Aged

Not so long ago I noticed that the skin on my inner arms was dry.  I started slathering myself with all sorts of creams but to no avail.  Then the skin on my legs began to shrivel.  Not realizing that these skin conditions were subtle hints I again went the way of sorbolene, vaseline and in fact any kind of lene I could find.  I must state that I do not get subtle hints.  Therefore it did not cross my mind that my skin was ageing.  Actually it had aged.  It had aged while I was busy doing all sorts of wondrous things, like sleeping in, reading, writing, doing courses, gaining a degree and so on and etcetera.  

The worst thing about ageing is that one gets huge brown marks on the face and arms.  I had not really noticed the marks on my face until I bought a magnifying mirror.  All the better to pluck facial hair my dear.  I was absolutely horrified at the huge brown spots on my right cheek.  I did manage to calm myself down a little when I remembered that it was a magnifying mirror.  However, they were age spots.  I was in a quandary because the only people I knew with age spots were older people.  You know people in their sixties.  Then I realized I am in my sixties.

The worst thing was that I found great crater lines on my cheeks.  Lines on my face, I don't think so!  At first I blamed seeing the lines on the mirror but even with an ordinary mirror the old person lines were still there. While I would love to have a nice smile like Jennifer Hawkins I see that I look as cheerful as the Queen on a bad day.  No wonder one of my friends from school calls me grumpy.

I guess before the crepey skin, brown spots and lines there was some hint of extreme maturity.  My hair slowly became salt and pepper and then silver.  I don't mind about that.  I think silver hair looks distinguished.  Some of my friends started turning grey when they were still in their twenties so a bit a grey was not a  problem.

At last I have come to the conclusion that I am not only 'extremely mature' but also 'pre-senile.'  I don't feel older.  I feel like a nineteen year old but just a bit creaky.  I may be an arrested adolescent.  I always used to say, when I grow up and come to think of it I say that now.  When I grow up in a few years time I may feel that I am aged but at the moment I feel positively juvenile.  What I see in the mirror is not what I feel on the inside. The package is worn but the contents are pristine.    

Dentistry rules

I have had a charming black front tooth for many many years.  It has always been so expensive to get it fixed that I just haven't bothered.  When I got my extras with Bupa I went and got it priced and the gap was $600.
Needless to say that put paid to my white tooth plan.

The best thing about being older and diabetic is that I now have a Health Care Plan.  Timidly I approached the dentist and found out that I would probably only have to pay a gap of $200.  Yesterday I went in to ask about getting a veneer on my tooth and the dentist explained that a crown would be better.  Don't ask me what she actually said because of course I cannot remember.  However, the upshot is that I am getting a lovely lovely white crown.

I spent some time in the chair having great tunnels ground into my tooth.  I am guessing that I have a sort of double fang.  The dentist then popped a temporary crown in.  It is a little whiter than my teeth and a little bigger but the new one will be the right shade and the right size.

I won't be able to go past a mirror without checking out my gorgeous smile.

The child of my loins wanted to know if I would have a glistening white tooth, so I disabused her of this notion.  I told her it was a bit like choosing a hair colour.  That she understood.

I do so love the dentist.  Well I do love the dentist when there is no needle and no extraction. Oh did I tell you I definitely love the dentist.

What are they thinking?

How to get more shoppers into Rundle Mall.  First of all take up the paving. Good idea Council at least you have that right.   Remove coffee shops, fruit and veg shops plus the tourist shop and the beginning of the mall.   Shove the Mall's Balls 'The Spheres' down to one end.  If Flugelmen was dead he would turn over in his grave.  Are they going to take away the John Dowie, 'Girl on a Slide' and the 'A day Out' pigs sculptures?

The Council want to open up the mall to more shoppers and tourists.  They want to provide entertainment area. If they do have an entertainment area are the buskers going to be able to use it. Why not ban buskers altogether?  You really cannot have them taking up space in the mall.

And so to the last question why would anyone want to shop in the mall when the ambiance is gone?  Gone will be the days when people going home from work can quickly pick up vegies and not have to troop in to the big shops.  Gone will be the days of husbands who have annoyed their wives picking up some flowers to smooth things over at home.  Clear out the mall ergo clear out the people.  The mall will be the biggest white elephant in town.

