This one makes this girl see red:
Tuesday, December 30, 2008
Sunday, December 14, 2008
Wednesday, December 10, 2008
Election Days 07 and 08
The morning after the fateful election in which enough Australians finally, FINALLY, agreed that Howard should go, I woke up to a normal Sunday morning. If anything it was a little dull and depressed. The streets were damp with a drizzly vestige of rain and the sky was grey. The odd person shuffled up the street for milk and a paper. Not even one child with a bright towel skipped down to the beach.
This is a new world in which Howard is no longer our leader! Where are the rainbows? I asked myself. The Angels chorusing from sunbeam clouds. The bluebirds and butterflies. Where are the fireworks, streamers and choruses of "Yee Hars" on this historic day?
It was such an anti-climax. My life has not noticeably changed for the better, or for the worse.
Just under 12 months later in an even more historic and fateful election, America not only got rid of Bush, they voted in their first ever black president. You have to literally pinch yourself at something seemingly so too good to be true. Always imagined and hoped for, but never truly believed.
Our office came to a standstill as we watched Obama's victory speech streamed on BBC world news. But the next morning, I woke up to a morning just like every other. Again, no fireworks or rainbows. Not even a happy banner hung from a balcony or office block. No outward visible signs that anything had changed at all. No-one even mentioned it so I actually forgot, for a while, that it had even happened.
Nevertheless, this is a truly momentous event. It happened in my lifetime.
How can I possibly continue to blog about supermarkets, bogans and what the cat likes to kill for sport?
This is a new world in which Howard is no longer our leader! Where are the rainbows? I asked myself. The Angels chorusing from sunbeam clouds. The bluebirds and butterflies. Where are the fireworks, streamers and choruses of "Yee Hars" on this historic day?
It was such an anti-climax. My life has not noticeably changed for the better, or for the worse.
Just under 12 months later in an even more historic and fateful election, America not only got rid of Bush, they voted in their first ever black president. You have to literally pinch yourself at something seemingly so too good to be true. Always imagined and hoped for, but never truly believed.
Our office came to a standstill as we watched Obama's victory speech streamed on BBC world news. But the next morning, I woke up to a morning just like every other. Again, no fireworks or rainbows. Not even a happy banner hung from a balcony or office block. No outward visible signs that anything had changed at all. No-one even mentioned it so I actually forgot, for a while, that it had even happened.
Nevertheless, this is a truly momentous event. It happened in my lifetime.
How can I possibly continue to blog about supermarkets, bogans and what the cat likes to kill for sport?
Saturday, November 1, 2008
Carnage
I came home that night and opened the door on a dark and empty apartment. It was dead quiet and still. No signs of life. No-one to greet me. I sat and took off my shoes in the dark.
Then turned on lights to a gruesome scene. I found the first body not far from the entry way. It was flattened; pressed into the floor as if something heavy had landed on it. It had semi-adhered to the floor.
The second one was in the hall. There was no visible head, just a mulch where the head would normally be. As i came closer i figured out that what used to be the head was bent forward and pressed down into the chest. Compacted. It was round and fat, belly facing up, arms and legs spread at odd angles. The belly, not hardened by rigor mortis, was pale and soft and squishy. It yielded horribly, like jelly, under my touch.
I found the third in the kitchen in front of the fridge. Limp and twisted, partially dismembered.
I found a piece of one in the bathroom, lying in some blood stains.
Eventually the cat appeared. Stretching, languid, waking from a deep sleep in which she hadn't heard me come home, so hadn't run to meet me at the door as usual. She seemed exhausted.
I picked the corpses up one by one and flung them out nearest windows. Body#3 landed on the stairs. I trod on it on my way out the next morning, then sighted #2 lying in the grass as i stopped to bend to tickle the cat. Its upturned jelly belly was still fat and smooth and shiny.
+ + + + + +
It was several days before I discovered a fourth.
There was a sort of unpleasant smell in the bedroom I just couldn't place. I wondered if my neighbour had been mulching the garden with a particularly rich fertiliser, but the smell disappeared outside the window. My nostrils kept flaring and sniffing around the room, knowing this was not the sort of thing that could be ignored.
And there it was, under the bed. Not as mangled as the others, but just as dead.
Then turned on lights to a gruesome scene. I found the first body not far from the entry way. It was flattened; pressed into the floor as if something heavy had landed on it. It had semi-adhered to the floor.
The second one was in the hall. There was no visible head, just a mulch where the head would normally be. As i came closer i figured out that what used to be the head was bent forward and pressed down into the chest. Compacted. It was round and fat, belly facing up, arms and legs spread at odd angles. The belly, not hardened by rigor mortis, was pale and soft and squishy. It yielded horribly, like jelly, under my touch.
I found the third in the kitchen in front of the fridge. Limp and twisted, partially dismembered.
I found a piece of one in the bathroom, lying in some blood stains.
Eventually the cat appeared. Stretching, languid, waking from a deep sleep in which she hadn't heard me come home, so hadn't run to meet me at the door as usual. She seemed exhausted.
I picked the corpses up one by one and flung them out nearest windows. Body#3 landed on the stairs. I trod on it on my way out the next morning, then sighted #2 lying in the grass as i stopped to bend to tickle the cat. Its upturned jelly belly was still fat and smooth and shiny.
+ + + + + +
It was several days before I discovered a fourth.
There was a sort of unpleasant smell in the bedroom I just couldn't place. I wondered if my neighbour had been mulching the garden with a particularly rich fertiliser, but the smell disappeared outside the window. My nostrils kept flaring and sniffing around the room, knowing this was not the sort of thing that could be ignored.
And there it was, under the bed. Not as mangled as the others, but just as dead.
Thursday, October 30, 2008
LCD
I'm not like most people. And I'm not just being pretentiously individualistic. (no, really...) I know it for a fact because i've watched so many of my favourite things disappear from the store shelves these last few years.
An entire brand of boutique ice-cream. Bought out by a competing conglomerate and promptly killed.
A variety of honey. Gone.
Favourite flavour in an ice-cream range: Discontinued.
Ditto a refillable style of air-freshener, a chocolate block, a fresh fruit juice flavour.....
And whatever happened to dark chocolate Bounties? They came and went faster than a new TV series that fails to hit ratings targets in its first week of broadcast.
I took to emailing customer support for explanations.
One replied: "Unfortunately due to sales this product has been deleted."
On the phone to another company, I met a woman who was more candid. Because the big chains would no longer stock the product it was not worth their while making it. So reluctantly they stopped.
I'm sure if i dug further the blame would almost fully lie with Coles and Woolies. They have the technology to count actual individual unit sales over a time period. And their policy is to yank anything that doesn't sell a million units per second. Or thereabouts.
So much for a world of increasing diversity and freedom of choice in which anything we could ever dream of is available to us. Economic rationalism ultimately rules.
In a UK supermarket recently i was quite shocked at how limited my choices were. It was that supermarket's own crap brand of product or one or two other feeble crap alternatives. Often there was no choice at all.
I've noticed Coles, in an act of outrageous egotism and misrepresentation, have deleted some small, independent supplier's genuinely organic popping corn from the health food shelves and replaced it with Coles own brand. There is nothing organic about this Coles brand product. It should be in the snack food aisle alongside the other non-organic popcorns. How stupid do they think i am?
So, unless you're like everybody else, and you like the things that just about everybody else likes, you're going to have to get used to intense, but short-term relationships with some favourite things. Because brand owners won't stop trying to diversify and bring out new varieties, but these "delicacies" won't stick around if they're not massively popular.
Thank god staples like fruit and veg don't seem to suffer this.
Imagine if they stopped growing avocados due to lack of interest.
The horror!
An entire brand of boutique ice-cream. Bought out by a competing conglomerate and promptly killed.
A variety of honey. Gone.
Favourite flavour in an ice-cream range: Discontinued.
Ditto a refillable style of air-freshener, a chocolate block, a fresh fruit juice flavour.....
And whatever happened to dark chocolate Bounties? They came and went faster than a new TV series that fails to hit ratings targets in its first week of broadcast.
I took to emailing customer support for explanations.
One replied: "Unfortunately due to sales this product has been deleted."
On the phone to another company, I met a woman who was more candid. Because the big chains would no longer stock the product it was not worth their while making it. So reluctantly they stopped.
I'm sure if i dug further the blame would almost fully lie with Coles and Woolies. They have the technology to count actual individual unit sales over a time period. And their policy is to yank anything that doesn't sell a million units per second. Or thereabouts.
So much for a world of increasing diversity and freedom of choice in which anything we could ever dream of is available to us. Economic rationalism ultimately rules.
In a UK supermarket recently i was quite shocked at how limited my choices were. It was that supermarket's own crap brand of product or one or two other feeble crap alternatives. Often there was no choice at all.
I've noticed Coles, in an act of outrageous egotism and misrepresentation, have deleted some small, independent supplier's genuinely organic popping corn from the health food shelves and replaced it with Coles own brand. There is nothing organic about this Coles brand product. It should be in the snack food aisle alongside the other non-organic popcorns. How stupid do they think i am?
So, unless you're like everybody else, and you like the things that just about everybody else likes, you're going to have to get used to intense, but short-term relationships with some favourite things. Because brand owners won't stop trying to diversify and bring out new varieties, but these "delicacies" won't stick around if they're not massively popular.
Thank god staples like fruit and veg don't seem to suffer this.
Imagine if they stopped growing avocados due to lack of interest.
The horror!
Wednesday, October 29, 2008
Diss in Code
"SHAVE YOUR ARMPITS YOU TROLLOP!!"
The young man's voice yelled at me from a passing car.
I was wearing a sleeveless dress but it was after sunset so he couldn't have possibly seen my armpits.
And if he had he'd have seen they were shaved.
So I wondered if perhaps this was Brisbane code for "Get a car or get off the road you greenie hippy cyclist."
?
Tuesday, October 28, 2008
Work in Progress
Brisbane is under-construction. Opening soon for business!
These shots were taken in a single 15 minute commute across the city.
I did not make any detours or special efforts to find them.
I just stopped my bike and snapped, and there were plenty more i didn't shoot.
The off-road cycle-path alone has no less than 4 detours, slow-down or get-off-and walk zones due to construction works.
This is just a tiny subset of the city's construction zones.
And the city is full of dust.
Warning: I am not a photographer. Not even pretending there's anything interesting or pretty about these shots.
Sunday, October 26, 2008
tailless skink tales - continued
The cat's patience and focus is admirable, enviable. She's determined single-minded, and had been staking out the garden shed for hours. I went out and came home a few hours later and found her patience rewarded. A dead skink belly-up on my kitchen floor.
Surprise to me: skinks have red blood, just like us.
No sign of cat though. She's back at the shed. Staking out another one. Her cat-brain logic says if there was a skink there before there'll be another one now. That's probably true. But it's bloody minded.
