On What A Nurse Is Worth

“I was talking to the man, he said we’re gonna make a deal

I was fooled into thinking the paper in my pocket was real

I said ‘No, no, you’ve been taken again

No, no, you’re losing all your friends

No, no, it’s just a matter of sense

It’s just a matter of sense’ ”

~ ‘Used and Abused’, by Rob Hirst and Jim Moginie

from the self titled album by Midnight Oil, 1978

Last week I wrote about some of the amusing characters I’ve encountered and experiences I've had in nursing.  It was fun to reminisce, even without going into the reasons why I love my job and what I do.  But today, nursing has me bummed.

It all started on a sunny Saturday morning.  I trundled out the front door in search of the morning paper delivery, wondering once again how on Earth the two sections of the paper managed to find their way to such disparate places of the yard.  In an act that has become largely ceremonial due to my increasing lack of sit-down-and-read-the-weekend-paper time, I unwrapped them from their weather-proof plastic.  A headline caught my eye.  It was an article* with the unwelcome news (to me anyway) that the Liberal State Government here in Victoria has decided that the best way to enter into the pay and conditions negotiations with the state's nurses is to do so with an axe behind its metaphorical back, ready to plunge square into the knees of nurses the first chance it gets.

While this kind of behaviour is not at all unexpected by the Liberal Party, it is also true that previous Labor State Governments are guilty of their own dirty pool when it comes to these kind of negotiations.  There's a degree of political expediency at work, with budgets being squeezed everywhere we look, from governments to businesses large and small.  That being said, the degree of contempt here is staggering.  The duplicity of the government’s argument is pathetic.  If it were really so concerned about the workload of nurses, it could easily employ the planned ‘health assistants’ to bolster the current workforce, rather than use them to replace nurses.  

Our brothers and sisters in the teaching fraternity have been equally screwed over, with Ted Baillieu's Libs backing away from their own pre-election promise to make Victorian teachers the best paid in the country like it was an angry Ebola monkey.**  One also wonders if the 4.7 percent yearly increase the Police Union was successful in securing their members last month was tied up in political issues surrounding the Office of Police Integrity's recent revelations.  It appears that one of state Nationals leader, Deputy Premier and Police Minister Peter Ryan's senior advisors was instrumental in the white-anting and eventual removal of Simon Overland as Police Commissioner in June this year.***  Mr Ryan has since saved his political hide by adopting the ‘Sergeant Schultz defense’ with echoes of “I know nothing!” ringing out from parliament in the wake of the damning disclosures.

Wednesday's news**** really turned my bad feeling into stomach-churning bitterness.  It turns out that the Liberals are behind a series of memos that instruct hospital managers how to lock nurses out of their own workplaces and to employ strike-breaking workers in the event of industrial action.  Are nurses so evil that they have earned such base treatment?  So wicked that preemptive aggression is deemed an appropriate course of action before even the first sod of negotiation is turned?  The State Government's attitude towards hard working nurses who form the bulk of the human face of the health care industry has been callous and despicable.

It is my strongly held opinion that nursing, like teaching, is drastically under-appreciated by many.  Politics being what it is, there are some issues that just don't have the gut-punch that other issues enjoy.  Either they lack the appropriate head-turning glamour that spruces up a political promise, or there are simply no votes to be found in them.  It takes a strong political will to base a platform on these types of issues and it seems that very few of our current pollies have the intestinal fortitude to get behind issues like increasing nurses’ pay and conditions to something vaguely resembling generosity.  They appear far too busy making sure they are availing themselves of the next flattering photo opportunity or bitterly slagging off at their rivals in the popular media, one eye always fixed on the next reelection campaign.

The majority of those who require nursing services are the weak and vulnerable, cruelled by illness or the frailty of age and disability.  A large portion of a nurse's role is to advocate for those who are unable to advocate for themselves.  As such, those we service (and their families, by association) are rarely in a position to argue our case for us.  It's also a sad and long held fact women do not enjoy the higher wages that men in similarly responsible positions do, and as nursing has traditionally been a female dominated industry, it has historically been lower-paying than it deserves to be.  All these factors demand that those making decisions about nurses’ recompense stand up and act with some decency.  In this respect, Premier Baillieu and Health Minister David Davis have shown all the moral high-standing of an alley cat on heat.  Where we would wish for leadership from those in power, we are met with limp-wristed cowardice and cold-hearted arrogance.

