Saturday, 10 March 2018

Old cat / new tricks : Part 2

I'm pretty sure I'll never get used to not having a dog about the place. Recently, the aching absence has been amplified to 11 while the Cruft's Dog Show happens. Girlchild and I are emitting more than our usual ridiculously excessive cooing and ahhing and nawwwing sounds at the clever cute cuddly canines on the telly each night. 

Whilst Her Imperial-But-Geriatric-Fluffiness remains unimpressed.

Perhaps that's why she has stepped up her campaign to drive us all insane.

Or perhaps she's just losing, at speed, every last one of the few remaining marbles she brought with her from home.

Anyway, she has moved beyond mere random night yowling. 
Now her daily schedule includes random day-time yowling.
Plus some very specifically-timed blood-curdling screeching and mewling.

You see, apparently, at unspecified hours and minutes, an invisible but truly hideous disgusting filthy beastie spontaneously materialises in our apartment and exudates in HER litter tray. So, after her initial attempts to intimidate it by flinging granules of cat litter in as many directions and as far as her regal restrictions allow flinging at all, she is compelled to gallop throughout her domain, bewailing her consternation at the horror that has befallen. 

And the caterwauling continues until a two-legged minion rids the queendom of the invading stench monster and restores smoothness and order to the now-crunchy floor of the royal restroom.

She even seems to have taken up the once decidedly doggy duty of attempting to murder us with toxic gases. 
Of course, she'll never admit to it.
Or forgive me for telling you.
But we have recently been subject to ruthlessly unforgiving bottom purrs.
Audible ones.
Room-clearing quality.
Indeed, I have begun to feel quite guilty for all those years of dog-blaming-and-shaming. A great many attacks may well have been stealthy feline subterfuge. 
Sorry, puppies.

One further addition to the patrician daily calendar is the making of insistent, persistent, and particularly clamorous demands of whichever kitchen hand is first to rise. Clear and repeated commands are made that the door to the great beyond be opened to facilitate a morning promenade. However brief that promenade may be.

Indeed, on mornings when nobody has roused by daybreak, she makes the long trek to the servants' quarters, sounding reveille all the while, leaving no room for doubt about her needs and desires.
With summer approaching, I've began fashioning a small silken eye-mask — acceptably elegant but impenetrable to light.

But, last week, the chief-cook-and-bottle-washer had small revenge.

This happened.

It doesn't snow at home on The Rock.

Never, in her eighteen years, had she witnessed anything so distasteful.

I really shouldn't have laughed as much as I did at the indignant foot shaking.

And with her hasty U-turn, the kind thing to do would have been been to let her back in the door she'd just egressed.

But counterattack is a dish best served cold! 

Sunday, 25 February 2018

525,600 minutes

So there I was listening to my new favourite radio station here in London,


Encore Radio plays songs from your favourite musicals,

all day, every day

blithely singing along to this song from Rent when it dawned on me. 


We've been here for more than a year.
More than 525,600 minutes.   
We've been here long enough to have survived all the 'firsts' away from home, those dates that are so replete with tradition and family history that they tug and pull and ache ... birthdays, anniversary days, Christmas, New Year.

Long enough that time passes more quickly.

Long enough for me to have stopped counting how long we've been here.

We've even been here long enough to have grown so familiar with life in our compact attic flat in Fitzrovia that it had become tiresome.  
No, that's not the right word. 
Not tiresome. 
Too many awe-inspiring, mind-expanding, life-affirming things surrounded us for it to be tiresome. 
What I should have said is that we had lived there long enough to have grown fed-up with ceaseless traffic and choked footpaths; exhausted by the parade of grey, airless days; jaded by brick and concrete.

Down the Thames we moved. No longer in the heart of the city, now in an airy modern North Greenwich apartment we can see the river, watch the sunset, enjoy growing plants on the expansive balcony. It's mind-opening in a whole different way. An additional way. The way that means so much to so many Australians. 
Here there is head space.
Expanse of sky.

