Side Bar

Published September 29, 2026 by helentastic67

Side Bar

This might be a question for parents. If asking for a friend were walking my dog and let’s say there was flooding, If I saw your children unsupervised by their parents. That would be you, not me. You they who had these children. What if said children were out in said flooding areas and I want to know would it be up to me to rescue your children if they were at risk of drowning?

Or at what point would it be acceptable if I yelled at them to deter them from potential mishaps? Keeping in mind, I got the version of child I could manage, and my recent new addition now a full year old and officially no longer a kitten, has taught me I would have been a yelling parent. The kids I didn’t have are so lucky because while Freddie doesn’t pay attention, I’m good at yelling.

I remember, asking for a friend. I was discussing this scenario earlier with someone who was in the above potential scenario. We all know the moral and ethical answer. However, nobody wants to get in trouble for yelling at somebody else’s child. So, feel free to comment and provide feedback.

In the early days of having hellonwheels, I was fangin’ it through a park in Clifton Hill on Hoddle Street when I saw two young kids playing on piles of bark chips. I stopped to talk to them. I quietly told them I knew it was fun but maybe they should try not to spread it all over the grass and keep it to the designated garden bed. From out of nowhere, grandma hung up her phone to and stormed over to ask me what was wrong? I told her nothing was wrong and repeated the above to her and she took her two young grandchildren away. Which had not been my intent.

People Have No Idea

Published September 21, 2026 by helentastic67

People Have No Idea

So, every now and again things get added to the already full bucket of shit to deal with, and it’s a long process to get answers and solutions. People just have no idea.

Earlier 2025, my left foot had started to hurt. While I was already dealing with my base line of my fifteen years plus disability and the recent hernia surgery, vertigo, etc.

For a while when out in the community I was alternating between grunting/growling or swearing every time I stepped on my left foot. People with chronic pain have become really good at hiding it from others. Because nobody knows how to react when we answer honestly to the age-old question “How are you?”

I know I’ve started being blunter because people will never know if we don’t tell them, and then I must remind them I don’t expect them to fix anything. Because they cannot. I remind people this is why I have such a dark sense of humour and that I appreciate the gentle laughs we share.

Several conversations over time with all the people. The OT, the Podiatrist, my AFO guy in Richmond and to be clear my AFO guy stretched out the side of the AFO using a neat trick of putting lipstick on the raised calluses on my left foot of which there are two.

One particular day in this process I had mentioned it to my Neurophysio while she was working on my left calf and foot.

There was a moment of quiet contemplation where we were not chatting as she did her brand of torture to the muscles in my calf and foot. She sits slightly in my blind spot on my front left but I look down and she has removed her shoe and she is very clearly checking if her foot has the same bumps and bones where mine now has.

She catches me watching her, She’s twenty plus years younger and from the UK. I really like her. I snort a little laugh at her as she thinks she needs to explain what she’s doing. It makes perfect sense; this is not the only time someone alludes or outright tells me I have weird feet. If you haven’t gathered, the point here is it’s a process of elimination.

My GP sends me to the nurses at the clinic he works from and one of those nurses is the other Helen. We now have history also. At that appointment I’m lying on the bed in the nurse’s prep room and checking my foot she calls in the other nurse and I mean, why not make it a party right? Helen says to her colleague, sorry Helen. I don’t mean to offend you, but you have weird feet. Like I hadn’t been telling the beautician this on the few occasions I had her do a foot treatment, me trying to tuck my toes from one foot behind the other, in an effort to hide the very things I was there to have her make them soft and pretty.

I also moved to a much better podiatrist in this process and how to get even more by using tape on my foot to rotate it even a little for her.

Again, I snort a little laugh and my GP finally decided I needed an X-ray and an Ultrasound. I know, sounds extreme right?

One early evening in 2026, my GP calls to tell me of my results. I prompt him with my brand of dark humour. “They say amputate at the knee?” He returns fire with “Yes, the neck down!” Touche!

The diagnosis was a really big cyst of 4mm by 2mm. I know. Huge! It sounds tiny so why does it hurt so much? You know there were ways to put more swear words in there.

So, I don’t know if it’s too late to warn my delicate readers but here’s a picture from only yesterday. So, even after a year this still hurts like a Mother trucker!

Apologies if people needed a warning?

Old Friends

Published September 13, 2026 by helentastic67

Old Friends

I’ve also had a friend staying in Melbourne. Although for him, it’s not a holiday. It’s just a change of where he’s lying in a bed — and no carers, instead nurses.

