"...that certain texture, that certain smell..."

The weather yesterday was lovely. We sat on the ED balcony basking in the sunlight, getting red forearms and boosting the vitamin D stores. Today was miserable. Yes, the sky was a lovely shade of blue grey, with a surreal quality, but the roads were wet and the traffic was slow. The patients were even more miserable than usual and I began to wonder if I had just imagined the smell of Spring yesterday.

Last night I dined with Team Shamrock and some more Irish doctors. I am the token Australian. The stalk of the Shamrock. (Apparently, I hold them all together.) The restaurant was noisy and they spoke in rapid Irish tongues. I understood most of the flow of conversation, until it was time to order dessert, and Michelle asked me if I'd like a turd. We decided against the chocolate mud cake and instead shared thirds of a towering tiramisu. Another leaf of Team Shamrock, Ana Louise, is trying to nail the Australian way to say "Perth". I haven't broken it to her that she sounds like someone with a swollen tongue saying "pus". Or a New Zealander saying "pith".

I got this link off Dea's blog:

create your own visited country map

I think it's cheating a bit, to say that I've visited China when I've only been to Hong Kong. Or to half the North American continent when I've only visited Manhattan.

Anyway, this trip I'm going to visit friends, not places.

I thought that I would save this blog from its fate as virtual space-junk by renewing my offence towards the world of blog. I haven't written for months; although I am always thinking things to write, they never find a more permanent home than my ever-diminishing memory. My writing reserve is spent on the endless paperwork of my job as a glorified medical secretary; six years of medical school and my finest achievement is my "excellent documentation" (as noted on an end-of-term assessment form by one of my Consultant Surgeon bosses).

I also must defend my breasts from a simile that compares them to self-saucing puddings. Although this was meant in "an excellent way" (I have written proof from the author), I find that my breasts have little in common with this sweet dessert. Firstly, there is no brown, sticky discharge from my breasts. Secondly, although warm, my breasts do not burn the tongue. Thirdly, although delicious, my breasts are not to be eaten. Alas, I am now unable to prove that my breasts are not pudding for the proof of the pudding is, of course, in the eating.