In hindsight...

I've learnt through personal experience that it's usually best not to say exactly what you think sometimes or reveal everything about yourself all the time......but occasionally things happen to you that you feel compelled to tell other people about. Still - that's no excuse for what I'm about to tell you now.

A prostate examination is an unpleasant but necessary procedure for any man over the age of forty. I'm lucky. I have a doctor with a sense of humour and warm hands, and until recently I've suffered nothing more than a momentary cringe of indignity and embarrassment.

However, a couple of weeks ago, I was referred to a specialist. As you can appreciate, I was a little apprehensive as I approached the reception of a small surgery in St Leonards. I exchanged nervous glances with a couple of other moist-palmed patients in the waiting room and took a seat beneath a large medical diagram of a penis on the wall.

Grey haired and brow beaten, he wore the weary expression of a man that sticks his finger up stranger's bottoms for a living. The proctologist read through my referring notes, checked my lab results and inquired about my general health. 'Okay let's take a look, shall we', he said with a half smile.

I'd been through this procedure with my regular doctor and started to remove my trousers in preparation to climbing side saddle onto the examination table. 'No need to take the trousers off - just drop them down to your ankles', he said as he plumped up a pillow on the bed. It's at this point I started to feel a little uncomfortable....

Half expecting to hear the strains of porno music, I glanced apprehensively over my shoulder and looked for the hidden video camera, but I only caught a glimpse of the proctologist adjusting his latex glove and squirting a generous amount of lubricant onto his stumpy fingers.

Now. I'm not going to go into the details with you. However, anyone who has gone through the same experience will tell you that the last thing you expect your doctor to say is 'Can you spread your legs a little further apart and lift your bottom towards me'......some mood lighting and a couple of glasses of Merlot may have helped me relax a little more at this point.

When I returned to the reception area there were a few more patients in the waiting room. They all looked up at me in unison, silently searching for a clue that would betray their fate beyond the closed door.

'How are you feeling', asked the receptionist.

'He has very large hands, doesn't he', I stated loudly to her.

I could hear the nervous shuffle behind me......

Light a match...

Well, it's been a while hasn't it? Where have I concealed all this cynicism over the past 8 months? It can't be good for my sense of wellbeing - can it? No wonder I've been feeling somewhat bloated with sarcasm lately.

If writing is a laxative for self expression, I hope these few sentences provide me with the creative colonic I require...

Banging away...

Earlier this week I woke to the not so gentle sound of banging of hammers. Bleary-eyed, I peered out of my window to see that the house behind ours was having a second floor added. 'That's all I need', I thought to myself. 'A month of abusive builders hitting a house with metal objects, urinating against the fence and flicking their cigarette butts into my yard'.

Imagine my surprise when, armed with only nail belts and rusty hammers slung from the elastic of their loosely fitted pants, they managed to build the extension in under a week...

Flap, Flap, Thump...

Who said slap-stick was dead? I entertained the inner Western Suburbs today with a hilarious display of incompetence involving a Queen sized mattress, a set of roof racks and some losely fitted rope.

The load certainly seemed secure when I exited from the IKEA carpark in Rhodes. However, I was a little concerned when the mattress started flapping wildly everytime I exceeded 40 kph. None-the-less I continued my 16 kilometer journey back to civilisation to the accompaniment of blaring horns and derogatory hand signals.

I was quite relieved that, when the restraining rope eventually snapped, it was as I turned into my driveway, and not the expressway leading down to the Roseville Bridge.

That's not a shark...

I was out beyond the breakers at North Curl Curl Beach today, teaching Larisa and Liam how to surf, when the shark alarm was sounded. At the time I was holding onto Liam's board as Larisa was drifting a little further out in a gentle rip.

For those that have not been in the water when a shark alarm sounds, it an amazing sight to see, as swimmers and surfers surge onto the safety of the shoreline. I pushed Liam onto the second last wave in the set and watched him head for shore. Larisa had drifted even further out to sea and couldn't get onto the same wave, so I started to swim out towards her.....this would have looked interesting from the beach, as everyone else was headed in the opposite direction.

