tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34651205603451530622024-02-19T14:47:18.122+10:30Prone To Reverie"Laughter and joke-telling is healthy and can be used to convey messages that may otherwise be too difficult to express!" - Jesse Eisenberg, <i>A Marriage Counselor Tries To Heckle At A Knicks Game</i>PTRhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01804620638450848244noreply@blogger.comBlogger1039125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3465120560345153062.post-65058029062740398142017-09-03T00:33:00.000+09:302017-09-03T00:33:17.155+09:30Paradigm shifting Once again I have been surprised by the Hatchling's ability to listen to me talking (ok, ranting) to my Smaller Half and distill from my words the true essence of my frustrations. I had been carrying on about a pet peeve of mine - that some patients find it nearly impossible to follow instructions. For example, I may ask them to have a blood test done and come back within a week for a long appointment. And then I don't see them for a month and they come in for a short appointment and they haven't had any tests done. And now they have a new problem or three as well.<br />
<br />
So the Hatchling digests all of this and comes up with two great suggestions:<br />
<br />
1. That I point over their shoulder and say, "Oh look, a beautiful butterfly has flown into the room!" And when they turn around to look, I should quickly lean forward and attach (using a clothes peg) to their shirt a list of written instructions for them to follow.<br />
<br />
2. That if despite my efforts they don't follow my instructions, I should just solve all their problems in one appointment and say to them, "Seriously, why don't you go and buy a tablet or something to make you better?" And then I won't ever have to see them again.<br />
<br />
And after she had made these suggestions she came up with a great idea - I should just invent a tablet that stops people getting a blocked nose and make it so good that you only have to take it once a year AND it tastes just like your favourite food. Then I can come home from work early and play!<br />
<br />
This girl - she's a thinker!PTRhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01804620638450848244noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3465120560345153062.post-54135602357156102017-09-01T09:58:00.003+09:302017-09-01T09:58:53.244+09:30Tumble-land<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOgiDAjc0FWwy0MHs3VWb125UVLrQBhwwpc6BJ6LJrTcNkiX6DEdD7eBqcBOs5mTH4WAahhQklfOqrdNlzw24zV7o3S0jCorJjhKShzqi7TFQAgFYwhq8WZY-FWnvuhNgy1hOnekh5ofc/s1600/IMG_9733.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1241" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOgiDAjc0FWwy0MHs3VWb125UVLrQBhwwpc6BJ6LJrTcNkiX6DEdD7eBqcBOs5mTH4WAahhQklfOqrdNlzw24zV7o3S0jCorJjhKShzqi7TFQAgFYwhq8WZY-FWnvuhNgy1hOnekh5ofc/s400/IMG_9733.JPG" width="310" /></a></div>
<br />PTRhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01804620638450848244noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3465120560345153062.post-89241339656599347852017-08-28T01:00:00.001+09:302017-08-28T01:00:25.008+09:30Confishion I only enjoy cured salmon. The thought of eating a sick fish is very unappealing.PTRhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01804620638450848244noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3465120560345153062.post-29296438320526897692017-08-24T23:35:00.001+09:302017-08-24T23:39:25.098+09:30I'd have to think about thatI am guilty of often feeling frustrated, annoyed, - nay, even contemptuous - at my patients who are unable to give me a clear description of their symptoms:<br />
<div>
How long have you had this for? Oh a fair while now. </div>
<div>
So do you think days, weeks, months or years? I'm not sure, but it's quite a while. </div>
<div>
And does it affect your left leg or your right leg? Oh I'd have to think about that. </div>
<div>
What medication do you take for it? A little white one I think. Or maybe not. </div>
<div>
And so on. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
So it was a character-building exercise for me to get a haircut recently and find myself incapable of understanding and answering the questions that the hairdresser was asking me, despite having had my hair cut in the same way now for about 15 years. It was quite humbling. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Do you have it square or tapered at the back? Mmm, square I suppose. I think. </div>
<div>
Do you want me to feather it up to the part or leave it longer? Oh I think leave it longer. Oh, actually now you've done it, can you feather it instead?</div>
<div>
Is this where you part it? Yes I suppose it could be. </div>
<div>
Do you want me to trim your sideburns or just trim your sideburns? Ummm, just ... trim them?</div>
<div>
Is your hairbrush runcible and if so would you like me to not frapp your kokks? Ummm, just ... trim them?</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Honestly, I felt like a moron. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
What I don't understand is why, presuming my hair grows X millimetres a month, why I can't just turn up to a hairdresser every 6 weeks and ask them to shorten each hair by 3X/2 millimetres. Is there some kind of hair growth/cutting hysteresis which distorts the whole process into a chaotic nonlinear shambles? Actually, looking in the mirror each morning that seems pretty likely. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
How long has it been since your last haircut? Oh a fair while now. Or maybe not. </div>
PTRhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01804620638450848244noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3465120560345153062.post-89284199715479755302017-07-03T23:15:00.002+09:302017-07-03T23:15:53.549+09:30Incensed<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://t14.deviantart.net/XI1bid30sR1WvXyEXIW068Nwihw=/fit-in/700x350/filters:fixed_height(100,100):origin()/pre02/a971/th/pre/f/2010/101/5/2/trafalgar_by_radojavor.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="350" data-original-width="544" height="205" src="https://t14.deviantart.net/XI1bid30sR1WvXyEXIW068Nwihw=/fit-in/700x350/filters:fixed_height(100,100):origin()/pre02/a971/th/pre/f/2010/101/5/2/trafalgar_by_radojavor.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
