Paul Carter's Blog, page 2

Sharing by Dr Paul Carter MD

 

Sharing
by
Dr Paul Carter MD

The publishing of my new book coincided perfectly with a pandemic-induced cancelling of exactly the sort of groups which make book lunches so popular with authors. So, after some thought, I realised that if I wanted to sell a few copies of my latest opus, I would have to use the world wide web.

Not having been active on social media for some years, I did not have the faintest idea how to even start bringing my latest scribblings to the notice of the great unwashed. Realising that I needed some help, I went and sought the advice of Al, who had been a very useful go-to girl on a number of other issues before. Al came up trumps once more. She directed me to a completely delightful local lady, who has turned out to be exactly what I was looking for. My newest best friend has degrees in Facebook, WhatsApp, Linked-in, Dropbox, Messenger and Zoom. Okay, okay, I can hear you all saying, I’m good at all that stuff too, so why didn’t you chose me. The answer is that taking on my NBF was like buying something off the tele, and then also getting a bonus free set of steak knives. And that is because she also comes with degrees in economics and marketing, a masters in tax havens, an MBA and a doctorate in Public Relations. And she is funny. Not as funny as me, but quite funny nevertheless.

Anyway, the point I am getting to is that as soon as we started working together, we needed to share some of the files on my PC.

‘You better just check them first and make sure that there’s nothing in them that you wouldn’t want me to see,’ she said innocently as we were about to start.

Along the road of my life’s journey, there have a number of times when I have recognised that I was at a point which could only be described as pivotal. This was one of those moments. As I looked at her, I realised that here was absolutely nothing whatsoever in the files that I wouldn’t want her to see. Or a Royal Commission for that matter. As I gazed at her speechlessly, it suddenly came to me how little of my life I had spent kicking the sand out of my shoes, but how much of it I had spent away from the world with my head stuck in some book or other studying for an exam.

‘Well?’ she asked.

It was some time before I was able to answer her clearly. ‘In my next reincarnation,’ I replied, ‘I am going to spend much less time in the library and go to far more parties. I am going to have far fewer letters after my name, and the only files I’ll be prepared share with you will have to be heavily redacted.’

Owls by Writer Dr Paul Carter MD

 

Owls
by
Dr Paul Carter MD

My maternal grandmother scared the living daylights out of me, but I got on very well with my dad’s mum. She ran a bric a brac shop, and it was the highlight of my week to go over and give  her a hand behind the counter. In lieu of wages she would give me things out of the shop, and the marvel of it all was that I was allowed to choose my own reward. Even today, around our house are loads of bits and pieces from those days. My favourite has always been an owl in a glass case, and  I liked it so much that, as a symbol of wisdom, for many years it perched on the top shelf it  in my surgery.

The children who came in were fascinated with it and whenever they asked if it was real I would always answer truthfully that indeed it was. They would then ask if it was stuffed, and I am afraid to say that I would answer that I had just trained it to sit very still, so please be very quiet, and that at the end of the day I would put a dead mouse in the case for it’s supper.

All of which worked really well until someone decided that they wanted to say thank you by way of giving me a present. They had obviously looked around my room and had come to the conclusion that I was keen on owls – so that is what they gave me. Having now two owls in my room it then became a  given as to what anyone  else would give me as a thank you. And the  more there were the more everyone became convinced that I was a strigiformophile. There came a time when I had sixty-seven of them in my room. There were stone ones, wooden ones, plastic ones,  ones wearing football jerseys, and Hedwigs. They perched on every ledge and shelf and made it impossible for me to get at my instruments, let alone any reference works

It was when they started spreading across my desk that I finally realise that something had to be done and I invented the ‘Order of the Owl’. The Order of the Owl was for under ten year olds, sometimes much to the annoyance of their eleven year old siblings, and consisted of receiving an owl of their choice ( apart from the one in the glass case), together with a diploma, for anyone who showed bravery in the clinic. Needles and blood tests were obvious examples, but sometimes the award was given to someone who had shown bravery by just being there.

I really enjoyed inducting new members onto the order, but unfortunately that did not stop them coming in. For some months, with the to and fro, the  number of owls in my room continued to hover around the sixty seven-mark but then, over time, it did gradually declined to the point where I could access my books again. Eventually, apart from the one which my grandma had given me, there was just one left, and when it was awarded the recipient grumbled about the lack of choice.

A day or so later, a woman was handing me a little wrapped up thank you present when she looked around the room. ‘Oh,’ she said, ‘I see you’ve gone off owls. In which case,’ she continued as she put her present back in her bag again, ‘I just give it to someone else then,’ and I have been disowled ever since.