Surprise to me: skinks have red blood, just like us.
No sign of cat though. She's back at the shed. Staking out another one. Her cat-brain logic says if there was a skink there before there'll be another one now. That's probably true. But it's bloody minded.
Sunday, September 14, 2008
I say "Bah!" to Blog Post Numbering
"Suddenly stopping after regular use can cause withdrawal symptoms, that can include anxiety, depression, loss of appetite, irritation, aggressive behaviour, dizziness, tremors and nausea."
This was taken from a website with helpful info about chroming.
Can also be applied to divorce and giving up chocolate.
Saturday, September 13, 2008
Number 40
There's a sequence in a sit-com i like, in which the satellite reception turns bad. Charlie is about to "call the man", but Alan knows this is a simple fix. So he gets a ladder, climbs up on the roof, gives it a small adjustment (while his brother downstairs watches the TV and yells instructions) and the picture is easily restored. Alan climbs back down the ladder, the ladder slips.....
Cut to Alan returning from the hospital in a half body cast. His brother is unsympathetic. "You should have just called the man." When friends and family see Alan and hear the story their response is "Why didn't you just call the man?"
I sympathise with Alan. To his credit, he DID fix the TV reception.
Cut to my broken cat door. Simple enough. It just needs 4 screws to put it back in place. It will take minutes.
I sit down with my tools and meagre collection of odd left-ofter screws but soon realise i don't have a necessary cordless power tool. The manual screwdriver is not working. None of my screws are long enough, and don't have lock nuts or washers to fit. The original bits of hardware are long gone, and the plastic holes in the cat-door are worn and torn. With a small degree of frustration at not being able to do the simplest task that requires only the most rudimentary understanding of mechanics and handyman-ness, I call the agent and they call the man.
A couple of days later i come home and the cat door is all fixed. It was effortless, apart from the few days wait. And i think maybe Alan should have just called the man after all, too.
EXCEPT - a closer look - the cat door's been put on backwards. This means the flaps don't work properly, the cat's afraid to use it, and i can't seal it closed at night for security, from the inside.
Have i learned my lesson tho?
No. I wait the couple of days for the weekend when i am sure i can fix it myself in a now that the door is in place with all the proper length screws, washers and nuts. All i need is my phillips head screwdriver. Whip it off, turn it around, screw it back on again. Easy peasy.
Wrong again. Turns out the door was in such bad shape (which is why it fell off in the first place) that the job's been completely bodgied-up. The screws are GLUED in place. I can crack off a couple of them. But by the time i'm at the third one, and have spent a good 20 minutes trying all sorts of pliers, clamps and every other tool in my box on the task, i've completely destroyed the head of the screw and it's barely budged. The level of frustration is making me sweat a little, and curse.
I am forced to give up.
On the plus side. All my fiddling around means the cat-flaps works better now. So at least it's more usable. So.... not a complete waste of time.
On Monday I am going to have to call the man.
Cut to Alan returning from the hospital in a half body cast. His brother is unsympathetic. "You should have just called the man." When friends and family see Alan and hear the story their response is "Why didn't you just call the man?"
I sympathise with Alan. To his credit, he DID fix the TV reception.
Cut to my broken cat door. Simple enough. It just needs 4 screws to put it back in place. It will take minutes.
I sit down with my tools and meagre collection of odd left-ofter screws but soon realise i don't have a necessary cordless power tool. The manual screwdriver is not working. None of my screws are long enough, and don't have lock nuts or washers to fit. The original bits of hardware are long gone, and the plastic holes in the cat-door are worn and torn. With a small degree of frustration at not being able to do the simplest task that requires only the most rudimentary understanding of mechanics and handyman-ness, I call the agent and they call the man.
A couple of days later i come home and the cat door is all fixed. It was effortless, apart from the few days wait. And i think maybe Alan should have just called the man after all, too.
EXCEPT - a closer look - the cat door's been put on backwards. This means the flaps don't work properly, the cat's afraid to use it, and i can't seal it closed at night for security, from the inside.
Have i learned my lesson tho?
No. I wait the couple of days for the weekend when i am sure i can fix it myself in a now that the door is in place with all the proper length screws, washers and nuts. All i need is my phillips head screwdriver. Whip it off, turn it around, screw it back on again. Easy peasy.
Wrong again. Turns out the door was in such bad shape (which is why it fell off in the first place) that the job's been completely bodgied-up. The screws are GLUED in place. I can crack off a couple of them. But by the time i'm at the third one, and have spent a good 20 minutes trying all sorts of pliers, clamps and every other tool in my box on the task, i've completely destroyed the head of the screw and it's barely budged. The level of frustration is making me sweat a little, and curse.
I am forced to give up.
On the plus side. All my fiddling around means the cat-flaps works better now. So at least it's more usable. So.... not a complete waste of time.
On Monday I am going to have to call the man.
Sunday, September 7, 2008
Number 39
I've turned into one of those people who:
Then one day you're talking to someone and listening to the words coming out of your mouth with the horrible knowledge that you sound just like your mother.
- leaves the washing up in the sink until the next morning, or (worse) lets it build up for days
- has piles of paperwork on their desk, undealt with, unfiled
- has uncontrollable email; hundreds of un-filed messages; an inbox i can no longer manage.
- sort of hates email now
- has a dozen partially read books spread around the house
- watches YouTube instead of TV
- has started doing those annoying things their parents did.
Then one day you're talking to someone and listening to the words coming out of your mouth with the horrible knowledge that you sound just like your mother.
Saturday, September 6, 2008
Ex number 38
Everyone Forgets The Lawnmower Man
The morning, light and sunny, feels full of optimistic suburban summery-ness. It makes its usual sounds, and i know i'm in Australia because i hear the trademark laughing of the Kookaburras, and a lawnmower's hum that takes me right back to my childhood and suburban weekend summers.
Except it's not Summer. Not even Spring yet. (This is the new climate i'm getting used to.) And it's not yet the weekend. Instead it's Friday, and i'm just out of the shower, getting ready for work, and thinking, "Kookaburras? On a day like this?"
My dad once told me that if the Kookaburras pass thru the area laughing, they're signalling rain to everyone. Like nature's town criers. It's a quaint legend, i think, looking again at that too-blue-to-be-true sky. Then the mower reaches a sort of crescendo as it passes under my window so i look out and see....
Damn. The washing. The washing that i'd left on the line so the morning sun could dry out those last dampnesses of morning dew. Now the air is filled with a shrapnel of dust and grass-ends and dead leaves. (Why is Brisbane so dusty?) And there he goes, flicking my towel up out of the way so he can mow past. I urgently need to rescue it.
All i'm wearing is a towel so first i have to find something quick to throw on. Amazing how hard it is to find anything that's fit-to-be-seen-wearing-in public when you're rushed. The dirty clothes basket suddenly seems a handy source. (!) (Reminds me of the interesting things i saw people wearing that morning we were evacuated from the London hotel due to fire.)
I don't have time to question what IS he doing exactly? That the lawn is so thin and flat there's really nothing to mow. I run down stairs and do a plausible impersonation of "speed unhanging" where i have to really quickly pull off the pegs and take down the clothes at the same time and throw them in the basket and mostly miss and i just don't have enough hands and.....
The rhythm of the lawnmower sound has sort of stopped. So i stop the unpegging. And i turn my head and see the lawnmower man just standing, smiling, leaning on the handle of his idling mower. Smiling at me. Waiting. Patiently.
Smiling and waiting for me to finish unpegging because i'm standing in his way.
And for some reason i think i need to explain myself.
"I don't want dust in my clothes."
He's un-worried. "I get that a lot. Everyone forgets about the lawnmower man."
I process this as i keep unpegging, and figure that you can' t forget about this sort of thing if it's expected or timetabled. Therefore it must be a regular event.
"You're here every Friday?"
"No."
A pause. I keep unpegging. He's now standing next to me, watching. I'm glad my undies or lingerie weren't in this load.
"It's usually Wednesday"
I want not be one of those people who always forgets the lawnmower man. I don't want dust in my future sun-dried, morning-dew-refreshed washing.
"So i should keep that in mind on Wednesdays."
"No........"
(GOD! Of course not! )
".....It's not always Wednesday."
And, after another pause to think about it, he continued in his deliberate, unhurried way of speaking, to explain the conditions and exceptions that meant it couldn't be guaranteed to be a Wednesday and that even then it might not even be him it might be ..... but my mind and ears shut down there. It was too silly. And a bit creepy. I just wanted to gather my dear little washing and bustle it all safely inside.
No wonder everyone forgets the lawnmower man. He doesn't come on Friday, but he's here today (Friday). And he's sometimes here on Wednesday, but not always, and sometimes it's someone else anyway. And i'm sure it's not always in the morning because i've lived here for months and this is the first time i've seen or heard him.
So .... what's to remember?
Remember to never leave your clothes out on the line overnight - that's what. The lawnmower man could strike at any time. And only when you're not expecting him.
Oh, and dad was right about the kookaburras. It pelted down in the afternoon. So thanks to the lawnmower man, my clothes weren't rained on.
The morning, light and sunny, feels full of optimistic suburban summery-ness. It makes its usual sounds, and i know i'm in Australia because i hear the trademark laughing of the Kookaburras, and a lawnmower's hum that takes me right back to my childhood and suburban weekend summers.
Except it's not Summer. Not even Spring yet. (This is the new climate i'm getting used to.) And it's not yet the weekend. Instead it's Friday, and i'm just out of the shower, getting ready for work, and thinking, "Kookaburras? On a day like this?"
My dad once told me that if the Kookaburras pass thru the area laughing, they're signalling rain to everyone. Like nature's town criers. It's a quaint legend, i think, looking again at that too-blue-to-be-true sky. Then the mower reaches a sort of crescendo as it passes under my window so i look out and see....
Damn. The washing. The washing that i'd left on the line so the morning sun could dry out those last dampnesses of morning dew. Now the air is filled with a shrapnel of dust and grass-ends and dead leaves. (Why is Brisbane so dusty?) And there he goes, flicking my towel up out of the way so he can mow past. I urgently need to rescue it.
All i'm wearing is a towel so first i have to find something quick to throw on. Amazing how hard it is to find anything that's fit-to-be-seen-wearing-in public when you're rushed. The dirty clothes basket suddenly seems a handy source. (!) (Reminds me of the interesting things i saw people wearing that morning we were evacuated from the London hotel due to fire.)
I don't have time to question what IS he doing exactly? That the lawn is so thin and flat there's really nothing to mow. I run down stairs and do a plausible impersonation of "speed unhanging" where i have to really quickly pull off the pegs and take down the clothes at the same time and throw them in the basket and mostly miss and i just don't have enough hands and.....