I fired up the barbecue (seppos: think "grill") tonight to do some jerk chicken. It tasted pretty good, even though I didn't actually have any rum in the house so I had to use French brandy instead. You know how I'm one of those guys who just happens to have some old French brandy stashed away in the back of the cupboard.<br />
<br />
Anyway, it turns out that brandy instead of rum gives the jerk chicken quite a different taste. Imagine that Admiral Villeneuve triumphed at Trafalgar rather than Admiral Nelson - and the West Indies were dominated by the French from that day forth. That's what it tasted like. Quelle magnifique!<br />
<br />
The Hatchling liked it too. She's pretty good with weird tasting food - it's really only chilli that she draws the line at and we're making progress there too. Although I suppose there is a difference between eating something and actually enjoying it. She was full of compliments tonight once I'd fired up the barbecue though. "Mmm, that smells amazing Dad!"<br />
<br />
I had to break it to her that I hadn't actually put the chicken on the grill yet - the clouds of fragrant smoke pouring out were simply the incinerated remains of the last twelve things I've cooked on it, since I don't put much effort into cleaning it. It's the Australian way.<br />
<br />PTRhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01804620638450848244noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3465120560345153062.post-75839224304063969492017-07-01T20:18:00.002+09:302017-07-01T20:18:36.121+09:30Say what<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<b><br /></b></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b>Telephone</b></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Bring bring! Bring bring!</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b>PTR </b>(into telephone)</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Speak - I listen.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b>Receptionist </b>(via telephone)</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Did you just ring Jesus?</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b>PTR</b></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
What??</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b>Receptionist</b></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Do. You. Syringe. Ears.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b>PTR</b></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Oh, other people's absolutely.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
PTRhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01804620638450848244noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3465120560345153062.post-62748378074121036452017-06-05T21:33:00.000+09:302017-06-05T21:33:20.096+09:30Impossible for us to be dismembered<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />
Please refrain from rhetorical questions<br />
You are already aware<br />
Of the deep affection I feel<br />
For your valuable cardiac tissue.<br />
<br />
I was upright on my lower limbs<br />
You were in the vicinity<br />
The orbits of two planets intersected violently<br />
And it was impossible for us to be dismembered.<br />
<br />
Our lifespans could exceed the norm<br />
By a factor of ten or more<br />
But if you sustained an injury for which I was causally responsible<br />
I'd prepare an alcoholic beverage from your ocular secretions.<br />
<br />
I informed you of the possibility<br />
Of aerial transport<br />
Because everybody has wings<br />
But a number of people remain ignorant of the reason for this.<br />
<br />
I was upright on my lower limbs<br />
You were in the vicinity<br />
The orbits of two planets intersected violently<br />
And it was impossible for us to be dismembered.<br />
<br />PTRhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01804620638450848244noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3465120560345153062.post-79002087378416862242017-06-04T22:35:00.001+09:302017-06-04T22:35:27.396+09:30This bouncing life<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />
<br />
I bought a trampoline. It's a big one, so big that you might think there's some kind of Freudian Trampoline Complex which I am unconsciously acting out. And perhaps if there isn't, there should be, because I've got a big one.<br />
<br />
I found an ad online for this used trampoline and got interested, which is a feat in itself. It's not until you start reading ads for other people's second hand goods that you realise that the majority of people are idiots. People will post ads without prices, without pictures, without salient features of the goods or even without a goddamn description of what the stuff is. "Sale on Saturday. Many things." Jesus.<br />
<br />
So I texted the guy late at night and he got straight back to me - he wanted the trampoline gone pronto so I agreed to buy it and go pick it up on Saturday morning. I was pretty chuffed with myself, but my Smaller Half was innately more suspicious. "Why are they selling it? How old is it? Has anyone ever vomited on it? What does their house look like?" She seems to go through life half-convinced that homeless people are trying to sell her old beaten up trampolines that they've been using to strain their vomit, perhaps to make a delicious clear vomit broth in the French style. And why not - we all have our peccadillos (peccadillo: an armoured chicken).<br />
<br />
On Saturday morning I drove to the guy's house, and out the front is a sad looking kid. It occurs to me for the first time that only people with kids own trampolines so I am going to be snatching this kids trampoline away from her. I feel bad briefly but then see the trampoline. It is, as I've mentioned before, pretty big. I'm stoked at the bargain price I'm getting on this baby so my qualms pretty much evaporate.<br />
<br />
I double check with the crying kid that I'm at the right place - she tells me her dad said that I could start taking it apart. So I get out my collection of four thousand Allen keys which are all the same size and discover that they are all the same wrong size. Luckily I can work my way around this because I have a screwdriver which I can misuse to take this thing apart. It takes me about 90 minutes to knock it down and shove it into my car.<br />
