I don't know where to start with all the pigeons I've been playing with these past weeks.
Mother is 86 and 8 days and is still taking up more of my time than our so-called heavenly overlord did making this planet.
My sister is still perfecting her inner and outer bitch but I dress better than she does.
Granddaughter is still blessing Teh Lord because an anonymous donor made up the money for her to haul off to the big Christian blessing conference to bring the word and love to the whole of America. I won't worry as long as Trump is on the other side of the continent. I just wish the girl would not sound as if she'd been brainwashed by a choir of angels with a harp in one hand and a money bag in the other. Crowd sourcing is just another name for internet begging.
New staff and old staff at the Home are working well. I wish I could say the same about the office staff who left the old girl without the special air mattress she needs to prevent pressure sores since last Thursday. But of course, today is a holiday so no mattress until tomorrow and the care staff must not usurp the authority of them in charge by getting in a mattress at the weekend. I await the wrath of Doc Marvin if it's not there by Wednesday.
Anybody local want a lovely large coffee table with ball and claw feet and glass panels in the top?
I'm only letting it go because I'm worried about falling through the glass even though they're all separated by wooden panels.
Yes, I could do that, after all I stabbed myself in the foot with a pencil the other night. The top of my foot. It would take a CSI team to work out exactly how I managed that. Strange to look down and see a shattered pencil sticking straight up out of my foot and the other half shattered pencil across the floor. Fortunately it was the lead part so I didn't have to worry about splinters. It was also in the most awkward place to put a bandage. Hmmm, lead poisoning.
So that was a small pencil now you know why I'm worried about a very large glass coffee table.
Now I'm going to the pub before mother rings with more trouble.
8 comments:
Sigh.
Well dressed doesn't go well with lead poisoning. Good luck.
Luckily lead pencils don't have lead in them. I've just taken five seconds to run some thoughts through my head but no explanation for how you stabbed the top of your foot jumps out.
EC, my feet have a mind of their own these days. I'm thinking of going one way and they just wander off on their own. And the cat doesn't help by sitting in the middle of the doorway. I loved all those balloons in Canberra especially the jellyfish.
Andrew, I can't think of anything I did except put one foot forward. I'm tired of living two lives instead of concentrating on my own. What EC and I need is a nice holiday in a highrise with two lovely chaps to drive us sight-seeing and buy us lovely meals and wine, since you couldn't decide on a holiday for yourself this year.
Good of you to leave a comment on my blog..
Oh Lead! did you make your foot bleed, I wonder!
Margaret-whiteangel, I have lymphodaema (and a spelling disorder)so it only bleed for a second but 3 hours later I had a soaking wet towell wrapped around the foot but it dribbled down enough to get a bandage on the most awkward place ever.
It's a full moon tomorrow night so I expect more disasters since the moon rules my house of horrors.
oh dear jate I despair at your naughty feet. I was able to reach mine last weekend, briefly putting socks on just like a normal person, then $550 worth of cortisone wore off after onl 48 hours and I am back to the 5-minute breathless struggle for socking.
and yes cats will sit in the doorway and move forward JUST as one steps around them. sigh.
I bought a beautiful card to amuse your mother and now it is 24th and still not addressed. sigh.
love to youse both at Coppy Mansion.
Full moon.
Hello darlings. Exiting Vinnies with tracksuit pants ($6.00) and I bumped into Miz Croggon barging out of the latte shop next door. Well blow me down, this is the crabby old blue stocking who booted me out of her "poetry workshop" for laughing. She lives in Newport now and from the look on her face maybe poor RH can expect another boot up the arse - right out of this area! Croggon, Grogon, age has not wearied her nor the years condemn, she's 54 now and still has jet black hair. Not a bad trick. That's the thing with these poetesses, they don't age beyond thirty.
-Robert.
Resurrected: Footscray hospital, 2014.
Annie O, glad to see you comment. Tip for sock and knickers, buy a good pick up stick from pharmacy, I'd never be wearing either without that help. For that money you could have bought enough cocaine from a street corner which would have lasted longer. Just checked the mother's account and no money and possibly a stiff overdraw fee because of useless new managers of nursing home. From now on they get a cheque after I get an account. As for the cat, I'm at the computer because he has the chair and won't move.
Robbert, I knew she lived in Newport and wondered if you would ever run into her. Could have been worse, she could have wanted the same trackiedacks you wanted. Your punch ups with the Croggon were the stuff of legends. Of course we never age, not as long as the pension stretches to hair dye. Personally I intend to shuffle off to the never never with still flaming red hair.
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