Sweet, pure and shiny.

I went, this morning, to see my doctor (who happens to look like Simon Baker, so never a hardship) for a full check-up. What this means is that at my prompting I have, this morning, had blood tests taken for everything and anything - organ function, cholesterol, iron, hormone levels etc etc etc.

I also had two tiny spots burnt off my face - well frozen. They were so small to be almost invisible but I could feel them with the tips of my fingers, so he removed them. These are a result of growing up in the Tropics. Over the last couple of years I've had 3 others frozen off. I am vigilant about it. A spot vigilante. He is always impressed that I've managed to locate such tiny things. In return I try to impress on him how much I like being alive in explanation.

He has been my Doctor now for many years. When he started his first practice, I was one of his first clients. I have remained with him as he moved on up to his present position at the best private Medical Centre in Cairns. He wears gorgeous silk shirts and Italian leather shoes, is a vegetarian, smart as the proverbial whip and is musically trained. I adore him. He says things like: 'I'm never going to get time for creativity if I stay in medicine', and this morning, upon hearing that I have begun my Doctorate: 'I admire you, you're so pure.'

So, you see - always entertaining. As though medicine is a millstone around his neck and I'm living a covetable life. Very funny.

But, back to the tests. In the spirit of transformation I am giving my body a thorough tune-up. Much as I hate car metaphors when discussing the human body, this one seems appropriate. No longer brand-new, I'd like to be well cared for and shiny anyway.

So, coming at you; sweet and pure, soon to be shiny.
Darkness is, of course, a given.
Midnight blue perhaps?

Conniptions.

Gaaah! Am having a conniption re: templates.
Is it a symptom of other things?
Perhaps a crisis of identity?

Maybe it's the low pressure curtesy of Cyclone Ellie, who blustered around off the coast a bit before blowing herself out, without so much as a fallen branch.

Conniption indeed.

A conniptious week then.
So far.