Mud, glorious mud.

New Zealand is a fantastic destination for zimbles. This mud pool is at Waiotapu thermal area in Rotorua. The video was taken on a shaky-vision mobile phone camera but it gives an idea.

Traffic jam poem no. 5 (aka boiling the plum pudding poem with apologies to Banjo)

There is movement at the waistline for the lard is going round encasing every vital aspect of the girth. A chocolate here, a cup cake there, a simple honey sandwich and the ballooning, billowing blubber's given birth.

The chins look down in horror and the girls are far from pleased that this flab is taking residence down below. The hips shake in fear as does the wobbly rear; what happens if we really start to stow?

Only one thing for it then: a calorie controlled regime, to stop this bulge, this making of a beast. Don't you mean a regimen? And don't forget it's Christmas. It's the season for a celebration feast.

The consumption of the proteins, carbohydrates and the fats can absolutely not go on this way. Therefore and hence a diet starts with salad, beans and tofu and there's exercise on every single day.

Much running, rowing, biking and some weights to tone the build should halt that creeping number on the scale. This challenge must be met or else one's future's set to total transmutation into whale.

www.AnimalsAustralia.org

I picked up this pamphlet after signing a petition at my local gym. It says,

"A decision by the Australian government to end live export will save millions of animals from suffering and importantly, will send a clear message to the Middle East that animal welfare matters."

Leonard Cohen.

I've not entirely made my mind up about the internet. Is it good for us or bad? It has made communication so fast that, nowadays, there are new pressures with which previous generations would not have had to cope.

For instance, there is an internet generated demand for productivity in the workplace that is assumed to be (but is not always) facilitated by instant communication. (Yes, Mavis. That is a long sentence for a zimble).

Consider the great great grand father, farming his land at Allora, on the other side of the Great Dividing Range, over the Darling Downs, out beyond Warwick, past the big trees and up the long driveway. He might receive an important letter from his financier in Brisbane requesting information about his harvest. He would have all the time, the days or weeks, it took for the next bullock dray to arrive and collect his reply.

Today, a reply is expected that afternoon or the next day at the very latest, all because of the internet. Now, we must spend time making a request to spend time: 'Would it be alright if I get back to you next week?'

The internet also makes subtle demands on our leisure time. Here I am writing this blog when I could be outside tending my parsley as it goes to seed. Certainly, I'm writing because I want to but every so often, if I haven't posted something in a while, I think, well, I should try to get to that.

Then there are the 'flame wars' that erupt in forums, social networking sites and web based fandoms. How many internet friendships have crashed and burnt over a too hasty reply or a careless strike of the 'send' key?

In the 'good old days' one would have had at least all night and up to second period maths to salvage a fan dilemma over whether Parker Stevenson or Shaun Cassidy was the more handsome of the Hardy Boys. [Shaun Cassidy by a country mile].

One great and undeniable thing about the web is the learning and enrichment it affords us. I don't just mean Wikipedia. Surfing the net inevitably draws us into other cultures; national, ethnic, religious, scientific, sub and pop. I look up avocado tree and find there is a current trend towards extra hot chilli at Californian guacamole parties. Who knew? That's like gnarly man!

Here is another perfect example of one good thing leading to another: this is Paul Darby's poem, which he kindly shared with his email correspondents. It's a tribute to the Canadian songwriter, Leonard Cohen (1934-). I did know a couple of Cohen's songs but I didn't know all the ins and outs of his musical life and influence.

You may say, 'Well, where were you in the 70s?' The answer is I was a four-eyed knock-kneed ballet-o-mane dreaming of the New York City Ballet performing the Nutcracker at Christmas but I'm here now, listening to Cohen, getting it. Better late than never and all thanks to the internet and to Paul.

LATE NIGHTS WITH LEONARD.

{for Lennie, the semi-colon; with love from so many!}

Mystical music measures movements,

Raps our twisted-arthritic knuckles; we stay

Trapped on Boogie Street, listening to jazz

Here, at the rear of the year; amazed, dazed

We chat; sip tea, suck sweet oranges,

Your lyrics slide to hide within the cracked deep darkness.

A vast yawning dawn creeps up

To spoil our crazy cures and cravings.

