Well, what do you know.

Who'd have known it? Grandpa's got his own webpage at the AIF Project. As the entry indicates, he did not stay with the 9th Battalion. As it happened, his fellow Queenslanders fell ill just before embarkation in Perth but Grandpa (Ernie) did not. Hence, he was transferred from the 9th, raised in South East Queensland to the Western Australian 44th Battalion.

Rotorua snaps

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Magma rocks!

Waikiki: A challenging wilderness experience?

As it came to February 2005, my sister and I felt we both needed a holiday. We were delighted to realise we could take the same couple of weeks leave from our respective jobs. The decision was made to go OS but where? Our holiday key selection criteria were fairly straight forwards. Our destination had to, in order of importance:

a. Get us out of the summer heat,
b. Have deck chairs or similar on which to lounge, read, snooze and write post cards, and
c. Involve some sort of reasonably challenging wilderness experience.

When we thought about it, atlas open before us, we found our choices were few. For instance, an ecology cruise to the Antarctic would satisfy criteria (a) and (c) but not (b). Similarly, a package holiday to Fiji would satisfy (b) but not (a) and (c) and the famous Salzburg ‘Sound of Music’ tour (that was my idea) in the European mid-winter would deal with (a) and less likely (c).

You may not know that zimbles have an innate fascination with exciting natural phenomena such as meteorites, deep sea trenches and tornados. Hence, it came as no surprise to near and dear, when we decided on Hawaii: volcanos here we come! A quick email to our ever cheerful travel agent, Manic-Louise and it was F.A.B. Virgil! A short(ish) hop across the Pacific and there we were, first on Oahu and then on the island of Maui.

From Maui, we joined a day tour to “The Big Island” to see Hawaii Volcanoes National Park. It was an awesome experience (almost better than 'quokka' on a triple word score!). I’d love to go back and walk rather than coach through the park.

Here are some of my favourite lava photos from the trip.

Molten rock at 1100 C. It was a bit warm standing there.

The southern flank of Kilauea.

More lava.

Voting day

Camp Hill School of the Arts circa 1940. It's now painted white and there is a new fence.

This post was meant to be an ode to snag-proof pantyhose but that, I've decided, is a bit too optimistic a concept for a weekend afternoon. Instead, here are a few lines about my visit to the 'Camp Hill School of the Arts' where I went to vote this morning.

While I stood on the footpath outside the hall, lining up with the other voters, a man came up and handed me a " Vote 1 Socialist Alliance" (I don't think so) card which immediately turned into a handy fan and fly waver-awayer. Along with something about the cost of Lady Finger bananas the briefest of thoughts about an individual's responsibilities in a democracy as opposed to their democratic rights flitted (as most thoughts do) through my consciousness.

Compulsory voting means that even though you may waste your say with a half-smart informal vote, you do have to have remembered the Federal Election was on and you do have to have stood in the sun for 10 minutes or so being handed how to vote cards. Barring sunstroke, everyone is at least given the chance to decide (and, Mr Bush, we use a pencil).

The line moved forward and I was inside in welcome shade, six evenly spaced ceiling fans whirring above. It was still relatively early in the day so the people at the trestle tables marking off the electoral roll weren't looking too hot and frazzled, yet. Although the process from this point was fairly quick and painless, (zimbles can't go for too many political complexities) I did have a few minutes to glance around the hall.

I drive past the hall every day on my way to and from work but this was the first time I had been inside the hall since I was little. I suddenly realised that, here, time had stood still.

The hall is a weather-board structure about 25 m x 10 m in its main part with a pine wood floor and corrugated iron roof. At one end is a small stage with a worn dark-red velveteen curtain. Beside the stage, a polished wood board with gold embossing lists the Camp Hill District's fallen. An enameled Union Flag beside an Australian red ensign, date the board to about 1901. Directly above the board is a portrait of the Queen, which, from the look of Her Majesty, must have been added in the 60s.

Standing in that hall today, I imagined a warm November evening in 1942. A Thanksgiving Day ball for the American servicemen is in full swing. The hall is crowded with people dancing, chatting and flirting. Young women in their home-sewn summer evening frocks, bright red lipstick and stylish peep toes twirl, each in the arms of a clean cut local lad or a dress-uniformed soldier. The small but talented jazz band on the stage plays selections of Glen Miller tunes into the early hours. The good ladies of the ladies' auxiliary sell cool cordials, cups of tea and a judiciously invigorated fruit punch from their servery between the hall and its enclosed verandah. They don't miss a thing. Outside, in the cooler air, the men talk quietly of politics, cricket and the war.

Just then, an election official taps me on the arm and points me to a desk and I'm back. Name please?

Are you a Zimble?

Just recently, a nice lady emailed me a friendly note to ask if I was a Zimble and possibly her distant cousin. I was surprised to learn that Zimble was a surname. It's not at all common in these parts.