Composting when chookless by Author Paul Carter MD

Compost
by Author Paul Carter MD

 

The animal ablation programme that accompanied our move off the farm left us sheepless and cowless. It also left us chookless. Issues associated with being sheepless and cowless were easily resolved by trips to the local Coles, but being chookless left us with a pile of unwanted kitchen scraps. I asked Siri what we should do, and she suggested we start composting. I thanked her for her help and then hopped onto Google to find out how to do it.

I had always imagined making compost to be a simple and straightforward activity, but I was wrong. Over several late nights, I learnt that it was essential to focus on not only the balance of green stuff, brown stuff, nitrogen, microorganisms, pH, calcium, phosphate, and potassium, but also on oxygen levels and moisture content. I also learnt that every type of container ever invented is either brilliant or useless, depending on which site you are looking at, and that turning them over can be seen as either essential or forbidden.

In the end, I got so confused by it all that I simply went to the local hardware store and bought a rotating bin on the recommendation of the very nice man behind the counter, who invited me to come back if I needed any further help.

The bin has now sat at the back of our new house for several months, and each day we open it up and put in our waste. Until a couple of weeks everything seemed to be going well, and then the bin suddenly became an olfactory biohazard. I gagged when I opened the lid, and made sure that there were no brown dogs within twenty paces.

On a compost chat group that evening, I learned that I probably didn’t have enough brown stuff in my mix, so I chucked in all the shredded paper from my office, with no benefit whatsoever, and then half a bag of sugar cane mulch. For two days all was good again, and I was starting to congratulate myself on my newly acquired composting skills, but the very next day the bin went back to smelling like the foetid corpse of a very large animal at the end of a heat wave.

I phoned the hardware shop, said that I thought my chemicals were all out of kilter, and asked for help. It wasn’t my first salesman on the phone, but another fellow, who was just as helpful. He suggested I bring in a specimen of fluid and he would test it for me and advise me what to do.

‘Now that’s what I call being thorough,’ I said to Gilly, and I went out and tipped up the bin, drained a little  fluid out, and headed round to the shop with my specimen to meet my Good Samaritan.

‘Holy Moley!’ he said as I handed him the jar. ‘Even before I do any tests, I already know one thing,’ he added as he leaned forward and whispered in my ear, ‘until I get this sorted out for you, just you make sure that no-one gets even close to your swimming pool.’

 

Composting when chookless

Compost
Author Paul Carter MD

 

The animal ablation programme that accompanied our move off the farm left us sheepless and cowless. It also left us chookless. Issues associated with being sheepless and cowless were easily resolved by trips to the local Coles, but being chookless left us with a pile of unwanted kitchen scraps. I asked Siri what we should do, and she suggested we start composting. I thanked her for her help and then hopped onto Google to find out how to do it.

I had always imagined making compost to be a simple and straightforward activity, but I was wrong. Over several late nights, I learnt that it was essential to focus on not only the balance of green stuff, brown stuff, nitrogen, microorganisms, pH, calcium, phosphate, and potassium, but also on oxygen levels and moisture content. I also learnt that every type of container ever invented is either brilliant or useless, depending on which site you are looking at, and that turning them over can be seen as either essential or forbidden.

In the end, I got so confused by it all that I simply went to the local hardware store and bought a rotating bin on the recommendation of the very nice man behind the counter, who invited me to come back if I needed any further help.

The bin has now sat at the back of our new house for several months, and each day we open it up and put in our waste. Until a couple of weeks everything seemed to be going well, and then the bin suddenly became an olfactory biohazard. I gagged when I opened the lid, and made sure that there were no brown dogs within twenty paces.

On a compost chat group that evening, I learned that I probably didn’t have enough brown stuff in my mix, so I chucked in all the shredded paper from my office, with no benefit whatsoever, and then half a bag of sugar cane mulch. For two days all was good again, and I was starting to congratulate myself on my newly acquired composting skills, but the very next day the bin went back to smelling like the foetid corpse of a very large animal at the end of a heat wave.

I phoned the hardware shop, said that I thought my chemicals were all out of kilter, and asked for help. It wasn’t my first salesman on the phone, but another fellow, who was just as helpful. He suggested I bring in a specimen of fluid and he would test it for me and advise me what to do.

‘Now that’s what I call being thorough,’ I said to Gilly, and I went out and tipped up the bin, drained a little  fluid out, and headed round to the shop with my specimen to meet my Good Samaritan.

‘Holy Moley!’ he said as I handed him the jar. ‘Even before I do any tests, I already know one thing,’ he added as he leaned forward and whispered in my ear, ‘until I get this sorted out for you, just you make sure that no-one gets even close to your swimming pool.’

