Yet more proof of one's myriad imperfections

it took me four goes to type that heading. I blame my own incompetence, the fact that I am typing this with one finger on the iPad, and so on and so forth.
I am typing this on the iPad because my iMac has just been taken away to be made better. It was made worse because I foolishly downloaded an upgrade, only to remember too late that the upgrade will not support Word, or, in face, my photographs. I did manage (I think) to copy the documents onto a disc, and even this caused me a certain amount if grief because it took me some little while to get the disc out, until from the far off and dim recesses of my brain I remembered that the keyboard has an Eject key. Ecco fatto!

My next step was to search the internet to see whether I could  uninstall the software update. Oh No. Alas, and  Woe.

Off I went to the knitting group , where it was my particular and designated task to teach people how to crochet granny squares. There are some very speedy learners there, and we all had a good time. Usually some of us have lunch together afterwards. I told them all of the latest in what seems to be a long list of mistakes and other silly and humiliating things I have done. We all laughed heartily and shared various other horror stories. Then I said I needed to get a computer person to come and see what could be done. Oh, they said, there is a shop in this little arcade, where we always have lunch. You walked right past it, they told me.

So I went inside and discussed my errors and problem. It reminded me of going to Confession. The man came to my home and checked this and that, installed something else, and said he would need to take the computer back to the shop so that it could do all the things he had told it too, while he could be in his shop attending to people like me and perhaps with a few normal and rational people as well.
I hope all will be well, although I will have to learn a little about the alternative word processing system. This sort of thing is supposed to keep the brain active.

Next week is the first cataract removal. My younger daughter is staying here for a couple of days and will be able to take me to the hospital and back home, if they finishe me in time for her to do that and still catch her 3pm flight home. It will be a great comfort to have her with me. I should be all better before I leave on my trip. Perhaps after both eyes are better I can marginally improve the French and Spanish which are in my brain. Somewhere!

What can you see coming?

When I tripped and fell over some weeks ago, the lens of my glasses of my better eye was badly scratched. In the process of getting the glasses fixed, I had another eye examination. The optometrist said that the cataract on my bad eye really should be removed, and he wrote me out a referral to a specialist.

The prospect of having cataract surgery freaks me out. As a young child, I had surgery on my left eye, to correct its habit of wandering all over the place. I have never had normal vision, and, as far as I can tell, the effect of the surgery was probably cosmetic. The brain pattern must have been fixed, with each eye seeing separately, and never in a unified image.

The surgery was done when I was about six. Hospitals all those years ago were not family friendly, and family visits were few. My eyes were bandaged, and I had no idea what was going on. All I could do was to call for someone to come. I think I was in hospital for perhaps ten days, with a painful eye and much boredom. Once home, I did not wear glasses, and in early adulthood developed short-sightedness. Now the time has come to have another go at improving my sight.

Quite simply, I am traumatised and terrified. Evidently the trauma of the surgery is lurking inside me, waiting for anything to awaken it. The mere thought of needles and knives being used on my eyes, even if I am anaesthetised, makes me cry. People - doctors, nurses, and those who have had the surgery assure me that it is not too bad. It makes no difference to me. I remain terrified.

I talked to my GP about it, and have been to see the specialist. During the tests, the measurements and the consultation, I wept and wept. I wept all the way home and all throughout the night. The GP prescribed some tranquillisers, which I am using, and they do help. But I weep in the twinkling of an eye and the tears are lurking. I have had a lot of surgery in my life, mostly for very serious conditions, and none has given me this sort of trauma. This is different.

One of my sisters recommended counselling. She has not listened to me. Her 'solution' is not the one for me. I know what counselling can do to help, having had plenty during various crises of my life such as divorce, step-parenting and bereavement. This trauma is different. I resent her insensitivity and failure to listen to me. It made me very angry. That anger needs to be put aside.

