There's only 2 of us here...ghost stories, poem, book give away and drizzling drivel

Well, the weather's been slightly inclement; I heard one of the blokes what chucks a dart at the weather dartboard state we were expected to get a months supply of rain over this weekend.
I think his aim at the dartboard was spot on for a change!
Last time the feral beastie child was up at our block of land at Dunolly - waving a metal detector over the ground with his father - he found several mud bricks insitu, meaning *takes deep Goldilocks pantomime breath* someone's been living on our land once upon a time back in the gold rush era. *snort*
They were a locally made mud bricks, as they were consistent with the other mud brick buildings still standing in town and it cements our suspicions even more that the gold diggings were as far out (or possibly further) as our property but were not 'officially' registered back in the day.
A neighbour reported that a deeeeeeeeeep mine shaft opened up on his property with the heavy rains, just over the dividing fence from us and that was anotheree that supposedly didn't exist.
Goodness knows what else has been uncovered with these further rains....
Meanwhile History Week here in Melbourne has been a hoot; the feral beastie has been on a tour of the Royal Melb Hosp, listened to a talk by several authors about Halloween, vampires and all things that go bump in the night at the State Library, a tour of the lost cinemas and theatres of Bourke Street and, finally, today we're off on a three hour tour, a three hour tour...the weather started getting rough the tiny ship was tossed, if not for the courage of the fearless crew...
Wait.
Sorry.
It's a TWO hour tour through the heart of Melbourne with historians sharing the lurve of the best kept secrets of Melbourne's history.
I'm packing a brolly and aint afraid to use it!

The next Aussie Book Give Away is...

A selection of 28 tales and poems from a wide variety of Aussie authors from yore, several from that old staple Anonymous, all of which are able to be read many times over.
For Halloween I'll pop in one of my favourites that is just one of the several Aussie ghost stories/poems in the book -
There's Only Two Of Us Here by Edward Harrington.
(To be read under the covers or by candle light on a wild winter's night)

I camped one night in an empty hut on the side of a lonely hill.
I didn’t go much on empty huts, but the night was awful chill.
So I boiled me billy and had me tea and seen that the door was shut.
Then I went to bed in an empty bunk by the side of the old slab hut.

It must have been about twelve o’clock – I was feeling cosy and warm –
When at the foot of me bunk I sees a horrible ghostly form
It seemed in shape to be half an ape with a head like a chimpanzee
But wot the hell was it doin there, and wot did it want with me?

You may say if you please that I had DTs or call me a crimson liar,
But I wish you had seen it as plain as me, with it’s eyes like coals of fire.
Then it gave a moan and a horrible groan that curdled me blood with fear,
And ‘There’s only the two of us here,’ it moans,  ‘There’s only the two of us here!’

I kept one eye on the old hut door and one on the awful brute;
I only wanted to dress meself and get to the door and scoot.
But I couldn’t find where I’d left me boots so I hadn’t a chance to clear
And, ‘There’s only the two of us here,’ it moans.  ‘There’s only the two of us here!’

I hadn’t a thing to defend meself, not even a stick or stone,
And ‘There’s only the two of here!’  It ses again with a horrible groan.
I thought I’d better make some reply, though I reckoned me end was near,
‘By the Holy Smoke, when I find me boots, there’ll be only one of us here.’
 
I get me hands on me number tens and out through the door I scoots,
And I lit the whole of the ridges up with the sparks from me blucher boots.
So I’ve never slept in a hut since then, and I tremble and shake with fear
When I think of the horrible form wot moaned, ‘There’s only the two of us here!’

The Winner is....

Debby!

Send me an email with your postal details to ourgreatsouthernland at gmail dot com and I'll pop it in the post first thing Monday morning (few post offices open on Saturdays now, hmph).

Prattle....and another Aussie Book Give Away

So, today He Who Sleeps On The Couch took our beloved spawn to a tour of the Lost Theatres of Bourke Street.
Very unreliable of them to misplace theatres like that...oh, wait, sorry, no, twas planning and development what disappeared the lovely architecture.
The more things change....!
The tour was led by the fantabulous people behind the Cinema and Theatre Historical Society.
Word on the historic grapevine is that the former Salvos headquarters will shortly/does house a museum in the near future.
There's Mary MacKillop's 64th miracle.
Last night's chicken kebabs turned out scrumptious, fingers crossed tonight's burgers put on as good a show.
For Mother Mary's next act tomorrow night's pizza, entirely from scratch, will be edible and not rend us incapable with cholera, typhoid or malaria*.
*Yes, I know none of these are contractible through food.

The next Aussie Book Give Away is....

This is a wonderful bio/autobiography of not only the spirited Anne McDonald and her determination to live freely outside of an institution but it chronicles the fight her carer Rosemary Crossley was faced with.
Anne passed away suddenly this month and it seems wrong that such a strong-willed, feisty soul has left us.
Anne and Rosemary's fight in the courts for Anne to realise her independence at age 18 challenged most of Australia's attitudes and preconceived ideas of disabled people; previously there was no rights, no expectation of dignity and certainly no respect towards the disabled.
Anne McDonald paved the way for the likes of my son and many others to not be locked away, to not be treated poorly and gave them the right to expect to attend a mainstream school or mix freely in society.
Simply leave a comment.

The Winner is....

River!
Congrats; send me your postal details in an email to ourgreatsouthernland at gmail dot com and you'll have it in the mail shortly.