Aging old men, bookends, no longer willing

To rage against a sickle moon; she leaves

No heroes stranded

No children in the seaweed.

Standing to leave, inside-out sleeve,

You button your famous blue raincoat,

Torn at the shoulder; worn out by words.

Clouding the casual-coldness with our icy breath,

We talk our way through yet another dripping-dense day, dancing

To the end of love.

Away from you, candles cry;

I feel so much older

Needing your ancient puzzled patterns, which comfort me,

Still crazy

After all these tears, that's no way to say goodbye.

My brain echoes; we walk on, smiling through the rain,

Homeward-bound, sounds bouncing,

Whistles and bells, meeting

Every train, invited again

To your place near the river, where

Staring, loping wolf-like dreams hunt

Stealing hungry scraps of conversation,

Outside;

A bird on the wire, who by fire, struts

Higher and higher, to bring us

Another restless, lazy-late night.

My master sings the sacred chord

Drowning out the dryness, refreshing applause,

Teasing the celestial music of the turning-spinning spheres.

It splinters through this crumbling tower of song;

Our two aching voices long to blend, to send

Perfect energies through another

HALLELUJAH!

As we hug farewell,

We say a loud AMEN;

And, once again

The bells are ringing out for Christmas Day!

It's time to climb the real mountain...............

Ca va? Shalom!

Go raibh maith agat.

May the Rat and the Ox bless the Dog,

That's the plan....I'm your man!

The Feng Shui Doctor

My well-thumbed copy.

I rise from my chair before a circle of expectant faces. My palms are moist. My throat is dry. It is time to speak.

“My name is Zimble…and I am a fan.”

A wookiee takes my hand in his furry replica glove and grunts, “Welcome Zimble. You are amongst friends. We are the last best hope for fan kind”.

What brought me to this point? Well, it started in about 1978. There was a British TV show about two action heroes and their stern Scottish boss. It was the ‘running and jumping’ show of its day.

To an eleven year old in the suburbs of 70s Brisbane, it was also a portal on a completely different world where houses were whole storeys high, leaves fell off trees, swimming pools were housed under glass and ladies wore boots that came up to their knees!

Nowadays, when I’m not busy planning the downfall of the tomato, the show occasionally comes to mind. Were our lads truly heroes or were they hapless victims of the political machinations of their day? Did they survive their next assignment? Did they survive their next pair of trousers?! How did they live with the soldiers’ conflict of duty and morality?

Anyway, I followed the career of one of the two: Jem Shaw’s brother, Martin. When people ask why am I a fan, I explain it in three ways.

Firstly, I hardly think it is my fault.

Secondly, from a pragmatist's point of view, everyone has their own ophthalmologist, solicitor, accountant, electrician and banker; why not their own actor?

Lastly (and this is the most tricky to explain), for a physician, the empathic role can be troublesome. Professionally, it is an essential element but personally, it demands a measure of emotional detachment that can sometimes leave a lingering and uncomfortable sense of disconnection.

Over the years, I’ve noticed that the arts, especially drama and music, are a way to reconnect. The work of a good and generous actor can take you to a place that is so exhilarating it is like an emotional jump-start for the heart, whilst all along you know you are in safe hands.

In a roundabout way, this brings me to the real point of this post. Because I am a fan, when I wanted advice on Feng Shui for my new home, I googled to see if Martin had made comment. Voila! I found Martin’s foreword to Paul Darby’s most excellent Feng Shui book; a colourful and handy tome titled “The Feng Shui Doctor – Ancient Skills for Modern Living”.

Martin suggested we all ‘dive in’. So, I did. I asked Paul to do a postal consultation. Being so kind, Paul said not to worry about my fannish path to his door. In any case, fan or no, a zimble needs every bit of help she can get.

Woad House Blues.

"It's a pretty colour...a pretty colour...a pretty colour...a pretty colour," she said, as they came to take her away.

After 23 months of house hunting failure, a (by now) concerned friend suggested I retain a buyers’ agent. I have to say this is one of the very best pieces of advice I have ever been given.

However, before the buyers’ agent, I was on my own, “in the market”, up to my neck in open house inspections and real estate agents.

