Skin In the Game #3

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This is another story about the stupidity of youth visited on the adult. Again I’m having my life saved by a bunch of very smart people (all ladies as it happens) who have found potential time bombs on my skin and are removing them with extreme prejudice. It’s the only time I’ve had to firstly be put to sleep and secondly have to stay overnight in hospital after having an admittedly larger chunk of me than normal being removed from my person. When I woke up in the recovery room. I experienced something I remembered and immediately forgot the couple of other times I’ve been through step 1 of the lethal injection process. Immediately on waking I was aware of an extremely vivid dream and assumed I was still in it until the brain fog cleared sufficiently a few minutes later by which time I had completely forgotten what I was dreaming about other than that it was about….something extremely vivid. An anaestho-psychologist probably has a name for this phenomenon.

This one was tricky in that it’s on my shin where the skin is very tight. So the same plastic surgeon who is already somewhat familiar with my chest and my thumb will chop out the offending piece then cut a flap in my shin skin big enough and pliable enough to stretch over and cover the hole, then stitch it all back togetheragain. It was either that or another skin graft (as happened with the thumb) and the flap was considered to be a better option. Mine is not to reason why. I was going to say this was the Josef Mengele option but chose not to as it would be too offensive.

Now that it’s done, I can’t move it for a week or two and if I have to move around, it was going to be with the aid of crutches. I had extensive experience with crutches having broken my ankle as a 15 year-old playing rugby. So no issue there I thought, until I tried. I’m now using something that looks more like one of those walker things. That gives me five contacts with the ground (not counting my dodgy leg) instead of three. My chances or remaining upright improved by 66%.

I spent the last couple of days ranking the various offerings on streaming services we subscribe to so I can decide my viewing preferences while laid-up. There’re about a dozen series I’ve abandoned through waning to complete lack of interest. Having waited in vain for season 6 of Slow Horses, I guess I’m going to have to revisit the first 5. Or watch replays of the few games my football team has won this season.

Golf is out for at least a month. As I’m writing this I’m watching the ladies golf on Fox Sports on TV. I wouldn’t mind going to sleep right now as it’s after midnight but the bloke opposite me in this 4 person ward is snoring like a chainsaw. It did stop for while after what sounded like a minor struggle. Either he rolled over onto his front or one of my room mates shoved a pillow into his face. To balance the snoring with a higher pitch, alarms keep going off. I thought they were loud mobile phones and figured that was why the nurses in the nurses’ station immediately outside the ward door were ignoring them. In fact, their ability to ignore them is up there with the ability of your average middle and upper class Indian to not see the ubiquitous squallor around them. A nurse just told me it won’t be happening again tonight. It’s now 4.00am and they have started up again with a vengeance. Unlike on Netflix medical shows like “House” when an alarm goes off it means someone is in cardiac arrest or similar and requires a team of doctors to save them, here I think it means the tea’s getting cold.

Incidentally, I need to apologise to the gentleman opposite me who I can confidently say will never read this blog. Remember, this guy sounds like a train in a tunnel when his snore hits peak Fred Flintstone. The only comparable sound I can think of would have been emitted by our late cat, Eddie the Engine, he of the loudest purr in the world. Of course Ed would need to be about 15 times bigger and commensurately louder that he was as a fully grown (very fully in Ed’s case) cat. But I also assumed he (the bloke opposite, not Ed) was emitting occasional high-pitched farts until I realised it’s me. Well, not actually me but the machine hooked up to my one good lower leg. I have this cuff, like a blood pressure measuring cuff which wraps round your elbow, wrapped around my calf. It regularly expands and contracts to keep the blood circulation up and prevent clotting in said calf. When it deflates, well you now know the rest.

I know there’s a whole litany of first world problems here but is this what 46 years with the same private health insurer gets you? By the way, the food is better than your average airline food but not all of the TV channels work.