However, before I could reach her, she managed to turn her board around by herself and catch the last big wave in the set. I was now stranded out the back, between sets and caught in a rip which was steadily dragging me further out to sea.

After a few nervous moments of treading water I was finally able to catch a wave in the next set and body surf most of the way back to the beach. As I waded through waiste deep water I could see the kids frantically waving me ashore. I looked back over my shoulder and could see a few other people struggling in - I could relax a little. I wasn't on dry land, but there was a meal between me and the shark.

The kids were standing next to a Lifesaver.

'How big is the shark', I asked her.

'Aw, about this', she motioned with her arms apart.

'That's not a real shark', came an incredulous voice from behind her.

I lifted my chin to look over shoulder. There was a bronzed surfer leaning nonchalantly against his board.

'My c*ck's bigger than that', he said. As he strode towards the surf.

Mr Mom...

For the past three weeks I have been performing the role of a single parent. My days have been dominated by my children's needs. I've packed more lunches, laundered more clothes and cooked more dinners for my kids in the past 21 days than I have over the previous 14 years.

My domestic skills are a little rusty - some would say underdeveloped. A fact that has not gone unnoticed by my children, who insist on providing me with genuine and honest constructive criticism.....constantly.

However, I have settled into a routine and I am beginning to run a tidy household. All I need now is to be up to my ears in debt, wallow in a relationship based on resentment and see little prospect of future happiness and I'll feel like a real housewife.........hang on.

World Class Service...

Last week I attempted to re-activate my private health insurance. I was in Brookvale so I decided to visit the local branch of HCF personally instead of tackling their computer voice-activated, multi-choice push button service.

'Hello, I'd like to re-activate my account', I said smiling at the frumpy woman behind the counter.

'Yes, sir', responded the customer services assistant. 'I'll just need some evidence that you have returned to Australia'.

I paused for a moment. 'Okay. Here's my passport'.

'I'm sorry sir, but I'll need some proof that you have returned to Australia before I can re-activate your account'.

'Yes, that's what I am doing', I quipped.

'No, I need to see some evidence that you have actually returned to Australia', she persisted.

'Here's my passport and here I am - what more do you need?', I responded with some frustration.

'Do you still have a copy of your boarding pass?, she asked me.

'My boarding pass?', I asked in disbelief.

'Yes, your boarding pass will be proof enough that you have returned to Australia'.

'But I'm standing in front of you - surely that's enough proof that I have returned to Australia', I blurted out a little too abruptly.

What followed was a frank and detailed discription of my theory on time-space quantum science and its relation to metaphysics.

'Please wait a moment sir, I'll just have to get my manager'.

She stormed off as the stranger, who had been standing behind me in the queue, called out after her 'I can vouch for the fact that he is actually standing in Australia'.....

The manager returned after a few minutes, rolled her eyes at the situation and personally processed my payment to re-activate my account...

Bird Brain...

The Lorikeet is an attractive, but stupid bird. A couple of years ago one of them flew straight into the grill of my car - I was doing 50 km per hour at the time. How the bird failed to see over a tonne of moving metal has always baffled me - maybe it was just looking the other way?

An error in judgement is such a human trait. You don't often see a seagull apologising to one of its flock for taking out an eye with a wayward beak, or a cat pretending it never actually tripped over as it dusts itself of and limps off at pace.

I've recently been hand-feeding a flock of Lorikeets pieces of apple from my kitchen window. I've marvelled at their speed and precision as they swoop in low through the gum trees onto my deck - you can imagine my surprise to see, while standing in my dining room eating an apple, one of the Lorikeets swoop in low and at high speed straight into the glass doors I was looking out of.

The bird looked genuinely embarrassed. I don't know how he could possibly explain to his mates that he didn't see the house....

Bag of nuts...

A bag of peanuts and a complimentary glass of cheap red wine is all you get for £292 on British Airways. I remember the days when they would serve you a 3-course meal on any flight longer than an hour. Unfortunately, the smell of Chicken Korma that greeted me as I entered the aeroplane cabin was was just the scent of my disheveled Flight Steward....