An ordinary life

Larry

/ Robert / 5 Comments

Larry

A combination of having to keep the right hand and wrist wound sites clean and dry for two weeks, wet weather, and my roller-coastering mood demanding low-impact situations, led me to opt for a week mostly at home.

By Wednesday, I was more than ready to accompany my husband on our weekly shopping trip to Lutwyche. Destinations: Aldi, Woolworths, Coles and Chemist Warehouse.

Whilst seated near a travelator in the shopping centre, my right arm tubigripped and elevated to minimise swelling, a pale, slim older man approached me and asked if I had broken my hand.

I am easy pickings in these situations. Too English to politely decline a conversation, and insufficiently mobile to stand up and briskly walk away.

“Surgery,” I mumbled.

“Carpal tunnel?” he asked.

“Yes,” I responded, nodding, whilst wondering how long my husband had been gone.

The man proceeded to tell me about a friend with carpal tunnel syndrome who had achieved total recovery through professional massage. Memories of dry needling, cupping and painful deep-tissue massages flashed through my mind as he explained his distrust of doctors and the medical profession.

I was fascinated by his grey-stained, tombstone-like teeth, crammed together as though in an overcrowded graveyard.

He announced that he had prostate cancer. He thought it had been there for about 20 years. His doctor had told him, “Larry, you won’t die of it.”

I wondered whether the woman at the other end of the blue vinyl-upholstered seat, who was looking at her mobile, was listening to this monologue.

Finally, Larry bid me a good day and disappeared into the “not usually this busy” throng of passers-by.

Out of sorts

/ Robert / 5 Comments

Commit to working and demonstrate the business’ values, they directed. I did, and was chewed up and spat out. I’m still there although, a ghost of myself, finding self-motivation and boredom challenging.

As a teenager at secondary school, I preferred languages, the arts and anything else over sports, and Physical Education (P.E.). To get out of the weekly, two hours of humdrum football, running, cricket, or rugby, followed by changing room bullying and body shaming, I was often sick. I ensured medical and dental appointments were scheduled at this time. I wonder if my Mom realised I was doing this.

Insightfully, Mr Clowes, a P.E. teacher wrote on one of my reports, I did not consider games to be part of the curriculum.

The first arthroscopic carpal release (left) surgery was completed on 16 July 2026. By around eight weeks post-op, I had returned to full hours split between three days at home and two in the office.

The right release surgery was scheduled for three days after turning 63. It was postponed. As I had psyched myself up for the procedure and the resulting recovery regime, I took leave from work and enjoyed a week of creativity in sketching and trying out acrylic painting. The materials are from a set my husband bought me for my birthday.

The surgery was completed last Tuesday. In the week since, my head has been all over the place. I imagine it’s due to a combination of coming down from the anaesthetic, managing the side effects of pain medication, and the strangest sensation of needing to rely on my non-dominant left hand.

So far I have succeeded in completing 99% of activities of daily living. I’m unable to slice bread, chop vegetables, or unscrew tight lids. I cheated whilst shaving this morning. Managing to adjust the angle and pressure of the multi-blade razor went well. I lost patience when I couldn’t see what I was doing on the right side of my neck and switched hands.

Twenty one again

/ Robert / 7 Comments
Cocktails at Dr Gimlet, Edward Street, Brisbane

Next time, I am twenty one again will be when I turn eighty four. On Saturday, we began the celebration at home with espresso martinis on the balcony with salted nuts and assorted Lindor chocolates.

Dodging the showers, we arrived on time for more cocktails and a six course Hooked banquet lunch at Fosh, Portside: brioche and whipped taramasalata, natural oyster, crudo scallop, Thai fish curry and roti, twice cooked chicken with mixed leaves and skin on French fries, and finished off with fruit pavlova and sauce anglaise.

Leaving around 3:00pm, we headed to Brett’s Wharf to catch the Brisbane Rivercat to Riverside, and a short promenade to Dr Gimlet, Edward Street for the gin trolley. Unfortunately, one of the wheels had fallen off. This did not douse the high spirits of three men over sixty and two in their mid-fifties.