Anyway, I began at the point when I was musing about how I would measure that first year. 
And I thought, how about in shows?
When we decided to move here, I promised myself that I would take me to every play, concert, musical or exhibition that took my fancy.
I did not let myself down.

In our first year in London, I took myself to 14 musicals, 17 plays, 5 concerts, 2 stand-up comedy performances, the Chelsea Flower Show, the Longines Global Champions showjumping, 12 museums, the taping of 3 television shows and the truly spectacular Lucha Libre masked wrestling.

And here are some of the amazing actors who have shared some of their 525,600 minutes with me.

So how do you measure a year?


Tuesday, 23 May 2017

Teach an old cat new tricks : Part 1

Seventeen in cat years is like ninety-something in human terms. And of course I was concerned about Her Imperial-but-Geriatric Fluffiness being locked in a cage in a dark cargo hold for 30 hours. But I couldn't leave her behind. 
She's been in the family longer than my daughter.

And I'd already had to give my dog away. 
(Still can't even type that without crying).

Clearly because I wasn't already angst-riddled enough, one of my caring and supportive friends heaped a few more heebies on my jeebies by casually querying, "Aren't you sort of worried that there'll be a dead cat in the carrier when you get to London?"
Well, I am now!

So all the way from Tullamarine to Heathrow I fretted. Every time we hit turbulence, I dissolved into champagne-enhanced tears in my fabulously comfortable company-paid-for-it business class seat.

But she made it.
We both did.

It's only recently that we've begun to have a near-terminal-velocity bumpy ride.
She's killing me.

Night yowling.
Apparently it's a thing.
She's not sick.
She's not hungry.
She's not cold.
She had a hysterectomy 17 years ago, so it's not about calling the boys.
She's not even lonely.

She's just losing her marbles.
At regular intervals between midnight and 5:00am the bitch-cat-from-hell
finds her way into our midst and begins summoning her demon buddies for the ritual slaughtering of all humans in residence. 
It's spine chilling.

I tried talking nicely to her.
I tried shouting at her.
I tried throwing everything from my bedside table at the wall.
No change.

So I switched to a more pro-active approach and left the radio on upstairs where she sleeps. BBC 2.  Surely that would either bore her to sleep or engage her with its interesting interviews in soothing voices.
And it worked for one night. 
Maybe two.

Next I amped up the love, and left a night light on for her as well. 
So far so good.
Some time between 2:00 and 3:00am, she does start to wind up the howlelujah, but then like a baby crying itself to sleep, she self-soothes.

I think she'd probably prefer that I left the TV on, but I fear the inevitable next step would be the expectation for me to stay up all night to explain the bits she missed while she was asleep.

It's a slippery slope.

Monday, 8 May 2017

A to Z ..End of challenge reflection

It was my friend Sheryl's fault that I did the A to Z challenge this year. Obviously, the theme was all my doing, but I don't think it would have even occurred to me to participate if not for Sheryl's random comment. 
So thanks and blame both go to Sheryl.

A great many of the bloggers who participate in the challenge are hardcore professional-type bloggers. They use the challenge as an opportunity to build their business profile, to sell something. Others use it as a way to develop or advertise their self-publishing projects. 
None of that interests me.
It probably should, but it doesn't.

When I write, I am better able to deal with my depression. 
And when I write regularly, I write better. 

My theme focussed on things weird, bizarre and off-centre, but participating in the challenge helped me feel more connected, less adrift in a sea of strange. 

Some of the people I care most about don't bother to read my blog. 
Some look at it occasionally and tell me they only like the funny ones. 
This month, I heard from a couple that they weren't interested in my posts because my theme was too gruesome and (despite my research) the posts were a bit boring.
Fair enough.