Road Trip – Wine Therapy #4

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After about 10 wine cellar doors and about 60 wine samples the CB and I have been coerced / seduced / bribed / convinced to buy copious bottles of wine from numerous wine producers. And why not. If it works for you, go with it, right. Unfortunately as the wine stocks increase in the limited space at the back of our small SUV, we have to consider dumping clothes as our wine stocks have expanded. Theoretically this is not a difficult decision because the child bride and I thought we would experience much colder temperatures in southern climes than we have. So the coats could go. Except the furthest place north we have visited on this trip – Stanthorpe – is the coldest. I wore a coat tonight which I last wore in Alta which is at the top of Norway.

While on the subject of cars (sort of) , it took us almost 8.5 hours to do a trip that was predicted to take 7.5 hours, from Mudgee to Stanthorpe. The reason for this miscalculation has nothing to do with my pensioner-like driving. I have a BMW that goes like a scalded cat when I hit the after-burners and I have been known to very generously interpret speed limits. But when there are more roadworks than road and each road works zone comes with its own traffic lights, you can understand the problem. We encountered at least 10 red lights. And why do councils feel the need to block off a couple of kilometres of road to do about 10 metres of work. I can only assume it’s so they have plenty of room to park numerous vehicles which are not being used, presumably to save fuel. Or something.

Having now arrived home the child bride and I can look forward to a few alcohol-free days which sounds kind of counter-intuitive considering we have just spent 10 days sampling wines in three different wine producing regions. It could have been worse because there are about 300 cellar doors in those places and we only got to a relative handful. We’d have needed another 10 days to get round all of them.

Road Trip – Wine Therapy #3

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We transferred to Mudgee yesterday. A very historic (by Australian standards) town with many of the things I care about most, conveniently located nearby. There’s wine and let’s face it, that would be more than enough but there’s also a gold mining past and three very large coal mines currently operating just down the road from the town. I guess that explains why the pubs were so well supported last night – Monday night. And the pub we were in had signage on the ceiling. That means that when you regain consciousness, you have something to read.

We did a wine tour today, starting at 10.00am. As I’ve previously noted, early starts to these bacchanalian outings are not advisable unless you intend to write-off most of the afternoon. The child bride has just washed her hair after our wine tour and I suspect used it as an excuse to stand under a cold shower to sober up. Country cellar doors are much more generous with their wine samples than the larger more commercial outfits so we came prepared with the wobbly boots on this morning. After all of that wine I could do with a cold beer.

In the Hunter our accommodation contained a king-sized bed. Neither the CB nor I are particularly large and she is, in fact, quite diminutive. So in a king we each occupy a corner and communicate via smoke signals. Here in Mudgee we are staying in a historic building (previously a coach house) so the rooms are quite small and the sleeping arrangements are adjusted down accordingly, so we now have a double bed. I’m a roller so I start on my right side then roll onto my back then on to my left side, then back again.  Rinse and repeat. All night. So in a double bed, that means a constant tangle of arms and legs. I’m sure the CB feels like she’s sleeping with a football team. We won’t pursue that line of thought any further other than to say if we’d have been any closer we’d have been waking the neighbours.

And now something completely different. A pulled or torn calf muscle is considered an old man’s injury. When men of a certain age try to demonstrate that they still possess the athletic prowess of their youth, the first part of the anatomy to yield is the calf. I did mine yesterday morning. I wasn’t jogging or throwing myself round gym equipment. I did it during an over vigorous stretch in bed before departing our cosy sleeping arrangements. Pathetic, right. So I’ve been limping everywhere and copious amounts of wine don’t appear to be efficacious in this regard. I guess I’ll have to apply the one cure that always works in these circumstances – time.

