The Curious Case of Humanity's Obsession With Murder

There is something I need explained to me.

Why is everyone so obsessed with murder?

Not committing it, mind you. Just listening to it.

My son drives to Melbourne for work, which is a fair hike from Geelong. You'd think he'd fill the journey with music, comedy, or perhaps something educational about history, science or how to become a millionaire.

No. He listens to podcasts about serial killers. For two hours. One there. One back. Voluntarily. Apparently, this is normal.

In fact, judging by the popularity of true crime, it is more than normal. It is practically a national pastime. Millions of perfectly respectable people spend their evenings listening to detailed accounts of dismemberment while folding laundry.

If someone had suggested this twenty years ago, we'd have staged an intervention. Now it's entertainment.

You can barely open a streaming service without being offered a choice between "The Killer Next Door," "The Killer Across The Road," "The Killer's Cousin's Neighbor," and "The Killer Who Liked Gardening."

Everyone seems fascinated.

Meanwhile, I spend the entire time wondering why anyone would voluntarily fill their head with stories that ensure every strange noise in the house after dark sounds like the beginning of an investigation documentary.

Perhaps that's what I don't understand.

Life already provides plenty of things to worry about. Bills. Money. Trump destroying the world. Aging. Technology. The possibility of accidentally sending a text to the wrong person. Yet millions of people willingly add "grisly murder details" to the pile.

And they love it. They discuss cases over coffee. They binge-watch documentaries. They know the names of killers I've never heard of! And I've heard of some; watched television; the odd doco. But some of them can recite timelines, evidence, suspects and court proceedings with the enthusiasm usually reserved for football statistics.

It's extraordinary.

Society has somehow normalised being casually immersed in the darkest corners of humanity.

Maybe it's because we like mysteries. Maybe it's because we want to understand evil. Maybe it's because our brains enjoy solving puzzles. Or maybe we're all just a little bit weird.

Whatever the reason, I remain baffled.

I'll stick to music on long drives. My son can keep his serial killers.

Although if he suddenly starts taking notes, I may have questions…

The Grandparenting Olympics

Today I was on babysitting duty  

Not officially, of course. Officially, my son, his wife and my granddaughter came over to watch the football. Unofficially, every grandparent knows that when small children arrive, you’re automatically drafted into service whether you signed the paperwork or not.

The plan seemed simple enough. We’d watch the Cats. We’d have a chat. We’d enjoy a relaxing evening.

That was the first mistake.

Because football and grandchildren exist in entirely different dimensions.

The football was on television. My granddaughter, however, was conducting important business everywhere else. There were toys to investigate, cupboards to inspect, snacks to negotiate and grandparents to keep fully occupied at all times. I spent most of the game wandering around the house performing duties that apparently only Nana was qualified to undertake.

And that was only one. We had four of them to contend with.

Every now and then I’d glance at the television and discover something significant had happened.

“Who kicked that?”

Nobody knew.

We’d all been distracted by these tiny humans, who one at least, had decided a plastic spoon was the most exciting invention in history.

My son and his wife settled in to watch the game. My granddaughter settled in to supervise all of us. She takes her management responsibilities very seriously. My grand babies just played and had fun.

And then there were the Cats.

Oh dear.

I don’t know what happened. Perhaps they left their talent on the bus. Perhaps the football gods decided Geelong supporters had been a little too confident. Whatever the reason, the Cats lost.

Nothing quite ruins a football evening like watching your team go down while a toddler is simultaneously demanding entertainment and trying to feed a biscuit to the cat.

Actually, that’s not true.

The toddler made the loss easier to take.

Because while the scoreboard was disappointing, I spent the evening surrounded by family, listening to laughter, watching my granddaughter discover the world one tiny adventure at a time, and being reminded that some things are more important than football.

Not many things.

But some.

Besides, next week the Cats might win.

Going On A Pilgrimage...

Well, I wish I was going on a pilgrimage; and some place warm. It's bloody freezing here! Well almost, it is early morning and it's 12C; but suffice to say I'm rugged up in jeans and jumper and socks...

But I am in fact leaving town. I'm going to my daughter's place to babysit my grandsons tonight - which should be fun. My son is coming over, and we will watch the football. That's the extent of me "getting rowdy" these days!

Gone are the days when I'd still be dancing watching the sun break through the highlight windows at the club.

So, see you when I get back...

Discussing Blood Spatter Patterns

True crime used to be something you watched occasionally. Now it’s basically a personality type.

People don’t “watch a documentary” anymore. They consume seventeen hours of dismemberment while folding towels and calling it self care.

