Grand Designs? I don't think so, Tim

Picture this. Somewhere in a laboratory in Zurich, a team of nerdy looking scientific guys with fruzzy hair and white coats are huddled around a stainless steel workbench. They are so engrossed in their project that they barely even notice the sound of atoms splitting in a nearby nuclear collider (or even the smoko bell, for that matter).

On the bench before them lies the blueprint for one of the most dastardly weapons against mankind ever invented. The Nerdy Scientist guys cackle gleefully as one of them adds yet another masterstroke of design to their drawing.

“Aha!” cries Professor Springbunger delightedly sketching his infamous vicious coil-shape, “Vee must never forget zat our ultimate aim is to ensure that zee person who uses ziss device suffers greatly.”

The other Nerdy Guys nod in agreement. They know that the entire future of the universe depends on their ability to design the most uncomfortable sofa bed; thus preventing many millions of unwanted houseguests from staying too long at many millions of other people’s places.

Unlikely, you say? Well, then, you try explaining why fold-out beds have so many extraneous coils, bars and bumps in them or why they tip you into the middle whilst simultaneously being noisy and cold! You can’t, can you? So my theory persists.

Surely it must be deliberate, for I can’t imagine that any sofa-bed-architect could actually believe they have invented something comfortable. I mean, don’t these people ever test their products? Don’t they know that sleeping on a sofa-bed has been named in the top-ten Most Annoying Things To Do Before You Die list?

Of course, sofa beds aren’t the only badly designed products on the market these days. Take for example, those prams with big side wheels that hook onto everything in their path – meaning that someone’s furniture, gate, pet or small child may be still attached to you by the time you get to your destination.

Then there are mobile phones that are so complicated you need a degree in technology and aerodynamics to operate them (and that’s just to open ‘em!) And how sensible is it that we must work our way through six layers of plastic and cardboard before we even get to a bar of soap yet, ironically, every day millions of unprotected city folk are breathing in toxic gases from the poorly designed, fuel-guzzling motor vehicles? Why don’t they cling-wrap the cars, for goodness sake and leave us humble soap-opening people alone?

And what about shampoo and conditioner bottles? Given that millions of people wear glasses, doesn’t it seem plausible that these same people probably don’t wear their glasses in the shower and therefore cannot read the miniscule writing on the bottles? Only yesterday I managed to shampoo my hair three times in one session because I couldn’t read the labels. Surely amongst the Einsteins of the design world there must be at least one or two bespectacled types who could have raised this particular issue?

I just shake my head in disbelief at times. We’ve come so far and yet still can’t seem to perfect the simplest of design feats.

And as I take the bread knife to a tightly wrapped package after five minutes of frustration and futility trying to open the damn thing, I once again question the ingenuity of mankind.

We can put space shuttles into orbit, create the World Wide Web and pack millions of gigabytes into a single pinhead, yet we still can’t seem to invent an easy-open box of tea-bags. Sheesh!

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Foul Language Gone Wilde

Oscar Wilde, the famous 19th century Irish poet once said: “The expletive is the refuge of the semi-literate”. In other words; swearing is for dumb heads.

Well, all I can say is, if the ‘refuge’ was an actual place, it would be packed to the rafters -- considering the number of foul-mouthed ‘dumb heads’ around these days. And yes, okay, I might be among their number too at times, I admit. (Before anyone starts calling me a hypocrite because they’ve heard me say naughty words). Yes, we 21st century folk say lots of words that would’ve made our grandparents’ hair curl.

As a kid I was aware of most of the swear words but would never dare use them. And, even though my Dad was always careful not to swear around us kids or in public, I still, in fact, heard my first F Bomb from his own lips as he wrestled angrily with some recalcitrant piece of machinery in his shed. He must have thought the tin shed walls were soundproof!

Mum was not a swearer. In fact, the worst thing I ever heard her say was when she called our kelpie “Face Ache” as he persistently tried to herd her around the clothesline. I thought this was hilarious. In her later years, after a severe stroke had sadly stolen much of her capacity to remember words, she adopted the unlikely (for her) “Bugger Awful!” when things displeased her. Coming from my Mum it was priceless!

