The Use Of Poetry by Ian McEwan

I read this short story by Ian McEwan in this week's New Yorker. The first half was thoroughly engaging, perceptive albeit mildly acerbic and a touch cynical. The consequences for Maisie Farmer of womens' liberation didn't ring true to me and it was there that the story lost the plot (so to speak). I think I expected more of both Ian McEwan and The New Yorker.
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Cloudy With A Chance Of Meatballs

Funny, at times surreal; now and again plain, old-fashioned bonkers. The cooked chicken sequence defies description.

One almost feels sorry for Jet Star

Angela Catterns of ABC Radio 702 interviewed me for ten minutes in the afternoon about the wheelchair users' policy Jet Star operate requiring us to surrender our chairs at check-in rather than the gate. News outlets this morning had been all over a story told by Kurt Fearnley last night at the national disability awards (which I missed attending because of my arse). On his return from crawling the length of the Kokoda track in 8 days, Jet Star made him surrender his wheelchair at check-in. Rather than be pushed through the terminal in Brisbane on a Jet Star aisle chair, he crawled to the gate then went public. Jet Star has been in damage control all day. So I got to speak on air about this afternoon. I spoke well. That at least made this frustrating day worthwhile.
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And today's word is ...

... abscess

That's what the doctor says I have on / in my much larger than usual right buttock. First, it seems, we're going to try a series of daily injections of some antibiotic that appears to have the strength to fell horses. If that fails we'll decide (on Sunday) if it's going to require a spell in hospital. THAT, I can do without.

Photo by Ardo Leijen
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The long and winding road to Geelong

It turns out that my speculation on the 11^th of this month was about right. It wasn’t an overactive bowel that was causing my sweating. It was damaged skin on my right buttock. I spent the next four days in bed while the superficial damage healed. I stayed away from work for two further days, sitting on my wheelchair on an inflatable rubber ring that Spike bought. I had to work today though, having committed to speak at a staff gathering of employees of a Victoria open employment support NGO. I just couldn’t tell them I couldn’t attend, not at 24 hours notice. So Spike accompanied me, which was fun for me.

We drove to the airport at 5:30 a.m. then flew to Melbourne. We caught the Skybus into the CBD, which really did take no more than the timetabled 20 minutes (much to my amazement). We caught the V-Line train for Geelong in plenty of time. Thanks to two infuriating delays at a place called Werribee (maybe because of a level crossing boom-gate, maybe because of signal failure, maybe because of alienated youths train-surfing, maybe because of all three) our 56 minute trip took 2 hours and 20 minutes. Our hosts re-arranged the agenda, brought forward lunch and slotted me in shortly after we arrived by taxi from the train station. I spoke well but, as usual, for too long.

After saying our farewells, leaving them to some outdoor team-building exercises, Spike and I wiled away the late afternoon at the twee waterfront. It must have been a working port at one point, now gentrified in a not-unpleasant way. Our hosts insisted we take a taxi back to the airport. Even at $125 for the trip (which they too insisted on paying) we didn’t say no. We were NOT risking the train again. We caught the 8:30 p.m. flight back to Sydney then I drove home.

All accomplished sitting on a bright red inflatable rubber rung. I can be a ridiculous old twit. I am glad I made the effort, though; not that I could have done it without Spike. Fortunately it did no damage to my buttock (didn’t improve it but did no damage).

The Carousel at Geelong

It's all the fault of women, apparently

I read Book Three of The Iliad this evening: Paris, Menelaus and Helen. The text lead me to some pages in Wiki concerning the judgement of Paris. I vaguely recalled the phrase but not the story behind it. Reading the summary in Wiki, I had an 'aha' moment ... so that's what led to the Trojan War. It wasn't simply (or at all) that Helen was fickle, favouring Paris on her wedding night to Menelaus. Helen, I now understand - although maybe I knew this but had forgotten - Helen was the bribe offered by Aphrodite to Paris given the task (by Zeus) of choosing "the fairest" at a feast on Mount Olympus. The prize to be awarded by Paris was the golden apple - aka the apple of discord - thrown into the mix by Eris, the goddess of Discord, who had not been invited to the banquet by Zeus. So it's all the fault of women, except if Zeus had been more attentive to the needs of everyone none of the mess would have happened at all.
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