Rib Angst

I have a cracked rib. It sits like a shard of glass in my chest, brittle and painful and invisible to the human eye. The story is less exciting than it sounds. I fell off my bike in the middle of the night, more sober than anyone will believe. I flew over my handlebars and smacked into tram tracks. It hurt. A week later, it hurt even more. I have been staggering around the house moaning and groaning like an old man, breathing in sharply through my teeth and then instantly regretting it. People I talk to give me sympathetic smiles and tell me that I must be more careful on my bicycle in the future. It annoys me.

I sat in the doctor's waiting room for 40 minutes, attempting to read an Ernest Hemingway book while a pair of obese English twins sat across from me and talked about how one of them had crabs. The girl was taking large swigs from a bottle of Pepsi and the boy, whose hair was dyed platinum blonde and stood straight up like a half built house, played with his nose ring. Both had slittly eyes and wore identical Houndstooth wristbands. Neither of them could fit properly on the row of waiting room chairs. In the corner, a harried mother was having a clipped phone conversation about swimming lessons while her two year old ripped the pages out of a magazine.

The doctor wasn't much help. He told me to be more careful riding my bike in the future and that there was nothing really to worry about except the possibility of puncturing a lung. He wrote me out a prescription for some high voltage painkillers which would make me constipated but also help me sleep. The tiny, angry woman at the chemist gave me a shifty look when I handed over the prescription and told me that this was strong stuff and that it would make me constipated. I told her about my broken rib. She told me that I should be more careful riding my bike in the future.

Painkillers are kicking in. Elaine out.

Parks and Prisons

A new dwelling, a new lease, a new lease on life. Old friends and ex-lovers have helped me move out of the nuthouse and into a terraced cottage in the delightful suburb of Clifton Hill. There are no words that can express my gratitude towards theses wonderful people, no words to describe my relief at the tranquility and sanity of my new abode, especially compared to the one previous. There is plush carpet on the floor and sometimes when no one is looking, I roll around on it like an excited pup.

There is no hill in Clifton Hill. At best, the gradient would amount to a 'gentle slope'; something you probably wouldn't notice unless you were riding a bicycle up it and even then, shifting gears in optional. It's close to everything, or at least everything that matters. The Fitzroy pool, with its dippy staff and lanes of Goodbodies swimming back and fourth, is a convenient ten minute stroll to the West. There are ample, tree filled parks in every direction and at least one has a decent swing set. Funky Fitzroy is close and seedy Collingwood is even closer. There is a 24 hour McDonalds a little down the way but that doesn't impress anyone.

On my way back to Melbourne, I spent a delightful seven hours at Auckland airport. It was night and everything was closed and at the end of the bench I was sitting on perched a tiny, ancient Chinese woman clutching an AM radio. Some talk back station droned in and out of static and the the tiny woman nodded along to it, a huge smile on her face throughout. Eventually, she fell asleep and an equally tiny but much younger Chinese woman sitting on the other side of the bench gently pulled the radio out of her hands and switched it off.

I started a lengthy discussion with the woman sitting opposite me; a prison warden called Heather who was leaving New Zealand for the first time to visit her dying Grandmother in England. Heather told me about her job at the prison; about how she had no qualms about telling certain inmates that they deserved the death penalty and that although she had a good tuck in at the prison breakfast, she never touched the sandwiches at lunchtime. She told me how she always carried a truncheon but had only used it once, when a gang of Black Power members tried to stab a rival gang member to death. She said that this was an intense experience and that afterwards she had to sit down for a cigarette and a mug of coffee with three heaped spoonfuls of Nescafe in it. She said that I'd be surprised at how nice some of the serial rapists were when you sat down and talked to them about it.

Heather told me about how she had wanted to name her first son Axl as she was a massive Gunners fan. It would have been particularly perfect because her last name is Odes, which, as she pointed out in gruelling detail, is very similar to Rose. Unfortunately, her husband Doug had decided to veto this carefully thought out plan and names their first son Doug, after himself. The silver lining was that Doug Senior did let name the next child, a girl, whom was christened Sunday Rose (Odes). Heather picked this name because she thought it was pretty but also because it sounded a bit like her favourite meal, a Sunday roast. Their third child was named Josh.

Heather was appalled by the actions of Ander Breivik and had a few disciplinary suggestions to dish out. She said she was thinking of writing a letter. However, she told me in hushed tones (presumably not to wake the tiny sleeping Chinese woman) that she did see where he was coming from and that she did think something had to be done about the Muslim invasion. I smiled and nodded and wondered how I was going to get out of this. She ranted on and on about how some races just shouldn't mix and how most people just weren't smart enough to figure this out. It was about 1am at this point and Heather's phone rang and six year old Josh screamed down the phone that he missed her and that she shouldn't fly because she might crash. It was kind of sweet really. She told me after she hung up and that she and Doug Senior had given up telling him to go to bed but had decided to limit him to five hours of PlayStation a night.

She left for her flight at two, I stayed till seven and watched a bunch of West Wing episodes which is not a good idea when you're slipping in and out of consciousness. President Bartlett said some inspiring things and I think I missed most of them. But I will think of Heather Odes every time I hear Welcome to the Jungle for a long, long time.

And back in Clifton Gentle Slope, I drink tea and eat crumpets. I try not to smoke too many cigarettes and lap up the sunshine. Life is good. Time to roll around on the carpet again.