Time....for some Fiction!

Mary and Hermione had been born together at 4 am, joined at the hip. Hope for their survival had been small and hopeless. There mother, Nadia, had been too weak to weep, and lay helplessly in a metal bed with wheels, allowing nurses to move her at will. The twins, however, had strong wills and constitutions, and were determined. Their yells came strong and sound from the nursery. The decision was made. Separating them would kill them, they must stay together.
Meanwhile, two corridors down in this green and white and tiled place, Sally was waiting on her metal bed on wheels. She was about to give birth and a nurse was heading towards her with purpose. Sister Phister was about to give her an internal examination to find out how far her cervix was dilated. Unfortunately, Sister Phister was in such a hurry that she gave her an internal examination in her anus, and thought that everything was going just fine. Sally couldn't believe her ears.

Fact? Fiction? Belief? Truth? Lies? Love, loyalty, perception and misperception. Misconception?

Einstein's Coming Attractions

"The little red kitchen, thai or chinese," said James.

"You choose," said Julian.

"No, you choose," said James.

"The cheapest, darling," said Julian, "your call."

James rode his motorbike, Julian swam laps.

Julian waited at the thai, waiting for James to find her.

She had left a paper with a quote from Einstein over her laptop replete with bible open to Psalms 83:18 to deter burglars.

The quote read 'Our imagination is our preview to the coming attractions." Albert Einstein.

James ran the gamut of the restaurants in town and went home puzzled.

'I give up', he messaged Julian.

"Where are you," Julian rang James.

Julian really had expected James to find her. It came as a surprise. His lateral thinking had been thrown way out by the quote from Einstein, which actaully had had nothing to do with dinner.

Julian had learnt yet another lesson.

A sister had also told her that she had been too forcefu that day,l and had told a young man at the doors what he thought before she knew what he thought.

Julian was duly chastened by her dear, close, loving friends. They put up with her, she knew that. Jehovah had told them to, and they had listened. She loved them for that.

The Road Trip Diet

"Write about it, write about", urged Mary Hitler, who was known for her bossiness", "but you must be true to the story. No ball peen hammers,"

Julian was nonplussed. Ball peen hammers abounded. They were everywhere. How could she not write about them? And the truth? How could she possibly write about the truth? Everybody was far too precious, Mary Hitler being right up amongst them.

The Road Trip Diet seemed a safe topic and incredibly interesting. Julian was able to relate to the German Gertrude Dierhappy that most women kept there potato peelers in the second drawer down.
"It is TRUE", Gertrude exclaimed happily, but then, "it is the truth that has helped me to EXIST. Where would I be without truth...."
"Lovely to see you, Gertrude, I have to go now," Julian politely excused herself and rushed over to Candy, who was merely visiting.
"Where are we going?" she asked.
"Ask Victoria."

The road trip diet expanded and adapted to many different women's kitchens. Hermione and Julian fitted in and chopped and sliced and cleaned and washed everywhere that they went. Some kitchens were raw, some were everything and some were careful. It was so good that Julian wanted to do it again and again and again. Sharing was what this was all about, and all you had to be was organised.

Julian was that.

Menu's included freshly picked greens from the most fabulous vegie garden, chicken curry from a Bombay cook, chilled local white wines and the most amazing raw chocolate fudge cake with cashew nut cream. Cor. Not forgetting the Melbourne, Canberra and Perth Aussie barbecues and the Perth Pavlova and the incredible everywhere salads and the Port Augusta seafood platter. Hermione and Julian were on a roll. In between these fabulous and wonderful meals, they nibbled and crunched their way through tins of tuna, apples, cucumbers, nuts and goji berries. The worst meal of the trip for Julian had to be the roadhouse salad. She had been specific in her desire and the roadhouse cook, proud in his filthy white apron and his large mound of belly pork, had been eager and keen to please. Wilted iceberg, old tomatoes, cucumbers and tiny slivers of red onion could not even be lifted by Paul Newman's amazing salad dressing. Julian waded through half of it and tried to hide the rest in the outside barrel that doubled as a refuse bin. The cook had been so proud to be able to show his skills and his ability to be of unusual service. Most were happy with canola oil soaked potatoes and meats served on slightly soggy white bread rolls. Here was his ability to shine. A salad! And so precise! He could do it and he did it with love. Except that his ingredients had already been so unloved that it became an impossible task.

Julian munched through it as she shared an outside table next to the barrel with an older middle aged couple. The woman was heavy in shorts and t-shirt and niggly. The day was hot. He was quiet, heavy and forbearing. The vista of red dirt and road and scrub uninteresting except in that it was something rarely seen.

Meanwhile, Hermione was trudging through a pretend museum that showed old photographs of the dirt track that was now the road crossing Australia with olden day cars bogged in huge ruts and the driver smiling proudly standing knee deep in road next to his car. There were pictures of Indians with turbans and camel trains and stories of death and water holes and injustice. They were most proud of their piece of Skylab that took pride of place in the wooden, old, dusty room.

Hermione and Julian, with cars and bellies suitable filled, continued on this fascinating journey, ready for more of Wuthering Heights, the book on CD, read by an accomplished actress. They were up to the point where Cathy had married Linton and Heathcliffe had come back, now a man of money. It was exciting. They listened and watched the road. For hours and hours, they listened and watched the road. It was safer that way.

Nest of Assassins

"He who has never hoped has never despaired," said Caesar.

Christopher plummer was playing a rather fine Caeser in some sort of televised Shakespearean stage production of Caesar and Cleopatra on the ABC. His aquiline nose was emphasised and the audience laughed aloud quite often at some of the lines.