Blather and Next Aussie Book Give-Away

Have been plodding about the house doing exciting things like mopping floors and getting up close and personal with the wringer, again.
Today the Snoring One took our feral offspring to a book talk/lecture at the State Library, where much jocularity was had.
BUT!!!!
Guess what????
The feral beastie of my loins has been cooking!
Without anyone holding his dinosaurs/transformers/Pokemon hostage over a flaming pit of fire.
Yesterday he learned how easy it is to make a basic potato salad.
He kept asking "But isn't there something else I need to do?"
He also cooked sausages in a pan for us - besting his fear of the stove top and the gas flame.
Today he has asked to cook chicken kebabs - the chicken-on-a-skewer-with-tomatoes-and-stuff type kebab, not the souvlaki sort.
Will teach him the easy peasy way of doing home made souvlaki in a few days.
Seriously, it's dead easy.
But, yeah, he's cooking!
And enjoying it!

A random shot of Dad's morning tea - fruit mince tart, apple pie smothered in whipped cream and the obligatory cuppa tea.

And Cheryl has twisted my arm with her wily way with words, and I've joined up for NaNoWriMo.
Cos that's what you do when you have so much free time on your hands....when the river-and-rock-washing-in-the-backyard has let you have a 5 min break one must write like there's no tomorrow...or at least write some drivel to keep out of mischief.
And we tracked down a WHOLE Queensland Blue pumpkin and carved that sucker into a Jack-o-Lantern.

No pumpkin was wasted in the making of this critter.

Although there was the odd hockey mask shuddering in fear.

And for the next book give-away....

We have the 1985 edition of Ginger Meggs at Large looking for a new home.
While a cartoon character, Ginger Meggs appeals to all ages.
Except those who suck lemons before arising from their bed.
Let me know, in a self-addressed comment of 1,000 words or more, how many Jack o Lanterns is allowed before one steps over the bounds of good taste into vulgar obsession.

The Winner is....

Janine, she of the gorgeous tea cup collection!
Shoot me an email at ourgreatsouthernland at gmail dot com with your postal details and I'll pop it off faster than my broomstick can corner at Bathurst.

Next give-away posted with the usual blather later today.

Next Aussie Book Give-away

The Spouse and the feral offspring are off on a historical tour of the Royal Melb Hosp - with strict instructions to snap many pics and scribble a plethora of notes.
Yes, there'll be a test on this afterwards.
The lovely weather yesterday saw them take Dad into the Melbourne Museum; it was celebrating it's 10th birthday (already?!) with some of the Aussie dinosaurs from the Walking With Dinosaurs arena spectacular wandering amongst the tasty humans as well as Alan Brough doing an outside broadcast in the dinosaur exhibit plus the fact Dad hadn't seen the Melbourne Gallery which is now sporting Phar Lap's skeleton alongside his hide.
Yeah, no matter how many parts they put back together there is no way that animal is getting up to win the Melbourne Cup this year.
Even Carbine's bones are out on display at the National Sports Museum.
One might think we Aussies had an obsession with claiming Kiwi horses as our own or something...!
I, being of the Spring Cleaning frame of mind, stripped all the beds, and washed everything to within an inch of its life - by hand, sans river and rock as the council refused to install me a river, owing to water restrictions - and finished them off with the old wringer.

Next book give-away is the first Phryne Fisher murder mystery in the fabulous series from great author Kerry Greenwood.
If you've yet to embrace all things Phryne here is a chance to get in at the beginning where it all started in Cocaine Blues.

Simply explain the relationship between a jelly slice to a lamington in a squillion words or less and then the trusty "eeny, meeny, miny, moe" course of selection will take place.

The Winner is....

Syd-oh-knee!
No, wait...
It's Red !

Send me an email to ourgreatsouthernland at gmail dot com with your postal details and this little parcel will be winging it's way to you.

Later today I'll be posting up the next book I'm giving away.

Aussie Book Give-away

Yes, I'm being ruthless and culling all the double copies of my Australian book collection.
But.
Instead of chucking 'em to the well-deserving local op shop I'm giving them away to both celebrate History Week next week and to double up as a thank you to readers who have been so supportive in recent months.
The first give-away is a 1966 edition of Australian Short Stories selected by Walter Murdoch and H. Drake-Brockman.

A small tome this will easily fit into your average handbag, back pocket or prop open the garden variety bank card statement.
Some of the stories date to the beginning of the 20th century and even earlier, with illustrious Aussie authors such as Barbara Baynton, Edward Dyson, Lance Skuthorpe, Ernestine Hill, Xavier Herbert, Alan Marshall and a bajillion others who are no longer considered house-hold names but who were read alongside Henry Lawson, Banjo Paterson and their ilk.
*Please be aware there may be offensive comments reflecting the attitudes of the time in these tales; please ignore them and enjoy the stories in their context* 
 Winners will be picked at random, using the very sophisticated "eeny, meeny, miny, moe" system that has solved many a political schoolyard debate.
Just leave a comment letting me know if you'd like to be in the running for this highly desirable door wedge book.
Or just leave a comment telling me, in 25 words or less, why I should paint my toe nails purple this Summer.

