Returning home

The time has come to leave the cosseted world of the support team and return to the real world at the Trash Palace.

It’s another cold morning in Shepp, typical for this time of the year, when temperatures are low and frost is thick on the ground. I’ve managed to negotiate a civilised departure time and spent last evening packing the convalescent travel necessities in the small, red suitcase.  

MyVeryBestFriendCarmel had suggested she could accompany me on the train to Melbourne and do all the bag carrying; I wasn’t so keen, train travel is OK when you are fit and well but the idea of taking public transport right now doesn’t hold much appeal.  The Godchild has offered to come to Shepp and collect me but it seemed a half-way meeting point would be less travel for everyone.

MVBFC has persuaded her friend Madeleine to come along and provide company on the return journey.  Madeleine is a non-driver and the trip to Seymour is just that, time spent in a car watching the passing scenery, chatting and entertaining us with her family stories.

The lead story today is about her grandson who, at the ripe old age of nine, aspires to be a champion footballer but is currently plagued with injuries and has his own method of dealing with this setback.  His firm belief that watching television in a warm bed, shared with his Grandma, will benefit his injured knee, seems to have some merit; they both fall fast asleep and around 3 am Grandma is shaken awake to be informed that the knee has made an astonishingly rapid recovery and he is now game-fit. Grandma shares his delight briefly, before turning over and going back to sleep.

The other story is about her sister, closer to ninety than nine; a retired school teacher who at this time is revisiting her old schools in the Northern Territory to help out with admin needs on a voluntary basis. J taught for many years in the primary school system both in Darwin and Daly River, and loved the climate, the lifestyle and above all the kids she taught each day. Retirement saw her return south to the regional city where her own children live but any opportunity to return north again is eagerly embraced.

The traffic is light on the highway; anyone with any sense would be at home out of the cold today.  We arrive at the Seymour meeting place and I investigate the Railway Hotel to see if I can wait there.  The interior of the hotel is uninviting and the temperature only slightly higher than outside on the street.

Within minutes The Godchild arrives and luggage is transferred from one car to the other.  MVBFC and Madeleine are gone in the blinking of an eye; Madeleine has to be home by mid-afternoon to babysit a grandchild or two and MVFBFC will relax only when she is finally back at her house.  

This has been a long drive for her; she worries about problems on the road and will be truly stressed until her car rolls into the garage at 42 Pig-iron Drive.

Moving on

All good things come to and end; living the good life at Somerset Rise Palace ended today.

After packing the bags and having the general factotum, aka The Mahjong Queen, carry them out to the Royal Red Wagon, I took one last look about for the inevitable possession that missed the pack. 

Well drugged up – legal painkillers, of course - I sit in the passenger seat; the MahJong Queen decked out in her chauffeur's livery starts the motor and we cruise away on the next leg of my recovery phrase.  Today we are off to that regional city best known as Shepp. There, over the next ten days, my every need will be attended to by MyVeryBestFriendCarmel.  Or at least, this is what I am hoping for; this is the plan.

The sky promises rain and a few showers come our way before we arrive in Benalla.  We agree Benalla would be a good place for a coffee stop and to my surprise we don’t turn towards the main street but pull off the highway near a service station.  Parked to one side of the service station is a mobile coffee cart – there goes any idea I might have had about having coffee and cake while sitting at a table.

We talk for a few minutes with the coffee vendor; she took over the running of this coffee cart and found she had a lot to learn about running a mobile café and even more to learn about making cups of coffee that kept customers returning.  After an initial down turn in trade she spent some time and money learning the basics of coffee making and slowly but surely the coffee cart fortunes turned around.

As we arrived on the outskirt of Shepp the MJQ talked about an article she had read about a new food venture in town selling local produce. We also talked about a café which serves Thai food, the one which I always refer to as the Straw Bale.    

MVBFC had a light lunch waiting for us and it was not too long before the MJQ was on her way back to the Capital of the North-east, MVBFC was driving down town to meet friends for afternoon tea and I was sound asleep in bed.  

Heading out of the City

Leaving New Street Day has arrived; the MahJong Queen arrived this morning and carried my belongings out to the Royal Red Wagon and away we went. 

Home first, to collect a few necessary items to see me through my country convalescence, off to the bakers in Swan Street for some decent bread and then we are away.

Well, almost.