Over the last fourteen years I've cared for the infirm.  I've met people's basic human needs.  I've treated horrible illnesses.  I’ve helped countless people with their own personal hygiene.  I’ve dispensed incalculable amounts of medicines.  I've dressed infected and malodourous wounds.  I've protected the dignity of those who've found themselves without it.  I've introduced myself repeatedly to poor demented souls who don't remember my name no matter how many times I've cared for them.  I've brought comfort to those in the final hours of their lives.  I've cleaned their bodies after their deaths in the last act of kindness I can afford them, and consoled those left behind.  I've been abused when people lash out in frustration at the time of their weakness, and showed them as much patience and grace and care as I can muster.  I’ve worked through numerous family birthdays, Christmases, Easters and New Year’s Days.  I've been ignored and unappreciated by those whose wellbeing is in my hands.  I've worked at one of those rare professions that can have an actual body count at the end of a bad day at the office.  And I've loved it all dearly.

But... but...

I'm disillusioned.  I have little desire to continue to work for those that would treat me and my nursing brethren with disdain.  I’m sick to death of feeling undervalued, as if it wasn't bad enough that nurses are constantly asked to do more with resources that are not on par with the importance of the work.  The current State Government clearly hold what I do in such low standing that they feel it right and good and fair to behave the way they have been.  Next time you have a long wait at an emergency department, or your surgery gets delayed, or the nurse on the ward doesn’t answer the buzzer quickly, or the nurse visiting you at home is running late, I want you to remember the hundreds of highly skilled, highly qualified, caring nurses out there who are no longer nursing because their goodwill has been squandered one too many times.  I know there is only so much of this I think I can take before that disillusionment becomes more than I can bear.

* The article in question can be found at: http://www.theage.com.au/victoria/revealed-secret-plan-to-cut-nurse-numbers-20111105-1n1f9.html

** Credit where credit is due:  “angry Ebola monkey” is a glorious phrase I have commandeered from the cinefile/reviewer Massawyrm, from AintItCool.com.

***  More information on this can be found at: http://www.theage.com.au/victoria/lied-leaked-and-abused-power-explosive-opi-report-claims-scalps-20111027-1mkyt.html

**** The article can be found at:  http://www.theage.com.au/victoria/nurses-lockout-plans-exposed-20111108-1n5mh.html

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On Nursing Stories

“And we all need a medicine man

All need a medicine man

Don’t we need a medicine man

His shaker and his rattle and his helping hand”

~ ‘Medicine Man’, by Bernie Taupin

from the B-side of the Elton John single “You Gotta Love Someone”, 1990

There’s an email that’s done the rounds of my inbox a few dozen times, mostly sent from nursing colleagues who found it worthy distraction.  It is a list with the heading “You know you’re a nurse when…” and it’s pretty amusing.  One item in particular refers to a nurse’s ability to discuss the most gruesome of tales in polite company, even over a meal, without feeling the disgust it evokes in others.  I’ve worked as a nurse for fourteen-odd years* now, so I’ve managed to have a few experiences of my own.  And now I’m sharing, in polite company.  Perhaps it’s best you don’t read while eating.

(My editor - bless her cotton socks because she is wonderful - has suggested a much stronger warning here.  Some of what you are about to read is “truly gross and disgusting”.)

Very early on in my career, I was working an afternoon/evening shift.  One of the first duties that required my attention was a round of observations on the patients I was caring for that day.  I wandered into each room, introduced myself and went about measuring their blood pressures, pulse rates, temperatures and suchlike.  The first patient had an elevated temperature.  I made a mental note to advise the doctor on duty.  The second patient, in the same room as the first, also had an elevated temperature.  Hopefully, I thought, they weren’t sharing a common bug.

Brow appropriately furrowed, I kept on with my rounds.  Third patient - another rip-roaring temperature.  Fourth and fifth as well.  Panic rising, I figured the only sane, reasoned and logical explanation was that we had an epidemic of goodness-knows-what and that the relevant authorities were surely going to quarantine the ward lest we spread whatever lethal virulence I had uncovered.

Turns out every patient whose temperature I took (via an oral thermometer), had just had a nice mouthful of tea or coffee.  I was following the tea lady handing out afternoon refreshments.  Disaster was averted.

I don’t seem to have a particularly acute sense of smell.  I think part of that is a nurse’s innate defense mechanism.  That being said, the worst thing I have ever smelled would have to be a gangrenous limb on an elderly diabetic woman who had undergone a series of amputations, as well as a barrage of intravenous antibiotics.  Sadly, it was to no avail.  She quickly became septic and died within a few short days.  I nursed her near the end of her life, and it was a constant struggle to manage her pain, while keeping her clean (the antibiotics had rendered her bowel motions green, liquid and uncontrollable), as well as carefully tending her newly formed above-knee stump.  The gangrene caused the flesh of her stump to turn an inhuman grey and literally rot through the sutures holding it together.  The stench was nearly overwhelming, like raw meat left in the sun too long.  

I should point out that it was only the smell that I am comparing to meat.  I can still see that lady’s face, especially her eyes.  That image seared into my consciousness, serves as a reminder that I am looking after people, not just bodies.  I hope that I was able to contribute to her dignity and comfort in that time.

