Cost of Living

It sucks.

How Much More Are People Supposed to Take?

What the hell is going on? I’m looking at the reports from France and wondering how many more people have to march through the streets before governments understand that being able to afford your life is a fairly basic fucking expectation.

The protests over living costs and public services have descended into violence in places. Shops damaged, buildings burning, people hurt. And somewhere underneath the smoke are people who wanted to say something perfectly reasonable: we cannot keep doing this. We cannot keep paying more and having less.

I understand that anger. Here in Australia, you can do the sensible things, watch your spending, cut back, shop carefully, and still feel as though you’re going backwards. Groceries, electricity, insurance, housing. Every bill arrives wanting a bigger piece of money that was already accounted for. What exactly are we supposed to cut next? Eating? Heating? Having a bloody roof?

My house had doubled in value over the last 11 years. Doubled! I barely managed to buy it! How are kids supposed to buy a house? Live in it? That's assuming they can get and keep a job that AI is barking up the tree beneath them...

And please spare me another lecture about budgeting. A budget tells you where the money goes. It doesn’t magically produce enough of it. There is something deeply insulting about telling people to manage their money better when they’re already standing in a supermarket putting things back.

Then Trump weighs in, blaming immigration. How convenient to have a ready-made target whenever something goes wrong. I’d like to hear rather more about how people are supposed to afford food, fuel and somewhere to live. A scapegoat won’t pay the electricity bill.

I don’t support burning somebody’s business or destroying public buildings. Some poor bastard loses their livelihood, workers lose shifts, and the repair bill lands somewhere. But condemning the destruction cannot be the entire response. The people marching peacefully still deserve an answer when the streets have been swept.

That’s what bothers me. The cameras will move on. The speeches will finish. People will go home to the same unpaid bills and the same dread of the next one.

We are asking for an ordinary life with a little breathing room. Enough to cover the essentials without feeling sick every time an envelope arrives. Perhaps even enough left to enjoy being alive.

If governments cannot understand why that matters, they need to spend less time explaining the economy to us and more time listening to the people trying to survive in it.

Sitting Wondering How I Got Here

I’m currently sitting at the emergency department, which sounds worse than it is. My left hip joint is in agony!!! Not enough to stop me blogging but I’ve had it now for a week and sometimes blogging is the furthest thing from my mind!

Plus they’ve given me drugs! Yay!

How Much More Are People Supposed to Take?

What the hell is going on? I’m looking at the reports from France and wondering how many more people have to march through the streets before governments understand that being able to afford your life is a fairly basic fucking expectation.

The protests over living costs and public services have descended into violence in places. Shops damaged, buildings burning, people hurt. And somewhere underneath the smoke are people who wanted to say something perfectly reasonable: we cannot keep doing this. We cannot keep paying more and having less.

I understand that anger. Here in Australia, you can do the sensible things, watch your spending, cut back, shop carefully, and still feel as though you’re going backwards. Groceries, electricity, insurance, housing. Every bill arrives wanting a bigger piece of money that was already accounted for. What exactly are we supposed to cut next? Eating? Heating? Having a bloody roof? Because our wages sure as hell aren't keeping up with the cost of living!!

And please spare me another lecture about budgeting. A budget tells you where the money goes. It doesn’t magically produce enough of it. There is something deeply insulting about telling people to manage their money better when they’re already standing in a supermarket putting things back.

Then Trump weighs in, blaming immigration. How convenient to have a ready-made target whenever something goes wrong. I’d like to hear rather more about how people are supposed to afford food, fuel and somewhere to live. A scapegoat won’t pay the electricity bill.

I don’t support burning somebody’s business or destroying public buildings. Some poor bastard loses their livelihood, workers lose shifts, and the repair bill lands somewhere. But condemning the destruction cannot be the entire response. The people marching peacefully still deserve an answer when the streets have been swept.

That’s what bothers me. The cameras will move on. The speeches will finish. People will go home to the same unpaid bills and the same dread of the next one.

We are asking for an ordinary life with a little breathing room. Enough to cover the essentials without feeling sick every time an envelope arrives. Perhaps even enough left to enjoy being alive.

If governments cannot understand why that matters, they need to spend less time explaining the economy to us and more time listening to the people trying to survive in it.

Scammers Have Made Answering the Phone a Bloody Risk

What a miserable fucking achievement: creating a world where someone rings to say they’re helping you, and your first thought has to be, “Are you trying to rob me?”

I nearly fell for it. A man with an English accent rang claiming to be from my bank. My account had been compromised, he said. My money was at risk. It was imperative that I move it immediately. He kept pushing the urgency, and when someone tells you your savings are in danger, it’s surprisingly easy to get caught up in doing whatever supposedly needs to be done. 

The sounds behind them sound like a big bank. People rushing, conversations, phones ringing...

Except there was a little niggling voice in my head. Something wasn’t right, I wasn't quite sure. That doubt saved me.

But what about the people who don’t get that warning? Or who do, but the bloke on the phone sounds so convincing that they push it aside? He knows how to answer their questions. He sounds calm while they’re panicking. He’s supposedly the person who can stop something terrible happening. You can see how easily someone could follow his instructions and hand their savings straight to the bastard thief.

And then comes the inevitable commentary. “I would never fall for that.” Congratulations on your imaginary performance in a situation you weren’t actually in. It’s easy to spot the trap when someone has already pointed it out. Quite different when you’re frightened and someone is talking you through an urgent “solution”. As it worked out, I transferred money into my partner's account until I worked out what was what.

The scum have little care what that money represents. Years of working. Going without. A buffer against the next bill, the next emergency, the next thing life throws at you. They’ll take the lot and leave someone sitting at their kitchen table wondering how the hell they’re going to manage. Then they’ll ring the next person.

That’s what makes me so angry. The theft, obviously, but also what they’ve done to everyday trust. We’re suspicious of phone calls, messages, emails - even offers of help. We have to keep shutting out outside voices because we can’t be sure who is speaking or what they want. And when it all goes to hell in a handbasket, the big banks don't want to know you. They couldn't care less. Even though they see you drawing big chunks of money. It's not their fault. It's criminal the way they behave.

I’m grateful for that little niggling voice. But nobody should have to rely on a flicker of doubt to protect everything they’ve worked for. And anyone who has lost money deserves some bloody compassion. The shame belongs to the calculating pricks who stole it.

The more I hear of it, the more I'm hoping for a beekeeper to come into the world...

Dear Publishing Scammers: Fuck Off!

There is a special place in hell for people who prey on other people's dreams. And I sincerely hope it has terrible Wi-Fi, no air conditioning and a permanent shortage of toilet paper.

Yesterday, my partner received an email from someone claiming to be Daisy Hutton, Vice President and Publisher at Hachette Nashville. Yes, THAT Hachette. One of the biggest publishing groups in the world.

The email was impressive. It mentioned his employment history, qualifications, technical writing experience, creative fiction and Master of Arts in Creative Writing. It was personal, complimentary and beautifully written. The sort of email that makes a writer think, Bloody hell, someone's finally noticed my work!