<br />
Because there are some bits which I can't figure out how to separate, I end up having to drive home with the trampoline safety net draped over my head and shoulders like a demented beekeeper. I hope I don't have a car accident or I might strain my neck. I'm almost home when my phone starts ringing - it's the guy who sold me the trampoline letting me know that I've left some pieces behind in his driveway. But I reckon they're mostly superfluous safety devices, included only as a regulatory requirement, and certainly not expected to impinge on our fun by their absence.<br />
<br />
By the late afternoon I have reassembled the trampoline in my back yard and it is bigger than it looked in the old owner's yard. By some miracle of geometry I have put the same pieces back together and ended up with a trampoline which is nearly twice as big as it was before. Awesome. I'd be keen to get on and have a bounce around but the mat is soaking wet from my Smaller Half having spent an hour hosing off all the vomit. I hope it's a sunny day tomorrow.<br />
<br />PTRhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01804620638450848244noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3465120560345153062.post-74290127049585883662017-06-03T21:56:00.001+09:302017-06-03T21:56:23.670+09:30Reborn<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxGfLMW-g0N5QmzIzzaDTBwxIPT-Nlp5diFJjhyphenhyphenu4us_zvqTIwILxv6xLvUlDazyd4XmPGpj39ayDY2yOSh3jjH8hDZDrddNXrTepvCmcpga-L6hMg5bN10E2c_ed3UK6QOdqxqtmlqkw/s1600/robot+i+miss+you.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="425" data-original-width="430" height="197" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxGfLMW-g0N5QmzIzzaDTBwxIPT-Nlp5diFJjhyphenhyphenu4us_zvqTIwILxv6xLvUlDazyd4XmPGpj39ayDY2yOSh3jjH8hDZDrddNXrTepvCmcpga-L6hMg5bN10E2c_ed3UK6QOdqxqtmlqkw/s200/robot+i+miss+you.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
<br />
Hello.<br />
I can type.<br />
I can type English.<br />
I can put the words in a line and they make a sentence.<br />
They tell a story.<br />
Tell tell tell.<br />
I have been away.<br />
Not really.<br />
I have been here with me all along.<br />
And here with you in your heart too.<br />
I have been away from this blob.<br />
But now I am back.<br />
And now I am front.<br />
Front.<br />
Back.<br />
Front.<br />
Font.<br />
Bont.<br />
Bant.<br />
Bank.<br />
Back.<br />
I am back.<br />
<br />PTRhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01804620638450848244noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3465120560345153062.post-63764518096118413972016-10-21T08:57:00.001+10:302016-10-21T08:58:14.695+10:30Plating up<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />
I've lived in a few different cities and states now that I am an old man and, prone to reverie as I am, I find that sometimes it takes only a tiny push to send me spiralling into reminiscence. The most common is license plates on the cars in front of me as I drive.<br />
<br />
When I see out-of-state plates on the car in front of me it transports me to a time when those plates were all around me and were the ones I saw every day. The day-to-day thoughts and feelings I was having when I frequently saw plates from that state come washing over me. It's like time travel.<br />
<br />
Queensland plates, from my sub-tropical early adulthood, always imbue me with a feeling of relaxation. I am wearing shorts and t-shirt in winter, I am dripping sweat onto a physic exam paper, I am drinking too much bourbon on a sultry midnight wander, I am daydreaming on a deck amidst emerald fronds and dark trunks.<br />
<br />
Plates from the ACT, where I took my first real job, tighten me up. I can feel the tie around my neck like a horse's tack. People are watching me, judging me. I need to conform, buckle down, get on with it. I feel the wind's chill in my spine.<br />
<br />
Now that I have left South Australia, those too take me back. I am walking along the beach in autumn watching the seals. I am struggling with my pager as the weight of work breaks my back. I am going on a meth-fueled rampage, stealing a police car and driving it the wrong way down the freeway before crashing it off an overpass and fleeing on foot, leaving the mangled corpses wrapped in rugs on the back seat. I am strapped to a hospital bed, sedated, as I thrash and writhe.<br />
<br />
Happy memories, all these, even those which are dysphoric. They remind me where I've been, what I've done, who I am, who I'm not, who I might have been had I not been the who that I am right now.<br />
<br />
<br />PTRhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01804620638450848244noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3465120560345153062.post-72816825014139353262016-05-13T20:15:00.000+09:302016-05-13T20:15:18.845+09:30Only plastic surgeons should<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />
I had a mandatory training review today, involving a fairly tedious 30 minute phone conversation with an Authority Figure to make sure I am Ticking All The Boxes. It got off to an awkward start when the first thing he said to me was, "How was your morning?", to which I replied, "Pretty good, I spent half an hour BLANK". (BLANK, of course, replacing what I actually said, for reasons soon to be apparent.) He made a Concerned Noise and said, "I was once told by a plastic surgeon that only plastic surgeons should BLANK", causing me to execute a series of daring evasive manoeuvres to throw him off my tail. <br />
<br />
But it made me think that you could write a good exam question about it. Here goes:<br />
<br />
Q314. Only plastic surgeons should:<br />
(a) Wear shoes with such pointy toes that you are mistaken for an elf.<br />
(b) Remove large sebaceous cysts from the face.<br />
(c) Buy a Lamborghini rather than lease it.<br />
(d) Sexually harass a subordinate.<br />
(e) All of the above.<br />
<br />
Feel free to leave a comment below with your guess as to correct answer, or to suggest a better alternative.<br />
