It’s Monday night, and I’m hiding. Not in the cupboard, but in the bedroom. I’m hiding from my dear husband’s television viewing schedule. Since we’ve been in Australia, we’ve watched rather a lot of crime dramas. Mostly because there’s an awful lot of them on Australian TV, not because we particularly like them. I don’t anyway, but my darling has become rather enamoured with one that scares the bejeezus out of me. It seems to have a different psychopath on it every week, and there’s nothing scarier than a psychopath. Or so I think, anyway. He just thinks “they’re cool”. Worrying.
So tonight, instead of submitting myself to nightmares, I’m sitting in bed, writing this, with a pot of tea and my Pink Candle burning in the background. I’m not carrying it home, you see, so I have to burn it down to nothing in the next two weeks, as I refuse absolutely to throw it away.
We went away for the weekend, to Melbourne. It was beautifully sunny when we arrived there, which necessitated the buying of sun-cream, or my whiter-than-white skin would have been the approximate colour of a cherry tomato in ten seconds flat. Of course, then sun-cream remained woefully unused for the rest of the weekend. So it is just the same as the British Summer, after all.
We were particularly excited by the multitude of Malaysian restaurants we could choose from for lunch after we arrived and an hour later after we had umm-ed and ahh-ed and finally selected one, we sat down for a plate of noodles. I ordered a particular dish with prawns, chicken, egg and vegetables. I was therefore somewhat surprised when I picked up a mushroom with my chopsticks only to discover that it was actually a whole baby octopus and not a mushroom. I hate pretty much anything with eight appendages, so I shrieked, like the girl I am, and threw it across the table; the husband looking on with vague confusion and amusement. It landed on his plate, and he picked it up and ate it. I couldn’t watch, and refused to uncover my eyes until the other “mushroom” had been removed from my plate, and had disappeared down his gullet. He’ll eat anything, of that much I am sure, having previously witnessed his delight in lobster eggs that look exactly like the sort of phlegm that appears only after a particularly violent pneumonic coughing fit.
Our hotel was lovely, and we had a really good weekend, away from Sydney, away from everything. We didn’t honestly do that much. We wandered around St Kilda, were blown to bits by the freezing wind and dampened by the incessant drizzle. I kept recognising places from my elective, several years ago. The bar where we managed to flirt a free bottle of wine from the barman who apparently knew Robbie Williams was still there, as was the accommodation office we spent several jetlagged hours sitting in when we first arrived. We had an expensive though amazingly tasty dinner on the Saturday night, and cuddled up in the luxurious bedding, watching TV.
The Uterus of Doom seemed to enjoy it too, and even put on a rather spirited performance on Friday and Saturday. Obviously she cheered up, being away from Sydney. Should I market it as a “cure” for Asherman’s? Remove your uterus from the scene of their injury and they’ll improve? Or maybe it was the absence of the curried haematoma Needle-Woman used to make me drink? Or perhaps all that standing over my laptop did the trick? Either way, things were definitely slightly better. Not amazing, but definitely no worse, and even slightly improved. I’ll take it – any improvement is a good thing in this game.