And my partner deserves to be noticed. He's a genuinely talented writer who has spent years developing his craft.

Before he replied, he ran it past me... Fortunately, he has me. And I have ChatGPT, which is becoming exceptionally good at detecting bullshit.

One Extra Letter. One Enormous Fucking Lie.

The email came from daisy.hutton@hhbgusa.com. Hachette's genuine domain is @hbgusa.com. See that extra H? That's the scam. One miserable little letter.

The particularly sneaky part is that Daisy Hutton is a real publishing executive. These bastards weren't inventing someone. They were impersonating an actual person with an impressive position.

Naturally, I wanted to know how they knew so much about my partner. His career, his writing, his qualifications. It was almost creepy. Then we checked LinkedIn. Bingo.

All that information was sitting there. My suspicion is that these scammers are harvesting professional profiles and using AI to manufacture convincing, personalised emails.

What took my partner decades to achieve probably took some little shithead thirty seconds to turn into a potential con. So Where's the Money? That's the clever part. They didn't ask for any.

First comes the flattery. Then the conversation. Then perhaps the exciting possibility of a publishing contract. And eventually, the inevitable fee for manuscript assessment, editing, administration or some other invented necessity.

Hachette itself warns about scammers impersonating its executives and demanding money from hopeful authors.

And this isn't an isolated incident. Another Australian writer reportedly received a similarly personalised email impersonating a different Hachette executive, using the exact same fraudulent domain.

Same bullshit. Different victim.

We even examined the original email's technical information. It had been sent through Google's mail infrastructure and passed its authentication checks. The scammers had apparently gone to the trouble of setting up a functioning email service for their fake domain.

That's how convincing these operations can be.

And Here's What Really Pisses Me Off.

It's not the technology or the fake email address.

It's the cruelty.

Writers spend years creating something they hope somebody will appreciate. They endure rejection, disappointment and uncertainty. And then along comes an email suggesting that someone important has finally recognised their talent.

For a moment, my partner had every reason to feel excited. I felt excited for him! I was already planning our trip to America!!!

And I fucking hate that these arseholes exploited that.

His talent is real. His achievements are real. His writing is real.

The opportunity wasn't.

So, to every writer out there, check the sender's actual email address. Verify unsolicited offers directly with the publisher. And never assume that because someone knows your professional history, they're legitimate.

As for the people responsible, here's a thought. If you're clever enough to research authors, impersonate publishing executives and create convincing fraudulent emails, perhaps consider getting an actual fucking job.

Although that would require something you clearly don't possess.

A conscience.

And to whoever sent that email to my partner: you picked the wrong bloody household. You didn't get his money. You didn't get his manuscript. You didn't even get a reply. But you did get a blog post. 

Pity; I wanted to go The Beekeeper on them! Fucking bastards. I can see me now... going Jason Stathem. Everything exploding.

Zip It Up And Catch The Damned Plane.

Fitness influencer Caitlin Lyndon says a Virgin Australia employee asked her to zip her jacket over her sports bra before boarding. She believes she was singled out because of her fake breast size, saying her similarly dressed companion wasn’t stopped. Virgin says it has apologised for her experience. Pity, I liked the experience of reading about it! lol

My first response? Zip it up and get on the bloody plane. You already have the jacket. Nobody is asking you to fashion a modesty garment out of a boarding pass and three luggage tags, Ms Magiver! Pull the zip, find your seat, and join the rest of us in wondering whether our knees will survive the journey.

Personally, I’m tired of the Instagram aesthetic being treated as something the rest of us should applaud. The posing, the presentation, the endless expectation of an audience. And they are fucking ugly. Fake! 

Wear what you like, but I’m allowed to find the whole performance exhausting. I’m travelling to Melbourne. My ticket didn’t include compulsory enthusiasm for somebody else’s look.

There is, however, a detail that deserves an answer. If two passengers wore equivalent outfits and only one was stopped, the airline should explain the distinction. The reporting also says its dress requirements don’t expressly prohibit sports bras. Clear rules, applied consistently, would help everyone.

We seem to have developed a dreadful habit of taking every unpleasant interaction and inflating it until it fills the internet. Must be light on for news. A stranger can be abrupt. A staff member can make a poor decision. You can feel embarrassed. All of those things deserve some perspective before we summon the entire nation to adjudicate a jacket.

I’d like airlines to spend their energy explaining delays, answering customers and getting luggage to the same city as its owner. I’d also like passengers to remember that shared spaces involve other people, most of whom are tired, uncomfortable and desperately hoping boarding will finish. They're not there to look at or comment on you tits. Sheesh.

By all means, challenge an inconsistent rule. But forgive me if I decline to join the outrage committee.

I’ve got a plane to catch, and considerably bigger things to give a fuck about.

A Grandfather Is Supposed to Love Them. What the Fuck Is This?

Some stories leave you staring at the screen, trying to find words strong enough for what you have just read. This is one of them. A pregnant woman, her young children and other loved ones killed in a mass shooting in Erie, Pennsylvania. Relatives said the gunman as the children’s grandfather — the pregnant woman’s own father. Police are still investigating the fucked up motive.

A grandfather. Someone whose place in a kid's life should be associated with affection, safety and perhaps a sneaky treat when Mum isn’t looking. Someone who should be there to watch them grow. The betrayal in this is fucking staggering. How do you even begin to comprehend a family relationship ending in this much cruelty?

Among those killed were Angelina Stone and her children, Isiah and Amari’anna. Angelina was reportedly just days away from giving birth. Those names deserve our attention. The woman who should have had a future. The children who should have had years of birthdays, friendships, silly arguments and ordinary days ahead of them. Their lives mattered before a headline made strangers aware of them.

I am pissed off at the brutality of it. Staggered that children can have their entire futures taken by an adult with a gun. Furious at the suffering left for everyone who loved them. 

Investigators need to establish what happened and why. But whatever they discover, the victims must remain at the centre of this story. Understanding a killer should never swallow up the people he killed.

And spare me any suggestion that being someone’s father or grandfather gives you ownership of their life. Family is a responsibility. It means caring for people and keeping them safe. It gives you absolutely no fucking right to decide whether they get to live.

As a grandmother, I find the thought of those children unbearable. You want your grandchildren to feel safe with you. You want to hear their nonsensical chatter, see what interests them this week and watch the people they are becoming. 

The privilege is getting to be part of their lives. Not the person who ends them.

The surviving loved ones now have to face something the rest of us can barely bring ourselves to imagine. Long after the headlines disappear, they will still be living with the absence. There will be birthdays to get through, belongings to confront and moments when the enormity of what happened hits all over again.

They deserve support that lasts longer than a news cycle. They deserve room to grieve, to rage and to remember their loved ones as whole people.

And I will not apologise for swearing about the killing of a pregnant woman and little children. If the word “fuck” offends you more than the violence that prompted it, your priorities need a bloody good examination.

My sympathy is with the victims and everyone who loved them. My hate is for the man who took their lives.

What a cruel, devastating fucking waste.

Two Daughters. Two Mothers. Questions That Still Hurt.

