Get Well Cards
16 June 2006
Stop already! The get well cards you are all sending me are starting to take over our urban cave (Jane, read with big dash of sarcasm). I’ve lost Gi amongst the Hallmarks.
You guessed it; I’m going to tell you about my hand. My right hand, the damaged one. Remember? What do you mean you didn’t know I’d hurt my right hand? Where have you been, under a rock? Didn’t Gigi call and tell you? God, do I have to do everything myself!
It all started years ago, when Gi became friends with this fellow called Fulvio. Now, Fulvio was the first of the Neapolitan network that I met some twelve years ago, and I always thought he was a lovely, funny, intelligent guy with the most intriguing dark, wavy hair. Skip the intervening twelve years, to last month in England. I’ve changed my opinion of Fulvio, not because of anything he did personally…oh no, if anything his time in England has made him even more courteous, funny and relaxed in a thirty-something-kind-of-way…no, it’s more about what happened as a result of our friendship with Fulvio. So, by extension he must carry some of the blame. This is, after all, the private world of Jenny we are living in.
So, Fulvio moves from his homeland, goes and gets himself educated and then finds a job in the university city of Oxford. He also hooked up with a delightful English flower called Sophie who just happens to be born and bred not too far from Oxford (please, don’t ask me the name of the place, I think it had E and N in it but I’d be guessing if I said it was something like Newbury). Fulvio’s work in Oxford is going well, Sophie has moved away from her acting aspirations and completed her studies in education, starting work as a primary school teacher. They have also outgrown their flat in Oxford and bought a semi detached house in a nearby market village called Wantage. For those of you that don’t know, a market village is a town that combines the charms and lifestyle of rural living with the proximity and access to a major urban centre. Wantage does just that with Oxford just 20 minutes away, London a bit over an hour by car if the traffic is reasonable.
We just happen to book our flights to London to coincide with the weekend when they move house. Gi, gallant and muscular, goes up to Oxford to help Fulvio move furniture, boxes and a piano. I go up later the same day, having decided that I’ll be more of a hindrance than a help (being pretty much over moving after packing up our whole lives just recently in Brisbane).
We spent a lovely couple of days with them, getting to know Sophie, warming the friendship fire with Fulvio and enjoying the comfort of their lovely new home, English garden and the supermarket literally over their back fence.
Here’s an extract of some of the thoughts I captured that weekend:
Gi and I wandered into the heart of the village today to the farmers markets, which consisted of about twelve stalls. I can only imagine what they’d think of the Farmers Market at New Farm. We discovered the local church and old cemetery with its fallen headstones romantically leaning askew in the vivid grass. A hidden alley arcade revealed a crystal shop, traditional tearoom bursting with families enjoying scones, jam and cream, a jewellers and a shop crammed with local handicrafts. Further meandering led us to stumble across more charity shops in a three-block radius than any community could possibly support. The pubs are adorned with traditional black and white roof trim and names like ‘Shoulder of Mutton’ and ‘The Kings Arms’. The historical red brick terraces always draw the eye and were a particularly striking backdrop to the striking pale statue of a local hero branding a sword in the town square. A blue sky would have made it picture perfect but unfortunately the pale gray sky continued to deliver a gentle rainy mist.
And then that evening
It’s almost perfect. I’m sitting in a living room in a market village in England. A celebrity charity soccer match (football as it’s known outside of Australia) is on the ‘tele’ and my favourite celebrity is on the field. Robbie is wearing the No 3 shirt for England, playing against ‘The Rest of the World’ team. I’m happy to report that he looks good in his soccer (football) kit and every time the camera focuses on him he’s madly running, crisscrossing or sliding along the grass to block the ball, a very serious, determined look on his gorgeous, talented face.
The only other names that I recognise from the celebrities on field are Jonathon Wilkes, Robbie’s best mate, and Maradona, the famous Argentinean who played for Naples. Now there’s a man who’s turned his life around through the wonders of stomach stapling and overcoming a cocaine addiction. Ewan McGregor, the actor (you know: Star Wars, Moulin Rouge and Trainspotting), is part of the commentary team, so his lovely Scottish accent and face are another treat.
