Home made oysters

The angry red bloodshot splodge changes from one eye to the other in the matter of hours, reminding me that whilst Spring has sprung in Switzerland, I am allergic to all of it.

Hayfever never troubled me in Australia, except for the three years that nasal polyps blocked each and every sinus drainage point.  This occurred during the bad old workaholic days, and my team reckoned that they knew when I was in my office (not directly visible to them) because of the window-rattling, endlessly honking nose blows.  Managerial mucus, if you will.  Thankfully, surgery occurred, scraping the inside of my face clean and then feeling the sheer relief of being able to speak without the other person looking at me with pity and inevitably asking, "Do you have a cold?"

Here, however, I'm chalking it down to a different hemisphere, different time zone, different season and different flora (and possibly fauna. Who knows what those pesky woodpeckers and squirrels do up in the trees when we're not looking).  It still seems incredible to me that bulbs can emerge when covered in thick snow and ice only six weeks earlier and trees switch from bare to bursting with blossom when my back is turned for a mere moment.

Nasal spray and tablets do help slightly and are well-earned after my attempts to act out 'hayfever' to the non-English speaking girl at the chemist.  However my walk with Milly in the mornings still results in sneezing a dozen times in a row with the air suction generated then causing every third one to be punctuated by a robust fart, pushing and shoving my body around like a disoriented set of blonde bagpipes.  Three steps back and a big one forward, thanks to the butt trumpet fighting the good fight on behalf of my itchy throat, streaming eyes and torturously tickly nose.

Milly also sneezes more than usual, but hers occur out in front of our apartment door in the marble-lined foyer by the lift doors.  "Ah-yeeeee!  Ah-yeeeeee!  Ah-yeeeeee!" reverberates down the hallway, in direct contravention of the Swiss-enforced 'no unnecessary noise before 8am on weekdays' rule.  If either of our neighbours opened their door to complain, they'd be presented with Milly's first real stretch of the day - head resting on her front paws as the rump is lifted towards them to expose a pencil sharpener arse already dilated and ready to discharge a poo in the park.

Outside and soon unencumbered by excrement exertion, she's as happy as the unknown-but-obviously-always-joyous-and-oft-referred-to Larry, scooting madly between the rows of daffodils, her paws flicking dew drops up against her belly.

This time last year she scooted in the rows of daffs, mouth open like a mobile hungry hippo as she avidly devoured the yellow petals.  This year she's either forgotten the joys of wanton destruction or has outgrown the taste.  I dawdle along behind, pausing every now and then to honk into my hanky, rub the reddest eye and do an exaggerated swallow in order to ease my throat.

It's all worth it.

Corporeal Contraptions

At the risk of the blog turning into a Medic Alert memoir, when I was lying down in a stranger's room with only my knickers on, my mind invariably started to do an anatomical audit.

"Are you OK," the doctor asked in a kindly voice.

"Yep, it's nice and warm here and I can't feel a thing."

"That's good. If you're comfortable, I'll leave you here for ten minutes; come in and check on you and leave you for another ten if that's-----"

WOOP WOOP WOOP WOOP WOOP WOOP WOOP WOOP!

My blanket slid to the floor and the acupuncture needles in my ears and head waved in the breeze as I  sat up in shock. "What the hell is that?"

"Oh, not to worry," he said, waving it away. "It's the annual testing of the bomb shelter alarms all over Switzerland."

"Ah," I said, lowering myself back down, trying to ignore the wedgie I'd just given myself.

He popped a couple more needles into each wrist. "Actually, right now would be the perfect time to attack us as we'd all shrug our shoulders and think it was just part of the process."

I decided it was appropriate to pick out my wedgie right there and then even though he was still in the room: no-one wants to be caught in dodgy underwear during a surprise missile crisis.

Back to the body catalogue.  Today it was tiny pins all over my body, but what else do I rely on to survive?

Anti-depressants. It might seem an oxymoron to have to take a tablet to make me feel like me, but they work. So I will.

Weird Achilles heel protector sock bandage thingies. It's only my right Achilles that keeps playing up, but the doc says I should wear them on both feet. With a sewn in heel pad and tight sausage-shaped compression doo-whats-its that push against the muscle, I'm struggling to stay in my shoes. So far though, they're working.

US, English and Australian-sourced packets of painkillers for Mr Migraine's increasing number of unwanted visits. Note that there's nothing from Switzerland. The strongest stuff you can get from the chemist here is Panadol with caffeine: not a good option at night time.

The long-serving mouth guard, cleaned regularly with thrush, sorry, Swiss 'Candida' brand toothpaste.  This passion killer and lisp-inducer stops me from cracking my crowns due to grinding and/or clenching in my sleep and more than once I've walked out the front door ready to take Milly for her morning constitutional before eventually realising that the damn thing is still in.  "Bonjour Kath! Did you win your boxing match?"

Hot water bottle, Arnica gel and a not-so-good imitation of Deep Heat creme. Neck aches and shoulder pain see these used more often than preferred. Love Chunks is often called upon to apply these various gels and unguents and they all seem to smell bad enough for Milly to snort and move to the other side of the room.