What were the Council thinking; the truth is that they don't think. I don't want the mall to change but if and when it does I want to be the first to say, "I told you so."

P.S.  It has come to pass that the Council have indeed emptied the Mall of shops and stalls, relegated the Malls Balls (The Spheres) to another placement, and separated the pigs.  The pigs were meant to be an installation.  The title of the pig sculpture is "A Day Out", obviously the pigs have all gone their merry way and  agreed to meet later at the Balls like everyone else in Adelaide does.

Where have all the shoppers gone, gone to look for a mall with comfortable seats and trees with shade. Gone to a Mall where one can sit and have a drink, buy some flowers and vegetables and get information about Adelaide.  The Council ensures that Adelaide lives up to its name of being the most boring capital city in Australia.

ugg boots

Where are they, where are they?  I know I have ugg boots but I cannot find them for the life of me.  I need to find those lovely woolly boots because my feet have turned in to blocks of ice.  Today the temperature must be close to freezing so I need to search everywhere for my beautiful uggies.  I have looked in my wardrobes, (yes wardrobes,) under the beds, behind the dressing table, (I know that they cannot actually be behind the dressing table) however, I give it a burl anyway.  Finally, in the last place I looked there were my uggies sitting in the bottom of a large plastic box where I put rarely worn shoes.  I think it is humorous when one says the 'thing' was in the last place I looked.  Of course it is.  You wouldn't keep looking after you found the thing, would you????

I am so happy.  My uggies are so lovely and warm and definitely worth the effort of finding them.  I promise myself that I will no longer pack them away but keep them in plain sight. Once again I do so love my ugg boots.

Catholic

Why can't Catholics make up their minds whether they want to sit, stand or kneel?  I would have thought that they might ask for people's preferences at the door and then just sit, or stand, or kneel for the whole service. I am intrinsically lazy, therefore I do not want to be bobbing up and down for the whole Mass.  This whole up and down thing of course affects the older members of the congregation.  Poor old things take ages to stand and then they have to sit down, then kneel and so on.   In the Masses I have attended it is the oldies who are far more likely to try and kneel.  When they do creak down to floor level it is almost impossible for them to get up by themselves so their fellow parishioners have to drag them upright.

I used to go to Mass years ago and I could never figure out the responses.  Evidently after you have been going to Mass for years and years these become second nature.  Let me say now that I am fascinated. There are responses and crossing oneself, tapping and kissing or what I imagine to be tapping and kissing.  My absolute favourite is the 'Peace be with you.'  This is the  part of the service where the Priest says, "Peace be with you."  The congregation answers, "And also with you."  That is nice to give something back to the Priest, who let's face it has given everyone Communion and done most of the talking.  Everyone says 'Peace' to each other and then either shakes hands or kisses everyone around them.  I am not one for kissing really but a nice handshake between relative strangers is nice.  

I love the Catholic Mass.  I love the ritual.  I love that the Mass has not changed and that people now are still making the same responses and standing and sitting and kneeling just as people have done for a couple of thousand years.  Of course the Mass is now in English, or German, or Italian and so on rather than in Latin. I do have a missal that has half of the page in Latin and the other half in English to make it easier to understand exactly what the Priest is saying. 

I especially love Communion.  Everyone stands up and in a very orderly way goes up to the Priest who gives them a wafer and says, "Body of Christ."  They respond with an 'Amen.'  I take it there is a special way to hold your hands where the Priest places the wafer.  Then they line up again and to get a sip of Communion wine with the words, "Blood of Christ," and they respond, "Amen."  For those of you who are health concious the rim of the chalice is wiped with a sacramental cloth to clean away the germs.  The thought is also that as the chalice is cold that it will cause the germs to die.  Perhaps God protects those who drink his blood.  Who knows!  

I always feel sorry for the tiny little kids who can see Mum and Dad and older siblings going up and getting a potato chip from the man in the pretty frock when all he gives them is a pat on the head.  Mums are just as likely to have a small packet of chips in their bags for just such an occasion.  Maybe I should do that as well. Although I am not so easily fooled as a little kid. 