Along the way there is a stop at Brand Mart, or whatever it is called, one of those enormous buildings that are devoted to selling, supposedly at lower prices, all those things you really do not need and one or two that might be useful.  It is a visit to Consumer Central, quite a culture shock for some-one whose most recent venture has been to the familiar territory of the local corner shopping centre and  then only for coffee and cake.

The MJQ is collecting two very large boxes of Crabtree and Evelyn gifts which will be part of the Christmas parcels for the organisation for which she volunteers. 

Like this, but not exactly the same contents....

While she attends to this transaction I wander about the nearby shops; there are long pants that draw my attention but I absolutely refuse to even lift the hanger off the rack.  I don’t feel now is the right time for me to be even considering new clothes, let alone actually buying them.  Some time later maybe.

I find the only shop selling electric throws; there are two colour choices, one a shocking purple and the other an odd silver and grey combination.  The MJQ pours a bucket of cold water on my idea of buying one; she thinks the colours are hideous.  I sigh and walk on, thinking how cold my place will be when I get back to it; one of these blankets would be really useful.

We grab a bite to eat at an unremarkable café nearby; the food is ordinary at best.  

There are no stops on the way to Somerset Rise Palace, apart from the necessary one to fill the Royal Red Wagon with fuel.

Night falls early at this time of the year and driving three hours in the dark, with the prospect of rain, is no fun.

Familiar Territory

Each day since my arrival at New Street I have taken a walk beyond the front gate, the distance walked increasing each day. In my confined world of the last two weeks, I have kept to the streets in close proximity to my temporary accommodation.

Today I extended the distance dramatically. 

I had a plan, of course.  The plan was to go to the only café open on Sunday, to sit down and have a coffee.  And maybe a cake?  The day, as you might expect in winter, was cool, with weak sunshine.  This was a special occasion, not walking for the sake of taking some exercise but walking with a social purpose in mind.

My venture was not without an element of risk.  The traffic lights change at the intersection and the far side of the road seems an impossible distance away.  I set out at the fastest pace I can muster; I feel like some old crone hobbling along at a snail’s pace. I am greatly relieved and greatly surprised to make it to the pavement without being bowled over by a speeding car.

The buzz in the café is a world removed from the dining room at New Street; I might well be on another planet. I sit and enjoy the experience; there’s nothing like a life-changing event to make one appreciate the small things in life.

I make the reverse journey back to New Street.   I’m well pleased with my first real venture on foot out into the big, wide world.

Daily Life at New Street

Life at New Street follows a predictable pattern each day.

Before daylight each morning, from within the cocoon of my room and snug in my bed, I follow this pattern; a pattern of sounds which combine with activity.

Around six o’clock the morning bell-pressing gets under way.  If the staff, who might be in the kitchen preparing breakfast, are not smart about responding, the bell will be pressed repeatedly with an ever diminishing time gap between presses until the caller gets a response. There are mornings when the air is thick with the buzz of call bells.

The next part of the morning soundscape is the door-knock, as breakfast is delivered to the rooms. The first knock is the signal for me to clear the portable table and turn on the television. Within a space of less than 48 hours I have become a morning TV-watching addict; especially the programs which bring me the latest news and drama from all over the world in small grabs.  Plus whole lot of other rubbish.

After breakfast is dealt with I have my morning rest.  Everyone else who is not room-bound will be dressing for the day; when I hear people arriving in the dining room for morning tea I have to seriously consider dressing for the day.

As you can see, the day passes in a parade of mealtimes separated by the mundane.

Lunchtime is the big social event in my day; I sit down and the three ladies with whom I share a table start the guessing game of ‘What will be on the menu for lunch today?’ I am new to this game with no experience of past meals and my guesses are wild ones. I’m never right but the long-time residents with good memories – read Anna-Maria there – are often spot on.   

After lunch, if the weather is OK I go out for a short walk; back inside I might sit in the ‘reading room’ and glance through the papers.  The grumpy man will be in his permanent position in the corridor and Sharon, together with the owner of the small well-behaved dog and the dog, will be sitting on the couch near the door.  People are creatures of habit.

Before afternoon tea time I will be back in the snugness of my room, either resting or reading; my reading concentration, which was zilch in the hospital, is now gradually improving. I am re-reading Helene Hanff’s Underfoot in Show Business which is a highly entertaining read; it chronicles Helene’s time in New York City as a young woman, working a variety of jobs to supplement her income while she works on writing The Big Play which will be the hit of the century.  Her best friend Maxine, her sights set on a brilliant acting future, provides endless humour with her wit and creativity, especially with regard to getting into theatre performances for next to nothing. Helene Hanff is best known for her book 84, Charing Cross Road.  