Nearly forgot the decade-old orthotics...  Transferred from running shoe to running shoe.  Had a second pair in bright purple but lost them along the way somewhere.  I assume they still work at, um, whatever it was that they were supposed to do back in 2003.

All of these help me stay upright, keep moving and complain (slightly) less, but here are the three essentials.

Love Chunks: eighteen years of marriage and still my favourite boy to hug, sleep alongside, talk to, make plans with and smell.  Tickly moustache, glinting blue eyes and kindness by the bucketload.

Sapphire; thirteen-and-a-half and growing almost visibly in front of my eyes, astounding me with life lessons learned, observations made and potential yet to be realised.

Sweet little Milly.  Nine years young and still the best working buddy ever; albeit with the worst breath. A privilege to have her in our family.

Chocolate, coffee and wine help too.

MRI musings

It's a funny feeling, having your head shoved into a waste paper basket with a miniature rear vision mirror and long sponges wedged up against the sides to ensure a complete lack of motion.

A decade ago, I was allowed to bring in a CD that was magically piped into the tube, but today I'm grateful that the radiographer speaks English and has offered me some ancient cheeseburger-shaped headphones to muffle the noise. "Cuckoo!" he says cheerfully, more than once, tapping my arm. "You can keep your eyes open but will see only a white wall.  Better to keep them closed and think of nicer things," he trills, eyes glinting merrily. "Cuckoo!"

My response was the usual 'thumbs up' and a wink before the bed glided slowly into the MRI cavity.  "Keep your arms still now," he called as he walked towards the office. "Cuckoo!"

The knocking, buzzing, whirring and pulsing sounds seemed a lot louder than ten years ago. Perhaps having Tom Petty singing of how he learned to fly without any wings made it less noticeable back then.  Whilst loud, being a recent survivor of a migraine on a long haul flight meant that today's closed-in cacophony didn't seem any worse than the endless gullet humming of aeroplane engines.  This was a mere forty five minutes with a pause at some indeterminate time for Mr Cuckoo to inject my arm with some contrast solution and return to making more percussive x-ray racket.

Despite having my eyes squeezed shut, an enclosed cranium and rapidly-numbing hands that I'd foolishly interlaced together, my mind did start wandering.

Reminders to not forget to make a dental appointment for Sapphire; buy some minced garlic and ginger from the Asian Spices shop in Servette; borrow a Frank Zappa DVD for research purposes; ask ex-travel agent friend G for her Spanish recommendations, finish up two overdue articles; and check with Vic Roads: did they ever send me my drivers' licence after my wallet was stolen a year ago? 

The recent, lingering bout of flu meant that my nose started to twitch. Normally a loud and proud honker, I realised that the second option - sniffing it juicily back from whence it came - was not available as it would cause some head movement.  The third option was not so much chosen as inevitable: lie there uselessly as snot dribbled ever-so-slowly out of my right nostril and down towards my ear.....

My thoughts turned from minor errands to bigger issues. Recent disappointments.  Lies told by someone willing to let an innocent person take the blame, and my lack of influence to make the situation a fair one.  Decisions to carry on regardless, consciences utterly clear.  How, at forty four, people's behaviour still managed to shock and confuse me.

Then, of course, the here and now butted in as a cough started to tickle my chest.  Instead of actively ignoring the wet creeping sensation of phlegm edging towards my ear hole, I actively meditated on it. Could this snail trail be a metaphor representing the build up of migraines over the past year or so?  A sluggish sojourn back to boringly detailed food diaries, lost days and blurred vision? A glacial yet inevitable journey towards this day, an MRI scan, to see if the tumour had returned?

Sapphire's face immediately popped into view, as did Love Chunks' and Milly's. Three warm beings equalling my home.  A wheeze emanating from my throat was discernible between magneto-zappings. The cough was impatient: it wanted air time and to get out of my prone body NOW.  I swallowed a few times, taking care not to wiggle anything above my lower lip. Somehow this caused the moving mucus to pause at my temple.

Excellent timing, as the piercing clamour orchestrated by Mr Cuckoo had also ended. 

"You are very good at keeping still, very good. Cuckoo!" he laughed, removing the pillow from under my knees, as I stretched and surreptitiously wiped the snot away with my arm. 

"Did you see anything on the scans," I asked, sitting up and shaking some feeling back into my fingers.

"Oh no no, don't go there," he said, waggling his finger at me in mock dismay. "I am only the technician today.  You will find out in two days."

A few minutes later with my scarf, boot, coats, watch, rings and bangles back on, I strolled towards the Number 14 tram in the fog. What did I want the result to be? A returned tumour to blame the recent symptoms on, or the relief of no tumour but also no reason?

A car horn beeped at me, disturbing my reverie.  I had every right to cross here on the yellow lines..... oh, it was my favourite Parc de Trembley gardener, lover of tennis and all things Federer. "Federer lost but the Australian open was good as ever," he called out to me.

"Oui!" I yelled in return.  "Federer est nombre un pour moi!"  Morning shift long over, he roared off into the mist. It felt good that he recognised me in a different suburb wearing my 'nice' clothes as opposed to my XXXL Man-sized coat and without Milly by my side. 