Road Trip -Wine Therapy #2

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I’ve previously remarked in these pages that if you close your eyes and step into the street in Hong Kong, chances are you’ll be hit by either a Rolls Royce or a taxi. In Singapore it would be either a single decker or double decker bus. Now I’ve discovered that stepping into the Pacific Highway in New South Wales would result in a losing encounter with a humongous truck, a campervan or an SUV towing a caravan. The CB and I have just driven on said highway for about 7 hours south from the Queensland border over two days. Now I know why there is apparently a waiting list for new caravans. I read this somewhere. All of those available have been sold. And they’re all on this road. The CB and I lived in one for 6 months during my first foray into full time work post-university in 1977, at a small copper mine with no accommodation for us so we had to take our own. That was the end of our caravanning experience if you ignore a short holiday a few years later which confirmed that these living arrangements are just too close to camping for the CB and she doesn’t do camping under any circumstances. We once stayed in a tent in the Sahara Desert but it had a shower and a flush toilet (I had to upgrade to the luxury model) so didn’t really count.

Having arrived in the Hunter Valley of New South Wales, one of Australia’s premier wine producing regions, we were keen to get into it, so to speak. It’s now the next day and we did get into it although in a relatively civilised way, like camping in the Sahara. Our wine tour commenced at 11.30am and concluded at 5.00pm. I’m not necessarily one who likes to comply with conventional norms but wine tasting at 9.00am is stretching things a tad. So one pre-lunch and more than one post-lunch is definitely the way to go.

There were ten in our group – a young couple who I surmised (with absolutely no justification) were expanding their repertoire from tequila and beer to chardonnay and gin, a couple who were very familiar with cellar doors like the CB and I, and four twenty something females on a girls’ weekend. The young couple kept their distance and were pretty quiet. The other pair were like us – interested in the history of the area and, without getting too snobby because wine is Housewives of New York snobby, interested in the wine culture of the region. The four young ladies deserve a paragraph of their own.

A wine tour involves getting in and out of a vehicle which seems pretty straightforward until you realise that it’s not when you have the equivalent of 6 glasses of wine in the bag. There may even be a bit of walking involved – round wine making facilities ie vats and kegs and wine growing facilities ie vines. So nightclub wear and heels are not recommended. When the nightclub wear includes a floppy top that allows floppy bits to flop out, who am I to complain. If you want to wear what amounts to high cut white swimsuit under a sheer nylon curtain, break a leg. And by 11.30am, I think the four young ladies may have been a few aperol spritzes ahead of the rest of us judging by the giggling and their totally ignoring the poor driver’s local area commentary. She may as well have been speaking in Esperanto for all the attention she was getting from the back of the bus. But they were sweet, once they settled down.

At the end of the day three of us got an eye-full as well as a few nice wines, three others sampled some nice wines and weren’t interested in the eye-full and the other four no doubt continued their young ladiies’ knees-up until the next day when they had to head home and stagger back to work on Monday.

Road Trip – Wine Therapy #1

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I’ve spent countless hours on my own over recent centuries during many days, weeks and months travelling and travelling and travelling. Observing people becomes second nature because what else are you going to do while sitting in an airport or any one of numerous other places like office waiting rooms, hotel lobbies, restaurants, bars, bars and also bars. I’ve been out of the sales and marketing business for a few years now but the instincts remain. Like having the antennae up when you’re in a dodgy situation. I don’t mean a James Bond/Blofeld life or death dodgy situation. It could mean a tricky negotiation with cunning Japanese or Koreans when thousands or potentially millions of money are at stake. Or trying to work out if your flight’s been called in a domestic Iranian airport where Farsi is the first and last languge spoken and even the numbers are different. So the Child Bride and I were enjoying a nice dinner in  a resort restaurant in Coffs Harbour (on our way to wine country) and I couldn’t help noticing the clientele, and in some cases, drawing some possibly long-bow (or maybe short-bow, who knows?) conclusions.

One that had no conclusion necessary was the bloke sitting on his own, eating his meal and drinking his beer. That was me, a million times over, all over the world. “Table for one” is a phrase I never want to utter again. It’s pretty depressing I have to say and on this night I was able to say to the child bride that that used to be me but the present me is sitting with you and that’s infinitely  better than the alternative.

