The rest of Easter

Firstly, may I just say how DISGUSTED I am about the BBC's decision to press the ABC to axe The Chaser's coverage of the impending royal wedding. Since Channel 7 is still allowed to air its wedding drivel and Dame Edna isn't being stopped, obviously the Palace is targetting this edict at REAL satire. Bugger, that was the only thing to look forward to about the event. I won't be watching any of it now, out of protest; actually not a hard task. I'm sure there will be much rehashing in print and other media.

I've been sulking today. My skin complaint is turning out to be much harder to treat than my doctor predicted... I've got scabies, you see. Horrible flesh-eating mites that have been burrowing under my skin for weeks without my knowing about it, and over the last week, since a proper diagnosis, have been itching like billy-o and have NOT been succumbing to the supposedly easy treatment prescribed to me.

All of you who have been in contact with me, don't panic. They're not as easy to catch as popular tales tell. We'd have to have been rubbing up & down each other nakedly at length to really transmit the buggers. Luckily Best Beloved and I have been so tired & cranky while moving house that he's going to have to be very unlucky to get them from me (although I am going to treat him tonight just in case).

And how did I get them? Best bet is from the possum that broke into the house just before we moved in, and I was unlucky enough to pick up a fresh mite in the move. It takes a few weeks for everything to reach an itching frenzy.

So EEEEERRRGGGGGGGGG. I was misdiagnosed for a while: told it was Athlete's Foot, then Dermatitis. The creams prescribed for both of those made my skin tough and brown, and then the scabies oil that I had to paint ALL OVER me (twice) just made everything go wild. So now I'm utterly miserable and about to try a new cream, as well as taking strong antihistamines to help with the itching. The soles of my feet are ragged and bloody. My hands are flaky slabs of ouch. It's not too publicly ugly, most of the yuck is under my clothes, but it's really painful.

Sorry, that was probably too much detail.

When I went to the Folk Festival I rugged up and wore gloves and didn't touch anyone. I got a few odd looks for picking up cups and plates with latex gloves on, but it was better than having things spilled on the ouchies.

I'm hoping this next treatment works tonight. If it does work, I'll be a happy duckie tomorrow. Tonight I'm grumpy. I've just reached the end of my capacity to be philosophical about it. All day I've been teary. I cried on the phone to the doctor, who was amazed that the first treatment didn't work. I almost lost it in the chemist when the girl behind the counter looked at what I was buying and said sympathetically, 'oh, they're really hard to get rid of'. And I tried not to cry when I ran into byrd and his little boys, but he could see I was trying really hard to hold it together. It's the itching, you see. Even when I've killed the greeblies, the itching will continue for a few weeks until everything sloughs off. It's driving me crazy and it's very hard to stay positive.

Sigh.

Anyhoo, I hear you say, shut up about the itchy shit and tell us what happened at the rest of the Folk Festival.

Well... I went back only for the evenings of the next two days, because I discovered that when I was moving around the studio fully occupied and happily making, I didn't itch. So I did lots of printing and playing with paper.

When I did get there, I watched these people play:



They were fantastic. They did a cover of 'Sweet Transvestite' from the Rocky Horror Picture Show that was FABULOUS, all slide guitar and sexiness. Noriko was in fishnets and a mini-kimono and moved like one of the women in Robert Palmer's 'Addicted to Love' video. Combined with George's accent, I haven't enjoyed Japanese-flavoured music so much since Shonen Knife.


I also, as you may see over on the right in my Twitter stream (I only twitter about five times a year, most of those during music concerts), went to see Don Walker's late show. He was doing one at a morning session, but I knew he'd do a better night show than day. He was introduced as 'Don Walker and the SF', and he started the gig all Jimmy Webb-ish, singing Khe Sanh accompanied only by his organ keyboard.

That was a clever move, getting the Cold Chisel fans off his back before launching into 45 minutes of NickCavesque grungy delta blues with a kick-ass band that he declared to be named, 'now that it's late and we're all adults', Don Walker and the Suave Fucks. Yee haw! It was a very male, very wry, very Aussie session.

That, and the divine mulled wine that is made by Troubadour Bar, and a group called the Sweet Lowdown that I only caught the last ten minutes of, and the company of Mummy Crit and her lovely little boy Eric who was so utterly obsessed with a 'Big Monster Raaaabbbbiit' that it's now firmly entered the lexicon of my extended family, was all for the Festival for 2011. I rode my bike home (past, bizarrely, a big dead rabbit on the road) and moodily sat in front of the telly with a huge chocolate rabbit to eat and itched.

I hope to report back tomorrow or the next day much more happily. Hopefully Bumblebee will get back after ten days with his father and will have missed all the boring itchiness.

I hope you all had a lovely Easter in your own beautiful ways.

Oh! And a big hello to Roslyn, who is too shy to delurk online, but had the courage to approach me in the bike lock-up of the festival and say lovely, lovely things to me. It was such a buzz, thank you.