Cedar Creek &Dam, Sturbridge, Massachusetts

 

Shortly after striking this pose, the Kingfisher brought up what seemed like a pellet, probably fish bones that were not digested.

Since KOS-MOS didn't quite know what to do in a world without Gnosis, she took a job at the Retching Netch because she remembers giving Shion a drink on the Elsa, so it feels familiar & in her off time would help people with their problems, as she remembers doing in another time & place.

 

This is my fan version of KOS-MOS, who was one of the main characters in the Xenosaga jrpg series on the PS2 ♥

When I become a fan of a character or game series, I remain an eternal fan ^ ^ ♥

After retching to the horrible, horrible, horrible smells from some sort of horrible place atop the observation tower at the falls that give this fine city it's name, we made our way to the bridge and heard a horn in the distance. Could it be? A D&I road train? The very trains that elluded DK and I on our trip not one month previous?! Yes!

 

A bona-fide chase wasn't in the cards (we still had 350 mlies to go to get to Rapid City), but there was no harm in banging out a few shots along a creative route back to I-90.

 

You can't see them, but, the greatest wife in the world, Emily is riding shotgun, and my boys, Berk (3) and Lucas (2) are sitting in the middle, taking pictures with their toy cameras through the open windows.

 

The Dakota & Iowa is one of two railroads through town owned by a gravel / stone / construction aggregates concern, the smaller Ellis & Eastern being the other. The D&I's mainline was badly damaged by flash flooding last month (which happened the night DK and I arrived to foam), which knocked out a dozen miles of track. Glad to see they were up and running again.

There are some things in my life that I regret:

 

1) Telling my aging father that he had to wear oven mitts when he was at the keyboard to avoid getting a computer virus.

 

2) Making loud retching noises in the theater during the concluding scenes of "Titanic."

 

2a) ...and Love Story...

 

2b)...and Terms of Endearment...

 

3) Attempting to convince a second hand book store owner that I had an inoperable brain tumor so he would give me a discount on the pile of Man from UNCLE and Tarzan books I wanted to purchase.

 

4) Going to a Halloween party in 1983 as a James Dean AFTER the car crash, when it was apparent I was the only one who thought it was funny, and subsequently totally blowing my one and only chance with the babe from 4C who turned out to be a major James Dean fan. Who knew?

 

5) ...okay...most of 1983.

 

But I don't regret a stolen second spent in this automotive graveyard in a little town outside of Edmonton.

 

That's where this sweetie is currently waiting for a new owner to make her shine again...or the wrecking ball.

 

Still working hard on The Novel. Into the second draft...and I SHOULD be working on it now...but...y'know.

  

Emelie is doing her best to nurse Myles back to 100%

 

We just got back from our vacation in North Carolina at the Barkwells resort, unfortunately it will be a trip to remember for all the wrong reasons. My male Standard Poodle, Myles,~ 52 weeks for dogs 2010~ suffered from GDV also known as BLOAT while we were away.

 

About 6 pm on Thursday, Myles refused his dinner.....as I was watching him, he retched 3 times in a row unproductively. Then layed down on the deck. I immediately thought GDV. We went to the nearest emergency Vet Clinic after we called ahead, only to find the x-ray machine was not working. After keeping my husband John from crawling over the counter and punching the girl (he was stressed) WHY didnt you tell us??? And listening to the Vet on call tell us why she doubted GDV beacuse he showed no signs of bloating~"I can do a needle aspiration, or you can go to anothe ER vet "and I won't charge you" GOOD cuz we are not PAYING YOU anyway", we headed to WESTERN CAROLINA VET HOSPITAL AND ER. we asked her to call ahead and tell them we were on our way. We had called them once, but they had guided us to the first clinic beacuse it was a bit closer.

 

This was 45 min away from the first clinic......we made it in about 24 minutes.On the way, Myles all of the sudden acted like he wanted to jump out of his skin and crawl down my throat.I believe this is when his stomach twisted. John called ahead and said, "no matter what the vet from ABC vet hospital said, this dog is in pain and we believe it is bloat. They were waiting outside for us, took him in and he was xrayed in about 3 minutes...he was torsioned to 270*, even without the telltale bloating.

 

So an emergency surgery, 24 hrs in ICU and 2 large swipes to a Credit Card, and he had torsion surgery and a gaxoplexy to attach his stomach to his abodimonal wall so it hopefully will not twist again.

 

The Vet said there was little to NO food in his stomach (I am careful about feeding and excercise too close together) and we got him there quickly (could have been quicker if it wasnt for the first vet) and his levels of Potassium and Lactate* were at the lower levels for a GDV patient which all worked in his favor.

 

He was released in 24 hours, the quickest he has ever released a bloat patient and he said this was the best outcome he has had in 2 years with this situation.

 

Needless to say, I am still a bit shell shocked and troubled. But he is home with us and that is a plus.......

 

*Kelly...Correct me

Phylum Arthropoda - Arthropods

Subphylum Hexapoda - Hexapods

Class Insecta - Insects

Order Orthoptera - Grasshoppers, Crickets, Katydids

Suborder Ensifera - Long-horned Orthoptera

TENTATIVE

Infraorder Gryllidea - Crickets

 

210216_Tiny_Cricket_Profile_slab_retch_ps

Retching Netch

NOTE: The following story is mildly graphic.

And totally awesome.

    

"I stood, leaning forward over the open hole of the porta-potty toilet. Someone had ripped the lid off the seat, which I thought was kind of funny as I retched and tried to hurl. But nothing came up and I nearly choked instead.

This was a battle between me and my body: I knew what I needed to do, but something inside me was not co-operating. Something inside me did not want to come out.

 

I closed my eyes and focused on the spinning sensation which overwhelmed by brain. I was really, really, really high.

 

And I really needed to vomit.

 

But even with my eyes closed, focusing on the pain, I couldn't do it. This ugliness inside me wanted to hold on for a moment longer and I suddenly felt angry at it. I wanted it out so bad that I felt myself shaking.

 

So I rocked my head back and forth quite violently, making myself feel affectively sicker. I tried again to throw up, but only managed to make a hideous choking sound, which drew the attention of someone in the stall next to me.

 

“Y’okay?” they asked.

 

“Never been better,” I shot back sarcastically, then closed my eyes and shook my head around again.

 

This time, as I leaned over the bowl, I thought about things that made me feel sick: Roller-coasters that spin, cheddar cheese, peanuts, Dani—

 

And I finally hurled.

 

Several times.

 

When I was done, my headlamp caught the color of my vomit and I recoiled, nearly falling backward – it wasn’t the color of my food as I’d expected. It was instead the color of Grizzly Bear’s personality.

 

As a synesthete, it’s hard to describe the emotion I feel when I see a color in “real life” that I see for a number, letter, or person I usually see only in my head. I once saw the color of my own cartilage and it was the color of my 2s. So even though I was a bloody mess, I pointed it out to the doc, who probably thought I was crazy.

 

Anyhow, seeing Grizzly Bear’s personality color escape from my body in that manner made me feel shocked, amazed, and totally relieved.

 

It was over.

I could move on now.

 

I had literally expelled him from my life in the most perfect, fitting way imaginable: Staring into a disgusting porta-potty on the Playa at Burning Man, the very night they had set the Man on fire.

 

This is what the veteran Burners call “Playa Magic”. It’s the crazy, divine co-incidences that leaves us thinking and questioning all we know about ourselves, our lives, and our spirituality.

 

Such is the way of Burning Man."

Day Eleven:

 

I can feel it. Constantly feel it. A sense that not all your thoughts are your own. Like there's something else in here with you trying to pull the strings. If it was one of your own little voices you'd know, wouldn't you? You'd recognise it. The speech patterns. The accent. The familiar demands they all make of you. But where did this one come from?

 

It's not just that unrecognisable disembodied voice you. There's something tangible about it. Something physical. It's eating away at you. Eating away. Eating. Get it out...get it out...get it out. It's in there. It's making me do things. Want to do things. I don't want it to make me do things. I am me. I decide what me does. I don't want something else burying itself inside the darkest parts and letting out what's in there.

 

Think happy thoughts...think happy thoughts....sour the milk...make your mind so rancid it won't stay in there. Think happy thoughts. It doesn't like that. It's practically retching at those joyful explosion of synapses. There's nowhere for it to go but out. I won't have any little parasite forcing me to do what I don't want to do. But there's no need for you to leave completely my little brain munching maggot....after all, do unto others.

aaaaaight, "the master" was so nice to make a sketch for retch! thank you!

okay...something different. I thought I would practice my guitar in a pair of extremely high stillettos, in my living room...and of course I needed help but all that hussie did was offer me some unripe, make you retch, green bananas.......:-P I think the look on my face, to her, says it all...."you've got to be kidding and get those away from me, can't you see i'm busy, wench!!!"

Looking west from the top of Bowfell. The clouds crept up the mountainside and slowly consumed the snow.

 

They then retched a little and spat it out. It's a bit cold, snow.

Retching Netch

Finished A4 page

 

Will be exhibited at this event: galeria-autonomica.de/vorlage_newsletter/newsletter_novem...

Saskia turned 18 recently (hard to believe!), so I made a little collage of Her Museness. They're all old pictures, so it made me nostalgic to go back to some of the photos from when we were 13 or 14, and see how she's grown up. It's amazing to see how chameleon she is from shot to shot. She's been so many different characters of mine.

 

For my creative writing class, we had to write a paragraph using only one vowel, taking our pick of A, E, I, or U. I chose E. If you're at all interested in writing, try this. It's a fun and challenging exercise. Here's what I came up with:

 

Even Hell herself sleeps, her temper enfeebled, her flesh defenseless when the embers freeze grey. The perfected veneer flees (she’s the expert pretender). Vexed, she spews her secrets; the deeds fester when expressed, the sentences breed spleen, bleed needless, nerveless self-centeredness. She retches; the repressed fever renews. Her speech rebels, the tempest emerges; the repellent resentment renders her helpless. The nerds were her preferred prey—these rejects remember her deterrent leers, her heckles, her sneers, her relentless “presents.” The fees, the debts. She wheezes, her wretched spells depleted.

Detested, she sees her deeds everywhere. She weeps.

   

www.porsche.com/international/models/911/carrera-models/9...

Anyone who dreams of a Porsche usually has an image in their mind: the 911 has been the epitome of an exciting, powerful sports car with day-to-day usability for 60 years. Take a seat behind the wheel of the new 911 and become part of a unique community.

  

www.motortrend.com/reviews/2022-porsche-911-carrera-gts-f...

Porsche presently offers 21 available or imminently available variants of the 992-series 911, from the least expensive Carrera to the priciest Turbo S. It's enough to confuse even avowed Porschephiles and to spur cynics to roll their eyes. This fast-food-like approach dishes out calories incrementally, a proven strategy to entice buyers of varying means and to squeeze every available cent from their accounts. But cynicism melts away when you drive the new 2022 Porsche 911 Carrera GTS.

Regular or Medium Size?

The 2022 porsche 911 Carrera GTS is the 911 lineup's middle child, but that's no slight. Since the badge's arrival as a fixture in the range a little more than a decade ago, Porsche has positioned the GTS between the Carrera S and GT3 (and Turbo) in performance and price. The simplest way to think of it is as a Carrera S with every must-have performance option, for less money than you pay by adding them à la carte. The kicker: Not all its hardware is available on lesser versions, making it wallet clickbait for Carrera shoppers who retch at the notion of not having their hands on the most capable offering, whether they need it or not.

 

en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Porsche_911

The Carrera name was reintroduced from the 356 Carrera which had itself been named after Porsche's class victories in the Carrera Panamericana races in Mexico in the 1950s.

 

Special car

Retching Netch

The first day of my exhibition. Mother and I planned a lunch at the gallery to soak up the ambience and relax after the preparations were completed. Tucking into oozing, Italian sounding goo in ciabatta whilst gazing around my mum’s eyes suddenly became filled with horror.

‘Oh no, not a pube in the sandwich.’ I thought, inwardly retching and putting mine down with covert rapidity. But no, her eyes were not on the sandwich, they were scanning the walls like a holiday maker hunting down the last mosquito left in their Spanish villa before bed. I felt like the girl in Jurassic Park as she witnesses her brother freezing over a spoonful of green jelly when he sees the velociraptors behind his sister.

“I don’t want you to panic but…..” The worst words you can utter…..

“….I can see a slight bubble of air in one of the photos.”

My mouth turned to asbestos, the blood was evacuated from my face, the lettuce stuck to the sides of my mouth like toilet paper. As I turned in painstaking slow motion to look at the photos on the wall the cockling in the photo hove into view. It was enormous, it was multiple…lunch was over.