The charity, Soccer Aid is supporting UNICEF, in particular children in Africa. The British media of course has reacted to it in a variety of ways; supportive and congratulatory to patronising and dismissive. A journalist commentator from ‘The Guardian’ believes the celebrities should stick to doing what it is that they do best, singing, acting, having large exaggerated breasts, and instead of increasing their celebrity and asking the general public who don’t have any money to donate, that they should just make large, impressive donations themselves. Frankly, I don’t mind watching Robbie run around a green soccer (football) pitch (or is it a field?) (Old Trafford for those playing at home) for a couple of hours. There are worse ways to spend a Saturday afternoon (actually it’s 8.3pm but the sun is only just now thinking about setting).
I just hope that they have a naughty insider look at the locker room at the end of the match when they all jump in the showers….Robbie looks his best when he’s out of uniform! Not sure that I think the same about Maradona though.
After our second night, and one fall down the narrow, steep carpeted stairs common in this part of the world (yeah, that’s me sustaining the carpet burns without having the sex) we look around and realise that unless we leave them to it they are still going to be unpacking at Christmas time.
Fulvio drops us off at the bus stop where we jump on the ‘Oxford Tube’ coach back to jolly ‘ole London. It’s a reasonably quick journey back despite some major roundabout road works and the public holiday long weekend traffic. At Victoria Station, Gi jumps out leaving the arm rest down. He’d been leaning on it during the trip. With a queue of people behind me, I go to grab my bag only to realise Gi has taken it with him. Turning I slide sideways to get out into the aisle, but get stuck, not realising that the arm rest is down (instead of being fluorescent orange it’s the same colour as the floor and the seat). This damn arm rest has effectively halved the space I have to get out, but not wanting to hold everyone up I just push through, still uncertain why I’m stuck. I manage to get my right hand caught between the rest of me and the arm rest, crushing it, twisting the fingers around, bending it all backwards awkwardly. But still I push, now embarrassed in accordance with local custom that all these people are waiting for me. I finally push my way through, limp off the bus and double over in pain, my right hand thrust between my thighs, which always seems like the safest place to put something that needs mending or hiding. The tears start. Initially I think it’s a bit like when you bang your knee on some furniture, there’s no real harm done but the sudden sharp pain comes as a shock.
I’m in denial for the next few days about how badly it’s hurt. Gi manages to carry my bag and sundry other items around London without complaining, but he makes it clear that I have to stop hurting myself. In his mind I’m just like a blind rhinoceros, thrashing my way through the jungle until I hit a boulder or a tree. I try to ignore the fact that my hand is badly swollen and I’m generally unable to do anything with it. The problem is that we live in a right handed world, and while I’m left handed, like most lefties I’ve adjusted and do more with my right hand than I ever realised. The second problem is that we are staying with friends, and every new person I meet I find my right hand caught up in a bone crushing British handshake before I can squeak ‘I’ve hurt my hand’. I can’t work out how to stop them in time, politely, so I endure the handshakes but try to avoid using it.
Everything hurts. It hurts me to wash my hair, towel off, tie my shoelaces, lie in bed, read a book or hold a cup of coffee. My palm starts to show a tell tale black mark, a bruise, which slowly spreads to the base of three fingers. The swelling doesn’t seem to recede, but instead the top of my hand starts to go an attractive yellow, like I’m a newborn with jaundice. I walk around London with my right arm across my chest, my right hand resting on my left bosom like I’m in an advertisement for nail polish, in an attempt to keep it out of harm’s way. I try cream for the swelling and pain killers but nothing seems to help. I can’t close my hand into a fist, and whenever Gi tries to touch it to assess the bones I yelp and slap him away. Even putting my hand in my pocket makes me cry.
Stubbornly I keep using it, not knowing what other choice I have. Gi helps but I’m trying to hide from him how bad it is, having an innate distrust of foreign (read: non-Australian) medical systems, doctors and X-ray machines. Every time someone asks if I’ve had it looked at I visualise my right arm encased in plaster. My two sisters and I have never broken anything except the odd toe or finger during a netball match. Our family are therefore not experts at living with an appendage in chalky, itch inducing, plaster for six weeks or so. And at the age of thirty-six (did I say that out loud?) I don’t have any desire to experience it. Besides, how am I supposed to use my laptop with one hand? I’d have to go back to hand writing my stories and in 2006 I’m just not interested…besides I can’t read my hand writing anymore.