Life on the ward was not all serious.  Collecting various specimens for testing was frequently an interesting process, especially when those specimens were the various waste products that the body produces.  One lady in particular that I remember, needed to have a urine sample collected.  I knew that this would be difficult due to poor bladder control and troublesome mobility issues.  I explained what I needed, and the next time she felt the urge to urinate, I quickly placed a specimen cup inside a bedpan, which slid into a frame underneath a mobile commode.  I assisted the lady onto the commode and wheeled her into the bathroom for privacy, figuring if the cup was reasonably central, I might manage to catch at least something that was able to be tested.

The buzzer from the bathroom indicated she was all done.  As I was wheeling my patient back to her room , she sheepishly admitted that she had moved her bowels, likely making any urine sample unusable, not to mention giving me a job to clean up.  I reassured her, reminding her that there was always next time.

When the lady was back in her bed, I retrieved the bed pan from the underside of the commode, and found myself fighting back hysterical laughter. My patient had done by accident what was surely impossible to do on purpose: not a single scrap of the faeces was in the pan - it was all perfectly swirled in the specimen cup, sitting proudly in the centre of the pan like a befouled Mr Whippy cone.  I shared with my fellow nurses, who were impressed and amused in equal measure.

A colleague shared a story with me about a patient she visited at home.  The patient in question was enjoying a cup of tea when the nurse noticed an object inside the cup.  Inquiries were made and the patient fished a bottle of nail polish out of the cup, stating that the lid was stuck and she was hoping the tea would warm the bottle, making it easy to open.  She then sucked the tea off the outside of the nail polish bottle and offered it to the nurse with an encouragement to give the lid a go.

I had a story to top that though.  I once offered to clean a patient’s dentures after a meal.  She pulled the dentures out, examined them and proceeded to lick the encrusted food off them before giving them over.  Now, I’ve got a strong constitution, but even this memory has me gagging on the recount.

There are more anecdotes, and no doubt any nurse with a long enough career has a collection of amusing stories of their very own.  Perhaps, if I hear a few more in coming weeks, I’ll share them in kind.  Just don’t read them over dinner.

*in case you were wondering, the term “14-odd years” works in both senses.

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On What They Should Do, part 2

“If I could be King, even for a day

I’d take you as my Queen, I’d have it no other way

And our love will rule this kingdom we have made

Until then I’ll be a fool, wishing for the day

That I can change the world...”

~ ‘Change the World’, by Sims/Gordon/Kirkpatrick

performed by Eric Clapton for the soundtrack to the movie “Phenomenon”, 1996

Last week I spoke about improving life as we know it by changing things that bug me.  Goodness knows why this conceit has not found itself popular support.  Perhaps one day.  Onward!

What they should do is stop giving oxygen to the arguments of morons like Lord Christopher Monckton, 3^rd Viscount Monckton of Brenchly (you’ve just got to love a self-important title one ‘earns’ by simply being born of certain parentage, don’t you?).  He is a climate change skeptic who enjoys inexplicable popularity in Australia, even while he is derided elsewhere as a bit of a whacko.  Among his more colourful claims is that he can cure Grave’s disease, multiple sclerosis, influenza and herpes simplex 6.  All this despite Monckton not having a single qualification in medicine whatsoever, and that he can provide no evidence to back his claims.  He has advocated the complete quarantine of every HIV carrier on the planet in order to eradicate the disease, as well as compulsory blood testing of every human being on the planet every month.  Every single person.  Every single month.

So, when he spouts what he claims are facts about climate change being a myth, you need to consider the source.  Accepting climate change advice from Monckton is like getting a lesson in civics from Mayor McCheese.

What they should do is change the scoring system of tennis.  It’s manages to skip right over stupid, and lands square on nonsensical.  First point in a game?  ‘15’.  The second?  ‘30’.  Doesn’t make much sense but at least it’s mathematically consistent.  The third point a player receives is… ‘40’.  Huh?  Did I miss a meeting?  Shouldn’t that be ‘45’?  And if opposing players have both won three points in a game, the score is ‘deuce’.  Because why the hell not? 

Also, when the opposing player has not scored yet in a game, their score is ‘zero’.  It isn’t really, but oh, how I wish that were so.  Their score is ‘love’.  Really?  Really?  I’m fairly certain there’s a sensible historical reason tennis is scored this way.  Of course, I’m lying again, there’s nothing even vaguely sensible about it and I think whoever invented that scoring system should be locked in a room with a hungry Serena Williams and an abacus as punishment.

I do, however, like the ‘advantage’ system, whereby each game needs to be won by at least two points and each set must be won by at least two games, but why must they persist with the deuce/advantage scoring system rather than the more sensible points awarded in tie-breaker games?  In tennis, tie-breakers are like a few brief moments of numerical lucidity in an hour of bug-nuts crazy.