At another table there were two gay guys. I may be wrong and they may be insulted if they knew I was writing about them and assuming they were gay. Should a straight man be insulted if he is assumed to be gay now that it’s as normal as tattoos? I’m guessing that’s not allowed in polite company any more – not the assumption of gayness but the state of being insulted (insultedness?). Frankly, my dear, I don’t give a damn. Anyway, I’ve had plenty of one-on-one lunches and dinners with blokes and never once did we crack a bottle of champagne like these two dudes did. So I’m sticking to my assumption and noone will ever be able to disprove it

Next was a young 30’ish guy eating dinner with a younger bloke who looked about 10. Possibly his son (they both had curly hair) on his weekly or monthly or whatever night out with his Dad. At one point they both walked off and the wait staff came and cleared their table. Turns out the Dad was showing his son where the toilet was and when they came back, much waving of arms resulted in the table being relaid and dessert being served. A bloody good outcome judging by the look on the kid’s face. Maybe a good end to a bitter-sweet situation. Again, who knows?

There was one other table that was still occupied when we were ready to leave at 8.00pm. It was Wednesday night and it’s still winter so not a lot of the locals are out and about. Anyway these two weren’t going to be painting the town red anytime soon. I gave the bloke 5 years provided a “painting the town red” stroke didn’t intervene first. Sitting down, his guts almost reached his knees. If you’re sitting while reading this, glance down and try to imagine that. That’s as spectacular (in a perverse sort of way) as Bob Beamon’s long jump in Mexico City in 1968 (you’ll have to look it up if you are sportingly challenged). His wife was relatively svelte with “relatively” being the operative word. Like Titanic is relatively small when compared with the current crop of cruising behemoths. I know it’s cruel to mock affliction but if it can be cured or at least ameliorated by a bit of self discipline then you’re fair game.

There’s a nine hole golf course round this resort. It’ looks awesome. The two immediately above could do with walking a few of the very picturesque holes. The 9th is right outside our room, along-side a lagoon. I could hit that island green with a 9 iron, 8 iron tops, assuming the ball went where it was intended to go (a very ambitious assumption). Of course the pros, like Min Jee Lee and Lydia Ko would be backing off with a wedge. Wish I had muscles like Lydia.

There’s a few hours of daylight left so tally-ho. All good for holes 1 through 8 – all pars and bogies. Then the 9th and it was splash, splash, splash, damn! shit! fuck! Time for a beer.

Culture Wars – The Wet Kind

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One of the many fronts on which the culture wars are being fought is the definition of a woman which invariably morphs into a discussion about the differences between men and women especially regarding trans-women, or more specifically, men, participating in women’s sports. One of the more ridiculous examples of this was during the confirmation hearing for the most recent addition to the US Supreme Court, the highest court in the land which sits at the head of one of the three arms of the US government (executive, legislative and judicial) under their constitution. This lady (for she is a female) who is now a Supreme Court Justice, was asked to define a woman and she said she was unable to because she is not a biologist. FFS. That’s one giant step along the road to Idiocracy.

Enough of that. Differences extend up from the cellular level with women possessing only X chromosomes whereas men possess both X and Y chromosomes. In fact, the Y chromosome is pretty much the only thing a wife can’t take from a husband in a particularly nasty divorce. But I digress. We can progress in our list of differences, to include human anatomy and physiology which are mainly related to the naughty bits and the plumbing attached thereto. The list continues until we reach things like reverse parking and making as opposed to drinking cocktails. Our discussion today considers number 47 in the list of differences between men and women which is illustrated by the below photograph.

Before this, lets briefly explore another bathroom related difference between men and women – not what you’re thinking….or the other one. No, this involves standing naked in front of a mirror. A woman can have a body like a super-model and that could be Monica Bellucci looking back at her but all she’ll see are her flaws – both real and imaginary. A man, on the other hand, will look at his Dad-bod (or Father-figure), flex his muscles and think to himself, a few months in the gym and that six-pack will be back, no problem.

Back to the topic at hand.