We get home to Naples. I bandage it up, and while it helps keep it still, I feel more incapacitated. The bandaged hand also draws more attention and my inherent shyness makes me want to avoid that at all cost. At Gi’s insistence I bought some Arnica in London, a homeopathic remedy for bruising, and it seems to help.
It’s been almost three weeks now. I can finally make a fist again, but I wouldn’t dare use that fist against anything other than a bowl of jelly. I have almost full movement back, but I don’t have any strength. I’m still washing my hair, it’s uncomfortable but the sharp stabbing pain has waned. I’ve taken to asking Gi to do the hard stuff like open a new bottle of mineral water and use the tin opener. Every day I accidentally over extend it somehow, making the bed, squeezing out the mop, lifting a heavy saucepan, but it’s better than it was. I know that it’s still mending inside, in fact I wouldn’t be surprised if I’ve fractured it, but I’ll wait until I get home to have that X-ray thanks very much.
Getting back to Fulvio, why am I blaming him? Well, he decided to move to Oxford. And if we hadn’t caught the ‘Oxford Tube’ at his recommendation with its convenient power points for laptops, comfortable seats, regular departure times and fold down arm rests to visit him and the delicious Sophie I wouldn’t be in this mess, on the bench, injured. I know, you’re thinking I should blame Gi for leaving the rotten arm rest down when it clearly should have been returned to the ‘upright position’ like they tell you on the plane, but I need Gi to open bottles, carry the shopping and scratch my back, so the blame is better placed elsewhere…like Fulvio.
What do you mean, ‘don’t you think it’s your own stupid fault?’ Whose side are you on anyway? And no, the rhinoceros theory carries no weight at all.
Oh, and stop sending me those damn get well cards, thanks very much.
16 June 2006
Stop already! The get well cards you are all sending me are starting to take over our urban cave (Jane, read with big dash of sarcasm). I’ve lost Gi amongst the Hallmarks.
You guessed it; I’m going to tell you about my hand. My right hand, the damaged one. Remember? What do you mean you didn’t know I’d hurt my right hand? Where have you been, under a rock? Didn’t Gigi call and tell you? God, do I have to do everything myself!
It all started years ago, when Gi became friends with this fellow called Fulvio. Now, Fulvio was the first of the Neapolitan network that I met some twelve years ago, and I always thought he was a lovely, funny, intelligent guy with the most intriguing dark, wavy hair. Skip the intervening twelve years, to last month in England. I’ve changed my opinion of Fulvio, not because of anything he did personally…oh no, if anything his time in England has made him even more courteous, funny and relaxed in a thirty-something-kind-of-way…no, it’s more about what happened as a result of our friendship with Fulvio. So, by extension he must carry some of the blame. This is, after all, the private world of Jenny we are living in.
So, Fulvio moves from his homeland, goes and gets himself educated and then finds a job in the university city of Oxford. He also hooked up with a delightful English flower called Sophie who just happens to be born and bred not too far from Oxford (please, don’t ask me the name of the place, I think it had E and N in it but I’d be guessing if I said it was something like Newbury). Fulvio’s work in Oxford is going well, Sophie has moved away from her acting aspirations and completed her studies in education, starting work as a primary school teacher. They have also outgrown their flat in Oxford and bought a semi detached house in a nearby market village called Wantage. For those of you that don’t know, a market village is a town that combines the charms and lifestyle of rural living with the proximity and access to a major urban centre. Wantage does just that with Oxford just 20 minutes away, London a bit over an hour by car if the traffic is reasonable.
We just happen to book our flights to London to coincide with the weekend when they move house. Gi, gallant and muscular, goes up to Oxford to help Fulvio move furniture, boxes and a piano. I go up later the same day, having decided that I’ll be more of a hindrance than a help (being pretty much over moving after packing up our whole lives just recently in Brisbane).
We spent a lovely couple of days with them, getting to know Sophie, warming the friendship fire with Fulvio and enjoying the comfort of their lovely new home, English garden and the supermarket literally over their back fence.