What they should do is seriously reform the family court.  Under the current adversarial system (where two opposing parties present arguments to a judge), whoever had the most resources wins, because they can almost keep arguing forever or until the other party runs out of money, in which case they have no choice but to give the more wealthy party whatever they want.  The court and it’s surrounding systems care little for what is in the best interests of the children, regardless of the pathetic lip service they pay to such lofty notions.

What they ought to replace it with is an inquisitorial system, whereby the court actively investigates the facts, and takes all the relevant information into account, then makes an appropriate determination.  What they ought to do is forget the politically correct bias towards men as custodial guardians.  A neglectful and irresponsible parent is neglectful and irresponsible regardless of their gender.  Some judges and court-appointed ‘family psychologists’ need to check their over-inflated egos at the door and get a damned clue.

What they should do is eradicate spiders.  All of them.  Because they very much freak me out.

What they should do is put a little warning label on any product bearing the ‘bunny’ symbol of Playboy.  It should read something like this:  “Please be advised that this symbol represents the objectification and degradation of women.  The misogynistic creators and copyright holders of this symbol, who profit from its sale, are not the least bit interested in empowering women or young girls and in all likelihood despise and disrespect the female population entirely.  They are, and always have been, of the view that women are nothing more than playthings that exist for the sole purpose of gratifying men.”

What they should do is pay teachers and nurses more.  This may be tremendously self-serving, but it is true all the same.

Nursing and teaching seldom fit into the description of high-paying.  More often than not, we have to slog out twelve brutal rounds with State Governments in order to get a meagre payrise, barely keeping up with inflationary pressures.  They are frequently thankless careers.  I’ve heard the ignorant arguments that “nurses are glorified bum wipers” and “teachers get school holidays off” ad nauseum every time the issue of pay increases and working conditions are debated.  Those arguments are old and pathetic and speak loudly of the scant regard with which these professions are held.  Teaching a child to read and think and reason, or assisting one who is infirm, unwell or vulnerable may not be sexy professions, full of glory and financial rewards, but my word, they have teeth.

If only politicians of all creeds fought as diligently to improve our collective lot as they fight against wage claims by woefully undervalued individuals who do far more for society that they are ever given credit for, we’d find ourselves in utopia.

What they ought to do is just go ahead and make me Emperor of the World.  I’ll be benevolent and kind and I’ll fix stuff.  You may even get a public holiday on my birthday.  What could possibly go wrong?

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On What They Should Do, part 1

“It’s my own design

It’s my own remorse

Help me to decide

Help me make the most

Of freedom and of pleasure

Nothing ever last forever

Everybody wants to rule the world”

                                  ~ ‘Everybody Wants To Rule The World’, by Orzabal/Stanley/Hughes

                                    from the Tears For Fears album “Songs From The Big Chair”, 1985

This world is seriously broken.  I’m not sure many would dispute that.  Here are just a few ways that we can make the world a better place.  Mostly it can be improved by ridding the world of things that bug me.  Here are some of them:

What they should do is change the premiership points system for teams playing in the AFL.  As it is right now, during the season proper, the winners of each game are given four premiership points.  The loser gets none.  If it’s a draw, two points each.  The points are tallied as the season progresses and that measure is primarily used to determine where teams finish on the league ladder, and hence, who plays in the finals.  This system is all well and good, except for one detail: it’s impossible to score either one or three points for a game.  So why a total of four points for a win?  Why not two for the win, one for the draw, like the NRL use?  Exactly the same result, with a little more common sense involved.

While we’re at it, I further propose the instant retirement of any footballer who, after a finals match (where no premiership points are awarded) makes the following banal and clichéd statement: “We’re just happy to get away with the four points.”  And yes, it has happened before.

What they should do is put ads on the TV, radio and newspapers that clearly explain the Westminster system of government, because it is clear that a fairly large segment of the public-at-large haven’t a clue how it works.  I say that because I’ve heard statements like “Julia Gillard isn’t my Prime Minister/the Prime Minister I voted for” way too many times.  Let’s get a few facts straight, using small words so the knuckle-draggers can follow along at home: One actually votes for an individual who will represent them in the Lower House, or House of Representatives.  Many of these representatives, or Members of Parliament (or even MPs) belong to parties, who then select a leader.  If their party holds the majority of seats, the leader of the party becomes the Prime Minister.  He or she then notionally holds the highest political power in the country.  OK, longer words than I planned for, but let’s face it, the knuckle-draggers aren’t reading this anyway.  Or, in fact, reading anything.

