a Salesman’ where the revelatory accomplishment was him (as Director) casting young characters as old people, and the old people watching don’t understand why.

I find my breath again there as I sit on the couch, transfixed by this film that pricks the arm and the heart in ways i don’t think I’ve been hurt before and I hope this is just a once-off because it’s too graphically depicted and too surreal I feel I ‘get it’ all at once. And then I don’t get it. Because it’s just my own self-reflection eating away at me as I watch the demise of a man going from 40-to 80 (the finality of his life) that leaves me pondering my own beginnings. I know on the next screening of this movie that so much more will seep through, like steam, or imagery flashing across my mind, and I hope the shock will be blunted by this first viewing. I wonder if other people were so affected by this film.

Dianne Weist in several scenes has me completely absorbed in her face. Her forgetfulness as a cleaner of the older artist Adele’s apartment, then her gentle assertiveness as she takes over the role of Caden Cotard, Director of this ultimate play that has graduated before the viewer’s eyes to a whole block complete with designers and builders accomplished in altering the theatrical landscape to complete this picture.

I loved it. I hated it. The love scenes were awkward. Emily Mortimer was beautiful and then not, in her brief and abrupt coerciveness of Caden towards the end, and then I remember my own awkwardness and I think this Charlie Kaufmann is an evil genius, I love his movies. They are uncomfortable as they are enlightening. Eternal Sunshine of a Spotless Mind and Being John Malkovich are two of my all-time favourites and the idea that we are the main players in our own movies reminds me not to hide so much, and remember to live and remember that longing, loneliness and isolation are a part of it. To find some meaning or sense of belonging is something we all need, in a sense. Love is something we search for outside all of us and it exists inside and yet…

imperfectly. Every single time.

Nothing is as you think it might be. We are the main players in our story. Even when we are the bit players.

The warehouse that constantly develops with the script, that grows in structures more menacing and becomes a city within a block. It becomes decrepit. It follows the script. It changes, it develops, it stays the same in parts. People die, people live. They love and hate, they become absent and leave things. They die in the street. They stay in the same place and leave nothing. We don’t really live like that.

Or do we?

Rest in peace Phillip Seymour Hoffman. You were great. You are sorely missed. You moved me beyond myself and within myself. It was a spectacle, a small revelation, a thing. Charlie Kauffman chose wisely.

This movie jumps in my mind like a disjointed memory of weird events in childhood… even though it is played out in age-sequence of Caden Cotard’s life, it jumps around in my head like my own memories do.

I see my own face reflected in my daughter’s photos and my tears in my son’s eyes and i hope my life doesn’t evolve into a Charlie Kauffman film. I don’t want to be the saddest bit player in the background. I want to be loved and loving and remembered lovingly by them.

Hot jam and cheese toastie. Don’t judge me

It’s freezing here. Not freezing as in ice-your-balls-freezing but freezing as in, about 8 degrees now, and freezing as in minus degrees this morning, with ice on the grass and guinea pigs with frosted noses and toenails.

Winter in the south baby.

We turn to comfort food and blankets and open fires and rescuing kittens from the woods. Because that is what seems to happen in winter. We freeze and hibernate. And cuddle our animals.

Today I made a jam and cheese toastie.

It’s been years since that oozing sweetness last passed my lips. And now it’s been seconds. Mere seconds. I initially put away that delicious wrongness when a velour-hating chef declared it to be a crime against good food to mix jam and cheese.

Yes, I once dated a chef who declared that mixing jam and cheese was a crime against humanity. And he hated velour. If only I’d read the signs earlier – I could have saved myself years of heartache.

How could anyone in their right mind hate VELOUR?

I should have known when he made that statement. I have since decided that Tony Abbott as the Australian Prime Minister is a crime against humanity. And hot jam and cheese is just a crime against the size of my thighs.

But I digress.

I love hot jam and cheese.

And the chef turned into a cheater and a scoundrel and shallow in his financial richness.

There must be more to life than that.

Like jam and cheese.

A Kitten walks in through an open door…

So we live in the bush.

And some fuckwit dumps a kitten, or plural (s) here, in the bush.

This kitten is terrified and looks for other cats. Or signs of life. It is accustomed to home, it loves a warm fire and a cosy bed. It loves a cuddle. Maybe it’s not so cute now it’s bigger, maybe it had siblings and no-one could re-home it. So somehow it ends up walking through my back door.

3 nights ago.

We already have a new kitten, courtesy of a rescue operation whereby my 3 and a half year-old son ran under a neighbour’s shed and fetched this tiny, ginger, starving wretch of a thing and we decided to adopt him, desex him, feed  and love him. My son called him Fwobbies.

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Fwobbies is now almost 6 months old and 3 nights ago he invited this new girlfriend home, and she just walked in the back door. She relaxed, gave us all cuddles, ate something and went to sleep on my bed. By her reckoning, she’s moved in.

We also have mice. Not as pets. Just mice as in plaguing the house. Occasionally a mouse plague will sweep through this area and anyone living here thinks Armageddon is upon us because when there is a plague: it is bad. Not just bad but toxic, putrid, horror.