Here’s an extract of some of the thoughts I captured that weekend:
Gi and I wandered into the heart of the village today to the farmers markets, which consisted of about twelve stalls. I can only imagine what they’d think of the Farmers Market at New Farm. We discovered the local church and old cemetery with its fallen headstones romantically leaning askew in the vivid grass. A hidden alley arcade revealed a crystal shop, traditional tearoom bursting with families enjoying scones, jam and cream, a jewellers and a shop crammed with local handicrafts. Further meandering led us to stumble across more charity shops in a three-block radius than any community could possibly support. The pubs are adorned with traditional black and white roof trim and names like ‘Shoulder of Mutton’ and ‘The Kings Arms’. The historical red brick terraces always draw the eye and were a particularly striking backdrop to the striking pale statue of a local hero branding a sword in the town square. A blue sky would have made it picture perfect but unfortunately the pale gray sky continued to deliver a gentle rainy mist.
And then that evening
It’s almost perfect. I’m sitting in a living room in a market village in England. A celebrity charity soccer match (football as it’s known outside of Australia) is on the ‘tele’ and my favourite celebrity is on the field. Robbie is wearing the No 3 shirt for England, playing against ‘The Rest of the World’ team. I’m happy to report that he looks good in his soccer (football) kit and every time the camera focuses on him he’s madly running, crisscrossing or sliding along the grass to block the ball, a very serious, determined look on his gorgeous, talented face.
The only other names that I recognise from the celebrities on field are Jonathon Wilkes, Robbie’s best mate, and Maradona, the famous Argentinean who played for Naples. Now there’s a man who’s turned his life around through the wonders of stomach stapling and overcoming a cocaine addiction. Ewan McGregor, the actor (you know: Star Wars, Moulin Rouge and Trainspotting), is part of the commentary team, so his lovely Scottish accent and face are another treat.
The charity, Soccer Aid is supporting UNICEF, in particular children in Africa. The British media of course has reacted to it in a variety of ways; supportive and congratulatory to patronising and dismissive. A journalist commentator from ‘The Guardian’ believes the celebrities should stick to doing what it is that they do best, singing, acting, having large exaggerated breasts, and instead of increasing their celebrity and asking the general public who don’t have any money to donate, that they should just make large, impressive donations themselves. Frankly, I don’t mind watching Robbie run around a green soccer (football) pitch (or is it a field?) (Old Trafford for those playing at home) for a couple of hours. There are worse ways to spend a Saturday afternoon (actually it’s 8.3pm but the sun is only just now thinking about setting).
I just hope that they have a naughty insider look at the locker room at the end of the match when they all jump in the showers….Robbie looks his best when he’s out of uniform! Not sure that I think the same about Maradona though.
After our second night, and one fall down the narrow, steep carpeted stairs common in this part of the world (yeah, that’s me sustaining the carpet burns without having the sex) we look around and realise that unless we leave them to it they are still going to be unpacking at Christmas time.
Fulvio drops us off at the bus stop where we jump on the ‘Oxford Tube’ coach back to jolly ‘ole London. It’s a reasonably quick journey back despite some major roundabout road works and the public holiday long weekend traffic. At Victoria Station, Gi jumps out leaving the arm rest down. He’d been leaning on it during the trip. With a queue of people behind me, I go to grab my bag only to realise Gi has taken it with him. Turning I slide sideways to get out into the aisle, but get stuck, not realising that the arm rest is down (instead of being fluorescent orange it’s the same colour as the floor and the seat). This damn arm rest has effectively halved the space I have to get out, but not wanting to hold everyone up I just push through, still uncertain why I’m stuck. I manage to get my right hand caught between the rest of me and the arm rest, crushing it, twisting the fingers around, bending it all backwards awkwardly. But still I push, now embarrassed in accordance with local custom that all these people are waiting for me. I finally push my way through, limp off the bus and double over in pain, my right hand thrust between my thighs, which always seems like the safest place to put something that needs mending or hiding. The tears start. Initially I think it’s a bit like when you bang your knee on some furniture, there’s no real harm done but the sudden sharp pain comes as a shock.