Repeat after me, it does not matter which party you voted for.  It doesn’t matter if you agree with their politics or not.  It doesn’t matter if the parliamentary numbers are really, really close, resulting in a hung parliament.  Whichever party has the ability to form government selects the Prime Minister.  They can select anyone they want.  They can change their minds mid-term and select someone different.  The parliamentary opposition can likewise pick its own leader, the potential alternative Prime Minister.  Something the conservatives among us also seem to forget is that since 2007, the Federal Liberal party have had four different leaders.  That number may even been as high as five or six if former MP Peter Costello had some cojones or current MP Joe Hockey had a clue.

A quick note for those who don’t like Julia Gillard much:  While it’s true she is not a particularly inspirational leader, the alternative in Tony Abbott is surely much, much worse.  He’s without a doubt the most flaccid, uninspiring, vacuous, unimaginative, unimpressive political ‘leader’ (man alive but I’m using that term loosely) this country has ever seen.  It’s sad we don’t have a better choice when it comes to political leadership in this country.  I’m reminded of the poll taken in the USA prior to the 2000 presidential election contested by Al Gore and George W. Bush.  The poll showed that the man the respondents most wanted to take office was the fictitious Jed Barlet (played by Martin Sheen) from the television program The West Wing.

What they should do is make defensive driving courses compulsory for all drivers, both prior to getting their license and, say, every ten years thereafter.  It’s a no-brainer, really.  I’d also be happy for driver’s licenses be banned for anyone who wants a car that is able to go more than 300 km/hr over the legal speed limit, hangs fluffy dice from the rear-view mirror, and believes that shiny tracksuit pants constitutes ‘smart casual’.

What they should do is put counter-ads on TV that run straight after those daft ads created and paid for by the mining industry.  You know, the ones that suggest that just because the mining industry employs some nice people (“Look!  This guy we hired was a refugee!  Aren’t we wonderful?), that somehow they are warm and fuzzy corporations, existing solely for the benefit of mankind.  They are in fact commercial enterprises that are in the business of making mind-blowingly massive profits and would sell the kidneys of their employees, and that of their families, if such things were legal and would increase those profits.  Let’s keep in mind, that for every dollar those companies pass on to stockholders (including future superannuants), there is an owner or major stockholder or CEO or executive earning an obscene pay cheque.  I particularly recall mining magnate Gina Rinehart whining loudly about being a target of an entirely fair tax on super-profits while BRW was naming her Australia’s richest woman with a net worth of $10.31 billion.  That is billion, folks.

Same goes with those inane ads decrying the carbon tax.  They aren’t really ads by concerned and altruistic citizens with considered opinions on serious matters of policy, they are carefully designed and scripted by businesses that pollute and don’t want to pay for it.  They are mortified that their lofty bank balances may evaporate.  One of the best political quotes ever came from former PM Paul Keating who said: “In a two-horse race, always back self-interest, because at least you know it’s trying”.

~-~

Yep, the world needs some work.  Clearly, I’m just the man to do it.  There’s more I’m planning, plenty more, but I’m saving that for next week.  Tune in again, to find out what else I’ll fix once I’m in charge.

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On A Prologue...

“Tell me a story

Take me to another land

This world we were born in

Is one I’ll never understand”

~ ‘Tell Me A Story’, by Garry Frost

from the 1927 album “The Other Side”, 1990

Matt’s heavy legs shuffled on the stairs from the subway station to the bright sun of the street, his feet barely rising to the required height to avoid tripping on the next step.  He pushed his sunglasses, which he had not taken off during the train ride, harder onto his face.  If it hadn’t been for his deep sense of curiosity, he probably wouldn’t even be out of bed.

The morning rush of commuters bustled around him, power suits and hair product, peppered with chatty uni students.  Many poured in and out of the half-dozen or so coffee houses within sight, sipping on their mochas and lattes and cappuccinos. He scanned the streets around him for the cafe that was his destination.  He didn’t spot it immediately, tucked away in a dark corner adjacent to an alley, its dirty sign wearily welcoming customers to Ariadne’s Café was partially obscured by unkempt trees erupting from an uneven hole in the footpath.  Several people shot Matt grim looks as they dodged him.

The idea of visiting the least busy cafe on the street appealed to him.  Crowds made him nervous, and he wasn’t particularly keen on being recognised.  

He wandered over to the door and pushed it open.  It swung open further than he intended, clanging against an empty, dusty copper tub placed at the door for storing umbrellas. Several customers looked up at his arrival, and went immediately back to their drinks.  The blue hat Matt was there to meet was tucked away in a corner booth.  As he approached, he noticed that despite the warm weather, the blue-hatted man was in an overcoat with the collar pulled high and a blue scarf stuffed in the front.  Light powder dusted the top of the scarf and coat collar.  The scarf’s blue matched the cap, pulled low.  Dark hair stuck out from the cap, beads of sweat hanging from the tips.  Blue Hat didn’t look up as Matt approached.

