Paul Carter's Blog, page 5

Koala Signs by Dr Paul Carter

by Dr Paul Carter

When I first came to Australia and started travelling around, I loved all the road signs. Many were so different from those in England. ‘Wrong way – go back’ is so delightfully unambiguous, and I found the ‘Give way to trains’ at level crossings really helpful, for I had wondered whether I should or not. But my real joy was koala road signs. There are just so many different ones.

Gilly and I had to cross central Victoria today on an urgent errand, and travelling through some tiny hamlet that didn’t even warrant a speed reduction below 100k, there, tucked amongst the trees at the side of the road, was yet another, different, koala sign. 

‘I don’t think you’ve got that one,’ Gill observed, so we stopped and backed up, and I took yet another picture.

Wherever you travel across our wonderful country, kangaroo road signs all look exactly the same. Every one of them clearly shows the same bounding animal in the act of jumping into the front of your vehicle. The point of it is quite clear, and whatever state you happen to be in, the message is unwavering. As a nation, we clearly have a shared, nationwide image of what kangaroos look like and why we need to keep an eye out for them.

But the same is not in the slightest bit true for koalas. Over some years now, on my travels across our beautiful continent, I have got into the habit of taking snaps of koala signs, because almost every one of them is different. There are koalas with three toes and those with four.

There are ones which have really long legs and there are those which look a lot more like me. There are koalas with chainsaw ears and there are those who have cleared brushed themselves smooth with a hundred strokes each side. There are koalas who clearly need to go to the gym and those who look like they already have. There are white ones and black ones, and there are even ones with babies on their backs. And in addition to all of that, and quite unlike their macropod cousins, they are all doing different things as well. A few are striding up and down, but most of them are taking up a variety of positions on branches, simply taking in the world, as of course koalas do.

But I would like to be quite clear that I am not complaining about any of this in the slightest. Quite the opposite in fact. In a world that is as regulated as the one in which we find ourselves, koala signs are a refreshing breath of fresh air. And it is a relief to know that the rigid hand of conformity has yet to reach into the world of koala road signs.

So if you happen to see us parked on the side of the road in the middle of nowhere, and me standing by the edge of the road trying to remember how to take pictures with my phone, we have almost certainly just spotted a sign we haven’t seen before. And, if you happen to have any pictures of koala signs which are different from those above, I would love to add them to my collection.

The Marvellous Magical House by writer Paul Carter

by writer Paul Carter

I really like our new house. Not only is it nice looking, but it is also magical. It is completely self-perpetuating, and I love it. I always knew there would be a lot of work in the garden since there are two acres of it, but that was never going to be a problem because I love gardening.

Having all that work balanced out by finding a house which literally takes care of itself, however, was a bonus I hadn’t expected. And, day after day, it keeps itself amazingly clean and tidy. However many dirty clothes I pile into the laundry basket, there they are, all folded and ironed in my drawers again by the next day, and however many towels I soil with inadequately washed hands, they always seem to clean themselves.

Meals just appear out of thin air, and not just beans on toast but really yummy stuff. And however much food gets eaten, I open the fridge or the kitchen cupboards only to find them still crammed full of all my favourites. We only ever sleep between crisp clean sheets, and we only ever sit down on plumped up cushions. But more than all of that, even although I enjoy a measure of scotch at the end of pretty much each day, the decanter never falls far below the chalk line before rising again.

Yet, even by these extraordinary standards, today the house broke all is own records. I had been spreading mulch round the trees in the orchard and, halfway through the afternoon, I came in for a break. To my astonishment, there on the kitchen table, and obviously awaiting my return, was a sensationally laid out tray of scones and tea, with jam and cream. Just out of nowhere!

I went looking for Gilly to let her know of this latest wonder. She had been feeling under the weather and, just for once, hadn’t joined me in the garden. I found her resting on the couch in the sitting room.

‘Gilly,’ I said excitedly. ‘I know this house is like something J K Rowling would have got herself excited about, but do come and see what’s it’s done now,’ I continued, ‘it’s amazing!’ and I led her through to the kitchen and pointed to the beautifully laid out afternoon refreshments.

