So where have I been......well.
Well, it's been a while and so many things have happened over the past month or so. I finally graduated from Uni and I had the most wonderful time. My family and friends were there to help me celebrate, unfortunately I was unable to celebrate straight away due to illness and a tricky hip that caused a large amount of pain for a week or so. Here is my grad photo if you want to see......
I even received my very FIRST rejection letter on the day of my graduation for my children's picture book. I was so happy, I can now start a wonderful collection of them. I always wanted a collection of rejection letters for my books. I think of it as a right of passage into the literary world. But it also makes me more determined to have my own work published.
Anyway, I do come with a small oneshot that had been playing on my mind. I know a lot of you have already seen the season 3 finale and after hearing people talk about it there was a phrase that manifested into something else, an alternative view if you could call it.
I hope you enjoy........
It’s been a long day. So long in fact that you were willing to perform a self induced vasectomy without the need for anaesthesia if you had to spend an extra minute in the confines of ‘Cuddy’s Detention Centre’ as you have now affectionly dubbed it.
Your patient hasn’t been the most cooperative of beasts. Having multiple symptoms for just as many ailments that you and your minions couldn’t find a cause for and therefore at a loss to find a cure. It wasn’t until the imbecile’s ditsy girlfriend let slip that they had visited a third world country did anything fall in to place.
And people wonder why you never see patients.
They lie.
Now he was on the mend. Well, he will be until he receives his bill which you happened to tack on a few extra procedures just for wasting your time. You call it your ‘PITA’ clause or ‘Pain In The Arse’ charge. Now if only the hospital tacked this on to every patients account then Cuddy would quickly make money - maybe even set up a franchise. It could be bigger than McDonald’s with the right marketing.
Nah, you think there would be more imbeciles like him and that’s the last thing you want. So that idea is canned before it gets any further off the ground.
By the time you have locked the front door of your home it is past midnight and you can hear your bed softly calling your name.
You want nothing more than to hide under the covers for the next ten years, hopefully by then your sentence of clinic hours would no longer exist. Mind you, that wouldn’t be a problem if you only stopped giving the warden hell over her wardrobe choices or lack thereof.
Nether the less, there is a pit stop you simply must take before you get to your bed. Your mind starts to wonder to a time before when everything was just a little bit easier. It still baffles you that it was only a short time ago it was, at the moment though it feels as if a life time has past since your world changed irrevocably.
It’s been three months, three long agonising months since she was in your office last. It’s been hard since she has been gone. You miss her face, her voice and that annoying moral compass she carries especially for you. But you especially miss her.
Her words of ‘I expect you to be just fine,’ resonate in your brain, slowly driving you crazy. If she only knew how wrong those words were. You’re not fine, far from it.
The coffee sucks and her replacement is nothing on the original. You want her back, now! But you know that is not an option, at least not yet.
Slowly you make your way down the hall trying to miss the squeaky floor board half way down. Normally you wouldn’t give a shit, but the walls seem to be exceptionally thin at this time of night and sound travels. The last thing you want is for the neighbours to start complaining. It’s bad enough when they bitch and moan because you’re playing the piano at three in the morning. You’ve decided that their musical tastes reside delicately in their arse.
You notice the door ajar as you approach and quietly you push it fully open. A light has been left on and its glow softens the hard edges of your desk. Your little used study has become a sanctuary of sorts, a way to escape the world around you and embrace the new world order as you like to call it.
Wilson laughs at you about this, claiming that you wanted it this way and if you didn’t well then, ‘Suck it in Princess’ he told you. It is this comment that finally leads you to believe that Wilson is having a little bit on the side. His lack of denial is all you need and then next night you are introduced to the new flame or ‘Ex-Mrs-Wilson-Number-Four’ at dinner.
You’re stunned, visibly stunned as Cuddy walks through the door on Wilson’s arm. You suspected but that was only in the confines of your own mind, seeing it in the flesh makes it that much more real than you imagined.