Now that I have made the decision to have the surgery, I will do my best to be rational, to try to be calm, and to concentrate on the things and people who can truly help. After this ordeal, better sight should result. So it is worth doing, and I must bear it, and receive and appreciate the amazing technology and skills that will improve my sight. To those who will help me through this ordeal, that is, my children and friends, I give my grateful thanks and appreciation, and pots of quince jelly and cumquat marmalade.

There will be two separate operations, a week apart. Except from the cataracts, the eyes are healthy.

Warding off brain rot

Recently I re-read some of my old blog posts, going back quite a few years. There are accounts of my travels, and of my life with Dr P, his decline and his death, and all the things that had to be done and coped with in the aftermath. Life is simpler now, but lonelier. And in many ways it feels as though my life has contracted, and that I am becoming? have become? a less interesting person. Although, how does one judge how interesting you are?

This all made me think of that common remark sometimes appended to school reports. Must try harder, a useful catch-all summary.

OK, so I will try harder. And I do try.

There ar lots of things that I continue to do, and to enjoy. Singing, crocheting, music, reading and learning. And I make jam - too much jam, but it is a satisfying thing to do. the quince season has ended and there are many jars in the pantry. Last week I found some cumquats at the market, so I made cumquat marmalade. This is the best marmalade you could ever taste.  However, I suspect that I did not soak the fruit for long enough before cooking it, so perhaps I should not give jars away until I have either reassured myself - or what? It is probably edible.

There are papers to get in order, and bad habits of letting papers accumulate into a distressingly confused and confusing set of inchoate heaps. Yesterday I spent several hours sorting out all the material from the Italian classes. In one of the classes we students took it in turns to write an article. There they all were, higgledy-piggledy. They are now sorted, although what remains to be done, for my own essays, is to write in all the corrections, so that I have a perfect copy. (But I won't throw out the copies with all the mistakes.)

This particular set of tidying came about because the topic of the city of Matera came up, at my Italian class. Our teacher has returned from his Grand Tour, and he described his visit to Matera. And indeed, it is an unforgettable city, where the poor lived in caverns cut out of the rocks, and where they had to work for hours to get to their work in the fields, and had to leave their children alone all days. So they drugged them.

Now, if I were a novelist, I would have cunningly adopted a strategy of working backwards, but instead of such a meaningful and pre-decided strategy,my increasingly haphazard mind is doing quite a lot of butterfly-like flitting.

In a couple of months I am travelling to France and Spain, and I enrolled in an intensive French course. It is 50 years since I did any French, and, unsurprisingly, I was the worst in the class. There is, however, some French somewhere in my brain, and who knows what might pop out if put to the test.

I studied Spanish several years ago, and found it very interesting and appealing. As the knowledge is now well below the surface,  I enrolled in a Spanish class. This clashed with the Italian class I have been attending for many years. Never mind, I though, I will return to Italian next year.

When I arrived last Thursday, half an hour before the Spanish class was due to start, I tried to find its allocated room.  As I stood wondering whether anyone was going to turn up, the lift door opened, and out stepped my oldest stepdaughter. There has been absolutely no contact between the stepdaughters and me since the legal settlement was reached more than three years ago.

We said Hello, but nothing more. I felt very churned up. It makes you wonder about chance - how in such a large city we could encounter each other accidentally like this. I keep seeing her face. And I wonder how her sons are. I was fond of them, and of Dr P's other grandchildren. All the past history is running through my mind. I wish it would not.

I went downstairs to find out where the class was. Oh, the receptionist said, that class was cancelled.
Oh, I said, Nobody told me.

We enrolled you in another class, on Tuesdays. Oh, I said, nobody told me. So, of course, I had missed the first class.

The good thing is that I can continue in my Italian class. It is one of the joys in my life.

Perhaps Esperanto was devised to cope with this sort of concatenation of events?

A cooking spree

Since being widowed, my cooking standards have deteriorated significantly. Even that is not the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but, etc. I used to be a really good cook,  but after the end of my first marriage, the rot set in. Cooking for one person cramps the style.