Then came my own parenting. We were always careful to keep it nice around the kids and I used to warn them thus (and forgive me Oscar!): “Only dumb people swear because they are too stupid to know any better words.”

The kids got it (I guess no-one likes to be labelled as stupid) and pretty much refrained from using bad language -- around me anyway. I told them I didn’t actually care what they said when they were somewhere where no-one could hear them. BUT (and this was my big stipulation) if there was even just ONE person who might be offended -- or little kids -- within earshot, they were not to do it.

I’m not sure how effective this advice actually was but the fact that the kids spent quite a lot of time down the river suggests maybe they had more words to get off their chests than I realised. (If only the gum trees had ears!)

But anyway, a while ago I was with my sons (now young men) when one of them accidentally dropped the F Bomb. Before I’d even raised an eyebrow in protest, he quickly apologised to me. My heart swelled with pride that my child was so respectful, until his brother chimed in that what he had said was nothing compared to what he usually says! Hmph!

More recently, after a local outdoor rock concert, I commented to Number Three Son that I wished the band hadn’t sworn so much as the microphones were carrying the offensive words all over town.

Number Three just rolled his eyes and said, “Will you just get over this swearing thing, Mum? It’s just part of life. You make such a big deal out of it!”

“So you don’t have a problem with it then?” I asked him. “You’re okay with people swearing anytime and any place, are you?” He nodded emphatically.

“Well, okay. How about getting your own (*F Bomb*) breakfast then?” I inquired politely. Number Three nearly fell off his chair!

Funny how something’s okay until your mother does it. I guess it’s all a matter of perspective. (Sorry Oscar, but we 21st Century mums have to work with what we’ve got!)

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Nothing Worse?

Yesterday, as my colleague and I scrounged around our office looking for some staples, I found myself blurting out one of those inane, ill-considered, sayings.

Having finally found some staples that were the right size, I bleated: “Thank goodness! There’s NOTHING WORSE than having no staples.”

Realising my gaff, I quickly added, “Unless of course you get hacked to death by an axe murderer. That might be worse.”

You see, I have made a mental pact with myself that I will never utter such ludicrous words in relation to mundane, everyday annoyances. After all, when you really think about it, there are just so many worse things.

Nothing worse than missing the bus? Yes, getting HIT by the bus would be worse.

Nothing worse than having a cold? Try pneumonia, typhoid, malaria, dysentery or The Plague perhaps?

Nothing worse than running out of milk for your cereal? How about out and out starvation. That’s gotta be slightly worse.

Nothing worse than getting up to crying baby in the night? What about lying there for hours worrying that it’s not crying? I’ve been there. It’s definitely worse!

Nothing worse than a sore toe? You’d prefer amputation maybe?

Nothing worse than forgetting to turn your electric blanket on? How about no bed on which to affix the lecky in the first place?

Nothing worse than a slow email connection? Umm…do the words ‘snail mail’ mean anything to you?

Nothing worse than dry elbow skin? One word. Leprosy.

Nothing worse than waiting for the phone to ring? OK, maybe being stood on by a stampeding African elephant might be a tad worse.

Nothing worse than kids who don’t listen? What about kids who DO listen but still don’t give a toss? They are definitely much worserer (new word for the occasion).

Nothing worse than having to go to work on Monday? Does it really get any better on Tuesday? Nah? Thought not.

Nothing worse than dog poo on your shoe? How about dog teeth imbedded in your ribcage? (With an angry dog still attached!)

Nothing worse than slow traffic? Well, arriving by slow ambulance to the morgue could be slightly worse (not that we would be in any position to notice nor care).

Nothing worse than a dodgy computer mouse? Scabies. Scabies would be worse.

Nothing worse than cold coffee? How about warm beer? Eeuw!

By this stage I assume you get my point, so I will shut up now.