<br />PTRhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01804620638450848244noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3465120560345153062.post-35679929901753453852016-04-28T22:17:00.000+09:302016-04-28T22:40:36.940+09:30Mulch<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />
Tonight I cleaned out my manbag. No, that is not a euphemism for sexual intercourse. I just figured that I looked like a bit of dill walking down the street towards work holding my stethoscope in one hand and balancing a sandwich, an apple, and a carrot in the other. Well, to tell the truth, I had been thinking that for several months now, but I finally got around to cleaning out my manbag because my Smaller Half strongly advised* me to do it.<br />
<br />
Which is nice, because as of tomorrow I will be able to put my stethoscope, sandwich, apple and carrot into my bag before I leave the house and my apple won't roll off the front seat of my car and onto the floor either, which can only be a good thing health-wise. But, as I've already mentioned, first I had to clean it out.<br />
<br />
My manbag management protocol is pretty much the same as the way my brain works. I just jam into the top whatever seems useful or surprising that I've come across, and slowly things work their way down into the darkness below where they are forgotten or else take on a strange life of their own. <br />
I found stuff in the bottom of my manbag going back to February 2013, which sounds bad but there is stuff in the bottom of my brain going back to the mid-70's. Here's a highlist list:<br />
<ul>
<li>8 pens</li>
<li>3 torches</li>
<li>1 tourniquet</li>
<li>1 butterfly needle</li>
<li>3 paperclips</li>
<li>a document telling me that I officially don't have tuberculosis</li>
<li>almost 50 pages of patient lists, notes and discharge summaries</li>
<li>identification badges and access cards from 3 different hospitals, none of which I actually work at anymore</li>
<li>notes and summaries I had scribbled about such diverse topics as sudden cardiac death, management of diabetic ketoacidosis, differences between atypical antipsychotic medications, and "cultural safety toolboxes"</li>
<li>about a dozen phone bills, electricity bills, reminder notices, final notices, and termination notices</li>
<li>20 or so payslips, unopened</li>
<li>"Where Late The Sweet Birds Sang", by Kate Wilhelm - winner of the 1977 Hugo Award</li>
<li>A nice stripy blue wool scarf</li>
<li>an empty shopping bag</li>
<li>several used-looking tissues (shudder)</li>
<li>a partridge in a pear tree.</li>
</ul>
<div>
About a third of it I kept, about a third of it needs to be shredded as its mere existence grossly breaches just about every confidentiality requirement I can imagine, and the other third I just ate with a nice chianti.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
So tomorrow I will be able to transport my lunch in a snug, marginally hygienic bag. It's exciting. And I will start to fill it up all over again.</div>
<br />
*directed.PTRhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01804620638450848244noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3465120560345153062.post-8082198342779082016-04-25T12:00:00.000+09:302016-04-25T12:00:36.006+09:30We're all in this together<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://img.ffffound.com/static-data/assets/6/07f618caa3aa7c829f996ea1c1b8950c1b1d220f_m.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://img.ffffound.com/static-data/assets/6/07f618caa3aa7c829f996ea1c1b8950c1b1d220f_m.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
Well my friends, I see your face so clearly<br />
Little bit tired, little worn through the years<br />
You sound nervous, you seem alone<br />
I hardly recognize your voice on the telephone<br />
<br />
In between I remember<br />
Just before bound-up, broken-down<br />
We drive out to the edge of the highway<br />
Follow that lonesome dead-end roadside south<br />
<br />
We're all in this thing together<br />
Walkin' the line between faith and fear<br />
This life don't last forever<br />
When you cry I taste the salt in your tears<br />
<br />
Well my friend, let's put this thing together<br />
And walk the path with worn out feet of trial<br />
'Cause if you wanted we can go home forever<br />
Give up your jaded ways, spell your name to God<br />
<br />
We're all in this thing together<br />
Walkin' the line between faith and fear<br />
This life don't last forever<br />
When you cry I taste the salt in your tears<br />
<div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
All the hour there's a picture in a mirror </div>
<div>
Fancy shoes to grace our feet </div>
<div>
All there is is a slow road to freedom </div>
<div>
Heaven above and the devil beneath </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
We're all in this thing together </div>
<div>
Walkin' the line between faith and fear </div>
<div>
This life don't last forever </div>
<div>
When you cry I taste the salt in your tears</div>
</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
- Old Crow Medicine Show</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
PTRhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01804620638450848244noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3465120560345153062.post-59989127942154314002016-04-22T23:11:00.000+09:302016-04-22T23:11:02.128+09:30One dollar - the untellable story<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://img.ffffound.com/static-data/assets/6/7da8edae9864b27bff405edd977e877364ed3ba8_m.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://img.ffffound.com/static-data/assets/6/7da8edae9864b27bff405edd977e877364ed3ba8_m.jpg" height="247" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
Once again I am back, the turmoil of life having started to abate. We moved to a new house, in a new city, in a new state, and started new jobs, and the Hatchling started school, and I had an enormous mechanical claw grafted to my spine which appears to have developed a habit of shoplifting fruit.<br />
<br />
So I thought to myself tonight - "Self," I thought, "- Self, why not do a bit of blogging?" So I opened up one of my old notebooks where I keep ideas and found this one:<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b>One Dollar</b></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
