Tasmania’s health system is a bit crook [poor shambolic].
It’s a poor cousin compared to other Australian States. For folk feeling a bit crook [ill, sick], there’s long wait times for treatment the Emergency Department.
In Central Tasmania, the dry sheep raising uplands, serious accidents at isolated properties are transported by helicopter to the State’s main hospital in Hobart. The helicopter is small with no room for gear such as gumboots or the shepherd’s crook,
Landing on the new helipad atop the hospital, clinical services are accessed promptly by following the crooked [bent] finger of the paramedic in charge.
The hospital makes no distinction between the law abiding and crooks [criminals]
Annually, above vertices of lounge cornices in the ceiling space, in a tiled verge is a hidden place, a safe place.
Come Fall, sparrows nest, on all manner of mixed fibre and spittle to make birthplace,
Young are raised, sheltered from the high winds sweeping the estuary nearby,
It is a haven.
Though parent birds could hear the wind’s roar, in the sheltered nest, the tiny googs couldn’t hear a thing.
When developed the fluffy hatchlings pecked their way through their shells emerging with weak winglets unable to fly. Seeking food, the chicks noisily squawk and scratch on the ceiling, catching glimpses of sunlight sunrays penetrating into their home through the roof tiles.
They don’t move lots, until their bones stiffen and muscles develop. They shuffle about before they can soar. Clawing scraping tweeting softly, tweeting calling. the announce they’re there.
Twixt the interior primrose painted plaster board and exterior weatherboard wall of the lounge room is a ten foot deep gap, the width of a four by two stud.
Several chicks plunge into this gap annually, scraping and tweeting.
Tramping up a slight incline in an unploughed field, my path is blocked by the junction of two fences. Barbed wire stretches off to the right and straight ahead from the corner post.
I veer leftwards to continue on.
Two metres from the corner post lies a crocodile, over to my left.
I stop, judging that the croc is dozing, and start to creep by close to the post.
I’m halfway through when the croc senses me and lunges. Jumping and retracting my left leg rapidly I feel a sudden calf cramp. My leg swishes under the eiderdown and I feel the coolness of the bedroom air on my toes.
A three day weekend snap lockdown in southern Tasmania was lifted on the following Monday evening. Travel restrictions ceased, mask wearing was extended to the following Friday. Subsequent to a doctor visit on Tuesday morning, I moseyed on down to the local shopping mall, to get a dose of folk.
The street was a little empty, the mall not so. I must’ve seen more than seven hundred folk. But if asked, I couldn’t say I saw anyone in particular.
Except, I recall passing on the mall upper level an older teenage mini skirted girl. I saw her again later, on the smooth aluminum bench at the bus stop C. Arm raised she was selfying. Just along in bus stop D were two guys with backs to me. It was their upper butt cracks I first saw. Then across the road in front on the Salvo’s Op shop, a disheveled balding elderly coot shambled by.
So how come I recall these folk of all those I’d seen?
They were all unmasked. About 1% of those seen.
Not too bad really.
Made me feel good to be a Taswegian, in spite of our crook health system.