There is something heartbreaking about two mothers finding friendship because their daughters are dead. Nobody imagines joining that particular club. Nobody raises a little girl thinking that, one day, another grieving mother will be the person who understands her life best. I don't know what I would do...

Phoebe Handsjuk was 24 when she died in Melbourne in 2010. Baillee Schneider was 25 when she died in 2018. Phoebe’s death was ruled accidental; Baillee’s was ruled suicide. 

Both had dated Antony Hampel, whom coroners cleared of involvement (which was bloody easy for them...) Their mothers, Natalie and Sabine, remain troubled by aspects of the investigations and have formed a close friendship. Those are the reported facts. Their concerns are not proof of a crime. They deserve to be heard nonetheless.

What gets me is the expectation we so often place on grieving people: accept the explanation, find some closure and somehow get on with it. Closure. What a neat little word for something that can tear the rest of your life to pieces. As though grief comes with a lid you can click shut once the paperwork is finished.

I want a system that can explain itself clearly. When a family questions an investigation, they should be able to understand what was examined, how conclusions were reached and what remains uncertain. An honest acknowledgement of uncertainty has more value than reassurance that leaves someone feeling unheard.

And please, can we stop treating a young woman’s struggles as though they tell us everything worth knowing about her? A person can have difficult days, make mistakes and need help while still being funny, loving, talented and full of possibility. Vulnerability should bring greater care. It should never diminish the value placed on a life.

There is room to respect a coronial finding and care about a family’s continuing distress. There is room to ask careful questions without appointing yourself detective, judge and jury from behind a keyboard. These women deserve better than becoming entertainment for people who will move on to the next mystery tomorrow.

Their mothers don’t get to move on so conveniently.

What they carry is the absence of a daughter in ordinary moments: an empty place at a table, a birthday, something funny with nobody to send it to. That is where the enormity of a young death lives, long after public attention has wandered elsewhere.

Phoebe and Baillee deserved long lives. Natalie and Sabine deserve compassion, clear explanations and the freedom to speak about what still troubles them.

Listening to them should be the bloody least we can do.

ICE: A Badge Doesn’t Make This Less Horrifying

A five-year-old child was in the back seat when an ICE officer shot and wounded a man during an attempted arrest in New York. Five years old. An age when your biggest worry should be whether some kid has stolen your favourite crayon, rather than whether the armed adults outside your car are going to kill your father. 

Apparently, the child escaped physical injury. That is a relief, but it's a bloody low bar set for a successful encounter with government officers.

According to New York’s police commissioner, plainclothes federal officers approached Oscar Belgal’s car, one with a gun drawn. When the car moved forward, an officer fired seven rounds, striking Belgal below his left ear. Federal officials say he rammed ICE vehicles and endangered their officers. That allegation needs investigation. It does not settle whether firing was justified, and it certainly does not make scrutiny optional.

I am sick of the suggestion that putting someone’s criminal history in a press release answers every question about what officers did to them. It doesn’t. A conviction is not permission for unlimited force. An allegation is not a verdict. And immigration status does not strip a human being of the right to have government violence examined!

The government says its officers did not know the child was inside. Well, that deserves serious scrutiny too. What could they see? What precautions did they take? How was this operation planned? “We didn’t know” should begin an investigation into what went wrong, rather than serve as the final word on why nobody should be held responsible. 

Hell, they don't know if a child is there - don't shoot unless they do!

There is something revolting about political leaders rushing to defend an agency while the public is still trying to establish what happened. Apparently, we are supposed to accept the official explanation, swallow the language of enforcement and stop making a fuss. Meanwhile, a small child has been caught inside an encounter that ended with his father wounded by gunfire.

And spare me the chest-thumping about being tough. Carrying a weapon gives you the power to cause irreversible harm. The public is entitled to demand restraint, sound judgement and an honest accounting of every decision to use it. Those demands become more urgent when officers operate around families.

Release the footage. Preserve the evidence. Have investigators outside the agency examine the shooting and the decisions that led to it. If the evidence establishes misconduct or unlawful force, there must be consequences. A badge should increase your accountability because of the authority it gives you.

My disgust is directed at an institution whose leadership expects public trust while responding to a horrifying shooting with excuses and political blame. Trust has to be earned through conduct and scrutiny. It cannot be demanded at gunpoint.

A five-year-old was in that car. 

Whatever the investigation establishes about the adults involved, that child deserves to remain at the centre of this conversation. He shouldn't become a footnote under another government statement congratulating itself on being tough.

Stop The World; I Want To Get Off!

Crazy. I'm buggered! I got up buggered and haven't improved! It's only 3pm and I'm ready for bed!

I will walk the dog... See if that helps.

Imagine Looking at Bondi and Seeing Inspiration

Most of us see a terrorist attack and think about the people. The lives cut short. The families left waiting for someone who will never come home. Then there are those who apparently look at the same horror and think: I’d like to do that.

According to a report, the FBI has foiled an alleged plot to attack Minnesota’s Mall of America. An eighteen-year-old is accused of planning a mass shooting in support of Islamic State and citing previous massacres, including the Bondi Beach attack, as events he wanted to emulate. 

“Emulating Bondi.” What a revolting ambition. Imagine having your whole life ahead of you and deciding that your great contribution to the world should be destroying somebody else’s. 

Imagine looking at grief and seeing an opportunity to make a name for yourself. There is nothing impressive about mowing down people out having a good time. Any pathetic coward can dream about it when facing a group of ordinary people.

A shopping centre is full of people doing ordinary things. Buying shoes. Meeting a friend. Working a shift. Taking the kids out because everyone needs to get out of the house for a few hours. Nobody should have to calculate whether a trip to the shops might leave their family identifying their body. Yet terrorists want precisely that fear. They want their hatred to follow the rest of us into every ordinary corner of our lives.

And I am thoroughly sick of the grand language that gets wrapped around this crap. Pledges. Causes. Glorious missions. Strip away the theatrical rubbish and consider what the proposed act actually involves: someone with a weapon attacking people who have no chance to defend themselves. All that swagger, all that supposed conviction, directed at strangers who simply happened to be there.

I don't get it. If I lived to be a thousand I don't think I'd get it.

Islamic State’s glorification of violence deserves absolute contempt. So does the mentality that turns murdered people into a score to beat. These were human beings with families, plans, private jokes and unfinished conversations. Their deaths are not material for some aspiring tosser's fantasy of importance.

If these allegations are proved, I want serious punishment that reflects the seriousness of planning mass murder. The fact that authorities intervened should be a reason to thank them, rather than a reason to shrug at what was allegedly intended. Prevention matters because the alternative is another collection of photographs, another vigil and another family trying to survive the unbearable.

For once, the headline tells us a plot was stopped. Thank God for that. Somewhere, people are getting on with their lives who might otherwise have become the subject of the next heartbreaking news report.

They deserve to remain ordinary people having an ordinary day. And anyone who dreams of taking that away deserves our contempt, a thorough investigation and, where guilt is proved, the full force of the law.

Very Tough. Until Mike Tyson Walks In...

