cheer up girl

"Cheer up, girl. At least you've got your legs," says a woman on a motorised wheelchair as she passes me at the gateway to the Edinburgh Gardens. On the front handlebars is a basket full of stuffed toys which look like they've done the shopping with her a lot over the years. "I wish I still had mine."

Kel's palsy

They’re already on their way down the coast when I call. Mr Bies answers Shell’s phone. It’s her birthday on Sunday, I hear her laughing beside him. 

only the beginning

“Hey, can you tell Shell I’m sorry I can’t come down the coast this weekend. I have herpes in my eyes,” I say. I still can’t quite believe it. It’s hilarious and disastrous. 

“Skull fuck!” says Mr Bies.

“Yeah, Quickie told me I don’t have to tolerate a fetish for jizz in the eye,” I say.

“There are so many jokes to make about STDs in your face. We’ll miss you,” Mr Bies says. We hang up and I return to my isolation tank, where the smell of antiseptic hand gel dukes it out with a scented soy candle.

Last weekend the hospital told me it was pink eye and we thought it best I stay away from Pete’s son’s sixth birthday party: it’s not a great look for a new girlfriend to infect the guests at a kid’s party. Instead, I helped make chocolate (conjunctive) crackles with one eye open.

Now, I’m wondering how long herpes can live on patty pans.

On Saturday I started to look like one of those koalas with chlamydia on the TV news, peering at the camera with sad eyes. I climbed a gum tree in the lounge room to wait it out.

Itchy sores clustered on my eyelids. A constellation grew up my right cheekbone, an archer’s bow or an arrow pointing to my crooked nose. They follow the nerve endings, apparently, and when the swelling subsided, this formation fascinated me. If I ever go back to Rainbow Serpent I’ll know which meridian to fasten those little diamond stickers to, for maximum bindi-on-steroids effect.

Don’t use steroids on herpes. Herpes on steroids are really hard to deal with. They explode, behave irrationally, get aggressive. Weep, wither.

Pete found me in emergency at the eye and ear hospital twice and ferried me home. Massaged my feet (the only part of me he felt safe to touch) and fetched dinner and stuff from the chemist. I went into lock down and waited for the antivirals to start working, wondering whether to blame Nan for giving me her cold sore or the irresponsible drinking of dregs I’ve done at house parties over the years. 

I disinfect everything. Often. After a week they’re less angry, but I’m still trying to work out the comms around getting herpes in the eyes. It’s pretty far down on the sexy infection register. Even shingles has to be higher on the list, and at least lepers get their own island. 

“Ebola and hantavirus and AIDS,” says Pete, after listening patiently to my quandary. “In the stakes of stuff you don’t want to tell people you have, herpes in the eye is one step below ebola, hantavirus and AIDS. 

“We’re going to have to rebrand it Kel’s palsy,” he says.

hippopotamus in the IGA

awesome and boring

K (a bit drunk at 9pm, eating a defrosted portion of mum's soup): this soup is delicious. i can't taste it at all.

P (not drunk, ready for bed): so which is it, delicious or tasteless? that's the sort of shit my three year old says ... that's awesome! how boring!

K: it looks delicious. i'm sure it's wholesome, but i can't be sure. so it is both awesome and boring.