Strange Days
29 September, 2012

Strange day yesterday, ladies and lurkers. I had a lovely day’s Brisvegas Holiday Excursion planned with MM, EB, a BFF and her two kids. Started off instead by having to: grief counsel my father through his dog’s terminal illness (progressive spinal cord stenosis) as I ate my egg on Vegemite toast; guide him through the decision-making process, i.e. that he needed to man up and have the dog put down because it had reached the suffering stage and had no prospect of remission, let alone improvement; and then drive them both to the vet when I was so successful he decided to do it. Right then and there.

EB is a big animal lover and also his Grandpa’s favourite, so when he said he wanted to come too I thought it would be doubly good: for EB to have up-close experience of death before it was a much-loved person involved, and so that he could console his Grandpa.

As you will have guessed, I was wrong. We ended up that Grandpa did the male-of-his-generation thing and pulled a strong, silent act, while EB spent the next hour or more sobbing uncontrollably.

I was correct about one thing – it was best I was there to drive them both home.

So I returned to my parents’ house to race through the preparations for our day out.  All the while EB was insisting that he needed to do a Great Garbo (I vant to be alone), with me trying to nurture him while he grieved, but equally adamant  that we had to proceed with the outing and he had to come with us.  We had gorgeous clear, sunny but not too hot weather and the excursion went fabulously well for 6 hours – fun ride in on the ferry, lots of fun in various South Bank water features, great company, awesome Lego robots, kids even behaving beautifully.

And then, just as we were about to pack up the remains of afternoon tea and make our tired but happy way home, MM’s BF-in-the-world slammed his head into a post while running in the playground.  Straight away, a lump the size of a small avocado and the colour of hailclouds swelled on his forehead. Naturally enough, his Mum panicked.  The helpful staff at the cafe next to the playground gave me a cup of ice without hesitation – thanks Steam Cafe- and then the South Bank lifesavers gave us a plastic bag full of ice.  By the time we were on the ferry home, the lump was down to a third of original size and Mum had stopped hyperventilating.  Mostly.

The evening turned out well, with a lovely BBQ with my cousin and his husband.  If anyone wants a recipe for marshmallow and sour-cream salad . . . much nommier than it sounds. . . I now have one.

And an odd footnote:  my horoscope advised that my day would start well, but unavoidable complications and difficulties would ensue.

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These Boots Weren’t Made For Walking
6 June, 2010

Sad news today from the Seppos:

http://www.couriermail.com.au/news/breaking-news/girl-hiking-in-sandals-falls-to-death-in-catskills/story-e6freonf-1225876260046

A highschool girl who, with a group of friends, chose to hike a treacherous unmarked region evocatively known as “The Devil’s Kitchen”, fell to her death today. She was somewhat inadequately prepared for the outing, chosing to walk… and then trip and plunge to her doom… in a pair of  “strappy, open-toed sandals”.

Why was she bushwalking, dressed like a Pussycat Doll? The clue here is the presence of the group of friends. Presumably they aimed to do what all teenagers want to do, i.e. get wasted and get their freak on. Really, we should applaud them for considerately choosing an out-of-the-way place for their shenanigans.

I fondly remember the inappropriate footwear choices of my youth. Number one would have to be the emerald green suede, sky-high spike heels with a baroque bronze toecap. Now, in isolation, well removed from the human foot, these shoes were a work of art, almost sculptural in their elegant sweeps and tapers. Put them on, though, and you were sure to injure yourself. Wobble off them in a precarious position, such as poised on the parapet of an Art Deco block of flats on the New Farm bank of the Brisbane River (that’s a story for another blog), and they may well have been the last pair of shoes you would wear in this life.

What’s the silliest – or most dangerous – footwear you’ve ever attempted?