Three or four drinks later, the sexagenarians were feeling peckish so headed to Fish Lane, South Bank by Uber. The intended venue had a one-hour wait for a table so the trio went to Hello Please for prawn toast followed by chicken Katsu.

At around 8:30, triple trouble enjoyed an asparagus and broad bean entree and tatufo pizza with valpolicella, this wrapped up the evening.

Sunday was a decidedly recovering dead duck.

Today, we picked up Stan and have enjoyed Campari spritz, prawn cocktail, and are looking forward to slow-cooked chicken breast in tomatoes, red wine, balsamic vinegar, oregano, thyme, and smoked paprika with roast potatoes and carrots, broccoli and peas.

Period dreams

/ Robert / Leave a comment
A gift from my husband in 1995, includes a directory of businesses.

Period dreams
Of parlour scenes,
Of unseen teams of seams,
Of ruffles, tucks, and pleats,
And buffed beeswax scent.
Ceiling traces chandelier shadows
Of sweeping curlicue swirls.

‘Neath Corinthian cornice,
Spiralling spires sneak
Up Lincrusta frieze,
Silent sentinel to
Crackle-popping hearth’s
Radiance, dancing
Upon glazed sage tiles, landscapes,
and portraits, hung high and low.
Either side, old-gold-braid-framed moss velvet wingbacks slouch;
‘Twixt them purple paisley poufs pout.

Candelabra twirling fronds furl,
Atop antique raspberry damask swathed mantel.
Eternally Diana hunts above dado,
Reflected in gilt encased overmantel.

Behind the bullion-fringed ivory brocade chaise,
Fenestra layered by blinds and voile,
Interlined Sanderson rose chintz drapes snuggle beneath
Shrugging swags into tails.
Against north’s icy past.

Dark oak polished parquet
Washed by apricitic ruby, emerald, amber lights
Borders muted-toned chinoiserie rug.

Panelled portal: a glimpse of
Hands-‘n’-knees scrubbed,
Geometric Victorian-tiled moiré-striped hall,
Echoes heaven’s strain of “Twist again like we did last Summer”.

Scout

/ Robert / 3 Comments
Teneriffe wharf

Week one of resuming pre-operation hours at work. Week two of commuting into the office two days per week.

Yesterday and this morning, I missed the first bus into town and the usual battle to alight on Adelaide Street. The second bus was thankfully sparsely populated at both the beginning and end of the journeys.

Arriving at my pre-booked desk around 7:20 am, I check in, wander around to locate the chair tagged with my name, unpack the laptop, exercise flexi-tube, mousepad, headset, phone charger cable, and food from my backpack, then retrieve the ergonomic keyboard, water flask, left-hand mouse, fan, cups, and Twinings Lady Grey teabags from my locker. This takes another ten minutes.

Hot-desking frees up resources, and leads to additional time being spent setting up and clearing away each day.

After logging into the laptop, opening the internet and launching cloud-based telephony, timesheet, chat, mail, calendar, notes, calculator, case list, work items, and AI; using TheraPutty and elastic bands to complete my hand exercises; catching up with teammates, both in person and online; and making a cup of tea, it is 8 o’clock — time for breakfast.

I’m much more productive on the three days I work from home.

Yesterday, following an hour participating in team cultural development, completing a proactive case review with my line manager and an external psychologist, and updating case notes, it was time to head off to my own psychology session.

Navigating my wheelie walker — I haven’t named it yet — across the varied textured pathways, ramps, roads, drains, potholes, service and manhole covers, and tactile indicators of Brisbane, my right hand was numb from the vibration. The right carpal release surgery is scheduled for 20 October.

I arrived late for my appointment, in pain from the hip, hot, sweaty and feeling stressed. We discussed this in the session in relation to goals versus values, and boom-and-bust cycles. I could relate to both concepts.

When able, I push myself, driven by a goal, without stopping to think about the impact on my values.

And I have a new one: independence.

I had this one wrapped up in authenticity. I find it amusing how values may pop up unexpectedly when they are challenged.