An hour later, I walked into the apartment with two bags of fragrant spices, some interesting chocolate biscuits to share with friends and a dog eager to go to the park and sniff for squirrels.  The result didn't matter.

Flu face

Mr Migraine had decided to pay me an extra long visit.  This was an idea that had clearly occurred him during our 38 hour, door-to-door return journey from Australia to Switzerland.  Why not pop in to Kath's cranium when she's wedged into an economy seat and unable to breathe in the smell of aeroplane catering without an involuntary heave?  A quick vomit seconds before we landed was official confirmation of his calling.  

In fact, he then decided to stay with me another four days, twitching the 'Vomit NOW' nerve endings, punching the 'Diarrhoea A-Go-Go' dials and stamping on the 'Crushing Pain Behind Left Eye Ball' buttons like a river-dancing epileptic on espresso.

Love Chunks was supposed to leave for his much-anticipated skiing trip the day after we landed, but the dear bloke stayed with me for those four dreadful days until he was sure that I could keep food down and have the energy to take Milly downstairs for a whizzer before he drove off towards the alps.

A week later, he walked through the door, red-faced and sweaty but with chattering teeth. "I think I've caught the flu," he said, dropping his bags and falling into my hug.  "I caught it from Robyn who said she'd got it from Dave who blamed Kirsty, the new girl at work, who said that a fat guy had coughed all over her on the tram...."

Never mind, it was MY time to shine; to fufill the long-held potential of being a work-from-home Trailing Spouse who would not only expertly tend to the sick but also keep the home fires burning, nourishing hot soup on simmer, the infirm entertained, bills paid online and .... the dog from eating the used tissues.  

As Sapphire succumbed, my mothering skills intensified.  Vitamin C, sugar-free Strepsils and a blankie on the couch with her favourite movie on standby.  A hand wiping her sweaty brow and a comforting arm around her shoulders. "Let me slice some apple for you."

Flu, for me? Nah, mine was merely a scratchy throat and a few sniffles. I was made of stronger stuff.  My role was to soldier on, be vigilant and protect my dear, sweet family.  

In fact, it was time to test out the 'ol Achilles; see if my careful ministrations and months of rest had paid off.

It had. Six kilometres with no twinge at all!  I was so proud, my phone took a photo to commemorate the achievement.  LC and Sapphire weakly congratulated me as I skipped back into the living room, droplets of sweat pooling on the floor whilst blocking their view of the telly.  "I feel GREAT," I said, somewhat insensitively as my favourite boy and favourite girl trumpeted into their tissues and curled up into even tighter balls of misery.  "I'm so lucky that all I've got is a COLD!"

Until last Friday.  "Who allowed an elephant to sit on me in the middle of last night and why does it feel like a camel has taken up residence inside my chest?"

Since then, it's been a full-on flu infestation.  Unpredictable sneezes, phlegm-laden coughing, aching joints, toilet sweats, the occasional chuck up and a listlessness so pervading I need a lie down after getting dressed.  

There was a bonus, however.  My voice keeps disappearing, so LC and Sapphire enjoy a relatively peaceful home life, albeit with increasingly dusty floors and a Trailing Spouse likely to erupt with a moan that is impossible to stop if accidentally disturbed.

Milly was puzzled. Sure, it was nice to have everyone home, but instead of activity, socialising and walks it was a closed house, stillness and silence. Boooorrrrring!  Now with just the two of us, having a low-based IKEA bed means that she can leap up next to me and place herself just so along my side so that if my hand flops, it will kinda sorta be in the right position to give her a tummy rub.

After Sapphire returned to school and LC to work, I made sure that Milly's long morning walk still occurred. Even if it killed me.  My voice always escapes in the -6C temperatures, so furry face makes a split second decision. With those triangle ears, it's obvious that she can hear my attempts to call her, but she's decided to pretend that it's not the right voice I'm using and she can therefore enjoy some extra time making yellow snow and sniffing for squirrels. It is only when the frozen ground starts to hurt her feet that she decides that yes, she can hear me calling.  It's impossible not to smile at her reasoning.

Just as the indefatigable Flu kept on keeping on, Mr Migraine looked away from his other clients and back towards me with interest.  Why the hell not, he giggled.  When she coughs up snot, why not make sure that Gina Rinehardt's drilling inside her head for minerals?  Have a chuckle by flinging in a sly chunder and blurred vision just when she has a writing assignment due and solder the muscles at the base of her skull so that they fuse every time she stands?  Stomach pains and teeth that feel as though they're being boiled in water?  Matching the pain in her bones with ones in her jaw and forehead!  Yeah, go for it! 

And thus, I find myself still feebly fighting the two foes of flu and migraine, unable to give my attention to the TV, computer or book for longer than fifteen minutes at a time but thoroughly sick of lying in bed and feeling just how badly my toenails need cutting.  In my mostly-horizontal state I've mentally finished the novel; planned a second, placed unbeatable bids for three separate editing jobs, figured out how to make lamingtons for Saturday and researched three separate trips to Spain, Ireland and New York.  It's amazing what you can do with your nostrils plugged.