The rhythm of the lawnmower sound has sort of stopped. So i stop the unpegging. And i turn my head and see the lawnmower man just standing, smiling, leaning on the handle of his idling mower. Smiling at me. Waiting. Patiently.
Smiling and waiting for me to finish unpegging because i'm standing in his way.
And for some reason i think i need to explain myself.
"I don't want dust in my clothes."
He's un-worried. "I get that a lot. Everyone forgets about the lawnmower man."
I process this as i keep unpegging, and figure that you can' t forget about this sort of thing if it's expected or timetabled. Therefore it must be a regular event.
"You're here every Friday?"
"No."
A pause. I keep unpegging. He's now standing next to me, watching. I'm glad my undies or lingerie weren't in this load.
"It's usually Wednesday"
I want not be one of those people who always forgets the lawnmower man. I don't want dust in my future sun-dried, morning-dew-refreshed washing.
"So i should keep that in mind on Wednesdays."
"No........"
(GOD! Of course not! )
".....It's not always Wednesday."
And, after another pause to think about it, he continued in his deliberate, unhurried way of speaking, to explain the conditions and exceptions that meant it couldn't be guaranteed to be a Wednesday and that even then it might not even be him it might be ..... but my mind and ears shut down there. It was too silly. And a bit creepy. I just wanted to gather my dear little washing and bustle it all safely inside.
No wonder everyone forgets the lawnmower man. He doesn't come on Friday, but he's here today (Friday). And he's sometimes here on Wednesday, but not always, and sometimes it's someone else anyway. And i'm sure it's not always in the morning because i've lived here for months and this is the first time i've seen or heard him.
So .... what's to remember?
Remember to never leave your clothes out on the line overnight - that's what. The lawnmower man could strike at any time. And only when you're not expecting him.
Oh, and dad was right about the kookaburras. It pelted down in the afternoon. So thanks to the lawnmower man, my clothes weren't rained on.
Sunday, August 24, 2008
Ex 37
The fridge and cupboard were emptier than they'd ever been and I realised that at some point I'd started avoiding the supermarket. So, to take the chore out of grocery shopping, I decided to only buy rhyming food.
Soya Cheese
Wasabi Peas
Grapefruit juice
Strawberry mousse
Brown Rice
Coconut Ice
Apricot Jam
Sliced Ham
Ice Cream
Fresh Bream
T-bone steak
Carrot cake
Salad Greens
Tinned Sardines
It posed more limitations that I expected, so I've ended up with a kitchen full of food I'll never eat. I'm not fond of coconut ice, for example and I'm vegetarian so most of it was almost a complete mistake. The cat's in heaven, though. Sardines. Fresh fish! STEAK!! She'll never eat cat food again.
As it is, I still can't come up with anything that rhymes with chocolate, so I'm abandoning the whole idea immediately.
Soya Cheese
Wasabi Peas
Grapefruit juice
Strawberry mousse
Brown Rice
Coconut Ice
Apricot Jam
Sliced Ham
Ice Cream
Fresh Bream
T-bone steak
Carrot cake
Salad Greens
Tinned Sardines
It posed more limitations that I expected, so I've ended up with a kitchen full of food I'll never eat. I'm not fond of coconut ice, for example and I'm vegetarian so most of it was almost a complete mistake. The cat's in heaven, though. Sardines. Fresh fish! STEAK!! She'll never eat cat food again.
As it is, I still can't come up with anything that rhymes with chocolate, so I'm abandoning the whole idea immediately.
Saturday, August 2, 2008
Exersoize 36
I've driven my car about 3 times since moving to Briz. It mostly sits in the back lane. In the sun, catching bird poo under a small tree.
My parents are worried something horrible will happen to it due to disuse. Misshapen tyres, flat battery, seized up engine, that kind of thing. I'm probably naive in things mechanical, but i thought modern cars were above that kind of thing.
Nevertheless, I've managed to find reasons to take it out for a spin every now and then - got it up to 90 kmh briefly on a bit of freeway. It starts perfectly every time and runs as if it's been driven every day. So it seems i'm getting away with the neglect.
Wonder if i should take the blog for a spin around the block before it seizes up too.
My parents are worried something horrible will happen to it due to disuse. Misshapen tyres, flat battery, seized up engine, that kind of thing. I'm probably naive in things mechanical, but i thought modern cars were above that kind of thing.
Nevertheless, I've managed to find reasons to take it out for a spin every now and then - got it up to 90 kmh briefly on a bit of freeway. It starts perfectly every time and runs as if it's been driven every day. So it seems i'm getting away with the neglect.
Wonder if i should take the blog for a spin around the block before it seizes up too.
Friday, June 27, 2008
Day Twenty Nine
I wonder why I'm keeping these cities anonymous.
Why is it important that my experiences don't have an actual spot on the globe?
Why don't I want that fact to colour my reader's impressions?
It's especially mad given the 1 or 2 people that do read this know EXACTLY where I am and which cities I'm talking about.
I think it's some kind of internet paranoia. This is a public site, so my exact location shouldn't be out there for anyone to see.
And yet what's the point of describing this in detail if it's no-where's-ville?
It'd be like writing a travel book but refusing to name the destinations.
Mad.
Why is it important that my experiences don't have an actual spot on the globe?
Why don't I want that fact to colour my reader's impressions?
It's especially mad given the 1 or 2 people that do read this know EXACTLY where I am and which cities I'm talking about.
I think it's some kind of internet paranoia. This is a public site, so my exact location shouldn't be out there for anyone to see.
And yet what's the point of describing this in detail if it's no-where's-ville?
It'd be like writing a travel book but refusing to name the destinations.
Mad.
Thursday, June 26, 2008
Day Twenty Eight
At the entry to the pool I found I'd left my money at home. Found only small change at the bottom of my bag. Meanwhile, another swimmer (a total stranger) arrived at the counter and tried to pay for me. I thanked him and refused. The guy behind the counter meanwhile is saying, don't bother, go ahead. He wouldn't even take my small change because the cash register couldn't handle it.
"I'm here every week," I promised. "I'll pay next weekend."
But he just waved it aside: "It's Sunday."
Such graciousness and lightness. I can't imagine that happening in a capital city, like the capital city I recently lived in.
"I'm here every week," I promised. "I'll pay next weekend."
But he just waved it aside: "It's Sunday."
Such graciousness and lightness. I can't imagine that happening in a capital city, like the capital city I recently lived in.
Wednesday, June 25, 2008
Day Twenty Seven
Skink Day.
I've alarmed a half a dozen really pretty skinks this morning, sunning themselves on rocks, garden edges, even one on the footpath. They slither expertly into crevices when I walk past.
Inadvertently fed live animals to my cat for breakfast, when I saw the first 2 moths ever since arriving here. I know how much cat loves to play with them, and thought I was handing her a toy when I brushed them down to her from up high; but she was less interested in playing than just eating them straightaway. My vaguely Buddhist sympathisings struggle momentarily with what I've just done.
I've heard them plenty of times but tonight I see for the first time one of the possums who live in our palm trees.
I've alarmed a half a dozen really pretty skinks this morning, sunning themselves on rocks, garden edges, even one on the footpath. They slither expertly into crevices when I walk past.
Inadvertently fed live animals to my cat for breakfast, when I saw the first 2 moths ever since arriving here. I know how much cat loves to play with them, and thought I was handing her a toy when I brushed them down to her from up high; but she was less interested in playing than just eating them straightaway. My vaguely Buddhist sympathisings struggle momentarily with what I've just done.
I've heard them plenty of times but tonight I see for the first time one of the possums who live in our palm trees.
Tuesday, June 24, 2008
Day Twenty Six
My friend returned from a year and a half with MSF in Africa, working hard, and living minimally. She returned home reluctant to deal with her personal belongings that had been in storage the entire time. "I just don’t want any stuff".
Sitting in my comfy home on my nice sofa, surrounded by the things I'd collected and decorated my apartment with, I couldn't relate. But when I then put all that stuff away in boxes, and was then faced with unpacking it all again in a new place, I found I would have preferred to just throw most of it away. 50% of it is necessary or vaguely functional at the most. The rest is just comforting. Or potentially useful maybe one day in the future - for some imagined unique situation. I sent unpacked boxes into storage, stacked a few up in the corner of the study. And I don't want to buy anything new or own anything more than I already have. I want to start using it up and throwing it away.
Ironically, since moving here I've had to buy new stuff. But only basics that this rental apartment failed to provide.
Happiness is a clean new toilet seat, a toilet roll holder, a shower curtain to keep the water off things that shouldn't be wet, a shower head that actually works, a light bulb so I can see inside the fridge at night, and thermal curtains for the fiercest western sun I've ever had to squint and sweat into.
Sitting in my comfy home on my nice sofa, surrounded by the things I'd collected and decorated my apartment with, I couldn't relate. But when I then put all that stuff away in boxes, and was then faced with unpacking it all again in a new place, I found I would have preferred to just throw most of it away. 50% of it is necessary or vaguely functional at the most. The rest is just comforting. Or potentially useful maybe one day in the future - for some imagined unique situation. I sent unpacked boxes into storage, stacked a few up in the corner of the study. And I don't want to buy anything new or own anything more than I already have. I want to start using it up and throwing it away.
Ironically, since moving here I've had to buy new stuff. But only basics that this rental apartment failed to provide.
Happiness is a clean new toilet seat, a toilet roll holder, a shower curtain to keep the water off things that shouldn't be wet, a shower head that actually works, a light bulb so I can see inside the fridge at night, and thermal curtains for the fiercest western sun I've ever had to squint and sweat into.
Monday, June 23, 2008
Day Twenty Five
A dream.
I'm unfamiliar with the roads and traffic, so I made a botched attempt at crossing.
I make it halfway across to the centre line, but am looking the wrong way.
Just as a bus or truck comes up from my blindside, and is about to flatten me I wake up, feeling shocked.
I'm unfamiliar with the roads and traffic, so I made a botched attempt at crossing.
I make it halfway across to the centre line, but am looking the wrong way.
Just as a bus or truck comes up from my blindside, and is about to flatten me I wake up, feeling shocked.
Sunday, June 22, 2008
Day Twenty Three
I travelled 950km back to my old home town for a couple of days, the source of the grains of sand. 950km further from the equator, closer to the pole. So I packed jumpers and winter clothes, prepared for a cold I'm no longer used too. But it didn't feel cold. I didn't notice the weather. Instead this evening, back in my new home town, I broke out in a sweat on a short walk to the supermarket, overdressed and noticed how exceptionally warm it was.
