Thought I'd add my two bobs worth just to correct any misunderstandings the reader may have. Remember, I am a sane and concerned participant, a pragmatist and a male. I would not lie.
If you haven't read about Leslie's antics I suggest you follow this link first.
So, off we go!
Day 1 (Thursday)
Yes, we certainly did leave Ulladulla at sparrow fart. True to form we didn't eat anything at that hour, just drove straight through to Canberra, parked the car and caught a taxi out to the airport. By this time our tape-worms were squabbling so we had to grab something to eat. I mean, how long does it take to eat a toasted ham & cheese sanga and knock back a cup of airport coffee?
Obviously too long because I heard our flight being called when we were only half way through. I checked my watch, there was plenty of time still. Maybe I had misheard? We casually finished and headed toward the Virgin terminal. Getting a bit closer I heard us being mentioned in despatches. This is the second time we've suffered this particular humiliation. Both times Leslie had a hand in it. The outcome is always the same ... arrive at the aircraft door looking and feeling flustered and 25 rows of people glare at you as you make your untimely entrance. So we dumped our stuff in the overhead locker and buckled up, take-off, all the usual crap.
Arrival in Brisvegas was a refreshing change, the aircraft parked at one of the aero-bridges close to the terminal exit. Yay! Normally Canberra flights, both to and from Brisbane arrive and leave from Gate 48, 500 miles away at the terminal extremity. Not believing our good luck we grab two tickets for the airtrain. No matter what anyone says I reckon $15 each is a lot for a bloody surburban train ride for less that 30 mins. As we approach the platform the train pulls in. It's a very long one, everyone gets off, Leslie decides we will sit in a carriage close to where we stand. Everyone else decides the same. So there we sit, us and a big crowd of Indian students, silly old folk, the insane and a group of young women wearing incredibly tiny and tight shorts. Meanwhile the rest of the train is empty.
Detrained at Brisbane's Central Station. By this time we have the exit route figured out for getting to Wickham Terrace. In our early days we used to get lost and end up in bizzare places. So we get to the lift that smells like cigarette butts and urine, this takes us up a cliff face and out to the foot of the mountain which Wickham Terrace neatly traverses via the summit. It's the usual slog, dragging our little wheelie carry-on bags behind us. Up and up we go. Past the Astor, past the compound pharmacy, past the United Service Club where a group of retired generals in smart suits and regimental ties nearly collided with us. Finally the hideous form of the Tower Mill Hotel comes into view. This joint is a salute to the Tastless Sixties. It is cylindrical and 9 stories high, painted a horrible green and right on top of Spring Hill. The views from the rooms on the eastern quadrant (there are no sides on a circle!) are very good! The reason for staying in this monstrosity is because it's right next door to the IVF specialist's consulting rooms. Awesome!
Being a bit early we check our bags in and head out to grab something to eat before going to see the Golden God of IVF, Wazza. Whilst we'd been dumping our bags it had started to rain. As we walked down the footpath Leslie suddenly threw herself down to check out a large steel manhole cover. I couldn't work out what was so interesting until I noticed her leg was at an odd angle and she didn't look very happy. I gave a reassuring chuckle, tried to convince her that no one had seen (hundreds had) and helped pick her up. I did feel sorry for her, you know that knot you get in your stomach when you see someone get hurt. She fell hard and the cover had sharp pyramid things on it so you wouldn't slip in wet weather. These had dug into poor Leslie's knee. I don't blame her for starting to cry. I would have too. I'm sorry that I likened your fall to that of a sack of spuds going down babe! It was cruel!
We hobble into a little eatery and calm ourselves with a nice breakfast then scoot up to Wazza's joint on the fourth floor. The Man God is holding court, we can hear his booming voice coming from his office as he deals with another couple. Later I notice that women simper and swoon in his magnificent presence. "Yes Warren", "Thank you Warren" "HeHe giggle giggle Warren".
He's not much to look at really, just another fat-bellied bloke, going grey, wearing jeans that fall down because he doesn't have an arse, you wouldn't pick him for the brilliant doctor that he is. People like and respect him for his manner and approach. If it's an act it is a very good one, I seriously don't think you could bung it on. With Wazza what you see is pretty well what you get. I don't impress easily and I was impressed.