We both sat poking at food with sweaty hands whilst scanning the walls. Dilated pupils counting bumps and bubbles in each of the pieces on the wall. Hours had been spent spray mounting photos to prevent this very disaster and lo, it was upon us. As our eyes took in the awful sight of my exhibition photos puffed up like popadoms we had to fight the urge to go foetal.

 

It’s amazing just how delighted you can appear that a disaster has occurred when in front of people you don’t know. (Just like when you bash your head embarrassingly loud after a raucous guffaw on an ill placed wall in a pub – you have to act like it was just what you wanted and that the pain is not coursing through your skull making you want to chew your own arm.) The manager of the gallery must have thought this was what we had hoped for all along as with pained smiles of frivolity and ecstasy we told him that we would just need to make a few minor adjustments to the pieces. Three and a half hours in the back yard in November later, having roped in every friend and relative who had kindly visited the opening day of the exhibition the photos were back on the walls, un-cockled in their frames and we sat cockled over cups of hot chocolate, immersed in the kind of relief a child feels after their final urge to vomit from a stomach bug passes and they can handle the thought of some dry toast.

  

For those of you who follow this photostream (and who doesn't?) you may know that Sheree and I have been REALLY busy over the past few weeks. So we decided to hop into the car and go for a couple of road trips together this weekend.

 

One of our road trips started like this. Sheree looks at me and says "Before we go, can you get the bird bath out of the box for me?" About a month ago, we purchased a cast iron bird bath for SEVENTY DOLLARS at Canadian Tire...and it's been sitting alone in our living room since then. Still in the box. One day it moved to the center of the floor, apparently to attract my attention. (I actually had to step around it.)

 

Apparently said birdbath is the perfect addition to the seventy-nine bird feeders and water bowls and little birdie mattresses and massage tables we already have on our deck to attract their attention. I had resolved to ignore it.

 

Sheree looks up and smiles innocently. We both know what's happening, of course. It's checkmate from the start. Beautifully played. I will open the box containing the birdbath for those fricking birds she keeps feeding, apparently so they will continue to poop copiously all over our deck. Then I will put together the birdbath since taking it out of the box, leaving the crap all over the floor and creeping off to the bathroom is a tactic of the Lesser Man. (Besides...I just used it yesterday.)

 

I shudder just a little as I see mysterious screws and nuts and those little round things I always forget to put on until the nuts are REALLY tight. They are vacuum packed against stiff cardboard. This means an exacto knife...and I'm the first to admit I should not be trusted with anything that sharp...

 

But we were going on a road trip, so I was in a pretty good mood. Attempting to cast my feelings of impending doom to one side, I arrayed the dizzying pile of crap in front of me. I then sat down to try to interpret the directions, obviously written by someone who learned English second hand from a slow-witted stuttering Dutch sailor. I give up on the words and commence trying to glean hints from the illustrations that had not been that good to start with and copied way too often...

 

MEANWHILE Sheree is listening to music. Our good friend, Fred, sent her a ton of wonderful soul music. However we could only open twelve of the songs. Sheree likes them and so we have been listening to the same fricking twelve songs for DAYS.

 

(Brief sidebar: Once the events described herein are done, we are in the car and I am listening to Joe Tex singing: "SHOW ME A MAN WHO'S GOT A GOOOOOD WOMAN..." (again) and I look at Sheree and start making sharp retching sounds.

 

"What's wrong?" she asks.

 

"I can't listen to this fricking song one more time," I respond. "I used to like it. But you've played it over and over...good GOD, woman!"

 

"I still like it,"she says with a shrug.

 

I go into the cluttered compartment between our seats and draw out an 80 GIG iPod which I have given her. (I have actually given her TWO iPods...)

 

"This is an iPod," I say.

 

She nods and listens to the music. She's not even pretending to pay attention to me. I sigh.

 

"Sheree," I say. "You could listen to the music on this iPod for fourteen days and never hear the same song twice."

 

She nods absently. I am looking at her incredulously.

 

Joe Tex is still yelling at me: "Show me a man who has a GOOD WOMAN!"

 

I revise strategies and begin to moan and mime having small seizures in my seat. This draws a distantly interested glance from Sheree. She is watching only long enough to make sure I am only being a jerk...and not in the throes of a medical emergency.

 

"Well hook it up then," she says finally.

 

"The iPod?" I ask.

 

She nods.

 

"You mean you don't want to listen to your four cd's all day long?" I ask.

 

Here endeth the sidebar.)

 

SO I am putting the fricking birdbath together. I am done. It looks okay. I have only done myself minor injuries. But I have one screw left. Why? WHY??? WHY?????

 

There are those people who would toss the screw into the garbage and call it done...and those of us who really get bugged by that one screw. Where is it SUPPOSED to go??? (I have often suspected that there is some psychopath at the factory who puts one EXTRA screw into the package ON PURPOSE...chortling and chuckling about the emotional carnage he knows it will cause.)

 

I started thinking of innocent birds, bathing joyfully in this bath when suddenly the whole structure cants to one side and then, with murderous force, slams into the deck, getting bird guts all over the wood of my deck.

 

"How are you doing with that?" calls Sheree cheerily from the deck.

 

I mutter something and consider putting the screw in my pocket. But I just can't do it.

 

I tell her I am almost finished. I start taking the stoooopid birdbath apart and find an empty hole the same size as the screw. It holds a little thing to a large roundish bigger thing. Oho! I think. (Oho is an outstanding word...try it the next time you figure something very difficult out. Just sit there and say "OHO!" to yourself. You'll understand what I mean.)

 

I am elated. I screw it in and put the birdbath back together. No problems.

 

"Oho!" I say again...just because.

 

Sheree enters a moment later and examines my handiwork.

 

"It looks like a birdbath," she observes shrewdly.

 

I beam. Even the guys who built the space shuttle could not have been this proud.

 

She pokes a finger at a stooopid ornamental bird on a stooopid branch. It moves.

 

"This bird is loose," she says as it flops to one side and hangs there looking...well...stoooopid.

 

We both contemplate it quietly for a moment.

 

"It's supposed to be that way," I tell her. "It needs to maintain a...flexibility...quotient...so high winds don't...y'know... blow it over." My words hang in the air between us, weakly gasping for life before eventually shambling off into oblivion with a hopeless sigh.

 

Sheree fixes those blue eyes on me and I briefly consider sticking to my stoooopid story.

 

I sigh.

 

"Okay," I say with yet another sigh, designed to CLEARLY convey that I won't be held responsible for the ensuing carnage should the intended repairs be made. "I can try to tighten it."

 

"Good idea," she says. She is standing looking at me.

 

I am dreading the impending repairs because I have a history of really messing crap up if I dare take anything apart when it's pretty much working.

 

"You want me to do it NOW?" I ask. "I'm pretty busy, you know."

 

She sighs.

 

I start unscrewing the stoooopid bird.

 

"Can you give me one of those screwdrivers that has that cross thingie on it?" I ask. It seems to me that she really should be doing something other than supervising me.

 

"You mean a PHILLIPS screwdriver?" she asks.

 

"Whatever," I mutter. "Showoff."

 

She gives me the screwdriver and I channel all my nervous energy into fusing that stooopod bird with that stooopoid branch.

 

I screw the whole thing back on and await the Return of the Princess. I am prepared now to accept the admiration that surely shall be mine.

 

She walks into the room, pokes the bird with a finger. It doesn't move.

 

"Hummmph," she says. (This is as close as I can come to the actual spelling of the sound she made. Put into words, I think it would translate into "About time, you moron.")

 

So we put the bird bath onto the deck with all the rest of the bird crap we aleady have out there.

 

And we hit the road.

 

Among other things, we went to Heritage Days in the tiny town of Onoway -- which was what I started to tell you about. But the birdbath story just took over. Maybe another time...

 

Oh...right. The picture. We took this one on our way OUT of Onoway. Sheree kinda tells the story about it here: www.flickr.com/photos/97705796@N00/4673417501/

 

BY THE WAY: I have yet to see a SINGLE bird go anywhere near the birdbath. Will keep you posted.

This is my black and white life painting (2,50m x 2,10m) for the stroke artfair 2011 in Munich.

This was the 10th [tenth] motorcycle I owned, purchased circa 1989. This is not my bike but as close as it gets to the example I owned.

 

My bike was imported in to New Zealand from Queensland in Australia. It was originally owned by a Mr Colin R. Bruce, 146 Union Street, Spring Hill 4001, Brisbane.

The bike's owner's express warranty handbook provides the following details;

PRE-Delivery was at Queensland Bike World, Ipswich Rd, Marooka, date; 2/9/85.

Mechanic: M.S. Brown

The model: ZX 750 G2.

The bike had 2 more service checks at Queensland Bike World. 1. 20/9/85 at 800km/miles & 2. 18/2/86 at 4744km/miles.

 

Unfortunately on Friday April 27th 1990 at approximately 11.30pm I had my near-death motorcycle accident aboard it. I lost control of the bike after braking heavily at high speed for a right hand bend in the open road, fell, and slid across the road in to a farmer's paddock concrete fence post and instantly amputated my left leg at the knee. I was transferred to a local hospital fortunately within the 'golden hour'. More chance of surviving such an horrific traumatic accident. I had 12 hours of mainly exploratory surgery. My injuries were many and serious and my condition was listed as 'critical'. I had fractured my pelvis on the right side, had massive injury to my left buttock after sliding on tar seal in denim jeans. I had sustained several urological injuries, and a colostomy had been formed with my bowel.

 

My motorcycle was a write-off as it had chassis damage.

 

On the 4th day in the Intensive Care Unit I began fitting while in surgery and had developed renal failure. I was transferred to another hospital by ambo 200km east and placed on kidney dialysis. On the second evening in the Intensive Care Unit it was decided a hemipelvectomy operation be performed due to septicemia [blood poisoning] spreading from my remaining left leg stump. If the septicemia spread in to my body's vital organs I would die. So the remaining left leg stump was amputated including my hip joint and left side of my pelvis. It was a massive traumatic operation and I had my near-death experience during the operation. I could see myself from a distance [the ceiling of the surgical theater]. I also traveled through a tunnel at warp speed and met my maker on the other side. I was asked if I liked it there. I replied it was OK. I was then asked if I wanted to stay there or 'return'. I replied 'I'll return please'. I then again traveled at warp speed through a tunnel. I awoke after my operation and wondered what the F @ % & was going on.

 

I spent 3 weeks in the Intensive Care Unit trying to survive. My body was infused with the maximum dosage of morphine it could take as I was in so much pain. At times I was placed on a ventilator and thought I was Darth Farking Vader. I continually sweated profusely - remember the body's skin is like a car engine's radiator - so hack a piece of radiator off it and naturally the engine can't cool itself as well as if it had all the radiator. My hair began falling out. I experienced wild terrifying hallucinations. At one stage I believed one of my Intensive Care nurses was going to kill me - remember fear of dying is worse than really dying. I had little sleep, and dozed. For a long time I couldn't drink water - and believe me my thirst was greater than Jesus when he was in the desert. I couldn't eat. I was in hell. There was 2 ways out. 1. Death. 2. Life. I felt a presence of 'something' holding the rope I was at the bottom of clinging to. It was just not going to let me go. It was so strong. I began regaining strength. One day I was allowed to eat something. I chose a lettuce and Marmite sandwich. And a pottle of yogurt. Wow it was delicious!

 

I was transferred to Ward 4A near the nurses station. I couldn't sleep. I felt if I went to sleep at night I wouldn't wake up in the morning. I faked pain and was given 10mg of morphine in the morning around 6am. I slept for 2 hours. Upon waking I dry retched for 1/2 an hour. This regime continued until I began naturally falling asleep at night. I stopped asking for morphine. I was transferred to a room of 4 patients. I began communicating with other patients. I was placed on a 'Tilt Board' to get my body used to being upright again. One time I was assisted out of bed and in to a 'Walking Frame'. I began hopping on my one good right leg in the Walking Frame.

 

I was transferred to another 4 patient room where sunshine would come through the window curtains in the afternoon. I began being taken by stretcher and wheels on my back over to the Physio Swimming Pool where I was lowered in to the pool by tray on my back. I would be dipped in to the water and my body would then naturally roll off into beautiful warm water OH WOW! I would wade around in the warm water before returning to my hospital ward room and my primary nurse would make up a full 1 liter plastic jug of orange flavored cordial and I would devour it! This regime continued and it wasn't long before I began semi-swimming in the Physio Swimming Pool - remember as I was a very successful local athlete [road cycling, marathon runner/harrier, bi & triathlete] my body was used to exercise and a lot of it. But this was an entirely different sport - the sport of REHABILITATION.