Community is another new one.

The trip home went like a dream: catching the 60 from Adelaide Street to Teneriffe Wharf, the ferry to Brett’s Wharf to be met by my husband and Stan, followed by a slow, controlled, supported hobble home.

I’m naming it Scout.

Phat Elephant

/ Robert / 7 Comments

The most delicious chicken Tom Yum soup served in an elevated bowl surrounding a spirit burner.

Lunch with work colleagues on Thursday at Phat Elephant, Brisbane. Located on the first floor overlooking Adelaide Street and Anzac Square. It can be accessed via Post Office Square to avoid the stairs.

Simon says

/ Robert / 6 Comments
Father’s Day

In Australia, today is for the dad’s.

On Friday, Carenza of Balmoral Urban Country Club, formerly School of Etiquette drove to us to deliver the “I love my Dad” bandanna before travelling overseas for their holiday, yesterday.

In his 17th year, Stan has significantly slowed down, sleeping deeply for most of the day. We caught him mid-doze for this picture. He would not usually pose.

On my graduated return to work, this week, I completed six hours on Monday, Wednesday, and Friday.

For two hours on Wednesday, I participated in an in-person two-hours’ workshop on improving conversations. Slido is used for participant feedback, I’m guessing to make it more accessible for everyone. I forgot and launched into a diatribe of an example of how I had fulfilled my employers goals, values, and demonstrated OARS (acronym starting O for open questions, A for affirmation, R reflecting, and S for summarising).

One of the two presenters thanked me for sharing and reminded me we were typing our responses. Whoops!

The next one, whoops that is, came when all those that were able to (I’m using a wheelie walker for mobility) needed to stand for Simon says put your hands on your head, Simon says put your hands on your shoulders, Simon says put your hands in your nose.

What an enjoyable moment until the presenter said “clap”. Guess who was the only one. Silence, faux-pas number two. Did this influence my ongoing participation? I was oblivious to the rules of Simon says. It must be five decades since I played it.

What a week

/ Robert / 7 Comments
Nearby disused storage tank

It’s been one of those weeks where everything hits at once. Great news: I don’t have dementia. I do have severe depression, and when physical pain and systemic frustration pile up like they have over the last few days, it takes everything not to let the weight crush you.

Last Thursday was a logistical nightmare that turned into a physical disaster. With our car in the garage, I had to rely on public transport to get to my hand therapy appointment at Brisbane Private Hospital. What should have been a simple commute became a grueling obstacle course—navigating a total of 109 stairs across the journey, including all 86 steps of Jacob’s Ladder.

Between a broken wheelchair lift, steep incline, and hauling myself up those steps one painful push at a time, my body took a beating. Stupidly, using my left hand at the first flight from Adelaide to Ann street to grip a handrail triggered sharp, shooting pains in my wrist right after making good progress in therapy. Worse, the exertion flared up excruciating pain below my right knee and a stabbing ache in my right hip, leaving my mobility severely compromised.

By the time I tried to head home, a packed bus meant no priority seating, forcing me to give up, hobble down Adelaide Street, and wait in Hutton Lane for my husband to collect me.

Adding insult to injury is the ongoing battle with the insurer. They previously denied my right hip claim, citing “no material change.” Yet the objective imaging tells a completely different story: moving from joint space reduction in late 2022 to severe, bone-on-bone contact, sclerosis, and large osteophytes by early 2026. Carrying a 6–7 kg laptop bag on a commute isn’t just an inconvenience—mechanically, it adds dynamic force to a joint that is already structurally failing.

To top off the noise, I’ve ditched Facebook and Instagram for the third time. Bluesky is a bit less satisfying, but stepping away from the main algorithmic circus feels necessary right now.

I’m resting, recovering, and preparing for my next steps. One foot in front of the other—even when every single step is a fight.

Birmingham to Brisbane

/ Robert / 3 Comments
Post walk feet up, hip’s not quite recovered.

A heads up: this post meanders.