Long haul limbo

Thirty six hours of travel from door to door is a shocker of an experience in anyone's book, so I should not have been surprised when, after our first eight hour flight and three hour transit wait, Sapphire looked at fellow airport passengers standing like pallid zombies gripping their wheelie cases on the flat escalator belts and asked, "Mum, what does purgatory mean?"

That's when I realised that the biblical references we take for granted are not fully understood by kids who have never been to Sunday school or church. Running my hand through my oily hair and blinking out the dried eye boogers whilst trying to keep my morning-breath mouth away from Sapphire's face in order not to make her heave, I tried to give a reasoned reply.

"Well, it's sort of like a half-way holding pen that God supposedly puts you in after you die when he's not sure whether you should be flung down into Satan's evil hands for all eternity or sent upwards to the angels. While he figures it out, you stay in purgatory feeling bored, powerless and in limbo."

"Like airports."

Exactly.

There comes a time when all the movies, soundtracks, thin blankets and bad selfies can no longer overcome the numbness of confined spaces, stale air and overheated oompa loompa-sized trays of in-flight catering.

A time when the urge to reach out and slap a person who is already comfortably reclining in their Business Class seat as you pass them by, cruelly out of reach financially and on proud display as a representative What You Can Not Afford as you trudge through to Cramped Class at the arse-end of the plane.

Mr Migraine had also decided to pay me a visit - just to make sure that the trip back to Australia had an extra element of discomfort to it.  He knew that swallowing tablets on a queasy, travel sickness-prone stomach wasn't an option, nor were ear plugs as they always tend to expand and shoot out of the sides of my head like startled wine corks.

And thus, the plane version of Purgatory began.

Firstly, the dreaded family with a screaming toddler who sat in the row directly in front of us.  Yes, there was genuine pity to be had for the two exhausted parents trying their damnedest to calm down an eighteen month old who was not given their own seat and did not have the capacity to understand why their ears hurt.  Well, for the first two hours at least.

Then, when the parents used up all of the nappies they had, the sympathy vanished quicker than a stewardess when the lighting's turned down and immediately flicked over to the baleful burning hot heat of hatred.  And that was before the kid shat himself so badly that it spurted up and over the top of his nappy, surging towards his shoulders and onto his mother's lap. The stench of warm diarrhoea filled the cabin as his parents struggled to fashion the excrement-encrusted enfant terrible a new outfit from a plastic duty free bag and a handful of serviettes.

Love Chunks nudged me. "The old guy's BO is maturing faster than stilton on a windowsill."

He was right. Ponky Old Geezer had also got on board in Switzerland, already ripe with the aroma of his fortnightly bath day nearly due and wearing what appeared to be his entire wardrobe of winter coat, cardigan, flanelette shirt, wool scarf and flat cap.  He immediately fell asleep when he buckled his broiling bulk into his seat across the aisle from LC, leaving all of his thick, sweat-creating attire on.  Somehow, the baby shit and the fogey funk molecules joined, creating a suffocating arch of repulsive reeks that caused the passenger behind us to start vomiting.

Oh and did you know that 'cabin crew' no longer accept used sick bags from passengers?  Something to do with health and safety or rules or disposal requirements or other. Therefore, the poor vomiting sod had to either a) hang on to the bag that eventually started dripping through the ill-made seal at the bottom; or b) find the strength to be well enough to stagger over to the toilet, wait their turn and cram it into the pencil sharpener-sized disposal chute; leaving a fetching fountain of chunder for other toilet users to happen upon.   We could now add vomit to the circling stench of faeces and elderly essence....

But wait, we too had something to contribute, apart from Love Chunks' rather whipper snipper-like snore.

Sapphire tapped me on the shoulder. "Mum," she whispered. "My head feels really itchy."

I pushed her face gently back into her chair. "Yeah, we've all had dry skin. You know, with the cold air in Switzerland and the hot water..."

Travellers' breath near my face meant that she had more to say. "NO, Mum. I mean my hair is really REALLY itchy."

We shared a sideways look of surprise and recognition.  It had been years. Years!  "OK then, put your head in my lap."

Her noggin looked like a blonde ant farm cleaning up after a cake crumb fight: it was crawling with lice and eggs. There was nothing for it: they had to be individually picked out with my fingers; squashed into a now-dry refresher towelette and destroyed before the little buggers decided to branch out and colonise the rest of Cramped Class.

Three hours it took me, leaving my eyes and finger tips burning. Lice eggs are miniscule and stick to individual hair shafts. Try doing that kind of monkey grooming when the cabin lights have been switched off for nigh-nighs and all you've got is a poxy overhead reading light to go by.  Eventually, all visible signs of infestation had been removed, shoved into a Unicef donation envelope and disposed of (thoughtfully, of course) in the toilet hatch, smearing the spilled chunder remains over the sink.

Ahhhh.  If the toddler would stop screaming or if I could miraculously ignore the noise, things from now on would surely be OK.

Oh, of bloody course. "Love Chunks?"  He stirred awake.

"Whaaa...."

"Um, can you please check my head....?"

And so, for an hour it appeared to anyone still awake that I was publicly pleasuring my husband in Row 43 as he found eleven bugs and several dozen eggs.  The itching stopped, and he tiredly leaned back with his thin blankie to go to sleep, waving away my whispered dog breath-scented sweet nothings of gratitude.