See road cycling career info here: www.flickr.com/photos/35707376@N00/51988007800/in/album-7...

 

I was also taken across to the Otago/Southland Artificial Limb Center where I was cast and fitted with a hemipelvectomy prosthesis. However as I was so weak I found it very slow and frustrating learning to use the prosthesis. I was also issued a pair of crutches.

 

Read about how I put my crutches to good use here:

www.flickr.com/photos/35707376@N00/52067220563/in/album-7...

 

I spent a total of 101 days in hospital and hopped out with a prosthesis over my shoulder. My new life as a trauma hemipelvectomy was about to START.

 

The Southland Times newspaper article covering my accident:

www.flickr.com/photos/35707376@N00/52037881082/in/album-7...

 

At The Big Kart Track on the Sunshine Coast in Australia on my honeymoon in 2005:

www.flickr.com/photos/35707376@N00/50403299991/in/album-7...

 

At Australia Zoo catching up with my old mate Skippy on my honeymoon in 2005: www.flickr.com/photos/35707376@N00/50403280721/in/album-7...

 

Meeting Australian V8 Supercars hero & super driver Rick Kelly here in Invercargill in 2013: www.flickr.com/photos/35707376@N00/24735165364/in/album-7...

Lüneburg 2016 together with HERBIRD!

Holga & close-up lens | Fomapan 400 | Rodinal 1+25 (5,5min)

 

www.leatherheart.net

facebook

Retching Netch

Burrr

Cavendish Mews is a smart set of flats in Mayfair where flapper and modern woman, the Honourable Lettice Chetwynd has set up home after coming of age and gaining her allowance. To supplement her already generous allowance, and to break away from dependence upon her family, Lettice has established herself as a society interior designer, so her flat is decorated with a mixture of elegant antique Georgian pieces and modern Art Deco furnishings, using it as a showroom for what she can offer to her well heeled clients.

 

Tonight however, we are far from Cavendish Mews. We are not even in England as we follow Lettice, her fiancée, Sir John Nettleford Hughes, and her widowed future sister-in-law, Clementine (known preferably now by the more cosmopolitan Clemance) Pontefract on their adventures on their visit to Paris.

 

Old enough to be Lettice’s father, wealthy Sir John was until recently still a bachelor, and according to London society gossip intended to remain so, so that he might continue to enjoy his dalliances with a string of pretty chorus girls of Lettice’s age and younger. After an abrupt ending to her understanding with Selwyn Spencely, son and heir to the title Duke of Walmsford, Lettice in a moment of both weakness and resolve, agreed to the proposal of marriage proffered to her by Sir John. More like a business arrangement than a marriage proposal, Sir John offered Lettice the opportunity to enjoy the benefits of his large fortune, be chatelain of all his estates and continue to have her interior design business, under the conditions that she agree to provide him with an heir, and that he be allowed to discreetly carry on his affairs in spite of their marriage vows. He even suggested that Lettice might be afforded the opportunity to have her own extra marital liaisons if she were discreet about them.

 

The trio have travelled to Paris so that Lettice may attend the ‘Exposition Internationale des Arts Décoratifs et Industriels Modernes’* which is highlighting and showcasing the new modern style of architecture and interior design known as Art Deco of which Lettice is an exponent. Now that Lettice has finished her commission for a feature wall at the Essex country retreat of the world famous British concert pianist Sylvia Fordyce, Lettice is moving on to her next project: a series of principal rooms in the Queen Anne’s Gate** home for Dolly Hatchett, the wife of Labour MP for Towers Hamlets*** Charles Hatchett, for whom she has done work before. Mrs. Hatchett wants a series of stylish formal rooms in which to entertain her husband’s and her own influential friends in style and elegance, and has given Lettice carte-blanche to decorate as she sees fit to provide the perfect interior for her. Lettice hopes to beat the vanguard of modernity and be a leader in the promotion of the sleek and uncluttered lines of the new Style Moderne**** which has arisen as a dynamic new movement at the exhibition.

 

Tonight we are in Saint-Germain, the fashionable 6th Arronissement of Paris, which is between the Eiffel Tower, Notre-Dame de Paris***** and the Pantheon****** in the elegantly appointed apartment Madeline Flanton, the glamorous silent film star actress employed at Cinégraphic*******. Madeline is an old flame of Sir John’s, and a woman that judging by his subtle, yet not subtle enough for Lettice not to notice, overtures indicate, still has Sir John in her thrall in spite of the fact that she is much older than his usual conquests. When Lettice had first mentioned that she wanted to visit the Exposition Internationale des Arts Décoratifs et Industriels Modernes in Paris to Sir John and asked him to accompany her, his counter proposal involved him attending the exhibition in the mornings, before slipping away and meeting up with Madeline Flanton in the afternoon. Determined not to lose face over this idwea, Lettice suggested that perhaps she could meet Mademoiselle Flanton as well. Rather than balk at the idea, as she had in her heart-of-hearts hoped he might, Sir John warmed quickly to Lettice’s idea, suggesting that if they both went to Mademoiselle Flanton’s apartment for cocktails, the Parisian media wouldn’t question Sir John visiting her, and any whiff of scandal would thus be avoided. He suggested that after a few polite social cocktails with Mademoiselle Flanton, she and Sir John could escort Lettice out via the back entrance to her apartment into a waiting taxi to return her to the hotel that she, Sir John and Clemance have arranged to stay at, leaving Sir John to spend the rest of the night with Mademoiselle Flanton.

 

Thus, we find ourselves in Madeline Flanton’s very smart and select Parisian apartment. Built in a round tower, the flat has a large and spacious central salon, tastefully decorated in the uncluttered Art Deco style Lettice so appreciates, off which are a series of rooms, including a small kitchen which is the domain of her distinguished and unflappable maître d'hôtel********, who is the equivalent of an English butler, an intimate dining room, Mademoiselle Flanton’s boudoir, dressing room and a bathroom. The main salon has large French doors opening up onto a balcony, from which can be seen the Eiffel Tower and is decorated with elegant furnishings and hung with fashionably geometric patterned wallpaper. Overhead a chandelier shimmers and sparkles, its light adding to the diffused golden light of lamps around the room. From a mirror topped demilune table********* overseen by a portrait of the mistress of the house in a thick gilded frame, Madeline Flanton’s maître d'hôtel expertly mixes cocktails from a selection of bottles set out on its surface to a small selection of guests, mostly fellow actors, actresses or staff from the Cinégraphic studio who have been invited to join Madeline as she welcomes Lettice to Paris, and reacquaints herself further with Sir John after beginning the task at a pleasant picnic hosted by Clemance a few days ago.

 

“How appropriate that in Paris, you should request a Parisian********** to drink, mademoiselle Chetwynd.” Mademoiselle Flanton laughs as she tosses her peroxided tresses playfully.

 

Lettice smiles and thanks the maître d'hôtel as she accepts the delicate faceted crystal Marie Antoinette glass*********** from him.

 

“I prefer something à la Américaine, myself,” the French actress goes on, as her maître d'hôtel hands her a soixante quinze************ in a tall highball glass. “I have gathered from mon cher Jean, Mademoiselle Chetwynd, that you have had a very fine classical education.”

 

“Yes, Mademoiselle Flanton.” Lettice replies a little stiffly. “My father the Viscount recognised my thirst for knowledge and my aptitude for learning. His younger sister, my Aunt Eglantyne was also well educated, and he wished me to be able to reach my full potential as a young woman, and not settle for a mediocre marriage because I had no other options.”

 

“Were languages part of your education, Mademoiselle Chetwynd?”

 

“Indeed they were, Mademoiselle Flanton. I can speak fluently in German, partially thanks to my Aunt’s Swiss-German household staff, I can read and speak classical Greek, my Italian is passable,” Lettice pauses. “Oh and of course I speak fluent French. Would you prefer to converse in French, Mademoiselle?”

 

Mademoiselle Flanton smiles gratefully, her expertly painted lips turning upwards at the edges. “How perceptive you are, Mademoiselle Chetwynd. If you wouldn’t mind, I’d appreciate it.”

 

“It’s understandable,” Lettice replies, reverting to French immediately with ease. “Speaking one’s native tongue is always easier.”

 

“Oh it isn’t that, Mademoiselle,” Mademoiselle Flanton elucidates with a serious look. “It’s just that I would like you and I to have a little tête a tête without Jean overhearing what we say. Unlike your progressive father, poor Jean’s father, and mother, were really only interested in hunting, and were from all accounts distrustful of all foreigners, so they never learned to speak anything other than English, and Jean is the same as a result.”

 

“Yes they sent his sister to be finished off in Germany, and she does speak French and Greman.”

 

“In their eyes, it made her a more attractive jeune fille à marier*************. Such linguistic qualities are less attractive in the male heir of a rather boorish and terribly English family.” Mademoiselle Flanton smiles with pity at Sir John as he chats politely with another of her animated male guests dressed in black tie. “Shall we?” Mademoiselle Flanton indicates to a high backed red and gold Oriental brocade upholstered sofa, which like everything else in her salon, is smart and select.

 

Clutching her cocktail, Lettice sinks into the soft upholstery, snuggling into a corner of the sofa, whilst her hostess sits at the opposite end, cradling her own cocktail, a thoughtful expression on her face.

 

“So, you are marrying Jean, then.” Mademoiselle Flanton remarks as she stirs her drink with an agate knobbed silver cocktail pick**************.

 

“You know I am Mademoiselle.” Lettice replies, a hint of frustration in her voice.

 

“Are you enjoying your little sojourn to Paris, Mademoiselle Chetwynd? How did you find the Exposition internationale des arts décoratifs et industriels modernes? I believe you were there this morning.”

 

“I was. It was very interesting, and has given me many wonderful new ideas that I can use in my interior designs for my newest client. However, Mademoiselle Flanton,” Lettice says stiffly with a sigh. “What is this little tête a tête you wish to have, about? It’s not to discuss the Exposition internationale des arts décoratifs et industriels modernes, surely?

 

The French woman doesn’t speak for a moment, continuing to stir her cocktail thoughtfully, not engaging Lettice’s bright blue eyes with her own dark one. Finally she breaks her silence. “You know Jean asked me to marry him once, Mademoiselle Chetwynd.”

 

Lettice’s eyes grow wide in surprise, and her cocktail remains held midway to her lips where she was about to take a sip of it. “No, Mademoiselle Flanton, I didn’t know.” Lettice replies in shock.

 

“Oh yes!” the French actress chuckles. “It was all foolish youthful impetuousness of course. Jean and I met, probably before you were born. Back then, there were no moving pictures, and I certainly wasn’t an actress, at least of that sort.” She adds wistfully.

 

“Yes, John told me that he met you when you were an actress at the Follies Bergère***************.”

 

Mademoiselle Flanton snorts derisively. “If you can call it that. Jean and I were introduced at the Palais de Glace**************** in 1893 by my then lover: a fatal mistake for him, as it spelled the end of our little romantic liaison.” When Lettice doesn’t attempt a reply, she takes a deep draught her cocktail and winces as the feeling and taste of strong alcohol hits her in a wave. “I hate to use the word love, which is a term I think best reserved for the world of the moving picture screen.” She thinks for a moment as she considers how best to describe she and Sir John’s relationship in those early days. “We were besotted with one another, and in his impetuousness he asked me to be his wife two years later. He lowered himself on one knee in a café one night and held up a pretty velvet lined box containing a sparkling diamond ring from Maison Chaumet*****************.”

 

“But you turned him down?” Lettice ventures.

 

“I did, Mademoiselle.”

 

“Why, Mademoiselle? John is a wealthy and influential man.”

 

“I know, Mademoiselle Chetwynd, and he was handsome then.” She looks fondly over at Sir John, her eyes sparkling. “He his handsome still, but perhaps more dignified as an older man. When he was young, oh,” She sighs deeply. “He was so very, very handsome and dashing! And as I said, we were besotted with one another.”

 

“It seems that perhaps there is still an element of that in John now, if not both of you, judging by your flirtations at Clemance’s picnic in the Tuileries******************.”

 

“Oh,” Mademoiselle Flanton mutters. “You noticed that did you?”

 

“You are perhaps not as discreet as you think, Mademoiselle.” Lettice opines flatly.