It is then you find out that Wilson had been roped into helping Cuddy baby-sit her fourteen year old niece several weeks before where he picked up those four little words of wisdom and had been waiting for the perfect moment to drop them on your lap.
At the utterance of those words you commit them to your current repertoire. Let the snarking begin, you think to yourself.
A small movement out of the corner of your eye drags you away from your memory. The last piece of furniture you ever thought would grace your home, sits proudly in the corner. Your mother waited all these years to finally see it set up again; you wonder yourself how it actually lasted all these years quietly suspecting that maybe termites may have decided it was a midnight snack to consume.
But there it stands in all of its rosewood glory. Over a hundred years old, been in the House family for all those years, lovingly carved by your great-great-grandfather or so your mother said. Passed down from father to son.
Running your hand over the smooth edge you admire the craftsmanship. Intricate patterns and swirls give the piece life, and it does in a way hold life from one generation to the next.
It’s just a shame that your father couldn’t see what it was being used for. But you think that in some way he has and is looking down now. Quietly you wonder if he would be proud of you finally, not so much of a disappointment to him when he was alive. In a way you need to thank him because if he hadn’t fallen ill and passed on you wouldn’t be where you are now and that is the real tragedy of it all
Another smooth expanse makes its way under your finger tips. It doesn’t hold the coolness of the timber but its smooth and warm to the touch. Instinctively it moves towards your touch craving more. Something you are more than willing to give.
A small sigh escapes and you are transfixed by the rise and fall of your son’s chest.
Your stomach flutters at the thought, but that’s what he is. Your son, born out of love and the tragedy that was your father’s passing. Cradled safely in the cot made for this very purpose, used by generations of House children and finally now by your own.
Slowly you guide your hand over the top of his head, your fingers running through the full head of brown hair it finds. Remembering fondly at the birth of your son, Dr Newcastle commented that she was unsure of the sex but at least it wasn’t going to go bald anytime soon.
You had initially thought she was having a dig at the slight appearance of a thinning patch of hair at the top of your scalp. But Wilson and your wife assured that your fears were unfounded and if anything it made you more distinguished. Your wife said that, if Wilson did then his sexuality was seriously in doubt since you were now a married man.
Married, now there’s a concept you wouldn’t think of it was just as absurd as being a father. But then again they sort of go together no matter how much you protested. It was at the urging of her parents, well, her father really. You had to make an honest woman out of his baby girl and if you didn’t well then there was very little chance of you procreating ever again.
That was the clincher, and frankly who would go against a former heavyweight boxer just because of the little gold band that now resides on his daughter’s finger along with the two-carat solitaire diamond next to it. Definitely not you; if life hadn’t taught you anything is that while having brains is a noble attribute to have, it is knowing when the father of the girl you currently are having sex with who happens to hold several championship boxing trophies usually wins.
But really you won. Because she now sleeps in your bed and wraps her arms around you and your body reacts instantly when she’s near and you know that you've come home.
“Difficult patient?” she asks from the door.
You nod absently but don’t turn around.
Her image is burned in your mind. She would be standing there with nothing but the red silk dressing gown you bought her in Paris while on your honeymoon, her honey brown curls would be brushing against the soft fabric and you smile. She’s here for you and only you.
Small hands snake around your waist her chest pressing firmly on your back as she pokes her head around your arm to look at the life you created together.
“He’s been gurgling up a storm today,” she whispers, “I suspect he missed his daddy.”
You can feel her smile on your arm.
Turning around you bringing her slight body closer, wrapping your arms around her waist, her bright blue green eyes pouring all the love you once denied into you.
“Probably not as much as his daddy missed his mommy,” you say kissing her softly.
“You won’t be saying that in four months time.”
“That’s what you think Mrs House,” you counter.
“Hey,” she protests softly, careful not to wake the sleeping bub, “That’s Dr Allison Cameron-House to you.”
You kiss her again, only deeper, hoping to show her how grateful you are that she shares your name and helped bring baby Liam Gregory into the world.
Together.