There is something particularly revolting about a man in uniform displaying his physical authority against a young woman. The badge, the backup, the equipment - and somehow, we still end up with a cheerleader on the ground. What a magnificent advertisement for keeping the public safe.

The footage reportedly shows Arizona State University cheerleader Eryn Bonner being shoved down and later restrained against a bicycle during a July encounter with Tempe police. Police allege she interfered with an arrest and punched an officer. Those allegations matter and should be examined. So should the force used against her. One does not conveniently cancel out the other.

But apparently, we are supposed to see a uniform and immediately switch off every functioning brain cell. “She should have stayed back.” Yes, perhaps she should have. That still leaves the rather large question of whether a trained police officer handled the situation with the restraint we ought to expect from someone entrusted with that much power.

Training should mean something beyond learning how to put someone on the pavement. Judgement. Composure. The ability to manage a chaotic situation without making it considerably uglier. Otherwise, what exactly are we paying for? A short temper with a pension?

Which brings me to Mike Tyson. Imagine this officer being thrust in for two rounds of supervised boxing with him. Suddenly, I suspect, the enthusiasm for physical confrontation might evaporate. There would be a touching new appreciation for negotiation, personal space and resolving differences through calm discussion. Possibly a previously undisclosed hamstring injury.

Funny how appealing restraint becomes when the other person can flatten you.

My disgust is directed at the apparent force in this encounter, and I want it properly scrutinised. Bonner’s lawyer has called the force excessive; Tempe police say the incident is under administrative review. That review needs to produce a credible explanation and meaningful consequences if misconduct is established.

I am tired of “a difficult job” being offered as though it ends the conversation. Plenty of people do difficult jobs. Nurses deal with frightened and aggressive patients. Teachers manage volatile classrooms. Carers cope with distress, confusion and unpredictable behaviour. We still expect them to control themselves.

Police should face that expectation too, especially given the authority they carry. The public should be able to question an officer’s conduct without being accused of wanting criminals to run the streets. Demanding professional policing is a fairly modest request.

A badge ought to come with enough accountability to make its wearer think carefully before using force. If this officer crossed the line, he should have to answer for it without the uniform cushioning the landing.

And if he considers that unfair, perhaps he could explain his position to Mike Tyson. From a sensible distance, naturally. Suddenly, distance might seem very important.

She Matters Podcast | Sherele Moody

A Caution? You Have Got to Be Bloody Joking.

Apparently, wanting to visit a shopping centre without getting caught in a violent brawl is now asking a bit much. Buy some groceries, browse the shops, take the kids out - and hope nobody decides to turn the place into their personal fight club. I am bloody disgusted that ordinary people can have their day hijacked by this sort of selfish, aggressive behaviour.

So Sunday’s brawl at Melbourne’s Highpoint Shopping Centre sent families seeking safety in shops, while security guards trying to intervene were struck. Police arrested two boys, aged 15 and 16, and a 19-year-old man. The boys received cautions for affray; the man was released without charge.

Cautions. After that reported chaos, I find that response deeply unsatisfying. I want to understand how it adequately addresses the harm done to everyone around them. Because the people who happen to be nearby matter, too. Their safety should count for something before someone ends up seriously injured.

I am sick of the expression “just kids” being wheeled out as though teenagers cannot possibly understand that punching people is wrong. Most teenagers manage to go shopping without terrorising anyone. They catch up with friends, eat something, waste their money and go home. Being young does not make violence inevitable, and it certainly should not make it acceptable.

My view is straightforward: young people convicted of serious violence should face real time in custody when the seriousness of their offending warrants it. A meaningful sentence. Something that reflects the harm they caused and protects the public. Their age should inform the response, but it should not swallow every other consideration until the victims barely feature.

And yes, provide education, counselling and rehabilitation during that time. Give them the opportunity to come out with better judgment and some prospect of a decent future. I can support all of that while still expecting consequences. Concern for a young offender’s future does not require the rest of us to shrug off what they have done.

What about the people working in these places? Retail workers should be thinking about stock, customers and when they can finally take their lunch break. Security staff deserve to finish a shift safely. Putting on a uniform does not mean agreeing to be somebody’s punching bag. Nobody’s hourly wage is compensation for being assaulted.

Then there are the parents trying to keep their children safe. I cannot imagine having much interest in an offender’s excuses while trying to get a frightened child away from a fight. You would want the danger stopped. Afterwards, you would want to know that the response took it seriously.

I want public spaces where decent people can get on with their lives. Where older people, people with disabilities, families and workers can move around without having to plan how quickly they could escape if violence breaks out. That is a reasonable expectation of a shopping trip.

Of course individual responsibility has to be established properly. Arrest alone does not prove guilt. But once serious violent offending is proved, I want a justice system prepared to impose serious consequences, including custody where warranted.

The public should not have to wait for a tragedy before its safety is treated as urgent. I am tired of the aggression, tired of the entitlement, and tired of ordinary people being expected to absorb the fear and disruption.

Go shopping. See your mates. Have a bloody coffee. But if you choose violence, you should face consequences that match it.

He Gets Parole! They Get to Keep Being Afraid.

I am so bloody tired of reading stories in which a man destroys women’s lives and then the conversation turns to how nicely he might settle back into his own.

Pierre Raphael Mol, who sexually assaulted six women, has been granted parole and is scheduled for release on October 4. Authorities cite assessments of low reoffending risk. One survivor, Ashley Yakimchuk, has expressed fear that he will seek revenge. He is to live in a Corrective Services managed facility. Those are the reported circumstances. My reaction is disgust.

I understand that parole involves supervision. I understand that there are assessments, procedures and people whose job is to weigh the evidence. But I want to know where a woman’s ability to sleep without fear sits in all that paperwork. How much weight does her peace carry? Because being told someone is considered a low risk must be very cold comfort when you are the person frightened of what he might do.

Women looking for work should be able to answer an advertisement without walking into a predator’s trap. They should be able to trust that a professional setting comes with professional boundaries. Mol used modelling work to lure women to his studio. At his 2024 sentencing, the judge criticised his understanding of consent and continued victim blaming.

That makes my skin crawl. The exploitation of trust. The entitlement. The belief that another person’s body is somehow available because you have decided you want access to it. There is nothing complicated about the principle here. A woman agreeing to work with you has agreed to work with you. You do not get to invent further permissions.

And I have absolutely no patience for the tragic downfall of a talented man. His reputation, his career, his standing in the community — why should those things soften our judgment? Talent is not a character reference. You can create something beautiful and still behave appallingly. Women do not owe you forgiveness because someone admired your work.

What infuriates me about these stories is how easily the language becomes tidy. Rehabilitation. Reintegration. Risk assessment. All necessary concepts, perhaps, but none of them captures what it means to be afraid in your own home. To wonder whether speaking up has made you a target. To have done the hard, frightening thing of reporting an assault and then face another round of uncertainty.

I am not claiming to know what Mol will do after release. I am saying that a survivor’s fear deserves more than a reassuring phrase. I want protection that is concrete, support that is accessible, and answers that make sense to the women who have to live with this decision.

We keep encouraging women to report sexual violence. We ask them to endure the questions, the exposure, the court process and the possibility of being disbelieved. Then we need to show them that their safety matters after the sentence has been handed down, too.