We went to high school together. We were not friends but have become friends in the last ten years or so. At high school, we were both outsiders, but his being different made him much more of a target for bullying. That didn’t sound right, I was bullied too. It’s just girls do it more subtly. I know!

When I was young, bullying was called being “picked on”. It was indeed bullying, but you weren’t told by strangers that you should kill yourself. You just ended up wanting to kill yourself. And people had to come up to you and tell you to your face they didn’t like you, at which time you or I would tell them to their face to “Fuck off!” Anyway. I digress.

A few weeks ago, said friend, “Dear John”, rang me on a Sunday night, starting with a profound apology. I cut him off with a, “You never need to apologise to me!” That’s when he explained he had been down already for three weeks, at which time I told him he was dead to me.

My thoughts and feelings on this are that I don’t get back to the country often, so him being closer to me means I’m going to take advantage and hit him with my form of love language. If you’re new here, my love language is food!

Now, what it helps to know about said friend is that he has a spinal injury and has had it since we were only seventeen. He was the tallest, oldest kid at the Royal Children’s Hospital back in 1998. He is considered an incomplete quad. That means for him, he’s in bed most of the day and week. He has the use of one arm from the elbow to his hand, with the ability to reach his phone on his bedhead. It is to say, he cannot feed himself.

The first time I visited him a few years ago with a bag of sweet and savoury treats, I did not know how much help he needed. I prompted him with a very silly suggestion, and he simply told me that nothing gets in his mouth without somebody putting it there! And there is something really humbling about being able to go and feed someone something they could not otherwise access or feed themselves. It’s a humbling experience and a privilege. I’m not friends with him out of pity.

I’ve definitely had many life experiences he has not. I’ve had friends who have lived lives I have not, and I share stories with him he would likely not prefer to hear, but it’s always a starting point. I think he is entertained by my stories and banter. Definitely the d’Affinois I’ve introduced him to.

And more recently, my mushroom baskets and homemade sausage rolls. I usually start his stays in Melbourne by taking him a halloumi pide. It’s something he would not get or bother to try in the country where he grew up and still resides.

I grew up an hour from him, but our lives, as mentioned, have been very different. My first visit was assisted by a friend who drove me there and helped by collecting pide in Heidelberg on our way. I introduced both friends. She went to do her thing and upon arrival, I enquired where his laptop was. He no longer had a small TV hanging from the ceiling, and I was informed his laptop had arrived that morning at 9:25am. After consulting his phone, I discovered that was, in fact, the case. It’s always a challenge being in hospital.

If it’s not a planned visit, you may have found yourself in hospital without so much as a charging cable for your phone. He had also reported to me that he had the “black screen of death” on his laptop! His carer agency had arranged for a new laptop and had it sent. I went to ask at the nurses’ station. It arrived in the time I was there and I prompted him as to whether he had any carers to help set it up. He seemed nonplussed.

My friend returned, and hearing my concern as to who would get it out and set it up for him, my friend got up and went to work. She held out the barcode on the box for me to get a photo and send it to him. I couldn’t even do that, honestly, what a princess I am. I got the fuck out of the way. I asked who would set it up for him, and he said he would. I know for this he uses a stick between his teeth. I asked how long this would take, and he said, “Not long.”

Over the years, we have had many conversations about patients and how this existence has taught him to be patient. I know in comparison to this friend, I’m an Olympic sportswoman. And let’s call her “T for Tech” because however long it takes to set up a new computer, it’s too long. I am so impatient.

While visiting, I gave him a little sass, and my friend — let’s call her “T for Tech” — gave me a look that said I was pushing it too far. I responded with, “What? It’s not his first day!” He snorted a small laugh. You can imagine any more effort than that hurts. I like to laugh out loud.

I like that birds scatter and people might notice and wonder where it came from and what might cause such an outburst. I guess this happens with me too. I imagine people wish they were a fly on the wall in these conversations. I spend actual time with them and not with actual family, as much as I’ve tried.

When I’m out and about with my carers, there is always banter, sweet conversations and a feeling like I’m part of a family. It’s not my actual family, but it is a family.

So, I know I’m in high regard somewhere.

Hair Day

Published July 6, 2026 by helentastic67

Hair Day

These days I wash my hair twice weekly. I know today is going to be a boring blog post, but I think my life is full of little humorous moments and I like to share. Strap in, You’re Welcome.

