I walk into the waiting room for my dermatologist appointment that I’ve put off for the last two years. As the receptionist gathers my details, I notice a sign standing on the counter. “As mobile phone use can annoy other patients and interfere with pacemakers, please refrain from using your phone in the waiting room.” I groan. It’s exactly what I had intended on doing – using my phone to kill time – just like any other person forced to wait around these days. But no – as it looks like I’m about to be thrown back into the last century, I take a seat and pick the least trashy magazine on offer. I’m reading a National Geographic article about scientists taming foxes in Siberia when another patient takes a seat and pulls out his phone. I’m annoyed by the very fact that he’s ignoring the sign while I have to read about Siberian foxes. But I decide to let it slide. At least he’s not making any noise. Until he starts tapping out an email, each letter echoing around the room. Bloody hell. Has this guy never heard of muting your phone? I try to let it go. But I fail. “Excuse me – I don’t know if you saw the notice but it asks if you can refrain from using you’re your phone as it can annoy other patients. Go ahead and use it if you want but can you at least mute it? Thanks.” The guy is taken aback. “Oh – fine – I wouldn’t want to annoy anybody.” He puts his device away and he too steps back into the previous century by picking up a magazine, possibly, like myself, for the first time in years. As my adrenaline fades, I start to become quite intrigued about the taming of Siberian foxes. Then another patient walks in, sees the receptionist, sits down and pulls out his phone. Terrific. He too decides to catch up on his emails. But rather than the normal typing sound, he’s set his keypad to emit bizarre froggy noises. You’ve got to be kidding me. I try to hold off for as long as I can, sensing that the guy I’d previously lectured is silently challenging me to do the same to Mr. Froggy. Finally, I do. “Excuse me – I don’t know if you saw the notice but it asks if you can refrain from using you’re your phone as it can annoy other patients. Go ahead and use it if you want but can you at least mute it? Thanks.” He looks back at me. “But it’s not making any noise.” I stare at him, incredulous, unsure of how to respond. Precisely at that moment, I hear my name called out by the dermatologist. Saved by the skin guy. As I follow him out of the waiting room, I offer a parting shot. “Sounds like it’s making stupid froggy noises to me.”

I am walking Nitro the Two Toned Cavoodle along Bondi Beach – our nightly ritual. We are returning to where I had left my sandals about twenty minutes earlier – at the bottom of the southern most ramp. They are not there. Bugger. Not again. A couple weeks earlier, on Christmas night, I returned to find only one where I had left two. After much searching, I gave up and walked up the ramp. There at the top was my missing sandal. But this time – both are missing. I search the sand. Nothing. The ramp. Nothing. Even the rubbish bins. Nothing. So I give up, rationalising that I’m due for a new pair anyway but not looking forward to walking home barefoot. As I’m washing the sand off my feet at the shower station, I see somebody walk up the ramp. In his hands are what look like a pair of sandals. Thinking it’s possible that these are his own, I look down at his feet. He is wearing sand shoes. I move in for a closer look. They are my sandals. I look up at the guy’s face for the first time. He has a scruffy grey beard and curly hair poking out from underneath a pink plastic bowler hat. He looks like a homeless derelict. For the first time I notice that he has a mate, also scruffy but much younger and considerably bigger. He is pulling a battered suit case up the ramp. I turn to the pink hatted one. “Excuse me, but I think you have my sandals.” He lifts them up. “These? I just found them.” He hands them over. But I’m still flabbergasted. “Yes – I left them there while I went for a walk on the beach. Lots of people do. But you just see them and pick them up for yourself?” By now he has gone over by the showers. He mutters, “If you know what’s good for you, you’ll just shut the fuck up.” Although I’m still pissed off, I decide to take his advice, especially now that his huge mate is checking me out. And what’s in the suitcase anyway? More sandals and other items of clothing they’ve just collected? Or maybe – body parts. Happy to have my sandals back, I quickly put them on as the odd pair shuffle off. Next beach walk – my footwear comes with me.

