I was intending to go to the University today to pick up some books on television that I’m working my way through at the moment. The plan was to work on a couple of blog posts I’ve been writing, while still doing some thesis-related thinking—a perfect combination of assignments for the weekend of someone who thinks they should have gotten to work earlier everyday last week.
The plan began to unravel when I sat at the bus stop for over half an hour, during which two scheduled buses did not appear. Of course three, nearly empty, City Express buses that don’t observe my stop went blithely past, taking no account of my pointed glares at my wristwatch. After I had called the bus service and all of its drivers and managers every new swear word I’ve recently acquired watching the series of Deadwood that Dogpossum has generously loaned me, I was about to make a phone call, in which I might have actually spoken my new vocabulary aloud, when the bus came along. I went to my seat in a foul mood, frustrated that nothing would be achieved by venting to the bus driver, except to make her day terrible as well, if it wasn’t already. Alas, nothing could spare either of us, or indeed the rest of the passengers, the shock of what happened next. A man pulled out of a driveway, without looking, and straight into the bus lane. It’s a good thing that the bus driver had her eyes open and managed to brake in time, narrowly avoiding a collision with the car, if not preventing her passengers from being thrown forward and using expletives they might otherwise have suppressed.
After I ate a lunch of miso soup, sushi and green tea ice-cream, I made my way to another bus stop to commute to the University, thinking a bus would be due to depart in a few minutes. I waited a while before I thought to check the timetable, since I realised I’d been working with the week day timetable in my head. It turned out that I’d just missed one and it would be another half an hour until the next. Meanwhile, of course, two City Express buses returning on the route that had passed me while I was going into the city were going to be departing while I waited for the bus I wanted. At that point I decided to trash my plans. I. Was. Not. Going. To. Wait. Any. Longer. For. Another. Bus. Even. If. My. Sanity. Depended. Upon. It. Especially. When. The. Other. Bus. Route. Had. More. Services. Than. Anyone. Could. Ever. Use.
So, I decided to come home (on another bus) and tell you about all the trivial, insignificant crap that didn’t make it into my previous post, and a bit more that I gathered while killing time waiting for the bus home.
I spent ten minutes, distracting myself from the torture of waiting for the bus home, looking at beauty products in a department store near the bus stop. I’m pretty fussy about the soap and other toiletries I use. I have used products from The Perfect Potion, ever since it was a small shop in the old hippy version of Elizabeth Arcade in Brisbane. Now they’ve gone on to conquer St Kilda, but I remain a loyal customer. Recently, however, I have been seduced by the charms of the Mor range. It began with the purchase of a Pomegranate candle, which smelled divine and was packaged in the most exquisite box, to say nothing of the red glass and gold painted candle holder.
I happened to buy that around mother’s day and it came with a free Cherry Blossom French-milled soap. It also smells quite amazing, and I’ve enjoyed the luxury of a long lasting soap. Yesterday, I came across a half-priced Cherry Blossom candle in the same range. I had to get it because it’s a total indulgence that’s not usually all that cheap—especially not when you reflect that it’s a candle. Today I tested the hand-cream while I waited for the bus. It’s nice too, but I don’t think I’m fully seduced, yet.
I felt better when I made it home. I’m not sure how much of my intolerance for waiting at the bus arises from reasonable annoyance, premenstrual tension or the fact that I’ve not had any thyroid hormone replacement tablets since I ran out of them on Wednesday. I tried to make an appointment with my GP to get a new prescription but she’s on holiday, and I hate seeing someone else. Wouldn’t another GP just have to take my word for it that I need them? Could the endocrinologist, who I haven’t seen for at least 18 months, give me a prescription? Probably not. I’ll admit to being a bit impatient about even needing to get a new prescription for a hormone that I’m going to have to take for the rest of my life. Can’t they just issue me with a card? Give this girl Thyroxin on demand! Then I’d probably just avoid the doctors altogether and they wouldn’t like that. I need monitoring. Maybe they’re worried I’ll start indulging in Thyroxin abuse. This is where people, especially women, I suppose, take too much of the hormone in order to lose weight. They should rest assured that they scared the bejesus out of me when I was first diagnosed with a hyperactive thyroid* about the dangers of too much thyroid hormone—osteoporosis, heart-disease etc, etc. No thanks. Trouble is, these are pretty much the problems of not having enough thyroid hormone as well, that and weight gain and general slumpiness. I really don’t need those either.
Here’s a picture of some Rastoo portions I bought out of curiosity in a clearance sale.
Rastoo is like jam, but very sugary and there’s no pectin to set it either. There are four varieties here: Lilli Pilli, Quandong, Native Lime and Bush Plum. I had the first three on some toast this morning. They all have very unique flavours and I will probably seek these Rastoos out again.
In other news, I went to a dress rehearsal of the Australian Ballet performing The Sleeping Beauty last night. I am friends with someone whose son is in the Australian Ballet so this is the second time I’ve been to a dress rehearsal. It’s pretty much like seeing a regular show, but at the end of each of the acts you have to sit very quietly while they sort out anything that needs reworking. You can only get out of your chair when the house lights come up. There was a disconcerting moment when a man wearing a t-shirt and jeans walked onto the stage to rearrange the children appearing in the final scene. ‘Hey! Red t-shirt man, you don’t match with the whimsical fairies and forest creatures!’ It was really a very lovely performance. The things those people can do with their bodies; they are so graceful while performing such physical feats—in my friend’s words, the Ivans were ‘awesome’. I have to make special mention of the sets and costume design, they conveyed the wholerange of whimsy and menace; the Carabosse Cavaliers’ costumes were positively gargoyle-ish, the Dolls were charming, and the Rats had the best quilted silver coats on.
*I’ve since had radioactive iodine treatment which got rid of part of my thyroid, so naturally, I soon had a hypo- or under-active thyroid and required the hormone replacement.