He's got an appetite and he's almost not afraid to use it...give or take a scoop of ice cream, cheesecake optional

Roll up, roll up, boys and girls!
Yes, the mad old cow is alive and babbling forth a torrent of drivel yet again.
No, sadly they haven't passed a law in parliament to have my jaws wired shut.
Yet.
So, where were we?
Ah, yes, next week is History Week here in Victoria!
Pop over the border or fly in from overseas, we'll put the kettle on and have a batch of scones waiting for you.
Seriously, knock yourself out with some fab events taking place that you're not likely to see during the rest of the year or , who knows, you may discover some great like-minded souls involved in a local history group you've meant to join but never got around to contacting.
Dad is getting back to his old self; snuck out of bed this morning and was merrily showering himself before the Spouse realised it wasn't moi coughing up a lung under the hot steam.
He's slowly gaining the weight again, he's currently at 66kgs and he tackled 2 pieces of toast (which he et) after his cornflakes this morning, a big step up from his preferred soft diet.
With the warmer weather this week he's been able to go up to the shops, via wheelchair, twice so far which has been an enormous mental boost for him, although he forgets he's not 21 anymore and he over-uses his spoon allowance.
Like this morning; he's having a snooze at the moment, recharging from his exertions this morning before he gets to enjoy the 25 degrees of blazing Spring sunshine out and about at the shops.
I'm hoping to take Dad to some or at least one event in History Week next week, keep your fingers crossed the weather behaves and the feral tribe is able to sally forth into the general public once more *snort*

Dad at Dunolly in August reading some H.E Bates.

Might pull my finger out and do some work

Looks like we're having another up day with Dad, so I may just be able to get my slack arse into gear and update the Dunolly chronology blog which has languished, forlorn and abandoned, since October 2.
Tsk, tsk, such lazy bloggers, these days.

Goody goody gum drops

Dad's had an up day, today, feeding himself most of the time and eating a shedload.
It's pureed but, hey, it's food.
He even sat at the bathroom mirror and shaved himself after his shower, something he hasn't done since a week before he went into hosp.
He's enjoying the quiz shows on the idiot box again, getting his grey matter working and having something to interest him outside of the next cuppa tea or bowl of ice cream (smothered in topping and Choc Top).
He even made a cheeky, joking reference to his weight loss when (yet another) weight loss ad came on the tv,
"Well, I certainly didn't have any trouble losing weight. I just stopped eating."
(Which we do not recommend as a diet or weight loss program!)
He hasn't had a drowsy moment (yet), has remained orientated to time, place and person while holding prefectly lucid conversations with visiting nurses and friends on the phone.
And he's looking forward to the return of Mastermind on UKTV.
It's the little things....

The crappy stuff not involving the toilet

I'm sitting here, sniffling, trying not to have a sooky moment while doing the shitty things.
Like applying for those extra war service medals Dad never quite got around to getting, always waving his hand in the air and promising to "see someone about it" at the RSL after marching in the Anzac March each year.
Thank goodness he never had to apply for his Presidential Unit Citation (from Eisenhower, blocked to Aussie servicemen and women by Menzies for many years, only awarded in the late 80s) or we'd never know anything about it, either.
He never did get around to having his 60th or 65th anniversary dinners at the RSL to commemorate his years as a member; he felt like an old man in the sea of younger faces.
I'm also trying to get through the DVA site to organise the forms I need for them to contribute towards Dad's funeral.
Yeah, such a feel-good past-time; refilling the printer cartridges just so we can print off reams of forms so we can get Dad buried.
While we could possibly afford to bury him, let's put it this way - he was encouraged to smoke while in the RAAF, which he was well and truly stuck on for the next 40 years of his life.
Most of his medical problems can be possibly (let's be careful here) traced from this habit.
Blocked arteries in his legs, lung diseases, strokes, heart attacks, poor circulation, kidneys packing up, etc.
Those in WW2 learnt from the hapless blokes in WW1 who were labelled 'malingerers' or cowards or plain gutless when suffering from shell-shock and they drowned their own shell-shock aka post traumatic stress in drink and cigarettes.
Remember, these were, and still are, legal drugs which were seen as socially acceptable, especially during the Six O'Clock Swill time.
Also, similar to the denial that Agent Orange had any lasting effects on the Vietnam Vets Dad suffered malaria which the Govt denied any serviceman could have outside of tropical areas - and blamed the victims for not taking their anti-malarial meds (which didn't work anyway) and for not taking precautions like sleeping under a mozzie net, etc.
So, after paying his dues and his taxes, I figure it's the least they can do to contribute towards his funeral.
I've done the other crappy stuff like organising a larger wheelie bin from the council - Dad's nappies are breeding in the millions, stocking up on disposable gloves (cos they aren't recognised as a part of incontinence aids, apparently. Would love to see some of those pen-pushers clean up with their bare hands!), creams, toilet paper, face washers for washing the opposite end to the face, washing everything by hand every day, counselled the Feral Asperger's child and all that stuff. 
Just all in a day's work.

Where she talks about the gory bits while planning more pureed food

Well, the Old Boy is now on pureed food; easier on him and us, less angst at getting him to chew when he doesn't want to/can't and no food going around and around his mouth for years on end.
Yeah, I exaggerate but you know how it is.
Plus, he's a full feed - nurse speak for fully dependent on others for food, drink, hanging from the chandelier, etc.
So, the familial cancer clinic got contacted last week and (hopefully) the ward from hell got the pathology nurses to take Dad's blood for storage and testing after he's shuffled off to Buffalo.
Cos Dad's had prostate cancer, his siblings both had stomach and bowel cancer, his mother had stomach cancer, all of her siblings had stomach and/or bowel cancer while her mother had bowel cancer, several of Dad's nephews and nieces have had stomach/bowel cancer, several of Dad's cousins have had stomach, bowel and brain cancer....
Yeah, yeah, you get the picture.
Like I said, his father died from a heart attack, way easier to sum up.
He already has his very own faux-Wedgwood Porcelain Gallbladder.
And his tumour markers were up, indicating a possible presence in stomach or bowel or that it'll be a white Xmas this year.
Perhaps a small serving of Lynch Syndrome?
I had my female plumbing bits renovated in a Changing Wombs episode back in 2000 but they left the ovaries, hoping another chick wasn't going to go postal with her menopause, probably.
And I do not like that ticking time bomb, I do not, indeed.
Silent and deadly, with feck all symptoms until almost too late, I'm contemplating getting them removed and replaced with a nice set of marbles Lord Elgin found on his travels to Greece.

