Well, I suppose you are are all suitably stuffed and puffed, ready for the treasures and triumphs that will come to define this New Year called 2016. And I suppose you’re owed a bit of an update.
I must disappoint those who’ve been imagining some sort of swanky situation here at the edge of the earth. Quite the contrary I’m afraid. Rehab from surgery, ongoing health issues, perpetual life goal obstruction, blah, blah, blah. I haven’t been writing much, mostly because I have many other matters that require my full attention. Plus, these days I’m about as exciting as a parliamentary debate on constitutional legislation.
Although, here in Canada, anything to do with parliament is worth mentioning, isn’t it? Unless you have the pleasure of radical radio silence, you will know that our new government is giving those Scandiavians a break from being the most progressive, gender equitable, slick, smartypants rulers on the planet. But I digress.
I am indeed quite busy adjusting to this business of winter. How spoiled I have become. My European winters were always cushioned by the proximity of Europe, like literally, as the young ones say (may 2016 please, please be the year that sees the death of the misuse/overuse of the word literally). Then there was the eternal spring of Victoria. Here winter is just a season of icy, windy, repeated power outage discontent.
Nevermind, at least my newfound girth will now serve a purpose: warmth. Yes, my friends, it’s true. After 40 odd years of constant comments like, “You’re too skinny,” or “Sure you’re nothing but a bag of bones,” or one of my favourites, “You look like a piece of string with eyes.” I am now proud to say that the most fitting comment is, “Jaysus, she’s a big woman.” Hurrah! Who knew laying about for a year in a peri-menopausal state with a broken back could lead to pudginess. Alert the media.
Anyway, most of you will be pleased to know that my good fortune continues no matter where I roam. The other day I was at a small local hospital, the one where I plan to be working soon, having a procedure—the less said the better, except for the wardrobe description: johnny coat, polka dot knee socks, and black, thick-soled, old lady, slip-proof, sneakery like shoes with neon yellow laces (well, you smash up your spine and see what’s out there waiting for you at the Oh My Sole Safety Shoe Emporium).
So, I was sitting in the waiting area desperately trying to maintain a shred of dignity. I was summoned and as I stood to make my way into the chamber of medical torture I spied a young man I worked with many years ago. Now, perhaps it was due to the many months of illness and isolation or maybe it was some sort of east coast reintegration shock, but whatever the reason, I decided it was the perfect time to reconnect with histrionic waving followed by, “Hellooooo, it’s me, Bobbi, remember me?”
Oh yes, indeed he did. And he couldn’t wait to tell his friend, apparently a dedicated blog reader, that he’d seen me. “Oh she’s always saying did you read what that Bobbi French had to say today?” He looked me up and down and said, “Yup, she’ll be over the moon to hear about this!!” If I’d just kept walking he never would’ve seen me and everyone could’ve been spared. But that’s not how I roll. Maximum humiliation via minimum effort is my new motto. Words to live by.
Speaking of words, what shall I call this blog now? Haggard in Halifax? Long, Slow Spiral Toward Death? Any ideas?
Plus, for anyone who want to hang out with the likes of me, I’m always up late over at Twitter: @Bobbi_French