Some of you might have read my early posts where I unpacked having had radiation treatment where I was left with bald, I mean BALD patches all over my head. I had a boyfriend back then who buzzed my hair back to a Number 1 and I’d had waist length hair, so my hair had been a big part of who I was.

The last fifteen plus years I’ve grown back my hair and had regular trims to keep it healthy. But it’s never likely going to be as long as it once was or as healthy. I’m also fighting the crazy lady hormones that doesn’t do our hair or skin any favours.

So, every Monday and Fridays my carer takes my hair down from the sassy bun I wear it in and gives it a brush. When I’ve had older carers, we have noticed my curly hair gives me a Diana Ross vibe. My carer wondering how I know who that is? Because I’m older than they realise.

This Monday gone my carer left the room and when she came back I was still sitting in the area referred to as the hairdressing area. She stated, “You know who your hair makes you look like?” I quickly responded Diana Ross? She is too young to know who that is, but I will give homework and if you don’t know you just got homework also. And she responded with one word. Dry, Succinct, Harsh.

Hagrid.

I snort a laugh. It’s not the first time and I have another sibling who is more Hagrid in the hair department. You have to laugh.

Word of the Day

Published June 14, 2026 by helentastic67

Word of the Day

Today’s words of the day – Nose holes, I mean it, um, What? I hear you ask? Yes, exactly. A youngster announces these words to me with great confidence. I comment we already have words for those; they are called nostrils. But to my great amusement she is sticking with Nose Holes. They have been causing much grief with both hay fever and blood noses and she tells me they are both suffering equally.

I have suggested she needs to eat more meat as she might be anaemic. I’ve suggested to go be seen by a doctor and even my Crazy Lady Hormone Doctor because the report back for my bloodwork is very specific and a normal GP will likely glance at some things and be rather dismissive.

My recent report has provided me feedback that I have Way Too Much B6. WTF I’m paraphrasing but that’s in most things that goes into or on my person.

I enquired at a Health food Store and he told me it’s in a lot of supplements. All I could say was “That’s all I take!” I had been planning to die healthy one day. Now, it looks like I can die healthy or I can die in pain. These are not great options.

Today I bought the only Magnesium on the market that doesn’t have B6 and I went home dug out my supply of magnesium and gave it to the Nose Hole Inventor of great joy and humour. And while I’ve given her as much direction and recommendation I can as “Not a Doctor.” I’ve already been nudging her towards getting appropriate medical advice. Best/worst case scenario, it helps her with her aching muscles, her sleep, period pain, and the worst case she doesn’t take it at all. Time will tell.

Vases

Published June 1, 2026 by helentastic67

Vases

If you recall, three years ago I turned fifty in the same month my father passed. At least my dad was there, if you’re into that kind of thing. I was sent flowers which was really nice and never expected. I was sent some red ants too because when you water some plants the foam is full of annoying insects that you need to obliterate. Alas, vases came in handy.

One particular day when a bunch needed to go, I asked the carer to take the vase out to my balcony and put the dead flowers into the bucket for weeds. I instructed her to bring the vase and the glass beads into the kitchen to be washed. Or so I thought…

For some crazy reason later, I was in the bin room on the ground floor looking at what looked like my vase. It was exactly the same, the blue glass beads and all. I was going to ask her but thought No, mine is in my apartment on the second floor, right? I know language is sometimes a barrier with this carer and I didn’t want to offend her or second guess her. So convinced was I that my vase was inside my home.

Over time I obviously realised I no longer possessed that vase and the longer I left it the easier it was to appreciate all the moving parts and that someone else has my vase. I one day asked said carer if she had perhaps misunderstood and thought if I didn’t want it anymore, she would give it a new home. I’m not suggesting stealing it but if it had been a misunderstanding that I had provided the vase and when the flowers are discarded you wash the vase and put it back until you need it again. Right? She was horrified and didn’t remember having put it in the bin room.

This leads me to the first vase I had until two weeks ago. I had asked my carer, a different one who kept correcting my mispronunciation of vase to tip out the old water and we would refill with fresh. I had bought some Indonesian orchids at the market about a month ago as they last and even as they dry, they remain colourful and pretty. They are definitely too small to go into the current cylindrical vases that would be lost in my home. She tipped up the vase and as I watched from the couch she quickly apologies stating she thought she had chipped the top of the vase. It was worse than that. I think it’s good to remind my followers that I am indeed half blind and despite being 4-5 metres away I had to tell my carer to put the vase down into the sink as it had s crack all the way around the middle and she was holding it very gently in her two hands.