I sat there in moral turmoil.  LC had finally entered the hallowed Land of Nod, his profile at peace, hands twitching occasionally in somnambulant memory of his recent nit picking. The last thing I wanted to do was disturb him, but Mother Nature was calling and I didn't fancy doing an adult recreation of the toddler's overflowing nappy.

"Love Chunks?"

"Whaaa...."

"Um, can I get out to go to the loo....?"

My husband is a generous and kind man to me, and, rightly or wrongly assumes that I'm slimmer than I am.  For that reason, he decided to scrunch up his legs and just lean them towards the right, hoping that I could sort of slide past him without him being required to stand up in the aisle.

It was a noble thought, and no doubt a practical one.

And, for that, I'm still so very sorry that I involuntarily farted at the very moment my tracksuit-covered arse brushed against his cheek.

60,411

So November Knob-head activities have come to a close.  It was satisfying to vomit out the required number of words for NaNoWriMo before realising that at least another 30K will be needed to finish the first draft and have the story make some form of sense. Of course, this was the whole intention - get us procrastinators committed for a month and then, if/when we hit fifty thou', we'll be in for the long haul. Clever thinking.

Milly sat at my feet the entire time acting as mute inspiration, delivery man sniffer and wet-nosed break time alarm clock. She's been recited to, sung at and even had her opinion sought on alternative paragraph endings and descriptions.  I'm pleased to report that her work has been outstanding and she's quite simply the best Personal Assistant a writer could wish for (excepting the fragrant farts, of course. Then again, she could rightfully direct the same complaint back at me).

The 60,000 words were completed at a time when Sapphire's stomach issues had not only re-emerged but also joined forces with her 'plumbing at the front'.  No-one likes placing their feet into stirrups and having a man approach with a cotton bud and what looks like an oversized creme brulee gas torch but when you're thirteen years old, tired, sick and scared it gets beyond funny. "So Mum, how's your day going so far," she said quietly, trying her best to get her mind off things. "Can you hold my hand please?"  At least two days off school per week has become the norm but we thank modern technology, school website log ins and mates with mobiles for keeping her up to date with assignments and still in sight of good grades.

However with lingering illness, puberty, fluctuating friendships and a truck-load of pre-report card homework to do, she's been forced into the first row seat riding the rollercoaster of grumpiness, apologies, resentment, frustration, amusement, challenges, stomach aches, affection, anger, sulkiness and gratitude.  Love Chunks and I sometimes want to hand our own tickets back to the booth at different times but, together, we're a pretty formidable - and empathetic - force.

My endlessly busted Achilles is minor in comparison but still makes my invisible tail droop at not being able to do my favourite form of exercise combined with sweaty singing and idea generating.  As my stupid old woman muscle heals at snail-on-a-glacier pace, the treadmill has done a sterling job of getting bed sheets and towels dry, being so close to the window and radiator. Shame about the dog hairs and dust bunnies forming on the belt though.

Seeing some butt-numbing numbers flash up on the scales at a friend's place was an unpleasant reminder that an alternative form of exercise needed to be sought.  At forty four and with new (and desperately unwanted) age spots arriving on my face every week, swimming was the most obvious choice despite snow approaching and me already with several old winter layers to be removed.  Three times a week has since seen me reluctantly trudge in the freezing wind half a kilometre downhill to the pool, get undressed in a semi-open change room where male workers wander through at will and plonk myself into water that is far colder than you'd expect a heated pool to be.

It is here, whilst splashing up and down the lanes - right side here in Switzerland, by the way, not the left - that chapter ideas emerge, chlorinated and vibrant, ready for use. Hindsight flowers behind foggy goggles and offers decent alternatives in my reactions to Sapphire's tribulations; and Love Chunks' face appears on the bottom of the pool, smiling kindly at me.

It is also here that I discover rage.  Rage is new to me, as I'm the, 'Oh let the guy in, it's just another three seconds of our lives' forgiving old soul when it comes to cars.  Beeping horns are also alien to me and as long as I get that obligatory 'thank you' wave, life behind the wheel is calm and uneventful.  The swimming lane provides a direct contradiction.

Unlike pools in Australia that are usually marked, 'Slow,' 'Medium' and 'Fast' with about two lanes for each speed, Geneva has just two lanes. One is marked with a green tortoise and the other with a red hare; a rather cute solution for swimmers with potentially little or no understanding of French.  I'm egotistical enough to select the Hare lane as years of running have given me an endurance level that allows me to swim laps without stopping. Fat old girls can float, y'see. I was never particularly fast in Oz but always consistent, yet here in Switzerland, I'm a female Ian Thorpe without the fashion or the flipper feet.  I leave middle aged Canadian blokes and skinny French ladies in my wake, lapping them over and over again.  No rage yet, just overheated pride and vanity.

