Glad tidings from Chermside

I never thought I'd still be waiting for a heart at Easter. Back at the outset of my long, long stint in hospital, I had envisaged getting a heart before my fortieth birthday in late February, a quiet Easter recuperating at home and a triumphant return to work by 1 July.  I have learned that this thing does not respond to my deadlines and is very much my boss. My sadistic, capricious, selfish and relentless boss.

I was awoken very early this morning, before six in fact, by the sight of a large woman in a bonnet and Easter garb hovering over my bed. At least this is what I thought I saw in the semi-darkness and my semi-consciousness. It could well have been a psycho killer. I yelled and sat up bolt upright, the latter being an ill-advised manoeuvre when attached to a machine. She dropped two tiny chocolate Easter eggs on my tray. I smiled and thanked her and then violently killed her in my mind.

I later learned, with little surprise, that she was a member of the Hospital kitchen staff. One of the people who wheel around the trolley that delivers to patients a substance the Hospital ambitiously calls food. I have donned it the Slops Trolley. The food here is truly abysmal.

You can probably sense that I have been a little grumpy of late. I suppose I have, a little. It's especially hard to be in hospital over the holiday season. This year, I had planned to pop down to Bluesfest at Byron Bay with my best mate, Rhino. Rhino and I have been good buddies since our school days. He is now a country lawyer with  a large family. Rhino was my best man at our wedding and is Imogen's godfather. He is a clever and decent bloke and we have shared countless great times together over many years. His only shortcoming is an inability to properly charge for his services. His clients would be well aware that they get a big city brain for a very country price.

 Last year Rhino and I camped out at Bluesfest to see Dylan. We have seen Bob a number of times together. Rhino brought his son, Ben, to see the man. Bob was in good form and we saw some other first rate acts, including Elvis Costello and Michelle Shocked. I am not a natural camper. The only stars I usually sleep under are the five little stars from the hotel guide. But I was happy to rough it for Bob and we had such a good time that we declared it an annual pilgrimage.

This year, I missed seeing the Pogues. They are playing today. The Pogues are, for the uninitiated, a rowdy drunken Irish rock band who grew to infamy in the Eighties. They are my all time favourite group, eclipsing even the Waterboys, the Stones, the Floyd and the Clash. Their frontman, Shane MacGowan, is to my mind the only lyricist who could give Dylan a shake. As a young man I grew to love the Pogues, and Irish music in general, because I would often frequent the Toowoomba Irish Club to listen to a legendary covers band called the Cornerboys. They played all the old classics and newer material from the likes of the Dubliners, the Pogues, Christy Moore and the Saw Doctors. The crowded room was packed with young people, middle aged people and the older crowd, all drinking Guinness and Jamesons and singing along to standards like Whiskey in the Jar, the Auld Triangle and the Leaving of Liverpool.


I first met Camilla at the Irish Club. Well sort of. I had known her vaguely a few years back when we had both worked at Hannas, a clothing shop owned by my cousins. I was only sixteen or seventeen at the time, but I was Lebanese and family so I was allowed to use the till. Some employees had been there for twenty years and could not do that! Anyway, we did not know each other well as workmates and at the time of our meeting at the Irish Club we were essentially strangers.

Camilla asked me to dance with her. I was stunned. I lacked a great deal of confidence with the ladies and thought I was a little odd looking, to put it diplomatically. Pretty girls never asked me to dance. She was either very drunk or looking to win a bet. As it turned it, she was neither.

Camilla has always been an independent woman. One of her friends thought that she was mad to approach me because I looked shifty. She warned Camilla to watch her bag. Camilla took no heed and we danced, badly but merrily.

I knew that night that I was on to something good. We danced and sang many songs together. She has later told me that her only moment of uncertainty arose when I raucously sung the "Big Chest" refrain to Big Strong Man. She thought I may have had something else in mind. Such vanity!

After the Irish Club closed, we walked the streets together and talked. About everything. Two weeks later I proposed to her.   

I have never seen the Pogues live and for many reasons it was important to me that I see them when they toured Australia. My disappointment prompted me to place a post on their website, explaining my non-attendance and asking them to tour again in the near future. I have never done such a thing before but many long weeks in hospital makes a man act a little strange. To my surprise, I received a response from Phil Chevron, a member of the band. Phil wrote a great song about Irish immigration to the States called Thousands are Sailing. It's worth checking out.


Phil wished me well for the transplant. I was chuffed. Project Heart can only be enhanced by having the Pogues behind it in spirit.

So I wish a very happy Easter to my growing legion of readers and well-wishers. Hopefully that new life concept which is inherent in the season will trickle down to a new heart in the very near future.


Until next time,