Gotta love those Telcos

I don’t usually use this blog to vent, but the 39 minute conversation I just had with Telstra about my internet bill belies belief. It went something like this:

Me: “I have a reconnection fee of $40 on my bill and I don’t know why.”
Telstra: “It’s because your account has been suspended.”
Me: “No, it hasn’t. I’m online looking at my bill at the moment.”
Telstra: “Yes it has. It was suspended on the 4th August.”
Me: “It really hasn’t been suspended. I have had consistent access. I am online everyday and have never had a problem with the internet.”
Telstra: “You’re account has been suspended and the $40 is for it to be reconnected.”
Me: “Okay, if my account has been suspended, how am I online right now as we speak?”
Telstra: “You’re not.”

At this point in the conversation I started laughing. How could I not? I was sitting at my computer, surfing between facebook and twitter. I had already checked my emails and various websites I own. I’d even paid my Telstra bill using internet banking (without paying the reconnection fee), which the operator had acknowledged.

I spent another fifteen or so minutes trying to convince her that my account had not had any service disruptions at all, and if it had done I would’ve noticed in seconds and been on the phone. She did not believe me. She said all that she could do was put me through to the credit department to address the reconnection fee.

After nearly ten minutes on hold someone else came on the line, but rather than communicate the purpose of the call, the operator had merely switched it through to the general line. Aaaaargh! I had to relay the whole story again. And surprise surprise, a similar conversation ensued,  though with one minor concession toward the end.

Telstra: “Your account was suspended on the 4th. The fee was a reconnection fee for when it was reconnected on the 12th.”
Me: “So you’re telling me that I was a whole week without internet access.”
Telstra: “Yes.”
Me: “Don’t you think I would’ve noticed that? Given that I work from home and am online everyday? [insert nervous telstra laughter here] I have not had a disruption to my service. It was never disconnected.”
Telstra: “Yes it was.”
Me: “I have skype records of hour long calls made during that week that can prove I had no disruption to the service. Should I email them to you?.”
Telstra: “I have in front of me records that say your service was disconnected on the 4th and then reconnected on the 12th.”
Me (reaching the point of total frustration): “Okay, this sounds like a job for the Telecommunications Ombudsman.”
Telstra: “Okay, well I can waive the $40 reconnection fee for reconnecting the service on the 12th after it was disconnected on the 4th.”

Monty Python eat your heart out!

Guilty without evidence or charge!

I was hounded from the dog park today. The same dog park to which I have walked my dog every single day since moving to Sydney. I’ve written about dog wars in the park before in this blog, but that was more of a tongue-in-cheek observation of the ‘designer dog’ set as opposed to the ‘real dog’ owners.

Today’s experience was distressing. And disturbing. I have a twelve-year-old Staffy who is going a bit senile. At the human equivalent of 84, she increasingly has moments of confusion where she becomes disoriented. Over the last six months or so her constant companion has been her six-year-old son who has become very protective of her.

best friends

Now both these dogs are sweet, gentle, loyal pets. They have a cat they love and who rules them with a sharp claw, and the three of them play often curling up together to rest or watch TV. Apart from the daily walks, they spend their time laying in the sun out the back, or on the mat at my feet while I write, or in front of the TV. Neither of them has an aggressive bone in their bodies. But they are Staffies, and that was the problem today. They’d spent an hour or so having a fabulous time swimming in the harbour. It was a spectacular spring day, the tide was in, the sun was out, and the water sparkled. I sat on the rocks and watched them splash and frolic on the beach.

about ten minutes before it happened

When they’d had enough I put them on the lead and we set out across the park. There were a few families picnicking on the hill, a couple of people  fishing creek along the banks of the creek and about a dozen teenagers playing footy. I could see no other dogs around so I let mine off the leash and we made our way across the middle of the park. The dogs trotted along, tails wagging happily, stopping occasionally to roll in the grass.