I did manage to become serious about one house. (See above). It had its advantages. It was modern, it had a nice pool and it was opposite a large park. The time came to sign the contract. The price was good. Everyone seemed to like the property. Why did I feel so worried?

I started having nightmares. Oh no! I've bought a house with no doors! Did anyone see any doors? Zimbles are a bit unhinged at the best of times but never before like this.

With the help of family and friends I tried my best to stay calm about the purchase. A few days later, I hastened to the building and pest inspection.

Someone up above was looking after me that day. Nev, the best building inspector in the world, asked me to crawl underneath the house with him. When I had finished bumping my head on the beams, he said, ‘Zimble, look at that.’ I did and instantly I knew I was saved.

In Brisbane, houses are built on stumps. This is because it used to rain a lot (and may do so again, one day. I know you don't think so, Mavis, but it is possible); ventilation beneath the floor boards helps to cool the home; and there are lots and lots of termites (white ants).

A classic Queenslander with ant capping but not quite what I was after...

A thin metal plate, the ant cap, is placed between the stumps and the house. Since termites cannot go through the plate and apparently do not like to crawl out in the open, upside down, to build their nest, the cap provides some measure of protection.

This here's termite country.

The House of Woad was built in 1999 and therefore, should have had ant capping. There was no proper capping at all. Someone had made a dodgy attempt to remedy the situation by applying a cuff of capping to the most obvious stumps.

‘Ant capping, indeed!’ I said in my loudest and haughtiest tone (so the real estate agent could hear me).

A phone call to my solicitor and it was all over.

Hit the road, Zim.

I do miss the mango tree.

‘Desperate times call for desperate measures.’ Not always but quite often.

‘Needs must when the devil drives.’ One of my all time favourites.

And, as a friend often says, ‘When between a rock and a hard place, get a pillow.’

What else could I think when my next door neighbour, the 92 year old Widow Parrot, called to me from her living room window, yet again? This last time, she asked me to trim my lillipilly because it was blocking her view down the street. The street has no view and in any case, that is what 'The Bold and the Beautiful' is for.

For five years I'd been a virtual prisoner in my own front garden. Whenever I ventured out to weed or prune, Mrs Parrot would appear and regale me with tales of her weekly physiotherapy visits and specialist appointments. Did I know of such and such a surgeon? Was co-enzyme Q 10 better than vitamin E? Could her mower man do anything about his gammy left shoulder? What did I think of the Courier Mail’s latest report on flesh eating viruses?

I did try to handle this with all due deference to Mrs Parrot’s lonely, elderly, widowed, arthritic status. In the meantime, my thistles were growing into a jungle and whole families of tigers were moving in.

To be fair, it wasn’t just Mrs Parrot and her sticky-beaking that was the problem. The house itself was a 1952 post war nana-house with a red brick base, fibro-cement (read ‘asbestos’) upper and galvanised iron roof. It was the architectural equivalent of gusseted support hose. A tiled rumpus area had been added at the back in about 1982. According to Mrs Parrot, the addition was poorly built because the builder’s relationship with the owner’s wife had ended badly.

True enough, the rumpus was a problem. Whenever a summer storm dashed in from the south west, rainwater would run off the sun-baked yard, under the skirting board and onto the tiled floor. This was despite the previous owner’s attempts to fix the problem with a large drain. I asked Otto D'Plumber to come. Otto had been a few times before so I knew him reasonably well. Yes, he could redirect the downpipe at the outside corner and realign the drain.

The cost was listening to his long and detailed thoughts of an overseas holiday. Otto’s mother had recently secured her release from a pair of grossly emphysaematous lungs and in going aloft, had left him a modest inheritance. Would a short trip to New Zealand allow him to also buy a semi-renovated MG? I’m never sure why people expect a lowly zimble to know the answers to such questions yet they always seem to ask.

With the drain fixed, it was time to move.

Why did I move there in the first place? Well, that, I think, was too zimbly for words.

Don't do it! Yer gunna kill 'im!

Today, my registrar said, “Dr Zimble, I’ve got a fascinating case to show you.”

Well, have you ever seen an irate zimble? The hair stands on end, the face turns fire engine red and the arms fly back and forth.

“Warning! Warning Will Robinson!”