Lapping is fine, as long as there are six or less people in the Hare lane.  When there is more, and some clod decides to wind down by doing the backstroke or the breast stroke, my irritation awakes.  No-one, apart from Olympic athletes, can swim the back or breast stroke faster than freestyle which means that they no longer belong in the Hare Lane and should duck under the barrier and do their barely-floating version of a hungover frog in the Tortoise Lane.  Irritation rises to anger when I have to overtake the hairy-backed old guy lazily attempting back stroke and have his overly long fingernails scrape my sides whilst doing so.

Rage finally appears when I've overtaken the third bloody breast stroking bozo and we touch the end of the lane at the same time and he doesn't take one single second to notice that I've thrashed the water to foam whilst making up three quarters of a lap and want to take off in front of him.  No, this non-submersible turd ends up kicking me in the face as I try to get around him and not smack into the blind backstroker coming from the opposite direction.

The only thing stopping me from strangling these inconsiderate imbeciles with the cords of their speedos or pulling back goggle straps a metre before letting it sting their faces is the counting.

Numbers. Order. Routine.

I dare not waste too much mental energy on these public pool pinheads or I'll risk forgetting how many laps I've swum.  Fourteen, Fourteen, Fourteen, is the chant until I reach the end. Fifteen, fifteen, fifte ----- oh for pharksake why does he think that swimming with a foam peanut between his knees means he'll be quick enough for the fast lane ---- bugger. Was it fifteen or thirteen...?  If in doubt, don't cheat. Thirteen, thirteen, thirteen, thir----- maybe I'll swim over the TOP of that stupid back stroking bonehead instead of around her....

When forty is finally counted, I hoik my dripping bulk out via the pool steps and do my best to saunter back to the change rooms, walking in slo-mo for coolness but really to avoid slipping on the tiles.  When I'm safely in the unlockable, saloon door individual cubicle, I slump down on the wet bench seat in exhaustion.

Three loads of washing to drape around the house, two specialist appointments to arrange for Sapphire, winter tyres to put on the car, a thrice-postponed lunch date and then, the writing.  Love Chunks' face appears in front of me again as I find the hill back home rather hard going.

Milly greets me at the door, full of joy as usual and as we go downstairs for a walk, my smile returns.

I'm so lucky to be here and will do my damnedest to make the most of it.

Defecto blondo

On doctors’ orders, Sapphire was given permission to get out of the house, see her friends and eat what she liked. “Until the tests all come back, you might as well have fun this weekend,” he said, noting her pale face and eyes brimming with tears. “If it gets worse, then we might even have more information to help us.”

Rightio.

Saturday morning was all systems go.

Love Chunks and his Dutch friend Franck were going to cycle all the way around Lac Leman. As their designated blonde back up support I was to meet them at Montreux where we were staying the night.

Milly the dog was already settled at Auntie Kaye and Uncle Jeff’s house with more essentials than the three Montreux-bound humans combined.  A padded bed, blankie, walking lead, dinner bowl, Tupperware container of breakfast crunchies and foil pack of moist moosh were presumably sufficient to see her through thirty six hours.

In the meantime, Sapphire and I were to take the train to Nyon - Knee-On, not Nigh-On - where Kate and Imi would be waiting on the platform, ready to whisk her off for a session of horse riding. In France.

Afterwards, she was to make her way to Kriti’s house for a birthday party and sleepover and be collected by me at lunch time on Sunday.

Excited to be doing something not wearing pyjamas, Sapphire jiggled on her train seat and  joked with me cheerily as we watched the bright blue of the lake flicker between the chalets and trees. 

“Approche arrêt Nyon,” said the French female voice over the loud speaker.  Sapph gathered her things as the train slowed.

No platform appeared, so we continued to wait by the door and chat, assuming that the train would pull in soon.

My phone rang. It was Kate. “Where are you?”

 “We’re here, just waiting for the train to pull in---- HANG ON, it’s starting to speed up and the door won’t open--------!”

Their faces were a blur as we sped on to Morges.  A few calls established that we’d get off at the next stop, cross platforms and make our way back to Nyon via the Geneva line. 

“I’ll stay on board, kick Sapphire off and continue to Montreux.”

“Er, no you won’t Kath. You’ll end up back home.”

“Ah, yes. My second blonde moment of the day and it’s not even lunchtime yet.”

Minutes later, we were back in Nyon, eyes alert to the very moment the train stopped.

I pressed the green ‘open’ button several times. No movement.  “Damn door!” 

It was after my tenth bash on the button that we noticed the small red sticker with ‘Defecto’ scrawled on it in black texta.  Spanish, when it’s the fifth most commonly-spoken language in the country...?

“Quick – run to the other end of the carriage!”

Whappita whappita whappita went our sandals as they frantically slapped the floor during our mad dash.

We got off just in the nick of time and Kate made me promise to SMS her to confirm my arrival in Montreux.  My actions thus far did not inspire any confidence in my ability to travel in the correct direction.

Luckily, I did make it to Montreux and even found the hotel room that LC had booked a few weeks earlier; a two-star job a street behind the fancy, lake-frontage five star fantasy who owned them.  The sign on the gate – in English – told me to check in at the five star place.

My tiny wheelie case clacked like thunder across the roadway, ratcheting up to a roar on the highly polished marble floor of the five star lobby.  The concierge was busy offering coffee and freshly baked pastries to the American tourists who had also arrived and bellboys were loading bag after bag of brand new Louis Vuitton onto brass luggage trolleys.