And when I remarried, the standard and the achievement fell well below what it had been. My first husband was by no means love's young dream, but at least he appreciated the food. And in the years between divorce and remarriage, my standards declined. Cooking for oneself leads to decline of standards. It hardly seemed worthwhile to cook up a storm for oneself.

When Dr P appeared on the  scene, it quickly became apparent that he was no gourmet. Accustomed to fending for himself, he was a ham cheese and eggs man, interspersed by occasional Chinese meals - usually an omelette, or sometimes a curry. Not vegetables, though.  He was an extremely fussy eater, but was happy to fend for himself, and did not expect meals to be provided.
Once we moved in together, I had this wifely urge to do the cooking. It was neither expected or demanded, but eventually we worked out how to eat  together. But my cooking standard declined, and  now I am no longer the cook I was. Which is a pity.

Now, four years after Dr P's death, my standards have not risen very much. I have adopted easy solutions. Besides which, I worry about setting off the smoke alarms, which frighten me  fearfully. Yes, I am a real sook. And my social life is minimal.

A couple of days ago, friends came for lunch, and I cooked up a storm. And thoroughly enjoyed it. And managed it efficiently. Nor did I burn or ruin anything. Lunch was good. and there were leftovers. Very nice too.

Perhaps all is not lost. I may yet recover both my competence and enthusiasm.

Get fitter

My doctor recently advised me to get fitter. How much walking did I do, she asked. Well, I said, I walk to the bus, and here and there, and from the city to the art gallery. And sometimes I do go for a walk.

Do more, she advised. And so I did, the other day, and the result is not pretty. I tripped and fell, and grazed my face, hands and banged my knees, and my equilibrium and temper are also damaged. Bother, and words to that effect. Not a soul was around to help me to my feet, and so I staggered home to look at the damage.

The right lens on my spectacles was quite badly scratched, and so I betook myself to the optometrist to organise a new lens. While we were at it, he did another eye examination, and the left eye has deteriorated even more, and also has a cataract on it. So I should get it removed. And I will.

My eyes do not focus together, and as far as I know never did. As a child I had glasses, and when I was about 7 or 8 had surgery, to fix, or more probably, to straighten the wandering eye. As a child I never knew that the way I see differed from normal vision.

I think the surgery gave me a great horror and fear of having things done to my eyes, and the mere thought of having surgery while conscious fills me with dread. Not to mention having an anaesthetic injected into the eye. I think it will make me want to scream and faint. Fainting seems a very good idea, actually.

Recently while travelling on the bus I fell into conversation with a woman, through admiring her grandchild's lovely red hair. The woman had had a cataract operation, and she told me that you are doped with enormous quantities of painkillers and tranquillisers. I hope she is correct.

I have made an appointment with my doctor to check out the procedure.

There is always something to look forward to in life, and cataract surgery surely is one such something.
In the meantime I feel battered and bruised, and not just physically.

In the meantime, once my knees are less sore, I will try walking again. My daughter - always able to describe my defects and peculiarities (in a loving and caring way, of course)  says my upper body leans forward when I walk. I must straighten myself up. And out.

Oh well, nobody is perfect.

Winter, and the imminently oppressive need to get updated.

It is cold. Well, OK, Sydney is not really a cold place. The heat is more of a problem than the cold. However, I have acclimatised, and recently have needed hot water bottles. And it is the first day of winter. The night sky is cloudless and there is a gorgeous full moon. Periodically I go out onto the balcony and check its luminous progress across the sky. I do love the full moon. Ooorrrooohooo...

My computer has been misbehaving a bit, and I could not print out my gmail. However, having tried this and that, and downloaded something or other, suddenly what had not printed now has done so. I do not understand. Computers can be very aggravating. They tell you that this version of Safari is no longer supported, and suggest you try another one, without giving you the least idea of what might work for my increasingly out of date computer. Surely this need not mean I should buy a whole new computer? I have to confess to using the computer less and the iPad and iPhone more. Except that these devices have such tiny keyboards and thus far more needs to be corrected than is necessary with the computer.