After all, I’m sure there’s nothing worse than a Kitchen Philosopher who waffles on ‘ad nauseum’.

Aside from perhaps …….

Nah. Nothing.

Okay, I take your point.

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ANZAC Magic

I’ve learned a valuable lesson this morning. Never mess with the knowledge, experience and cooking skills of our pioneering womenfolk.

I say this because today I decided to cook some ANZAC biscuits. I checked the pantry to make sure I had all the ingredients: Butter — check (well, the cholesterol-fighting spread that we artery-challenged middle-agers use). Flour, coconut, oats — check. Golden syrup — check. Sugar — check. Bicarb soda — check. Great! All systems go.

But as I am wont to do (even though experience proves I should really know better) I decided to give the old ANZACs a new twist. Perhaps it was the Scotsman’s daughter in me who was reluctant to use the expensive, sterol-enhanced spread, or maybe it really was a genuine belief that I should not be consuming so much unhealthy fat in the first place, that made me decide to replace some of the ‘butter’ with olive oil. After all, I concluded, it was still wet stuff, so it really shouldn’t make much difference, should it?

I heated the wet ingredients and stirred them into the dry ingredients but instead of glugging up into a sticky ball as required, the ingredients obstinately refused to come together. Thinking it was just due to the strange butter and olive oil mix I conceded that, yes, they will be a bit dry, but we will get over it.

Somehow I managed to squeeze the mixture into kind-off lumps and popped them into the oven, but as I cleaned up the kitchen I made a mental note to never again mess with those early Australian chicks. After all, they’d probably tried and tested many versions of ANZAC biscuits before finally settling on something that actually worked. Who was I to question their wisdom? I, who has had many tragic cookery moments and whose love of cooking is rivalled only by her love of having dental surgery without anaesthesia.

But as I opened the pantry door to replace something, I saw a disconcerting sight. There, sitting on the shelf in front of my nose, was the Golden Syrup! Only THE most important ingredient of the ANZAC biscuit!

Unopened.

No wonder there’d been no glugging! I quickly dashed to the oven and removed the lumps which had already begun to harden, tossed them unceremoniously back into a mixing bowl and smashed them with a wooden spoon. I heated the golden syrup and glooped it into the crumbling mess and WHAMMO: straight away there was ‘glugging’ and I knew I had managed to resurrect the ailing ANZACs. It was truly a moment of culinary magic!

Back into the oven and shortly afterwards out they came, all golden and yummy-looking. In fact, I’d almost go as far as saying they may be the best batch I’ve ever produced. (And the Scotsman’s daughter was quite relieved that she hadn’t just wasted $8 worth of sterols too!)

Yes, those ANZAC chicks may not have had olive oil and sterol-enhanced spreads to choose from in those days so, indeed, the ANZAC biscuit may truly be an artery-hardener-to-the-max.

But the real problem with ANZAC biscuits is not that they contain so much fat and sugar. It’s that people like me, whose cholesterol levels correspond directly with their lack of willpower, are unable to stop eating them!

What we really need is a recipe for “Anti-ANZAC-Scoffing”.

Now THAT, I definitely wouldn’t mess with! Promise.

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The Age of Unreason?

Age is a relative thing. When you are seven, anyone over the age of twelve is grown up. And when you are sixteen, thirty is the gateway to drool and incontinence pads.

As an eight year old I recall being quite relieved when my twenty five year old teacher FINALLY married and had a baby. I feared if she didn’t hurry up, she would be waaaay too old.

When I reached twenty-five, myself, it was quite a different story. I felt young; my life stretched before me and the world was at my feet. Conversely, my approaching-their-thirties siblings seemed ‘mature-aged’ and my parents …. well … they were positively ancient!

Around this time, a relative died at age 55 and I actually thought, “Oh well, he’s had a good innings! “ A good innings? What was I thinking? Now that 50 looms in my not too distant future, 55 is like the prime of youth! At 55 you should be dancing til midnight, riding surf boards and seeing the world, not six foot under pushing up daisies. Goodness, how my perspective has changed!