As she apologised profusely. She was very apologetic and stated she would replace it. It is annoying when things I’ve owned for 30 years are broken and cannot be replaced as easily as that however she said everything you want someone in your home that breaks or damages something to state everything she said. I asked her to repeat all of it again so I could record it as a teaching manual for others. We didn’t but we will both keep an eye out for that perfect vase and it will happen when I think the least of us expects it. Very seriously, despite an item being broken it was much more important she does not cut her hands and neither of us do paperwork for an incident report. The dreaded incident report. We discussed both if I was cut or if she was cut. I don’t know if I have to do admin but I thought the absolute worst-case scenario was my thirty-year-old carer getting her hands cut so badly she had muscle and nerve damage and could not only not be my carer anymore but would need carers herself.

And I still refuse to buy a big round tall cylindrical vase that only hold tall, stemmed stalks I don’t want to have to buy.

Young Ambo

Published May 25, 2026 by helentastic67

Young Ambo

Ok, today you should be pleased to finally read about the young man. The ambulance guy who was standing at the end of my bed seeing me in all my naked splendour. I warn you I’ve already over sold it.

The day after my Angio, was a Friday. I had my regular Friday carer who had conveniently been there the morning and afternoon before. I had spent a on and off sleepless night. I had, had my phone on my bed just in case. It was completely flat despite it having been on charge.

We compared notes, Ms Friday frustrated I’d been allowed to shower. I had a shower and we carefully peeled off the clear film-like Band-Aid that covered the wound site. It was more she let me do it while she directed. It’s fine, she was following things to the law and was aware any involvement if things went wrong, she could be liable. It’s always the right time to make a joke I’m not going to die and who would sue her?

She assessed the wound and decided it had a tiny spot of blood. she rang Nurse on call, by this stage I was cold and tired so as I was dry just wanted to hurry up and get back in bed. Obviously, Ms Friday above and beyond the call of duty had called an ambulance as the nurse on call had been unsure how serious the situation was.

I remember the questions they had asked her to be along the lines of, was I obese? Did I overeat? I could not help her communicate the finer points or the short version.

It goes like this –

“Female. 53. Has an AVM, right sided. Complete left-sided hemianopia. Yesterday, had a cerebral angiogram. Was Phenerganed, cannot emphasize that enough. Can not moderate temperature, small amount of blood spotting on the site of the Angio and she had been putting pressure on it while we had been waiting.

Again, I’ve unpacked some things there I’d not yet mentioned. But here we are. I’ll do it better next time.

OK, I’ll try.

I was responsive but non-verbal. I was aware of everything as I saw in my blind spot on my left a young woman watching me and at the end of my bed was an equally young man. When I suggest “young” I mean maybe thirty? And that’s pushing it. They both looked younger. As I recall thinking I’m cold and tired, can we just move this along. I used the back of my had to wave towards the site at the top of my right leg. No words. Just the hand motion.

Thankfully, I did not need to go back to hospital, and many discussions have been had with Ms Friday about this event and with my other carers that note how by the book she is. I’m just suggesting it’s nice to have carers that give a fuck. I remember thinking this young man has not seen enough naked bodies to be seeing mine.

I had discussed with Ms Friday the lack of covering for my modesty requirements. She said she had covered my breasts, or” Girls” as I prefer. They are not great at this age and lying down, but they were not what I was most concerned about.

I’m having laser treatments in the last few years has meant I can no longer make statements along the lines of It’s a jungle down there, but what remains was a bit hectic. (I’ve wanted to put that sentence in a blog post for a while now.)

You’re welcome.

A few anecdotes still get mentioned months later that will live on forever. Once my carer had seen me delivered to the nurse and assisted me out of my clothes and into the terrible paper pants. She said they were delightful. Anything that threatens to fall off the last time you get to pee is never delightful. Just saying. I needed a hit of lip balm, was not trying to impress anybody, just perimenopausal and always dehydrated. With my upcoming Angio usually means stop drinking. Girl Friday, is it too late to go with G.F.? dispatched to the chemist to return with lip balm. And this brilliant story. On her return she had found herself walking down a hallway behind who she described as a surgeon. Who farted? As he walked down the entire hallway. No shame, no embarrassment, no, I should take this anywhere else to do it in private. Just nonstop farting, down the hallway. Gold! Pure gold! Best story ever for me to go into my Angio with. Carers really bring the good stuff is what I’m saying.