 

The French actress offers no apology to Lettice, and after another sip of her cocktail, she simply goes on with her story. “I could near have married Jean. We were both too young then, and besides, his parents would never have accepted me. I am French, so a foreigner to begin with, I was dancer at the Follies Bergère, I have no father and my mother was a laundress, so all in all, hardly a dignified or ideal match for the eldest son of such a noble and wealthy family. Besides, even then, Jean had a wandering eye, and wandering hands. I knew he was never going to change his ways, even if I married him. Perhaps,” She considers. “He might have been enamoured enough for a little while to be devoted to me, but it didn’t take him long to claim a new conquest when he returned to England.” She takes another mouthful of her cocktail, gulping loudly. “And that, Mademoiselle Chetwynd is why I wanted to have this little tête a tête with you.”

 

Lettice skins back in her seat with an exasperated sigh. “Surely, you aren’t going to try and talk me out of this marriage to Sir John as well, Mademoiselle?” she asks peevishly. “I have plenty of people back home in London trying to dissuade me.”

 

“Not at all, Mademoiselle Chetwynd.” the Frenchwoman replies, holding up her elegant and heavily bejewelled hands, the golden banded backs of her rings gleaming in the electric lamps illuminating the room. “You are free to do what you wish, and Jean has told me that you are already appraised of his la bougeotte*******************.”

 

“Yes, I go into this marriage fully appraised, Mademoiselle Flanton. John has been very forthright and honest about that facet of his life, and I know he won’t stop his liaisons.”

 

“Well, if that is so, then I am puzzled Mademoiselle Chetwynd. What benefits can you possibly reap from such a match?”

 

“That’s very forthright of you, Mademoiselle!” Lettice gasps, surprised at being asked the question outright, her face flushing with embarrassment.

 

Not apologising again for her behaviour, the French actress simply says, “We French are known for our directness, Mademoiselle.” She smiles at Lettice, a look of impatience subtlety changing the features of her face as she awaits a reply.

 

“Our engagement is complex. John doesn’t want jealousy in his relationships. He certainly doesn’t want a jealous wife. He told me from the start that he has no intention of desisting from his dalliances, and that if I said yes to his proposal, I must accept him on those terms. In return I will be allowed freedoms a married woman like Lady Nettleford-Hughes would not usually receive in British society. I can continue to run my own business, which most husbands would never countenance from their wives, taking her working as a slight towards them as the main financial support and head of the family. If a husband cannot provide for his wife, the British male upper-class ego is usually wounded.”

 

“And you would not have received the same courtesy through Monsieur Spencely, the Duke of Walmsford’s son?” Mademoiselle Flanton queries with her head cocked to the side, engaging Lettice’s gaze intently.

 

Lettice gasps at the mention of Selwyn Spencely’s name, the colour quickly draining from her face as quickly as it had flushed it.

 

“What do you know, Mademoiselle?” Lettice asks hostilely.

 

“When Jean told me that he was coming to Paris with his pretty new fiancée, a woman I never thought would, or could exist, he told me that your understanding with Monsieur Spencely came to an abrupt end, and that you took up the proposal of marriage Jean had made to you in passing some weeks before.”

 

“Then you don’t need an explanation from me, Mademoiselle.” Lettice says hotly. “That is the truth of the matter. Selwyn Spencely and I did have an understanding, but it is over now.”

 

“Jean tells me that le Duchesse de Walmsford sent her son off to the Dark Continent******************* with some kind of promise that he wasn’t to contact you, but when he came back, he could marry you if he still loved you.”

 

“That’s right, Mademoiselle. John has appraised you of the crux of Lady Zinnia’s demands. She gave Selwyn an ultimatum after he made his intentions regarding our relationship clear. She made a pact with Selwyn: if he went away for a year, a year during which he agreed neither to see, nor correspond with me, if he came back to England and didn’t feel the same way about me as he did when he left, he agreed that he would marry a woman that Lady Zinnia deemed suitable. If however, he still felt the same way about me when he returned, she agreed that she would concede and will allow Selwyn to marry me.”

 

“And he came back and broke your understanding?”

 

Lettice sighs. “Not exactly. Whilst he was in Durban on his enforced year of exile, he met the daughter and heiress of a Kenyan diamond mine owner, and they became engaged.”

 

Mademoiselle Flanton notices the pain not only in Lettice’s voice, but in her face as it twists and contorts as she shares the details of the sad story. “I’m sorry, Mademoiselle Chetwynd.” she murmurs quietly. “That I am making you relive this most awful situation.”

 

“It was a rather bloody********************* situation.” Lettice replies, reverting to English in her pain.

 

“Bloody?” the French woman queries. “I’m sorry Mademoiselle Chetwynd? I do not understand.”

 

“Oh!” Lettice replies before returning to speaking French. “Beastly. A horrible situation! To be confronted about his engagement like that.”

 

“And who told you about Monsieur Spencely’s engagement, Mademoiselle Chetwynd?” Mademoiselle Flanton asks kindly.

 

“I don’t see what business that is of yours, Mademoiselle.” Lettice retorts in shock.

 

“Please pardon the intrusion,” Mademoiselle Flanton says in a conciliatory way, looking kindly at Lettice with her warm eyes. “I mean no disrespect. The only reason why I ask,” She looks down at her now drained cocktail glass which she fumbles and plays with in her hands as she holds it in her lap. “And I have a confession to make.”

 

“A confession, Mademoiselle Flanton?”

 

“Oui. Jean, he… he did tell me what transpired – a slightly abridged version of your tale, but enough of it to know – and I asked my secretary, Louise,” She nods in the direction of a pretty brunette with stylishly marcelled waves********************** and translucent skin dressed in a smart beaded chartreuse satin evening frock, chatting with a redheaded gentleman in black tie wearing tortoiseshell rimmed spectacles. “To find out more about Monsieur Spencely and Mademoiselle Avendale’s engagement.”

 

“Why?” Lettice asks in shocked surprise.

 

“Well, when Jean became engaged to you, and it was announced in the British papers, I saw your photograph.” She pauses. “I get some of your London papers, you see,” she adds by way of explanation. “I like to keep up my practice of English, reading, writing and speech, because I have been contracted out by Cinégraphic to British film companies, like your Gainsborough Studios*********************** in London. So, I looked in the social pages to see who it was that had snared my unattainable Jean. When I read how well connected you are, and saw how pretty you are, I was intrigued to know what this Mademoiselle Avendale was like since she stole Monsieur Spencely from you.”

 

Lettice blushes at the French woman’s compliments about her looks and connections.

 

“And I can’t say I could find out very much about her.”

 

“Well, there wouldn’t be anything reported about her in the British papers. This all took place in Durban. I was shown photographs of Miss Avendale and Selwyn together from the Durban newspapers, Mademoiselle Flanton.”

 

“Again, I ask you, by whom, Mademoiselle Chetwynd?” Mademoiselle Flanton urges. “Who showed them to you?”

 

“Well, Selwyn’s mother, Lady Zinnia.” Lettice admits.

 

“Ahh.” Mademoiselle Flanton says knowingly, her expertly plucked and shaped eyebrows arch high over her eyes.

 

“Lady Zinnia summoned me to her Park Lane mansion.” Lettice goes on. “She showed me a whole cache of articles. It announced they were engaged.”

 

“Did they, Mademoiselle?” the actress asks, looking Lettice directly in the eye. “Did they really say that?”

 

“Yes, they did.”

 

Lettice casts her mind back to that horrible day when she arrived at Lady Zinnia’s palatial Park Lane mansion and was shown into her grand white drawing room where every surface was covered in exquisite and expensive antiques and objets d'art. She remembers Lady Zinnia’s haughty and cruel spectre: the thin streak of red on her lips, the pale powder on her cheeks, the single streak of silvery grey through her waved, almost raven black hair, the piercing stare from her cold and mirthless eyes. Lettice recalls the pink cardigan of Lady Zinnia’s secretary as she handed her mistress a buff envelope, but she cannot recall her name. She can picture Lady Zinnia opening the folder and presenting a selection of articles showing a smiling Selwyn with Kitty Avendale at dances, riding together and in fancy dress to Lettice, a smug smile on her face. She recalls the word engaged printed beneath some of them. After that, her memory becomes very blurred and unreliable, and to this day, Lettice still does not know how she managed to get the short distance between Park Lane and her home at Cavendish Mews.

 

“Yes…” Lettice falters. “They did. They did.”

 

“You see, from what Louise has gleaned, this Kitty Avendale only arrived in Durban last year after Monsieur Spencely did. No-one had ever heard of her before. For the heiress to a diamond mine, that seems a little odd, don’t you think, Mademoiselle Chetwynd?”

 

“Perhaps her father the Australian only recently made his fortune.” Lettice offers in explanation.

 

“There is no mention of Mr. Avendale anywhere at all. The closest Louise could find was an Australian jockey called Dickie Avendale who was banned from racing horses in Durban after some kind of scandal involving race fixing************************, when he deliberately lost the Durban Handicap*************************, and it was found that he was paid a great deal of money for not winning riding one of the favourites in the race. And try as she might, to date Louise has found no announcement of the engagement of Mademoiselle Avendale and Monsiuer Spencely, in either the Durban, or the London papers. There are reports of Monsieur Spencely choosing to stay on in Durban to see a few of his architectural projects through to fruition, but there is nothing about his engagement. Not one printed word. Indeed, coincidentally, Mademoiselle Avendale seems to disappear from the newspapers in Durban altogether after the announcement of your engagement to Jean being published in The Times in London. Don’t you think that a little strange too? Perhaps more than a little odd?”

 

Lettice feels a curdling in her stomach as she listens to the French actress speak, all the while trying to recall the exact wording printed underneath the photographs of Selwyn and Kitty Avendale. It’s so hard. Her mind is addled; her heart is racing. Her breathing is becoming shallow and more laboured.

 

“No, I distinctly remember ‘Mr. Selwyn Spencely and Miss Kitty Avendale, engaged’ on the bottom of one photograph.” Lettice says, remembering now.

 

“What was in the rest of the article, Mademoiselle Chetwynd? Do you remember?” Mademoiselle Flanton asks.

 

“I… I…” Lettice stammers. She tried to recall the articles. As far as she can recall, she only saw the photographs of Selwyn and Kitty with the caption for the photo beneath it. “I’m sure there was another caption that mentioned Kitty’s father being a diamond mine owner.”

 

“Yes, but what about the rest of the article, Mademoiselle Chetwynd?” Mademoiselle Flanton persists. “What did it say?”

 

“I… I… I don’t think there was any more of the article.” Lettice shakes her head. “No. There were just the photographs from the newspapers and the caption below.”

 

“So, no articles then?”

 

“No, but that’s hardly unusual in the society pages of a newspaper. Usually there are only two or three lines captioning it.”

 

“But you only saw the first lines?”

 

“I did.” Lettice begins to feel nauseous. She hasn’t felt this ill since that afternoon at Lady Zinnia’s Park Lane mansion.

 

“So, please correct me if I am wrong, Mademoiselle Chetwynd, but from what you are telling me, the information you received came directly from the woman who did not want you to marry her son, and all you have been shown are a selection of social page photographs with what may possibly be only part of a caption on it.” When Lettice nods shallowly, her face riddled with guilt, the French woman continues. “Then if I were you, I would return home post haste and do a bit of your own research.”

 

“Why mademoiselle Flanton?”

 

“Well, the fact that the engagement hasn’t been announced in the London papers strikes me as particularly odd, Mademoiselle Chetwynd. The son of a Duke, and such a fine match! Le Duchesse would surely announce it with pride! Could it be that you were fed lies, or only a half-truth by le Duchesse de Walmsford? I would not trust her to tell you the whole truth.”

 

Lettice doesn’t answer immediately, as bile rises and roils in her stomach. When she does finally speak it is to ask her hostess the direction to bathroom. Once inside the bright pink tiled room with its frieze of black and white alternate tiles, Lettice locks the door behind her and barely makes it to the toilet before she throws up the selection of savories and oysters that her hostess has been feeding her guests throughout the soirée into the bowl. She retches, and retches until there is nothing left to vomit, thinking all the while of what Mademoiselle Flanton has revealed to her, and she wonders whether what she says is true. Lettice doesn’t read the list of engagements in The Times. It could be there, and Mademoiselle Flanton’s secretary, Louise, may simply have missed it. As she sits down in a crumpled heap of bespangled midnight blue************************** satin next to the toilet bowl that matches its pink surroundings, kohl*************************** stained tears streaming down her flushed cheeks, she ponders the French actress’ other suggestion. Could she have been lied to? Would Lady Zinnia stoop that low to claw her son away from Lettice? Feeling the flutter of heartbeats in her chest, Lettice knows the answer to that. She must go home, to London, and as quickly as possible to investigate Lady Zinna’s claims more thoroughly for herself.