Saturday, June 21, 2008
Friday, June 20, 2008
Day Nineteen
Late night shopping in the city and I am again frustrated by the lack of bike racks in the mall. It's so odd to ride in a city that's so obviously bicycle friendly - with clearly marked bike paths along the major streets and an official bicentennial bikeway along the entire river - only to face the opposite in the pedestrian area. There's just nowhere to chain it up. Seems the city council isn't interested in making life easy for us once we get OFF our bikes. I acknowledge that this area is devoted to pedestrians only - no vehicles of any kind - but wouldn't you then put bike racks at the periphery? There are a couple of car parking stations nearby, so they thought about the motorists. I walk my bike beside me thru the crowds, looking around lost and feeling foolish, wondering where I'm going to dump the thing, hyper-aware of one bit of important local knowledge I lack. And I have a renewed gratitude to and respect for the local bike group in the shire in which I used to live. They lobbied for bike racks in the pedestrian mall. I might have taken those conveniences a bit for granted.
Thursday, June 19, 2008
Day Eighteen
I was told late night shopping was Thursday; same as what I'm used to.
Imagine my surprise to find all the shops in the city closed. The suburbs have late night Thursday shopping, but in the City it's Friday night. Odd. And confusing to a newcomer. Maybe they hope to catch a whole lot of drunken impulse buys. Friday night's usually the drinks after work night. It seems to be a habit to crack open the beers at 4.30 every Friday in my office, for example.
Imagine my surprise to find all the shops in the city closed. The suburbs have late night Thursday shopping, but in the City it's Friday night. Odd. And confusing to a newcomer. Maybe they hope to catch a whole lot of drunken impulse buys. Friday night's usually the drinks after work night. It seems to be a habit to crack open the beers at 4.30 every Friday in my office, for example.
Wednesday, June 18, 2008
Tuesday, June 17, 2008
Day Sixteen
I step outside to take a phone call and see:
Wild turkeys have wandered down from the nearby mountains and are poking around the gardens in the front of the office.
Wild turkeys have wandered down from the nearby mountains and are poking around the gardens in the front of the office.
Monday, June 16, 2008
Day Fifteen
I may have moved about 1000 KM north, but this still isn't the Tropics. I officially wore a jumper around the house tonight.
Sunday, June 15, 2008
Day Fourteen
1. I wake and hear church bells and like it. Reminds me of Europe.
2. Both doors of my odd little wall cupboards in the living room are open, symmetrically. Odd. I remember closing them. Did the cat have a poke around last night? I close them again.
It's the first bout of restless weather I've had here. The rain's stopped, but the palms are hissing and rattling outside in the random cold gusts. Then another rustle, a sigh of wind, and calmly, in silence, just like in a scary movie, both doors in unison open themselves. The wind must be working thru the veins and crevices of this light old timber building.
3. There's a blob on my ceiling and I think "Good! A moth for the cat to play with. She will be pleased." Up close however, the scrunched up thing looks less like a moth, less pleasant. So I use the cup and piece of cardboard technique. Inside the cup is a small but nasty looking green spider I've never seen before and it goes straight out the bathroom window. Sorry cat. Not taking any chances.
2. Both doors of my odd little wall cupboards in the living room are open, symmetrically. Odd. I remember closing them. Did the cat have a poke around last night? I close them again.
It's the first bout of restless weather I've had here. The rain's stopped, but the palms are hissing and rattling outside in the random cold gusts. Then another rustle, a sigh of wind, and calmly, in silence, just like in a scary movie, both doors in unison open themselves. The wind must be working thru the veins and crevices of this light old timber building.
3. There's a blob on my ceiling and I think "Good! A moth for the cat to play with. She will be pleased." Up close however, the scrunched up thing looks less like a moth, less pleasant. So I use the cup and piece of cardboard technique. Inside the cup is a small but nasty looking green spider I've never seen before and it goes straight out the bathroom window. Sorry cat. Not taking any chances.
Saturday, June 14, 2008
Day Thirteen
1. Huge black crows clunk their toenails on the corrugated iron roof of my flat, and the one opposite. Their black feathers have an amazing opalescent deep blue sheen in the afternoon sun.
2. A thunderstorm compiles at sunset. The sky is a three dimensional gradient from cool blue sky in the east to dirty brown and warm orange textured storm clouds in the west. The colours of the building glow with a never before seen orange-yellow luminosity. The sheeny glazing of a new modern block of flats reflects mirror walls of Bright blue grey. Then the rain. A strange, unfamiliar thing. It's as if I've not seen rain like this for years. Big fat heavy and thick. The umbrella only keeps my head and shoulders dry and I need galoshes to wade across the rivers gushing in every gutter and kerb. My front path and steps have become a cascading water-feature. As if a landscaper had planned it that way.
2. A thunderstorm compiles at sunset. The sky is a three dimensional gradient from cool blue sky in the east to dirty brown and warm orange textured storm clouds in the west. The colours of the building glow with a never before seen orange-yellow luminosity. The sheeny glazing of a new modern block of flats reflects mirror walls of Bright blue grey. Then the rain. A strange, unfamiliar thing. It's as if I've not seen rain like this for years. Big fat heavy and thick. The umbrella only keeps my head and shoulders dry and I need galoshes to wade across the rivers gushing in every gutter and kerb. My front path and steps have become a cascading water-feature. As if a landscaper had planned it that way.
Friday, June 13, 2008
Day Twelve
1. Beware the shiny, new model ute. The driver might be aggressive, short tempered, impatient, and will rev loudly and take off too fast at lights.
2. The tap water's slightly brownish. However I've been drinking for a couple of weeks with no apparent bad effects.
3. Tropical sounding birds make unfamiliar signs outside my window, day and night at random. One day I'll ask a local what all the different noises are. I do know and recognise the possum sounds - the running thru the trees, the coughing.
2. The tap water's slightly brownish. However I've been drinking for a couple of weeks with no apparent bad effects.
3. Tropical sounding birds make unfamiliar signs outside my window, day and night at random. One day I'll ask a local what all the different noises are. I do know and recognise the possum sounds - the running thru the trees, the coughing.
Thursday, June 12, 2008
Day Eleven
When experimenting with new yoga schools in a strange town, it's best to find out first what style it is. Doing a vastly different style to what you expect is a fantastic exercise in mental discipline; in accepting things for what they are without drawing comparisons. After winning that little battle over my mind, I came out of the class very relaxed.
During class there was a intermittent cheeping noise, very loud in the great acoustics of the huge curved ceiling and the silence of our class. It sounded like some slightly exotic tropical bird but somehow I knew it was a gecko. Even tho it's such a big, unexpected sound for such a small lizard. But there it was, some bit of random info stored unconsciously in my brain from I don't know when or where: The weird, unlikely call of the gecko.
During class there was a intermittent cheeping noise, very loud in the great acoustics of the huge curved ceiling and the silence of our class. It sounded like some slightly exotic tropical bird but somehow I knew it was a gecko. Even tho it's such a big, unexpected sound for such a small lizard. But there it was, some bit of random info stored unconsciously in my brain from I don't know when or where: The weird, unlikely call of the gecko.
Wednesday, June 11, 2008
Day Ten
1. I do a long, intense day in the office, after work I make it to dance class (just) and I'm home with takeaway by 7.30pm.
Life's timeshifted here. I'm having some kind of jetlag.
2. I find my dance shoes that have been lost since I packed everything up a couple of weeks ago. Everything seems to turn up eventually.
Life's timeshifted here. I'm having some kind of jetlag.
2. I find my dance shoes that have been lost since I packed everything up a couple of weeks ago. Everything seems to turn up eventually.
Tuesday, June 10, 2008
Day Nine
There is no sushi train in this city. This day is not an adventure. It's just a long hard day of work. I discover that the traffic lights take a long time to change, that the supermarket in the CBD really is as awful as my colleague said it was, and that the large areas of bicycle friendliness are countered by other areas of extreme unfriendliness. (In other words, the type of things that you live with for so long in your hometown, that you can come to accept and ignore - a combination of domestic blindness and learning to work around it.) There are some new limitations in my new home town that I have to learn to work around - such as the apparent lack of bike racks in or anywhere near the pedestrian mall in which bikes are banned.
'The honeymoon's over' as they say.
'The honeymoon's over' as they say.
Monday, June 9, 2008
Day Eight
1. Yesterday my friend said I'd see a lot of geckos here, in Summer. This evening a little gecko ran across my letterbox, and a large one across my living room wall. The cat was excited. There's a dearth of moths and bugs here and it's the first bit of wildlife she's had to play with since we moved. Then she was confused and disappointed when the gecko moved with speed and disappeared forever into a crevice.
2. My internet service provider informs me they won't be connecting me today afterall. I remain offline and must wait at least another week.
2. My internet service provider informs me they won't be connecting me today afterall. I remain offline and must wait at least another week.
Sunday, June 8, 2008
Day Seven
1. I'm at The Valley Pool humming Frank Zappa's 'Valley Girl' running backwards and forward like a side-show plate spinner between the time-controlled shower taps trying to keep at least 2 showers on at once to because for some reason it's the only way to make the water come out hot enough to wash my hair under. I remember my recent swim and Sydney, and notice the signage in this particular public swimming pool change room is error free of and wants no correction. Several of the signs refer to Level 6 water restrictions and responsibiy limiting our showers to under 2 mins.
2. On my way out of the pool I find the pen I lost yesterday.
2. On my way out of the pool I find the pen I lost yesterday.
Saturday, June 7, 2008
Day Six
1. My local pool is about 5 minutes ride from home. The staff are really friendly. The water's clean and the perfect temperature. I swim outdoors in fresh air and sunshine, in a lane all to myself.
2. There's a big line-up outside my local café. It's obviously a popular destination.
2. There's a big line-up outside my local café. It's obviously a popular destination.
Friday, June 6, 2008
Day Five
1. I find my ring in the bottom of my backpack.
2. I finally take a minute to stop and photograph my scenic commute to send to my friends. Of course, today only, there are clouds in the normally clean blue sky.
2. I finally take a minute to stop and photograph my scenic commute to send to my friends. Of course, today only, there are clouds in the normally clean blue sky.
Thursday, June 5, 2008
Day Four
1. I lose my bike computer in the morning.
I find it in the afternoon.
2. I lose my ring.
3. On my way home from work, I nearly run over a pair of possums tussling on the bike path in the botanic gardens.
I find it in the afternoon.
2. I lose my ring.
3. On my way home from work, I nearly run over a pair of possums tussling on the bike path in the botanic gardens.
Wednesday, June 4, 2008
Day Three
1. On my way home from work a mother possum with a baby clinging to its back, runs across the path in front of me. Further along, an ibis is hanging out on the path.
2. My local supermarket, bigger and shinier than my Sydney one, and with all the same stuff I like to eat, is 2 mins ride from home.
2. My local supermarket, bigger and shinier than my Sydney one, and with all the same stuff I like to eat, is 2 mins ride from home.