Only the indiscriminate use of hydroponic Roma tomatoes on an otherwise edible salad sandwich makes for an angrier Zimble.

There are no “fascinating cases”. People come to hospital because they are very, very unfortunate or a bit stupid or occasionally both (Mavis, that’s you). One finds every groove of human existence in the medical ward and enough pathology to make ones head spin but no one person is a “fascinating case”.

My registrar got the message when I asked him to grab an auroscope and check, yet again, for the elusive moth that Mrs Hemplestead is certain resides in her left ear while I joined the telephonic queue at Pay Office.

What is fascinating is why medicine is so often turned into television drama and nowadays, reality TV. Tonight there are no less than four medical shows listed in the program. Why medicine?

I want to know the trials and tribulations of the guy who controls the water temperature of the Beijing Olympic pool. I want “House of the Dead” brought to life. I want a vegetarian cooking show, like Two Fat Ladies with tofu. What I want is the hero’s journey: the triumph of the brave, the selfless, the bubble permed. [Mavis, take that last bit out right now...no, it's not funny]. Heck, give me unconditional love in the digestive tract of a deep space monster and I’ll be happy. Am I asking too much?

Television medicos go back a long way. By way of childhood deviancy and later, study and occupation, the zimble has been an interested observer. Take, for example, the publicity photo (above) of Jack Klugman in "Quincy M.E." It’s beautiful in its irony because he doesn’t know that forensic pathologists look at microscope slides and not photographic slides.

ER stands as an institution of season cliff hangers, Emmy award nominations (104) and strangely, hordes of moribund medicos. A helicopter whose tail rotor takes a surgeon’s arm returns a few episodes later to kill the surgeon by falling on him in the ER parking lot. This is the typical ER demise. These doctors are some of the unluckiest people you are ever likely to meet.

Unfortunately, they’re also some of the most incompetent. They’re sloppy and slow. They never keep contemporaneous records. They bring their myriad social and emotional problems to work. They are rude to their patients, the nurses, the relatives and each other. They don’t listen to their seniors, they don’t acknowledge best practice and they are not infrequently unethical. Then, they are ever so surprised when they are fired from their jobs or are hauled in front of disciplinary panels or are dead!

While I’m at it, why are they so loud?

“F.B.C. …CHEM SEVEN…CROSS TABLE C SPINE… STAT!”

I understand what they want but why are they shouting?

While I’m still at it, what about the direction? In the multi-trauma scenes the doctors and nurses attend the patient en masse, crowding around him, with we, the viewers, looking up from the patient’s feet.

“Oh, for heaven’s sake, let me put in that chest tube for you, you bubble headed boo-boo!”

In reality there is you and there is a nurse (and a medical student who is collapsed, fainted, in a corner of the room).

“No! Stay where you are! Don’t try to get up!”

One morning, a long time ago, my world and that of the medi-drama collided. I was finishing my night shift, collecting my purse and keys. Leaning back on the handrail in the lift, I swung my stethoscope across the tops of my shoes, watching it as it went back and forth, as you do. The lift stopped on the second floor and the doors opened.

I looked up and acknowledged, with a small nod, one of the hospital administrators and a young woman with a head of wondrously long red curly hair. We smiled and she and the administrator got off at the next floor. I thought nothing more of it other than that she looked too well to be a member of staff.

A few weeks later, I sat down to watch the much hyped new television series, “Emergency Action” (or something). We knew it had been filmed locally, as there had been a blurb in the paper and the ED docs said their stuff was being borrowed.

The series was dire in so many ways and mercifully, lasted perhaps, three episodes. The best and funniest thing was spotting the locations for the ambulance shots. The vans would zoom up one Brisbane freeway ramp and barely seconds later, zoom down another some twenty minutes across town on a different freeway. Why not simply turn the ambulance around and zoom back down the ramp you’ve just zoomed up? We don’t mind.

Meanwhile, back at the hospital, about half way through the first episode, there is a scene involving an intern who has an argument with someone outside a lift. The intern then gets in the lift and leans back against the handrail and swings a stethoscope back and forth across the tops of her shoes.

“Holy mouldy macaroni Batman! It’s the redhead!”