"Hey! Come back you bitch!"</div>
<br />
Clearly at the time I wrote this I was under the impression that this would remind me of some sort of concrete event or thought, but sadly this is not the case. I have no idea whatsoever what I might have been thinking of writing. Sorry you. Sorry self. Sorry bitch. Your tale remains untold.<br />
<br />
However, in the interests of not entirely wasting your time, here's a segue .., see if you can figure out the theme:<br />
<br />
Last week we went out to dinner to a fancy-schpanzy restaurant with some old friends. I came out of the bedroom wearing a tweed jacket, because old people dig that kind of shit. The Hatchling looked at me and said, "Hey! Come back you bitch!"<br />
<br />
No, of course she did not. She actually said, "Dadda, you look very curious." I thought she meant that I looked odd or peculiar so I did my best offended act and instructed her to clarify herself, to which replied, "You look like you are going to solve a mystery!"<br />
<br />PTRhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01804620638450848244noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3465120560345153062.post-60631573912160729212016-03-03T13:35:00.001+10:302016-03-03T13:35:59.862+10:30TeachingSo this patient has a blood pressure of 175/115. Is that high or low? Anyone? High or low? High? Anyone else? You all agree? High or low? This patient, big fat bloke in fact. Is that a problem? Actually he's a Pacific Islander. Is his blood pressure a problem? Anyone? What do you think? Does he need tablets? Anyone? Anyone else? What about that table up the back there, you haven't said much. What? What? Sorry I can't hear you, say again? Yes, that's a good thought, although phaechromocytomas are rare. What else?<div><br></div>PTRhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01804620638450848244noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3465120560345153062.post-53570993593522812372015-12-17T00:50:00.000+10:302015-12-17T00:50:49.977+10:30On zederismsA recent comment confused me. As usual.<br />
<br />
Bruce Hamjangles accused me of promulgating zederisms. Despite googling the word, I had no idea what a zederism was. Turns out it's a neologism for spelling words with a 'z' (pronounced 'zed') that would be normally spelled with an 's' in standard Australian English.<br />
<br />
Guilty as charged.<br />
<br />
But before you pass sentence, hear this. I only did it because blogger.com insists that 's' is wrong and puts a little red squiggle under the word. A little red squiggle which I find so annoying that it's psychologically less damaging for me to just cave in and use American English's 'z' (pronounced 'zee').<br />
<br />
Bruce Hamjangles also used the word "ġeār-dagum" which I am unable to shed any light on at this stage of my existence. Do not doubt, however, that I am devoting myriad resources to decoding this apparent keyboard face-plant.<br />
<br />
Out.<br />
<br />PTRhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01804620638450848244noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3465120560345153062.post-55402132920926926822015-12-15T23:58:00.000+10:302015-12-15T23:58:32.439+10:30Comic road kill<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFnTkJDxMQOIY4zs8Bxd_GZbpZdq7xA7y_Upz9o7P_208A1KEywFdsPsz5qHkaUFzuK1xnllUBxZy8VVS7hA8v51GcLgy-w4dC1F4Q63VHV6Kx0A7nRaK4wF2Wia6Fz8CPbrkuJ4zMZJMC/s400/cow.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFnTkJDxMQOIY4zs8Bxd_GZbpZdq7xA7y_Upz9o7P_208A1KEywFdsPsz5qHkaUFzuK1xnllUBxZy8VVS7hA8v51GcLgy-w4dC1F4Q63VHV6Kx0A7nRaK4wF2Wia6Fz8CPbrkuJ4zMZJMC/s400/cow.JPG" height="150" width="200" /></a></div>
<br />
Knock knock.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: right;">
Who's there?</div>
<div style="text-align: right;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
Cow.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: right;">
Cow who?</div>
<div style="text-align: right;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
What did the cow find when it crossed the road?</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: right;">
I don't know, what?</div>
<div style="text-align: right;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
This joke.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<br />PTRhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01804620638450848244noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3465120560345153062.post-23458152244610684232015-12-14T01:41:00.000+10:302015-12-14T01:41:00.565+10:30How to just pop it back in<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://img01.deviantart.net/0b5c/i/2009/149/e/a/25_fingers_by_blackwhiters.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://img01.deviantart.net/0b5c/i/2009/149/e/a/25_fingers_by_blackwhiters.png" height="252" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
A lot of readers have been asking me for advice recently on how to reduce a proximal dislocation of the 5th metacarpal. It's an unusual injury, the more common outcome being to simply smash the metacarpal into pieces - the so-called "auctioneer's fracture", but sometimes the metacarpal is simply too strong, too stubborn, or too ignorant to break, and a dislocation occurs - the so-called "meteorologist's dislocation". <br />
<br />
It is easily recognized clinically by the appearance of firm lump on the dorsal surface of the hand, preserved motor function of the fingers, and an unequivocal description in the radiologist's report.<br />
<br />
Reduction of the dislocation (or more colloquially, "popping it back in") can be achieved by following these easy, easy steps:<br />
<br />
<ol>
<li>Ask your boss to help you.</li>
<li>When your boss tells you to simply do an ulnar nerve block at the wrist, tell him (or her - this technique works equally well with supervisors of either gender) that you have not done this before.</li>
<li>When your boss suggests that you use Google to learn how to do it, use Google to learn how to do it.</li>
<li>Ideally, your source of instructions on Google should be a PDF document, preferably authored by a doctor-sounding person. Watching videos on YouTube lacks gravitas, while learning medicine from a blog post is simply preposterous.</li>