The episode in which Dad takes up nocturnal swimming

Dad has got the leans, as in leaning to the left.
He got the all-clear from the hosp that he hadn't had a stroke (yeah, cos they're soooooooo reliable) but his listing to starboard continues (Is starboard left? No matter, he's not likely to be shipping out as First Mate anytime soon).
We've taken to propping a pillow along his left side so he doesn't hang out of his chair and this generally works.
The other day the skinnier-than-a-supermodel Pater was leaning this way and that.
Hubby came in and propped him upright, only to waltz back through and find him leaning the other way.
"Pa! Sit up!" he said.
"I can't. I'm trying to fart." Dad replied.
Yes, that old email joke really is based on fact.
Which means those Maxine cartoons may possibly be real, too.
Scary much?!
And so, Diane Butler wonders why the humour of dementia hasn't been plumbed before.
Au contraire, dear Diane, I suggest you speak to any nurse.
Dad was up, wandering about the house at 4.45am, wet as a shag as his reluctant kidneys had decided to actually work (correctly called nocturnal enuresis but Matron isn't looking at this report).
First thing we knew about his nocturnal ambling was the fact he parked his posterior on top of (man-mountain sized) hubby who was sleeping on the couch.
Yep.
Still snorting and giggling at that image.
All Dad can say is that the plumber who worked on this house (himself) must have done a dreadful job and if he had his way the mains would have been turned off after midnight before he was forced to swim out of bed.

Some random stuff the bizarre fat blind chick threw at the 'puter

Just what every nurse carer is wearing this season.
Yes, I need to shave those dreaded forests again.


The view Dad enjoyed from his armchair the other day.
If you're missing any bees, they're partying over at our joint.


Echium and bee.


Blue Pacific and bees.


Carpet of blue snow from Blue Pacific.
No, the big girls don't lay blue eggs.


Doctor Donna.

Miss Beverley.


Kangaroo Apple flower.
The ripe (bright orange) fruit is said to be delish but you'd have to ask our possum mafia about that!

Dad's not strictly a picky eater...unless it's his two pet loathings

Dad's appetite has gone south, as has his weight, and his tastebuds have left for sunnier climes.
I have little rammekins and bowls of this and that filling the fridge with all manner of things to stimulate his appetite.
There's creamed rice with home-made rhubarb and apple, yoghurt with Farex rice cereal and apricot halves, frozen berries we scatter on top of English Toffee ice cream, not forgetting the Wildberry ice cream we slather in chocolate topping and the Ice Magic choc top stuff.
The Death by Chocolate chocolate mousse got the "Ewww, yuck" review, while pancakes coated in Golden syrup and Nutella get the big thumbs up.
Blueberry yoghurt "Would kill a blue dog but I'll put up with it" is Dad's way of saying "Not too bad, I'll have some more".
Dad has an aversion to only a few foods for very good reasons (that don't involve allergies/intolerances) - plum jam and pineapple.
Back in the Great Depression his father applied for the Susso (forerunner of unemployment benefits) but as he had a trade as a boot maker (albeit one that was not getting a brass razoo as no one could afford to buy shoes) and was crippled, meaning he was unable to do labouring, he was knocked back.
So, Dad's mum had to go to work, at the Rosella Preserve Factory in Richmond.
The ladies were sometimes allowed to bring home tins of preserves that weren't going to sell, were either too old or too dented.
Great, you might think.
Except the only jam his mum was ever able to bring home was plum jam.
Plum jam for breakfast, lunch and tea, when they were lucky enough to get more than a crust of bread.
The Black Market was doing a roaring trade in the back streets of Montague/South Melbourne and while Dad's father was able to get hold of full salt and pepper shakers now and then (something as rare as hen's teeth) the only jam 'falling off the back of a truck' seemed to be plum jam.
The pineapple revulsion happened while Dad was up in The Islands in WW2; his RAAF unit had been piled on board an old steamer ship to chug to another island after fighting on another one (of many).
Chugging, taking a long time, took more than a week instead of the 'couple of days' they'd been told.
After a few hours the boys were wondering wtf was happening as regards rations or anything resembling food - then they realised there wasn't any.
At.All.
They found out later The Powers That Be did not expect them to make it to the next island, that the steamer was deliberately chosen as it was slow and would attract the attention of the enemy and divert attention away from the US troops MacArthur wanted to send through, hence not bothering with food rations. 
Someone forgot to send the memo to the Japanese as they either didn't see or didn't care for the old steamer filled to the gunwales with young Aussie troops starving enough to eat the arse out of a low-flying duck.
So, they did what any self-respecting starving Aussie would do ....they broke into the hold.
And found tin after tin after tin.
Of pineapple.
They breakfasted on pineapple, they lunched on pineapple and, yes, they dined on pineapple.
They drank pineapple juice, for wont of fresh water, and they all grew heartily sick of pineapple.
Dad said there had been a couple of tins of fruit salad but they were devoured early on, with many not even getting a sniff of a apricot or peach.
Mum said Dad would fastidiously fish out each and every piece of pineapple he spied in any dish, (he's done the same even a few months ago with pizza) while plum jam has never darkened our doorstep.