And what has brought about this sudden interest in our varied perspectives of ageing?

Well, the other day I heard on the radio that a local girl had been invited to join a group of ‘young people’ to meet the Pope. Oh, how lovely I thought. A bunch of teenagers hanging out with the God Squad. I had visions of Benedict XVI, cross-legged in St Peter’s Square in hoodie and jeans, downing a Big Mac and chilling out with the kids.

My vision was short lived. The news report concluded by interviewing the ‘young woman’ in question.

At first, however, I thought they must have mistakenly interviewed her mother, for clearly the voice on the other end of the phone was not that of a teenager. In fact, without even setting eyes on our Little Miss Vatican 2010 I guessed she was somewhere in her late thirties. I was prepared to wager that if she was a teen, then the Pope was certainly no Catholic!

So what was this ‘young people’ thing all about? When I was thirty I was an adult mother of three with responsibilities and a mortgage. I didn’t consider myself to be exactly ‘old’ but to me ‘young’ was anything under 25.

But of course I have overlooked the Baby Boomer Factor. After all, if there’s one thing we BBs hate it’s to lose control. Thus ageing is not on our agenda. No, instead we have simply reinvented the standard stages of maturity to suit ourselves. ‘Old’ is becoming the new ‘young’.

‘Young’ is everything up to and including whatever age we Boomers currently are, and ‘old’ is anything beyond the next twenty years. We reserve the right to revisit and manipulate this to suit our egos and lifestyles, so be prepared to see 80 as the new 50; 50 as the new 30; 30 as the new 18; (16 as 16 - some things don’t get any better) and pre-pubescent tweenies will be the new toddlers. Babyhood will be retained in its current form, mainly because babies don’t give a toss about getting older (in fact they quite like being babies) and besides, going back to the womb might be a bit tricky.

So, anyway, I guess I don’t need to worry about the crows-feet or saggy bits that are coming my way. After all, thanks to our ageless Baby Boomers, these are about to become synonymous with eternal youth. In fact, it will be so cool to be wrinkled, all the kids will be wanting turkey-necks for Christmas. Their mantra will be ‘Old dudes ROCK!’ and we will approach our twilight years happy in the knowledge that we’ve still got ‘it’…..

……um….that’s if we can remember what ‘it’ actually is….

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A Modern Christmas Tale

T’was the night before Christmas and all over the house not a sound could be heard, not even a mouse.

Well okay, maybe a mouse, but not the kind of mouse you’re thinking of. Not the ‘eek eek’, furry kind, but the kind that moves the cursor on my computer.

Frantically typing a late yuletide article got me thinking about how different the very first Christmas might have been had it occurred in the modern age.

First of all, it strikes me that the Great Universal Architect probably wouldn’t have wasted a whole supernova in an effort to attract the attention of the Three Wise Men (climate change and all). Surely he would have just Tweeted about the imminent arrival. The guys, in turn, would have punched the street directions for uptown Bethlehem into their latest ‘Nav Desert Man’ technology and sped towards their destination in a trusty Commodore V6 with mag (or was that Magi?) wheels and subwoofer.

As for the Holy family, rather than staying in a stable, they would have logged onto Wotif and secured a 5 star room at the ‘Grand Sands Hotel and Birthing Unit’ complete with complimentary champagne on arrival, a continental breakfast and a gift voucher from Holy-Bubs-R-Us.

Not that Mary would have been very interested in brekky or gift vouchers. She would have been too busy browsing Ebay for a Post-Baby-Ab-Buster, catching up with her girlfriends on Facebook and texting her mother (in between contractions).

Joseph, apart from acting as Mary’s ‘birthing coach’ would be checking his mobile for the latest cricket scores, watching the big Nomads v Kings game on the huge flat screen TV and listening to Carols by Candlelight on his iPod.

Oh wait, perhaps that’s not exactly historically accurate. Carols by Candlelight might not have been invented at that stage, given that the subject of the carols was yet to actually arrive. A minor oversight on my part, but suffice to say that Joseph would have had plenty to amuse him (if the imminent arrival of the saviour of the world weren’t enough, that is).