Tuesday, June 3, 2008
Day Two
My bicycle commute to work turns out to be a very scenic bike and pedestrian path along the edge of the river the entire way. I encounter just one car in the back streets as I'm leaving my apartment.
It takes me 25 minutes because I'm not familiar with it and am riding comfortably, taking it all in.
Over the week I'll get it down to under 20 mins - eventually 15.
It takes me 25 minutes because I'm not familiar with it and am riding comfortably, taking it all in.
Over the week I'll get it down to under 20 mins - eventually 15.
Monday, June 2, 2008
The first 28 days in my new home
Day One
1. We must queue for a table at my local café, with good reason. The food is excellent, the staff are great and I'm told the coffee is too.
2. The food at the Indian Restaurant across the road from my apartment is delicious. Tomorrow a colleague will smile widely and tell me it's the best Indian in the whole city.
1. We must queue for a table at my local café, with good reason. The food is excellent, the staff are great and I'm told the coffee is too.
2. The food at the Indian Restaurant across the road from my apartment is delicious. Tomorrow a colleague will smile widely and tell me it's the best Indian in the whole city.
Sunday, June 1, 2008
Exersize 35
How to make yourself attractive to the opposite sex.
1. Tell them you're leaving town. For good.
It's fairly slap-yourself-on-the-forehead obvious, now I think about it. God. Sailors and travelling salesmen have known this forever. It's the perfect commitment-free, no danger of follow-up, one night stand. Guaranteed you won't have to see them again, or run into them at some future social gathering, or even in the street, and they can't stalk you (except by phone, email, facebook). Also, there's that undefinable sense of - not recklessness necessarily - but letting go, in the one who's leaving, open to change, preparing for a new adventure. They're leaving all current ties and responsibilities. Ever the optimist, the opposite sex might choose to imagine an untethered holiday atmosphere about the nearly departed and read it as a certain openness and accessibility.
So I'm just days away from putting everything I own in a truck and heading 950km north, where I can feasibly reinvent myself and suddenly I'm faced with several offers to end the longest drought in my life. So THAT'S what I've been doing wrong all year. I've been TOO AVAILABLE. (Slaps self on forehead.)
1. Tell them you're leaving town. For good.
It's fairly slap-yourself-on-the-forehead obvious, now I think about it. God. Sailors and travelling salesmen have known this forever. It's the perfect commitment-free, no danger of follow-up, one night stand. Guaranteed you won't have to see them again, or run into them at some future social gathering, or even in the street, and they can't stalk you (except by phone, email, facebook). Also, there's that undefinable sense of - not recklessness necessarily - but letting go, in the one who's leaving, open to change, preparing for a new adventure. They're leaving all current ties and responsibilities. Ever the optimist, the opposite sex might choose to imagine an untethered holiday atmosphere about the nearly departed and read it as a certain openness and accessibility.
So I'm just days away from putting everything I own in a truck and heading 950km north, where I can feasibly reinvent myself and suddenly I'm faced with several offers to end the longest drought in my life. So THAT'S what I've been doing wrong all year. I've been TOO AVAILABLE. (Slaps self on forehead.)
Wednesday, April 16, 2008
eksasies 34
I was cycling to work along a bit of footpath – where the road was clogged with messy, too-close-to-the-kerb traffic – and a cranky man wearing a white beard and a scowl snarled at me, "You have to be 16 years or under to ride on the footpath."
First, let's disregard the fact that I had already stopped and dismounted to let him pass, so what was his gripe? Up ahead a herd of wheely-bins were blocking the footpath because the block of flats who owned them couldn’t care less about inconveniencing the public. As I'd slowed my bike, I'd watched White Beard shove one aside as he weaved through them. This might have been what ticked him off. Or maybe he'd run out of muesli, or had a fight with his wife this morning. Or maybe he was just a cantankerous old bugger all the time.
Nevertheless, I was in need of standing up for my rights this particular morning. With a sweet smile and my most reasonable voice, I pointed to the bicycle painted in white on the footpath, and explained that I was indeed allowed to cycle here, on this shared path.
No surprise he grunted and walked off. Bad enough that he'd run out of All-Bran and trodden in dog poop outside his front door, now some patronizing smart arse cyclist is giving him lip. It's going to be a bad day.
And this smart arse cyclist decided it would just be easier to use the road in future. When I arrived at work, I found the bicycle road rules online. He was wrong about the 16 years old rule. It's 12 years. And I read with interest the definition and rules regarding a "Shared Path": cyclists must give way to any pedestrians. So I'd done the right thing. Nyer to you, White Beard!
A few days later, I was riding along the road just a block further on from the site of the White Beard incident. A motorist yelled at me to "Use the Bike Path!!!" (Like a lot of other drivers, he was suffering acute Tuesdayitis after a too short Easter holiday. Impatient car horns were rife.) I could have said to him that the Shared Path is pointless. If pedestrians have absolute right of way, then I may as well get off my bike and walk. But he'd have happily agreed with that arrangement. Nor did I bother telling him that i own a car and pay road taxes and am entitled; and i could even have quoted the road rules:
I didn't bother saying anything because I knew my words would be wasted on a cranky commuter. They were certainly wasted on the cranky pedestrian a few days ago.
Instead, a little white flag waved itself in my heart and, for just a moment, I gave up. No matter what I do, wherever I ride, I'm patently unwelcome, I suffer abuse, I should just forget cycling.
Then this passive quitterness was quickly replaced - thank god - by an even stronger determination to cycle - to be an even stronger presence on the roads and footpaths. And I also realized this blanket abuse was my freedom. Since I'm going to bug people no matter what I do, then it doesn't matter what I do. I'll (legally) ride where it suits me and stop trying to please the pedestrians or the motorists. They clearly CAN'T be pleased.
With the welling of this determination to keep riding, against all critics and cranks, I ALMOST began to understand the militant aggressive - openly hostile - stance of the Critical Mass riders. But only almost. I still naively hope that the road to happy communality on the roads is achieved through peace not war. In the meantime, I guess I'm going to have to piss-off a couple of people. Because me, my bike, and all the other cyclists, aren't going away. Ever.
First, let's disregard the fact that I had already stopped and dismounted to let him pass, so what was his gripe? Up ahead a herd of wheely-bins were blocking the footpath because the block of flats who owned them couldn’t care less about inconveniencing the public. As I'd slowed my bike, I'd watched White Beard shove one aside as he weaved through them. This might have been what ticked him off. Or maybe he'd run out of muesli, or had a fight with his wife this morning. Or maybe he was just a cantankerous old bugger all the time.
Nevertheless, I was in need of standing up for my rights this particular morning. With a sweet smile and my most reasonable voice, I pointed to the bicycle painted in white on the footpath, and explained that I was indeed allowed to cycle here, on this shared path.
No surprise he grunted and walked off. Bad enough that he'd run out of All-Bran and trodden in dog poop outside his front door, now some patronizing smart arse cyclist is giving him lip. It's going to be a bad day.
And this smart arse cyclist decided it would just be easier to use the road in future. When I arrived at work, I found the bicycle road rules online. He was wrong about the 16 years old rule. It's 12 years. And I read with interest the definition and rules regarding a "Shared Path": cyclists must give way to any pedestrians. So I'd done the right thing. Nyer to you, White Beard!
A few days later, I was riding along the road just a block further on from the site of the White Beard incident. A motorist yelled at me to "Use the Bike Path!!!" (Like a lot of other drivers, he was suffering acute Tuesdayitis after a too short Easter holiday. Impatient car horns were rife.) I could have said to him that the Shared Path is pointless. If pedestrians have absolute right of way, then I may as well get off my bike and walk. But he'd have happily agreed with that arrangement. Nor did I bother telling him that i own a car and pay road taxes and am entitled; and i could even have quoted the road rules:
Under NSW legislation a bicycle is considered as a vehicle. Cyclists have the right, like other vehicles, to use the road and be shown courtesy and care by other road users.Ha. If anyone ever shows me courtesy on the road, it's so unexpected I don't know how to deal with it.
I didn't bother saying anything because I knew my words would be wasted on a cranky commuter. They were certainly wasted on the cranky pedestrian a few days ago.
Instead, a little white flag waved itself in my heart and, for just a moment, I gave up. No matter what I do, wherever I ride, I'm patently unwelcome, I suffer abuse, I should just forget cycling.
Then this passive quitterness was quickly replaced - thank god - by an even stronger determination to cycle - to be an even stronger presence on the roads and footpaths. And I also realized this blanket abuse was my freedom. Since I'm going to bug people no matter what I do, then it doesn't matter what I do. I'll (legally) ride where it suits me and stop trying to please the pedestrians or the motorists. They clearly CAN'T be pleased.
With the welling of this determination to keep riding, against all critics and cranks, I ALMOST began to understand the militant aggressive - openly hostile - stance of the Critical Mass riders. But only almost. I still naively hope that the road to happy communality on the roads is achieved through peace not war. In the meantime, I guess I'm going to have to piss-off a couple of people. Because me, my bike, and all the other cyclists, aren't going away. Ever.
Monday, April 14, 2008
ecksercize 33
I went for another swim at that no-longer cursed pool. Lovely it was. But - perhaps out of subtle psychological motivations - I chose the after-swim shower cubicle with a clear and omnipresent view of the offensive, aforementioned sign.
I stared at it as I scrubbed and warmed up after the borderline too-cold sea-water. It bothered and obsessed me. My few alterations had not been nearly enough to render it innocent and blameless. And I felt my urge to correct the mistakes now overtaken by something more reactive, less civilized. Its (not It's) offenses against English were offending me so much, that i now wanted to offend IT in return, and commit actual vandalism. With selective removal and re-spacing of the sticky letters, I could have:
There I had to admit that either I'm not very good at this kind of vandalism, or the material just doesn't give me enough to work with.
Instead I sharpened my thumbnail again, and scraped the comma up into a ball of full-stop on top of itself. At least one more punctuation error is fixed. But it's (not its) ultimately unsatisfying. The overall offenses outnumber my small fix-ups.
I realized I've posted 3 times on this, and spend a lot of my time in the change room focused on little else. I might seem a bit obsessed.
And yet it doesn't REALLY obsess me, because I forget about it as soon as I leave the pool. It disappears from my mind. I'm only revisiting now because, in the hang room at the time, i thought it would make a cute entry on the erant carp.
So my "obsession" is really just a mental creation. An excuse to find blog material. Does that mean blogging can lead to unnecessary fixations?
I stared at it as I scrubbed and warmed up after the borderline too-cold sea-water. It bothered and obsessed me. My few alterations had not been nearly enough to render it innocent and blameless. And I felt my urge to correct the mistakes now overtaken by something more reactive, less civilized. Its (not It's) offenses against English were offending me so much, that i now wanted to offend IT in return, and commit actual vandalism. With selective removal and re-spacing of the sticky letters, I could have:
Pubic Noice
Mobile Cameras must be tuned at me when in the hang rooms.