I’m in denial for the next few days about how badly it’s hurt. Gi manages to carry my bag and sundry other items around London without complaining, but he makes it clear that I have to stop hurting myself. In his mind I’m just like a blind rhinoceros, thrashing my way through the jungle until I hit a boulder or a tree. I try to ignore the fact that my hand is badly swollen and I’m generally unable to do anything with it. The problem is that we live in a right handed world, and while I’m left handed, like most lefties I’ve adjusted and do more with my right hand than I ever realised. The second problem is that we are staying with friends, and every new person I meet I find my right hand caught up in a bone crushing British handshake before I can squeak ‘I’ve hurt my hand’. I can’t work out how to stop them in time, politely, so I endure the handshakes but try to avoid using it.
Everything hurts. It hurts me to wash my hair, towel off, tie my shoelaces, lie in bed, read a book or hold a cup of coffee. My palm starts to show a tell tale black mark, a bruise, which slowly spreads to the base of three fingers. The swelling doesn’t seem to recede, but instead the top of my hand starts to go an attractive yellow, like I’m a newborn with jaundice. I walk around London with my right arm across my chest, my right hand resting on my left bosom like I’m in an advertisement for nail polish, in an attempt to keep it out of harm’s way. I try cream for the swelling and pain killers but nothing seems to help. I can’t close my hand into a fist, and whenever Gi tries to touch it to assess the bones I yelp and slap him away. Even putting my hand in my pocket makes me cry.
Stubbornly I keep using it, not knowing what other choice I have. Gi helps but I’m trying to hide from him how bad it is, having an innate distrust of foreign (read: non-Australian) medical systems, doctors and X-ray machines. Every time someone asks if I’ve had it looked at I visualise my right arm encased in plaster. My two sisters and I have never broken anything except the odd toe or finger during a netball match. Our family are therefore not experts at living with an appendage in chalky, itch inducing, plaster for six weeks or so. And at the age of thirty-six (did I say that out loud?) I don’t have any desire to experience it. Besides, how am I supposed to use my laptop with one hand? I’d have to go back to hand writing my stories and in 2006 I’m just not interested…besides I can’t read my hand writing anymore.
We get home to Naples. I bandage it up, and while it helps keep it still, I feel more incapacitated. The bandaged hand also draws more attention and my inherent shyness makes me want to avoid that at all cost. At Gi’s insistence I bought some Arnica in London, a homeopathic remedy for bruising, and it seems to help.
It’s been almost three weeks now. I can finally make a fist again, but I wouldn’t dare use that fist against anything other than a bowl of jelly. I have almost full movement back, but I don’t have any strength. I’m still washing my hair, it’s uncomfortable but the sharp stabbing pain has waned. I’ve taken to asking Gi to do the hard stuff like open a new bottle of mineral water and use the tin opener. Every day I accidentally over extend it somehow, making the bed, squeezing out the mop, lifting a heavy saucepan, but it’s better than it was. I know that it’s still mending inside, in fact I wouldn’t be surprised if I’ve fractured it, but I’ll wait until I get home to have that X-ray thanks very much.
Getting back to Fulvio, why am I blaming him? Well, he decided to move to Oxford. And if we hadn’t caught the ‘Oxford Tube’ at his recommendation with its convenient power points for laptops, comfortable seats, regular departure times and fold down arm rests to visit him and the delicious Sophie I wouldn’t be in this mess, on the bench, injured. I know, you’re thinking I should blame Gi for leaving the rotten arm rest down when it clearly should have been returned to the ‘upright position’ like they tell you on the plane, but I need Gi to open bottles, carry the shopping and scratch my back, so the blame is better placed elsewhere…like Fulvio.
What do you mean, ‘don’t you think it’s your own stupid fault?’ Whose side are you on anyway? And no, the rhinoceros theory carries no weight at all.
Oh, and stop sending me those damn get well cards, thanks very much.
1 comment:
Jen,
Just read of your misfortunes in London. Anyone would think you had never left Ipswich before in your life! What is it with not seeing doctor.
We loved that part of the world as well, the whole pretty little englishness of it all had us entranced. We had some of our best moments riding bikes through the Cotswolds (near Oxford). You have to get out to watch the Australia - Italy game next week. Gonna be HUGE.
Say hello to Gi for me. Sound like he is becoming very patient in his old age.
luv
Bill
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