Matt stood at the booth and cleared his throat.

“Just in time,” Blue Hat said, still not looking up, “Please take a seat”.

“Perhaps you could tell me why I’m here?”

Thin, cracked lips turned up at the edges.  “Please, sit.”

Matt half turned away, stomping his feet.  I need a drink, he thought.  He took his glasses off and pinched the bridge of his nose.

“Look, I don’t have to be here.  You can tell me what you want, or watch me leave.” Matt said.

Blue Hat still did not look up.

“Dear boy, I asked you to come while providing scant of details as to the reason, and yet you came.  You needn’t have bothered, yet here you are.  You are here quite simply because you choose to be.  Please,” he said, turning his head slowly for the first time to face Matt, “Sit down.  I would love for us to chat”.

Matt still could not see Blue Hat’s face, the broad peak of his cap covering his face.  Large dark glasses were now also apparent, making identification impossible.  He hesitated.  

Even stronger than Matt’s spirit of inquiry was the desire for the maelstrom that was his life to be more under his own control.  Coming here was a choice, as would be leaving.  Not to mention that an engagement in the city, even an aborted one, gave him an ideal excuse to yet again avoid an uncomfortable meeting with his landlord.  And yet… and yet…

The mysterious email from Blue Hat was far too tantalising to ignore.  Short on detail, yet it seemed to know much about Matt’s situation that he had not shared with any one person.  Clever, each word chosen carefully to appeal, yet without articulating any specific aspiration.  And then ending with the most enticing offer - that of a gift that would alter his situation in ways he had not ever imagined were possible.  The stuff of dreams and wonder.

Matt turned and slowly took the seat opposite Blue Hat, mildly shocked at the sight of the man before him.  The powder dusting his clothes was make-up, which was plastered thick on Blue Hat’s face.  Sweat was visible in drops that ran down his face, leaving snail trails that disappeared into cracks in the pale powder.  Blue Hat pushed a gloved hand out towards him, slowly pushing a steaming cup towards Matt.

“I ordered ahead.  I hope that was not too… presumptuous?”

“Look, I don’t mean to be rude, but I’ve got places I need to-”

“You have nothing of the sort, Matthew.  Your landlord received the message cancelling your appointment there, and was none too pleased about it.  Your lunch with Rachel is not for hours yet, and our Mr Haroldson is otherwise occupied at the paper today - some awfully important business with... ahem…  certain stakeholders, and hence not very likely to be troubling you this fine morning.”

Matt ignored the coffee and stared straight at the odd creature before him.

“Congratulations.  You’ve learned how to use Google.” Matt said.  “Who are you?  What do you want?  If you’re another journo looking to bury me, I’ve got news for you.”

“Matthew-”

“My mother calls me Matthew.  My sister calls me Matthew.  My year nine science teacher called me Matthew.  My name’s Matt.”

“Yes, quite.  As I was saying Matthew,”  Blue Hat paused, just for a moment, “I’m not here to bring torment, nor to discuss trivialities.  I’ve been watching you,”

“You and half the city.”

“...and unless I’m very much mistaken, you and I have much in common.  I was once like you.  I once knew the… difficulties you face.  Many sought my ruination under their jack-booted heels,”  he sucked a deep breath through his teeth, “But they could not have seen what was to come.  My tale was yet to unfold.   What was to emerge, like a butterfly from a cocoon, was far more than their feeble imaginations could grasp.  Matthew, you are just a simple caterpillar, but soon, you too will rise from this anaemic cage,”  Blue Hat lifted his shoulders, “And become the fulfillment of your elusive promise.”

Blue Hat eased back into his chair.  His large, dark glasses revealed nothing.  Another drop of sweat seeped its way into his scarf.  Matt knew it was a mistake coming here.  It was time to make an exit. He’d met plenty of wackos in the last few months, few of them quite as odd as Blue Hat, and none quite as cryptic.  This man is clearly ill. 

“Look, I appreciate what you’re trying to do here.  I can really get by without the pity though.  I can handle myself just fine.  So look, sorry to waste the coffee, but this caterpillar’s has enough issues to deal with just at the moment.  I’m going to head off now, OK?”  Matt gave a nervous smile and slid towards to edge of the booth.  He shifted his weight to stand, one hand on the table.

“Matthew…” Blue Hat said, “You can’t possibly leave yet.  Not before I’ve passed on what you require.”

A free hand, withered and grey, shot out, its fingertips reaching Matt’s hand.  A blue zap of light flashed between them for the briefest of moments.  Matt felt immediately as if his blood had turned to cold lead and he slumped back into the booth.  A wave of nausea hit the pit of his gut.  He gaped at Blue Hat, a thousand blue points of fire dancing between them.  Time seemed to crawl, and Matt found himself aware that no-one in the cafe was reacting in the least to what he was experiencing.  Blue Hat wore a self-satisfied grin.  Or was it relief Matt saw in his smile?