This is a picture of the ledge in our ensuite shower. If you’re not able to deduce for yourself, the left side is the child bride’s and the right side, by a process of elimination, bearing in mind there are only two people in this house, is mine. The window ledge immediately behind me is similar except there are two less items on my side compared with what you can see here. The left side of the ledge contains a vast array of implements and tubes, jars and other containers holding biological weapons and defoliants which I think were popular during the Vietnam War.

On my side there is soap and shampoo. And not just any shampoo. Men are ridiculed by women for not being able to multi-task. As a reminder, for a woman, multi-tasking involves talking and something else. While we may not be able to multi-task our left-brain logic has us buying shampoo that does. So that shampoo cleans your hair, your body, the shower, the sink, the dishes, the laundry, the car, the driveway, the barbecue, the dog and the toilet. That means one trip to the supermarket and one invoice significantly below three figures.

Rambling River Run Repeat #9

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We’ve been in Germany for a few days now and I was feeling uneasy. Something was wrong. Something was missing. Was there a Zulu horde just over the next hill, shadowing our every move or were we a modern version of the Roman legions about to be vanquished in the Teutoberg Forest. It was quiet…too quiet. Then there it was. Not welcome or reassuring in the least but disdainfully expected. The wump, wump, wump of thousands of windmills. If they could move like so many triffids Custer’s Last Stand would have been like a paper cut. But with all of the trouble in the Middle East, a ready replacement for fossil fuels has to be a good thing, right? Apart from the oil you have to put in them to keep them running. And you can’t strap one to the roof of your tractor. Enough of that.

There’s a part of Barvaria called Franconia which sounds like a cross between France and some medieval Disneyworld and while it’s people aren’t a Germanic equivalent of your average French waiter they are the opposite of those occupying the happiest place on earth. The locals say that if a Franconian is smiling it’s because they’re drunk which I guess is a good thing because if drunks are required, you want happy ones. Sober Franconians on the other hand, aren’t the type of people you invite to a party (unless they get drunk on the way). “It could be worse” is about the most enthusiastic complement you will lever out of a Franc or Frances apparently. The legendary German sense of humour must have had its origins here.

In the past, property in this part of the world was worth more if it was covered, at least to some extent, with grape vines. I guess there also had to be someone nearby with the wherewithal to turn their fruit into booze (otherwise what is the point) but that doesn’t appear to have been part of the contract. Anyway, there are grape vines up and down the Rhine and Main Rivers’ valleys with up being the operative word. Building terraces or heaven forebid, growing on flat land is for pikers. You have to assume there were property scams a-plenty judging by some of the vineyard locations. How you can successfully manage a block of land which would be more accessible if it was on the side of an Egyptian Pyramid, is beyond my comprehension.

I started writing this episode a few days ago. We’re now in Amsterdam, in the departure lounge of our boat, which for the last three weeks was the bar. We’re parked next to a large blue cruise liner which is currently home to 1000 refugees. When we got off our boat yesterday to do a canal cruise and look at tulips which are now blooming, we were told to keep our belongings close and beware of pickpockets. I draw no link between the two.

Adieu until the next adventure, or unless I think of something else to write about in the meantime.

Rambling River Run Repeat #8

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I thought of something to write so disregard #7. But before we get onto Germany, a bit more on Austria. You my dear readers, know this isn’t a travelogue where you can read about what best sights to see or hotels to stay in. I’ll leave that to travel agents. We’ll talk about other stuff here.

We’ve recently been to Salzburg (not to be confused with Strasbourg as I frequently do) and if you didn’t know, Salzburg is famous for Mozart and The Sound of Music. They also gave us yodelling, according to them – not something I would mention in polite company. Had they also gifted the world rap music, their work would have been complete.

The guides on this trip have been tremendous and our guide in Salzburg was no exception. At every stop on the walking tour, there was a Sound of Music link…and she’s a singer so it was like being guided by  a South African (for South African she is) Julie Andrews. We got the whole sing-song repertoire. But at the end she became a (metaphorical) horse. Before you affect offence by proxy, I mean, like a working horse, as soon as we turned for home the pace accelerated markedly, much to the chagrin of the athletically challenged in our group. An international incident was avoided by a tactical change-up. I’ve never understood why “change-up” means “slow-down” when it should mean “speed up”.