I was afraid I had to disappoint the lady and tell her that "Zimble" was simply a round-about, upside-downey, inside-outey way of nodding to the great Russian-American violinist of the early twentieth century, Efrem Zimbalist.

She hasn't replied, so I can only think she was none too impressed with my appropriating her surname for my blog.

If you are reading this and your surname is 'Zimble' perhaps you could contact Nancy at nrzped@aol.com. She's researching her family tree.

Adit : Nancy did reply and said she was happy with the name. Thanks Nancy! Zimble on!

Smiling all day at this one.

Stability of vital signs, improving pathology results and the ability to complain about hospital food are all signs of recovery from whatever ails you but the real zinger, the red flag saying 'send me home', for me, is a return of the sense of humour.

I saw a 98-year-old man today, who overnight, had recovered from his febrile delirium and this morning was feasting on cornflakes. This is, more or less, the conversation we had:

"Hello, Frank. How are you feeling this morning?"

"Much better, thanks Doc."

Munch, munch, munch.

"Do you remember why you are in hospital?"

"No, not really. I know I was bloody crook."

Munch, munch, munch, munch.

"Yes, you were very unwell. You had pneumonia."

Munch.

"Pneumonia?"

Munch.

"Where's my old one?"

Munch, munch, munch.

Yabbying

Yabbying (with shoes).

Today, as I wandered the corridors, I came upon my new registrar looking rather dumbfounded. He was a nice fellow who had arrived from Europe only a few days before. (Many of our staff come from distant shores). I asked him what was wrong and he told me about the excessive swearing he had encountered since he arrived. He had just seen a man who was very, very sick, who had told him, “I feel like bl**dy sh*t, mate!” The newly arrived registrar had found this language rather shocking.

I assured him the man was not blaspheming in any malevolent way. He probably just wanted to impress upon the new registrar that he was about to “croak” (as indeed he was) and in the circumstance, “a bit crook,” as would be the normal response to an enquiry about one’s condition, wouldn’t do.

I set out to assess my registrar’s understanding of the local dialect and found he had absolutely no comprehension of essential descriptors such as “up to putty, mate,” or “fit as a mallee bull, mate,” or “mouth’s like the bottom of cocky’s cage, mate,” or “all bunged up, mate.”

As keen as beans, he asked me if there was a good book he could read in order to learn such colloquialisms. Sadly, I couldn’t list any texts on the subject at all but it did get me thinking. The local dialect is one thing but there are other ethnic and gender related issues of expression that the junior storm trooper must learn.

[Out of the whole of the population of 1977 Hollywood, could they not find someone better looking to play Luke Skywalker? (said Zimble with her new millennium anti-roman nose sensibility.)]

For instance, and I expect this may be a world wide phenomenon, young men with appendicitis can be identified as they approach the emergency department because they are doubled over, clutching their right iliac fossa and screaming, “help me, help me!” This happens because they truly believe they are dying and this is because very few young men have ever experienced visceral pain prior to having appendicitis.

In contrast, young women, already well versed in visceral pain, wander into the emergency department with ruptured appendices, four or five days after the event and only then because they have fainted at work a few times and their boss has sent them in. They’ll sit down and tell you it feels a bit like bad period pain and if it was all the same they’d like to go home.

There is also the response to severe illness and recovery from it. When an Australian male of a certain age has a heart attack, the first question on regaining some well-being is not, “when can I get back to work”, “when can I drive” or even, “when can I have sex”. No, the most important determinant is “when can I mow”. It isn’t quite so bad, since the drought, because the grass doesn’t grow very quickly anymore but in days gone by, particularly in the pre-press-starter mower era, if you couldn’t mow, then you just weren’t a man's man.

I tried to reassure my bewildered registrar that he was not alone by telling him of the story of Caroline. Caroline was a terrific, dedicated, intelligent London born 'back-packer' doc who was my registrar when I worked at a seaside hospital, four hours north of Bris.

One day, a man was brought to the coronary care unit. He had been out with his mates, on the tidal mud flats of the local estuary, yabbying. Whilst pumping hard with his yabby pump, he developed chest pain. His mates were a switched on mob and immediately gave him some aspirin, downed with a half stubby of ice cold beer from the esky. They got him back in the tinnie and sped towards the shore, calling the ambulance service on a mobile phone as they went.

Despite their best efforts, the man was a bit flat (ie in cardiogenic shock) when Caroline and I saw him. He needed some resuscitation very quickly. I gave Caroline some instructions and then set about what I needed to do, only to look up a minute later and see Caroline still standing at the foot of the bed staring at the man’s legs.

“What happened to his legs?” she cried.

I looked and saw two perfectly normal legs caked in black mud.

“Caroline, it’s okay. He’s been yabbying.”

“I know. That’s what he said but what happened to his legs?”