 

Scrambling up off the floor, Lettice shakily walks the few paces to the pink vanity and looks in horror at her smeared face and red eyes reflected in the mirror. Turning on the taps, she washes her face, leaving Kohl, rouge and lipstick traces on the luxuriantly fluffy white towel, but she doesn’t care. She carefully withdraws her lipstick and eyeshadow cases from her small black and silver beaded reticule**************************** and reapplies just enough makeup to avoid raised eyebrows from John, her hostess or any of the other guests.

 

Taking a few deep and calming breaths, she unlocks the door and walks back out into Mademosielle Flanton’s central salon and walks with as much composure as she can muster, up to Sir John who is still in the midst of the small coterie of actors, actresses and film making guests.

 

“John dear,” she interrupts him as he talks about the London Stock Exchange’s latest results with a father bookish looking man in black tie with slicked down dark hair that is parted sharply and precisely down the middle.

 

He turns and looks at his fiancée, his eyes widening a little with concern as he sees her rather wan face. “Are you alright, Lettice my dear?”

 

“John, I think I might just take myself back to hotel, if you don’t mind.”

 

Sir John leans down and whispers in her ear, “But it isn’t time yet, Lettice my dear.”, thinking this is all part of the ruse that he and Lettice have agreed to that they will arrive together at Madeline Flanton’s, but then Lettice will discreetly slip away through the back entrance of the apartment into a waiting taxi, allowing him to remain with Mademoiselle Flanton and spend the evening with her, rekindling their former liaison.

 

“No, John,” Lettice whispers back. “I genuinely do feel ill. I think I’d like to go back to the hotel now, please. If you could get Mademoiselle Flanton to have her butler flag me a taxi, I’d be most grateful.” She squeezes his arm. “I’ll leave you here.”

 

“Will you be alright, my dear?” Sir John asks as concern clouds his face. “I can come back to the hotel with you.”

 

“No. No.” she assures him with a dismissive wave. “I’m sure it is probably just something that I had for luncheon disagreeing with me. I will only go home to sleep. I think that’s what I require. I don’t wish to spoil your plans. You stay here and enjoy yourself.”

 

A short while later, her fiancée and her hostess escort Lettice into a waiting taxi, flagged by Mademoiselle Flanton’s maître d'hôtel.

 

“Bon chance, mon cher Mademoiselle Chetwynd.” Mademoiselle Flanton whispers in Lettice’s ear.

 

“Merci, Mademoiselle Flanton.” Lettice replies quickly in a returned whisper, before the maître d'hôtel closes the door and instructs the driver of the name of the hotel where Lettice is staying.

 

*International Exhibition of Modern Decorative and Industrial Arts was a specialized exhibition held in Paris, from April the 29th (the day after it was inaugurated in a private ceremony by the President of France) to October the 25th, 1925. It was designed by the French government to highlight the new modern style of architecture, interior decoration, furniture, glass, jewellery and other decorative arts in Europe and throughout the world. Many ideas of the international avant-garde in the fields of architecture and applied arts were presented for the first time at the exposition. The event took place between the esplanade of Les Invalides and the entrances of the Grand Palais and Petit Palais, and on both banks of the Seine. There were fifteen thousand exhibitors from twenty different countries, and it was visited by sixteen million people during its seven-month run. The modern style presented at the exposition later became known as “Art Deco”, after the exposition's name.

 

**Queen Anne’s Gate is a street in Westminster, London. Many of the buildings are Grade I listed, known for their Queen Anne architecture. Simon Bradley and Nikolaus Pevsner described the Gate’s early Eighteenth Century houses as “the best of their kind in London.” The street’s proximity to the Palace of Westminster made it a popular residential area for politicians.

 

***The London constituency of Tower Hamlets includes such areas and historic towns as (roughly from west to east) Spitalfields, Whitechapel, Bethnal Green, Wapping, Shadwell, Mile End, Stepney, Limehouse, Old Ford, Bow, Bromley, Poplar, and the Isle of Dogs (with Millwall, the West India Docks, and Cubitt Town), making it a majority working class constituency in 1925 when this story is set. Tower Hamlets included some of the worst slums and societal issues of inequality and poverty in England at that time.

 

****"Style Moderne," often used interchangeably with "Streamline Moderne" or "Art Moderne," is a design style that emerged in the 1930s, characterized by aerodynamic forms, horizontal lines, and smooth, rounded surfaces, often inspired by transportation and industrial design. It represents a streamlined, less ornate version of Art Deco, emphasizing functionality and sleekness. It was first shown at the Paris International Exhibition of Modern Decorative and Industrial Arts of 1925.

 

*****Notre-Dame de Paris, often referred to simply as Notre-Dame, is a medieval Catholic cathedral on the Île de la Cité, in the 4th Arrondissement of Paris. It is the cathedral church of the Roman Catholic Archdiocese of Paris.

 

******The Paris Pantheon is a neoclassical monument in the city's Latin Quarter, originally commissioned as a church but now serving as a secular mausoleum for prominent French citizens. Built between 1758 and 1790 by architect Jacques-Germain Soufflot, it holds the tombs of figures like Voltaire, Marie Curie, Victor Hugo, and Alexandre Dumas. Following the French Revolution, the building was repurposed to honour national heroes, a role it continues to hold today.

 

*******Cinégraphic was a French film production company founded by director Marcel L'Herbier in the 1920s. It was established following a disagreement between L'Herbier and the Gaumont Company, a major film distributor, over the film "Don Juan et Faust". Cinégraphic was involved in the production of several films, including "Don Juan et Faust" itself. Cinégraphic focused on more experimental and artistic films.

 

********The maître d'hôtel title is usually associated head waiter, host, waiter captain, or maître d' manages the public part, or "front of the house", of a formal restaurant. However, it is also the term used to describe the English equivalent of a butler. The position of "butler" in a household was comparable to the English role, but with different terminology. The French term maître d'hôtel referred to the senior servant in charge of a household. The duties of a domestic maître d'hôtel included overseeing other servants, managing finances, and ensuring the smooth running of the home.

 

*********A demilune table is a console table or accent table with a half-moon or semi-circular top, designed to sit flush against a wall. The name "demilune" is French for "half-moon" and refers to the table's defining curved shape. These tables are often slender and feature a flat back, making them a practical choice for entryways, hallways, or tight spaces where a traditional rectangular table would be cumbersome.

 

**********The Parisian cocktail dates from the 1920s and consists of one third French Vermouth, one third Crème de Cassis and one third gin, shaken well and strained into wide cocktail glass. It falls into a category of drinks that often feature French ingredients or have Parisian connections. Several notable cocktails have gained recognition for their ties to Paris or French culture.

 

***********A "Marie Antoinette glass" typically refers to a champagne coupe, a shallow, bowl-shaped glass with a short stem. While the shape has been linked to Marie Antoinette's breast in popular culture, historical records debunk this claim. The coupe was popular during Marie Antoinette's reign due to the sweeter champagne produced at the time, and its shape was also favoured for its ability to dip cakes in the beverage.

 

************A soixante quinze, more commonly known as a French 75 is a cocktail made from gin, champagne, lemon juice, and sugar. It is also called a 75 cocktail, or in French simply known as a soixante quinze. The drink dates to World War I, when in 1915 an early form was created at the New York Bar in Paris — later Harry's New York Bar — by barman Harry MacElhone.

 

*************A jeune fille à marier was a marriageable young woman, the French term used in fashionable circles and the upper-classes of Edwardian society before the Second World War.

 

**************A cocktail pick is a small, often pointed utensil, typically made of stainless steel or bamboo, used to skewer and hold garnishes like olives, cherries, or fruit for cocktails and appetisers. These reusable picks elevate drink presentation, secure ingredients, and offer a more convenient and stylish alternative to simply dropping garnishes into a drink. They also come in various designs and sizes to match different glasses and events.

 

***************The Follies Bergère is a cabaret music hall in Paris, France. Located at 32 Rue Richer in the 9th Arrondissement, the Folies Bergère was built as an opera house by the architect Plumeret. It opened in May 1869 as the Folies Trévise, with light entertainment including operettas, comic opera, popular songs, and gymnastics. It became the Folies Bergère in September 1872, named after nearby Rue Bergère. The house was at the height of its fame and popularity from the 1890s Belle Époque through the 1920s. Revues featured extravagant costumes, sets and effects, and often nude women. In 1926, Josephine Baker, an African-American expatriate singer, dancer and entertainer, caused a sensation at the Folies Bergère by dancing in a costume consisting of a skirt made of a string of artificial bananas and little else. The institution is still in business, and is still a strong symbol of French and Parisian life.

 

****************The Palais de Glace was a prominent ice-skating rink located on the Champs-Élysées in Paris during the Belle Époque era. Designed by architect Gabriel Davioud, it was known as the “Rotonde du Panorama National” before being converted into the “Palais de Glace” in 1893. The building later became "”he Palace of Nero” during the Universal Exhibition of 1900.

 

*****************Maison Chaumet's history began in Paris in 1780 with jeweller Marie-Étienne Nitot, who became a favourite of Empress Joséphine. The business grew under his successors, eventually being named Chaumet by Joseph Chaumet in the late Nineteenth Century and moving to its iconic Place Vendôme address in 1907. The 1890s saw the continuation of the Maison's legacy, embodying elegance and high-craftsmanship in a period of significant history for the brand. The workshop of the Maison was a hub of activity, with fourteen artisans under the direction of their foreman, continuing the tradition of exquisite jewellery-making. The firm, which still operates from this location, was acquired by the LVMH luxury group in 1999 and continues to pass down its high jewellery expertise through generations of artisans.

 

******************The Tuileries Garden is a public garden between the Louvre and the Place de la Concorde in the first arrondissement of Paris. Created by Catherine de' Medici as the garden of the Tuileries Palace in 1564, it was opened to the public in 1667 and became a public park after the French Revolution. Since the Nineteenth Century, it has been a place for Parisians to celebrate, meet, stroll and relax.

  

*******************The French term “la bougeotte” means restlessness, with a need to move. Although usually used to refer to travel, it can also be used when someone has a desire to seek alternatives elsewhere in their lives and move on from current situations.

 

********************"The Dark Continent" is an outdated term historically used to refer to Africa, particularly Sub-Saharan Africa, due to its perceived mystique and lack of exploration by Europeans in the Nineteenth Century.

 

*********************The old fashioned British term “looking bloody” was a way of indicating how dour or serious a person or occasion looks.

 

**********************Marcelling is a hair styling technique in which hot curling tongs are used to induce a curl into the hair. Its appearance was similar to that of a finger wave but it is created using a different method. Marcelled hair was a popular style for women's hair in the 1920s, often in conjunction with a bob cut. For those women who had longer hair, it was common to tie the hair at the nape of the neck and pin it above the ear with a stylish hair pin or flower. One famous wearer was American entertainer, Josephine Baker.

 

***********************Islington Studios, often known as Gainsborough Studios, were a British film studio located on the south bank of the Regent's Canal, in Poole Street, Hoxton in Shoreditch, London which began operation in 1919. By 1920 they had a two stage studio. It is here that Alfred Hitchcock made his entrée into films.

 

************************We usually think of match or race fixing as a modern day thing, but one of the earliest examples of this sort of match fixing in the modern era occurred in 1898 when Stoke City and Burnley intentionally drew in that year's final "test match" so as to ensure they were both in the First Division the next season. In response, the Football League expanded the divisions to eighteen teams that year, thus permitting the intended victims of the fix (Newcastle United and Blackburn Rovers) to remain in the First Division. The "test match" system was abandoned and replaced with automatic relegation. Match fixing quickly spread to other spots that involved high amounts of gambling, including horse racing.

 

*************************The Durban July Handicap is a South African Thoroughbred horse race held annually on the first Saturday of July since 1897 at Greyville Racecourse in Durban, KwaZulu-Natal. Raced on turf, the Durban July Handicap is open to horses of all ages. It is South Africa's premier horse racing event. When first held in July 1897, the race was at a distance of one mile. The distance was modified several times until 1970 when it was changed to its current eleven furlongs.

 

**************************Midnight blue is darker than navy blue and is generally considered to be the deepest shade of blue, one so dark that it might be mistaken for black. Navy blue is a comparatively lighter hue.