<li>Print out the instructions and place them out of your patient's eyeline but within your line of sight.</li>
<li>Locate the distal flexor carpi ulnaris tendon.</li>
<li>Using a 22 gauge needle or smaller, penetrate the skin deep to the tendon on the medial aspect of the wrist and advance the needle approximately 10-90 mm.</li>
<li>Infiltrate 3-5 mL of a mixture of 1% lignocaine and 1 tsp cream of tartar.</li>
<li>As the patient's vasovagal response begins, slide them gently onto the floor. When supine on the floor, ensure airway patency.</li>
<li>Press the emergency button on the wall.</li>
<li>While the patient is unconscious, grab their 5th digit on the affected side and pull firmly and steadily while applying firm pressure on the dorsal surface just distal to the wrist.</li>
<li>Feel the bones crunch as they slide back into place and vow to never eat turducken again.</li>
<li>Revive the patient.</li>
<li>Reassure staff who are now arriving in response the emergency alarm that everything is progressing exactly as planned.</li>
<li>Apply an ulnar gutter slab from below the elbow to even more below the elbow, applying three point pressure to keep the metacarpal enlocated, or better yet delegate this to a nurse, student, or nursing student.</li>
<li>Write a blog post about it, making it seem like it really happened. </li>
<li>Profit.</li>
</ol>
<br />PTRhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01804620638450848244noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3465120560345153062.post-51430261049144125032015-12-09T00:42:00.003+10:302015-12-09T00:42:46.578+10:30Boustrophedon<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://img.ffffound.com/static-data/assets/6/779cba6f3b76840035b49a86a390140544f91be1_m.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://img.ffffound.com/static-data/assets/6/779cba6f3b76840035b49a86a390140544f91be1_m.png" /></a></div>
<br />
The other day I got a call from my doctor. It might seem strange that I, as a doctor, have a doctor. But it's actually a really good idea. As I like to say to people who are easily confused, "The barber cuts the hair of everyone in town who doesn't cut their own hair. Who cuts the barber's hair?" If the barber cuts his own hair, then he doesn't cut his own hair, then he does cut his own hair, ad infinitum. <br />
Obviously, the barber lives in the next town over and travels to a third town to have his hair cut by a barber friend of his who is completely hairless, and he also owns one of those creepy hypoallergenic cats that feel like they are made of scrotums. So it makes sense for me to have a doctor because that way I have two doctors looking after me. But that's not what I'm here to talk about.<br />
<br />
So my doctor called me, and asked me to come in because my latest cholesterol test was abnormal. Now this was a surprise because I had already checked my result through the simple expedient of many years ago romancing and marrying a person who had ambitions to be a doctor themselves (not a barber - and thus making a third doctor who is looking after me) and asking them to look up my results, and so I knew that my results were completely normal.<br />
<br />
Nevertheless, I dutifully went to my GP. I sat down in the consulting room and she told me that she wanted to see me because my cholesterol had suddenly and unexpectedly increased to a dangerous level. I expressed my surprise at this, and she pointed to the computer screen where the pathology results were displayed in serial form:<br />
Total cholesterol<br />
7.8 7.2 4.8<br />
and at that point, she said in a horrified voice - "Wait, I think I was looking at the wrong one. 4.9 is the most recent one isn't it? Since you started the statin."<br />
<br />
What she had done was assume the results were listed from newest to oldest rather than oldest to newest. On the face of it, this seems pretty dopey, especially as each column has the date printed at the top. <br />
<br />
But it's actually an easy mistake to make, as that is indeed the way that some pathology companies list their data so she would have been used to just looking at the leftmost column, whereas I am used to the one I am familiar with from work, which does it the logical way. <br />
<br />
I say logical because we read from left to right, so it makes sense for new data to be added to the right of the old data. You may accuse me of cultural imperialism, but if you usually read my blog from right to left, esnes ekam t'nod sekoj ym rednow on s'ti.<br />
<br />
In fact, I have made the same mistake in the past, but in reverse. I was working in ED and got a different company to fax me some old results. I read them the wrong way around and rushed off to try to figure out why the person's blood tests just made no sense at all. How embarrassing.<br />
<br />
But not as embarrassing as the time I checked a patient's blood test results, which gave a reading of 55378008 ng/L, but I had glanced at the paper upside down, so unfortunately broke the news to the patient that they were boobless.PTRhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01804620638450848244noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3465120560345153062.post-57370905609588441782015-12-03T22:32:00.001+10:302015-12-03T22:32:58.636+10:30Much safer<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://img.ffffound.com/static-data/assets/6/659378b4ae28ce14f6607c6dc946a3505c6e79c9_m.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://img.ffffound.com/static-data/assets/6/659378b4ae28ce14f6607c6dc946a3505c6e79c9_m.jpg" height="211" width="320" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b><br /></b></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b>Hatchling</b></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
What is a war?</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b>PTR</b></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
A war is what happens when army people from two different lands get together and fight each other, usually because they are having an argument about something.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b>Hatchling</b></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