You’re not alone like you were all those months and years ago. It seems as if you had been handed another life, an alternate to what you had before. Only this time you’re not handing it back.
Because you’re home and that’s what matters.
I even received my very FIRST rejection letter on the day of my graduation for my children's picture book. I was so happy, I can now start a wonderful collection of them. I always wanted a collection of rejection letters for my books. I think of it as a right of passage into the literary world. But it also makes me more determined to have my own work published.
Anyway, I do come with a small oneshot that had been playing on my mind. I know a lot of you have already seen the season 3 finale and after hearing people talk about it there was a phrase that manifested into something else, an alternative view if you could call it.
I hope you enjoy........
It’s been a long day. So long in fact that you were willing to perform a self induced vasectomy without the need for anaesthesia if you had to spend an extra minute in the confines of ‘Cuddy’s Detention Centre’ as you have now affectionly dubbed it.
Your patient hasn’t been the most cooperative of beasts. Having multiple symptoms for just as many ailments that you and your minions couldn’t find a cause for and therefore at a loss to find a cure. It wasn’t until the imbecile’s ditsy girlfriend let slip that they had visited a third world country did anything fall in to place.
And people wonder why you never see patients.
They lie.
Now he was on the mend. Well, he will be until he receives his bill which you happened to tack on a few extra procedures just for wasting your time. You call it your ‘PITA’ clause or ‘Pain In The Arse’ charge. Now if only the hospital tacked this on to every patients account then Cuddy would quickly make money - maybe even set up a franchise. It could be bigger than McDonald’s with the right marketing.
Nah, you think there would be more imbeciles like him and that’s the last thing you want. So that idea is canned before it gets any further off the ground.
By the time you have locked the front door of your home it is past midnight and you can hear your bed softly calling your name.
You want nothing more than to hide under the covers for the next ten years, hopefully by then your sentence of clinic hours would no longer exist. Mind you, that wouldn’t be a problem if you only stopped giving the warden hell over her wardrobe choices or lack thereof.
Nether the less, there is a pit stop you simply must take before you get to your bed. Your mind starts to wonder to a time before when everything was just a little bit easier. It still baffles you that it was only a short time ago it was, at the moment though it feels as if a life time has past since your world changed irrevocably.
It’s been three months, three long agonising months since she was in your office last. It’s been hard since she has been gone. You miss her face, her voice and that annoying moral compass she carries especially for you. But you especially miss her.
Her words of ‘I expect you to be just fine,’ resonate in your brain, slowly driving you crazy. If she only knew how wrong those words were. You’re not fine, far from it.
The coffee sucks and her replacement is nothing on the original. You want her back, now! But you know that is not an option, at least not yet.
Slowly you make your way down the hall trying to miss the squeaky floor board half way down. Normally you wouldn’t give a shit, but the walls seem to be exceptionally thin at this time of night and sound travels. The last thing you want is for the neighbours to start complaining. It’s bad enough when they bitch and moan because you’re playing the piano at three in the morning. You’ve decided that their musical tastes reside delicately in their arse.
You notice the door ajar as you approach and quietly you push it fully open. A light has been left on and its glow softens the hard edges of your desk. Your little used study has become a sanctuary of sorts, a way to escape the world around you and embrace the new world order as you like to call it.
Wilson laughs at you about this, claiming that you wanted it this way and if you didn’t well then, ‘Suck it in Princess’ he told you. It is this comment that finally leads you to believe that Wilson is having a little bit on the side. His lack of denial is all you need and then next night you are introduced to the new flame or ‘Ex-Mrs-Wilson-Number-Four’ at dinner.
You’re stunned, visibly stunned as Cuddy walks through the door on Wilson’s arm. You suspected but that was only in the confines of your own mind, seeing it in the flesh makes it that much more real than you imagined.
It is then you find out that Wilson had been roped into helping Cuddy baby-sit her fourteen year old niece several weeks before where he picked up those four little words of wisdom and had been waiting for the perfect moment to drop them on your lap.
