The ailing seagull

19 Jan

The tropical cyclone that is also known as either The Seagull or Judy Garland is ill. Just a fever, runny nose and a cough that would sound more appropriate on a post-bender Shane MacGowan (they’re both as coherent each other though the ‘gull’s teeth are better).

So it was a half day of work yesterday and full day at home today. May I recommend to all the unbridled hilarity that ensues when conducting a conference call in a relatively small apartment with a 2.5 year old in the same apartment who would rather you light a candle for Lakshmi and chant rather than drone about wireframes and tv schedules. Work aside, we spent a great deal of time channelling our inner Sunny Von Bulows with children’s panadol, drawing on bills, swimming, answering the various entertaining deliveries that land on our doorstep and creating a snuff film with kiwi fruit as victim. Good times.

As I was popping her into bed, I noticed it: small red fields peppering her torso, plus a blister under her nose that was simply uber-cute.

Within 58 seconds it all hit me: a cancelled weekend, a week away from work and thus removed from projects, frazzling frustration and a sick, scared and undoubtedly annoyed Judy Garland. It only took 58 seconds because the first two were resounding: Chicken Pox.

As most reactionary people with gratification issues are wont to do, I hit Google. Then Wikipedia. Then Google Images. Then government-run health web sites. Then Flickr with “chickenpox” as the tag. When all those diversions were depleted, I decided to put on my “nice voice” (a. I have one and b. stop snickering) and call the Nurse on Call phone service to discuss it with someone less OCD than myself (though can I just put out the idea that the Howard Hughes on Call phone service is a niche just waiting to be filled).

When you call a nurse phone service, you have some expectations in mind. You imagine a room filled with wonderfully plump ladies all with greying bobs and nice white shoes. They all answer to the name of Pam, or Di or Jan and there’s a laconic throaty timbre to their voice like they’ve just had a delightfully spiked cup of Earl Grey tea. Perhaps there’s a shawl involved. Definitely glasses on a chain. These are ladies who eschew handbags (though they’ve a lovely tan number that’s Volvo-esque in its proportions) for a nice basket. These women just rock my world.

Instead, I spoke with Scott who sounded like a devotee of chambray and commodores. I must confess to feeling cheated and surprised at my sexism. And holding the distinct impression I had interrupted a night of him sharing LOLZ via messenger or playing WarCraft. Somewhere along the line in his dating life, he would have bought his special lady a unicorn figurine.

Urge to gratify information need: meh…left wanting.
Urge to stereotype people based on a 10 minute conversation: completely and utterly sated.

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