‘Isn’t that fantastic,’ I continued enthusiastically. ‘So what do you think of that? I mean, weren’t we lucky to find this place?’

I guess I was expecting her to be as excited I was. Instead, she looked at me with an expression of complete incomprehension. 

‘What on earth are you talking about?’ she replied.

‘Well, it might be a bit spooky, but isn’t it amazing living in such an incredible house that does things like this for us,’ I answered, and it was only with some very swift and nimble footwork that I avoided getting poked in the ribs with a large barbeque fork.

Brilliant Socks by Writer Paul Carter

By writer Paul Carter

During the readings from my latest book, one or two people appear to have noticed that I like wearing jazzy socks. This love affair dates back to my days as a medical student when you could have a pint of beer, go to the cinema, dine out on a newspaper full of fish and chips, and still have change out of threepence.

At my rather old fashioned, fuddy-duddy college, students were allowed to wear whatever they liked in the pre-clinical years. To express our individuality, therefore, we all wore hairy brown sports jackets with leather patches on the elbows, grey slacks, and knitted ties. Once we passed the exams which allowed us to actually see patients however, it was a different matter altogether.

I am not sure if there is a dress code for medical students these days but, back then, it was forbidden to even step foot on the wards unless we presented ourselves like mini Sir Lancelot Spratts with Brylcreemed hair, spotless fingernails, glistening shoes and wearing three-piece suits and crisp linen shirts with detachable starched collars and cuffs. 

We all looked like clones and, since our wardrobe and appearance was constantly and ruthlessly policed by every ward sister, everyone carried spare cuffs, collars and studs in case an atom of dirt was noticed on their person and they were chucked off the ward to present themselves later when they had repaired the damage. 

Except for socks, that is. I am not sure how socks slipped under the radar, but although it was understood that those who saw themselves as professional gentlemen to be would only wear plain black, there were no actual regulations regarding socks. As a result, I began experimenting. 

I started very cautiously by wearing patterned black socks and then when the sky didn’t fall in, I gradually became bolder. Within a year or so I was introducing hints of colour to my ankle wear, and in my final year, I graduated to a pair of bee socks, which had bold stripes of exactly the colours you would expect from that name, and which I bought on my one and only ever trip down swinging Carnaby Street.

On my very first morning back to my Alma Mater as a newly appointed intern, I was stopped by the porters at the front lodge.

‘Nice to see you back sir,’ the greeted me. ‘Bit of a surprise, mind, seeing as how you were always labelled as a trouble-maker, what with those socks of yours. Guess you must have done well in the exams,’ they said, and I smiled back at them, for indeed I had.

It is not that long ago that Gilly found a box of my old starched collars and studs at the back of a wardrobe. ‘Oh my God. You really did have to wear these things,’ she laughed. ‘I always thought you were joking,’ she added and then she threw them out

 

A Topiary Tale by Paul Carter

Our new garden is a delight, and I enjoy working in it with all the new equipment I have treated myself to. Most of the work is run of the mill stuff, such as mowing and whippersnippering, but there are also three cypress trees at the back of the old stables which had clearly been shaped into corkscrews in the pre- Gilly and Paul era, but which have now become largely overgrown. I had never tried my hand at topiary before, but amongst my shiny new acquisitions is a very impressive hedge trimmer, so I thought I would give it a go.

I inspected the trees from every possible direction, studied the lie of the land, worked out the now largely hidden pattern of my predecessor, and then very, very cautiously set to work. It is not easy holding a heavy bit of equipment on the end of a long pole above your head doing a job you have never done before, especially when it’s a long time since you did any boxing training, but I thought I did really well.

It took me all day, but by the end of it, I sat tiredly on the stone wall by the trees having a beer and admiring my handiwork. The trees didn’t particularly match one another, one of them seemed to be leaning back a bit, there was a noticeable chunk missing out of the side of the middle one, and there were a few bits poking out, but all in all, considering I had my L plates on, I was highly chuffed at the outcome. 