The privy acts all bile, Came in anger. ockers shall be turned in.
this rule was doped in the sty and i fall on u, sing the grooms.
Thank you for your operation.
Mobile Cameras must be tuned at me when in the hang rooms.
The privy acts all bile, Came in anger. ockers shall be turned in.
this rule was doped in the sty and i fall on u, sing the grooms.
Thank you for your operation.
There I had to admit that either I'm not very good at this kind of vandalism, or the material just doesn't give me enough to work with.
Instead I sharpened my thumbnail again, and scraped the comma up into a ball of full-stop on top of itself. At least one more punctuation error is fixed. But it's (not its) ultimately unsatisfying. The overall offenses outnumber my small fix-ups.
I realized I've posted 3 times on this, and spend a lot of my time in the change room focused on little else. I might seem a bit obsessed.
And yet it doesn't REALLY obsess me, because I forget about it as soon as I leave the pool. It disappears from my mind. I'm only revisiting now because, in the hang room at the time, i thought it would make a cute entry on the erant carp.
So my "obsession" is really just a mental creation. An excuse to find blog material. Does that mean blogging can lead to unnecessary fixations?
Sunday, April 13, 2008
Sunday, April 6, 2008
ecsasyze 32
I'm going through another of my "i want to change my name" phases.
I'd like something more interesting and melodious than Glod.
(You may have thought Glod was my nom de plume.)
Mum had been a big fan of Goldie Hawn, so she planned to call her new baby Goldie. She was actually hoping for a boy to neatly follow her first daughter, so in fact Goldie was really only a runner-up option second to the preferred Bradley (after the English Astronomer James Bradley owing to her never-explained fascination at the time with the phenomenon of the aberration of light).
In the delivery room, however, things went horribly wrong. When i popped out - a daughter not a son - and the nurses were pressuring her for a name to put on the birth certificated, well the cocktail of other drugs that were permissible at the time, the exhaustion and after effects of a long and painful labour, and the whole experience in general, had left my mum wobbly and brain-fuzzy. The most the poor woman, not normally given to dyslexia, could manage with a limp and shaking hand, weak from gripping the sheets in the tension of the labour, was some scrawl that the staff interpreted as 'Glod'.
Dad, had he seen the error, would of course have pointed it out, but he was indisposed at the time. He'd had quite a serious skiing accident and was, in fact laid up in another ward in coincidentally the same hospital; plastered up, in traction, and generally feeling a bit sorry for himself. The news of my birth, i'm told, cheered him up and did help with his recovery and rehabilitation.
So that was it. My name was inked and official on the Government approved paperwork. They brought me home from the hospital and continued to call me Goldie and since it's what's on my birth certificate, it had to be used in all official circumstances. The first couple of roll-calls at each new school were hell. But unofficially 'Glod' very soon became some kind of cute replacement and i believe my sister could be responsible owing to her having just reached the speech-mastery stage at my birth and struggling adorably over all sorts of mispronunciations at that time. Thanks to her, our grandparents were Banana and Poop. And Glod just kind of stuck to me.
Each time i go through one of these phases of wanting to change, i then think about how much paperwork and bureaucracy will be involved. How many things officially have my name on it and how many people and institutions i'd have to notify. Passport, credit cards, birth certificate, drivers license, car registration, insurances, medical cover, employment and superannuation records, are just the beginning. It's far worse than moving house and notifying a change of address, and if the Land Titles Office are anything to go by, having to deal with all those Government Departments will be a tricky, time-swallowing, convoluted and really irritating set of procedures and mishaps.
And then i think, Geeeeze, all those women who change their surnames when they marry have to go thru all this? Who could be bothered? Thank God we're allowed to keep our own names if we wish.
Then, of course, there's the bigger question of if i DO change it, what to change it to? If the resultant paperwork's going to be such a nightmare, it better be a bloody good name. Something i'll be happy with for the rest of my entire life. Same reason i still haven't got that tattoo. Still can't be sure of a design that i won't tire of in a few years and one day wake up and look at it with embarrassed shame - like you do with that poetry you wrote when you were ten - and wonder "What WAS i thinking?"
Then, of course, there's the bigger question of if i DO change it, what to change it to? If the resultant paperwork's going to be such a nightmare, it better be a bloody good name. Something i'll be happy with for the rest of my entire life. Same reason i still haven't got that tattoo. Still can't be sure of a design that i won't tire of in a few years and one day wake up and look at it with embarrassed shame - like you do with that poetry you wrote when you were ten - and wonder "What WAS i thinking?"
That's why we like to invent, or have our friends invent, our own nicknames. Non-binding, fun alternatives to stupid decisions our parents made somewhat under duress, when we were too young to have an opinion. You just have to lead a slightly double life. I know a woman who is known to everyone in her world as Minnie (after that famous cartoon Mouse). But it's not her 'legal' name. I've seen her signature on official paperwork and it starts with an S, with no reference at all to Minnie. Although her parents probably named her Sheila in homage to the British actress Sheila Hancock O.B.E. i can understand her not wanting to be a generic (sometimes mildly derogatory) Aussie term for any woman.
I'd like something more interesting and melodious than Glod.
(You may have thought Glod was my nom de plume.)
Mum had been a big fan of Goldie Hawn, so she planned to call her new baby Goldie. She was actually hoping for a boy to neatly follow her first daughter, so in fact Goldie was really only a runner-up option second to the preferred Bradley (after the English Astronomer James Bradley owing to her never-explained fascination at the time with the phenomenon of the aberration of light).
In the delivery room, however, things went horribly wrong. When i popped out - a daughter not a son - and the nurses were pressuring her for a name to put on the birth certificated, well the cocktail of other drugs that were permissible at the time, the exhaustion and after effects of a long and painful labour, and the whole experience in general, had left my mum wobbly and brain-fuzzy. The most the poor woman, not normally given to dyslexia, could manage with a limp and shaking hand, weak from gripping the sheets in the tension of the labour, was some scrawl that the staff interpreted as 'Glod'.
Dad, had he seen the error, would of course have pointed it out, but he was indisposed at the time. He'd had quite a serious skiing accident and was, in fact laid up in another ward in coincidentally the same hospital; plastered up, in traction, and generally feeling a bit sorry for himself. The news of my birth, i'm told, cheered him up and did help with his recovery and rehabilitation.
So that was it. My name was inked and official on the Government approved paperwork. They brought me home from the hospital and continued to call me Goldie and since it's what's on my birth certificate, it had to be used in all official circumstances. The first couple of roll-calls at each new school were hell. But unofficially 'Glod' very soon became some kind of cute replacement and i believe my sister could be responsible owing to her having just reached the speech-mastery stage at my birth and struggling adorably over all sorts of mispronunciations at that time. Thanks to her, our grandparents were Banana and Poop. And Glod just kind of stuck to me.
Each time i go through one of these phases of wanting to change, i then think about how much paperwork and bureaucracy will be involved. How many things officially have my name on it and how many people and institutions i'd have to notify. Passport, credit cards, birth certificate, drivers license, car registration, insurances, medical cover, employment and superannuation records, are just the beginning. It's far worse than moving house and notifying a change of address, and if the Land Titles Office are anything to go by, having to deal with all those Government Departments will be a tricky, time-swallowing, convoluted and really irritating set of procedures and mishaps.
And then i think, Geeeeze, all those women who change their surnames when they marry have to go thru all this? Who could be bothered? Thank God we're allowed to keep our own names if we wish.
Then, of course, there's the bigger question of if i DO change it, what to change it to? If the resultant paperwork's going to be such a nightmare, it better be a bloody good name. Something i'll be happy with for the rest of my entire life. Same reason i still haven't got that tattoo. Still can't be sure of a design that i won't tire of in a few years and one day wake up and look at it with embarrassed shame - like you do with that poetry you wrote when you were ten - and wonder "What WAS i thinking?"
Then, of course, there's the bigger question of if i DO change it, what to change it to? If the resultant paperwork's going to be such a nightmare, it better be a bloody good name. Something i'll be happy with for the rest of my entire life. Same reason i still haven't got that tattoo. Still can't be sure of a design that i won't tire of in a few years and one day wake up and look at it with embarrassed shame - like you do with that poetry you wrote when you were ten - and wonder "What WAS i thinking?"
That's why we like to invent, or have our friends invent, our own nicknames. Non-binding, fun alternatives to stupid decisions our parents made somewhat under duress, when we were too young to have an opinion. You just have to lead a slightly double life. I know a woman who is known to everyone in her world as Minnie (after that famous cartoon Mouse). But it's not her 'legal' name. I've seen her signature on official paperwork and it starts with an S, with no reference at all to Minnie. Although her parents probably named her Sheila in homage to the British actress Sheila Hancock O.B.E. i can understand her not wanting to be a generic (sometimes mildly derogatory) Aussie term for any woman.
Tuesday, April 1, 2008
More exercise than planned
I had a flat tyre on the way to work this morning. Which meant i had to walk my bike several Ks to find a functioning air hose (petrol stations aren't big on maintaining them, as they're not big revenue spinners) and then had to sit and wait outside the nearest bike shop for 10 mins before it opened.
Net result a fresh new puncture-free tyre, arrival 40 minutes late to work, and the nagging thought that giving up the bike and just driving to work instead would have saved me all this time and hassle.
But as if the universe – or something – had read that subversive, fleeting, anti-bicycle thought, the first thing i saw when i entered the office was the alarming headline "Humans causing new extinction event", beside a photo of an appropriately polluting black smoking chimney against a clear blue sky.
Apparently "An Australian National University scientist says the planet is losing species at a similar rate to the period when the dinosaurs were wiped out."
And whilst, if you read down to the depressing fact that even cutting our emissions down to zero now might be too late, i don't need a better reason to persevere with the cycling. I will keep dodging dodgy taxi drivers, L-platers and obnoxious buses. And nearly falling off my seat whenever anyone actually slows down and gives me right of way.javascript:void(0)
It's the least i can do for our Earth.
Net result a fresh new puncture-free tyre, arrival 40 minutes late to work, and the nagging thought that giving up the bike and just driving to work instead would have saved me all this time and hassle.
But as if the universe – or something – had read that subversive, fleeting, anti-bicycle thought, the first thing i saw when i entered the office was the alarming headline "Humans causing new extinction event", beside a photo of an appropriately polluting black smoking chimney against a clear blue sky.
Apparently "An Australian National University scientist says the planet is losing species at a similar rate to the period when the dinosaurs were wiped out."