“Sorry Madame, you are too early to check in. Please come back at 3pm.”

Very reluctantly, they agreed to store my humble wheelie in their cramped stationery cupboard behind the lift well.  I ostentatiously reached for a peppermint from the jar next to the monogrammed pens on the check in counter – my own special guest freebie - before departing.

Under the bronzed eye of Freddie Mercury, I sat on a park bench overlooking the lake, eating a lunch of a carrot cake and coffee-flavoured yoghurt drink* purchased from a supermarket and noticed that that the chasm between the Five Stars and the Two Stars was evident everywhere.  Sun-yellow umbrellas over outdoor tables were heaving with the wealthy winers and diners paying more than fifty francs for filet au perche et frites, or fish and chips.

Wizened old orange ladies in leopard print promenaded between five star establishments and restaurants in pairs, tea cup poodles in one hand and cigarettes in the other.  The clanking sound that accompanied them was most likely a combination of heavy jewellery and monogrammed dog leads.

Old couples, backpackers and families joined me on warm rocks at the edge of the water or concrete garden edging to eat baguettes and apples, sharing the same view as the millionaires seated several metres behind us.

My phone rang.  Team Love Chunks and Franck had completed the first leg of their bike ride and were waiting back at Hotel Two Star.  Perhaps due to their athletic demeanour or the fact that the Five Star concierge wanted their lycra clad, sweaty, sun block-streaked pongy bodies out of the lobby, they were allowed to check in before the officially permitted time.

LC opened the door with a sneeze. “I’m allergic to something in this room,” he said, sniffling slightly.  “Remind me to put those flowers out in the hallway tonight.”

Several hours later, our walk through, around and in front of the town saw us back at the display board of the first restaurant hoping that the price had somehow dropped to half of what it showed us an hour earlier.  Sadly the answer was no and we realised that their advertised rate of forty two francs for fish and chips was still the cheapest in town. We ordered wine and beers without looking too closely at the menu otherwise we’d all have blanched and rushed to the edge of the lake to slurp directly from it.

Franck left us to use his free hotel bus pass on a ferry to Chateau Chillon and we decided to make the most of our two star room costing an eye-watering 250 francs.

“Kath, can you put those flowers out? They’re making me wheeze.”

Standing over them, I smiled.

“LC? Sweetie? They’re plastic.”  The dumb blonde baton had been passed on.

* Not recommended, unless a vomit after taste is the flavour you're hankering for.

Amateurish Articulation from the Apartment of Awful Afflictions

It's official: we three Locketts are allergic to Switzerland.

I was going to title this blog, 'Hope fades from the House of Ill Health' but Sapphire pointed out that we live in a rented apartment, not anything near as grand or large or solid as a house.

Ohhhhh, that's right, thanks for reminding me dear heart. For a mere four seconds I forgot that we were the ONLY family at her school who don't own a ski chalet, spend their summers in Florida or have handbags equalling Love Chunks' full monthly wage....

Speaking of whom, it's all his fault. Last Monday he started sniffing and ahem-ing a bit too often in front of the telly and by Wednesday was too achey, miserable and swollen about the head to go into work. The discernible heat emanating off him like an open grill and red puffy neck said it all - no World Meteorological Day participation for him. My plate of Anzac biscuits were left on the table, forlorn and forgotten. His Canadian, Chinese, Serbian and Pommy workmates would just have to wait until next year to sample those ground-breaking taste sensations.

Friday saw no improvement, except in the medicinal transportation arrangements from room to room. I gave him a plastic shopping bag (a rarity in these parts) and told him to use that as his wet tissue receptacle instead of leaving a pestilential trail of damp white splodges on the bedside table, sofa, kitchen bench and floor rugs. Shaking with fever on the sofa or constantly feeling like he was about to throw up surprisingly didn't add any drama or interest to the utter boredom and frustration of being stuck at home, feeling like pallid pigeon poo.

Dinner party plans scheduled for Saturday were duly cancelled. After all, who wants to see the chef coughing up a tonsil all over the roast pork? Worse still, who wants to see me, Front of House Who Can't Cook, try to make an entire meal that from scratch that is:

a) edible
b) socially acceptable to serve to non-members of the family; and
c) not burned, cold or collapsed due to my tendency to chat/show off/laugh/drink and forget about how magical it is when delicious food is served due to the hard work of my husband and not my hilarious anecdotes.

Never mind, it was Imi's 13th birthday on the Sunday and Sapphire and I planned to leave LC a quiet house to rest in as we joined her family for the Versoix Chocolate festival and a fondue lunch follow up.

Alas, no.

My old foe Mr Migraine knocked - no, clawed a bloody hole through my head with a post hole digger - insisting he be let in for his regular visit. Bugger; I'd forgotten all about our monthly appointment.

The marital bed, on a Saturday evening, is normally a pretty joyous place to be, but not this night. Poor Love Chunks' hacking cough cut through my pounding, protesting skull and it was a struggle to feel pity for what could only be his infected throat being shredded every time his lungs heaved and barked, and feeling as though Mr Migraine was laughing with glee at the freebie bonus of an unintentionally loud, phlegm-filled lover working alongside him.  No curtains and big glass windows provided the ideal environment for lasting and lengthy quadrophonic sound - Mr Migraine's job was doing itself!