We are house sitting. Although the place is only a ten minute drive from our two bedroom unit in Bondi, it is a world away from how we are used to living. It is a beautiful five bedroom, two storey house with a newly installed lap pool. It is spacious, light filled and elegant. The three of us and Nitro the Two Toned Cavoodle have been loving it. Except perhaps for one thing. The stairs. It’s not that we are unused to going up and down stairs. We have to do so everyday to get in and out of our block of units. So much so that it’s not even a thing I’ve ever given any thought. But for the past week, stairs have suddenly become something that I have been giving increasing consideration. Each time it is necessary to go up to the second level, I make sure I get everything I may need for the foreseeable future. Early in our stay there were times when I bounded up the stairs, grabbed something and headed back down only to realise that there was something else I needed. Gradually my bounding transformed into a trudge. Parts of my body that have never before complained about stairs are now grumbling. The fact that the staircase is fairly steep with a vanishing hand rail does not help. But there is one member of our family who seems to be enjoying the novelty of internal stairs. Nitro the Two Toned Cavoodle has always felt obliged to follow me wherever I might go. Now that this involves running up and down a staircase – all the better. While he always follows on the way up, he makes sure he leads on the way down. This provides an amusing view of his little bullseye butt bouncing up and down as he hops down each step. I’m anticipating that one day he will over balance and go tumbling down head over bullseye butt. I’ve noticed that his lightly shaded bullseye actually matches the colour of the carpet. Of course there was a time, many years ago, when I lived in a house with several staircases – a huge three story house (four if you counted the basement) in Canada. I remember how the stairs from the first floor went down to a landing and then split into two – one heading toward the front of the house and the other towards the kitchen in the back. I sometimes found sanctuary in these less used back stairs, often a great place from which to eavesdrop on conversations in the kitchen. I also recall how my little brother, ever the daredevil, thought it was fun to slide down the stairs encased in a sleeping bag. And through the windows of each landing, we had a perfect view of the huge stain glass window encased in the church next door. These were special stairs. Stairs of my youth. Not stairs that make me feel old and creaky.

I am walking alongside a busy North Sydney road. The footpath is equally hectic. So as I approach a pole surrounded by people, I step onto the road – intending to quickly step back off again. Doesn’t happen. I am knocked hard from behind and slam face first into the street. First thought – I’ve just been hit by a bus. Second thought – you really never do know when you’re going to be hit by a bus. This has been a saying of mine for some time. Now it’s a reality. I am dazed but slowly turn over. The frantic driver jumps out of his bus, proclaiming: “You walked right out in front of me!” But I’m more concerned with the fact that there now seems to be a hole in the knee of my favourite jeans. Bummer. There is also a bit of blood around the knee but it’s not too bad. I slowly look up at the driver and answer: “I know. Not your fault.” I am lucky he was pulling into a bus stop and was barely traveling by the time he hit me. A few people who witnessed the scene from the footpath come over to see if I’m alright and help me up. I feel a little sore and very embarrassed. I just want to get the hell out there. “Are you sure you’re ok? Maybe you should go to a hospital just to be sure.” Nope – not going to happen. “No –really – I’m fine.” I look towards the driver. “Sorry mate.” Then I’m gone, being extra cautious as I cross the road. I arrive at my friend’s house – the latest place I’ve been couch surfing during my post Euro excursion gypsy phase. That evening I am actually vacating and finally moving into a place of my own. But before then, I promised to do some cleaning. So in an empty house, still in a state of shock, I clean. I clean like a man possessed. My pent up adrenaline has found an outlet – scrubbing, washing and vacuuming. In no time, the place looks immaculate. My mate arrives just as I’m hauling my bags into the hall. “Hey – place looks great!” “Thanks.” “What else did you get up to today?” “Not much. Oh – that’s right – ripped a hole in my jeans.”