I want these women to have ordinary, uneventful days. To go somewhere without looking over their shoulders. To sleep. To feel that their lives belong to them.

That should be a central measure of justice. And I am sick to death of wondering whether it even makes the list.

Some men suck. It is why secretwomen.org will someday be reality! :)

Cancel the Wedding. Get Some Dignity.

“Too much to forgive,” says a friend of Isaac Heeney’s fiancée, according to the latest reports. If that reflects how Steffie Waters feels, I can understand it. What I struggle with is the familiar expectation that a woman should spend weeks weighing up whether her own peace is worth more than a relationship that has become a public bloody circus.

Heeney was among five Swans players suspended for breaching club standards. There is also an ongoing police investigation, with no charges laid. Those allegations remain unproven. The club’s disciplinary action, however, is a fact—and its standards were apparently more than these professional adults could manage.

Professional football demands discipline. Training schedules, dietary requirements, recovery sessions, team meetings. An entire organisation devoted to helping grown men make good decisions. Yet somehow, once the football is put away, basic good judgment becomes an advanced elective.

Then comes the aftermath. The damage control. The worried conversations about a promising career. The sympathetic discussion of what he stands to lose. Marvellous. Can we spare five minutes for the woman whose engagement has become something strangers discuss over breakfast?

I have very little patience for the idea that she should now help rescue the situation. She agreed to marry a man. She did not apply to become the human shield in front of his reputation.

And if she stays simply because he’s handsome, famous or exceptionally good at football, well; I think that would mean she gets what she deserves. You’re choosing a husband, love, not filling a vacancy in your fantasy team. 

We are far too impressed by sporting talent. Give a man a guernsey and suddenly people start explaining away behaviour they wouldn’t tolerate from the bloke next door. 

I’ve had three ex-husbands. I understand that leaving isn’t always simple, and I won’t pretend an Instagram photograph tells us what is happening privately. But I’ve also learnt that the years you’ve already spent with someone are gone. 

If I were in a relationship that had reached “too much to forgive,” the wedding would be off. I wouldn’t be waiting for another beautifully worded apology or a convincing performance of regret. I’d be making arrangements for my own future.

He can manage his career with his club, his advisers and whoever else is paid to sort it out.

She has a life to get on with. I hope she chooses it.

Rob Lowe Has Broken My Heart. He Doesn’t Know It Yet.

Rob Lowe was asked to name his best on-screen kiss, and he answered immediately: Nastassja Kinski. They kissed in The Hotel New Hampshire back in 1984. Apparently she was so beautiful that he was nervous.

I have taken this news with the dignity you would expect from a woman whose in her sixties. I’m going to lie down for a bit.

Of course, Nastassja Kinski is gorgeous. I’ve seen her. I’m not disputing his eyesight. What I object to is Rob Lowe still remembering a kiss from 1984 while I’ve spent the intervening forty-two years being available in a purely theoretical sense.

The really annoying part is that he’s still gorgeous himself. Rob Lowe has somehow kept the face and the hair. It feels excessive. There ought to be a limit. Boy... He ought to try being a woman. There is no such thing as a gorgeous, craggy woman!

He’s been married for decades, I’m happily spoken for, and the kiss happened on a film set before many people reading this were born. None of which makes my disappointment any less real. I didn’t ask for an explanation of who his favourite was. I was quite content not knowing.

So congratulations, Nastassja. You won a competition you probably didn’t realise was still running. As for Rob, I’ll forgive him eventually.

Probably by lunchtime.

He Rated Her Looks. What A Dick

Coco Pickering, 22, working at Commonwealth Bank has apparently become the subject of a LinkedIn post calling her “beautiful”. And now corporate Australia is arguing about it, because a young woman should be able to go to work without a man publicly assessing her appearance.

LinkedIn is meant to be a professional platform. People use it to talk about jobs, skills, promotions and the occasional leadership lesson discovered while making toast. Yet somehow this man looked at a young bank worker and decided the professional contribution he had to make was a comment on her looks.

Perhaps he thought he was being nice. That’s often the excuse, isn’t it? It was a compliment. But a compliment is usually for the person receiving it. A public post about a woman’s appearance invites everyone else to look at her through his eyes. She didn’t go to work to become content for his LinkedIn audience.

I’m sure she has a job to do and ambitions of her own. None of those appears in the headline. What does appear is her age, where she works and a man’s opinion of her face. That’s a fairly neat demonstration of the problem.

And before someone says we can’t say anything nice anymore: yes, we can. Tell a colleague she handled a difficult customer well. Praise her work. Thank her for helping you. There are hundreds of pleasant things to say about a woman at work that don’t sound like you’ve wandered in from a dating app.

The man may be surprised by the reaction. I’m more surprised that he pressed post without once thinking, “Would I write this about a 22-year-old male bank worker?”

Probably not. Which tells us exactly how professional the post was.

Good for her! What a sleazy old pig.

Grand Final...

Yesterday I didn't get to blog. Normally, I wouldn't have.  But yesterday, it was the AFL Grand Final.

It wasn't overly exciting... Well, I guess it was if you consider the score. Brisbane won by a goal; or there abouts. But they won with about 2 minutes on the clock. It was a fantastic game.

Still, last year at least we had a Victorian club playing in it. Geelong. But that wasn't overly exciting either. It was my team, and we lost.

I have been to 5 losing and 4 winning grand finals.

I'll admit; winning is better.

Why Can’t They Just Let Her Leave?

A woman decides she has had enough. Perhaps she says it aloud. Perhaps she quietly starts putting money aside, looking for somewhere to live, imagining a future in which she can shut her own front door and breathe.

And sometimes, the man who claims to love her decides she isn't allowed to have that future.

Why can’t he just let her go? It is such a simple question. People separate every day. It hurts. They argue over the house, the dog and whose turn it is to explain things to the children. Then, somehow, they carry on. Yet some men would rather kill their partner than accept that she has a life beyond them.

In Australia, 32 women were killed by a current or former intimate partner in 2024–25. That is about one woman every 11 days. By 19 September this year, a separate public tally had recorded 51 women killed by violence in 2026. Those 51 deaths are not all partner killings, and we should never blur the numbers to make a point. The real figures are dreadful enough.

I keep coming back to the word love. We use it in headlines about these deaths as though it explains something. He loved her too much. He couldn’t bear to lose her. He was devastated when she left. But a woman is not a possession someone has lost. She is a person who made a decision.

For some violent men, that decision means a loss of control. The threats, the checking of her phone, the rules about where she goes and whom she sees may have been there long before she tried to leave. Violence is more common where a man believes he owns his partner or has the right to make her decisions.

Then we tell women to leave, as if walking out is the end of the danger. Of course, women should be able to leave. They should also be able to survive doing it. A man who threatens to kill his partner needs to be taken seriously while she is still alive to be protected.

And the rest of us have a part in this. When a mate talks about his ex as though she owes him her time, her location or another chance, don’t laugh along. When he calls constant surveillance “caring”, say what it is. When a woman says she is frightened, believe her before her photograph appears beneath a headline.