They were about five metres or so in front of me when from out of nowhere a yappy little fox terrier came flying down the hill, hackles raised and teeth bared. My old dog Taylor, who was in front of the younger one Hagrid, froze and looked to where this fiery little fiend was coming from. Her tail still wagged and her ears were forward (meaning happy, friendly, innocent), she thought she’d found a playmate. I called Hagrid back but as he turned to come, the terrier launched itself at Taylor and latched on to her lip. Taylor went down (she has been known to faint when frightened) and the terrier got stuck in. Hagrid, her great protector, raced over to Taylor and understandably went for the terrier, though did not hurt it. But the little dog was not going to be distracted; it yelped and yapped and kept going at both  Staffies. I dived into the mix and pulled both my dogs away.

Taylor’s lip was bleeding and Hagrid had blood spurting from puncture marks above one eye. His mouth was also full of blood from a split tongue. The white terrier did not have a mark on it.

At this stage I was unaware of anything else going on around me. Taylor was lying on her side trembling and whimpering in distress. I was trying to comfort her and at the same time stop the blood flow from above Hagrid’s eye.

Even as I became aware of the yelling in the background, I didn’t realise it was directed at me. And when I heard the term ‘dangerous dog,’ given what had just happened I naturally assumed they were referring to the fox terrier. But no, people had come from around the park to investigate the yelping and screaming and had seen the Staffies. It was my dogs that were being accused of being dangerous.

Rather than asking if my dog was okay (or if I was, given that I was covered in blood), or offer any kind of assistance, they made threats to impound my ‘dangerous’ dogs, accused me of bringing a banned breed of attack dogs to a public park, and attempted to intimidate with a general hostility toward me as owner of the Staffies. Just because they were Staffies. Facts were irrelevant.

I left the park with the dogs, me covered in their blood, Taylor still whimpering,  Hagrid still wagging his tail and dripping blood wondering (I’m sure) what on earth had happened.

Last week’s media story about the Staffies attacking the neighbours dog, was a tragedy I wouldn’t wish on anyone. But it doesn’t mean that ALL Staffies are vicious or aggressive attack dogs. Find an aggressive owner and you’ll find an aggressive dog, no matter what breed it is. Judging a whole breed by the actions of a few without having any understanding of the breed or the treatment that the individual dog within that breed has experienced, delves into the type of breed stereotyping that leads to abject discrimination and creates far more disharmony in the dog park than there ever needs to be.

Reminiscent of any other social issue you can think of?

The three of them

Oops, how old?

I learned a valuable lesson yesterday. Never assume anything about anyone. Ever. Especially when it’s related to age! Now for someone like myself, who has battled assumptions about age my whole life, you’d be safe in assuming it would be a lesson well lived and learned, wouldn’t you? Apparently not.

I’ll give a little background so you can understand exactly how mortified I was at my faux pas. Most of my life I’ve suffered from people assuming I was way younger than I was.  Stop rolling your eyes (I can hear you saying yeah right, as if that warrants a suffering, you should be happy about it…) and believe me when I say, if you want to be taken seriously as an adult, a parent, a teacher, or anything else, it’s tough living under the assumption that you’re a kid. Really.

I remember trying to buy cigarettes (back in the days when I smoked), only to be refused because I had no ID on me to prove that I was over the legal age to buy them, which at that time was 16 ― I was 25. A similar thing happened when security denied me entry into a Club with a group of friends one time. I had to go back to the car to get my driver’s license so I could prove I was over 18 ― I was 30 that time.

I used to get really frustrated by it. It was humiliating to be constantly spoken to like a child with the assumption that your life experience was zilch and you knew nothing about anything ― despite being a parent, having multiple degrees and working for years. It was also humiliating for my daughter, particularly when she started high school and I was mistaken for her sister or her boyfriend (during the years I wore very short hair).