There are only two medi-dramas I cannot watch. One is another dire Oz drama called “All Saints”. The writing is so bad it should be called “All Saints turn in their graves”.

The other is “House”. My problem with House is that it is based on the premise that good diagnosticians use algorithmic thinking and when that doesn’t work, there is some random element of God given genius that provides the answer. Perhaps this is the way it is in the blessed nation but in the rest of the world it doesn’t work like that. Most of us don’t have the time or inclination to use a white board and genius is rare.

Another misrepresentation of some medi-dramas is their prognostic licence. One mob of researchers reported they had watched all the episodes of ER and Chicago Hope during the 1994-1995 viewing season and 50 consecutive episodes of Rescue 911 broadcast over a three-month period in 1995.

“There were 60 occurrences of CPR [cardiopulmonary resuscitation] in the 97 television episodes. In the majority of cases, cardiac arrest was caused by trauma; only 28 percent were due to primary cardiac causes. Sixty-five percent of the cardiac arrests occurred in children, teenagers, or young adults. Seventy-five percent of the patients survived the immediate arrest, and 67 percent appeared to have survived to hospital discharge.”

In reality, cardiac arrest is most often caused by coronary artery disease, mostly occurs in the middle aged and elderly and is survived to discharge about 5% of the time. I don’t necessarily agree but was once told the only reason to resuscitate is so that when there is the rare occurrence of an arrest of a young person, you are practised in the skills that will give them a chance. I guess futility doesn’t make for interesting television.

Back to the matter at hand: it's the hands that matter. When I watch a tele-medico at work, I immediately know whether they ‘get it’ by observing their hands. Most will prod and poke as though they’re testing the reliability of a li-lo.

Rarely, I see a quality to the touch and a confidence in the movement of the hands that usually only comes with experience. When it is there, it’s lovely to watch and I appreciate it.

Well, that’s enough of my babbling and by the way, M.A.S.H. is on - it's the one when the unexploded bomb lands in the centre of the compound. Hawkeye! [Swoon].

Damaged bill.

A friend reminded me it has been a while since a new post appeared. I admit I’ve not been feeling verily blogty-ho of late: I think my inner zimble went walkabout, taking my much needed sense of humour with it.

Despite frantic spinning of a prayer wheel, the gods continue to conspire, leaving me in a world of car breakdowns, faulty telephone lines and missing potato peelers.

However, none of my days could possibly have been as bad this jet aeroplane's. Imagine, if you were an F111, returning to base with a broken nose! The accompanying news report said, “The jet was flying at 900m on a test bombing raid at Evans Head, northern NSW, when a pelican struck the fibreglass nose and was sucked into an engine”.

The RAAF crew were hailed as heroes for flying the damaged aeroplane. The air commodore was criticised for allowing the damaged plane to fly over built up areas. No one said anything about the poor pelican or what it was doing at 3000 feet.

To recharge the batteries, turn off the lights.

The Bungle Bungles.

Yesterday, I posted a reminder about the Earth Hour to a web forum, where I have been a member for about eight years. It wasn't an impassioned plea for us all to return to the dark ages, just a simple reminder that the event was taking place tonight at 8pm.

I expected a couple of people to say they would join in and many to say nothing at all since it was off topic. What I didn't expect was a response full of anger and indignation:

"Frankly, I don't believe in those show-off actions. I don't think I will make the Earth better by spending an hour of my weekend without light, heating, and ability to heat food or water."

What can one do when such attitudes prevail?

To counter the negativity, I've dug out an old photo I took in Purnululu National Park in Western Australia in about 2001, where I spent three days camping. Despite the ice cold bore water out-door showers and the fly-blown pit latrines, they were three of the most rejuvenating and relaxing days I've ever had, anywhere. I could easily have stayed a month.

.

'Twas the night before Easter

I arrive home from work, I put my groceries away and I check my email, to find the following messages:

Dear R, B and H,

Words uttered by my opponent this morning in court:
"And then the Plaintiff determined to bring down on my client the wrath of grapes."

Warm regards,
C.


Dear C, R and H,

Zannuck F. Darryl's production
"The Wrath of Grapes"
By Steinbeck John,
Directed by Ford John,
With Fonda Henry,
A Fox-Century 20th Picture,

Cheers,
B.