My favourite Mass of course is Holy Thursday.  I find it particularly moving and infinitely sad.  This is the time that I feel the closest to being a proper Catholic.  While other might like the Christmas Mass it is Holy Thursday that does it for me every time.  Even though Easter Saturday Mass takes forever I do enjoy it.  I am in awe of people who have been non-Church goers their whole lives becoming part of the Catholic community.  One day I might just take a leap of faith and become a real Catholic not just someone who flits in and out of Mass without making a commitment.

My favourite Church is in Melbourne.  It is St. Francis Church in Elizabeth Street. I believe it is the oldest Catholic Church in Melbourne and possibly Australia.  The atmosphere is beautiful.  They have about seven Masses on a Sunday just to accommodate all the Church goers.  At times the Church is so packed that there are people standing across the back of the Church and down the aisles as well.

I find Mass particularly peaceful and soothing. It is a beautiful and even though I am not a Catholic I respect those who believe.  With a "Peace be with you," I always leave the Church uplifted and indeed peaceful.  

blogger seeks readers

I realize that I am writing my blog for my own enjoyment, however, where are my readers?  My stats show that no-one in Australia is reading it. Where are you people?????

Of course the fact that my blog is mainly about pre-senility may put people off.  Who wants to hear an old chook talk about things that happened over fifty years ago, or who's mind is losing grip on reality.  While these things are of major interest to me and other old ducks they are really not relevant to Generation Y.

Please humour me by checking out my blog. You don't have to read it; just click on it.  It will make my stats look far more exciting and I will think that I have dedicated readers.  Let's face it, I am pre-senile, easily pleased and an avid stats checker.  So please me, please.

Massage

Yesterday I went and had the best Chinese massage ever.  The man found pain in places that had never had pain before.  I didn't even think I had those places to start with.  When he really wanted me to suffer he used his elbows to dig right down to the bed-rock.  After a while I had cripple nipple and had to move a bit to get the pressure off the bosoms.  I once had a hot stone massage in Vietnam and my nipple was squashed so I kept trying to release it but all the hot rocks started sliding off and the girl didn't want me to move.  My advice is to always check your nipples before you lie down to have an hours massage.  It is imperative!

I often wonder what the masseurs are saying to each other while they are massaging.  I wonder if they are commenting on rolls of fat or saggy boobs.  It is quite possible that they are only talking about what they are having for tea but one never knows.  In my case I think they could well be saying, "I don't know how she is lying flat with that huge stomach in the way."

I was so relaxed during my massage that I could have dropped off to sleep but for the pain.  Just when I thought I was ready to drop off and have a snore session the man found a new and wondrously painful part of my anatomy to attack.  When I thought he had finished he sat me on a chair and then massaged my neck.  He also moved my head from side to side.  I felt like a ventriloquist's dummy.  I do tend to stiffen up when someone is revolving my head around a 360 degree turn.  Well maybe that is an exaggeration.  Still I felt really good afterwards.  I think it is the case of the banging your head against a wall, it always feels better when you stop.

Being a poor old pensioner I cannot always afford a massage but I really think that they do me the world of good.  I believe that I won't completely seize up if I can have a massage every couple of months.  It is really a matter of going without.  I could go without food, that wouldn't kill me.  I think that I am being pro-active and keeping old person's frozen joints away.  I will be able to get down and boogie for years to come.

So remember, always make sure your boobs are comfortable before the massage starts.  Don't worry if they are talking to each other and you don't understand what they say.  It is probably a blessing that you don't.  Keep having a massage as often as you can accumulate the money.  If you really enjoy pain a massage is the thing for you.  Masochists of the world unite!

Clothes

When I started work I bought myself a black and white coat.  It was sort of like the pattern on David Jones bags.  I was proud of it and felt very modern and warm.   I also had a navy blue cape.  They were in fashion in the mid sixties and I felt the height of fashion when I was wearing it.  I wore it with a sort of furry hat that I am sure made me look like a mad rabbit without ears.  It didn't occur to me that I looked weird.  I was confident in my outfit and funny looks from people didn't dent my confidence at all.  My next coat was a beautiful teal colour and made of some entirely unsuitable material that let in every speck of cold there was in the winter.  I loved the coat and even though it didn't keep me warm to wore it when I went out to the pictures and so on at night.  I looked gorgeous; well the coat did.