I did (eventually) reach an age when I began to appreciate the fact that people assumed I was much younger and I’d smile graciously and accept the compliment. Of course by this stage my daughter would just roll her eyes and shake her head.

Problem was, after a few years of this (okay so more than a few) I forgot how old I really was. It came as quite a shock when I realised I was in my… ahem… mid forties, and all of a sudden (or so it seemed), people started assuming I was in my forties! Rude, right? I thought so.  I was quite affronted the first time someone guessed my age correctly. Mortified, actually. All those years I wasted getting cranky with people for stripping years off my age… for negating my experience and wisdom… for assuming I was younger… *sigh. These days I’m just relieved if someone guesses my age accurately, so long as they don’t go over.

So,  back to yesterday’s cringe-worthy faux pas. I was at a dear friend’s ‘significantly numbered’ birthday party and met a few members of her family who’d travelled from interstate to attend. I hadn’t met them before and was trying to place them in the extended family context. Big mistake! I should’ve just stuck with trying to remember their names.

It went something like this:

Me: ‘So you’re Jenny* and you’re Susie’s* sister?’
Jenny: ‘No I’m her cousin.’
Me: ‘Right, sorry. Cousin,’ turning the woman next to her ‘and you’re Chris… Jenny’s Mum?’

Screams of laughter (or it could have been indignation), from Jenny and Chris, and everyone nearby who had heard the exchange. At first I was a little confused, I was sure I’d been told during earlier introductions that Jenny and Chris were related to Susie, but that was earlier in the evening and, well, it was a party…

I expected that the laughter would abate quickly and the reason for it would be explained. But no, it continued in that uninhibited, joyful  (maybe horrified) way until they were all clutching their sides with tears pouring down their faces. I started laughing as well, it was hard not to. Laughter is, after all, contagious―especially when it is unabashed, uncontrolled, bordering on hysterical…

And then it stopped. And with dead serious expressions, they explained the cause of their mirth.  Chris was actually a few years younger than Jenny, making it humanly impossible to be her Mum. They were cousins. Oh. My. God. Kill me now. Or let a hole in the ground appear and swallow me up right there and then!

Mortifying. The shock and embarrassment I felt must have been evident on my face because they all dissolved into laughter again, this time at my expense. I deserved it, I know. It was a stupid mistake. Lucky they were all very good sports about it.  But never ever again will I make any comment about anyone’s age in any context. Ever!

*names changed to protect the identity of those I unwittingly embarrassed and humiliated… (or maybe to protect me in case they find out I blogged about it)

London riots hurt more than Londoners

London is descending into anarchy. Ordinarily I would watch footage of such a disaster from the peace and safety of my lounge room on the other side of the world. I’d listen to the social and political commentary and read the blogs and pontificate about the whys and wherefores. I might chat with friends and colleagues about the nature of disenfranchised youth and the civil unrest that results from abject poverty and social exclusion. I’d comment on the difference between protest and senseless violence; I’d talk about the racism and classism involved and how sad it is and wonder how one of the world’s great cities will recover from this―if they can recover. I would definitely be impressed by the insightful analysis of the situation from young Londoner Laurie Penny.

London bus firebombed

I’d look at the photos and videos and shake my head with sadness and think how lucky we are to live in a relatively stable and peaceful country. I might even comment on facebook. And when the tragedy of the situation and its imagery gets too much, I’d turn the television and computer off and go for walk in the luxury of a peaceful street.

Ordinarily, that is.

woman jumping from second story window to escape her burning building. Photo by Amy Weston

But today I don’t care about any of that. Today, my heart and tears and fear is trapped inside a small apartment in Lewisham with my daughter. The doors and windows are locked and the curtains are drawn. There is no television or radio in the apartment, only her iPad connects her with what is happening in the city in which she lives and works. Online news reports and the hundreds of tweets every minute under #londonriots keep her informed about what is going on. As do the sounds of sirens and mayhem coming from the streets outside. She is alone.