Blue Hat spoke but his words were nothing but a droning buzz.  He raised himself from the booth and seemed to glide across the room.  Matt opened his mouth but no sound came.  He tried to lift himself, to protest, but his body would not respond.  Blue Hat had nearly reached the door, slowed, bent over and coughed.  A few more paces saw him reach the door and as he opened for it, Blue Hat stumbled.  He grabbed the edge of the door and avoided colliding with a pair of young woman who recoiled as they passed him on their way in.  It was only then that Matt’s head began to clear and his arms and legs once again became obedient.  He stood and watched Blue Hat struggle in one final effort to launch his frame out the door.  Matt moved towards the closing door.  The nausea had passed and Matt felt his strength returning, knocking some chairs aside as he darted for the exit.  He reached the door just before it swung shut and stepped out into the bright light of the morning, ignoring the bellowing barista behind him.

Matt scanned the street, but didn’t spot Blue Hat.  What caught his attention was the squeal of brakes and a scream.  A white delivery van had come to a halt across the street, surrounded by billowing blue smoke.  Matt ran across the road towards a gathering crowd on the side of the road.  The van’s driver nearly fell out of the vehicle and stammered “I didn’t even see ‘im!  He was just there!”  Matt pushed him aside effortlessly despite the driver’s large size.  In front of the van he saw Blue Hat lying crumpled on the ground.  His body seemed slight.  Matt knelt beside him and reached out and touched Blue Hat’s coat and found it dripping wet.  A large puddle spread over the surface of the road and the coat fell away from Matt’s hand.  Blue Hat was gone.  His shoes and clothes lay on the road, empty…

TO BE CONTINUED...?

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On Pets

“All things bright and beautiful

All creatures great and small

All things wise and wonderful

The Lord God made them all”

~ ‘All Things Bright And Beautiful’, lyrics by Cecil Francis Alexander

Lyrics first published in 1848

When WonderWoman and I married, I became the father of a small black and white feline named Sparkle.  As WonderWoman had Sparkle before we met, I had no say in the name.  More’s the pity, because it’s pretty lame.  Naming pets is fraught with difficulty.  Does one pick a pet name, like Rex or Spot or (God forbid) Sparkle?  Or go for a ‘human’ name like Max or Sam or Milly?  They have similar problems at the zoo, especially when some adorable new critter is born out of a breeding program.  For reasons escaping all sensibility, they always pick a foreign name that Australians can barely pronounce because it’s got five syllables, no vowels, and three silent P’s.  If the damned orangutan was born in Australia, just call him Kevin or Bruce or Wayne and be done with it!

But back to the cat.  I didn’t pick the name, but the animal is pretty sweet.

Sparkle, like most cats, can be very affectionate but only at those times of her choosing.  Those times usually defy predictability.  For the most part, though, she loves her daddy.  She’s not a lap cat, but loves to rub against legs, and if you’re sitting on the floor, she’ll lean into you, pressing her small frame lovingly against your body.  What I love most is her vocabulary.  She has all manner of squeaks and squawks.  We sometimes nick-name her ‘the meow-ow’ due to her penchant for extending her cat-cries to multiple syllables.   She has quite the set of lungs, and can extend one meow longer than any cat I’ve ever heard.  When you address her directly, she often answers directly.

While I was growing up our home had several pet cats, each different from the last.  The third was pure white with an incisor that sat out of his mouth just so.  We had to colour his ears black with permanent marker in the summer to prevent sunburn, and you can just imagine how ecstatic he was about that particular process.  Because he simply wasn’t quite odd enough, my brother, in a fit of subversion, named him Phydeaux.  One of my favourite childhood photos has Phydeaux perched contentedly on my lap.

At age twelve, I scored my first dog.  A scruffy beast, I named her Scrappy after Scooby-Doo’s rambunctious nephew, Scrappy-Doo.  She was everything a dog ought to be: friendly, loyal, and exuberant in her affection.  She loved to chase and fetch, and adored chasing the wild rabbits among the brambles near our local oval, despite the futility of the exercise.  Once, I threw a yellow tennis ball to a blind corner of the back yard for Scrappy to fetch.  She zoomed after it in all haste, only to return with a small lemon fallen from a tree near where I threw the ball.  She returned it clenched firmly in her jaws, but seemed almost relieved to be rid of it, the sour juice on her tongue proving a less than pleasant taste.

A precious memory of Scrappy is the sight of her snout sticking through one of the triangular gaps in the large driveway gate at my mother’s house.  She would stick her nose out whenever I came home, a greeting I never tired of.