Nowadays I look at the young girls who are wearing denim short shorts in the middle of winter.  I don't know how they can do that when it is so cold, however, when I think back to my unsuitable coat I think I understand where they are coming from.  If you feel comfortable in something even though it may not be particularly sensible, you feel good.  What is a little cold between friends?

Now I opt for nice warm clothes.  I like to wear layer, upon layer, upon layer.  All very Sara Lee really.  I love to wear lovely thick socks, Ugg boots, track pants, spencer, t-shirt and jacket and so on.  I have a lot of lovely warm scarves.  Some of them are silk that I hand dye.  I love these scarves and hate to part with them.  The idea of course is to sell them.  However, I digress.  I also have some beautiful soft scarves that I bought in Vietnam.  They were incredibly cheap and are the best scarves I have ever owned.

I do love to be warm but when I go shopping I have to remove some of my layers otherwise I would die from heat prostration inside the shopping centre.  From the car to the shop I freeze but once I enter the shopping centre's sauna like atmosphere I am able to suffer the temperature.  It is at a time like this that the young girls come in to their own. They are so perfectly happy in their little shorts that I am jealous of their comfort.

When I find myself being critical of what people wear and do a bit of the 'when I was a girl' I must try to remember down the long years to my unsuitable coat and my cold legs when I wore fashionable clothes.  I really  believe that 'fashionable' and 'sensible' do not go together in the same sentence.  Now that I have reached the age group that I call pre-senile I believe that it is comfort rather than fashion that dictate my clothes purchases.  I want to be warm and comfortable and also as long as it 'fits' I will wear it.  I am now 'pie a la mode' rather than 'modish.'

Dotty lady conversation

Yesterday I saw one of my friends at the shops.  She was sitting on a seat near the lottery counter.  She seems to be shrinking.  I sat myself down and began to chat with her and I was amazed that we both spoke the same language. 

We ascertained how we both were and then went on to talk about some friends from Church.  Well we tried to talk about people but we couldn’t remember their names.  Our conversation went a bit like this.

“How are you?” 

“I am fine, how are you?”

“How are the family?”

Well Peter has the same thing that James had……………..you know………..prostate cancer.”

“Oh that is awful.”

“Yes but he is fine now.”

You know Kath died don’t you?”

“OMG how awful.”

“I used to hate it when she phoned me because she was deaf that she couldn’t hear my answers.”

“Oh and Margaret’s husband died and now she is in the Alzheimers Ward in the Nursing Home.”

“She has gone down hill quickly.”

“You know her friend………. the lady that used to take Communion to the Nursing Home with her, she must be devastated.  They were friends for thirty years or more………….I just can’t think of her name.”

How is Ruth, is she still walking?”

“I think she does but her husband………….whathisname……………he is sick and not able to drive anymore.”

“Oh and Pat………….you know the one who lived over the East, well she died?”

“I don’t think I told you Annie is writing up her husband’s life story………..he lived such an interesting life.”

“I would love to do something like that.  I had better start soon or I won’t remember anything.”

“Is the awful lady still going walking, you know the one……………..the one Pat didn’t get on with.  The one………………I think she was German……..you know?”

“I know who you mean………………… I don’t think so, I haven’t seen her but I really don’t go out much anymore, just to do the shopping and my Friday mornings at the Church.”

“There is one lady I see sometimes………………..what’s her name………….well anyway we think she is wearing a wig.” 

“She went away on a tour with some other Church ladies but she slept in it, if it is a wig.”

“If we see her I will give her hair a bit of a tug. I will say something about leaves in her hair or something.”

“Joan Wilson is still going strong but she isn’t allowed to drive anymore.  I think she is ninety-three.”

“She is amazing.  Is she still in that club………….you know…………….about plants or something.”

“I think she is but I don’t seem to be able to keep track…………..!”