And I am on the other side of the world. Helpless. Powerless. As a parent all I want to do is fly over and bring her home. The need to protect doesn’t lessen when they become adults. Every cell in my body aches to hold her, to comfort her, to reassure her. I am so scared. For her, for me.

She doesn’t know what kind of day awaits when she wakes. There are reports of the army being brought in to gain control; of the public transport systems being shut down. She has scant supplies in the apartment that has become her prison. Markets and shops closed yesterday as the police ordered people off the streets and into their houses for their own safety.

If there was a defining moment when a parent was forced to let their child go, or when a child had to stand in their independence and deal with life alone. This is probably it. And it’s hard. For both of us. I know she will be okay. I know she is a strong, intelligent, independent, autonomous woman. And I know she will cope with the fear and the violence around her and keep herself as safe as possible. I just wish she didn’t have to – especially not alone.

Wandering wallets

When the NRMA rang me yesterday I assumed it was because I had forgotten to pay a bill. It took a minute or so for me to stop what I was doing and tune in to the voice on the other end of the phone. The caller told me that the NRMA had been contacted by a random stranger who had possession of my wallet.

My stomach dropped and I felt the blood drain from my face. I jumped up from my desk and ran through the house like a mad woman looking for said wallet. Now this may seem an odd reaction to the uninitiated, but regular readers of this blog will remember that I was robbed a few months ago and my wallet (along with every piece of hardcopy evidence as to my identity) was among the stolen items.

To my great relief my (new) wallet was exactly where I had left it, complete with (all new) contents. I returned to the caller who, to his credit, had remained on the line during my brief rampage and asked him what he was talking about.

Apparently the stolen wallet had been found. The finder had gone through the wallet and taken out the remaining cards and found my NRMA roadside service card – hence the contact. This might seem like a reasonable thing to do, but the wallet had been discarded in an alley before all the rain Sydney had during July, so it was soaked and muddy and had crawly things in it. Nevertheless this stranger picked up the sodden mess and went through it looking for something to identify the owner. He then went to the trouble to contact the NRMA so they could contact me.

You’d think I’d be grateful for this wouldn’t you? And I was―sort of. See the thing was, I didn’t want to meet him to pick it up or give my address for him to post it back. When the NRMA guy told me he was going to put him on the line, I was less than gracious. It’s not that I didn’t want it back, I did. It’s just that, well, what if it was someone who was trying to get access to me or the house for not so honest reasons? So when he asked how he would get it me I told him to just take it to the police station.

I didn’t expect him to, but he did. About an hour later I received a call from the police telling me they had my wallet and I could pick it up if I wanted to but it wasn’t in good condition. They were right about that!

The constable told me the bloke who dropped it in found it in the alley behind his house and when he opened it and saw photos of a child, thought that whomever it belonged to might like to have it back. Very considerate. This guy took time out of his day and had to go through several channels to make sure the wallet came back to me, despite my lack of enthusiasm. I didn’t make it easy for him but he persevered anyway.

Kind of restores my faith in human nature a bit. So thank you stranger, you made my day.

Pondering death

I witnessed an accident this morning. A bloke was killed. It happened when a motorcyclist and car collided moments before I went around the roundabout a few metres away. It was sickening. The motorbike and its rider were splattered across the road. I can’t think of any other way to describe it. I don’t know how it happened, or why. I don’t know who was at fault or which direction either had come from. But I still have the image of the aftermath in my brain. Can’t shake it. Royal blue sedan and red and white racing-style motorbike. And the body. Just laying there.

There was nothing that anyone could have done. That much was clear. Once the ambulance had been and gone and the traffic was successfully diverted and started flowing again, I continued on my way to work, albeit a little later than usual. I was kept occupied by 27 kids and a full day teaching and then rushed off to another meeting in the afternoon, shopping before I arrived home. I didn’t have time to give it too much attention until now.