Yesterday, I was nursing a bit of guilt. As part of my graded return to work, I only managed two four-hour shifts last week thanks to the hip injection. This week, it’s just one four-hour shift, sandwiched between Wednesday’s Ekka public holiday and a Friday psychology appointment to assess for early onset dementia.

Even though I’ve labelled myself Gen X for decades, I was surprised to realize my work ethos is far more Boomer. Turns out I sit right on the cusp—that late-Boomer, early-Gen-X overlap often dubbed “Generation Jones” (bizarre, given my surname). It blends Gen X’s cultural cynicism with that Boomer-driven pride in showing up, doing things thoroughly, and pushing through. That goes a long way toward explaining both the lingering work guilt and the path that led to my injuries in the first place.

On Monday afternoon, my husband suggested we do something the next day. My brain immediately ran its usual diagnostic: How far do I need to walk? How much will it cost? Can we take Stan?

We considered catching a ferry, but decided to test out the hip locally instead with a flat, 30-minute stroll to Riva Kitchen and Events at Northshore Hamilton.

It was an east-west breezy kind of day. I pushed Stan’s stroller to help with my balance, while he trotted in front in a futile attempt to wear him out before we arrived. In his dotage, dining out with Stan now involves managing a relentless demand for treats—there are never enough in the whole wide world to satisfy him. Today was no exception.

Sitting there enjoying a chicken schnitzel on a bed of arrabiata, topped with wilted greens and paired with an organic Italian Pinot Grigio, I caught sight of a brick chimney stack across the river. I mentioned to my husband that it reminded me of the old kiln chimneys in Sydney Park.

From there, my mind took a complete flight of fancy, drifting back to childhood Sunday outings from Birmingham—Hartlebury Castle with its bishop’s palace and gypsy caravans, the grand Queen Anne elegance of Hanbury Hall, the secret priest holes at Harvington Hall, and the rustic converted barn workshops of the Jinney Ring Craft Centre.

Funny how much life changes, even when you navigate it with a largely laissez-faire mentality.

Birmingham to Brisbane

/ Robert / 2 Comments
Post walk feet up, hip’s not quite recovered.

A heads up: this post meanders.

Yesterday, I was nursing a bit of guilt. As part of my graded return to work, I only managed two four-hour shifts last week thanks to the hip injection. This week, it’s just one four-hour shift, sandwiched between Wednesday’s Ekka public holiday and a Friday psychology appointment to assess for early onset dementia.

Even though I’ve labelled myself Gen X for decades, I was surprised to realize my work ethos is far more Boomer. Turns out I sit right on the cusp—that late-Boomer, early-Gen-X overlap often dubbed “Generation Jones” (bizarre, given my surname). It blends Gen X’s cultural cynicism with that Boomer-driven pride in showing up, doing things thoroughly, and pushing through. That goes a long way toward explaining both the lingering work guilt and the path that led to my injuries in the first place.

On Monday afternoon, my husband suggested we do something the next day. My brain immediately ran its usual diagnostic: How far do I need to walk? How much will it cost? Can we take Stan?

We considered catching a ferry, but decided to test out the hip locally instead with a flat, 30-minute stroll to Riva Kitchen and Events at Northshore Hamilton.

It was an east-west breezy kind of day. I pushed Stan’s stroller to help with my balance, while he trotted in front in a futile attempt to wear him out before we arrived. In his dotage, dining out with Stan now involves managing a relentless demand for treats—there are never enough in the whole wide world to satisfy him. Today was no exception.

Sitting there enjoying a chicken schnitzel on a bed of arrabiata, topped with wilted greens and paired with an organic Italian Pinot Grigio, I caught sight of a brick chimney stack across the river. I mentioned to my husband that it reminded me of the old kiln chimneys in Sydney Park.

From there, my mind took a complete flight of fancy, drifting back to childhood Sunday outings from Birmingham—Hartlebury Castle with its bishop’s palace and gypsy caravans, the grand Queen Anne elegance of Hanbury Hall, the secret priest holes at Harvington Hall, and the rustic converted barn workshops of the Jinney Ring Craft Centre.

Funny how much life changes, even when you navigate it with a largely laissez-faire mentality.