It had been a rather fine day over all, full of hope and joy. Everyone needed to know how to keep focused on being joyful rather than despondent, and these were the tools. Not all of Julian's freinds believed that bible reading could do it, but it was all dependent on the certainty of the bible's author. Was it simply Paul we were listening to? Or had he really been inspired by the creator of the universe? He gave great hope.

William had been duly shampooed, and Julian hoped that it wasn't the conditioner and that it was the shampoo. She had bought 2 bottles on the internet from a girl who subsequently lost her little boy in death and went out of business due to despair. Julian emailed some hopeful scriptures about the time when people would be brought back from death to life, Jesus had spoken about it in the book of John, and the Greek work, anastasis, had the meanining of standing up again. So, the 2 bottles had not been labelled, and she wasn't sure which was shampoo and which was conditioner and why she had even bothered buying the conditioner she wasn't sure. She wasn't great on slathering creams on horses, but this boy was in trouble. The Queensland Itch was all over his face, heading down his neck and causing great nasty's on his legs. He had sores. He would cross one leg over the other and rub up and down. Poor darling. So Julian had been asking experts what to do and now had advice to follow.

He also had a condition known as anhidrosis. He couldn't sweat, which meant that in this extraordinarily hot weather, he would puff and blow in discomfort. Vets were on the cards and Jim had scoured the internet and come up with a product. Patches on the skin, which were said to reverse the condition. He had been sold as a very quiet thoroughbred and now Julian knew why. Little darling didn't have the energy.

Mudbilly was living in the backyard for a short time. She was heading over to Perth to be with Hermione.

Hermione's last conversation regarding the blog had been vehement. They were staying with the Colonel's wife, and amidst much merriment, Hermione had declared that she no longer wanted to be Hermione, but insisted on being Elsie. She had also told Julian that she had better go to the toilet everytime the car stopped, because she wouldn't be stopping for Julian. Julian stayed silent. She was waiting to understand, but had only been told that she mocked people.

"You are mocking me, Julian," Hermione had said in the car on the Nullabor.

Julian didn't say anything, but later at the Colonel's house in Canberra, she had told her that nothing could have been further from the truth. Julian had nothing but admiration for Hermione.

Why else would she figure so prominently in the story?

Meanwhile, Hermione left a message on Mary's post calling herself Hermione, and acknowledging Mary as Mary and Edgar as Edgar and it was all a bit much really. Julian felt cross.

Hermione had written:

"A mutual friend foned frantically requesting interpretation of this blog, and I was only able to provide partial translation, so I am intrigued as well. Methinks I must phone, however I have used all my credit up until the 16th. Will phone u then Mary. But I do have heaps of Internet credit so can happily play with ur blogspot. I am quite hurt there was no mention of missing Hermione, only Julian who was returning within 30 days, sigh. It's alright I know I am too normal, just like every other associate, but I do miss your family so would love to send a big kiss and hug to Tuesday, Theadora, Edgar and Mary. Glad to see you are still familius intactus. Despite the eternal wrestling with evil spirits and witches covens and I wish I knew who osama bin laden is!!"

How Dare She. Mary and Hermione wanted it both ways.

"It isn't fiction, Julian," said Mary, and refused to discuss it further. Julian wanted to politely point out that at the beginning of her blog she had a statedment. It went like this.

Author's Note: This blog is a work of fiction and any resemblance to person or persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

"Ha," thought Julian, who insisted that it Was fiction that she wrote, apart from the smatterings of truth, which was always stranger than fiction anyway. She thought of the 16 year old that she had read about recently, from Iran. She had been seen talking to boys by her family, and the father and grandfather had taken it upon themselves, after a family council meeting, to bury her alive. There had been a picture of the hole outside the laundry that they had dug. When her body had been exhumed and autopsied, they had found soil in her lungs and stomach, which proved beyond a shadow of a doubt that she had been alive when buried. That was true.

Edgar had also said to Julian on the phone,

"I was lying then, but I'm telling the truth now."

Julian believed him when he said that he was telling the truth and that he had been lying. She had no doubt that he was telling the truth. He said so. She had believed him when he had been lying.

Julian had meekly followed Mary to Kmart. She tried to wriggle out of it, because she had a collage door project on the go, and knew how therapeutic it was to cut out words. They traipsed around the badly smelling aisles and Julian collected some elastic underwear and pants and top, as well as some water glasses and a book. Mary could not find the gym pants that she had gone on the mission for. They finished in the supermarket with a sundry amount of prawns, crackers, avocado's, cucumbers, green apples and champagne. They were ready for the spa and the magazines.

"This is love." stated Julian, on her sojourn to Kmart.

"THIS is love." stated Mary, as she took her unread copy of Oprah into the house and attacked it with scissors. She happily found all many of good words and statements. From 'Happiness" to "It's not my problem, YET".

Mudbilly's quote from Oscar Wilde was also rather good.

"But what is the good of freindship if one cannot say exactly what one means. Anybody can say charming things and try to please and to flatter, but a true freind always says unpleasant things, and does not mind giving pain. Indeed, if he is a really true friend he prefers it, for he knows then he is doing good."

Julian explained to Mudbilly that she didn't want to cause pain to Hermione, and that is why she didn't talk. Hermione didn't want it, and Julian knew. So Julian respected that, but was saddened at the loss of a dear old friend. Mary, for some obscure reason, seemed to handle truth from Julian. She listened and didn't always like it, and always had a truth of her own to hit Julian with.

"You just don't get it, Julian," stated Mary. She was lying back under the stars in the outside spa. They were wearing sarongs for modesty, which wasn't really working as the sarongs billowed up and out constantly.
"Oops," said Julian.
"You just ..... don't ...... get it," she sighed as she let the jets do their work on her aching back and mind.