I’ve never really been much of a fatalist, strongly believing we create our own reality. But having seen such an incident I wonder. I wonder if death is predetermined, if each of us has a specific time and place where it is going to happen, and nothing changes that. I know I’ve had a few close shaves in my time, and I’ve wondered how I managed to survive, but I’ve assumed that ‘there must be a reason’ even though I haven’t yet figured out what that reason might be.

What if there is no reason? What if we have no control over our ‘destiny,’ what if none of what we do now makes any difference whatsoever to when or how we die?

I’m pretty sure that bloke splattered across the road wasn’t thinking about dying today when he left his house this morning. Would it have made a difference to his life, if he knew that his time was up now, in his thirties? Was there anything left that he needed to do, wanted to do. Anything left for him to do?

How is it determined who dies when? Why I am still alive and he is not? Why do some people live way past their use-by date and others die so young?

Global Warming and the Dance of the Log Splitter

As I sit in my study to write, the fire in the hearth is radiating ambient warmth. It crackles and spits and fills the room with the subtle aroma of nature. Coals glow under burning logs and flames jump and dance and reach for the sky.

It was a different story a few hours ago when I arrived home from work. Stepping out of the climate controlled car, I was knocked breathless by the four degree temperature. Inside my 150 year old uninsulated house the temperature was not much better. Cursing the fact that I had once again run out of split wood for the fire, I changed clothes, donned a parka and made my way back outside for the all too familiar ritual of battling with the log splitter.

Once the fire is lit, it takes an hour or so to build sufficient heat to start warming the house. Only after I have showered and cooked can I then relax. It’s the same most nights.

Meanwhile, outside the trees groan and strain as the wind surges through their branches to throw sleet at the window panes. The dog and cat ignore the wintry assault on the house and stretch out side by side on a mat in front of the fire. It’s the kind of weather that is best spent curled up on the lounge with a glass of red and a book, fire roaring against the chill.

But there’s a different kind of chill affecting proponents of the open fire and slow combustion wood heaters. The release of a report by NASA suggests that domestic wood burning is a significant contributor to global warming.

According to the report, black carbon, or soot as it is more commonly known, is the third highest contributor to global warming after Carbon Dioxide and Methane. It is caused by the incomplete combustion of fossil fuels, wood and vegetation, as well as emissions from diesel engines.

Apparently microscopic soot particles are blown around the globe absorbing and releasing solar radiation thereby heating the atmosphere. When they fall onto polar caps, particulates darken snow and ice blocking the capacity to reflect sunlight which results in a quicker melting rate. This then increases the exposed dark land masses, resulting in further energy absorption and higher than otherwise rates of global warming.

It’s not all bad news. The research that informed the report, conducted by NASA’s Goddard Institute for Space Studies, affirms that addressing the ‘soot issue’ can have immediate global ‘cooling’ effects. Soot drops out of the atmosphere very quickly, whereas carbon dioxide hangs around for hundreds of years. Reducing black carbon emissions would not only have an immediate impact on global warming, allowing time to effectively address the more difficult and longer term issues of carbon dioxide and methane production, it would also significantly reduce the level of air pollution.

This is a great relief. Not only in the knowledge in that there is an immediate solution to addressing global warming successfully, but for me, it means there is a justifiable reason to cease using the open fire as my sole source of warmth, and consider some kind of alternate heating.

It’s not that I don’t already have an environmental conscience – I do. The open fire leaves less of a carbon footprint than say, electric heating. After all, it is a well known fact that the burning of fossil fuels in electricity substations is a prime contributor to global warming in the developed world. And the wood I use in my fire is from ‘residual’ sources, that is, wood from trees that have already fallen by natural means (age, storms, etc). The fuel is hardwood and raw (untreated) and I burn it as hot as I possibly can – an absolute necessity both because open fireplaces are notoriously inefficient with generally only a 20-25% effectiveness in room heating, and of course, to reduce the smoke generated by the fire.