Enter her husband.  Whathisname?  I know his name……………….I really do but I just couldn’t think of it at the time.  He is a dapper man and has a sort of little pencil mustache……………………………I should know his name………………it is the same as Margaret’s husband……………………..the one in the Nursing Home……………the one who died.  You know………………………oh well I will think of it later.

“Well I must be off, I have to get shopping done…………..bye…ah…………ah………..?”

I wouldn’t mind our muddled conversation except that my friend is in her eighties but I am only in my sixties.  If I am as muddled as her now, what am I going to be like when I am in my eighties?

This conversation is either very funny or very sad, I cannot make up my mind or what is left of it.  Maybe it is a little of each.

Friday the 13th

I don't believe that Friday 13th is unlucky. However, against all odds today I was twenty minutes late for my friend's birthday lunch. I had my shower but was clearly unable to dress myself because when I looked most of my clothes were inside out. I rushed out without feeding the dog.  I forgot Lorraine's birthday present.  Her present was hidden in such a place that it was practically impossible to find.  It was right next to my handbag.

After lunch I went to Coles and was so flustered by trying to bag up my groceries that I left my credit card in the machine.  I wondered what the beeping was.  I picked up a prescription from the Chemist and couldn't find my purse.  The purse was in its own little part of my handbag, the same place it always is.

I wondered why I was so disorganized and then it hit me.  Friday the 13th.  Now I had something to pin the blame on.  My sleeping in was not because I had stayed up until midnight watching tv.  It was not because I don't yet know how to dress myself.  I didn't forget the present because I was in a rush.  I was not flustered at Coles because of having to bag my groceries.  My purse was not lost or hidden or in a place it did not belong.    It was all the fault of the day.  Friday the 13th.

From now on I will treasure Friday the 13th.  This will be the day when it matters not what happens.  I can blame it all on the date not on the pre-senile state of my brain.  I really wish we had Friday the 13th more often then I could explain away much more of my dotty old lady behaviour on the day.  Roll on the next one.

Crochet

I have crocheted lots of different things.  A few years ago I made a striped blanket in pink, grey, lilac and white. My friends have asked me who made it and are amazed when I tell them I did.  It is perfect and the pattern is exact.  As we know I am now pre-senile so the thought that I might perhaps mess up the pattern for my new wildly coloured rug is not too much of a stretch.  I have been counting the trebles for each part of the pattern and most of them are odd numbers.  I do not want to be the Picasso of crochet; I want everything to align.  However, even though I want it to look good I am not unpicking anything.  Now there is no use telling me that unpicking is easy and I only have one loop to pick up, I utterly refuse to fix it.  I have invested so much time getting it to this stage and for someone as pre-senile as me, it is important to get things finished as soon as possible.  You never know when you will topple over into just plain old senile. Come to think of it, judging by the work already done I think I may have toppled already.  Still I am getting to work with nice bright wools and it is cheering me up during this grey winter days.  I will give the rug to someone who has no idea about crochet and I am sure they will love it.

I believe that I will only be truly senile when I don't know what the crochet hook is used for.  That will be the test!

Walk is a four letter word

I am happily pre-senile but I have realized that I do need to get up off my fat bum and go for a' walk.'  (Actually I don't have a fat bum, I have a fat stomach.)  The only exercise that I can afford to do is, wait for it, 'walk.'  Now that I have finished studying and have lots of time I have promised myself that I will go for a 'walk' every day.  I know if I stop for even one day I will turn back into couch potato Cushie.

'Walk' is the ultimate four letter word for me.  I don't want to 'walk' it is boring.  I do take the little old dog and he seems quite chuffed about it all really.  I also have a mp3 that I can listen to, to pass the miserable time and stop me thinking about rubbish that happened a lifetime ago.  I would like to 'walk' with someone but most of my friends work so I don't have access to a fellow 'walking' sufferer.  Why oh why does the exercise have to be 'walking.'  I can skate, roller and ice but of course when you are sixty-six you do tend to worry about falling, however that is the perfect exercise for me because I love it.  The other problem is that I got rid of my skates about ten years ago so I don't have that option available any-more anyway.