 

***************************Kohl is a cosmetic product, specifically an eyeliner, traditionally made from crushed stibnite (antimony sulfide). Modern formulations often include galena (lead sulfide) or other pigments like charcoal. Kohl is known for its ability to darken the edges of the eyelids, creating a striking, eye-enhancing effect. Kohl has a long history, with ancient Egyptians using it to define their eyes and protect them from the sun and dust, however there was a resurgence in its use in the 1920s and 1930s. In the 1920s, kohl eyeliner was a popular makeup trend, particularly among women embracing the "flapper" aesthetic. It was used to create a dramatic, "smoky eye" look by smudging it onto the lash line and even the inner and outer corners of the eyes. This contrasted with the more demure, natural looks favoured in the pre-war era.

 

****************************A reticule also known as a ridicule or indispensable, was a type of small handbag or purse, typically having a drawstring and decorated with embroidery or beading, similar to a modern evening bag, used mainly from 1795 to before the Great War.

 

This rather elegant scene, showing a corner of Mademoiselle Flanton’s smart and select Parisian flat with its up-to-date Art Deco styling may look real to you, but it is in fact made up entirely of 1:12 size miniatures from my collection.

 

Fun things to look for in this tableau include:

 

The glass topped demilune table in the background is a hand made miniature artisan piece, which sadly is unsigned.

 

The bottles covering Mademoiselle Flanton’s mirrored glass bar surface are all 1:12 of Gordon’s Dry Gin, the bottle of Crème de Menthe, Cinzano, Campari and Martini are also 1:12 artisan miniatures, made of real glass. Most came from Little Things Dollhouse Miniatures in Lancashire, who are well known for the detail and correctness of their labelling, which they pay close attention to. The bottle of Gordon’s Dry Gin came from a specialist stockist in Sydney.

 

Gordon's London Dry Gin was developed by Alexander Gordon, a Londoner of Scots descent. He opened a distillery in the Southwark area in 1769, later moving in 1786 to Clerkenwell. The Special London Dry Gin he developed proved successful, and its recipe remains unchanged to this day. The top markets for Gordon's are (in descending order) the United Kingdom, the United States and Greece. Gordon's has been the United Kingdom’s number one gin since the late Nineteenth century. It is the world's best-selling London dry gin.

 

Crème de menthe (French for "mint cream") is a sweet, mint-flavored alcoholic beverage. Crème de menthe is an ingredient in several cocktails popular in the 1920s, such as the Grasshopper and the Stinger. It is also served as a digestif.

 

Cinzano vermouths date back to 1757 and the Turin herbal shop of two brothers, Giovanni Giacomo and Carlo Stefano Cinzano, who created a new "vermouth rosso" (red vermouth) using "aromatic plants from the Italian Alps in a recipe which is still secret to this day.

 

Campari is an Italian alcoholic liqueur, considered an apéritif. It is obtained from the infusion of herbs and fruit (including chinotto and cascarilla) in alcohol and water. It is a bitters, characterised by its dark red colour.

 

Made from hand blown ruby glass, the soda syphon was made by Beautifully Handmade Miniatures in Kettering. The clear glass soda syphon and the porcelain ice bucket and tongs was made by M.W. Reutter Porzellanfabrik in Germany, who specialise in making high quality porcelain miniatures. The glass featuring sparkling gin and tonic water with a slice of lemon on it is also a 1:12 miniature which came, along with the silver cocktail shaker behind it from an online stockist of dollhouse miniatures on E-Bay. The other glasses, the silver basket of roses and the portrait of Mademoiselle Flanton come from Kathleen Knight’s Doll’s House Shop in the United Kingdom.

 

The Art Deco pattern on the wall behind the demilune table, I created myself.

Sketch Sheet Scan

This was the 10th [tenth] motorcycle I owned, purchased circa 1989. This is not my bike but as close as it gets to the example I owned.

 

My bike was imported in to New Zealand from Queensland in Australia. It was originally owned by a Mr Colin R. Bruce, 146 Union Street, Spring Hill 4001, Brisbane.

The bike's owner's express warranty handbook provides the following details;

PRE-Delivery was at Queensland Bike World, Ipswich Rd, Marooka, date; 2/9/85.

Mechanic: M.S. Brown

The model: ZX 750 G2.

The bike had 2 more service checks at Queensland Bike World. 1. 20/9/85 at 800km/miles & 2. 18/2/86 at 4744km/miles.

 

Unfortunately on Friday April 27th 1990 at approximately 11.30pm I had my near-death motorcycle accident aboard it. I lost control of the bike after braking heavily at high speed for a right hand bend in the open road, fell, and slid across the road in to a farmer's paddock concrete fence post and instantly amputated my left leg at the knee. I was transferred to a local hospital fortunately within the 'golden hour'. More chance of surviving such an horrific traumatic accident. I had 12 hours of mainly exploratory surgery. My injuries were many and serious and my condition was listed as 'critical'. I had fractured my pelvis on the right side, had massive injury to my left buttock after sliding on tar seal in denim jeans. I had sustained several urological injuries, and a colostomy had been formed with my bowel.

 

My motorcycle was a write-off as it had chassis damage.

 

On the 4th day in the Intensive Care Unit I began fitting while in surgery and had developed renal failure. I was transferred to another hospital by ambo 200km east and placed on kidney dialysis. On the second evening in the Intensive Care Unit it was decided a hemipelvectomy operation be performed due to septicemia [blood poisoning] spreading from my remaining left leg stump. If the septicemia spread in to my body's vital organs I would die. So the remaining left leg stump was amputated including my hip joint and left side of my pelvis. It was a massive traumatic operation and I had my near-death experience during the operation. I could see myself from a distance [the ceiling of the surgical theater]. I also traveled through a tunnel at warp speed and met my maker on the other side. I was asked if I liked it there. I replied it was OK. I was then asked if I wanted to stay there or 'return'. I replied 'I'll return please'. I then again traveled at warp speed through a tunnel. I awoke after my operation and wondered what the F @ % & was going on.

 

I spent 3 weeks in the Intensive Care Unit trying to survive. My body was infused with the maximum dosage of morphine it could take as I was in so much pain. At times I was placed on a ventilator and thought I was Darth Farking Vader. I continually sweated profusely - remember the body's skin is like a car engine's radiator - so hack a piece of radiator off it and naturally the engine can't cool itself as well as if it had all the radiator. My hair began falling out. I experienced wild terrifying hallucinations. At one stage I believed one of my Intensive Care nurses was going to kill me - remember fear of dying is worse than really dying. I had little sleep, and dozed. For a long time I couldn't drink water - and believe me my thirst was greater than Jesus when he was in the desert. I couldn't eat. I was in hell. There was 2 ways out. 1. Death. 2. Life. I felt a presence of 'something' holding the rope I was at the bottom of clinging to. It was just not going to let me go. It was so strong. I began regaining strength. One day I was allowed to eat something. I chose a lettuce and Marmite sandwich. And a pottle of yogurt. Wow it was delicious!

 

I was transferred to Ward 4A near the nurses station. I couldn't sleep. I felt if I went to sleep at night I wouldn't wake up in the morning. I faked pain and was given 10mg of morphine in the morning around 6am. I slept for 2 hours. Upon waking I dry retched for 1/2 an hour. This regime continued until I began naturally falling asleep at night. I stopped asking for morphine. I was transferred to a room of 4 patients. I began communicating with other patients. I was placed on a 'Tilt Board' to get my body used to being upright again. One time I was assisted out of bed and in to a 'Walking Frame'. I began hopping on my one good right leg in the Walking Frame.

 

I was transferred to another 4 patient room where sunshine would come through the window curtains in the afternoon. I began being taken by stretcher and wheels on my back over to the Physio Swimming Pool where I was lowered in to the pool by tray on my back. I would be dipped in to the water and my body would then naturally roll off into beautiful warm water OH WOW! I would wade around in the warm water before returning to my hospital ward room and my primary nurse would make up a full 1 liter plastic jug of orange flavored cordial and I would devour it! This regime continued and it wasn't long before I began semi-swimming in the Physio Swimming Pool - remember as I was a very successful local athlete [road cycling, marathon runner/harrier, bi & triathlete] my body was used to exercise and a lot of it. But this was an entirely different sport - the sport of REHABILITATION.

See road cycling career info here: www.flickr.com/photos/35707376@N00/51988007800/in/album-7...

 

I was also taken across to the Otago/Southland Artificial Limb Center where I was cast and fitted with a hemipelvectomy prosthesis. However as I was so weak I found it very slow and frustrating learning to use the prosthesis. I was also issued a pair of crutches.

 

Read about how I put my crutches to good use here:

www.flickr.com/photos/35707376@N00/52067220563/in/album-7...

 

I spent a total of 101 days in hospital and hopped out with a prosthesis over my shoulder. My new life as a trauma hemipelvectomy was about to START.

 

The Southland Times newspaper article covering my accident:

www.flickr.com/photos/35707376@N00/52037881082/in/album-7...

 

At The Big Kart Track on the Sunshine Coast in Australia on my honeymoon in 2005:

www.flickr.com/photos/35707376@N00/50403299991/in/album-7...

 

At Australia Zoo catching up with my old mate Skippy on my honeymoon in 2005: www.flickr.com/photos/35707376@N00/50403280721/in/album-7...

 

Meeting Australian V8 Supercars hero & super driver Rick Kelly here in Invercargill in 2013: www.flickr.com/photos/35707376@N00/24735165364/in/album-7...

tumblr

near Garzweiler, Germany

I don't remember much since I woke up

but in my dreams, I could still run

the sun was still yellow

but the ground was grey

the snow in the air was only ashes of the burning days

it doesn't pay to grind my bones

every step is a retch of stone on stone

and I'm alone in this struggle

limping for survival

a marathon gone around the bend of trouble

I'm one side stepped crooked

into a straightened corkscrew

into my joints on the sharpened side

I'm widened by worry

two feet far apart

planted firmly on each side of the canyon

it's been a long time gone

since the bottom fell out

and I've been standing here

as the river grande

washed out the rocks and ate the sand

how will I know if these feathers fly

until I lose my grip on the slippery sky?

nothing tells me that something is coming

I'm like lead in my bed

and my bones are thinning

but in my dreams, I'm running...

  

© Steve Skafte

  

My books on BLURB:

Long Time, No Sea and

Stray Cat in a Straitjacket

 

follow my poetry

on FACEBOOK

"You Cat!" - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -- -"You Pussy!"

The exam rooms at the new EVCOT site are huge, quiet and comfortable (good size for your sick Great Dane and its family.) Tikki was nervous though and decided to crawl on top of me and purr loudly to calm herself. (See how she’s frowning & pointing her whiskers down? And those eyes!)

 

I took Tikki in to the emergency vet because she was seeming ill (not eating, diarrhea, retching, low energy). She wasn't running a fever and didn't have parasites (per poop test) but she was a bit dehydrated and had a lot of white blood cell activity so she had something. They gave her sub-Q fluids and antibiotics (and trimmed the fur on her backside) and we went home. I'm supposed to give her Metranidazole for next week, twice a day, which she thinks is as foul tasting as everyone says. 8/4 she is eating the fresh out of can wet w gusto! 8/5 ... and crunchies also... she’s showing more normal energy too. Needs another 4 days of antibiotics which she will really wriggle hard to avoid... that energy can be tricky.

"Horrible abominations. Cataloging them is impossible, as they are as chaotic as the wretched dimensional cesspit that retched them into our world. They do not even seem to follow any pattern of adaptation or evolution, they simply are, and prefer to make their environments suit them instead of the other way around."

 

Rigging issues solved. (Hopefully) Finally getting to make variants now. Here are a few of the many that will be available. I am particularly beholden to the fleshy one on the right side.

Sorry – camera pr0n.

 

So I backed the Lomo'Instant Kickstarter campaign and this arrived a few weeks ago. I'm feeling mixed about it at the moment. It was a nice idea at the time, but I find myself saying, "But wait a minute..."

 

You know when a product doesn't feel quite right? Yeah – that. Has anybody else picked one of these up recently? I'd be interested to know what your own experiences are with this thing. I don't feel overly impressed with it.

 

I haven't been feeling too great lately. A mixture of isolation and general madness/sadness, possibly to do with my current work placement and some recent things happening both at home and at work that have been a mixture of distressing and unnecessarily stressful, &c., &c., and that has resulted in me not really picking up any camera that much. Or going out that much. The usual doom and gloom around this time, especially Christmas, ensues. I don't particularly enjoy it, and whilst I may have my health and all that, I find that I have little to be joyful about at this time of year, purely because humanity is going out of its way to make me retch (Christmas adverts, Black Friday in London – what the actual f...?!) and I may or may not have expressed the fact I didn't really want to be on this Earth any more. Though that's par for the course anyway. I am really tired – maybe it's the SAD. I don't know. But I've found human interaction really exhausting recently in situations where I'd usually be absolutely fine.

