Imprisoned now for six weeks. Every so often a visitor peers through the metal bars. This is followed by a struggle with the key and the anticipation that is entangled with the possibility of someone taking me out on day release.

Turn left on Telford and right on Scott, as we head into the city. Life is thriving here I notice. Life goes on; silly me to think it might have stopped. But sometimes I ask to be taken right on Telford and so we head north to the roundabout, and then take a right to follow the coast, beach after beach. I need reassurance that the waves are still coming in, still pelting the coast, relentlessly.

I get by home alone, but not without a personal struggle both of mind and body. There is the invalid getup, delivered to my doorstep to make things “easier”. The support around the toilet tested my basic instincts. Any fatter in the arse and urinating would be impossible… further impeded by the cumbersome ankle to thigh brace. It now sits in retirement where a fridge should be, after just two weeks use.

The commode in the lounge room is a tad unsightly. But it has served me wonderfully for 40 nights. Sapped of energy a midnight call to wee is hard enough on two working legs. It currently involves crab walking along the floor, a tricep pump to a height of half a metre onto ottoman (the beds on the floor). Collect the crutches off the floor then take six tedious hops to the top of the wooden stairs. One at a time, crutches down followed by left leg, - repeat 4 times. If I’m lucky cat number two won’t be rubbing against my wayward foot trying to coerce me to its food bowl, and then when that proves unsuccessful to the back door. If I’m even luckier I will get to the loo, rest crutches against the wall, seat up sit down (balancing on one leg) having shut the bifold and negotiated pants over brace. There have been several close calls.

The commode has served me well and not so well. The weirdness of weeing in the lounge room is still a little unsettling. The backward heave from ground level to half a metre height… can be perilous. But emptying the contraption is no less unsettling. For me, with both hands clutching crutches, it is an impossibility. So my visitors oblige but the removable container is more muffin tin then tinkle Tupperware. The singular handle was obvious designed by some nut job, probably a guy who once dreamt of bigger and better things. There have been several heart-in-throat moments with that container dipping to unheard of angles, urine slipping and sloshing, looking for an escape.

Bathing is boring, but what I wouldn’t give for a bath. I sit on a plastic bench and do my business, shower handle in one hand, soap in the other, right leg gregariously wrapped to the upper thigh in pink plastic. The challenge is disembarking. A poorly designed shower chair, and unsuitably designed shower recess, means there is enough water on the floor to do Noah proud. It took a weeks worth of adrenalin surging slips and heart stopping flirtations with the tiled floor, to get the routine down pat. A bath mat lies two metres away, required for the added slip-n-slide death-trap formed by condensation. And then a blue Kathmandu travel towel, one that has seen the world no less, is placed adjacent to the recess. It wont mop-up the mini lake but provides a little traction for the rubbery based crutches.

Dining alone consists of microwave meals. For variation cook them in the oven. Breakfast can be challenging. Boil the jug, toast the bread… sounds simple enough. Crutch my way three metres to the fridge for milk and butter. Crutch one metre move milk and butter to bench near laundry sink, crutch one metre move milk and butter to bench near kitchen sink, crutch one metre move milk and butter to bench near stove top. Tea and toast made. Crutch one metre move milk and butter to bench near sink. Crutch one metre move milk and butter to bench near laundry sink. Crutch one metre put milk and butter in fridge… one at a time of course with my one free hand. Crutch back to kitchen. Hopefully I didn’t forget the jam. Shit I forgot the jam.

But last week I worked out what was worse than immobility and imprisonment in your own home. It was a busy week you see, one where I received visitor after visitor. They kept me occupied at first, but then I became worried to distraction. The cats weren’t enjoying their company either. They were on the floorboards but not for lack of furniture. They were everywhere. I killed them one by one but it was an insurmountable task. Black dots of poo soiling my crisp white sheets. Thousands of them both young and old, I was eventually forced out and into the backyard. What is worse than immobility and imprisonment in your own home? Immobility and imprisonment in your home which has a flea infestation.

Occupying the backyard now, I sit here for hours. The cicadas sing signifying a need to take my jacket off very soon. Bums numb on the canvas pillow bought for two bucks at a garage sale around the corner. It’s just me and the cats and if I strain my ears I can make out the sound of them nibbling the leaves of the tiny weeds that have forced their way back through the joins in the pavers. Formerly picked, they have now returned and grow steadily with the hum of that damn air-conditioning unit at Foodworks. The cats come and join me as we all sit here awkwardly dodging cockroaches as they dart from behind the window sill. The flea bomb appears to be working.

Check out my article in the Incidental Tourist column of  The Weekend Australian (Travel Section) this Saturday (or next) for my take on gift giving this Christmas.

Frontline and flea bombs are at the top of my list Santa!

I’m eternally grateful for my regular visitations by Mum, Jan, and Adam xx