So the wildlife warriors are beckoning with their cries of ‘think of the wildlife and the birds’ and the locals are calling ‘think of keeping mouse numbers low’ and the people who love pets are saying ‘think of the poor little cat’. And the argument that if they are well fed, they are less likely to kill the wildlife than if they are starving makes me think that’s a pretty good argument too…

I’m not immune to the wildlife warriors for so many great reasons: I tend to agree that cats are a bad predator and worse when they have not been fed (they kill wildlife) but I disagree that they are the worst and we should never have them. When appropriately cared for (fed, watered, desexed and kept in at night) they can be amazing pets.

After calling the pound, several vets and posting the cat’s photo on various facebook sites in case an owner or a dumper of cats exists out there close by… I have decided that we are probably keeping her. One: because she’s frail and loving and placid and sleeps on beds and is probably the most affectionate cat I have ever met. Two: because if I surrendered her to the pound she would probably be euthanised because there are too many cats and not enough owners. Three: – it would be cheaper for me to go to the discount desexing day in the country than surrender her and re-purchase her with all the de-sexing bits and pieces, vaccinations etc in place. What’s another mouth to feed?

(NOTE: there are so many elements to this story I could write a novel to outline even a smigeon of it… feel free to ask me. While I am generally compassionate: for the purpose of this post it would appear that compassion is lacking. Like I said: back-story.)

Normal

I’m not quite sure what normal is.

After 45 years on this planet ‘normal’ still means nothing to me. And everything. None of us could be deemed it, yet we are all it, and the only thing I can see that is shared is the commonality of eating and drinking and sleeping and needing all 3 to survive. Or 4. Because we really need to defecate to be ‘normal’ too.

Don’t get me wrong, as much as poo is normal, it is also the second, or third, most disgusting thing on the planet. Somewhere closely behind vomit and puss I’ll guess. There are probably worse things.

In this sheltered life. We are normal.

Lucky, lucky, lucky.

Some days I struggle with parenting. It’s like I’ve completely lost sight of who I am, or who I was, and I’m sinking into this label of ‘normal’, not even with gusto. Some days it’s just a sad resignation, sometimes I seek it because it somehow makes me feel better. Are my kids normal? Am I normal?

And I see the image of a child lost at sea, starving in his mother’s arms, and I want them to relish this life with me, as my neighbour, as my friend. Not be abandoned by the powers that be, in the water, because they don’t belong to a country any more.

That’s not normal.

Camels and Emus

It’s true I tree-changed to this weird-arsed neighbourhood. Which wouldn’t classify as a neighbourhood, because, strictly speaking, it’s the bush.

I say weird-arsed because – fuck me if there aren’t some of the weirdest arses on the freaking planet living in this area.

And it’s tree-change because I live in the bush, with emus and kangaroos in the backyard and that’s not weird to people living in the Australian bush. That’s just super-odd to people who live in the city. Trust me, in the city they eat kangaroo as some sort of yuppy, alternative, low-fat meat product, and we have Skippy the Bush Kangaroo passing at dusk in the backyard.

There is also a camel in the back paddock. He belongs to our neighbour, who has some issue with the rest of the world, and that’s probably because of a whole stockpile of other issues she has with her family.

I make jams, marmalades, relishes, sauces and preserve olives and cucumbers. Sometimes I do this to ease the boredom and sometimes I do it because I love food. I really love flavours and textures, scents and creation. Occasionally I do it because motherhood gives me the absolute shits.

I once wrote a book (about something serious) and about 10 people read it (it was a very serious book) and liked it and that was good. Except only about 5 people paid actual cash for it. Therein lies the book market in Australia. Not saying that my writing may not have been up to par (we received all brilliant reviews for the said book). Just taking a moment of rare self-reflection and blaming something completely out of my control.

OK. The daily funny. We battle with headlice. It is like the worst fucking infestation on the planet and I’ve lived with these nasty, itchy little fuckers courtesy of my children (whom I love with a passion) for 18 months. I have spent hundreds and hundreds on chemicals, sprays, combs, conditioners, washing products etc and they keep coming back. Solution: Olive oil and tea-tree oil mixed and soaked into hair twice a week and combed out.

Anyways. my daughter once saw a picture on a can and said they look like “lobsters”. So since then, we don’t have nits and lice, we have lobsters.

So she asked me to send a letter to the Wiggles and this is how it went…

“Dear Emma, do you get head lice?
We call them lobsters, because they look like lobsters close-up.
Do you get lobsters?”

I’ll let you know if I hear back.

Drone and Monotone.

It’s nearly 11pm.

I’m sitting in my dressing gown listening to the fridge drone in monotone over the buzz of the light globe. Collectively it irritates me, this noise, this reminder that something is actually working in my vicinity while I am not. I am avoiding sleep, my children, the television, any sense of sex that may have occurred.

I’ve avoided it. It’s easy to do after the 3rd day of existing in a dressing gown. I’ve drawn the line at 2-minute noodles and chocolate, and thank fuck I’m not pregnant, because that would just complete the look of misery…

When in fact all I am. Is sick. Flu-sick. Sick in my head. My bones, my arse, my neck. Sick.

Sick of the monotone drone of the fucking fridge and my child whinging for tv, Sick.

At least they are asleep. And I am lucky to be here and alive. And lucky for fresh food and water and I have no right to be ungrateful when there are starving, desperately thirsty people out there. And all I can do is complain about the fucking drone of my fridge.

Sorry.

Another desperate grab at cash.