 

I am hoping the local churches or community centres will be taking "stuff" for Christmas – I have a storage unit full of things that I hoarded from my life before, and it will just take too long to put on eBay (plus I have about 3 people that haven't paid for stuff on eBay already – and it has been over a week since these people placed their winning bids – I may rant / blog about this later). It will be nice to get some of the nice things I do have that I never used and give them to people who will use them and find them a help.

 

Update: So I had a rant about eBay...

 

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All Rights Reserved, as stated. Re-posts are with expressed permission only. You may not use this image, edit it or alter it in any way (and as a result, claim the image or the derivative as your own). And it's not for Tumblr / weheartit.com either.

The newlyweds decided to move to the city of Zhenjiang and open an herb shop of their own. The shop was a great success, for Lady White could tell just what was wrong with a patient and just what compound to prescribe. What’s more, she showed great dedication in helping the sick, no matter how poor.

The two were supremely happy with their work and with each other. Adding to their joy, Lady White soon announced she was expecting a child.

One day when Lady White had gone off to rest, an old Buddhist monk entered the shop and spoke to Xu Xian. “I am Fahai, the abbot of Gold Mountain Temple,” he said. “I have come to warn you of a great danger. By my spiritual powers, I have discovered that your wife is a thousand-year-old snake. She hides her true nature for now, but one day she will surely turn on you and devour you.”

“How dare you say that!” said the young man. “It’s nothing but wicked slander!”

But Fahai told him, “Just make sure she drinks realgar wine for the Dragon Boat Festival. She’ll change back then to her true form, and you’ll see for yourself.”

Soon came the Dragon Boat Festival, when everyone drank wine mixed with foul-smelling realgar to drive away snakes. Knowing the danger to her kind, Lady White stayed in bed pretending to be ill. But Xu Xian called her out of the bedroom and said cheerily, “We mustn’t let the festival pass without sharing at least one cup of realgar wine!”

When his wife made excuses, he suddenly remembered Fahai’s warning and mentioned it as a joke. Lady White was horrified at this unexpected assault on their happiness. Afraid then to make her husband suspicious, and hoping by her powers to withstand the realgar, she drank one cup and then another.

Before she could drink a third, she began to retch. She quickly returned to the bedroom, while Xu Xian hurried out to prepare her some medicine. But when he came back with it, he found on the bed not his lovely wife but a huge white snake.The young man collapsed to the floor, where Blue found him moments later. “Sister,” she called, “wake up! Your husband has died of shock!”Lady White, again in human form, knelt by her husband and wept. Then she declared, “I will fly to Kunlun Mountain and steal a miracle mushroom from the gods. That and nothing else can bring him back to life.”Taking both her own sword and Blue’s, Lady White flew swiftly on a cloud all the way to holy Kunlun Mountain. But just as she came upon one of the miracle mushrooms, she was challenged by Brown Deer, a guard serving the gods. “I beg you,” said Lady White, “spare one mushroom to save my husband’s life.”“These mushrooms are not for mortals!” said Brown Deer.He struck at her with his sword, but she met it with her own. “Then forgive me if I take one anyway,” she said. And she fought back until she wounded him.Lady White picked the mushroom and turned to flee. But just then White Crane, another guard, joined the fight. Holding the mushroom in her mouth, and a sword in each hand, Lady White defended herself bravely. But she was no match for both guards together and was finally beaten to the ground.As White Crane raised his sword for a final blow, the Old Man of the South appeared and called a halt. “How dare you steal from us!” the god demanded of Lady White. But he could not help admiring her devotion to her husband. For that and the child she was expecting, he pardoned her and let her take the mushroom away.

This photo is of Sandra Pankhurst, who runs a business in Melbourne, Australia, called Specialised Trauma Cleaning Services. To find out why I've put it here, please read on...

 

A few of you have asked me what prompted my recent posts on the likes of Validation & Acceptance, and our creating of delusions to help us get by.

 

Probably the main catalyst was my recent reading of an amazing book called The Trauma Cleaner, by Sarah Krasnostein. I can't recommend it enough, for a bunch of reasons. There's a few here:

www.theguardian.com/books/2017/sep/28/i-started-dry-retch...

 

And a magazine-style article in Narratively (which the book I presume grew from) here:

narratively.com/the-secret-life-of-a-crime-scene-cleaner/

 

But, honestly, read the book.

 

Sandra Pankhurst, the subject of the book (and above photo), is trans, and that's explored in great detail in the book, including the traumatic events of her life.

 

That's all actually a bit peripheral, but towards the end of the book there's some exploration by the author of shame and empathy and acceptance (yes! that word), which started me on this process.

 

But Sandra's life experiences have made her an incredibly empathetic and non-judgemental person, and that's obviously a huge part of just why she's so good at her particular job.

 

Just after I finished this book, I also had some communications with someone that made me reflect on some of these issues (shame, empathy, acceptance, etc).

 

This all started coming together, and made me think about how these things are kind of connected -- and that's where my validation & acceptance musings first came from (and I thought I'd start with that as a reasonably positive note, not that I intend getting too grim and depressing (I hope)).

 

So, in a very broad sense, this is where this is all coming from (for those who are interested).

Brad this and Brad that… it made Christine retch to think of that dweeb. Her childhood nemesis with his nasally voice and feathered hair had long annoyed her to tears, but he was her cousin’s best friend so she had to deal with his presence.

 

Or did she?

 

Every afternoon after school Christine toiled in the corner of her room, plotting how to make Brad’s life a living hell while gnashing her teeth. Yet whenever she scribbled down her plans her heart grew troubled.

 

It sank to her stomach.

 

It clashed against her ribs.

 

Almost as if she… cared.

 

What harm would come from stealing Brad's lunch money? Or setting the jacket to his favorite record ablaze? In her youth a schoolyard sandbox had been their battleground---what stopped her from burying him in the trenches? Even her cousin couldn’t decipher Christine’s rage, although Eric preferred reading issues of Playboy to girls' emotions.

 

But those answers and more await Christine should she ever be brave enough to read between her diary’s lines.

 

April 2015 Photo Challenge

 

ft. Christine ♥ MNF Rheia

if she questioned why all the prophets were

male or why her husbands repetitive

statements thrived under the guise of

individualized revelation.

could she, reduced to transcription

see through all of it.

 

in dreams, I

(daughter of the church)

kneel over

a chapel toilet

retching stale

internalized theology;

creating space for

Sophia

The Rhodes to Symi "Flying Zeus" hydrofoil arrives in Ano Symi Harbour on 14th June 1992.

 

The vessel, which looks like something out of "Stingray" is a Kometa, one of 39 built in Soviet Georgia between 1962 and 1992. Another 86 were built in Feodosiya shipyard between 1964-1981. They were exported to Greece, China, Poland, Yugoslavia, East Germany, Thailand, Albania, and Italy. At the time of posting they are still in operation in some countries.

 

Sadly, my first experience of travelling on one was not great. We'd sailed from Mandraki Harbour on Rhodes earlier in the day in conditions which could be described as "lumpy". As soon as the ship started flying on its fins, it became extremely "lively" and very soon the packed glass-covered passenger compartment echoed to the sound of mass retching. Fortunately the journey back was rather less volatile!

 

Minolta Dynax 5000i scanned from a Fujichrome 50 slide

It's not mean to be a strife

It's not meant to be a struggle uphill

 

It's late night March 19th, 2012. I'm right amidst that feeling you get when unknown realms of your subconscious begin to decompress from a wild chapter of life coming to a close.

 

December 23rd I was out running in the morning with my brother and a friend. I don't remember the incident but I got hit by a car while jogging through a crosswalk in SW Portland. Apparently I flew about ten feet in the air and shortly after I was lying on the street my head in a puddle of blood. Folks at the scene were not sure if I was going to make it. 24 hours later I was sitting up in my hospital bed, heavily medicated but alive and well. Among many wonderful folks who came to visit me, one gal, who happened to be there to witness the event, came because she didn't believe that I was actually alive, much less that I only suffered a concussion, broken nose and a chipped tooth. The look in her eyes...I can't say I've ever felt anything quite like it, particularly from a stranger. She said she'd been having nightmares about what had happened to me. My brother, as well as other folks who were at the scene, told me the same thing. I was dumbfounded. To say that I couldn't even begin to wrap my mind around the whirlwind of chaos and compassion that I had been thrown into would be an understatement.

 

Fast-forward to now, the last three months have been an emotional roller coaster filled with some joyous highs and gut-retching lows. It has been a time of great restoration and healing but also of great hardship. Taking the semester off from school afforded me the opportunity to stay busy and work closely on creative projects with my brother and my cousins for our band Charbonneau. Though this was a very good thing in the sense that it kept me from being idle, it was an untimely race to run due to the state of mind my concussion had put me in. I was told that what I was trying to do each day working on our music video was like trying to run a race with two broken legs. Ambition is a crazy thing. Succumbing to that voice in your head that says "you've got to strike while the iron is hot," when your mind is so broken that you struggle to put on a smile for the people you love, will lead you to dark places you never knew were inside of you. I suffered dearly. My family suffered for it. I thank God for forgiveness though, because without it being so graciously poured down on me every day, there's no telling how much bitterness and chaos would abound where there is now more love, more healing and more growth.

 

I'm praying to be in a generous mode

To share, to unfold in a generous way

 

Kodak Ultra Max 400

Canon FTB camera

Canon 50mm 1:1.4

 

aleceagon.com

instagram

vimeo

Today is Friday, she pulled her stitch out, the others are loose. She's the first time I've see a female nauseas after surgery. She was dry retching a bit...she's not eating like she was before the surgery. I have to pet her and nurture her and then she eats a bit for me. My experience is usually they are starving and half doped they are gobbling their food...but not Geraldine...otherwise, she seems well and playful.

More photos in comments.

 

UPDATE 30thMarch: Vet looked at it, it's closed and no need to add the stitch back and she is free to play. By this afternoon it looked even better so I'm happy all is fine

I got invited to a photo pool on Flickr about dogs and this picture is on my desk so I thought I'd share it.

 

This is my dog Judd.

 

My mum bought him for me when I was about 12 as I had been a bit unwell, she thought he would cheer me up. Judd is a pedigree toy poodle however he was so confident when my mum went to pick him up as a puppy he bolstered right on over to her whilst his brothers and sisters shied away from her. Judd grew so big that the vet was sure he was a small miniature poodle!

 

We named him Judd because my mums Jack Russell Terrier when she was a little girl was called Judy - as small kids we romanticized Judy as we had never met her - she had died when my mum was young without kids. We (me, my brother and sister) always said if we ever got a dog we'd call it Judy but Judd came along and was a boy. Breakfast Club (the film) had just come out also and my 'rebellious' brother reckoned we called him Judd after the actor Judd Nelson, so everyone was happy.

 

More of a family dog than my own. We all love him. After an acrimonious divorce of my parents Judd went to live with my Dad. My dad was a salesman and took Judd everywhere with him in the car and I got him at weekends, my mum saw him occasionally but I had to mediate those visits. Judd didn't go to live with my mum as she bought a tiny flat that couldn't house dogs.

 

So I was 19 when they got divorced. Ella was born when I was 24 and I lived with my wife and Ella in a nice flat in North East London. My dad called me up one day and said Judd was not too well, off his food and when he was taken for walks just lay down after a few hundred yards. Dad felt Judd was getting on and was considering getting him put down (I prefer to called it 'killed' - but thats the phrase you tell your kids isn't it?) I said no way.

 

Of course we had to decide this big decision as a family. I was like Kofi Annan that week, I swear I could have got a job at the UN after the diplomacy that pulled off getting my Mum and Dad, my sister Georgina and me in the same room - our DNA creates a chemical reaction if we are all within a certain radius of each other - seriously, you could power the whole of London for 20 years if you could contain the energy.

 

We took Judd for a walk round the lake in Lloyd Park just down the road from my flat. Judd walked for a bit, wagging his tale running between us like a puppy each of us taking turns to walk with him but after a while he just laid down on the grass - I think we were about half way round the lake.

 

I scooped Judd up in to my arms and held him close, his little heart pounding against my chest. I carried him the rest of the way and talked to him. His eyes were squinting from the bright sunshine and for a few moments we were like a normal family out on a happy Sunday stroll in the Park.

 

We couldn't decide what to do, Judd just seemed tired and weak but not in any sort of pain. There was no way I could accept that we would hand him over to a vet to kill.