No. The relief I feel is related to the possibility of not ever having to gather the ‘environmentally healthier residual’ wood or perform the dance of the log splitter again! Intensive labour goes into ensuring a minimum level of warmth each night during winter. Each season, forethought is required to determine the needs of the following winter. There are local government requirements that need to be adhered to, to meet minimum requirements and avoid being served with a ‘Smoke Abatement Notice’. This includes burning only seasoned dry wood. Seasoned wood is wood that has been felled for an extended period to allow for the drying out of internal saps and juices. The sourcing of appropriate fuel, cutting it into slabs then loading it into a trailer takes days; the unloading the trailer and stacking the wood piece by piece takes hours. This pile then has to sit for at least a year to age. At the beginning of each winter, the seasoned pile then has to be moved from the back of the property to the carport for easier access to split and cart.

Saying no to this break-breaking work to prevent freezing through winter would be most beneficial (on so many levels). The report from NASA, entitled Global Warming in the 21st Century: An Alternative Scenario and published in the Journal Atmospheric Physics and Chemistry, has been taken on board by governments around the world.

Our own government has developed policy based on the findings. The federal Department of the Environment, Water, Heritage and the Arts has expressed concern that the current level of domestic wood burning for heating exceeds the National Ambient Air Quality Standard for Particles. The Department is working with state and local governments to reduce the use of domestic wood burning and improve the “management of woodsmoke emissions as an air quality priority”.

It is true that air quality is greatly affected by the soot emissions. The statistics are mind boggling. The soot component of air pollution is increasingly implicated in respiratory and cardiac problems worldwide. In fact a recent study estimated two million deaths each year in the developing world relating to respiratory illness, mostly due to wood burning stoves in poorly ventilated houses. Closer to home there are hundreds of thousands of asthma and bronchitis episodes attributed to air pollution and costing government millions in healthcare.

State governments have commissioned their own research to assess the rate of their soot emission. The New South Wales Department of Environment and Climate Change has found that in the Sydney region, domestic solid fuel combustion contributes 53% of carbon content of the air on a winter weekday and as much as 67% of carbon emissions on winter weekend day – more than the emissions from vehicle exhausts!

The problem with burning wood in combustion heaters, wood stoves and indoor open fire places, is that whilst burning, the wood breaks down into a complex mixture of gases which are then released into the atmosphere via the flue or chimney. These gases don’t always breakdown sufficiently and as they are hit the air, they cool and condense into tiny droplets of oils and tar known as particulates. The particulates by themselves cannot be seen, but lots of particles together are seen as woodsmoke.

The global warming issue is compounded by the danger to human health posed by particulates in woodsmoke. Whether visible or not, soot is readily absorbed through the lining of the lung into the blood stream via normal breathing processes (a little hard to avoid), contributing to heart disease and cancer as well as the aforementioned chronic respiratory illnesses.

I myself want to reduce my carbon footprint. Like most environmentally conscious citizens, I am aghast at the thought of contributing to the respiratory illnesses of the populace. I thought I would gladly forgo the use of the open fire for heating purposes in lieu of alternative means of heating. (Though an hour after I made this decision, wearing so many layers I could barely bend my arms or legs, I thought it best to delay the implementation to avoid the onset of hypothermia, until I actually had an alternative source of heating available to me.)

Out of necessity, as I do every winter evening, I made my way outside. The floodlight on the corner of the house throws shadows into the carport where this season’s woodpile is. I pick up the nearest log and place it strategically on top of the splitting stump and reach for the log splitter. The splitter is heavy and it’s an effort to hoist it. I turn back to the stump with splitter poised at shoulder height – the log topples off. I let the splitter fall; the blade wedging in the stump. I release the handle and reach down to pick up the log, also heavy. With a grunt (and remembering to lift with my legs not my back), I plonk it back on the stump. The wedged splitter prevents it from sitting flat. I hold the log on the stump with my thigh as I attempt to pull the splitter from it. It does not come easily. I turn my body so I have one knee holding the log up, and place the other foot on top of the stump to prevent it from tipping as I reef the splitter handle up with both hands. It releases suddenly, flying back over the top of the stump. Instinctively I lunge after it sending both the log and stump tumbling. Losing my balance I fall over the stump and land within centimetres of the upright splitter head.

