I’m recovering slowly from the week-that-shat-itself with a minor migraine and a stiff drink of diet coke.
I managed to sail a little too close to the metaphorical mind snap this week and it is a testament to my resilience and chocolate that the week-that-was is now at an end and the dust has almost settled.
I say almost because I’m still waiting for the wicked witch from the back blocks to send me another defamatory email telling me that I’m a lewd, disgusting watcher of pornography of which she managed to view on my 21-inch bedroom television screen a few weeks ago. The fact that her house is about 40 metres away from my bedroom window and it would be impossible to see unless she had a pair of binoculars or is right up against the back fence is not lost on me – and a little creepy. The fact that the closest I have come to watching pornography would be Chris Hemsworth’s bare chest in ‘Thor’ recently is even more disturbing if she considers that pornography.
In between my viewing of so-called pornography I’ve managed to steal all the lemons off her lemon tree in her backyard. She apparently is going to install security cameras to catch me in the act – of what I couldn’t say – but good luck to her. I would like to know who is stealing lemons and watching pornography, too.
The crux of the problem is that we sent this evil toad a letter a few weeks ago asking her if she would do something about her trees, as they were causing us a few problems. Discussion of the problem and a solution nutted out would have been a nice option and one I would have expected. There are obviously a few roos loose in her top paddock and that’s just the tip of the iceberg.
I fired off a rebuttal-type email to let her know I wasn’t a viewer of pornography, wasn’t a lemon thief and wasn’t a pushover. I wasn’t the captain of the debating team in university for nothing but I’m pretty sure she is throwing an eye of a newt into her cauldron and damning me to hell as I type.
Two hours after that unfortunate email I found myself stranded on the island because of high winds with an impending all-important specialist appointment to pick up my all-important medications and my travel letter for my impending all-important overseas trip. I managed a phone consultation and then I managed to receive the wrong prescriptions in the mail two days later. I have a 15-year medical relationship with this rather lovely endocrinologist but he has the organisational skills of a mud skipper. I’m living in hope that when and if I receive my growth hormone prescription in the mail next week it will be the correct company and the correct dosage.
My shat-o-meter was in fourth gear by the time I had spent the fourth day this week trying to work out what I could do to keep my meds cool on my all-important pending flight with various airline representatives and I’m still none the wiser. Can I buy a special battery-powered container to carry on board to keep my meds cool? ‘No you can’t’ or ‘You might be able to if the battery size has less than 100 WH but you will have to switch it off for lift off and landing but we aren’t sure’ or ‘No, you can’t but we can give you an ice bucket on board to keep your meds cold’ or ‘No, we can’t give you an ice bucket. That is not our policy’ or ‘No, you can’t use our fridges’. WHAT THE? I will have another go next week but I can’t guarantee I won’t insult somebody’s intelligence.
A couple of other random events at the end of the week like my father going into hospital and my son flying under my trouble radar – which in itself means trouble and my shit-o-metre flies into overdrive.
And of course it’s raining. Not the pleasant pattering-on-the-roof, walking or singing-in-the-rain type. No. The hammering, torrential, cyclone-velocity-howling-wind type of rain. I can’t get my dogs out to pee. They will get their delicate paws wet and that’s not on, oh no. I’m on pee watch right now. My dogs don’t discriminate. A shag pile rug is as good as dry grass and the wetter it gets the more hiding places they find.
Just as well I’m a nice person.