Whistle restoration surgery

Oh, I’ll just pop into the dermatologist before work on a Tuesday, I thought. Just get this thing on my lip checked out. That lumpy thing that’s been there for a couple of months. That lumpy thing that won’t go away. The lumpy thing that STOLE MY WHISTLE.

For two months I haven’t been able to whistle properly. It ruined my embouchure. The dog roamed the park unbidden and I could do naught but hum while I worked.

Anyhoo, I thought I’ll get a balm, an ointment, a poultice from said dermatologist and be on my way. She took one look at it and said, “We’ll cut that out. It’s a cyst.*” What, now? Yes, now.

(Ultimately a good thing because it meant the pre-procedural dread was cut down from days to minutes.)

Inject, OW, numb, number, numbest, chip chop, sew up, mop up blood. Done! And now, surprise day at home because no one needs to see this swollen and brutalised lower lip.

I will observe my recovery keenly and report back on the whistle’s whereabouts. Come back to me!

*Miranda claims that ‘moist’ is Queen of Words, and ‘plinth’ is King of Words. I think ‘cyst’ must be the bastard half-prince.

Three indispensible new phrases

1. activated pepitas - Collective term for people who consider partially-germinated pumpkin seeds a staple food item. Most of us would put things like bread, milk, sugar in that category. Not so the activated pepitas. They’re busy working out how to fix their thyroid problems by unblocking their creativity.

2. fan belt donkey – A modern-day miracle. After a great anecdote I read recently about a man who resigned himself to death after breaking down in the middle of the desert with a broken fan belt. Then, lo! A donkey strolled up with fan belts of different sizes around its neck. Turns out local miners had tamed the wild donkey and played quoits by hurling fan belts over its head.

3. a Phil Collins kind of day – in honour of the beautiful weather we’re having. No jacket required.

Bali dogs

What a pack of mongrels.

Biu with a view

We rejected winter. We glared at Jack Frost. “No!” we shouted. “No, Jack! We can’t abide your icy influence. We’re outta here!”

And lo, a big jet plane took us to a little Indonesian island. Perhaps you’ve heard of it? Bali?

There were, let me see, giant barking geckoes, manta rays, hunting bats, mammoth moths, delicious things, bananas (biu) by the bunch, hundreds of mangy mutts, turquoise waters, sunny days and balmy nights.

There were also a lot of foreigners. If you scurry away from the south (which seems to be a commuter suburb of Sydney) you can escape most of the Australians. And anyway, the Balinese thought we were Dutch because we were tall and very white, being the only antipodeans who were behatted and sunscreened.

Twas grand.