I remember during all these moments at some point, even likely after my first shower, and potentially after the paramedics attending to me, I was in the bathroom standing looking at myself in the mirror naked. Don’t imagine that it’s not as good as it sounds. Self-depreciation much. and seeing how many white and blue sticky things stuck to my chest. Meanwhile wondering, how long have they been there? I took them off and put them in the bathroom hand basin. the number was considerable. I did take photos, but you are not ready. It is for the amusement of few and never.

You know the sticky things older men like to show off on their chests after a minor angina attack? Chest pumped out like they are still hot and twenty. Now we need to pity them because they have suffered. Yeah, note women don’t do this.

Circling Back

Published May 18, 2026 by helentastic67

Circling Back

This week I thought I’d circle back to last October. I read a recent post where I wasn’t sure I finished the storyline I was trying to share.

As you know, life is busy when you’re one-handed. And I seem to only ever skim the surface on some topics until I hear back from others or other people do their jobs allowing me to get some items ticked off my lists.

Note, Lists, plural, not singular. Don’t even bother creating a list these days. What’s the damn point?

Some of you may recall October ’25 I had my third cerebral angiogram? Yeah, hate those fucking things. That’s the one where they pass a wire up from your artery in your groin, up through your heart and into the arteries in and around your brain. When placed in said arteries, they release little amounts of contrast or iodine. It’s hot, others have told me it’s actually cold. I don’t know if they have had one but I’m saying it’s hot because it feels like it’s on fire. In all the parts of your head that shouldn’t be on fire.

This was the procedure that has me now making bold statements such as “Helen cannot be Phenerganed”

As preparation for the Angio, as I’ve mentioned I’ve had two previously. I reacted very badly to the first, where my blood pressure dropped in the procedure and a nurse literally started running round the room in a panic. Like, her running was going to help at all, or I was not awake and witnessing her panic.

Seriously, I’m right here and I’m awake and conscious. Don’t panic, it does not help me stay calmer. So, I had a reaction to the contrast and the third Angio I took an antihistamine twelve hours before and another an hour before.

Once at the hospital and in the pre-surgical area a discussion was had, with a nurse with a messy haircut and tattoo’s up both her arms. She was about my age or older and a particular tattoo looked like a purple bruise on her arm.

Think I’ve met this nurse before because I think I’ve had this conversation before. But not recently. I asked if it was a bruise and she informed me it was just a bad tattoo. I don’t have any tattoos, but I know they all tell a story of significance to them. Her arms were a canvas of simple lines and smudges. Hard to forget.

And the discussion was had with the medical registrar about “Giving me a little something” Another discussion about whether they would use an artery through my groin or my right arm. As I only have the use of my right arm it was important I ask if I would be able to use my arm after? He told me it would be a little numb at which point I insisted please use my groin.

I know it sounds wrong so I will explain at the top of your leg, both legs just next to your groin, or snatch as I prefer, is the artery that provides blood to your legs. They give you a local anesthetic and use a scalpel to slice open that location where they then feed into it a wire. I’m getting off topic. So, Phenergan.

It allows you to be mildly sedated could be the easiest way to describe it. I was calm and conscious and aware of all the things happening. I didn’t like it, but you just lie there and let stuff happen. One particular blast of the iodine I knew I had pee’d. I know, really highbrow stuff here. It’s not so easy while being punched in the head from the inside and lying in a coolish room in nothing but a pair of tied on paper underpants, and a cotton hospital gown and a light blanket. But modesty persists and I felt compelled to mention.

Just an FYI, Doctors couldn’t care less as the area they were interested in was purely my brain, not my comfort or dignity. I know when I tried to communicate this situation to the registrar, I was barely understandable. He told me to repeat for the nurse and I was again, not understandable. It was forgotten until much later.

Hours later, my carer returned and I was not ready to be released. As her shift was over and I would later learn how she had tried to push to extend her shift to get me home.

Apparently, all three of my carer agencies had been contacted to see if I could have a carer stay overnight with me. My then support coordinator who had stated her boss had told her to turn off her phone at 4pm so she was officially off duty. Apparently, I was meant to have a friend stay over with me, but nobody thought to tell me.

My next of kin, my mother is in her mid-seventies at this point and should not be expected to race down to care for me at 6pm. Not when she lives 3.5 hours’ drive away. They should have found a bed for me over night.