So no chocolate, fondue, birthday cake, sunshine or socialising.

Sapphire wasn't too bothered because LC's Lurgy had finally caught her. Sneezing, wheezing and sighing could be heard from her room all night and when Mr Migraine finally decided to torture someone else, I creaked out of bed to see her pale face for a moment before it dashed into the toilet. Ah yes, bring it on - a big bout of flu with some vague gastro nausea thrown in: might as well get all orifices in on the action.....

Today LC is still home, struggling to clear his lungs and walk a step or two without doubling over to cough. The doctor has x-rayed his chest and with relief has said, "Thank god, it's just influenza but you're too ill to go to work for the rest of the week and maybe next," and Sapphire is lying in the bath resting after several days of nose blowing, painful joints and difficulty hearing through her puffy head.

Today too, LC's Lurgy finally got me in its evil, hate-filled headlock. Serves me right for chatting so smugly with Allan-and-Eva-from-Canada as they walked to the UN at the same time Milly and I headed to the park for squirrel spotting yesterday morning. "It must be all that walking you do," Eva beamed in approval.

Nope. My throat is pulsating to a different beat than my heart; my knees and back feel as though they're being boiled in water and Mr Migraine might have left some of his larger equipment to inflate inside my ear canal.

We'll all survive but god knows what the hell lessons we'll learn from it.

Open windows

We've never lived in an apartment before we came here and now we're up amongst the tree tops on the eighth floor of an eleven storey building.

Apartment living can be cramped, but this place is significantly larger in size than our snug little one-and-a-half fronted cottage in Flemington. Milly has adapted to the lack of garden and back door facilities extremely well, being content to snooze and snuffle around from room to room until it's time to head downstairs via the lift into the Dog Forest. Where she once trembled in fear when the elevator doors clanged shut and it descended to the ground she now wags her tail, because a ride in the lift means a walk.

Upstairs there's no garden to tend (fine by me and LC) and two hallways that would easily be converted into bedrooms if we were back in Melbourne with a budget for renovations.

Despite this - and having three toilets - we only have the one living space for eating, piano practising, telly watching and view gazing. Furnishings are kept to the minimum for ease of access and my beloved luxury item number two* is stored in LC's and my bedroom.

The treadmill. An expensive towel rail for some but a vital part of life for me. With an ageing body that now hosts a dodgy achilles, a bung calf muscle and plantar fasciitis, my runs are now down to three days a week for 6 km a time. I'm slower now too - no longer galloping at 12.6km per hour, but a relatively sedate 11.2 for the first five kilometres and last gasp 12km/hr for the final km.

Still, with that trio of trots and a long morning walk with Milly, my heart rate is a mighty fine 56 beats per minute while resting and I seem to be able to continue to inhale all matter of chocolate, wine and cheese-related Swiss specialties without looking too obviously rotund.

I've written before about the benefits for me beyond the cardiovascular. It helps keep my Black Dog at bay and gives me time to reflect, think up new writing ideas and reminisce about all kinds of weird and wonderful events. And, to be utterly honest, there's little that makes me feel more proud of myself than knowing I've slogged and sweat my butt off before breakfast, even if it doesn't look like I have.

So, on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays, after Milly and I get back from our walk, I change into my runners and plug in the treadie, strap on my bum bag and headphones and switch on the iPod.

"Annie waits for the last time....."

Three and a half kms in this morning and I was in The Zone, endorphins a-coursing, positive vibes a-pumping and singing along loudly and proudly to every fourth word of each song "Annie waits ----- for a call ....was it always the same?"

Sweat flicked onto the dashboard and Milly turned around to rearrange the pillow she snoozed on at the end of the bed. The view, from the right side, was of the bare winter trees and grey clouds sprinkling a few half-hearted snowflakes.

Things were really firing up today. I audaciously flicked the speedo up to twelve km per hour right from the start and sang along to every word.  My eyes were closed as I imagined that my legs were going to hurl me down the track......

"You've got to be the prettiest girl

I've ever witnessed in the whole world
Hear me can you hear me? Hear me can you hear me?
Hear me can you hear me now......"

Ratta tatta tat!

I nearly got flung into the bedside table in my shock. There, on a crane platform slowly moving upwards were two removal men, grinning at me.  'Bonjour madame!'  

I wasn't sure what to do. Stop and what, stand still and wave until they putted upwards beyond my floor or nod and keep running as all serious athletes would do? The first option seemed faintly ridiculous, but the second option would hardly work seeing as they'd already had a chuckle at seeing me sing to myself with my eyes closed like a sheltered workshop employee on a fitness kick.

So I did what I always do when faced with French I cannot speak and people I cannot converse with. I gave them the 'thumbs up' and a smile, got back onto the treaddie and kept on going, thanking the powers-that-be that they weren't putting by an hour later when I'd invariably be starkers and freshly showered.

I'm starting to love this place.

* Milly is luxury item number one