Baaaaa! The Old Goat...Again!

Remember Emma? (The Old Goat). I’d almost swear flowers shrivel and drop when she walks by. OK, so I’m exaggerating again…but I certainly can’t be that far from the truth. It has been a challenging past few weeks for me. 

Something happened to one of my legs. It went quite strange and I ended up in hospital again, having to get pumped up with a concoction of IV’s and Cephalexin. It looked awful and had swollen to the point that I looked like one of those trees in the Wizard of Oz that threw apples at Dorothy. (How’s that for a metaphor?) 
  
Nevermind. The dog had gone out to do whatever it is that dogs do when they’re out and it was time for him to come back in. And of course, they never do, do they? So I hobbled outdoors with the aid of a walking stick. It’s a pitiful enough sight to see a priest rummaging through shrubbery in search of a Jack Russell named Mister Piddles, but add a walking stick to the scenario and it’s quite pathetic looking. I’ll have to remember to take my trousers off and do the same thing the next time I feel like I need a ‘nice long rest.’ I’m certain someone would come take me away. In any event, I digress. Sorry.

I had to walk past Emma’s front door. Now, keep in mind, Emma is currently infirmed. She broke her heel just before Christmas and she’s still hobbling about like a cowboy whose been riding on the range for the past six months. Give her a pair of six–shooters and she’d be ready to star in a remake of a Hopalong Cassidy film! 

Bang! She swung the door open with such ferocity that it made me jump. ‘You!’ she bellowed. ‘What are you doing in my shrubs?’ As I slowly turned around I quickly tried to replace the grimace that my face had contorted into with my best ‘preacher face.’ I hadn’t realised that my shoulders were still perched high as a reaction to the anticipation of receiving a blow from behind. It made me look as if I were suffering from scoliosis. 

‘Good morning Emma,’ I smiled. ‘How are you this morning?’ Her face was already beginning to contort. ‘Harrumph,’ she snorted. ‘My bookshelf needs moving. I’ve been waiting for you to come by for over 3 days!’ She dragged out the word ‘three’ as if it were a polysyllabic word. I had no recollection of Emma ever telling me she needed her bookshelf moved, but that wouldn’t have mattered. If she thought it, then everyone should know. ‘So, why can’t you do it now?’ she glared at me. ‘I’m so sorry Emma, I’ve actually been in hospital. I’ve had a bit of a problem with my leg, as you can see.’ 

I didn’t think I needed to hold up the walking stick for her to see, I knew she had watched me from her kitchen window. And besides, had I done so, I would have done my own rendition of the sinking of the Andrea Doria. ‘I don’t know what any of you get paid for,’ she barked. ‘All of you are worthless!’ 

And on that note she slammed the door. So hard, in fact, it made her doorbell ring. You can’t miss Emma’s doorbell. St Paul’s has nothing to compare with Emma’s doorbell. She’s deaf as a doorknob, so she needs something equivalent to the ship’s horn on the QM2 to rouse her. (and I have absolutely no idea why ships have bombarded my mind this evening!) I’m so grateful that I believe in the promise of a new dawn. This way, when I see Emma again, I will have forgotten that today ever happened. 

And yes, I still love her to pieces…the old goat!

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The Power of Words