Doctor plumbers

I am heading off to bed shortly.
Getting earlier and earlier, soon I'll be going to sleep with the birds.
Dad has had a trough of a day - as in we will have peaks and troughs, ups and downs, good days and bad.
It wasn't really so much of a trough as he tired easily, although we did have him in the old armchair on the back decking enjoying the Spring air and sunshine for almost 2 hours.
The big chooks came up to natter to him, the dog refused to leave his side and he loved it; opened his eyes and complimented me on the backyard looking so wonderful but it was really just Mother Nature both doing all the hard work and showing off her efforts.
Self-seeded purple cones of Echiums all over the place humming with bees as is the Blue Pacific tree, with a cerise purple of the Tree Hollyhock flowers and the white pear tree blossom making striking effects everywhere we looked.
But Dad enjoyed the fresh air and sunshine most of all, feet up on the footrest and lounging back against his pillows we found it a bit of a battle to get him to eat as readily as he did yesterday - although he did manage to eat a little more.
He needed to go to bed by 7pm, he was breathless again and just uncomfortable, tired and plain old worn out from so much excitement of sitting in the sunshine.
When he started his plumbing apprenticeship in the early 1940s his boss was addressed as "Doctor Armstrong" (as plumbers were once titled "Doctor") and the 'company work vehicle' was a big old dray cart pulled by a big old Clydesdale horse.
Dad said the horse's hoofs were the size of dinner plates and he'd ever-so-gently place his foot on Dad's and only partially rest his weight on Dad's foot if he knew it was close to or after knock-off time of 5pm as a gentle nudge to get home to the stable for his nose-bag.
His apprenticeship was interrupted by the war and then his going walkabout but his boss held the promised place for him to finish his training, even years later.
Cos he was Doctor Armstrong, Master of Plumbing; his word was his bond and his wife was his beard.
The past is another country.

Patient is improved, obs satisfactory and hunky-dory

I've slipped back into morning shift mode scarily easily lol.
Up and about by 6.30am, getting Dad up (he's already awake cos he's always been an early bird) showered and dressed by 7.30am, with brekkie taking him until 9-ish to plough through before he gets toileted again (2nd packet of gloves, pads and emollient cream in toilet).
Teeth scrubbed and with Nilstat drops after every meal Lo! and Behold!
It's a freaking miracle!
Dad is getting his tastebuds back in working order.
Guess which nurse didn't quite manage to finish brekkie, got no morning tea and lunch wasn't until 2.30pm?
Sheesh, that's one bitch of a place to work, bet the ANF would have words with me for running a sweatshop hospital facility *snort*.
Washed and wrung out 2 loads of washing (by hand?! Who the flock was silly enough to get rid of their washing machine again?).
Meanwhile the old boy worked his way through a healthy portion of assorted foods, staying well within his 1.5 litre fluid restriction although the gripes of "I wanna cuppa tea" were frequent and loud.
Evening shift commenced without my notice, having scarfed a packet of dark chocolate ginger (it is so a food group) between changing the bed and shopping for yummy food stuffs to tempt the old bugger.
Death By Chocolate mousse is skulking in the fridge, waiting to leap out to wrap itself around his uvula and drag him to the dark side (where they apparently have cookies), an array of dips are stacked in there, too, ready to be dolloped out into little containers for him to dip his itty bitty bikkies into to snack on and then there's the baby shortbread men bikkies that casually fling themselves into his talon-like skinny fingers and work their way down his gullet.
Walked him out to the backyard to meet the new Silkie chookens which delighted him no end.
As did the dog and cat continually fussing over him.
Patient SOOB, feet elevated, several episodes of SOB but quickly resolved, grossly incontinent ./c hygiene and pressure area care attended,ambulating ./c wheelie walker and 1-2 for assist, nil episodes of confusion, appetite ^  and excellent intake achieved for this shift day.
Food chart, daily weigh and fluid restriction - check.
Contacted RDNS for general nursing review appointment - check.
Cracking the whip on any male who happens to be my spouse - double check.
Conducting in-service tomorrow to demonstrate the correct manner in which one transfers a patient into bed without busting a phoofer valve.
I'll be the one snoozing in the corner....

Dad's hard headed. Literally.

If I posted Dad's extensive medical history all the doctors and nurses reading this would have a conniption as it's a miracle he's reached 87 at all.
Back in 1974 , mid-December, we hadn't heard about Cyclone Tracy at that stage but we knew all about a random thunderstorm that blew up out of nowhere and whooshed my Dad off a 2 storey roof he was putting on a brand new house in Werribee.
He kinda landed on the lawn next to the driveway so this tale could have turned ugly at this point.
Fortunately they breed 'em tough in Montague and while he was pretty doo-lally for a few weeks with a fractured skull (with a few other incidental broken bones) he managed to recall something of his plumbing career when he took to climbing out of the strait jackets they put him in and went about 'fixing' the water works on every floor of the Western General Hosp (except maternity, thank gawd, can you imagine him 'fixing' the female plumbing on that floor????).
They could easily follow where he'd been as every.single.tap was turned full on.
*snort*
They ended up actually shackling him to the bed-rails, wrist and ankle.
Mum said he was in a 4 bed ward with 3 other fractured skulls and he was the only one to survive.
Some angel was watching over his shoulder to get the lucky tap on the shoulder in those statistics.
All I can remember is the tears and venting and gnashing of teeth as his (shonky) business partner kept running up bills in Dad's name and the Sheriff came around to repossess goods to the value, etc, when 6 year moi challenged him and told him to leave us alone.
I vaguely know the antique dining table disappeared along with the chairs and some pricey Toby jugs, but all I really knew was that Dad got swallowed up in a hospital for almost 12 months and then rehab snaffled him for more than 2 years.
It was fireworks and excitement when he was allowed to come home to visit for weekends, I can still remember him standing on the train platform with his suitcase waiting for the train to go back to that (deeply loathed on my part) place.
I did some agency shifts there years later and still found it to be a charmless, cold place with an atmosphere amongst the staff you could cut with a knife, or it could have been that the heating was turned off on weekends as most patients were away and the water felt like it was piped in straight from the sea.
He made me some sheep-skin moccasins in South Melbourne (Sydney Swans) colours and I was most displeased to find Mum had tossed them years later when I'd out-grown them and they'd turned smelly and yick.
A few rellies have told me his personality completely changed after that, that he was no longer the wild laugh-a-minute-larrikin who'd pop firecrackers down friends' chimneys.
A couple of doctors have been horrified at the extent of the (old) brain damage evident on head CT scans, one questioning me if this was the same person sitting in front of him.
But he managed to get back to plumbing, build up his business and keep us fed and clothed (including his mother-in-law) until he retired and let his registration lapse in 1995, twenty-one years after he was blown off a roof.