I was still sitting there, sipping my beer in the late afternoon sun when Gilly came out to join me.

‘I thought you were going to have a go at these trees today Gilly said as she looked at them. 

‘I have,’ I replied a little tightly.

‘Really?’ she said as she looked at the trees more carefully. ‘Where?’

‘Fantastic, well done, gosh they have come up well, you are so hardworking, I  feel really privileged to share my life with you,’ is what I had expected her to say.

 I thought I hid my disappointment well, but Gilly is very perceptive.

‘Are you okay?’ she asked, looking at my drooped chin and puckered lip.

‘Yes, I’m fine,’ I replied. ‘Just got a bit of dust in my eye.’

‘The sun must have been in my face when I first came out,’ Gilly quickly went on to say, ‘but now that I come to look at the trees properly, I can see what you’ve been up to. Fantastic, well done, gosh they have come up well, you are so hardworking, I feel really privileged to share my life with you,’ she added, but the damage was done. 

‘It’s just work in progress,’ I lied defensively, and the next day I snuck back out to the trees and worked on them again until my arms nearly fell off. That evening Gilly joined me once more

‘Very good,’ she said as she looked at the newly shaped cypresses. ‘I’ll give you six out of ten.’

At college, I had sailed through with a straight-set of high distinctions, and I was more than a little taken aback to receive what was barely more than a pass mark.

‘Sorry,’ said  Gilly looking at my expression. ‘I meant eight out of ten.’ 

Oh Deer!

Oh deer…by Paul Carter

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As a small child, my favourite place was my grandmother’s second-hand shop. During my visits, while she looked after her customers, I would spend entire afternoons exploring. The shop might have been small, but there were three floors of it connected by dangerously vertical staircases and every floor was packed with the most wonderful treasures from side to side and also right up to the Victorian ceilings. And not only was it fun being there, but my memories are also framed by feelings of warmth and safety.

Which is why, to this day, I cannot drive past a bric a brac / second-hand/antique shop without stopping to having a poke around inside. It drives Gill mad.

So that is what happened on our way back from somewhere or other just the other day. I had done my usual perambulation of the shop without anything catching my attention, and was thinking about calling it a day when Gill’s eye fell upon something tucked away in a corner and she pointed it out.

It was a small deer’s head and it sang to me.
One of my most prized possessions is Prince Rupert of Hentzau, a deer I almost shot, who regally and spectacularly pokes his head out of the brickwork above the fireplace in my study.

A few Christmases back, knowing that I am very fond of The Prince, I was given a book entitled ‘Crap Taxidermy’. It is a catalogue of taxidermy misadventures, a sort of animal version of those pictures you see of the poor souls whose plastic surgery went south in a big way. ‘Crap Taxidermy’ might be full of the most hideous stuff-ups, but there is nothing in it that comes even close to what we found in that shop.

It was dreadful. It was dusty and it was extensively moth-eaten. There were tufts of hair hanging off it. It looked like it had died of syphilis, leprosy, methamphetamine addiction and COVID 19 all at the same. It had clearly never heard a kind word in its life. I fell in love with it on the spot, and I wanted to put my arms around it and protect it from a nasty world. To the shop-keepers complete surprise, I actually offered money to take it away, and after he had encased it in bubble-wrap, I gently took my new friend home with me.

He is on the wall of my study now, just across the room from Rupert who is registering his feelings about this invasion of his domain with a disdainful gaze of total disapproval at the newcomer. But I don’t care, because every time I look up at the new addition, I feel a warm glow inside, knowing that, albeit in a small way, I have made the world a better place.

I must think of a name for him. Any suggestions?

Photo taken by the very “game” Gill Carter.

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A Toothy Tale.

by Paul Carter

Like most people, I brush my teeth more or less twice a day. Then, just to be on the safe side, every once in a while, I go in for an industrial clean as well. I don’t mind going because I really like my dental hygienist. She is unfailingly friendly and chatty and always murmurs sympathy and concern whenever she sees me digging my fingernails silently into the palms of my hands. Not that it has ever stopped her from doing whatever she was doing at the time, but it’s nice to know that she cares.