Dear B, R and C,

Critics rave about the "Wrath of Grapes":

"More pinot-noir than film-noir"
Journal of the Professional Winemakers of Australia.

"A full bodied adaptation of a vintage classic. This ensemble cask are no mere bunch."
Association of Australian and New Zealand Grapegrowers.

Best to all,
H.

I'm asking C if she buried her opponent with a hatchet.

The thirteen minute mile.

This morning was the Adidas International Women’s Day fun run. At 7.30 am, 5000 Brisbane women, of all ages, shapes and sizes, gathered at South Bank to run and walk to support the Surf Life Saving Association.

I had entered the race several weeks ago with the grand plan of training regularly for the day. Time passed, work interfered and two days ago I was thinking, is the 9^th this weekend?!

The zimble is not known for its running ability. A wombat runs with greater speed and style. True to form, my school report card always said, “physical education: tries hard”. This was correct, in a sort of a fashion, if you could classify habitual falls and repetitive near drownings as enthusiastic participation.

Nevertheless, the passage of time and some, perhaps foolhardy optimism can make up for a great deal of ineptitude and so there I was this morning, running shoes on, the Bee Gees singing "Staying Alive' on my iPod and 5 km of fun run ahead.

The winner whipped around the riverside course in 17 minutes. My sister ran a very creditable 27 minutes. My time was 40 minutes and yes, as hard as it is to believe, I did run the whole way. This 40 minutes is 8 minutes per km, 4.6 miles per hour, 7.5 km/h and very, very slow. It's any wonder I wasn't mistaken for an arthritic tortoise. Next time I'll listen to some Rogue Traders. You never know. It might help.

A laugh a minute.

I've had the giggles all day. This is very bad because a giggly zimble is a very inefficient being. I hope it will pass, just as hiccups might, when I fall asleep tonight. I have a big day ahead of me tomorrow.

It all started this morning as I sloshed down my staple weet-bix, banana, honey and soy milk with sultanas on Sundays combo. I was sifting through some old holiday brochures which were ready for the recycle bin and came across one about a guided hiking trip in Austria. "Today, a long but steep climb..." it said.

Then at my clinic, one of my patients wanted to bring me a box of fresh frozen prawns. He wanted to do this because his son had a job on a trawler. He was very proud. I explained that hospital policy was such that I really couldn't accept gifts but it was a very nice gesture.

The man insisted and I ended up having to gently tell him that as a vegetarian I wouldn't be wishing to eat the prawns. He asked me what 'vegetarium' meant and I said, "Well, I don't eat meat, chicken or fish." He thought about that for a while and then said, "So what else is there?" I was tempted to say, "Oh, you know, carrots..."

And then, driving home, I got stuck behind a rubbish truck with a sign on its back saying, "warning: truck constantly stopping". Well, 'frequently' stopping or 'often' stopping perhaps but 'constantly'? Stephen King was right when he said to avoid adverbs.

And just now, a news reader recapitulated the top story of the day: Prime Minister Kevin Rudd's apology to the Stolen Generation. The news reader said, "Kevin Rudd's sorry statement was watched by thousands of black and white Australians."

I always suspected zebras had a strong sense of social justice.

To love, honour and bubble bath.

Harold Thistlethwaite, known as Cec, was one of G5’s frequent flyers. I lost count of the times I saw him wheeled into the ward with his cardboard port tucked between his knees. What could one do but wave and smile?

“G’day Cec. Be with you in a tick.”

The problem was Cec’s breathing. After a life time of smoking, his lungs, or what remained of them, were a mess. We suspected oxygen reached his brain only by diffusion through the scalp. His ongoing survival through bouts of respiratory failure was a source of unexpected delight and wonderment for his family and amongst the medical staff, a matter for hospital wide speculation and general head scratching.

Over the years I knew Cec, he never seemed to change. Tufts of snowy white hair protruded from beneath his black and white Magpies supporter's beanie. He had a fondness for “Breathrite Nasal Strips” which he applied each morning. The narrow plasters were supposed to open the nasal passages but on Cec’s broad nose, they lifted and curled at the edges as though trying to form new nostrils.