He's baaaaaack!

I HAZ MY DADDY HOME AGAIN!!!!!!!!!!!!!

He is elderly and sick and, most probably, dying of a multitude of conditons.
He's incontinent, needs feeding and showering and is down to 58kgs (up from 47kg of last week).
I'm going to be an orphan soon and it's not really something I'm looking forward to.
But I have Dad back home.
And all's right with the world.

Dad's 21st

Dad liked a drink.
He got pissed as a cricket, munted as a mouse, plastered as a lizard on his 21st birthday up in 'the islands' of New Guinea.
Harry, an RAAF sergeant of Dad's, brewed up some lethal jungle juice in an old 44 gallon drum.
Dietitians would have loved it - it contained all the fibre and natural goodness of banana peels, pineapple husks, skins/cores and bits of every piece of fruit Harry could lay his hands on plus the sugar he wangled through the black market barter system alive and thriving on the islands at the time.
And it was more than 200% proof.
One bottle was enough for several blokes.
It always amazed me how they allowed men with such poor eyesight to command these units; apparently they never saw the grog, never witnessed the blokes walking about with it openly even sharing it at the open-air cinema, they never even noticed the severely hung-over victims of Harry's jungle juice.
Their olfactory centres must have been bust (from all the stereotypical pipe smoking?) as they didn't smell the stench of the fermenting fruit, either.
Harry did a roaring trade with the American soldiers; the poor boys would front up for a few bottles but it would take almost a week before they'd return the empties, more often than not not requesting a refill.
On his birthday his mates bought him a whole bottle of Harry's jungle juice all for his own!
He can still remember singing loudly at the top of his lungs after midnight and someone demanding that he shut up or be shut up.
Big, brave Dad, full of Dutch courage replied "C'mon, I'll take yer all on."
Fortunately no one took up his generous offer and the next thing he remembers is waking up at almost midday with a raging headache and his mouth feeling like the bottom of the cockie's cage.
He swore off Harry's jungle juice after that.

My Dad

My Dad was a bajillion feet tall when I was little and it was a shock to realise he was shrinking from his lofty 6 feet by the time I was hitting 20.
He went walkabout when he was demobbed from the RAAF after WW2.
He just couldn't stay in suburbia or inner city South Melbourne (Montague to be precise, a suburb that's disappeared into surrounding Sth Melbourne).
He upped and left, did, in no particular order, waiting in the dining room of Parliament House where he met mad-as-a-cut-snake former PM Sir Billy Hughes (he was playing billiards by himself with silly giggles and a running commentary), decided Dame Enid Lyons' family were rude, ignorant bumpkins (for ignoring the cut-crystal ashtrays and using the dinner plates and tea cups to ash and put out their cigarettes) packed apples in Batlow (bloody lovely fruit, according to Dad), picked fruit in Mildura (he loved the climate), planted trees in the Snowy Mountains (he lived in a wooden hut through a snowy winter with a big old wood fired range they had to light to have any heat/cooking facilities and town was a 2 day walk each way and relied on rabbits for meat), painted and replaced roofs in Adelaide (the water made awful cups of tea but he liked the girls), walked into Holyman House in Melbourne (which was travel agents for TAA at the time) to book a flight to Tassie only to be ignored for 20 mins...so he walked out and didn't get to Tassie until 60 years later.
A few years of that saw him back home, finishing his apprenticeship, getting up to mischief with his mates and bobbing up in parties where he'd toss firecrackers down chimneys for a lark, playing football, baseball and cricket for his beloved Sth Melbourne (aka Swannies aka Blood Stained Angels) and barracking for Port Melbourne (The Borough) in the VFA on Sundays.
He fought and killed Japanese in the islands of New Guinea yet he defended them to his mother-in-law when she did her drama queen act; she made the grand gesture of smashing a lovely plate Dad had won at the RSL raffle because it had "Made in Japan" on the back and her son had died on the Kokoda Track.
"Those bastards killed my son." she justified.
"And how many of their sons did we kill?" my Dad replied.
He only in recent years admitted they were not allowed to take prisoners and that they had to shoot the enemy, then watch as bulldozers buried them in mass graves.
He had to get drunk to open that dark box.
He was underwhelmed by the comment of painter Clifton Pugh's biographer last year that what they did was murder - pity the silly woman never stopped to consider that other WW2 boys were alive and listening.
He taught me to not give a fat rat's clacker about the colour of the person's skin or their accent or what religion they worshipped but to judge the person by their actions.
"Actions speak louder than words."

