Nat Locke: The wash-up from my Scandinavian holiday, including a $39 gin, jet-lag and a busted butt

So, I’m well and truly home from my Scandinavian travels now.

But there have been a few fun things in the wash-up. One was that I made the mistake of looking at my bank statement and that’s how I discovered the gin and tonic I had in a bar in Bergen cost me $39. I had been trying not to do the conversion because I didn’t want to ruin the fun of the moment. Look, it was a nice gin, OK?

Then, to indulge myself, I forked out to see Hamilton in London on my last night before heading home. What a treat. What a show. What a beautiful theatre.

What a surprise when, during the wedding scene in the first half, a woman dressed in black rushed onto the stage and ushered everyone off. Then the lights came on and a man politely told us that there were technical difficulties and we should hang tight (not his fancy English words) for further updates.

This, of course, was the theatrical equivalent of your direct flight to London being diverted to Singapore and I started to wonder if perhaps I was cursed. In positive news, there’s something quite entertaining about watching an entire theatre full of people looking completely confused and wondering out loud if this was part of the show. Yes, because why wouldn’t a woman in black pants and a black skivvy and a Madonna-style headset interrupt an American founding father’s wedding. Seems legit.

Happily, the show restarted about 10 minutes later, when someone handy with a screwdriver fixed the technical issue, and the evening continued without further interruptions.

The next major hurdle thrown up in my life following my arrival home has been jet-lag. Ugh. There is no greater post-holiday buzz kill than the feeling of utter exhaustion that jet-lag brings. I mean, my sleep patterns are completely messed up at the best of times, so add in a completely different time zone and a long-haul flight and now I don’t know what’s going on. There have been a LOT of naps this week, and when you’re already a professional napper like me, that’s saying something.

I get that jet-lag is the price you pay for significant international travel, so I’m prepared to wear it, but I’m not ready to like it.

There is also a quite literal price I’ve had to pay since returning home, and that is the $1564 vet bill incurred in my absence. That’s a bit of fun, isn’t it?

And no, it wasn’t the dog who clocked it up. This was surprising to me, too.

No, it was the cat, who has only required medical intervention once previously in her entire 13-year life. As luck would have it, she chose my Scandinavian holiday to be the occasion for her second emergency vet visit. Timing is everything.

The reason for the visit was basically a “busted arse”, which is not a clinical diagnosis, but is adequately descriptive. No one knows exactly how, but this cat, who spends most of her day and night snoring lightly on the couch, managed to sustain a deep wound on her rear end. The vet thinks it might have been during a cat fight, but she’s definitely a lover, not a fighter. And if she was in a fight, can we throw some derision at her opponent who clearly attacked from behind? Talk about a low blow.

Anyway, as these things do, the wound abscessed and burst and was then gaping open for my unfortunate house-sitter to notice. Cue vet visits, general anaesthetic, surgery, stitches and post-operative care involving a demoralising cone, medication and isolation inside.

And this is the bit where I bow down and acknowledge the true greatness of my house-sitter. To be fair, she’s not just some random I found on a community Facebook page — she’s a friend of mine. But still, to take on the responsibility of providing acute care for my cat’s wounded butt, on top of the frequent dog walks and rearranging the cupboard under my sink — she went above and beyond.

A bit of credit also goes to the cat, because she leapt at the opportunity to endear herself to this house-sitting friend by curling up on her lap and purring adorably the very first time she met her. This turned out to be a solid strategy because the attachment is real. Whether my cat anticipated that this friend would one day care for her savaged buttock or not is up for debate, but she (the cat) certainly made friends with the right person.

All I can say is that if you were to look around at your assembled friends, I hope you also have at least one who would take on the caring responsibilities of a cat with a busted butt. Because that’s what friends are for.