When she was ten, and I twenty-two, she became ill, and after a short period of illness, she needed to be euthanised.  Anyone who has lost a pet knows the heartbreak of it, but like most, I can say with absolute certainty that the wonderful years together (all of my formative teenage years at that) were well worth the expensive vet bills, and the sadness of her death.

Studies have shown that pet ownership has significant physical and psychological benefits.  Animals, mainly dogs, have even been used as therapy for the elderly, infirm and unwell.  My advice to you, dear reader, is go and give your pet a friendly cuddle (unless it’s a puffer fish or a particularly nervous rodent or something).  If you don’t have a pet, go and get yourself a fluffy moggy, or a joyful cavoodle, or a clown fish or a parrot or an octopus or a frill-necked lizard.  Look after it, respect it, love it and learn from it.  You’ll not regret it, even if it has a terribly feeble name.

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On Self-Description

“He says I keep my life in this paintbox

I keep your face in these picture frames

When I speak to the faded canvas it tells me

I have no need for words anyway

And he says I, I am a man

A simple man, a man of colours”

~ ‘Man of Colours’, by Iva Davies

from the Icehouse album “Man of Colours”, 1987

I was catching up with a friend not long ago, and she did something no one else has been able to do for me: she made a convincing and sensible argument for joining the two-hundred-odd million users of the social network known as Twitter.  I’ve used Facebook for a while now, but Twitter was always something I dismissed as a little bit light-weight.  It has been referred to as “the SMS of the internet”, and limits the number of characters in a single message, or “Tweet”, to a mere one-hundred and forty.  Surely no Tweet could ever amount to anything of substance?  Facebook would have to be a far more sensible way of keeping a degree of contact with friends and family, near or far?

Not so, I was told.  Twitter is the place to be, leaving the banalities of life to Facebook.  Twitter was the way to converse with people the world over who share interests close to my own, and to network, to spread the word about what I’m spending my time on, such as this very blog.  Armed with such advice, I sat down at the computer and opened an account.

I’m certain that what happened next is something many others have faced with mixed feelings: the creation of the profile.  Perhaps it’s the typically Australian habit of self-deprecation, but I’ve always seen this as a somewhat pretentious exercise.  I’d much rather let someone else describe me than do it myself, although even the thought of that leaves me cold.  So I started writing with limited space, and came up with something I thought was reasonably fitting.

WonderWoman wandered past and peaked over my shoulder. “That’s not right,” she said.

She made some reasonable points and I made some changes, remembering that nothing I’ve written has ever had a decent first draft.  As one of Twitter’s attributes is brevity, it got me thinking:  Is it possible to define yourself so briefly?  Can one encapsulate oneself in a mere few sentences?  Of course not, not entirely anyway.  I’m reminded, yet again, of David Fincher’s Fight Club (1999):  “You're not your job. You're not how much money you have in the bank. You're not the car you drive. You're not the contents of your wallet…”

In 1943, a psychologist by the name of Abraham Maslow released a paper entitled A Theory of Human Motivation in which he espoused a hierarchy of human needs, starting with the basic physiological elements needed for survival, all the way to what he termed “self-actualisation”.  Self-actualisation can supposedly only occur  when mastery of all the other needs is achieved, and an individual reaches their full potential as a human being.  It’s at the second-to-top level of the hierarchy that Maslow and I cannot fully agree, that of self esteem.  Supposedly, one needs to feel reasonably highly of oneself in order to achieve some form of personal mastery and satisfaction.  To this I cry: horse hockey!  

George Carlin put it like this:  “...studies have repeatedly shown that having high self esteem does not improve grades, does not improve career achievement, it does not even reduce the use of alcohol, and most certainly does not reduce the incidence of violence of any sort.   Because, as it turns out, extremely aggressive, violent people think very highly of themselves!  Imagine that.  Sociopaths have high self esteem.”

It matters little how I see myself, or whether the words I pick to describe myself in the profile are modest or positively glowing.  I’m not complete, I never will be this side of Heaven, and that’s OK.  I’m faulty, like a cracked jar that needs constant refilling so as to keep from running dry.  I have all manner of scars.  I guess I’ve given myself permission to be imperfect, and all the contentment that that permission brings.  It frequently results in a fatalistic attitude and a disinclination to argument (I turned it into a positive in the profile and called myself a pacifist).  The disinclination to fight is often seen as weakness.  I’ve given myself permission not to care about that particular perception from others either.  Too many pour too much time and effort into fighting about things that simply don’t matter.  What a waste.  And besides, the meek will inherit the Earth, right?

I began the Twitter journey in a hope to promote my humble scribblings to a larger audience.  Perhaps I’ll be successful, perhaps not.  I’m not certain what the end-game is, even after all these words, but I knew I had to give whatever it is a try.  I’m getting past an age where I can continue to tread water with who I am and what I’m to become.  It’s time to take some risks and get out there.  Let’s see where we end up together, shall we?

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