So they fight with swords?</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b>PTR</b></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
In the Olden Days they fought with swords, but now they use guns.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b>Hatchling</b></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
That is good, because swords are very pointy and you might accidentally hurt someone.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
PTRhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01804620638450848244noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3465120560345153062.post-35744535776458124182015-12-02T00:48:00.003+10:302015-12-02T00:48:56.116+10:30Eleven incredible facts that will change the way you blah blah blah.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://img.ffffound.com/static-data/assets/6/cf547936d363fa07bcb1e2def54e297b28d33cbe_m.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://img.ffffound.com/static-data/assets/6/cf547936d363fa07bcb1e2def54e297b28d33cbe_m.jpg" height="216" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
<b>1. Pizza Hut was founded closer to Cleopatra's lifetime than to the era of the construction of the pyramids.</b><br />
<div>
I mean, this stands to reason. We've all seen pictures of Cleopatra lounging around on some boat on the Nile, floating past the pyramids, so clearly they already existed by the time she came on the scene. Mind you, it was in a movie. Probably fucking Kubrick, faking Egyptian history just like he faked the moon landings.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<b>2. More pictures are taken today of Justin Beiber than were taken of Justin Beiber in the whole of the 18th century.</b></div>
<div>
Again, pretty obvious. Justin Beiber was only born in 2008 so not many photographs of him COULD be taken in the 18th century. Especially since photography wasn't invented until the 19th century. Duh. Sub-prime crisis notwithstanding.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<b>3. The gap between the invention of the written word and the very first tweet was a mere 5200 years.</b></div>
<div>
Around 3200 BC, the Sumerians discovered that by scratching their names into wet concrete they could eternally preserve their ill-fated teenage romances in the sidewalk outside their houses. Then in 1976 Tim Berners-Lee invented Al Gore and tweeted "Watson, come in here, I need you. LOL!!!" using his fax machine. This EXPONENTIAL development in communication was mostly funded by the military - loose lips sink ships?!</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://img.ffffound.com/static-data/assets/6/cfd6de7d087bf85d44f0f5173f0277a04ef88317_m.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://img.ffffound.com/static-data/assets/6/cfd6de7d087bf85d44f0f5173f0277a04ef88317_m.jpg" height="214" width="320" /></a></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<b>4. The average smart phone of today contains more explosive power than the Saturn V rocket than lifted Stanley Kubrick into space.</b></div>
<div>
Point that browser to AddisonMashley.com - the website that lets you hook up with hot chefs suffering from endocrine disorders. Conversely, I pointed my Saturn V there and it just crashed.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<b>5. George Washington, first president of the United States, despite being "Father Of The Nation", had no offspring.</b></div>
<div>
That is, none I could track down with a cursory reading of Wikipedia. Next time I should look at the page about George Washington I guess.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<b>6. Egypt's Sphinx was largely built with the aid of woolly mammoths.</b></div>
<div>
Really, it's true. At least it should be. It would explain the nose. Or not, I suppose.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<b>7. France was using the guillotine when Star Wars was released.</b></div>
<div>
Although it was called "La Guerre Des Etoiles", which literally translated means something like, "I Played The Guitar On The Toilet", perhaps explaining the lingering popularity of the guillotine. Nevertheless, for a few months in 1977, it became fashionable among those about to be decapitated to say, "If you strike me down, I will become more powerful than you can possibly imagine."</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://img.ffffound.com/static-data/assets/6/0e3bcf479cb2c4a62a7714d4604e97ee70a98bcc_m.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://img.ffffound.com/static-data/assets/6/0e3bcf479cb2c4a62a7714d4604e97ee70a98bcc_m.jpg" height="252" width="320" /></a></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<b>8. My daughter is literally older than sliced bread.</b></div>
<div>
The Hatchling is five. My bread was baked just last weekend. No comparison. But incredible to think about, really, when you consider that before sliced bread was invented, a sandwich could only be made by layering two whole loaves on top of each other, which was almost impossible to eat, moreso if you were only five.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<b>9. If you were born in 1800, the world population has septunkled since your birth.</b></div>
<div>
The population of Earth has increased from 1 billion to 7 billion in that time. This figure, however, doesn't take into account the precipitous crash in the world population of Tyrannosaurus Rex over the same time. Tragically, by the dawn of the 21st century, less than 1000 T-Rexes were alive in the wild. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<b>10. There are whales alive today that have never read Moby Dick.</b></div>
<div>
Despite some bowhead whales living off the coast of Alaska being up to 200 years old, and thus having had plenty of time to read Moby Dick, especially when you consider that almost none of them work full-time and in fact receive substantial government hand-outs so don't exactly have many demands on their time, researchers estimate that the majority of whales derive their at-best cursory knowledge of Moby Dick from the 1980's animated children's TV show, Star Blazers, in which the sunken WW2 battleship Yamato is converted to a starship and sent off on a desperate mission to save the earth - a fact which probably tells you more about whales than the aforementioned TV show does about Moby Dick. Let's see how they do with Yann Martel.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<b>11. If all of this year was represented by the Mesozoic Era, Easter would have been at the end of the Triassic.</b></div>