And whilst, if you read down to the depressing fact that even cutting our emissions down to zero now might be too late, i don't need a better reason to persevere with the cycling. I will keep dodging dodgy taxi drivers, L-platers and obnoxious buses. And nearly falling off my seat whenever anyone actually slows down and gives me right of way.javascript:void(0)
It's the least i can do for our Earth.
Saturday, March 22, 2008
ecsarcise 30
"What the frig makes you friggers want to frig with this?"
- Roots Manuva, Clockwork
Fuck (foc, feck, frick, frig, frack, frag - whatever your euphemism of choice) is such a versatile word. In those lyrics above it is used with 3 different meanings: Two types of noun and a verb. And I doubt that anyone would say they don't know what it means.
Try finding any other random word that is as flexible and meaningful.
What the soap makes you soapers want to soap with this?
Nah.
Try a word that at least works in one context.
What the mess makes you messers want to mess with this?
No again.
And no other expletive can do it:
What the hell makes you hellers want to hell with this?
The F word rules. It's so useful for so many occasions.
It's "one of the few 'universal' words that can be uttered in any country in the world and yet be understood by anyone." (Wikipedia).
Dictionary.com gives it 13 different meanings and/or usages including really handy verb phrases like "fuck up" and "I'm fucked if I know".
Bill Bryson writes "After O.K., Fuck must be about the most versatile of all English words."
It's given birth to lovely acronyms like fubar (fucked up beyond all recognition).
And yet, it is far surpassed by the humble set. According to Bryson, it has "58 uses as a noun, 126 as a verb and 10 as a participial adjective. Its meanings are so various and scattered that it takes the OED 60,000 words - the length of a short novel - to discuss them all."
Nevertheless, does this make any sense?:
What the set makes you setters want to set with this?
Fuck No!
- Roots Manuva, Clockwork
Fuck (foc, feck, frick, frig, frack, frag - whatever your euphemism of choice) is such a versatile word. In those lyrics above it is used with 3 different meanings: Two types of noun and a verb. And I doubt that anyone would say they don't know what it means.
Try finding any other random word that is as flexible and meaningful.
What the soap makes you soapers want to soap with this?
Nah.
Try a word that at least works in one context.
What the mess makes you messers want to mess with this?
No again.
And no other expletive can do it:
What the hell makes you hellers want to hell with this?
The F word rules. It's so useful for so many occasions.
It's "one of the few 'universal' words that can be uttered in any country in the world and yet be understood by anyone." (Wikipedia).
Dictionary.com gives it 13 different meanings and/or usages including really handy verb phrases like "fuck up" and "I'm fucked if I know".
Bill Bryson writes "After O.K., Fuck must be about the most versatile of all English words."
It's given birth to lovely acronyms like fubar (fucked up beyond all recognition).
And yet, it is far surpassed by the humble set. According to Bryson, it has "58 uses as a noun, 126 as a verb and 10 as a participial adjective. Its meanings are so various and scattered that it takes the OED 60,000 words - the length of a short novel - to discuss them all."
Nevertheless, does this make any sense?:
What the set makes you setters want to set with this?
Fuck No!
Friday, March 21, 2008
Exerseyes 29
Is it possible for a person and a location to be combinatorially voodooed?
It's not me - I have plenty of good experiences with every other swimming pool. And there's nothing wrong with that particular pool. It's popular and successful. Yet I invariably have a negative experience there and leave feeling the opposite to how I should after a swim. Then I avoid it for months.
There was the time my boyfriend was in a foul mood for some reason so he decided to forget to pick me up afterwards. I queued for a pay phone to call and find out he was at home drinking coffee. So I had to walk home. Several times it's just been so damned unbearably cold in there I've had to get out before my full quota of laps. So I've felt irretrievably frozen to the bone and ripped off in both the financial and exercise quotient departments. I've been "bitten" by "sea lice". Completely turned away at the gate because squads and clubs had taken over. And there was the time I was told 3 lanes were free but the squads and clubs decided to make up their own rules and just take up as many lanes as they could. The pool staff abdicated all responsibility so we regular customers all had to squish into one lane - no matter what our speed or stroke style. One day the surf was so big it crashed into the pool and kept sweeping me sideways into the ropes (which are very spindly and give you rope burn, by the way). The foamy churn destroyed all visibility so I had more than one painful head-on collision and the other swimmer didn't even stop to see if I was ok. Just trying to breath without taking in a mouthful of wave was a challenge.
There's always something. Random, mostly unconnected things, but they all happen here.
I do believe however, that I lifted the curse today. It was so cold my toes turned yellow and my fingernails blue, but not so cold I couldn't stay in for the full 2K. The riffly wind whipped up ruffles of sea spray that made breathing air only, without splashes of sea water, mostly impossible. But the visibility was perfect. Swimmers stuck to their lanes and we all swam in the same direction without collision. There were no sea lice or cranky boyfriends or territorial squads.
The accursed public notice in the change room (or changeroom) taunted me as it always does with its crimes against the English language. I'm not a vandal, and it's out of character, but I climbed up on the bench and found that the sticky vinyl lettering is easily lifted by a thumbnail. So I peeled off the 3 offensive apostrophes, feeling a warm satisfaction at the words now restored to their correct plural form. The multiple other punctuation and spelling errors will have to stay. But the apostrophes are a small personal victory.
I'm currently reading and loving The Corrections. Today I made a few corrections of my own. And I left the pool feeling as uplifted as I normally should.
It's not me - I have plenty of good experiences with every other swimming pool. And there's nothing wrong with that particular pool. It's popular and successful. Yet I invariably have a negative experience there and leave feeling the opposite to how I should after a swim. Then I avoid it for months.
There was the time my boyfriend was in a foul mood for some reason so he decided to forget to pick me up afterwards. I queued for a pay phone to call and find out he was at home drinking coffee. So I had to walk home. Several times it's just been so damned unbearably cold in there I've had to get out before my full quota of laps. So I've felt irretrievably frozen to the bone and ripped off in both the financial and exercise quotient departments. I've been "bitten" by "sea lice". Completely turned away at the gate because squads and clubs had taken over. And there was the time I was told 3 lanes were free but the squads and clubs decided to make up their own rules and just take up as many lanes as they could. The pool staff abdicated all responsibility so we regular customers all had to squish into one lane - no matter what our speed or stroke style. One day the surf was so big it crashed into the pool and kept sweeping me sideways into the ropes (which are very spindly and give you rope burn, by the way). The foamy churn destroyed all visibility so I had more than one painful head-on collision and the other swimmer didn't even stop to see if I was ok. Just trying to breath without taking in a mouthful of wave was a challenge.
There's always something. Random, mostly unconnected things, but they all happen here.
I do believe however, that I lifted the curse today. It was so cold my toes turned yellow and my fingernails blue, but not so cold I couldn't stay in for the full 2K. The riffly wind whipped up ruffles of sea spray that made breathing air only, without splashes of sea water, mostly impossible. But the visibility was perfect. Swimmers stuck to their lanes and we all swam in the same direction without collision. There were no sea lice or cranky boyfriends or territorial squads.
The accursed public notice in the change room (or changeroom) taunted me as it always does with its crimes against the English language. I'm not a vandal, and it's out of character, but I climbed up on the bench and found that the sticky vinyl lettering is easily lifted by a thumbnail. So I peeled off the 3 offensive apostrophes, feeling a warm satisfaction at the words now restored to their correct plural form. The multiple other punctuation and spelling errors will have to stay. But the apostrophes are a small personal victory.
I'm currently reading and loving The Corrections. Today I made a few corrections of my own. And I left the pool feeling as uplifted as I normally should.
Thursday, March 6, 2008
Sunday, January 20, 2008
ekseseyez 28
Lately i've been overhearing a lot of conversations.
Not intentionally eavesdropping, I might add.
It's just 'the summer effect'.
Windows are left open, people have more discussions outdoors, on their balconies, on the street; we hang out more in public places.
As a result i now know that my neighbours are planning to open a new cafe; a couple of my colleagues are flabbergasted by the working practices of a partner company overseas; a certain bar in the city can be hired out for 21sts but the minimum spend is a whopping $3000; a dark and atmospheric restaurant somewhere has individually lit tables so you feel you're the only diners there, and if you're cold the staff bring you blankets; for one girl it was a really BIG thing to get her own credit card and caused problems with a certain "he" - partner? father? financial adviser? who knows. That's the fun of overheards.
The most notable learning, however, was from a young guy talking to his mates on the beach.
It's a good place for overheards.
He was talking about a mutual female friend who'd started dating a Brazilian guy, and was happy for her, explaining that Brazilians make really good partners: all that hot blooded, passion "and they get heaps jealous and stuff. Australian girls are hopeless. They're like "yeah whatever"."
Which flies in the face everything i was taught.
Fits of jealous rage and any kind of possessiveness were a guarantee to scare a man right off. You had to play it cool, play hard to get, use an open palm rather than a closed fist etc. All those cliches.
The saying "you're damned if you do, damned if you don't" comes to mind.
Not jealous enough and they complain that you don't care.
Too passionate, and they're suffocated.
But it's probably more a case of "each to their own".
What's claustrophobic to one person is interesting and exciting to another.
Vive la différence as they say.
Not intentionally eavesdropping, I might add.
It's just 'the summer effect'.
Windows are left open, people have more discussions outdoors, on their balconies, on the street; we hang out more in public places.
As a result i now know that my neighbours are planning to open a new cafe; a couple of my colleagues are flabbergasted by the working practices of a partner company overseas; a certain bar in the city can be hired out for 21sts but the minimum spend is a whopping $3000; a dark and atmospheric restaurant somewhere has individually lit tables so you feel you're the only diners there, and if you're cold the staff bring you blankets; for one girl it was a really BIG thing to get her own credit card and caused problems with a certain "he" - partner? father? financial adviser? who knows. That's the fun of overheards.
The most notable learning, however, was from a young guy talking to his mates on the beach.
It's a good place for overheards.
He was talking about a mutual female friend who'd started dating a Brazilian guy, and was happy for her, explaining that Brazilians make really good partners: all that hot blooded, passion "and they get heaps jealous and stuff. Australian girls are hopeless. They're like "yeah whatever"."
Which flies in the face everything i was taught.
Fits of jealous rage and any kind of possessiveness were a guarantee to scare a man right off. You had to play it cool, play hard to get, use an open palm rather than a closed fist etc. All those cliches.
The saying "you're damned if you do, damned if you don't" comes to mind.
Not jealous enough and they complain that you don't care.
Too passionate, and they're suffocated.
But it's probably more a case of "each to their own".
What's claustrophobic to one person is interesting and exciting to another.
Vive la différence as they say.
Sunday, January 6, 2008
Saturday, January 5, 2008
ecsersyse 27
I know i said that communication is all that matters, but there is a limit.
There are depths below which i cannot find acceptance.
Here's a transcript from a sign in a public swimming pool change room.
