In other news

Wagon Wheels are back (as is the avian flu but enough of my hypochondria for now). The confectionery of the old schoolyard, well along with quite a few other tuckshop dainties but WW was my favourite.   You can get original flavour  featuring choc coated biscuit with a  strawberry jam and thin vuhnilla marshmallow centre or a new variety called chocolate which must have like chocolate and marshmallow in the centre. Farout.

Queensland strawberries are still absolutely delicious, all types of pears are still good to eat, and those bananas, why they're worth their weight in gold, aren't they just, because let's face it that's the currency required to purchase them, oh i know  (but don't worry some vendors accept the chocolate money that is covered in gold paper).

Oh and how about that stock market and your super...Zzz

Quack

 I am often accused of worrying unnecessarily about my health. However, I believe that there is nothing excessive about an annual health check when it has recently been necessitatious to have a basal cell carcinoma and a squamous cc excised not to mention one having glandular troubles (and no, that is most definitely not a euphemism for excess pounds acquired by gluttonous consumption of cream buns; for it’s gluten free jam doughnuts what are my weakness). Why it positively behoves the mistress to be mindful of ‘er ‘ealth and to take heed when she feels ever so liverish, never humble, mind, simple of mind, yes, humble, never!
So I scheduled an appointment with my general practitioners.

I hasten to say that it was a very confused telephone conversation I had with the receptionist when booking a double appointment ( I had a list of things that I wished to discuss (not excessive, p r a c t i c al!)). So a week before my appointment I rang to confirm and it would seem that an appointment had been scheduled for Baby Bel’s 12 month check up featuring immunisations galore. I duly told receptionist that I was in fact Baby Bel and required a more age appropriate medical.

Phew, confusion avoided, double appointment assured, and the worry of finding a 12 month old baby for that initial  appointment evaporated, I shutdown the Ebaby search  and tucked into a lite low gi jam doughnut.

Relief, peace of mind and no June Allyson endorsed panty liner required.

Imagine my surprise when I turned up for my appointment and the doctor, a new one, well I had never been doctored by her, said she thought she’d only have time to do my “Puppa Smurf – if you are with me” (I’m quoting the cockin’ doctor here, nsrs!!) to which I replied if you mean Pap Smear yes, I do get your drift (as they used to say Milwaukee way in the 1970’s when they were trying to pretend that it was the 1950’s and were shouting “sit on it” every 15 seconds. (Apparently that expression (sit on it not puppa smurf) dates back to a Leiber Stoller tune penned for the Coasters, yours, language it’s a living thing).

Um, back to the 21st century and conversation at the Cabinet of Dr Cutesy…. I added that I was somewhat vexed by being rushed as I’d made a double appointment and needed to discuss a few matters and have blood tests. It was my annual medical after all. I sulkily  stuffed my A3 sheet listing ailments in my ugg boot. Upon seeing this insufficiently furtive action, she assured me that she’d do a “quick Puppa Smurf and see what happens.”

 Medicine - let’s see what happens, why don’t we? A possible title for some medical programme for juniors? And as for old “Puppa Smurf” the prospect of that old, tiny, blue character hitching a ride on the speculum, no doubt sporting a miner’s helmet with light  to examine one’s cervix was really too, too much. Following that hurried exploration it was on to the blood pressure check and some further curious ‘banter’ about other medical matters with  cutesy euphemisms to which i had to enquire if they too were cartoon characters. Consultation concluded.

And to think, my dears, that the encounter took place a few days before my special day.

While I like to celebrate others’ birthdays (my own special brand of schadenfreude I guess or is it existentialism) the prospect of my own always fills me with despair. But guess what  it's always darkest before the dawn and sure enough when Civic Video sent me a birthday text I knew that things were looking up and  it was going to be a birthday to remember, which also happens to be my favourite Alan Alda film.

Broadmoor nights

Walking past a newsagent the other day I saw a promotion for a publication, Cosmopolitan Brides. Curious what. Full circle and that. while I felt mild irritation with the turnabout for a magazine that once purported to be for the independent femme (or did it ? - compare, contrast and discuss, somewhere else), I'll reserve my  spleen and blimpian bluster for the following and possibly bottle the residual bile for my cunterie of copains.

During celebrations for a golden jubilee (or was it an end of financial year sale?)that i recently attended  I was called 'jealous', 'racist' and 'horrid'. C'mon plain, old 'Bel' is fine by me, i'm not fancy. Initially I was overcome, sorry, come over cranky, and thought allusions were being made to one's brief foray into the indiewindiepudden'n'pie popular culture when too young to make promises or just say no (oh how the eighties are back!),  but no, it was merely a slight on my character so that is A-OK, for the mistress gives as good as she gets, as unlike her preferred hair shade,  she is no shrinking violet.

Don't worry, things picked up, seven hours into the party an ambulance arrived, no fuzz, no swimming pools involved or smack for that matter, shame (oh actually he'd left earlier to prepare for some conference comparing kangaroos with wolves)  just good old Mr Booze and lashings of dysfunctional adults (scribe included) suffering from yet another big chill. Gosh it was a top night. (oops it would seem that bottle has been prematurely uncorked - oh don't you love the glug glug sound of bile being poured? ).

All of which confirms that, yes,  i can be horrid and have occasions of exceptional diction,  but NO I'm not a racialiste and, angels, when you're paranoid, insecure and hypersensitive  (to your own needs) you're never ever classed as  jealous you're a cockin' comic genius, don't ye know.  To think I thought you were all jealous of ME. Oh how we must laugh about this the next time we're in our cups and in between character assassinations and chastisements.

Curiously more and more of my nights out are becoming like Christmas Day circa 1983 with my menopausal mother,  great-aunt tanty du spaz-attack, Patrick White on the cusp of a feud with everyone (Huwo, is it me you're looking for?, actually I excel (is that how it is still spelt and does it mean what I think it means or is it a brand of fruit conserve or computer software - all the years i've spent with dysfunctional potheads is doing my head in) in all roles and it's cockin' exhaustin' for me and my audience! Why, I tip my hat to Alec Guinness; how did he do it - magic of fillum, I guess) and and yet still no-one of the calibre of Nanny Marr or Manoly. And, that, my dear, non sequitur squitter, is THE greatest sin of all.

In between these insouciant follies (opposed to those very heavy and deep ones),  I've just had the jolliest of times, basal cell carcinoma here and squamous cell carcinoma there, stitches galore, some  benders and bedridden weekends, rehab, and a spell in bed this week  with the influenza.. Just when I thought life could really not be much peachier,  I had to go chez medecin for my annual health check....