The nurses always gave Cec a bed on the solarium. The large fifth floor windows gave a good view of the railway tracks and the Boggo Road jail as well as a glimpse of the pretty city lights and the freeway.

One day, there was a breakout from the jail. Seven inmates had skipped. The morning paper was full of pictures of police scouring nearby Dutton Park. Cec quietly told us he had seen the whole thing. The escapees had timed their scaling of the barbed wire to the minute. As the 1am goods train passed, heading west, the men strolled down a grassy slope, hopped on a car and were away.

For Cec, the prison escape was a mere diversion. Of far greater importance was his lack of oomph. He couldn’t walk to the phone at the end of the ward. It was way too far. Every evening at around 6.30, he would try to get to the phone, wobbling on matchstick legs, lips turning a deep Prussian blue. Homeless George, known as ‘Jacko’, in the next bed, would alert the nurses by calling out, “Cec’s up! Cec’s up!”

It wasn’t that Cec was senile or silly. He just wanted to talk to his wife and he really didn’t want to bother anyone. Mrs T was the light of Cec’s life. In the evenings, she would sit in her lounge room watching the tail end of the news, awaiting Cec’s call with the phone pulled close beside her. I never saw Mrs T but Cec told me all about her. A stroke had left her all but paralysed down her left side. She had as much difficulty reaching the phone at home as Cec did in the ward.

Cec’s time in hospital (and therefore separation from Mrs T) became slightly easier for him when his RSL mates got him a set of army surplus CB radio walkie talkies. You have to remember this was in the days before mobile telephones. As we approached Cec on ward round, he would heave the brick sized transmitter to his ear and wheeze into it, “The docs are coming, Love. Over and out.”

“10-4, over and out,” came Mrs T’s stroke slurred reply.

When Cec wasn’t on the air, he was drawing on a dinner tray serviette, with all the concentration of a great master. One day I interrupted and asked what all the lines and circles meant. Cec explained that Mrs. T loved bubble baths. Since her stroke, she hadn’t been able to safely lower herself into the bath and then get herself out again.

In his own inimitable way, Cec was going to make it happen by having an electric winch and pulley system installed. There was a strong girder in the roof straight above the bathroom.

Cec planned to sit on a stool in the corner of the bathroom holding a lever, which, according to the diagram, looked a bit like a tiller on a boat. With it, he would swing Mrs T over and down into the bath. Rescuing Mrs T would take a simple push downward on the lever to set the winch into reverse gear. When he talked about it, a tear came to his eye.

Ringing in the New Year.

The New Year is traditionally the time to make resolutions, turn over a new leaf (or several branches if necessary) and gird the loins for the year ahead. Without dissolving into melancholy, it can also be a time for zimbles to look back at the year just gone and consider the lessons learnt.

Some concepts should be obvious from the get go. Take tinsel for instance. One can never have too much tinsel. Red, green, silver or gold, boa-esque or threadbare; it is all good. When you think there might be enough tinsel, by definition, there is not. Find that spare nubbin of Blu-Tack, twirl that banister and loop that lintel. Slide on the sunnies and accept nothing less than a supernova of sparkle! Holly and mistletoe be damned!

Other revelations arrive unexpectedly like coconuts on a tin roof. Stella Artois is not a benevolent society lady who organises charity tennis matches. “A stitch in time saves nine” does not refer to quantum physics and the space time continuum. The Zimble-Mobile, the Nissan Pulsar, is the post-millennium equivalent of the 1979 Datsun 120Y. (Now that hurts.)

The ideas that are most important don’t come suddenly though. They percolate ever so gradually through the thick zimble skull. This year’s idea, when it finally arrived, was a doozy.

Burnout is bad.

Such an obvious concept and yet one so difficult for zimbles.

When you can no longer see it coming, when you think you are fine but you’re not, it is too late. At the 'too late' stage, the only cure is to stop and learn how to say “no”. "No, I won't be able to do that today. Would tomorrow morning be okay?" "No, I can't work that weekend, it's my nephew's birthday party and I want to see the rocket cake," and so on.

By learning that simple word you are doing yourself and everyone around you a big favour. In my own zimbly fashion, that’s what I did this New Year. I also bought some more gold tinsel, which helped enormously.