'Walking' is cheap the only cost is shoe leather.  'Walking' is not bad for your body, you cannot 'do a hammy' or tear a muscle.  'Walking' is great exercise and even better if you 'power walk.'  I may be forcing myself to 'walk' but no-where in my contract with myself do I state anywhere that I am 'power walking.'  I do not 'walk' at speed, I sort of amble and try not to fall over the dog's lead.

So here we are, little old Herbie and I taking Shank's pony.  I think I have said before in another blog that Shank had no pony he walked.   So everyday we set out together with a nice big plastic bag for him,  (we are not in the habit of leaving dog poo on the path) plus a large bottle of water for me.  The real reason and only reason that I have decided to walk is that the child of my loins does not want me to fall off the perch yet.  As I can feel bits of my body starting to seize up I guess that I should do something about it even if it does consist of the most awful exercise in the whole world.  Free but crappy!

In conclusion, I state again, I HATE WALKING.'

PS.  I knew it would happen.  I walked for three days and then turned back into a fat lazy old woman.  I need a carer to come and make me walk.  They don't have to do anything but force me up out of bed and drag me kicking and screaming along the linear park.  Why oh why am I so lazy?

Forgetful

I am sure people often suffer from loss of memory.  I have temporary lapses of memory when I am telling a story or searching for the right word and that does not worry me.  However, yesterday I was talking to the child of my loins and said, "You know................................................."  She waited politely for me to finish my sentence but I could not.  Between the 'you know' and the rest of my planned sentence I completely forgot what I was going to say.  Now that is a definite worry.  How is it possible to forget something only two words in to the sentence?  Eventually everyone is going to notice and I will find myself shipped off to The Home Where No-one Can Finish Their Sentences.

The Home Where No-one Can Finish Their Sentences will have another annexe for people "Who Cannot Even Say A Sentence.  This is a peaceful annexe as the only people that speak are the nurses.  They will just talk amongst themselves because it is useless to talk to the patients as they cannot answer.  The next annexe is for people Who Cannot Even Say a Sentence but are also incontinent.  I could go on but I am getting really depressed about the whole thing.  I think that there is probably a prequel to The Home Where No-one Can Finish Their Sentences, it is called The Family is Hiding the Embarrassing Old Person Away Nursing Home.

My answer to the problem is to practice my sentences after writing them down.  Once they are written down I can read them out and no-one will have the slightest clue about my lapses of thought.  It will be a self written script and will certainly suffice to keep me out of The Family is Hiding the Embarrassing Person Away Nursing Home.

I have been sitting here with my hands on the keyboard trying to write an excellent final paragraph but as I cannot marshal my thoughts I will finish like this......................................................................!

Nephew and superknitter

I have spent a lovely afternoon and evening with my nephew teaching him to knit.  At first he was all fingers and thumbs but as time progressed he became more adept at holding wool and needles and managed to get the gist of how to do garter stitch. Admittedly, he has managed to get from fifty stitches on the needles to sixty, but hey, it's his first lesson.  I have been knitting for about fifty-eight years so I know how long it takes to become a really experienced knitter.  I am most impressed that he has the tenacious gene.  He will just keep going on and on and eventually he will produce something that looks fantastic.  I am extremely proud of him and it will give me even more pleasure if he comes back to learn other knitting stitches.  Good on him I say!

Knitting

Yesterday I decided to knit a beanie.  I read the pattern, found the needles and picked some gorgeous coloured wools.  I made the beanie in purple, fuschia and bright orange.  That might sound a little mad but it looks amazing.  The only problem was that I used the wrong sized needles.  I did not check whether the needles were a metric or English size.  So after casting on the required number of stitches needed I made not a beanie for myself but one for a tiny little tacker.  I am sure I can find a small child who loves bright colours.  I am thinking of a sort of hippie child who eschews pink or blue and wants to be seen in something trendy.

Tomorrow I am teaching my nephew to knit so I need to put these teething troubles behind me.  I will not engender confidence if I cannot even make myself a beanie that fits.  The first thing he will get to knit will be a scarf.  I hate knitting scarves, they take forever and they are boring.  However, I will let him use all sorts of coloured wool so it won't be an onerous task.  I am sure he will take to knitting like a duck to water.  One thing I have in abundance is knitting wool.  Every colour you can think of and all of it in large quantities.