Thursday is still shitty, it's just more complicated

Spoke to the doctor....oh, yes, Dad is showing positive signs of malignancy but "we think it's more his mood so we've called in a psychiatrist to review him."
I beg your pardon?
Tumour markers elevated, blood in the stools, meh, piffle.
The fact they didn't do abdo CT scans or x-rays (like I was told) due to being unable to use the contrast as Dad is in renal failure and they'd see bugger-all without the contrast means they haven't actually looked at his guts in any way, shape or form.
The bone scan (of which I knew nothing) "Didn't reeeeeeeally show much but we got the gastro guys to have a look." (it's either something or nothing, not this "not reeeeeally much")
Gastro guys had a look at a bone scan....Is that like getting a florist to review a car engine?
So....since Wednesday last week when these issues were raised the only tests they've actually performed were on fecal specs, a bone scan and a simple blood test, 2 of which returned positive results while the 3rd showed "not reeeeeeally much" which is open to interpretation.
And now he's off to rehab where someone is supposed to wave a magic wand and make everything better again *rolls eyes*

Thursdays are always a shitty day for bad news

Word on the ward is that all of Dad's tests have come back positive for 'malignancy'.
Let's call that ugly motherfucker for what it is.
Cancer.
They're poking and prodding him, don't know what the bastard is or where it is but his poor old body is screaming that it's there.
Those fecal specs we all heard about ?
Positive for blood.
Renal impairment increasing.
Appetite (if at all possible) decreasing.
Abdo CT scan done, abdo x-ray done and bone scan today, sometime in the very near future a colonoscopy and gastroscopy (camera up yer bum and down yer gullet to see what they can see).
Can't say I'm surprised.
Let's outline the family medical history for you, shall we?
Hmm...easier to say that his father was the only one to not develop stomach or bowel cancer.
Can you see a pattern, boys and girls?
Had my rant on the phone to the nurse in charge of the ward who told me all the above - and also who knew nothing about Dad being continent at home, was led to believe he was always fully incontinent, who wasn't happy to hear about the many, many, many, many times I've passed concerns on through nursing staff and asked for the doctors to be paged umpteen times, how Hubby walked in to find Dad sound asleep flat in his bed and had to feed him while the nurse breezed in with "Oh, you get him to eat, I'm off for my meal break" (not the first time we've had to feed him but the cheeky comment was too much) how the food charts are being filled incorrectly, that there is barely any encouragement to get Dad to eat, if any at all *inhale* and I requested that the doctors call me asap as I wanted him transferred to a private hosp yesterday.
Fuck it all, he's not going to have aggressive treatment if it's only to gain a few months, and he's coming home to die.

*I started to reply to your emails and trot around to your blogs but I'm a little uninspired to post comments although I enjoyed reading of your doings xxxx

Do not go gentle into that screwed up ward

If it is a UTI I don't hold out much hope for it ever being treated.
Seriously, this must be the most fucked up ward I've come across.
Very few nurses are regulars, it's new faces each day, so there's no continuity at all.
Plus the fact no one is capable of communicating At.All.
I've been telling the staff for days that he's going further downhill, becoming more confused, are you sure he's not brewing another URTI or UTI?
I may as well talk to brickwalls.
If I've told them once, I've told them a fucking million times.
And each time I get the piss-weak excuse of "Aww, I can pass the message on but it's hard to get a sample from someone so incontinent."
Again, I state quietly, calmly and CLEARLY,
"HE IS NOT BADLY INCONTINENT AT HOME, HE HAS ONLY BECOME FULLY INCONTINENT ON THIS WARD."
"Oooooo, I didn't know that."
FFS, give me fucking strength.
The other day? Morning shift nurse giving a partial hand-over of my father in the frigging ward loud as you please telling all and sundry that they needed to collect another fecal spec, having already collected 2 "just to rule out abdo bleeding and occult bloods."
D'you really think the other 3 patients, their visitors and myself needed to hear that?
Do you seriously have any kind of fucking concept of patient privacy?
Another nurse insisted we leave Dad's socks on his feet as we helped him into bed - excuse me? He has a  fluid retention problem, his feet and ankles swell up making socks cut into him, plus it is completely contraindicated for pressure area prevention to allow a patient to wear socks in bed.
Yesterday AM nurse told me he was eating really well ....with his untouched lunch sitting in front of me after he'd been taken to have a scan. Dad admitted there was no food left when he got back from the scan so how the fuck can they justify writing that he ate his lunch completely?!
Evening nurse had no idea I'd been in or that Dad had had a scan or that I'd suggested (once more) that he might be brewing another infection.
Cos the AM nurse hadn't passed it on.
Again.
Today? The bung was back in his hand, nurse was busy so I called up to get the goss after I got home.
First I got the complete run down of the wrong fucking patient.
Yes, after I'd CLEARLY identified myself and Dad by name and bed number.
The next nurse tried to tell me he'd encouraged dad in his meals and that he'd eaten well.
Bullshit, the EXTRA SMALL meal ordered for him had barely been touched and no one was near Dad when I got there.
He ate his sweets with MY fucking encouragement.
Then I asked about the bung.
Apparently I imagined it as the nurse kept denying that it existed, that he'd removed it that morning as it wasn't needed - it was only just put back in Dad's freaking hand this morning.
I asked for the doctors to be paged so I could speak to them.
I'm still fucking waiting.