 

Canard a l’orange again by Dr Paul Carter MD

Canard L’Orange – again
by
Author Paul Carter MD
As soon as the Ring of Steel was lifted, Gilly was off to Melbourne at the speed of a thousand gazelle for an overdue grand-child fix. Left to my own devices, I thought I would have another bash at Canard a L’orange, and I’m glad to report that it turned out much better this time round.

 

Canard a l’orange again

Canard L’Orange – again
Author Paul Carter MD
As soon as the Ring of Steel was lifted, Gilly was off to Melbourne at the speed of a thousand gazelle for an overdue grand-child fix. Left to my own devices, I thought I would have another bash at Canard a L’orange, and I’m glad to report that it turned out much better this time round.

 

Getting Rid of animals by Paul Carter MD Author

 

Animals
Paul Carter MD

When we moved from the farm to the new house, Gilly put her foot down.

‘No more animals,’ she declared. ‘I want us to be free agents and able to flit hither and thither on the whim of the moment,’ she added in those pre-Covid days when you could do that sort of thing. ‘With no more feeding or watering or having to make arrangements if we want to go away. I’m not talking about insects,’ she added as an afterthought. ‘You can keep your bees. ’

I floated the idea of having  a couple of  lambs, and maybe even a steer, just to keep the freezer full, but the answer was a definite ‘no’ and anyway, I was told, and judging on past performance apparently, if I was allowed so much a one leg of one lamb I would soon have the place looking like Serengeti in the wet season. I also suggested a goat on a chain for the rough slope at the back of the new garden where it runs down to the creek, but again the answer came back in the negative, not even on a chain. And before I could think of any more species, Gilly then went on to make it clear that her answer covered all herbivores.

When I asked about chooks, Gilly was even more determined. ‘I’m not having rats around the place again,’ she said firmly. ‘And anyway we can buy beautiful eggs from the store at a fraction of the cost of doing it ourselves.’

‘And what about the dog?’ I asked after a pause, working hard to keep the nervousness out of my voice.

Gilly stood silently in thought for a time.

‘She is quite old and probably won’t last much longer anyway,’ I helpfully suggested.

‘Although, against that, she’s in amazingly good condition for a dog of her age,’ Gilly replied.

There was a further pause and then: ‘Okay, okay, the dog can stay,’ she finally quietly conceded, and I could tell it had been a near run thing. I was overcome by emotion and I picked her up, and hugged and kissed her in my excitement. Then Gilly told me to stop being so anthropomorphic and put the dog down.

Getting Rid of animals

 

Animals
Paul Carter MD

When we moved from the farm to the new house, Gilly put her foot down.

‘No more animals,’ she declared. ‘I want us to be free agents and able to flit hither and thither on the whim of the moment,’ she added in those pre-Covid days when you could do that sort of thing. ‘With no more feeding or watering or having to make arrangements if we want to go away. I’m not talking about insects,’ she added as an afterthought. ‘You can keep your bees. ’

I floated the idea of having  a couple of  lambs, and maybe even a steer, just to keep the freezer full, but the answer was a definite ‘no’ and anyway, I was told, and judging on past performance apparently, if I was allowed so much a one leg of one lamb I would soon have the place looking like Serengeti in the wet season. I also suggested a goat on a chain for the rough slope at the back of the new garden where it runs down to the creek, but again the answer came back in the negative, not even on a chain. And before I could think of any more species, Gilly then went on to make it clear that her answer covered all herbivores.

When I asked about chooks, Gilly was even more determined. ‘I’m not having rats around the place again,’ she said firmly. ‘And anyway we can buy beautiful eggs from the store at a fraction of the cost of doing it ourselves.’

‘And what about the dog?’ I asked after a pause, working hard to keep the nervousness out of my voice.

Gilly stood silently in thought for a time.

‘She is quite old and probably won’t last much longer anyway,’ I helpfully suggested.

‘Although, against that, she’s in amazingly good condition for a dog of her age,’ Gilly replied.

There was a further pause and then: ‘Okay, okay, the dog can stay,’ she finally quietly conceded, and I could tell it had been a near run thing. I was overcome by emotion and I picked her up, and hugged and kissed her in my excitement. Then Gilly told me to stop being so anthropomorphic and put the dog down.

Flannelette Yum Yum by Dr Paul Carter

 

Flannelette
by Dr Paul Carter

 

Last weekend, and perfectly legally,  we stayed over at the in-laws.  Like us, they are Storm supporters, and the main reason for our visit was to watch the NRL final on their newly acquired TV, which is of such a size that I wondered how it fitted through the front door.

It was a lovely visit for a number of reasons. Not only are the in-laws really nice people, but the right team made it over the line.  After the game, we sat around having a pleasant chat about this and that, and then we finished off our late-night tipples and all headed off to bed.