The kind nurse had tried to sit me up to get my clothes on me and I kept just falling down onto my back. My carer reporting to me later she offered her opinion in the form of a welfare check. “Helen is not OK!” I know right.

And I’m still not to the point of explaining how young male ambulance personnel was standing at the end of my bed while I was lying there cold and naked. It’s a very good thing I’ve got a good memory.

Alas, the owner of my third carer provider came to be my carer to get me home and settled. I ended up only being with that company for six months however that day, I was put into a wheelchair and wheeled down to the carpark under the hospital. I recall thinking it was too late to ask for a jab of tramadol as my left eye hurt and that’s the basic sign of a migraine these days and a jab of tramadol takes thirty minutes to kick in and would knock me out within that time so I could sleep it off.

Then I was in the car, no tramadol. I ride shotgun, front seat passenger. I can’t get my left foot with the AFO into a backseat, and my brain does not like motion. I have motion sickness at the best of times. Barely able to put words together I gave directions to my home. I directed the driver to pull under the building, so it was easier to get out.

BTW, I was in my pyjamas and my new black merino wool jacket if you were wondering. So, not being dropped in a clear way on a busy street was some basic dignity.

Went inside, upstairs. I remember sitting like a zombie on the couch. I remember constantly asking my carer who she was/what her name was? Took off some layers and had a shower. Learned the next day said carer did not follow any of the hand over notes, as I was not supposed to have a shower.

I was home and alone around 8pm as my carer had asked where my spare room was for her to sleep. My second bedroom is a study and definitely does not have a bed in it. I had offered her the couch to kip on. Kip is a British term I picked up in 1994 when I travelled there. It’s to have a nap/or a sleep. She declined.

Probably should mention, an overnight shift costs a great deal more. I’ve never needed one thankfully, but there is a financial difference between what considered an “Active” or a “Non-Active” shift. An “Active” shift means you will not get to sleep; your client is high needs. Not for the faint hearted. She did not stay over but left a few notes that she had left at 8pm after I recall discussing I would just go to bed and sleep.

I believe part of the reason you are suggested to have someone with you so you don’t sign some million-dollar contract in a state not for making wise financial situations you can never undo. Because that’s likely to happen, in no world ever.

Remember, I could barely string sentences together, retain names or information but my example stands.

Comedy Season 2026

Published May 4, 2026 by helentastic67

Comedy Season 2026

Comedy season 2026 has not even begun and I’m putting out spot fires in my social life. To be fair, I don’t manage to get through the comedy season and blog about it because I’m too busy coping and enjoying that little bit of joy and laughter also known by others as shits and giggles one hour at a time.

Apparently, once out I make it look easy, but its anything but, in reality it starts late in the previous year when dates start to be announced. I ask friends including carers if they would be interested, if they have preferred days, if they can go, do, stay, all the things. I don’t want to miss out on good tickets so I can see hear, appreciate, enjoy and laugh. And get there and home again in one piece.

I can’t do things at night. If I have things on during the day. I can’t do things during the day if I’m planning to be out at night. I don’t even have a diary for the following year when I start the planning.

I have a few carers that do my bookings. They don’t all happen online, some require calls. I get two tickets for the price of one because I have what’s called a Companion card, because I can’t go unless someone accompanies me.

I went to see the Prodigy in 2025 and a security woman walked up to me and my companion before I got to join the queue and she ushered us past the crowd. She saw that I had disabilities, she asked a few simple questions and she handed us over to the next P.S.O. who asked to check my bag. No, I was not trying to smuggle in alcohol or drugs even. The first P.S.O. had asked if I had my meds in it? I just said Sure. I just have a big bag. I like to buy a band T-shirt to wear as a way to express my interests to the world. Summer is good for that. During winter my look is more “Don’t fucking mess with me!”

Anyway, I digress, the first comedy tickets I booked was Danny Buoy as you may have guessed from a recent post.

The tickets for the event were in Ballarat. Often referred to as The Rat. A friend from my days working at the place only ever mentioned as Voldemort. I have often referred to him as my Gay Silver Fox, on account of all those things. I usually call him by Mr and his surname out of respect as at Voldemort he was my boss. On a rare occasion I’ll hastily say his first name to get his attention quickly and he looks sharply at me. It’s very amusing to us.

