Affidexhausted...

Apart from it being windy, cold and wet, the wettest July ever, or in living memory, it seems, and the fact that (surprise?) the Murdoch empire has been shown to be remarkably corrupt, things here are lying rather dormant. Or can you say 'rather' dormant? I use the word because, although things are being done, it is all preparation, hard work, tedious checking, painful composition, losing things and taking forever to find them, and hoping this is all to some purpose, and will achieve the desired result. And who can say?

I am having to copy documents, double check everything, try and hold it all in my mind, and set it out as clearly as possible. It is not at all enjoyable, of course, but must be endured.

I have zapped off a draft for scrutiny and now await feedback. It is likely that many more hours of revision and clarification will be needed.

It is rather worrying that I keep losing things. We had asked the executors what they wanted done about a particular account. They did not reply, but the direct debit bounced. I can only conclude that the credit card has been cancelled, and that they do not wish me to continue this account. So I have now cancelled it. To do so without penalty I have to supply a certified copy of the death certificate. It took me several hours of repetitive and increasingly frantic searching before my tired brain reluctantly dredged up a memory of putting all these documents in quite another place altogether. Why did I put them downstairs in the sideboard, I hear you cry? God knows. I have been out to the stationery shop to get more plastic folders, so that I can have yet another (and I hope not totally futile) attempt to keep my papers in order. At these times I wonder, and probably not without cause, whether I have incipient dementia. My children, just don't answer this query. I don't want the answer to this. Not yet, anyway. And probably none of you are ready to care for me in my declining years.....you will probably in due course have to gird your loins, etcetera....

I managed to cancel another account, and after having to get very stroppy with the unfortunate person on the other end of the phone, she checked with their administration section and discovered that the account had already been cancelled. She enquired whether I wished to have it transferred into my name. Unable to contemplate the horrific possibility of ever having to go through their menu system ever again, I declined. Now I have to work out another telephone plan. I need first to gird my loins and grit my teeth. And probably embark on psychological counselling first. What I really need (are you out there, my children?) is an offspring who can do it all for me. But they are pretty busy themselves. And I am a grown up person. Allegedly independent and capable. Ha.

Well, I rang up, and fortunately, this particular telephone service was quite reasonable and helpful to deal with. So rather than stuff around indefinitely, and floundering around trying to choose a plan, I just opted for one. I had discovered that having cancelled the previous account, I could not make any interstate phone call. I could still make local calls. Just why this is so escapes my understanding. It will be a couple more days before I can ring interstate.

No wonder people have secretaries and accountants. It seems that one should write down every single fact and circumstance, never throw anything away, and have a master list of where things have been - or should have been - put. And thus not have to rely on an already overburdened memory, which actually used to be pretty damn good. There is enough to worry about without the fear of dementia. Maybe I should use my iPod and write down every single thing I do? I'd probably then misplace the iPod.

Then there is bad typing. My fingers keep hitting the wrong keys and inserting more letters than the words in question actually possess. Many more letters, in fact. Mostly Gs.To some extent I can blame the iMac keyboard, but the real reason is me.

I have had some feedback from my BIL. Unfortunately, he sent it to me in handwritten form on my draft, but he emailed it to me in PDF format and it is upside down. I cannot discover a way (is there one?) to turn it the right way up, so have had to print it out, and not all his comments are legible.  It all has to be done promptly, as in about ten days we will be in court for the preliminary hearing. My heart is sinking and gloom pervades my every pore.

There is this to be said about dreadful weather, ie, that there is very little incentive to go outside.

In the meantime I have been going to our dress rehearsals. The concert is tomorrow and it seems it will be a good performance. The music now seems to sing itself, and it is wonderful to be  able to let the high notes fly. I do love being a soprano. Even if no one else does, I like the sound of my own voice. Tell that to the judge.

Are women stupid?

I often wonder whether women really are stupid. Often the thing that gets me wondering is the sight of women teetering around on high heels. 

I readily admit that I am past the age of high heels, and have been for many years now. Orthotics are essential, and so is my foot physiotherapist, the charming and wonderfully competent Nick. It has taken nearly two years to recover from a stress fracture which happened when I fell up my dining room stairs, and then I compounded the damage by playing with my daughter's dog and playing chasey with the grandchildren. It got to the stage where I had trouble walking to the bus stop. Now, with my feet fortified by constant treatment, acupuncture, exercise, heel lifts, orthotics and probably the most sensible shoes on God's earth, I watch women wearing the most ridiculous shoes, and wonder why they wear shoes which will only damage their feet, and which surely could not be remotely considered comfortable. Why, oh why?

Well, I know the answer. They want to be sex objects. They think their legs look sexier if they are wearing high heels. The higher the better. And preferably shoes which squash the toes and endanger the ankles. All so men can perve on them and their bodies.

It is hard to run for the bus, or to chase your runaway kid when you are wearing high heels, and you stand a good chance of tripping on stairs or on uneven footpaths (which abound in Sydney). They will damage your feet and give you years of pain and discomfort. 

Don't get me wrong. I do understand the desire to be attractive to males, but it would be good to see some rationality come into the situation. Why do so many women not ask themselves why, if something were a good idea, men were not doing it too? Do men deck themselves out in silly and dangerous shoes? Not on your nelly! (Similarly, if housework and child care are such fun, how come more men aren't doing more? Yes, I know, someone has to do these things.)

And can anyone tell me why it is fashionable to wear clothes which display a goodly amount of your underwear? The exposed bra strap look! Wow! 

Your latter day grumpy old woman hereby signs off, to totter upstairs to rest the feet and the brain. Goodnight!