I would have taken a photo if i could (and there would have been a poetic kind of circularity if i had).
- - - - - - - -
Public Notice
Mobile's/Camera's must be turned off at all
times when in the changerooms, The privacy act
states that all mobile's/Cameras whilst in
changerooms, lockers or showers shall be
turned of and not in use this rule was
developed in the safety and privacy of
all patrons using the changerooms.
Thank you for your co-operation.
- - - - - - - -
• 3 rogue apostrophes - and not even used consistently
• 4 spelling errors (or 1 depending on your acceptance of changerooms as one word)
• 1 comma used instead of a full stop
• 1 missing full stop
• 5 capitalisation errors
• one grammatical error ( developed for not developed in)
• general structural sloppiness etc
And as for this so called Privacy Act - or privacy act - which act? Which state, which year?
This was not a hastily prepared, hand written sign.
They'd taken the trouble to have it professionally manufactured (Tho' obviously not professionally proofed).
I worry that kids who see this will see yet another example of bad english, grammar and punctuation. Coupled with their repeated exposure to more of the same on the internet, and other random signage, they will lose a sense of what's right ...... of what's even half-right.
Sure, enforcing some rules in English are just a way for the purists to separate themselves from what they regard as the 'ignorant masses', but at some point, we have to keep a certain level of standard so that ease of communication is maintained.
My brain tripped up repeatedly as it read this sign. It was almost painful.
In conversation, sms, and other informal communications - yes sometimes even blogging - Rafferty's rules can reign; as long as the people involved can still understand each other.
But in formal, printed language - books, newspapers, public signage - can't we at least retain a decent, respectful version of our language?
All that aside, however, of course i applaud the sentiment. Not only for the obvious privacy reasons. Mobile phones in general are too omnipresent and it's annoying to take a moment out of a busy life for a bit of quiet recreation - a few laps and a nice hot shower - only to have it interrupted by someone blabbing loudly on their mobile.
There are depths below which i cannot find acceptance.
Here's a transcript from a sign in a public swimming pool change room.
I would have taken a photo if i could (and there would have been a poetic kind of circularity if i had).
- - - - - - - -
Public Notice
Mobile's/Camera's must be turned off at all
times when in the changerooms, The privacy act
states that all mobile's/Cameras whilst in
changerooms, lockers or showers shall be
turned of and not in use this rule was
developed in the safety and privacy of
all patrons using the changerooms.
Thank you for your co-operation.
- - - - - - - -
• 3 rogue apostrophes - and not even used consistently
• 4 spelling errors (or 1 depending on your acceptance of changerooms as one word)
• 1 comma used instead of a full stop
• 1 missing full stop
• 5 capitalisation errors
• one grammatical error ( developed for not developed in)
• general structural sloppiness etc
And as for this so called Privacy Act - or privacy act - which act? Which state, which year?
This was not a hastily prepared, hand written sign.
They'd taken the trouble to have it professionally manufactured (Tho' obviously not professionally proofed).
I worry that kids who see this will see yet another example of bad english, grammar and punctuation. Coupled with their repeated exposure to more of the same on the internet, and other random signage, they will lose a sense of what's right ...... of what's even half-right.
Sure, enforcing some rules in English are just a way for the purists to separate themselves from what they regard as the 'ignorant masses', but at some point, we have to keep a certain level of standard so that ease of communication is maintained.
My brain tripped up repeatedly as it read this sign. It was almost painful.
In conversation, sms, and other informal communications - yes sometimes even blogging - Rafferty's rules can reign; as long as the people involved can still understand each other.
But in formal, printed language - books, newspapers, public signage - can't we at least retain a decent, respectful version of our language?
All that aside, however, of course i applaud the sentiment. Not only for the obvious privacy reasons. Mobile phones in general are too omnipresent and it's annoying to take a moment out of a busy life for a bit of quiet recreation - a few laps and a nice hot shower - only to have it interrupted by someone blabbing loudly on their mobile.
Thursday, January 3, 2008
ecksesiez 26
Huzzah!
Thanks to Steven Pinker, I can stop being annoyed when people start a sentence with 'Hopefully'. The language purists had me believing this was grammatically illogical or downright incorrect and should be avoided.
But in fact, like others of its ilk - sentence adverbs including curiously, admittedly, basically and ideally - it's not.
Just another sign of our constantly evolving language.
Wikipedia says "it is unclear why hopefully has been singled out for deprecation" but there's an explanation and nice summary of arguments for and against it here.
Frankly, i'm all for it..... now.
Honestly, when one starts a sentence with 'Hopefully' we all know exactly what they mean - and isn't communication all that matters?
Thanks to Steven Pinker, I can stop being annoyed when people start a sentence with 'Hopefully'. The language purists had me believing this was grammatically illogical or downright incorrect and should be avoided.
But in fact, like others of its ilk - sentence adverbs including curiously, admittedly, basically and ideally - it's not.
Just another sign of our constantly evolving language.
Wikipedia says "it is unclear why hopefully has been singled out for deprecation" but there's an explanation and nice summary of arguments for and against it here.
Frankly, i'm all for it..... now.
Honestly, when one starts a sentence with 'Hopefully' we all know exactly what they mean - and isn't communication all that matters?
Wednesday, January 2, 2008
ecsersyze 25
Hurrah! Smoking's going out of fashion. Thanks to scary advertising campaigns, smoking bans in restaurants, gory photos on cigarette packs and the rest. Gradually our society is coming to agree that it's a really bad thing to do to your body.
So when i see someone now with a fag in their hands, or hanging out of their mouth, i have to take a second look. It's a strange, unnatural and rare sight.
Australian consumption is on the decline.
But the new millennium has a new addict. You see them clutching it in their hands as they drive, steer the pram, walk along the beach, go to meetings, arrive at dance class, walk the dog......you name it.
And to what do they cling?
Coffee.
Takeaway, cardboard cups of coffee are seen in hands everywhere, in places coffee was previously rare or non-existent. Like so many other things, Coffee has become portable. It's now possible to get your latte-cappucino-espresso-machiato-chocolate-sprinkled-low-foam-double-shot caffeine hit anywhere, any time. And it seems the more available it is, the less people can possibly live without it.
Are they seriously unable to even stroll down to the beach and take a short walk along the water without these cardboard, caffeine filled security blankets?
A survey showed that the 3 most important things to people - that they would not leave home without - are keys, wallet and mobile phone.
I am sure that with those 3 things they then head straight for the nearest coffee shop and grab a takeaway - the 4th essential item.
I see them walking the streets. People who are travelling light - no bags - obviously just out of the house for a stroll, or walking the dog, probably wallet keys and mobile phone in pocket; and in every hand is that signature takeaway cup.
Like it's THE fashion accessory of the year.
I watched - or rather smelled - one such addict pass me as i sat at the seaside. At the point she was directly downwind, a sickly sweet smell of chocolate and sugar hit me. When she passed, the relief of the return to the scent of salt, salt and ocean.
The trouble is that these addicts have become as litter-prone as those smokers who discard their butts any damned place they like.
Last week i watched a smoker flick their butt into the gutter, 30 cm from a public ashtray.
No respect.
Now it's empty takeaway coffee cups littering public places everywhere: stoops, steps, parking lot corners, kerbs, gutters, doorways, benches..... They're bloody everywhere.
Aren't we supposed to be reducing our disposable waste, trying to preserve trees, reducing our carbon footprint? And those plastic clip-on lids will become permanent landfill.
There's a simple solution.
All caffeine addicts should be made to carry their own cup with them at all times. They can have it refilled at any coffee station the moment a craving strikes. It's hygienic, simple, cost effective. Get a cup with handle and you can strap it conveniently to your belt and key ring. In fact, coffee shops could start encouraging this eco-friendly behaviour by offering a discount to byo-cuppers. I just might go and speak to my local purveyor today.
"I've always felt nervous around large quantities of coffee." Anon
So when i see someone now with a fag in their hands, or hanging out of their mouth, i have to take a second look. It's a strange, unnatural and rare sight.
Australian consumption is on the decline.
But the new millennium has a new addict. You see them clutching it in their hands as they drive, steer the pram, walk along the beach, go to meetings, arrive at dance class, walk the dog......you name it.
And to what do they cling?
Coffee.
Takeaway, cardboard cups of coffee are seen in hands everywhere, in places coffee was previously rare or non-existent. Like so many other things, Coffee has become portable. It's now possible to get your latte-cappucino-espresso-machiato-chocolate-sprinkled-low-foam-double-shot caffeine hit anywhere, any time. And it seems the more available it is, the less people can possibly live without it.
Are they seriously unable to even stroll down to the beach and take a short walk along the water without these cardboard, caffeine filled security blankets?
A survey showed that the 3 most important things to people - that they would not leave home without - are keys, wallet and mobile phone.
I am sure that with those 3 things they then head straight for the nearest coffee shop and grab a takeaway - the 4th essential item.
I see them walking the streets. People who are travelling light - no bags - obviously just out of the house for a stroll, or walking the dog, probably wallet keys and mobile phone in pocket; and in every hand is that signature takeaway cup.
Like it's THE fashion accessory of the year.
I watched - or rather smelled - one such addict pass me as i sat at the seaside. At the point she was directly downwind, a sickly sweet smell of chocolate and sugar hit me. When she passed, the relief of the return to the scent of salt, salt and ocean.
The trouble is that these addicts have become as litter-prone as those smokers who discard their butts any damned place they like.
Last week i watched a smoker flick their butt into the gutter, 30 cm from a public ashtray.
No respect.
Now it's empty takeaway coffee cups littering public places everywhere: stoops, steps, parking lot corners, kerbs, gutters, doorways, benches..... They're bloody everywhere.
Aren't we supposed to be reducing our disposable waste, trying to preserve trees, reducing our carbon footprint? And those plastic clip-on lids will become permanent landfill.
There's a simple solution.
All caffeine addicts should be made to carry their own cup with them at all times. They can have it refilled at any coffee station the moment a craving strikes. It's hygienic, simple, cost effective. Get a cup with handle and you can strap it conveniently to your belt and key ring. In fact, coffee shops could start encouraging this eco-friendly behaviour by offering a discount to byo-cuppers. I just might go and speak to my local purveyor today.
"I've always felt nervous around large quantities of coffee." Anon
Tuesday, January 1, 2008
Yearly Roundup - part 2
I squeezed in a couple of new things juuuust before 2007 came to its timely end:
- Swam out in the almost open ocean
- Saw Groove Armada live (against the very scenic backdrop of a gorgeous sunny bondi evening)
Welcome 2008.
And a whole new list.
- Swam out in the almost open ocean
- Saw Groove Armada live (against the very scenic backdrop of a gorgeous sunny bondi evening)
Welcome 2008.
And a whole new list.
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