When it comes to attitude to table service, the Eastern Europeans love us, the Austrians are indifferent and the Germans have turned into the French. The EU has a lot to answer for in the overall scheme of things but this development is ridiculous. We’ve all encountered the French waiter of legend but how did this become a German thing? Are the French infiltrating and blaming Germany for some implied slight? Surely the French can’t blame the Germans (everyone else can – Angela Merkel specifically) for cultural assisted suicide because France was already Algeria with attitude when the migrant tsunami smashed through non-existent borders (Poland and Hungary notwithstanding). But I digress (as usual), as this has only a tenuous link to table service..

To further flog this digression, we have just been to Nuremberg and there’s a very nice statue there surrounded by a wrought iron fence. The fence had a ring built into it a few hundred years ago and if inclined you can spin the ring and it will grant you magical fertility powers. Or something. Anyway, we saw this about eight years ago and back then it was in an easily accessible square. It wasn’t in a square protected by freedom bollards, placed to prevent people of irrelevant ethnicity accidentally ploughing their vehicles into crowds of unsuspecting people, usually around Christmas time. But it is now. Something has irrevocably changed so you can understand why your average German service provider might be somewhat pissed and not in any mood to indulge tone-deaf foreigners like us when they’ve got plenty of their own to deal with.

Rambling River Run Repeat #6

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Spring in Europe – snow in Romania, 6 degrees but feels like minus 2 in Vienna and 4 degrees but feels like minus 4 in Durnstein. Where’s global warming when you could do with a bit. I’m guessing but maybe this means not as much melted snow is finding its way into the river. The last time we did this trip, in summer, the water level was too low so we had to bus half of the journey – the half we’re in now. At this time of the year the danger (to tourism) is too much water meaning the boats can’t get under the low bridges. Having successfully negotiated the stretch between Budapest and Vienna and now Vienna to Passau, we are in front.

There’s a valley between the Carpathian Mountains and the Austrian Alps which the Danube flows through and extends into the Wachau Valley west of Vienna. The Ottoman Turks regularly poured through this valley taking out Bulgaria, Romania and Hungary as they went but they never got past Vienna. The Battle of Vienna stopped them in their tracks. The largest cavalry charge in history -18000 men and horses – had the Mohammed’s searching for reverse on their carpets on September 12 1683. Then as now, the Poles were at the forefront of keeping uninvited guests out of their country thanks to their king, John III Sobieski who led the charge. The two month Siege of Vienna finished September 11 1683, considered to be the last day the Ottomans had the upper hand in Eastern Europe. Some pundits suggest this is why terrorist scum chose that date for 9/11 in 2001. The only thing that pours in the Wachau Valley now, is wine. And long may it continue.

Now the same area around Vienna has been successfully conquered by hundreds of wind turbines. If HG Wells’ War of the Worlds was written today, in Austria (or Germany or any number of other numbskull jurisdictions) it would be considered a work of non-fiction. Interestingly, immediately on crossing the border into Bratislava in Slovakia, the bird mincers ceased to be like so many dead parrots. I guess the Slovakians had enough of unaccountable, unelected bureaucrats telling them what to do from 1945 to 1989. Not any more.

Speaking of the border between Austria and Slovakia (or Czechoslovakia pre 1989), we breezed through without slowing down yesterday. In 1988 we’d have had to risk being electrocuted by an electric fence or being shot. But let’s try communism again like the Mayor of New York is laughably attempting now although we’ll have to build more electric fences to stop idealistic jackasses flooding in – not. So popular was it considered to be (1956 Hungary and 1968 Czechoslovakia notwithstanding), the commies felt compelled to build the largest housing development in Europe or the World (or something). 120,000 people live there on the outskirts of Bratislava. That’s one hell of a block party.