“Caroline, relax. I promise to tell you about his legs and about yabbying. His legs are fine but right now I really need you to… move it!”

The poor lass couldn’t conceive that anyone in their right mind would stand barefoot, up to their thighs in black mud for any reason, let alone to procure bait for an evening’s fishing.

Anyway, later in the day I saw my new registrar again and I'm very pleased to say that already he was starting to look a bit less like a stunned mullet.

Tooled up.

Sometimes things happen for a reason. I was standing in the bathroom brushing my teeth, warbling 'Climb Ev'ry Mountain' between rinses this morning, when my elderly two-bar wall heater decided it was time to end it all by leaping from its mounting and plunging to the cold hard lino floor below. (I think it must have had a screw loose).

I immediately ensured that none of my limbs were missing and that I still had a pulse. Fortunately, no self-administered precordial thump was required. Next came a cup of tea and a lie down.

Then, in an unexpected and momentary channelling of Lara Croft, I decided to replace the fallen heater with a new one myself. I've largely avoided drills, thinking them loud, heavy, mess-creating and quite possibly dangerous but on the other hand, the calling in of a tradesman or handyman is never an appealing thought. Sometimes you just don't feel like putting up with someone who sniggers at what they consider too minor a job and then charges like a wounded bull.

A 4 'mil' bit, two self-tapping screws and an enthusiastic, if off-key, rendition of 'Spice Up Your Life' later and ta-da! New wall heater! And do you know, using the drill was somehow strangely empowering. There was a wall and whether it liked it or not it was going to have a hole in it. Feng Shui can only do so much when what you really need in your life is some gutsy, fire in the belly, drill-till-you-drop demolition.

In fact, an urgent scan of the latest junk mail catalogue suggested that zimbles could successfully own and use any number of tools: a laser guided 550W jigsaw, a 110 litre GMC one-half horse power cement mixer, a 115 mm 860 W angle grinder! There's a whole world of power out there just waiting to be discovered.

Indeed, who needs a Husquvarna when there's a Red-Roo 'SG350-2' 200 kg 16 hp manual stump grinder to be had!

Friday the fourteenth

Main foyer, Natural History Museum, London.

For some reason or other, I have been thinking about England a lot lately. It might be because I've been mulling over some plans for a Euro-centric holiday or perhaps because recently, the Beeb has been throwing us a life-line from the drivel that is Australian commercial television with shows like Spooks, Bleak House, Dr Who (at a pinch) and of course, the Judge.

Indeed, England is always a nice thought (apart from the instantly impoverishing exchange rate). As much as I love multi-culturalism and the whole Pacific Rim thing, when your ancestors all come from Stoke-on-Trent and towns in Lancashire, it's nice to imagine a good old wallow in one's own ethnicity from time to time.

On 14th May, I was especially glad because the Natural History Museum in London was ordered to release some human remains that had been held in the museum for years against the wishes of the indigenous people of Tasmania. The Aboriginal remains had been held in the name of science instead of being returned to Tasmania for proper leaf smoking and burial.

Now, I know that, personally, I would need a Millennium Falcon to get within even parsecs of understanding the complexities of the indigenous culture of this country.

(Being the thirtieth anniversary of the beginning of Star Wars, I think bloggers should be given free reign to include as many Jedi references as they please.)

Even so, I do know enough to realise that for indigenous people, not having ones ancestors' remains in the right place at the right time with the right ceremonies for burial is an absolutely intolerable state of affairs. It would have been good if the museum staff could have come to this conclusion themselves instead of having to be ordered by a judge to change their stance.

The argument was that the remains kept at the N.H.M. could still yield much about the history of indigenous Australians through further scientific examination. However, there are many different ways to approach the truth and science is only just one of those ways. It might be a pretty good way, sometimes, but it is a narrow minded and an extremely arrogant position to take, to think it is the only or the most important way. The return of the remains was more than overdue.

(If I was feeling really narky, I would add that the 2001 Robbie Coltrane movie, "On the Nose", was a seriously insensitive and un-funny farce on this topic - shame on David Caffrey.)

Now I can return to the museum comfortably. So, why would I want to go back to the N.H.M? Well, the original botanical artworks of Australian native flora by Sir Joseph Banks (Capt. James Cook's botanist on the Endeavour in 1770) stenciled around the architrave of the main foyer are always worth a look up.

There's also a terrific meteorite collection, which is better than Smithsonian and the Alice Springs collections for my money.

I'm no geologist but the fact that meteorites were formed in a place so far a way that most people think of it as being somewhere near infinity and that infinity is a place where man's science and man's imagination and God might connect, make them hugely exciting to contemplate.

Most importantly, we cannot forget that the N.H.M. was the place, there on the steps beside the big dinosaur skeleton, where Lieutenant James Dempsey, finally, declared his true and undying love for Sergeant Harriet Makepeace (in the eponymous late eighties television series), on his knees no less!