At the utterance of those words you commit them to your current repertoire. Let the snarking begin, you think to yourself.
A small movement out of the corner of your eye drags you away from your memory. The last piece of furniture you ever thought would grace your home, sits proudly in the corner. Your mother waited all these years to finally see it set up again; you wonder yourself how it actually lasted all these years quietly suspecting that maybe termites may have decided it was a midnight snack to consume.
But there it stands in all of its rosewood glory. Over a hundred years old, been in the House family for all those years, lovingly carved by your great-great-grandfather or so your mother said. Passed down from father to son.
Running your hand over the smooth edge you admire the craftsmanship. Intricate patterns and swirls give the piece life, and it does in a way hold life from one generation to the next.
It’s just a shame that your father couldn’t see what it was being used for. But you think that in some way he has and is looking down now. Quietly you wonder if he would be proud of you finally, not so much of a disappointment to him when he was alive. In a way you need to thank him because if he hadn’t fallen ill and passed on you wouldn’t be where you are now and that is the real tragedy of it all
Another smooth expanse makes its way under your finger tips. It doesn’t hold the coolness of the timber but its smooth and warm to the touch. Instinctively it moves towards your touch craving more. Something you are more than willing to give.
A small sigh escapes and you are transfixed by the rise and fall of your son’s chest.
Your stomach flutters at the thought, but that’s what he is. Your son, born out of love and the tragedy that was your father’s passing. Cradled safely in the cot made for this very purpose, used by generations of House children and finally now by your own.
Slowly you guide your hand over the top of his head, your fingers running through the full head of brown hair it finds. Remembering fondly at the birth of your son, Dr Newcastle commented that she was unsure of the sex but at least it wasn’t going to go bald anytime soon.
You had initially thought she was having a dig at the slight appearance of a thinning patch of hair at the top of your scalp. But Wilson and your wife assured that your fears were unfounded and if anything it made you more distinguished. Your wife said that, if Wilson did then his sexuality was seriously in doubt since you were now a married man.
Married, now there’s a concept you wouldn’t think of it was just as absurd as being a father. But then again they sort of go together no matter how much you protested. It was at the urging of her parents, well, her father really. You had to make an honest woman out of his baby girl and if you didn’t well then there was very little chance of you procreating ever again.
That was the clincher, and frankly who would go against a former heavyweight boxer just because of the little gold band that now resides on his daughter’s finger along with the two-carat solitaire diamond next to it. Definitely not you; if life hadn’t taught you anything is that while having brains is a noble attribute to have, it is knowing when the father of the girl you currently are having sex with who happens to hold several championship boxing trophies usually wins.
But really you won. Because she now sleeps in your bed and wraps her arms around you and your body reacts instantly when she’s near and you know that you've come home.
“Difficult patient?” she asks from the door.
You nod absently but don’t turn around.
Her image is burned in your mind. She would be standing there with nothing but the red silk dressing gown you bought her in Paris while on your honeymoon, her honey brown curls would be brushing against the soft fabric and you smile. She’s here for you and only you.
Small hands snake around your waist her chest pressing firmly on your back as she pokes her head around your arm to look at the life you created together.
“He’s been gurgling up a storm today,” she whispers, “I suspect he missed his daddy.”
You can feel her smile on your arm.
Turning around you bringing her slight body closer, wrapping your arms around her waist, her bright blue green eyes pouring all the love you once denied into you.
“Probably not as much as his daddy missed his mommy,” you say kissing her softly.
“You won’t be saying that in four months time.”
“That’s what you think Mrs House,” you counter.
“Hey,” she protests softly, careful not to wake the sleeping bub, “That’s Dr Allison Cameron-House to you.”
You kiss her again, only deeper, hoping to show her how grateful you are that she shares your name and helped bring baby Liam Gregory into the world.
Together.
You’re not alone like you were all those months and years ago. It seems as if you had been handed another life, an alternate to what you had before. Only this time you’re not handing it back.
Because you’re home and that’s what matters.