I go through this process (dancing with the log splitter does not incur such catastrophic trips and tumbles every single time) over and again until I can split each log into pieces that are a manageable size to carry inside. It takes about an hour until I have enough cut to last the evening. Then I have to cart them inside. The wheelbarrow helps with this task, at least to the bottom of the deck stairs. Another half hour passes until I have the wood stacked at the back door. By the time I have finished I am covered in wood dust and exhausted but somewhat warmer. And though in the short term the fire will continue to be used, government guidelines on effective wood burning will be strictly adhered to (mostly).

Whilst there are many government initiatives to reduce carbon emissions from domestic wood burning in Australia, they tend to be focused in city locations where the density of woodsmoke emissions is highest. In some city centres for example, the federal government offers generous rebates to upgrade domestic heating from combustion stoves and open fireplaces to new, more effective and environmentally friendly heating alternatives such as biogas or solar heaters. Here in the country however, the incidence of wood burning for heating remains very high. Upgrading to more efficient forms of heating not only remains prohibitively expensive, it also (dare I say) challenges the culture of country living.

Still, I yearn for the day that I can come home from work, push a button and have instant heat! What bliss! An extra hour or so every night would be mine to spend as I wish. Weekends would become more about leisure than surviving the winter. No more splinters. No more backaches. No more battling the sleet and snow and icy wind to perform the dance of the log splitter. And most importantly, I would be contributing to the reduction black carbon emissions (soot) which are a major component of air pollution and a causative factor in global warming.

Garbage or Gutless?

I was walking the dogs this morning and came across a beautiful wooden toddler bed lying across the footpath. It was in immaculate condition, as though it had hardly been used. A few houses down half a dozen padded dining chairs sat side by side facing the road. Behind them a sofa bed, again in excellent condition, complete with a spotlessly clean futon. And further down the road at intervals in front of houses: two bookcases, outdoor furniture, children’s toys, and a variety of other household furniture. Apparently it is the bi-annual council household pick-up in my local area this week.

Of those houses that did put furniture out, there was the occasional pile of items clearly past its use-by date. But generally, the discarded items ranged in condition from fair to excellent, and most had many good years of use left in them.

Now maybe it’s a city thing, or maybe it’s just me, but back where I come from (geographically as well as metaphorically) apart from the fact that no-one ever came to pick up our rubbish ― not even the weekly garbage truck that city people take for granted ― if we didn’t want something anymore, or were replacing or upgrading it, we would pass it on. And by pass it on, I mean ask around to see if anyone we knew would like it, could use it, or knew someone else who did. If we were not able to find a new home for it with someone in our networks, we would take it to one of the many charity centres that exist in every location.

I thought everyone did this. I have, with gratitude, received items of furniture at times in my life; and I have, with pleasure, passed items on to others. To me it’s the natural cycle of giving and receiving. There will always be someone less fortunate at any point in time who would appreciate and benefit from such a cycle.

I am astounded that city society has evolved into such unconscionable materialism. A functional society is one that is inclusive and supportive of all its members. That anyone can throw out a perfectly good bed, when so many sleep without one at all is a travesty. That they can do it without thought or cause is a social tragedy for which we all should take responsibility.

I didn’t punch this climate skeptic…

I just met my first climate change skeptic. And I wanted to punch him in the face. Not for being a skeptic, but for the ignorant and arrogant, not to mention totally inappropriate way he went about communicating his views. There was something about his manner that got me so completely riled up that I began to imagine what kind of defense I might use in court against the assault charges I would invariably face if I was to give into to the violent rage building within.