Anyway, cheerfully referring to me as "hairy legs" he has a chat and invites Leslie to go around to his examination room. He says to me "I'm not a gynocologist, I just like to look!" which I thought quite amusing. Warren encourages me to come in and watch as he does his thing with the dildo-cam and we admire Leslie's uterus from several different directions. Yes, a lovely looking uterus indeed. Warren doesn't seem overly impressed though, he's a bit concerned about the lining. I nod wisely, yes the picture tells all, even if it looks like a very crappy black and white TV picture that's not tuned in.
"How long since your last pap smear?" Wazza booms in his cheerful foghorn way. Leslie tries to lie by saying something ridiculous but he will have none of it. I start to leave when he tells me to stay. I watch as he gets this weird stainless steel thing and twiddles with a screw type jobbie on it and bends over Leslie and does something in the region of her vajinggy. Next thing he's wiping stuff on a microscope slide, seemingly satisfied with it all. Phew, that's that then! Leslie dresses, we retire to Wazza's office while he goes through what we're going to do and how we'll do it.
Trying to remember all this we bow and tug our forelocks as we exit the palace, Leslie promising to have his baby. Wazza accepts our praise and shrill salutations with good grace, like he's heard it all before.
Next stop was the anaesthatist. He's located a couple of miles away. We find his office in a strange sort of basement. As we walk in we can see the staff having some kind of afternoon tea in a staff room. We cheerfully call out to them that it was nice they put on a spread in our honour. They just stare rudely at us as if we had farted in church. I tell Leslie loudly that I think that we may be just a touch too familiar and we shall resume our places. We're directed to some crappy chairs and wait.
A well dressed, elderly jockey appears. Lo and behold, it is Dr Needtoloseweight, Brisbane's cheapest anaesthatist. How do we know this? Because (1) he hectored Leslie to lose weight, and (2) he told us he was cheapest. With that in the bag, and with some withering sarcasm from Leslie which went unnoticed by the good doctor, we take our leave.
We go back to the sordid elegance of the Tower Mill, check in and have a little lay down. By 7pm we're feeling a bit hungry so Leslie asks me what I would like for dinner. Taking her at her word I have a think. I suggest we walk down into the city and have a look around. We lope down Spring Hill (it's always easy going down) and head into Queen Street Mall. We've eaten at every outdoor eatery in that street. I know Leslie loves the Pancake Manor so I suggest we head there. She agrees. Once we get there I check the menu, don't really feel like pancakes but they do other stuff. I know Leslie likes the savoury pancakes so I feel pleased that we are here. I order an open chicken burger. Sounds lovely. Leslie expresses amazement that we come to a Pancake Parlour and I don't order pancakes. Isn't it hard to please some people? I am shocked to find my chicken burger comes with egg as well. Isn't that sick! Egg and chicken on the one plate. It makes me feel a little ill to be honest. I eat it anyway.
I know that Leslie loves movies, I am always in trouble for not taking her to them often enough. I suggest we go to the cinema complex on the corner of Albert and Elizabeth Streets, the big 8 cinema place. Off we go. There's a choice of around 6 movies at this silly time of night, 9:20pm to be exact. I don't feel like the sad ones, the romantic ones and that kind of caper. I want something light hearted. I notice Green Hornet 3D. "That sounds okay!" I cry. I'm a sucker for 3D. We purchase tickets and sit down in those big deep lounges that cinemas have in their foyers these days. Right next to me is this big old bloke, he's as bald as a badger's arse, covered in tatts that seem to indicate an interest in mind bending substances that people often grow under hydroponic conditions and he is talking to people whether they are listening or not. It was a mistake, I admit that. We sat next to him. He's rambling on, asks what we are going to see. I tell him. He advises that Green Hornet 3D is the only movie he has walked out of. Ever. Leslie checks it on rottentomato.com via her iPhone and it gets two tomatos out of a possible ten. That's not good either. Our nutty mate tries to take his leave. Because he uses a walking stick he can't get out of the lounge. "Do you want a hand mate?" I ask. "No!" he says. After a lot of rocking, grunting and straining he gets to a semi crouch and starts to hobble off. He was exerting so much I feared he was going to either fart or shit himself. This would have been very bad for me.
To be continued .....