As she whirrs away, she brings me up to date on all her news. Never demanding any input from me, she tells me what her children are up to, how the new puppy is working out, and what her husband did last weekend. On the odd occasion when she has run out of items she feels she needs to bring me up to date about, she hums melodies from Les Mis to herself in a pleasant and tuneful voice, leaving me to quietly focus on not just the search-light cluster a foot from my face, but also, and against all natural instincts, on keeping my mouth stretched open so that she can find more tender bits of me to poke. 

Her boss, my dentist, and a terrific bloke, takes a very different approach. He stuffs what feels like Pontiac potatoes inside my cheeks, fills my mouth up with instruments, stretches my lips with the outside of his left little finger and then asks how the recent trip to Africa went. 

And although I have now attended my hygienist on many occasions over the years,  and I can tell you which clarinet grade her older daughter is up to, and that the puppy is now peeing outside, I realised, on my last visit, that I wouldn’t have the slightest chance of recognising her if I bumped into her in the street. All I can say is that she has nice upside-down eyes. For, as she beavers away on my choppers, she has only ever been wearing a face mask. And I have never seen her without one. And that goes back way before they were even fashionable. 

To read my wonderful stories from my time as a local GP please head here.

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What do you think about dentists?

Like most people, I brush my teeth more or less twice a day. Then, just to be on the safe side, every once in a while, I go in for an industrial clean as well. I don’t mind going because I really like my dental hygienist. She is unfailingly friendly and chatty and always murmurs sympathy and concern whenever she sees me digging my fingernails silently into the palms of my hands. Not that it has ever stopped her from doing whatever she was doing at the time, but it’s nice to know that she cares.

As she whirrs away, she brings me up to date on all her news. Never demanding any input from me, she tells me what her children are up to, how the new puppy is working out, and what her husband did last weekend. On the odd occasion when she has run out of items she feels she needs to bring me up to date about, she hums melodies from Les Mis. to herself in a pleasant and tuneful voice. This leaves me to quietly focus on not just the search-light cluster a foot from my face, but also, and against all natural instincts, on keeping my mouth stretched open so that she can find more tender bits of me to poke.
Her boss, my dentist, and a terrific bloke takes a very different approach. He stuffs what feels like Pontiac potatoes inside my cheeks, fills my mouth up with instruments, stretches my lips with the outside of his left little finger and then asks how the recent trip to Africa went.

And although I have now attended my hygienist on many occasions over the years, and I can tell you which clarinet grade her older daughter is up to, and that the puppy is now peeing outside, I realised, on my last visit, that I wouldn’t have the slightest chance of recognising her if I bumped into her in the street. All I can say is that she has nice upside-down eyes. For, as she beavers away on my choppers, she has only ever been wearing a face mask. I have never seen her without one. And that goes back way before they were even fashionable.
Please share your thoughts about how you go to the dentist with me so that I can commiserate.

You can see what lovely teeth I have in this photo the beautiful Gill took on our recent pre-COVID sojourn to Africa.

Ten Friends for Dinner by Paul Carter

I was on my way home from signing a few things at the bank. For once I was under no time pressure. Helen had taken Nel to get her hair clipped. Nel’s hairdresser is not unlike Helen’s and I knew that they would not be back for a couple of hours.

Poodles are great dogs, but their much-vaunted advantage of not shedding hairs around the house fades, in my mind, into insignificance when compared to the effort and outlay required in getting them clipped every eight weeks or so. Anyway, being a free man, I decided to pop in for a coffee with a friend who happens to live on my way home. He made his living retrieving crashed second world war fighter planes from the jungles of Papua New Guinea and has a never-ending fund of good stories. He also makes me laugh. This time, however, he seemed a bit down in the dumps. 

“It’s this corona thing,” he explained. 

“I, know,” I agreed. “But at least now you can have up to ten people together.” 

“But that’s exactly the problem,” he said a little sadly. “Five I could manage, but it is only since they increased the numbers that I realised I don’t have ten friends.” 

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