Let me backtrack a bit. A few days ago I decided that we needed a new heater. We currently use a small ceramic heater in just one room. The rest of the house, including the bedrooms, is very cold. Before making this, not insignificant, purchase, I jumped online to research which heater would be the most efficient at the most cost-effective price. Over a few days I looked at a variety of community, scientific research-based, product sales and government sites to inform myself. Among these was the consumer watchdog Choice, who had recently conducted a review of heaters with regard to effectiveness and cost. Armed with the product info I wanted and being a responsible consumer, I then complemented this information with further research about sustainability.

I decided on an oil column electric heater (portability was important), even identifying the make and model number, and this afternoon went my local electrical wares shop to purchase said product. And that was where the trouble began.

All the sales guy had to do was answer very simple questions like; do you have this product; is it too heavy for me to carry home; what is the store (as opposed to manufacturer’s) warranty. Simple, huh? You’d think so!

Well, we got through my questions okay, they were easy enough to answer ― yes, yes, 2 years. Good so far! But then as I was getting out my wallet to pay for the heater, he says “you know it’s only 1200kw?” I said yes, that was the heater I wanted. He asks why, I reply that it is more economical to run a 1200kw than a 2400kw heater for the size of the room I want to warm, thus being being more economically cost-wise, reducing my carbon footprint at the same time. And that was when he began his tirade!

He ranted and raved about the government deceiving the people and scaremongering (my word, I don’t think it would’ve been in his vocabulary, just saying…), about global warming because it was cold today, and we’d had the coldest May for years. I was surprised at his response to a simple transaction. I light-heartedly suggested that the information used to inform media and government had a scientific research basis conducted over many many years by a variety of scientists in a range of scientific genres across a multitude of countries, so I tended to accept it with some validity. He started yelling. In the shop. In front of other customers. Talk about customer service! Geesh!

I left mid tirade. Without the heater. Or the assault charge.

Car jacking… or is it?

I put my groceries in someone else’s car boot at the supermarket today. It wasn’t until I shut the boot and opened the driver’s side door to get in, that I realised it wasn’t my car. The elderly man sitting in the passenger seat was the giveaway. I’m not sure who got more of a shock, but it took a few good seconds of us staring at each other before either reacted.

“Are you car-jacking me?” The old man was matter-of-fact about the question.

“What? No… of course not… I thought―” I was absolutely mortified.

“Or donating your groceries to a hungry old man?”

His good humour was a relief, but did nothing to lessen my humiliation. I got out of the car and went around to the back to reclaim my groceries. Just as I was pulling the last bag out of the boot, a woman in her late 50s came racing across the carpark screaming like a banshee. Well, maybe not exactly like a banshee, but she was calling to her father in a high-pitched panicky voice that reverberated around the underground carpark and probably could’ve been heard across the suburb.

I don’t know what she thought was happening but she was as white as a ghost when she finally reached the car. I tried to explain the ease with which such a mistake could happen. I mean, the cars were both silver, both Mazda 2s, and were almost indistinguishable sitting side by side in the dim carpark light.

Funnily enough, she seemed more interested in castigating me than checking on the well-being of her father.

This is not the first time this has happened to me―I know, hard to believe, right? The first time was before I moved to the city. I had driven a friend’s ute the fifteen minutes into Braidwood, the closest town to where I used to live, to pick up a few things from the hardware. A similar situation – two utes side by side, I put the bags into the back of one and then got into the cabin of the other and drove home. I still can’t explain it.

Rather than the person to whom I had ‘donated’ my goods get angry and aggressive, they went back into the hardware, asked who I was and where I lived, and then drove fifteen minutes to my home to deliver them to me. I didn’t even learn their name.

I guess that’s one difference between city and country. One assumes you have criminal intent, the other assumes you will return the favour to someone else one day.