But some complete strangers stumbled upon Wendy Off The Rock and responded in kind to my humour and my sense of the absurd. 
They made me laugh. 
I looked forward to their witty and thoughtful responses. Thank you:

Arti Leanne

Mind you, a few of the comments others left made it pretty clear they hadn't read my post at all (too many words?). They just looked at the pictures and left a note with a link to their blog for me to reciprocate the visit. 
Which I did. 
I visited 5-10 other blogs most days during the challenge. 
I learned some new things. 
And was prompted to introspection by a great many self-help suggestions. 
But not much made me laugh. 

I also found that the way we posted this year (without a Linky List) meant that the different global time-zones of participants were way more obvious, and it was more difficult to pop back to other blogs for a second visit. I don't necessarily want to sign up to receive regular posts from ALL the other blogs I visited.
I'm a picky bitch.

Anyway, I achieved my aims for the April Challenge.
I wrote regularly, which stimulated my creative bits.
You rewarded me by stopping by and listening.
You kept me connected.
And grounded.
I sometimes felt a bit hamstrung by my choice of theme.
But I got over myself.
And I giggled a lot.
Thank you.

Friday, 5 May 2017

Tea and snozzcumber sandwiches

Take a sneaky peek at the bookshelves, or the dusty stack by their bed, or the dog-eared novels lying on the coffee table and you can tell a great deal about someone, can't you? 
It says even more if there are no bookcases to scope out.

And it's sort of stating the bleeding obvious about what makes me tick to reveal that the cafe in the spectacular British Library (pictured here) is one of my favourite places to have a cuppa and a play with words on my computer. Towering walls of leather-bound books.
Me dwarfed by the world in words.
The only down-side is that they're behind glass. 
I'm an unashamed book-sniffer. 
And I'm tipping a few of you are guilty of the same.

But anyway, for the past few months, a row of gorgeous pen and ink illustrations has been hanging, relatively unheralded, along one back wall on the second floor of the library. I'm not sure how many people visit them every day, but in my immaterial opinion, not enough, so I thought I'd bring a couple to you. 

Commissioned to celebrate what would have been Roald Dahl's 100th birthday are ten new visions of some of his most famous characters.

Sir Quentin Blake ( aged 84) said of the exhibition:
“The Roald Dahl Centenary Portraits ask you to imagine that a number of Dahl’s characters have been invited to come and sit for their portrait; they are depicted, not quite as they appear in the illustrations, but more formally... I hope visitors to the British Library will be happy to see this group of well-known characters treated as though they were real people – which, of course, to many of us they are.”

Here are three that took me back to many nights of reading aloud at bedtime:

I was even inspired to finally watch the latest movie of The BFG, which I'd been ignoring for two reasons: 
(1) critics gave it a total shit-canning, (2) I so adore Tim Minchin's Matilda that I doubted another recent re-imagining of Dahl could scratch up.
But I enjoyed it. I really did.

Granted, much of it would most certainly have given my daughter nightmares back in the day, but the final scene had us guffawing. 
A wind-driven comic scene to rival Blazing Saddles
It was the wizzpopping corgis that did me in.

As an almost completely irrelevant sidebar, here's something to further distract you when next you're watching TV. 
Remember how amazed you were when you first heard that 99% of phone numbers mentioned by American screen characters begin with 555? Well, prepare to be equally amazed.

If it's your turn to suggest the Friday-night drinking game but you're not in the mood, or you're having one of those non-alcohol nights that doctors recommend, suggest playing 'Spot the bookcase' in American-made TV shows and movies. 
Unless the room is an office, or the lead character is a professor-cum-educated- type like Frasier, a sober Friday night is a safe bet.

I wanted to finish with my favourite quote about books and reading, but I couldn't settle for just one, so you're getting two:

It's what you read when you don't have to that determines what you will be when you can't help it.   Oscar Wilde

Outside of a dog, a book is man's best friend. Inside of a dog, it's too dark to read.    Groucho Marx

Sunday, 30 April 2017

Z = Zonked at the zenith

So here we are. 
April 30th.
The letter Z.
The conclusion of 25 mind-expanding visits to the Wellcome Collection and the
full-stop of 25 frightening peeks into the mind of Wendy of the Rock, who has been sucked up the wormhole that leads from Oz to Wonderland.