I don’t want another solemn announcement that “something must be done” after another woman has died. I want her to be able to pack a bag, walk away and get on with the ordinary business of living.

Why can’t they just let her be?  :( 

The Left-Wing Radicals Have Left the Building

Two delegations walked out during Donald Trump’s speech at the United Nations: Iran’s and Cuba’s. Which is quite a feat, really. Most people who find Trump unbearable can turn off the television. These people had to get up, gather their papers and leave while the cameras were rolling.

Trump’s speech covered Iran, Cuba, drug cartels and his familiar warning that communism must never reach America. Iran’s delegation walked out as he spoke about military strikes against their country; Cuba’s left during his remarks about its government. Calling them all “left-wing radicals” makes a wonderfully punchy headline, but it does rather flatten the detail. Iran and Cuba were protesting different things.

I’m not going to pretend I’d enjoy being trapped in a room listening to Trump for 37 minutes. He can turn a speech about world affairs into something that sounds like a man arguing with every country at a very large family Christmas. But I do wonder what a walkout achieves, apart from giving him a fresh audience reaction to talk about.

Then again, staying seated and looking furious would have given the cameras something too. Perhaps that’s the problem with a Trump speech: whatever you do, you’re part of the show. The only person guaranteed to enjoy the spectacle is Trump.

Killed By Someone Who Was Supposed to Love Her...

Another three women are dead.

And, once again, the person accused of killing her is not some stranger lurking in a dark alley. It is someone she knew. Someone she trusted. Someone who may once have told her that he loved her.

How does love become this?

It doesn’t, of course. Because this isn’t love. It is ownership dressed up as love. It is jealousy passed off as passion. It is control disguised as concern.

Where are you going? Who are you talking to? Why are you wearing that? Why didn’t you answer your phone?

At first, it can almost sound flattering. He wants to know where she is because he worries about her. He doesn’t like her friends because they are a bad influence. He controls the money because he is “better with it.” He checks her phone because he has been hurt before.

Slowly, her life becomes smaller while his control becomes bigger.

Then, if she tries to leave, the danger can escalate. She is no longer obeying. She is no longer his to supervise. And for a man who believes love means ownership, her independence feels like humiliation.

That is one of the ugliest answers to the question: why are so many women killed by people who are supposed to love them?

Because some men have never learned that a woman is a person, not a possession. She is allowed to leave. She is allowed to fall out of love. She is allowed to make decisions he doesn’t like. She is allowed to live a life that does not include him.

On average, one Australian woman is killed every nine days by a current or former partner. Worldwide, an estimated 51,100 women and girls were killed by partners or family members in 2023. For many women, the most dangerous place is not the street. It is their own home.

And we still ask why she stayed.

Why didn’t she leave earlier? Why did she go back? Why didn’t she report him? Why didn’t she see what he was capable of?

Perhaps she did.

Perhaps she knew exactly what he was capable of - and that was why she was terrified to leave.

Leaving may mean having nowhere to live, no money, frightened children and a partner who has threatened to kill her, himself, the children or the family pet. It may mean being stalked, tracked through her phone, harassed at work or dragged through endless court proceedings. A piece of paper saying he must stay away is useful only if he decides to obey it - or someone stops him when he doesn’t.

Meanwhile, women are told to change their behaviour. Don’t walk alone. Don’t drink too much. Don’t date the wrong man. Keep evidence. Pack an emergency bag. Change your passwords. Turn off location tracking. Tell a friend. Have an escape plan.

Women are expected to become full-time security experts while the violent man continues doing exactly as he pleases.

We need to stop treating these killings as inexplicable explosions from otherwise loving men. In many cases, the murder is the end of a long history of coercion, threats, stalking, intimidation and violence. The signs were there. The woman may have reported them. Her family may have seen them. Police, courts or support services may have known about them.

Then she is killed and everyone says, “Nobody could have imagined this.”

Women imagined it. They were simply not believed strongly enough.

This is not about claiming that every man is violent. Most men are not. It is about recognising that most violence against women is committed by men, and that silence helps the violent ones hide among the decent ones.

Good men need to be part of this conversation too. They need to challenge the mate who talks about his ex as though she deserves punishment. They need to stop laughing at jokes about controlling women. They need to teach boys that rejection is painful, not fatal; that jealousy is not love; and that losing a relationship does not mean losing ownership—because ownership should never have existed in the first place.

A woman should not need a carefully planned escape route from someone who once promised to love her.

She should not have to die before we finally believe she was in danger.

And we should stop calling it love when what we really mean is control.

I don't know about you, but the land of Secretwomen.org is looking good!!

She Went to Mexico to Study. She Should Have Come Home...

Claudia Tacoronte Aguilera was 21. She had travelled from Spain to Mexico on a university exchange and had been there less than a month when she was stabbed to death in Cuautla. She was studying early childhood education. I keep thinking about that: a young woman preparing to work with children, with her own life still barely begun.

The circumstances are still being investigated. Authorities are treating her death as a suspected femicide, while reports have also raised the possibility of a robbery. I don’t want to pretend we know exactly what happened when Claudia’s family is still waiting for answers. But we know enough to be furious. She went to a cultural event and never came home.

After a young woman is killed, there is always a rush to inspect her decisions. Why was she there? Was she alone? Should she have gone somewhere else? As though every woman can avoid violence by making a sufficiently clever series of choices. Claudia was on a university exchange. She should have been able to enjoy it, make friends, learn things, and return home with stories her family would hear for years.

Now her family has a story no family should ever have to tell. Students in Mexico have held a vigil for her, and the University of Granada has cancelled upcoming exchange placements to Morelos. Those responses show how deeply her death has shaken people. They cannot give Claudia back her future.

I hope the investigation gives her family clear answers and real justice. And I hope that, amid the headlines and the arguments about what women should do to stay safe, we remember who Claudia was: a 21-year-old student who went abroad to begin another chapter of her life. She deserved the chance to finish it.

I Have Muscles!

I’ve been going to Kieser for about three months now. Kieser is a gym of sorts, although it’s not filled with twenty-year-olds wearing crop tops and admiring themselves in mirrors. It is mostly filled with older people. Quite a lot of them look half dead.

I fit in beautifully.

We shuffle from one machine to another, carrying various injuries, replaced joints and body parts that have simply stopped cooperating. Knees don’t bend. Arms don’t lift. Backs complain. Legs drag behind like reluctant children. Nobody is trying to become an Instagram fitness influencer. Most of us would simply like to get out of a chair without making a noise.

The machines are very controlled. You sit down, adjust everything, push or pull something heavy and try not to look alarmed. Then you rest while pretending you’re not completely exhausted. Nobody leaps around shouting encouragement. There is no thumping music or Lycra parade. It is all terribly civilised.

When I started, several parts of my body seemed to be purely decorative. My legs had forgotten they were supposed to contain muscles, and my balance remained committed to keeping life interesting. I wasn’t expecting miracles. I thought perhaps I might become slightly less creaky.

But something rather shocking has happened.

I have muscles.

Actual muscles.