So tomorrow I will use either larger needles or cast on many more stitches and actually make myself a beanie that I can be proud of.  I will display it for Colin so he will see that his favourite Aunty is brilliant and I will not mention my hiccup in the beanie making stakes.  I hope that he does not think that he will learn everything about knitting in one day and does not become disheartened with all the boring practice that knitting takes before one masters it.  I am looking forward to teaching him and I am pleased that he wants to learn.  It makes up for the fact that the child of my loins gave up on her knitting career because she couldn't master it in only an hour.  Knitting is for patient people; clearly my child is not.

African Violet life or death

Sometimes I think that I need my head read.  I have been sucked right back in to buying African Violets.  I spent some of my birthday money on a lovely healthy plant with purple flowers.  I managed to keep it alive for three months.  That I believe is an absolute record for me.  I try to do all the things they recommend.  Don't water from the top, let the plant dry out between watering, use water that is not too cold, no water with chlorine, lots of light and some sun-light but not too much and so on and so forth.  The instructions for growing successful African Violets are pages long.  You practically need a pilot's licence to get them home from the nursery.  Needless to say I am a failure at African Violet growing.

With my recent failure in mind today I threw caution to the wind and bought myself a nice plant with lovely pink flowers.  I am tossing up trying to buy a special pot that is supposed to keep the plants delicate little feet dry enough but lets it feed on some water.  I think perhaps that buying that pot will be like throwing good money after bad.  I have to balance the whole pensioner lack of money thing with how much I want to be a success at growing the most difficult plant that exists in 'Cushie World.'  

Why you ask am I still butting my head up against a brick wall?  Why do I pick the hardest plants to keep alive and then kill them one by one?  I believe an African Violet keeps me honest.  Every time I get too big for my boots all I have to do is look at another of my plant failures and I am brought down to earth.  I must now state that if this African Violet dies I am NEVER buying another one.  This is the final plant ever.  While I say I am not buying another plant that does not stop anyone from giving me one.  However, my friends know that I am a noted 'African Violet Killer' so are more likely to report me to the Royal Society for Prevention of Cruelty to African Violets and Other Plants.

So just this one last time I want to be able to keep my dear little plant alive, thus I have called her Sibyl.  Everyone knows it is almost impossible to kill a plant with a name.  So Sibyl it is.  God bless her and all who sail in her.  Well that is for ships but I am sure you know what I mean.  Good luck Sibyl you will need it.

Politics of bird poo

Does anyone ever ponder about falling bird poo?  As we know birds poo.  We also know that there a literally thousands of birds flying overhead, ipso facto there should equally be tons of poo falling from the sky.  However, most people go their whole lives without being bird splattered.   Of course beaches are the prime example of lots of birds swooping and pooing.  Yet the only person I know that wore a seagull poo was my pretend Aunty Dossie.  It pooed on her head and said poo ran down her face.  Everyone said that it was lucky to score a bird poo but I think they only said it to make her happy.  Personally I think it is 'crappy' to be pooed on.  Of course seagulls are much too canny to poo on you if you are feeding them chips.  I guess they clench their little bird bottoms and hold on until they finish eating and then find  new targets.  Obviously seagulls are lousy marksbirds.

Now magpies and crows are definitely the biggest pooers.  One only has to park under a gumtree for an hour or so and on return the windscreen is covered in big sloppy white poo.  Everywhere birds fly they besmirch surfaces with the results of their intestinal detritus.  My fences and gates are daubed with their poo and my washing often needs washing again.  So if the birds can poo on any surface why is it that they do not take advantage of all the silly people walking around bare headed?  It is an absolute mystery!  Perhaps our heads are a too small a target or we move too quickly for the poo to land on us.  Perhaps we have an internal warning system that cries out, "Falling bird poo; watch out!"  Perhaps in the case of seagulls they do not want to poo on the hand that feeds them.  I really don't know; it is a mystery.

I have decided to ponder bird poo as I really have nothing else to ponder.  I do not pretend to understand the world so perhaps bird poo is not the most important thing to think about in this day and age, however, at the moment it is what interests me.  Let's face it I am pre-senile and any thinking is good thinking.  So bird poo it is.