Of course the whole event would have been filmed in digital living colour to ensure that every moment was saved for biblical posterity (movie rights pending) and/or posting on YouTube.

The Three Wise Men (Micko, Stevo and Davo) would have been milling around taking photos with their iPhones and helpfully making e-lists of really useful things to do with Myrrh and Frankincense. And, as no animals are allowed on the premises without EU accreditation, the donkeys and cattle would be banished to the nearby Happy Hoofs Pet and Ghecko Resort. This would be a relief to Mary as they generally make a hell of a racket with all their braying and lowing. Not to mention the stains on the Berber carpet.

And as the big day ends, Mary pops the little one into his crib, cranks up the Bob the Bedouin crib mobile and the Hark the Herald infant intercom. She then phones room service for a gourmet dinner and a good bottle of red.

Joseph enters the date in his Blackberry because he’s lousy at remembering birthdates and anniversaries and they all settle down to, what they hope will be, a reasonably Silent Night.

(2 a.m feedtime notwithstanding).

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City Slicker

I sometimes wonder if city folk understand the torture we country folk often endure just to visit their metropolitan wonderlands?

Firstly, if we are not ‘city drivers’ (and this is me) we must negotiate the arduous journey by catching a train, bus, paper truck or camel caravan.

For train travel, we must rouse ourselves before the crack of dawn, dress for everything from a heatwave to a blizzard (just in case), get to the station in time, fight our way to our designated seat, wrench our shoulder muscles trying to hoik our bag into the overhead luggage rack, then spend the entire journey holding off from going to the toilet or the dining car for fear of falling over.

If we are particularly unlucky we will be seated next to someone who’s been travelling overnight and needs a shower. If we are even unluckier, they will be slightly crazy and insist on chattering to us all the way to town about why abattoirs are the work of evil mutton-hating politicians.

Fortunately, the Travelling Gods must have been smiling on me for my last few train trips as I have managed to be seated next to people who not only provided me with great company but who have also left me with the promise to purchase my book on-line. Cool! But then the train pulls into Southern Cross and the agony starts again.

Firstly you have to walk eighteen kilometres (or thereabouts) to get to anywhere you might want to go. Ticket booth. Metropolitan platform. Coffee shop. Toilet. Walk. Walk. Walk.

Funnily enough, we country folk seem to think we are generally healthier and more energetic than our pasty-faced city counterparts. But it seems we may be somewhat mistaken. Any city person who relies on public transport needs the zip of the Energiser Bunny, the tenacity of a Jack Russell and the leg muscles of an Olympian. Boy, can they go!

They’re everywhere; dashing furiously to their train platforms or tram stops or striding purposefully along those busy city footpaths. We country folk, on the other hand, tend to get the car out to go a few blocks and we secretly snigger as city folk spill into the parks on a sunny day to play with frizbees.

"How pathetic", we think smugly. "We can throw frizbees WHENEVER we want! (But not right now, kids. I just need to email ‘hello’ to the next door neighbour)."

Well, okay, perhaps we’re not all THAT lazy, but you must agree that living in the city does seem to require a certain amount of vigour. Not to mention mental agility. In fact, just being able to decipher public transport route signs seems to require a degree in cartography.

Disturbingly there seems to be a presumption that the person frantically scanning the signage might be someone who already knows where they are and where they need to go! Obviously, if you were thus informed, you probably wouldn’t be frantically scanning anything, but I don’t think the signage designers have quite grasped that point.

Perhaps they're not so much trying to direct confused visitors, but rather positively reinforce Melburnians that they really are quite clever. I guess a little positive reinforcement for your own citizens is nice, even if it does leave your visitors more confused than ever.

Well, anyway, after a visit to the city, I am always glad to get back home.

Now, if you'll excuse me for a moment, I just need to pop out to the letterbox to collect my mail.

“Honey, can you get the car out for me?”

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