<div>
200 million years is a long time between chocolate eggs, mass-extinction or not.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
PTRhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01804620638450848244noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3465120560345153062.post-88722760550259286072015-12-01T23:04:00.000+10:302015-12-01T23:04:36.711+10:30Fresh out of ice-creamAn anonymous commenter on my previous post made me wonder if there is any documentary evidence of zombie Lego Friends with hypercholesterolaemia having fought in the Vietnam war. Perspicacity such as this can't be ignored, so I scoured the classified microfiche banks in my basement and discovered this picture.<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
The thicket in the background places the subject probably somewhere around the Mekong delta. The rifle is an M14, dating the picture to roughly 1965-67, unless the zombie Lego Friend was serving in the US Marines or Army Engineers, in which case it could date to as late as 1974.<br />
<div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGaIfzbUnwcxtqW5NkwhrA-JLAK-hkqlCyDO93IN4jn4J-iDng7aoUbnBzM1fIKh0Ojtp4ReIQZHsO1KGW9JlLBIg1XqXqXGEcxd7CIKUF5daUgPpnWEycau8P3G2DX4oYHbrOPKjoGTI/s640/blogger-image--1779110305.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGaIfzbUnwcxtqW5NkwhrA-JLAK-hkqlCyDO93IN4jn4J-iDng7aoUbnBzM1fIKh0Ojtp4ReIQZHsO1KGW9JlLBIg1XqXqXGEcxd7CIKUF5daUgPpnWEycau8P3G2DX4oYHbrOPKjoGTI/s400/blogger-image--1779110305.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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As you can see, the zombie Lego Friend is carrying a large supply of fish oil, known to help lower elevated triglycerides. While elevated triglycerides are not a typical feature of familial hypercholesterolaemia, it's better to be safe than sorry.<br />
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Finally, whilst it is impossible to definitively identify which zombie Lego Friend this is, the style and colour of the remnants of hair strongly suggest that this could be the undead form of Olivia, previously known primarily for her mobile ice-cream shop, powered by bicycle.</div>
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No doubt she roams the delta still.<br />
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PTRhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01804620638450848244noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3465120560345153062.post-84392934187438221392015-11-26T00:44:00.000+10:302015-12-01T23:03:24.493+10:30This week I have been mostly thinking about<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6CuoOQs1efWj3w2X047MTxjiv3eQqhptI7mo5eQKM4W1JPfISxMdOeZ1O327Lz8F0Tl0yJTAziAABLIY78rxUQ128RdjZDqKEYL3U9gVVHlzpuMcP_Xy-Y8S2RhRzKyX5UG32SsofSSA/s1600/graph.bmp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="218" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6CuoOQs1efWj3w2X047MTxjiv3eQqhptI7mo5eQKM4W1JPfISxMdOeZ1O327Lz8F0Tl0yJTAziAABLIY78rxUQ128RdjZDqKEYL3U9gVVHlzpuMcP_Xy-Y8S2RhRzKyX5UG32SsofSSA/s320/graph.bmp" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />PTRhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01804620638450848244noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3465120560345153062.post-75017143838046091532015-11-25T00:13:00.001+10:302015-11-25T00:13:55.518+10:30Overheard<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://img.ffffound.com/static-data/assets/6/c99dca8c3e353b9ce3a86a5bcf167ae80d3c4acb_m.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://img.ffffound.com/static-data/assets/6/c99dca8c3e353b9ce3a86a5bcf167ae80d3c4acb_m.jpg" height="320" width="320" /></a></div>
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<b>Patient</b></div>
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Antipsychotics are bullshit! You know, what happened to people with schizophrenia before antipsychotics were invented? Huh?</div>
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<b>Doctor</b></div>
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Well, most of them probably died very young from exposure, malnutrition, violence, suicide, disease, or else were locked up for the rest of their lives.</div>
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<b>Patient</b></div>
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Oh.</div>
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PTRhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01804620638450848244noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3465120560345153062.post-44251558947618750722015-11-09T17:52:00.002+10:302015-11-09T17:52:46.685+10:30Custodian<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://img.ffffound.com/static-data/assets/6/427cd3cb6d5a38523bfdc7853f17c15d5687b112_m.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://img.ffffound.com/static-data/assets/6/427cd3cb6d5a38523bfdc7853f17c15d5687b112_m.jpg" height="212" width="320" /></a></div>
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<b>Hatchling</b></div>
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I really really like your watch.</div>
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<b>PTR</b></div>
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Me too.</div>
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<b>Hatchling</b></div>
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When you are dead, who will get to have your watch?</div>
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<b>PTR</b></div>
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You will, I suppose.</div>
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<b>Hatchling</b></div>
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I can't wait! I can't wait!</div>
PTRhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01804620638450848244noreply@blogger.com0