Screw this crap

Am sitting here trying not to cry, dammit, cos that's what Big Girls' Blouses' do.
And I refuse to be a Big Girls' Blouse.
I'm more of the Sooky La-La mould.
Plus the fact I have to hold it together or it'll be opening the floodgates for the Feral offspring.
And I seriously could not indulge in a sniffle and try to calm him down.
I want my own little naughty corner, please miss, where I can scream and shout and say naughty words to my hearts delight.
Scratch the naughty words bit, I could teach a warfie how to swear and make a sailor blush.
Dad is so mentally off it is beyond words - literally in his case. Couldn't remember the word for cereal, claimed there was no spoon on his brekkie tray ; there probably was, he just can't focus to the point he's unable to read his beloved Hun newspaper.
And he knows it; he tries to cover up, prevaricating with silly jokes and sudden bursts of CJ Dennis/Henry Lawson or Paterson. 
He's swimming in more-than-slight senility and heading rapidly for the depths of dementia at a great rate of knots.
And still the doctors have nfi what is causing...well, everything.
He's off for abdo CT scans this arvo, insisting it is already evening, despite the large clock clearly visible from his bed and floor-length windows blazing sunlight right beside him, complaining that he hasn't had lunch,
"Although I couldn't eat another thing, I'm so full of that stuff you pour water over for brekkie."
"Cereal, dad?"
"Yes, that's it, tasted bloody awful, couldn't stomach that muck."
Which was only marginally better than the greeting he gave me on the phone,
"How are you, Dad?"
"Alive."
"Well, that's a good way to start the day!"
"Is it? I don't think so. Wish I hadn't woken up."
Am sitting here trying not to cry, dammit.

Doctor Donna has landed in this time dimension in our yard

Dad is still doin' his thang of "Me no eat'a da food" and gracefully tries to decline before the very eyes of the staff.
Gourmet pie got poked with a fork and called crap with nary a speck soiling his lips, the iced lemon and marble cakes were squashed into a mess by day 2 of sitting on his over-bed table so we tossed them and the stone cold pie (before it grew legs and walked to the rubbish bin itself).
In other news the natural underground springs that trickle at the local train station were out in force yesterday (being bright, warm and sunny weather).
Obviously symbolically weeping for the Colly-wobbles win on Saturday.
History Week in Victoria is coming up later this month; go check out the long list of events happenin' on that week and go nuts.
Garn, you know you wanna do the Mostly Murders tour of the Cheltenham cemetery.
Miss Beverley has a partner in crime, a black Silkie named Dr Donna.
Cos we bought her in Noble Park + Donna Noble  = Dr Donna.
Seriously, d'ya think I'm going to trot all over the backyard screeching under every shrub "Donna Noble, are you there?" a la David TenInch Tennent-style.
No.
I am not.
So.
It's Dr Donna exploring the yard with Miss Beverley sans Colonel Mustard in the library with the candlestick.
TARDIS optional.
-----------------------------------
Edit -
Please note....when the nurse fails to clean a patient's teeth - be they natural or dentures - there develops a build up of food and scum upon them.
When the patient is unable to swallow or eat properly, this compounds the build up on the teeth.
When the doctor casts his/her baby blues over the patient's mouth and teeth immediately after the patient has eaten vanilla Fruche yoghurt they can mistake the poor oral hygiene/food for thrush.
Which is the latest we-have-nfi-what-the-problem-is-but-we-won't-admit-it-and-will-grasp-desperately-at-straws-while-your-Dad-becomes-fully-dependent-and-someone-else's-problem.

Dad has entered his 2nd childhood and I'm looking for the naughty chair...

The old boy is still in hosp, still no closer to finding out what, if anything, is actually wrong with him (that is stopping him from eating and swallowing).
We know it's def not a stroke or a broken limb cos the late night head CT scans and foot x-rays (don't ask, I don't want to know, either!) say nay.
We know there's nothing wrong with his gullet or gob (apart from the cheek he spouts) cos the speech pathologist said nay.
We know the physio and the OT have recommended rehab and the medicos are still running tests to rule out some nasties and 'plain old' depression.
Today, after The Pater made it clear he'd become comfy in the hosp and called me rude names when I tried to get him to eat his special soft, moist, high calorie diet at lunch, I cornered the poor intern and put in my official request for a naso-gastric or PEG tube to feed Dad.
If they rule everything out, he gets one in.
Quick, River!
Pop around!
I'm doing the Happy Happy, joy, joy "I told ya so" jig again.
*snort*
Have sent The Spouse up to the hosp with a  hot gourmet chicken and leek pie (wrapped in foil in a Tupperware box inside a insulated bag), complete with tomato sauce sachet, to tempt the fussy old fart's taste buds.
Also, packed several slices of lemon iced cake and iced marble cake.
Reminded me of packing school lunches *snort*.
Pity a detention won't make any difference with this big kid!

50 Cent proves he's not the full quid

Unless you've been living under a rock recently you'll have heard of at least 4 young American teens who've commited suicide over bullying.
The fact the bullies claimed some of their victims were gay does not prove that these youths were gay but it does prove the bullies are morons.
And now 50 Cent has Tweeted that gay men should commit suicide.
Why?
Why should anyone be allowed to blather drivel like that on a social networking program?
Will dragging someone into the gutter, metaphorically speaking, and bashing them with vile words until they kill themselves make the big bad boogey man go away for the poor widdle defenceless (C)rapper boy?
Ellen has posted a perfectly blunt message in this video against the bullying epidemic.
We cannot afford for this bullshyte bullying to continue, either here in Australia, in America, in the UK or in Timbuktu.
Because the price of our children's lives is far too high.
What a shame 50 Cent is obviously too stupid to appreciate that simple fact.