As the day winds down, everybody who is able gathers in the dining room promptly at 5 pm for the final meal of the day. A small group of people move afterwards to the lounge at the front of the house to watch the evening news on the giant TV, the only place with reception for the national broadcaster. 

My evening meal is often a strange collection of what looks to be a cross between the left-overs and  a plate put together from a quick search though the cupboards; there is always a glass of fruit juice and if I’m lucky a bowl of soup. All this arrives around seven pm and little by little quiet falls as everyone settles down for the night.

I tear myself away from the television and turn off the light around nine pm; another uneventful day has passed on the road to recovery.

Xtended departure time

At last!  Departure day.

Pearlie Shirley has volunteered to drive me over to New Street.  There are certain conditions attached: I am not to offer unsolicited advice on the best route to take. I will have to remind myself to keep my mouth firmly shut; a large strip of adhesive tape across my mouth might be the best solution.

Pearlie Shirley has warned me the process of leaving would be a lengthy one and she was right.

If I thought it was a simple matter of dressing, packing my bag and leaving I was making a serious error.  There is a long and complicated process around medications; those I had brought with me, those which had been prescribed since my arrival and those which fell into another mysterious in-house category.  The latter group were the sticking point; I was not to leave the hospital with any of these in my possession.

After much questioning, checking the drug drawer and reviewing the medications packed in my take-home baggage, the pharmacist and the nurse in charge of getting me out the door agree and it only remains to pick up more medication at the pharmacy.

Finally we take the lift to the car park and I have my first close encounter with the real world of a busy car park and my total inability to speed up in the face of imminent contact with a moving vehicle.  I find this experience very unnerving.

The next breathtaking experience is the speed with which Pearlie Shirley exits the car park.  It’s as well I have the metaphorical tape over my mouth.  This is the fastest I have moved in a whole week and it seems like the speed of light.

PS gives me a rundown on the route she intends to take.  I smile and nod. Away we go; as the kilometres go by I recognise a few landmarks.  We approach the Eastern Freeway, the tape slips and I make a suggestion about turning here.   I am quickly reminded of my role, which is to keep my mouth firmly shut.

I keep it firmly shut as a corner passes by and we miss the turn.  I make the tentative suggestion that I may be able to get us back on the right track.  This offer of help is accepted and soon we are back on track. 

Twenty minutes later we are at New Street; PS is not altogether impressed with my temporary abode but I am familiar with it and it will be a suitable place to spend the next seven days.

Your Room Awaits Madame

My room for the next seven days is simple; it has a bed, a bedside cabinet, a chair of the utilitarian type found in nursing homes, a tray table for the in-room meals, a television set in the corner of the room and a wardrobe.

There is an ensuite and the room has a window overlooking a bare side garden with the  leafless trees of winter and a view of the back of a two-story house beyond the property fence.

The room is right next to the dining room which may or may not be a drawback as far as quiet goes.  Afternoon tea comes on a tray to the room; Shirley, the cook here at New Street is known for her cakes and scones and while the main meals could never be described as gourmet they are home-cooked and suit the tastes of most of the permanent residents.

Neighbour Heather has delivered my red case and it waits by the chair. Settling in, the case is unpacked, clothes are put on hangers and the television put through its paces.

I have a meeting with Esther, the manager; medications are on the agenda again and I am given an exemption from the five o’clock evening meal.  I am very happy about this – I am not quite ready for the ‘nursery tea’ which often features in aged-care hostels.  I will have my tea brought to the room at seven each evening, a more civilised time for an evening meal in my book.

Everyone is tucked away in their rooms by eight pm.  I anticipate a quiet night.

Suddenly there is furious knocking on doors by some-one on the outside who is really keen on getting inside the building.  What is going on?  This alarming situation is soon resolved by an employee with a loud voice and a bad attitude; he expresses his annoyance with the door-knocker in no uncertain terms. The door-knocker is one of the residents who has crept out into the garden for a forbidden cigarette; the door has closed behind him and he is locked out.

Quiet returns and I hope there will not be a repeat performance.  All this racket on day one is rather unnerving.