I noticed them in my legs first. There are definite shapes where previously there was just leg. When I tense them, things happen. Parts of my body that have been missing in action for years appear to have received the memo and reported back for duty.

I’m not about to enter a bodybuilding competition. Nobody will be rubbing oil on me and asking me to pose under bright lights. But after years of nerve damage, muscle wasting and bits of me refusing to move properly, seeing even a little muscle return feels enormous.

Kieser may look like a waiting room filled with people who have wandered in looking for the cardiologist, but it works. Quietly, slowly and without anybody yelling, “Feel the burn!”

At our age, we already feel the burn. We feel it getting out of bed.

Still, after three months, I’m stronger. I’m moving better. And underneath all the damage and disobedient body parts, apparently I still have muscles waiting to make a comeback.

Who knew?

The People Who Built AI Are Now Looking for the Off Switch

One of the co-founders of Anthropic, the company behind the AI system Claude, has suggested that powerful artificial intelligence may eventually need a compulsory “kill switch.” Not a polite little log out button. Not “Would you like to save your changes?” An actual emergency mechanism that can shut the whole thing down if AI becomes dangerous or starts behaving in ways nobody can control.

That is reassuring.

It is rather like the inventor of the chainsaw announcing, after selling several million of them, that perhaps everyone should also be issued with a very large sticking plaster.

The people developing AI have spent years telling us how magnificent it will be. It will cure diseases, solve climate change, write computer code, drive our cars, run businesses and possibly fold a fitted sheet. 

I'm a child of the 60's. Didn't these idiots every see 'The Terminator"? And it's believable. Oh not the going back from the future to try to fix things; but that AI will some day turn on us...

Now some of those people that wanted us to use it, are warning that it could become uncontrollable, improve itself beyond our understanding and pose a serious threat to humanity.

Suddenly, the sales presentation has taken a turn.

I use AI regularly. It helps me write, organise ideas, create pictures and answer questions I would otherwise spend three hours Googling before ending up watching a video about a woman renovating a caravan in Finland. I like AI. It saves me a fortune! Whereas once I believed the crappy add for sticking plasters that are going to fix my bent figures or my toe hump; now I ask AI (who 9 out of 10 times says it's crap).

I also like my toaster, and I would become suspicious if the toaster started rewriting its own software and locking me out of the kitchen.

The proposed switch would apparently need to be independently verified, which makes sense. We probably shouldn’t leave it entirely to the companies racing one another to build the most powerful AI on Earth. That would be like asking the greyhounds to supervise the rabbit.

Of course, creating a kill switch is the easy part. Deciding who gets to press it is another matter. Governments? Technology companies? The United Nations? Elon Musk after a difficult afternoon? And what happens if the AI has already read the instruction manual and quietly disconnected the button?

Perhaps we are worrying unnecessarily. AI may remain an extremely useful tool that helps humanity rather than destroys it. At present, its main crimes seem to be inventing references, giving people six fingers and confidently providing recipes containing ingredients that don’t exist.

Still, I’m in favour of the switch.

Make it enormous. Paint it bright red. Put it behind glass and write BREAK IN CASE THE COMPUTER DECIDES HUMANS ARE INEFFICIENT across the front.

And perhaps don’t connect it to Wi-Fi.

Harry - Bloody Hell. Leave Him Alone

Harry and Meghan have reportedly moved Archie and Lilibet to another school after only two days because their security team had concerns about the daily journey. Apparently, the traffic, distance and practicalities made it difficult to keep the children properly protected. Their spokesperson even made it clear that there was nothing wrong with the school itself—they loved it—but the children’s safety had to come first.

Naturally, this has become international news.

Two children changed schools. Their parents made a decision based on security advice. That should be the end of the story. But because the parents happen to be Harry and Meghan, every ordinary family decision must be examined like evidence from a particularly glamorous murder scene.

Harry cannot win.

If he brings his children to Britain, people ask why. If he keeps them in America, people say he is depriving them of their heritage. If he accepts protection, he is entitled. If he worries about protection, he is paranoid. If he speaks, he is attention-seeking. If he stays quiet, “royal experts” simply invent what he is thinking and publish it anyway.

And not a day goes by without another story about him. Harry visits somewhere. Harry looks tense. Harry looks too happy. Harry may have spoken to his father. Harry may not have spoken to his father. Harry and Meghan have changed schools. Harry probably sneezed somewhere last Thursday, and twelve commentators are currently analysing what it means for the monarchy.

Have we forgotten what happened to his mother?

Princess Diana was relentlessly pursued, photographed and hounded by the press. Harry was only twelve when she died. He then had to walk behind her coffin while the entire world watched. Whatever anyone thinks of the choices he has made since - and he has certainly made a few questionable ones - is it really so difficult to understand why he is protective of his wife and children?

He knows exactly what a ravenous press can do to a family.

Perhaps Harry and Meghan sometimes invite publicity. Most famous people do when it suits them. But appearing in public, releasing a television series or selling a jar of jam does not mean they surrender every boundary forever. It certainly doesn’t make their children public property.

Archie and Lilibet did not choose royal titles, famous parents or a battalion of photographers waiting to document their first day at school. They are children. They deserve to arrive at school worrying about lunchboxes and homework—not whether somebody with a telephoto lens is hiding behind a hedge.

Considering the press hounded Harry’s mother until the night she died; until the point that she died, you would think they might show him a little mercy.

But mercy doesn’t generate clicks, does it?

He Made It Big… Then His Marriage Didn’t

Alan Ritchson and his wife Catherine have announced they’re separating after 20 years of marriage. They met as teenagers, married in 2006 and raised three sons together. Then Alan became Reacher—a gigantic human action figure who solves problems by removing his shirt and punching people through walls.

And now the marriage is over.

There does seem to be a pattern in Hollywood. A couple struggles together for years, raises the children, survives the auditions, the rejections and probably some truly terrible low-budget films. Then one of them finally becomes famous—and suddenly they both need “room to grow into the people they are becoming.”

Apparently, the person you are becoming can no longer live with the person who helped you become it.

Of course, I’m in absolutely no position to judge. I’ve had three ex-husbands. I don’t have a relationship history; I have a trilogy. If anybody understands that sometimes love simply runs out of road, it’s me.

But it still seems such a pity. Twenty years is a long time. She was there before Reacher, before the fame and before millions of women began watching him throw criminals around while pretending to be interested in the plot.

Their statement was gracious, respectful and full of love for their boys—which is probably the best anyone can manage when a marriage ends. It’s sad, though. They made it through the difficult years, only to fall apart when life finally appeared to be giving them everything.

Still, I wish them both well. I’m certainly not throwing stones.

With three ex-husbands, I’m living in a glass housing estate.

Sandra Bullock’s Love Life Deserves a Refund

Sandra Bullock is beautiful, talented, funny, rich, successful and apparently cursed in the romantic department.

You would think being Sandra Bullock might protect you from life’s usual parade of disappointing men. Surely, once you’ve won an Oscar and become America’s sweetheart, the universe should stop sending you emotional potholes disguised as husbands.

But no. The universe gave her Jesse James.