 

I carried Judd to my Dads car parked a little way down the road from my flat. My sister opened the passenger door on the left side of the car near the pavement and I lifted him on to his blanket. My sister leaned in to the car to kiss him goodbye but he started to retch. I don't want to recollect what happened in more detail but Judd died in my arms that day.

 

We all got to say goodbye as a family, as a pack. Its what Judd wanted.

 

Smart dogs poodles. I never cried so hard for so long in my whole damn life.

 

I have a ton of photos and sketches of my little brother Judd and I always intended to build a website as a memorial for him. Perhaps I will dig them out and share them with you on Flickr?

    

A dirty little doodle which was greatly inspired by the great, and inspired Laura Park:

 

flickr.com/photos/featherbed/3129432768

 

She's so gawl-durn talented, she makes Eddy wanna "sell the Buick." Then again, Eddy's always looking for an excuse to "summon the Earl." It's a darn good thing Sir Pee likes his leftovers served al dente!

 

UPDATE: Johnny Ryan: flickr.com/photos/18176432@N00/3133978852

 

Jeremy Tinder: www.flickr.com/photos/jeremytinder/3170913715

 

John Martz: flickr.com/photos/robotjohnny/3173258550

This was the 10th [tenth] motorcycle I owned, purchased circa 1989. This is not my bike but as close as it gets to the example I owned.

 

My bike was imported in to New Zealand from Queensland in Australia. It was originally owned by a Mr Colin R. Bruce, 146 Union Street, Spring Hill 4001, Brisbane.

The bike's owner's express warranty handbook provides the following details;

PRE-Delivery was at Queensland Bike World, Ipswich Rd, Marooka, date; 2/9/85.

Mechanic: M.S. Brown

The model: ZX 750 G2.

The bike had 2 more service checks at Queensland Bike World. 1. 20/9/85 at 800km/miles & 2. 18/2/86 at 4744km/miles.

 

Unfortunately on Friday April 27th 1990 at approximately 11.30pm I had my near-death motorcycle accident aboard it. I lost control of the bike after braking heavily at high speed for a right hand bend in the open road, fell, and slid across the road in to a farmer's paddock concrete fence post and instantly amputated my left leg at the knee. I was transferred to a local hospital fortunately within the 'golden hour'. More chance of surviving such an horrific traumatic accident. I had 12 hours of mainly exploratory surgery. My injuries were many and serious and my condition was listed as 'critical'. I had fractured my pelvis on the right side, had massive injury to my left buttock after sliding on tar seal in denim jeans. I had sustained several urological injuries, and a colostomy had been formed with my bowel.

 

My motorcycle was a write-off as it had chassis damage.

 

On the 4th day in the Intensive Care Unit I began fitting while in surgery and had developed renal failure. I was transferred to another hospital by ambo 200km east and placed on kidney dialysis. On the second evening in the Intensive Care Unit it was decided a hemipelvectomy operation be performed due to septicemia [blood poisoning] spreading from my remaining left leg stump. If the septicemia spread in to my body's vital organs I would die. So the remaining left leg stump was amputated including my hip joint and left side of my pelvis. It was a massive traumatic operation and I had my near-death experience during the operation. I could see myself from a distance [the ceiling of the surgical theater]. I also traveled through a tunnel at warp speed and met my maker on the other side. I was asked if I liked it there. I replied it was OK. I was then asked if I wanted to stay there or 'return'. I replied 'I'll return please'. I then again traveled at warp speed through a tunnel. I awoke after my operation and wondered what the F @ % & was going on.

 

I spent 3 weeks in the Intensive Care Unit trying to survive. My body was infused with the maximum dosage of morphine it could take as I was in so much pain. At times I was placed on a ventilator and thought I was Darth Farking Vader. I continually sweated profusely - remember the body's skin is like a car engine's radiator - so hack a piece of radiator off it and naturally the engine can't cool itself as well as if it had all the radiator. My hair began falling out. I experienced wild terrifying hallucinations. At one stage I believed one of my Intensive Care nurses was going to kill me - remember fear of dying is worse than really dying. I had little sleep, and dozed. For a long time I couldn't drink water - and believe me my thirst was greater than Jesus when he was in the desert. I couldn't eat. I was in hell. There was 2 ways out. 1. Death. 2. Life. I felt a presence of 'something' holding the rope I was at the bottom of clinging to. It was just not going to let me go. It was so strong. I began regaining strength. One day I was allowed to eat something. I chose a lettuce and Marmite sandwich. And a pottle of yogurt. Wow it was delicious!

 

I was transferred to Ward 4A near the nurses station. I couldn't sleep. I felt if I went to sleep at night I wouldn't wake up in the morning. I faked pain and was given 10mg of morphine in the morning around 6am. I slept for 2 hours. Upon waking I dry retched for 1/2 an hour. This regime continued until I began naturally falling asleep at night. I stopped asking for morphine. I was transferred to a room of 4 patients. I began communicating with other patients. I was placed on a 'Tilt Board' to get my body used to being upright again. One time I was assisted out of bed and in to a 'Walking Frame'. I began hopping on my one good right leg in the Walking Frame.

 

I was transferred to another 4 patient room where sunshine would come through the window curtains in the afternoon. I began being taken by stretcher and wheels on my back over to the Physio Swimming Pool where I was lowered in to the pool by tray on my back. I would be dipped in to the water and my body would then naturally roll off into beautiful warm water OH WOW! I would wade around in the warm water before returning to my hospital ward room and my primary nurse would make up a full 1 liter plastic jug of orange flavored cordial and I would devour it! This regime continued and it wasn't long before I began semi-swimming in the Physio Swimming Pool - remember as I was a very successful local athlete [road cycling, marathon runner/harrier, bi & triathlete] my body was used to exercise and a lot of it. But this was an entirely different sport - the sport of REHABILITATION.

See road cycling career info here: www.flickr.com/photos/35707376@N00/51988007800/in/album-7...

 

I was also taken across to the Otago/Southland Artificial Limb Center where I was cast and fitted with a hemipelvectomy prosthesis. However as I was so weak I found it very slow and frustrating learning to use the prosthesis. I was also issued a pair of crutches.

 

Read about how I put my crutches to good use here:

www.flickr.com/photos/35707376@N00/52067220563/in/album-7...

 

I spent a total of 101 days in hospital and hopped out with a prosthesis over my shoulder. My new life as a trauma hemipelvectomy was about to START.

 

The Southland Times newspaper article covering my accident:

www.flickr.com/photos/35707376@N00/52037881082/in/album-7...

 

At The Big Kart Track on the Sunshine Coast in Australia on my honeymoon in 2005:

www.flickr.com/photos/35707376@N00/50403299991/in/album-7...

 

At Australia Zoo catching up with my old mate Skippy on my honeymoon in 2005: www.flickr.com/photos/35707376@N00/50403280721/in/album-7...

 

Meeting Australian V8 Supercars hero & super driver Rick Kelly here in Invercargill in 2013: www.flickr.com/photos/35707376@N00/24735165364/in/album-7...

This was the 10th [tenth] motorcycle I owned, purchased circa 1989. This is not my bike but as close as it gets to the example I owned.

 

My bike was imported in to New Zealand from Queensland in Australia. It was originally owned by a Mr Colin R. Bruce, 146 Union Street, Spring Hill 4001, Brisbane.

The bike's owner's express warranty handbook provides the following details;

PRE-Delivery was at Queensland Bike World, Ipswich Rd, Marooka, date; 2/9/85.

Mechanic: M.S. Brown

The model: ZX 750 G2.

The bike had 2 more service checks at Queensland Bike World. 1. 20/9/85 at 800km/miles & 2. 18/2/86 at 4744km/miles.

 

Unfortunately on Friday April 27th 1990 at approximately 11.30pm I had my near-death motorcycle accident aboard it. I lost control of the bike after braking heavily at high speed for a right hand bend in the open road, fell, and slid across the road in to a farmer's paddock concrete fence post and instantly amputated my left leg at the knee. I was transferred to a local hospital fortunately within the 'golden hour'. More chance of surviving such an horrific traumatic accident. I had 12 hours of mainly exploratory surgery. My injuries were many and serious and my condition was listed as 'critical'. I had fractured my pelvis on the right side, had massive injury to my left buttock after sliding on tar seal in denim jeans. I had sustained several urological injuries, and a colostomy had been formed with my bowel.

 

My motorcycle was a write-off as it had chassis damage.

 

On the 4th day in the Intensive Care Unit I began fitting while in surgery and had developed renal failure. I was transferred to another hospital by ambo 200km east and placed on kidney dialysis. On the second evening in the Intensive Care Unit it was decided a hemipelvectomy operation be performed due to septicemia [blood poisoning] spreading from my remaining left leg stump. If the septicemia spread in to my body's vital organs I would die. So the remaining left leg stump was amputated including my hip joint and left side of my pelvis. It was a massive traumatic operation and I had my near-death experience during the operation. I could see myself from a distance [the ceiling of the surgical theater]. I also traveled through a tunnel at warp speed and met my maker on the other side. I was asked if I liked it there. I replied it was OK. I was then asked if I wanted to stay there or 'return'. I replied 'I'll return please'. I then again traveled at warp speed through a tunnel. I awoke after my operation and wondered what the F @ % & was going on.

 

I spent 3 weeks in the Intensive Care Unit trying to survive. My body was infused with the maximum dosage of morphine it could take as I was in so much pain. At times I was placed on a ventilator and thought I was Darth Farking Vader. I continually sweated profusely - remember the body's skin is like a car engine's radiator - so hack a piece of radiator off it and naturally the engine can't cool itself as well as if it had all the radiator. My hair began falling out. I experienced wild terrifying hallucinations. At one stage I believed one of my Intensive Care nurses was going to kill me - remember fear of dying is worse than really dying. I had little sleep, and dozed. For a long time I couldn't drink water - and believe me my thirst was greater than Jesus when he was in the desert. I couldn't eat. I was in hell. There was 2 ways out. 1. Death. 2. Life. I felt a presence of 'something' holding the rope I was at the bottom of clinging to. It was just not going to let me go. It was so strong. I began regaining strength. One day I was allowed to eat something. I chose a lettuce and Marmite sandwich. And a pottle of yogurt. Wow it was delicious!

 

I was transferred to Ward 4A near the nurses station. I couldn't sleep. I felt if I went to sleep at night I wouldn't wake up in the morning. I faked pain and was given 10mg of morphine in the morning around 6am. I slept for 2 hours. Upon waking I dry retched for 1/2 an hour. This regime continued until I began naturally falling asleep at night. I stopped asking for morphine. I was transferred to a room of 4 patients. I began communicating with other patients. I was placed on a 'Tilt Board' to get my body used to being upright again. One time I was assisted out of bed and in to a 'Walking Frame'. I began hopping on my one good right leg in the Walking Frame.

 

I was transferred to another 4 patient room where sunshine would come through the window curtains in the afternoon. I began being taken by stretcher and wheels on my back over to the Physio Swimming Pool where I was lowered in to the pool by tray on my back. I would be dipped in to the water and my body would then naturally roll off into beautiful warm water OH WOW! I would wade around in the warm water before returning to my hospital ward room and my primary nurse would make up a full 1 liter plastic jug of orange flavored cordial and I would devour it! This regime continued and it wasn't long before I began semi-swimming in the Physio Swimming Pool - remember as I was a very successful local athlete [road cycling, marathon runner/harrier, bi & triathlete] my body was used to exercise and a lot of it. But this was an entirely different sport - the sport of REHABILITATION.

See road cycling career info here: www.flickr.com/photos/35707376@N00/51988007800/in/album-7...

 

I was also taken across to the Otago/Southland Artificial Limb Center where I was cast and fitted with a hemipelvectomy prosthesis. However as I was so weak I found it very slow and frustrating learning to use the prosthesis. I was also issued a pair of crutches.

 

Read about how I put my crutches to good use here:

www.flickr.com/photos/35707376@N00/52067220563/in/album-7...

 

I spent a total of 101 days in hospital and hopped out with a prosthesis over my shoulder. My new life as a trauma hemipelvectomy was about to START.

 

The Southland Times newspaper article covering my accident:

www.flickr.com/photos/35707376@N00/52037881082/in/album-7...

 

At The Big Kart Track on the Sunshine Coast in Australia on my honeymoon in 2005:

www.flickr.com/photos/35707376@N00/50403299991/in/album-7...

 

At Australia Zoo catching up with my old mate Skippy on my honeymoon in 2005: www.flickr.com/photos/35707376@N00/50403280721/in/album-7...

 

Meeting Australian V8 Supercars hero & super driver Rick Kelly here in Invercargill in 2013: www.flickr.com/photos/35707376@N00/24735165364/in/album-7...