I went off to Apple for a workshop which was recommended as a way of working out what the hell the problem was, and how to fix it. However, I was misdirected and when I joined the workshop it turned out to be all about the new you-beaut system, AKA operating system, which is many years more advanced than mine. Now I am booked into an appointment with the Genius Bar. They are the geniuses, certainly not me. I came away from all this in a rather grumpy and discombobulated temper. However I was cheered up by finally getting very good and kind service about camera battery chargers and their ilk. Naturally, somehow I have lost the original charger, and had to buy a generic one, the use of which was not blindingly obvious. Sigh. Note to self, label everything as soon as you get it. and try to be tidier and better organised.

Next I went to the wool shop which is having its latest mega-tempting sale. So far I have not succumbed, notwithstanding all my attempts to make myself succumb. If they had had two packets of the rather gorgeous 10 ply wool, instead of only one. I might have succumbed. Not that I have any patterns for 10 ply wool! As a penance for considering wilfully succumbing to temptation I had another look at my stash of yarns and came out of the room somewhat thoughtfully abashed and daunted. As I seem to have developed some tendonitis, from being too much in a hurry to finish a blanket, it is obviously an extremely stupid idea to think of tackling another pattern. Instead I am slowly and cautiously doing a scarf, from a couple of balls of yarn picked up for less than a song at our latest group get-together at the local Spotlight shop. I never use synthetic yarn, as it feels rather yukky, but this yarn though synthetic, is rather silky. However, it has changed its colour in the ball, despite being allegedly the same. Perhaps this was why it was reduced to $2 a ball. (They give us a discount on wool, knowing full well just how easily we all succumb to temptation.)

If I could remember how to load photos on to the blog, I would load photos of (some of) my wool-in-waiting. The good news is that finally, after a mere two years or so, they have again stocks of a light blue wool, which I need in order to complete the other half of a blanket. When my wrists are better, I shall tackle this (and a few other) works in progress/waiting.

Perusing the large collection of patterns acquired over many years, I have reluctantly come to the conclusion that years ago I was much better at making complicated things. All this making of blankets composed of granny squares has rotted my brain, it seems. Never mind. I still have some rather complicated shawls, and jackets. If I did it then, surely I can have another go!

Never mind. I am still better at reading nice big books than at understanding devices.

Too old and grumpy? Who, me? I am afraid so.

I am off to choir very shortly, as we are performing this afternoon, singing this and that, including Verdi's Quattro Pezzi Sacri, or, in English,  Four Sacred Pieces. I was tickled when the email arrived with the attachment, which had a typo, calling them the Quattro Pezzi Scari. That is how I shall forever remember them. They are very difficult.

I need some comfort and cheering up, after a telephone conversation with one of my sisters. Her elder daughter and her husband have recently moved to the city where my son works. I innocently suggested that they might like to contact my son, who is, after all, one of her very numerous first cousins. Apart from parents, aunts and uncles and siblings, first cousins are your nearest relations.

Oh boy, did I ever cop a lecture! Oh no, they were making a new life, branching out on their own, and this meant that making contact with a first cousin was not something worth doing. It is true that they do not know each other very well, but I meant it as a kindly suggestion, having more than once moved to a strange city and had to meet people, make friends and create a family life and our careers. And it is not as though they are newlyweds, as they were married in her husband's country several years ago.

Such reactions from my siblings really bug me. There is a very evident double standard, in which they evidently feel free to tell me what they think I should do, but if I suggest that it would be a loving action to visit me every few years, or that cousins might perhaps make contact with each other, it is Oh No, they are far too busy and have huge family commitments. Or the young ones are much too important to consider meeting another family member.

I could go on and on, but I won't. I have to think beautiful thoughts, in order to sing well thus afternoon.