At home we sleep between sheets of the finest starched Egyptian linen, on a bed that is wider than it is long, and we rest our heads on the very best of Hungarian goose down. If it is chilly, we pull up a vast and sumptuous fur bedspread.

In the guest room at the in-laws, to my very pleasant surprise, Gilly and I  snuggled up for the night encased in flannelette. I don’t think that I have slept in flannelette since I was allowed to stay at my grandma’s as a small child and, as I wriggled ever deeper down into the warmth and softness of it all, I was transported back in time. It was like getting into bed with an old friend who you’d completely forgotten about, but who you suddenly realise still cares very much about you.

Lying in my flannelette cocoon I felt warm and loved. I asked Gilly if she would read me a story, but she told me not to be  so ridiculous.  I did manage to get her to tuck me up and kiss me on the forehead, however, and then, having curled myself into a foetal position, I quickly fell into a deep and dreamless sleep.

Sitting up in bed the following morning, having a cup of tea, I shared how much I had enjoyed the comfort of the night.

‘You like flannelette?’ Gilly asked.

‘I do. Could we get some for home?’ I asked cautiously.

‘So you don’t you like what I’ve got for us?’ Gilly queried.

‘Of course, Of course,’ I hastily replied. ‘It’s just that this did feel rather nice.’

‘Patterned?’ Gilly asked with just the slightest hint of sarcasm.

‘I was thinking of astronauts, or maybe dinosaurs,’ I said quietly.

‘What about helicopters?’  Gilly asked.

‘Yes, helicopters would be okay,’ I replied

The next night, at home, we slipped back into the absolute best that Egypt can come up with,  and rested our heads on Hungarian excellence.

‘Don’t you think that this is really nice?’ Gilly asked as we lay there in the dark.

‘Yes, yes, of course. It’s fabulous,’ I replied,  feeling  just the tiniest bit disappointed with her reaction to my suggestion. Then I remembered how long it had taken me to talk her into a swinging garden seat, so I drifted off to sleep at peace with the world, and determined to give it all another go in the morning.

Flannelette by Dr Paul Carter

 

Flannelette
by Dr Paul Carter

 

Last weekend, and perfectly legally,  we stayed over at the in-laws.  Like us, they are Storm supporters, and the main reason for our visit was to watch the NRL final on their newly acquired TV, which is of such a size that I wondered how it fitted through the front door.

It was a lovely visit for a number of reasons. Not only are the in-laws really nice people, but the right team made it over the line.  After the game, we sat around having a pleasant chat about this and that, and then we finished off our late-night tipples and all headed off to bed.

At home we sleep between sheets of the finest starched Egyptian linen, on a bed that is wider than it is long, and we rest our heads on the very best of Hungarian goose down. If it is chilly, we pull up a vast and sumptuous fur bedspread.

In the guest room at the in-laws, to my very pleasant surprise, Gilly and I  snuggled up for the night encased in flannelette. I don’t think that I have slept in flannelette since I was allowed to stay at my grandma’s as a small child and, as I wriggled ever deeper down into the warmth and softness of it all, I was transported back in time. It was like getting into bed with an old friend who you’d completely forgotten about, but who you suddenly realise still cares very much about you.

Lying in my flannelette cocoon I felt warm and loved. I asked Gilly if she would read me a story, but she told me not to be  so ridiculous.  I did manage to get her to tuck me up and kiss me on the forehead, however, and then, having curled myself into a foetal position, I quickly fell into a deep and dreamless sleep.

Sitting up in bed the following morning, having a cup of tea, I shared how much I had enjoyed the comfort of the night.

‘You like flannelette?’ Gilly asked.

‘I do. Could we get some for home?’ I asked cautiously.

‘So you don’t you like what I’ve got for us?’ Gilly queried.

‘Of course, Of course,’ I hastily replied. ‘It’s just that this did feel rather nice.’

‘Patterned?’ Gilly asked with just the slightest hint of sarcasm.

‘I was thinking of astronauts, or maybe dinosaurs,’ I said quietly.

‘What about helicopters?’  Gilly asked.

‘Yes, helicopters would be okay,’ I replied

The next night, at home, we slipped back into the absolute best that Egypt can come up with,  and rested our heads on Hungarian excellence.

‘Don’t you think that this is really nice?’ Gilly asked as we lay there in the dark.

‘Yes, yes, of course. It’s fabulous,’ I replied,  feeling  just the tiniest bit disappointed with her reaction to my suggestion. Then I remembered how long it had taken me to talk her into a swinging garden seat, so I drifted off to sleep at peace with the world, and determined to give it all another go in the morning.