THE INTERRUPTED TONGUE
by Ross Sharp
Three weeks ago, my 87 year-old emphysemic father did topple, in a most unseemly and indelicate fashion, face-first onto a heavy wooden dining table, and then did flip backward onto the kitchen floor, causing two bones in his neck to fracture, necessitating a quick visit to the hospital via ambulance where stitches were sewn across the bridge of his nose, and a neck brace fitted to him which looks like something from a science-fiction film – “Alien” came to mind first time I laid eyes on it.
He did lay there for two weeks, looking like one big, bruised, broken vegetable until, early last week, he was transferred to an aged care transitional facility where he is to be slowly re-introduced to the novel concept of walking without falling over (firstly, stand up while hanging onto something), and moving his head about.
This little episode did require my presence in Sydney for an extended period to deal with all manner of things (not least, a 77 year-old mother who is deaf, and cannot hear anything across a phone line), and during which time I had no computer or internet access (because I do not own a computer and my phone is not smart, not so much the affectation of a Luddite as it is my continued penchant for exploring the uncharted and challenging extremes of mind-numbing procrastination within the known – and unknown – dimensions of this, our infinite universe ).
This is about the fourth or fifth fall he has had in as many years, and if things keep going on like this, I may suggest to him that if he likes acrobatics so much, why doesn’t he just go join a fucking circus?
I understand we have a new Prime Minister, that his name is Malcolm, and he speaks in complete sentences.
How’s that working out for people?