Our swan plants are in great health and are currently supporting a number of caterpillars, in spite of not being under a wasp net, and summer being over.
One thing I could attribute this to is the wasp that I smacked between two shoe soles in a fit of pique last month (I took the shoes off to do this, lest you think it was a feat of unbridled athleticism). I was terrified at the time, thinking swarms of its brethren would come to reek vengeance upon me. However, for some reason the wasps are leaving us all alone at this stage, which is lovely.
I was at my ballroom dance class the other night, where we learned two new dances, the quickstep and the rumba. The quickstep is like a fast version of the rhythm foxtrot, whereas the rumba is a slow version of the cha cha, if that helps. My partner was a more experienced ring in, brought in to ensure adequate numbers. He was a pleasure to dance with, and we were soon chatting away as we whirled our way around the dance floor ( or nearly). It turns out he used to be a serious competitive dancer, and in fact moved to Sydney to turn professional. At that time he was practicing twenty hours a week. Looking at his current girth, his professional days are some way behind him, but he’s still surprisingly light on his feet. He asked me why I was learning, and I struggled to find an answer. “Too old for a midlife crisis!” I said, to which he smiled politely.
I had a similar experience on Tuesday evening, during my evening acute session. I was working with an experienced junior doctor who is nonetheless new to our hospital. At one point she said to me “I love your rings, Katie!” This in spite of the fact I have my name written on the front of my scrub cap. Since this was the third time in the evening that she’d called me that, I thought a friendly correction was in order. “ I’m actually Kirsty, but I don’t mind being mistaken for Katie, as she’s both younger and better looking than I am.” “Ah OK yes, sorry! But you have lovely jewellery!”
This reminded me of an event that happened last year, that’s obviously still etched deeply into my brain. I may have mentioned it before. It was at post yoga burger and beersies, during which I asked everyone’s advice on the best place to buy equipment for my upcoming canoeing adventure. Someone piped up, the youngest of the group to be fair, that he had a discount at one shop, which was transferrable to family only. I can give you my email address, he said, and you go in and tell them you’re my mother, and you’ll get 15% off! When he saw my aghast expression, he knew he’d made a boob. I was mortified, and of course tortured him over it for the next ten minutes (“so, wait, explain it to me again…I go in and I tell them that you’re my father…”) To be honest, I didn’t really mind, and I wish he’d come back. ( Allegedly he’s gone to Auckland for further training, and then going off on parental leave…)
To cap off my week, I got an invite on Friday to be involved in some research to be conducted on behalf of my investment advisors.
I’m not sure what I’ve learned from all these episodes, except that perhaps there’s no stopping the march of Father Time. Plus, fishing for compliments is not a winning strategy.