Sandra married Jesse in 2005 and appeared genuinely besotted with him. Then, in 2010, shortly after she won the Oscar for The Blind Side, it emerged that he had been cheating on her.

Because apparently having Sandra Bullock waiting at home wasn’t enough. Perhaps he was holding out for the Queen of Sweden and a complimentary motorbike.

Jesse later admitted his infidelity, apologised and sought treatment for sex addiction. Sandra recently described that period as “really dark.” At the same time, she was secretly trying to protect her newly adopted baby, Louis, from the paparazzi. She once concealed him in a zipped hockey bag to get him safely past photographers.

Imagine winning an Oscar, discovering your husband is a prize-winning prick, becoming a new mother and smuggling your baby around like sporting equipment.

Jesse later said cheating was simply “part of life.” So is diarrhoea, Jesse, but nobody puts it in their wedding vows.

Sandra eventually escaped that wreckage and found love again with photographer Bryan Randall. By all accounts, he was kind, steady and devoted to Sandra and her children. He wasn’t collecting mistresses or turning her pain into a public circus. He simply loved her.

Naturally, because fate has all the subtlety of a brick through a window, Bryan was diagnosed with ALS.

They kept his illness private at his request, leaving Sandra to carry much of the grief quietly. Bryan died in 2023 at just 57 after a three-year battle with the disease.

She lost the good man after surviving the appalling one.

There is something particularly cruel about that. First, she gets the man who breaks her heart through selfishness. Then she finds the man who helps mend it, only to lose him through no fault of either of them. It’s the sort of storyline a film producer would reject for being excessively miserable.

And yet Sandra Bullock is still standing.

Her love life wasn’t horrible because she chose badly every time. She chose badly once. Most of us have done that, although thankfully ours didn’t usually make international headlines.

Then she chose well—and life was horrible anyway.

Jesse James was a prick.

Bryan Randall was a tragedy.

And Sandra Bullock deserved a much happier ending.  Just saying...

Apple Has Finally Fixed the Boyfriend

Apple has unveiled its new foldable iPhone Duo, and it will apparently cost around $3,500. That is quite a lot of money for a telephone, particularly when mine is mainly used for checking Facebook, deleting scam messages and taking fantastic photographs of the cat.

However, this is not merely a phone. According to news.com.au, it contains a revolutionary new feature aimed at solving one of the greatest problems facing modern women: boyfriends who cannot take a decent photograph.

The phone has something called Duo Preview. When somebody is taking your picture, you can see exactly what they are seeing on a screen on the back. You can therefore direct the entire operation yourself.

“No, move back.”

“Not that far.”

“Hold it higher.”

“Higher.”

“Good God, not directly underneath my chin.”

This means men can no longer claim that they simply aren’t good at taking photographs. Weaponised incompetence has finally met its match, and it costs only slightly less than a second-hand car.

For years, women have handed their phones to their partners and received 47 photographs in return. In twelve of them, their eyes are closed. Seven include a nearby rubbish bin. Fourteen are taken from an angle that makes them look like a garden gnome guarding a wheelie bin. The rest are mostly photographs of the ground because he pressed the button while handing the phone back.

Men, meanwhile, remain mystified by the dissatisfaction.

“What’s wrong with that one?”

My head is missing, Graham.

“You can still see most of you.”

The new phone will allow women to monitor the shot in real time, which should make romantic holidays especially relaxing. Boyfriends will now spend sunset standing six metres away with a $3,500 phone while their partners shout detailed instructions about angles, lighting and whether one thigh looks strangely wider than the other.

Golden hour will become golden forty-five minutes.

The phone may also destroy the popular boyfriend defence of taking deliberately terrible photographs so he is never asked again. This technique has been used successfully for generations. A man performs one domestic task so catastrophically that everybody quietly agrees he should never be allowed near it again. Unfortunately, Apple has now closed the photography loophole.

Even more terrifyingly, the new Apple Watch reportedly has a Live Rewind feature that can record and transcribe the previous 15 seconds of conversation. At last, couples will be able to settle the ancient argument:

“I never said that.”

“Yes, you did.”

“No, I didn’t.”

“Hang on. I’ll check my wrist.”

Marriage counselling has officially entered the surveillance era.

I’m not convinced this will improve relationships. A healthy partnership requires trust, patience and occasionally pretending you didn’t hear what the other person muttered while loading the dishwasher. We do not need a watch preserving it as evidence.

Still, Apple deserves credit for identifying a gap in the market. We already have phones that recognise our faces, track our movements, monitor our sleep and know we want new boots before we do. It was only a matter of time before one began supervising our boyfriends.

I won’t be rushing out to buy the iPhone Duo. For $3,500, I don’t just want a good photograph. I want the phone to choose my outfit, apply my makeup, remove three kilos, repair the lighting and explain why I looked perfectly fine in the mirror five minutes earlier.

Until then, I’ll continue taking my own photographs.

At least I know where my good side is.

Australian Politics Has Stopped Pretending To Be Respectable

Andrew Hastie called Pauline Hanson and Barnaby Joyce “lying cowards” over a One Nation cartoon portraying him as a traitor.

Not “misinformed”.

Not “disingenuous”.

Not “I respectfully disagree”.

Lying cowards.

Finally, political language I understand.

Politicians usually say:

“We reject that characterisation.”

Meaning:

“That’s rubbish.”

“We have concerns about the member’s conduct.”

Meaning:

“He’s behaving like a goose.”

“I respectfully disagree.”

Meaning:

“You absolute dickhead.”

At least Hastie removed the subtitles.

The whole saga has everything Australian politics needs: a former SAS soldier, Pauline Hanson, Barnaby Joyce, a cartoon, and an argument about who called whom a traitor.

It’s not Parliament anymore.

It’s Year 9.

“Miss, I didn’t call him a traitor.”

“Yes you did.”

“No, the cartoon did.”

“But you posted it.”

“That’s different.”

“Barnaby, stop laughing.”

Canberra now looks less like the centre of democracy and more like a pub argument where everyone has a media adviser.

And I’m enjoying it.

Because “lying cowards” is clear. No analyst required. You know exactly where everyone stands.

Imagine if all politics worked this way.

“Prime Minister, did you stuff this up?”

“Yes.”

“Righto.”

“Minister, is this policy stupid?”

“Probably.”

“Excellent. Next.”

We’d save millions.

With Barnaby nearby, the whole thing feels like a ute, a pub veranda and someone yelling “mate” are about to enter the story.

Pauline Hanson has been around so long that if aliens landed outside Parliament tomorrow, she’d be on breakfast television by 7.30 explaining why they had failed to assimilate.

So here we are: Hastie versus Hanson, Hanson versus Hastie, Barnaby somewhere nearby, cartoons as political weapons and everyone demanding apologies.

Democracy is alive and well.

It just appears to have had six schooners.

Move Question Time to a country pub. Put a bell on the bar. Give everyone a pot.

Whenever a politician says, “I categorically reject that assertion,” they must translate it into ordinary Australian.

Nine times out of ten, it will be:

Bullshit.

Now that I’d watch.