To salute having reached the zenith of the mountain, I thought I'd make this a sing-along post, and bring you a chirpy song of celebration. 
Do join in as you read.

There were so many other wonderful things I photographed but couldn't wangle into any of my pieces. 
Like these:

Inuit snow goggles
Scold's bridle

Acupuncture model

My mate Sir Henry collected other such disparate and bizarre things as Napoleon's toothbrush and Florence Nightingale's moccasins. 
No matter how tenuous the link between the object and the world of medicine, or science, or to art that intersects and overlaps with those worlds, Sir Henry had both the desire and the wealth to add it to his collection. And today, the good people his amassed fortune continues to employ at the museum that bears his name keep his habits and dreams very much alive.

I can't leave without sharing these last fabulous objects displayed in the Reading Room.

There's a whole case full of these little rockstars, each about the height of a matchstick.

Shota Katsube, of the Souzou: Japanese Outsider Art school of thought, creates these way cool anime soldiers from twist-ties. 
You know, those things you use to stop your garbage from spilling out of the bag.

Yep, with the aid of a tiny pair of scissors and nail clippers, he whips up a new member for his army in around five minutes. 
Each one unique.
None copied from cartoons.

I have no idea how they connect to medicine, but I'm totally sure Sir Henry would have approved of them being on display at his place. 
He loved weird shit. 

So whether you've been with me for the whole oxygen-depleting scramble to the summit or merely called in at base camp to say hi, I thank you for your company. I would never have made it on my own.
Because, to use Dorothy Parker's immortal words: 
You can lead a horticulture, but you can't make her think.

Me on the stairs at Wellcome. (Thanks for the pic, Jo)
I took the photo at the start of this post from the top of this staircase, and edited it in Snapseed.

During the month of April, I am participating in the Blogging from A–Z Challenge.

Y = Yank

I wish this image was a bit clearer, but despite being an enthusiastic user of the camera, I still fall short of being a gifted amateur. But anyway, it looks like a beaded curtain, doesn't it? One of those clickety 60s-Asian-inspired jobs that send legions of Pinterest users into paroxysms of delight. 
Well, allow me to turn those ripples of glee to shudders of horror.
Those are not beads. 
They're teeth. Human teeth. 
It's a Chinese sign that apparently advertises a Doctor for treating miscellaneous diseases

What is it about dentists that makes so many of us avoid them? Not socially, just professionally. I know two mouth experts who are delightful young women. I'm fond of them both. Mind you, when I'm in their company, my tongue does spend much of the time guiltily poking about my pegs. 
And although I don't exactly fear a visit to the tooth doctor, I do recall the day that resulted in my reticence. I'm guessing I was about ten the day Dr Skinner yanked out that molar. 
I have large teeth. 
With long roots.
His face still looms clearly in my memory. Leaning close through the smell of disinfectant and his smoker's breath, he was grimacing. 
His eyes squinched to almost closed with the effort.
'It's a tough one,' he muttered in the direction of Mum, sitting supportively in the corner. ' Going to need a bit extra oomph.'

He braced his foot against the pedestal of the hydraulic chair for extra leverage. 
And yanked.
My right ear filled with an echoing grind and crack as my mouth filled with warm sweet blood.

Here for your viewing discomfort is a selection of images that help keep that memory alive for me. 

And I'm sadistically hoping they just might trigger something for you, too.


Are you there?


How about now?
Still with me?


Has your stomach done a Fosbury flop?

Can you feel that squishy wound where your tooth used to be?

Does the ghost of an ache haunt your jaw?  


Do tell....

During the month of April, I am participating in the Blogging from A–Z Challenge.