My grand plan to get to the Rat. I asked a carer who has a friend put there if she could drive me out there, help me with PC (Personal Care) and drive us home again so I could do all the things and cover her travel. She said, “We’ll work something out!”

To cut a long story short this translates as I got tickets, and a month or so out from the event when trying to lock in a commitment she was heckers busy. And I was left trying to put a band aid on a bullet wound. Trying to find a way out there without doing a tram and a train with a walking stick one-handed and a small suitcase, for a few hours. I had hoped to see Gay Silver Fox’s home. He only buys houses over 100 years old and renovates them. I’ve seen two or the three houses he’s owned. And had been prepared to sleep on his couch, if need be, to make it all work. I had hoped to visit two sisters while out there. My friends I rarely get to see, they are sisters. I had wanted to deliver care packages. Bottles of prepared bolognaise, Portuguese tarts, panettone, Anzac cookies. I just mean, Nona was coming to town and she doesn’t mess around. Look at that, I’m a poet.

Closer to the date, stressed and anxious trying to solve the logistical nightmare of what was to be a nice country adventure to start the comedy season, and a few calls to Gay Silver Fox and he rang on the Wednesday before to ask where we were with the plans. I’d managed to plan to taxi out there, half price taxi would have been pricey however, in for a penny in for a pound! Gotta, make it work and I’d secured my Sunday carer to drive out, do my PC and drive us home again on my funding.

Are you frustrated yet? Do you want to self-harm? Don’t do that, but strap in. At this point I can imagine my Mum asking frustrated why had I bothered? Why did I get tickets out there? I will answer that at the end, but it’s where his shows were booked at the time.

I updated Gay Silver Fox on the master plan and he sadly informed me he could no longer do any or all of the above. He was offered extra responsibility and work at his job and he needed to take it. Because he needs the work going through a messy end to a relationship.

Sometimes, I hate that I can change gears so quickly to help the other person feel better about my disappointment. All around it’s the right thing to do.

In the end, my lovely Sunday carer drove us out there and back the night of, Boss coffees provided by moi and tunes. Efficient and it ended up raining the Sunday morning so would not have been a fun drive for my lovely assistant.

So, sometimes, I wish what the final plan would look like, so I didn’t waste my time with band aids on bullet wounds.

And the angry retort I would have for my mother whom I love would need to be “Because how dare I try to do or have a life of simple pleasures that other people take for granted as so easy? How dare I?”

Sometimes, it is exhausting simply existing with disabilities and trying to have even simple pleasures is not worth the battle, or are they?

P.S. P.S.O. Personal Security Officer.

P.P.S. I will one day explain all things Voldemort but it’s a very big can of worms. Once opened it will be a lot. I’m not anywhere near ready to go there.

Working Appliances

Published April 20, 2026 by helentastic67

Working Appliances

I remember when I bought my forever home, I thought I had a dishwasher in it. I mean, I wasn’t buying a dishwasher with an apartment around it, some walls, a bathroom thrown in, a balcony, a view etcetera, etcetera. However, I thought the dishwasher actually worked. It did not.

It sounded like it was trying to finish a cycle. It made noise non-stop. Eventually, the MEPACS guy, turned it off inside the cupboard. Silence, God help me!

I had plumbers in, twice leading up to Christmas ’24 to fix said dishwasher. The second time, I said “If its fucked! Just call it!” I was suggesting “was the fat lady singing?” And the next thing my dad bought me for Christmas was a Miele dishwasher.

Again, not a paid advert, Miele was the dishwasher of choice with the cutlery drawer in the top. My uncle and aunt’s kitchen have one so I knew it was of the best quality. Shopping for a dishwasher taught me the most common issue with buying a new home is the dishwasher is usually fire trucked, sellers throw an old dishwasher in there just so it looks like it has one. It doesn’t mean it’s working or even plumbed in properly.

Christmas ’24 without a dishwasher was hard. I was doing some dishes one-handed to get ahead of my carers doing the things I couldn’t do.

Don’t worry, my gift from my dad had arrived before Christmas but it had sat like a giant paperweight in my study until after all the tradies returned to work in January. Despite paying for an install, I still had to get the plumbers back, then call Miele to reimburse the install fee I had paid and then pay the plumbers again.

Love you Dad, thank you Dad.

Honestly, if you wanted to scratch your eyes out just reading that post, I dream of conversations about the dishwasher when needing to sort the scooter replacement and storage. The whole scooter replacement and storage issue makes me want to kill myself. Unless that is the plan? Well played.