Air - Speed - Indicator.

Early morning, Charleville.

If one lives on an isolated antipodean island, it is well accepted, that world travel will involve a twenty-plus hour siege in a QANTAS economy class cabin where the effects of prolonged hypoxia and jet lag are enough to try the patience of a saint. Hence, most of this zimble's plane travel has been domestic and, as it happens, work related. This is not to say it has all been in the plush comfort of airbuses and 737s.

After the fifth year of a six year medical degree, each student of the class of 1990 was asked to organise for themselves an elective overseas hospital posting, of four to six weeks duration, based on a pre-determined list of possible destinations.

Many of my friends chose elegant European towns for their elective (a wonderful chance to practice high school French and German and spend much time between study commitments browsing in quaint shops for the ultimate shoes and matching handbag). The brave and admirably altruistic Medicins Sans Frontieres wannabes headed for remote third world stations.

That left me a December choice of Shanghai or the Royal Flying Doctor Service. The RFDS posting, whilst not overseas, was considered suitably remote and as Shanghai in December sounded untenably cold, my decision was easy: Charleville it is!

The distances involved in flying around South West Queensland are huge. For example, Charleville to Birdsville, a normal flight for the RFDS, is about 700 km. To the newcomer, the vast landscape of the outback can be quite unnerving. Flying over it in a small aeroplane is a good way to start to understand it.

As it happened, the Flying Doctor, Bob, had just purchased a brand-spanking-new portable antenatal ultrasound machine. It, naturally, took pride of place in the cabin seat that I would normally have taken. There was nothing for it but to ensconce myself in the cockpit beside our pilot, George.

George was a great guy. He had been a naval airman flying jet aeroplanes on and off aircraft carriers in the Indian Ocean. He had retired from that to become a commercial pilot for Ansett and with the demise of that airline, he had become a bush pilot based in Gove, in Arnhem Land. From there he had come to the RFDS.

With hours in the air, we chatted about many things but over the time, he started to teach me about flying, about the instruments, about take-offs and landings and navigation and so on and so forth. One of things he drilled into to me was that in take-offs, something called the "air speed indicator" was of vital importance. The aeroplane had to be at a certain speed or it would not fly.

Well, one day, towards the end of my posting, we were doing a clinic at a place called Carnarvon Station, a 60 000 hectare grazing property immediately west of Carnarvon Gorge National Park. (It is now owned by the Australian Bush Heritage Trust and the general area is a current focus of debate about land clearing.) The outback stations employ many people and they need regular GP style medical care as well as access to emergency care.

We had just finished and I noticed George was looking very worried. He told us (Bob, Kerry (the flight nurse) and me) to 'hurry up' as we had to get off the strip. It had been raining the night before and in this late afternoon, dew was already starting to settle. To make matters worse, the strip had been graded with a dip in its middle so that from the side on, it looked a bit like a wide angled "v".

So, we hurried. Even then, with all the gear and all of us safely stowed, there was a further but necessary delay. After taxiing to the end of a strip, the station manager (or someone) must get in his ute or truck and drive up and down the strip to clear it of livestock (in this case cattle), other animals (kangaroos, wild boar etc) and birds (including emus).

Finally, with the strip clear, our Beechcraft Kingair started to roll. I looked at the air speed indicator. Going down hill, we made good progress over the rough strip but then we hit the middle and the upsloping leg. The air speed indicator started to fall. I looked ahead and saw a small herd of about 20 cattle sheltering under the tall eucalypt trees that defined the end of the strip. We were coming up to them very quickly and I thought to myself, something in this equation has to change very soon or it's going to be hamburger time! (A bad state of affairs for cows and even worse for zimbles.)

Suddenly, George shoved the throttle forwards, pulled the stick back and the aeroplane swooped up. I remember feeling the canopy of the gum trees scraping along the undercarriage. When we were up, George said to me, "Saw a few white knuckles over your side, Doc!" to which I replied, "I have three words, George: air, speed, indicator!" He explained that it was a better option to stall above the trees than to plough into their trunks and the cattle. I just think that with all his experience and skill, George knew the engineering limitations of the aeroplane and simply made the thing fly.