Everyone’s sitting there eating garlic bread while calmly discussing blood spatter patterns like they’re reviewing a renovation show.

“Oh this one’s REALLY good.”

Good? Karen, three people were buried under a patio.

The weirdest part is how cosy they’ve made it all. Soft narration. Rain sounds. Gentle piano music. A woman describing homicide like she’s reading a bedtime story at daycare.

And the audience? Completely feral.

The second a woman goes missing, half the internet transforms into detectives. Suddenly people named Brenda with a crystal collection are zooming into CCTV footage claiming they’ve “noticed something disturbing.”

No, Brenda. That’s a wheelie bin.

And every single case now gets treated like entertainment content. There are fan groups. Rankings. Favourite killers. Merchandise. Actual merchandise. Somewhere along the line society crossed over from “this is tragic” into “season two better drop soon.”

The internet has turned human suffering into background noise.

We don’t process horror anymore. We binge it.

Then we wonder why everybody’s anxious, suspicious and convinced their husband is secretly poisoning them because he made spaghetti without being asked.

Honestly, if aliens arrive tomorrow, take one look at Netflix and leave, I wouldn’t blame them.

How Casually the World Waits

Powerful men love war the way gamblers love poker when it isn’t their own money on the table.

Every few years the world gets dragged back into the same exhausting performance: threats, retaliation, televised outrage and politicians speaking in that strange robotic language designed to make destruction sound responsible.

“Strategic response.”
“Necessary action.”
“Measured retaliation.”

Human beings have somehow invented corporate terminology for blowing each other up.

The latest US-Iran escalation feels less like leadership and more like ego with access to weapons. Everyone postures. Everyone warns. Everyone promises consequences. And the public is expected to sit there consuming it like another Netflix series while the price of fuel climbs and the possibility of catastrophe inches closer.

That’s the grotesque part of modern conflict. It is packaged for spectators.

News banners flash like sports scores. Commentators debate missile strikes between advertisements for insurance and fried chicken. Men in suits discuss “acceptable losses” while ordinary people quietly wonder how they’re supposed to afford groceries next week if oil prices spike again.

And somehow the same people who can’t organise functioning healthcare systems, affordable housing, or public transport suddenly become experts at mobilising billions of dollars for military operations overnight.

Funny, that.

War has become theatre for powerful nations. Flags wave. Speeches swell. Comment sections explode with people cheering for countries they couldn’t find on a map three days ago.

Meanwhile, civilians become statistics.

Again.

There is something deeply unsettling about how casually the world now approaches the possibility of disaster. Everyone speaks in headlines. Nobody speaks like a human being anymore. Just slogans, threats, and patriotic branding wrapped around fear.

And the rest of us? We refresh the news feed like nervous addicts waiting to see which powerful man decides the planet needs another crisis.

In Case You Are Mildly Curious...

I've been home for a week; and that time consists of doing housework from top to bottom and going to the gym. Neither of which I'm fond of... So, I let my mind wander and find my thoughts are in Vietnam again!

There’s something deeply humbling about getting your nails done in Vietnam when you’re a middle-aged Australian woman whose entire beauty routine at home mostly consists of “that’ll do.”

The Vietnamese girls are tiny, immaculate creatures with perfect skin, glossy hair and the hand speed of caffeinated spiders. Meanwhile I arrive looking like someone who’s fought a lawn mower with her hair and it's so hot I had it in plaits most of the time!

I sat down confidently and immediately became aware of my feet.

Why do feet suddenly become horrifying the second another human professionally examines them?

At home you think: "These are perfectly normal feet.”

Under salon lighting? You’ve apparently dragged Frodo to Mordor barefoot.

The girl smiled politely while holding my hand in the same way a mechanic examines a damaged alternator.

Then came the colours.

Vietnamese nail salons have approximately 84 million shades of pink. Every single sample stick looked identical until you held them under the light where suddenly one became “Dusty Rose Sunset” and another was apparently “Peach Champagne Whisper.”

I chose one entirely at random because panic had set in.

Then the massage started.

Now listen. These women do not gently moisturise your hands. They attack knots in your shoulders you didn’t even know existed. At one point I think I briefly left my body.

The Squeeze sat nearby getting increasingly nervous because every ten minutes another tiny woman would appear carrying strange instruments that looked medically unnecessary.

And somehow — somehow — despite all this chaos, I walked out feeling like a glamorous international woman of mystery instead of someone who earlier nearly fell asleep in a bowl of noodles.

That’s the magic of Vietnam.

One minute you’re sweating through your underpants while crossing the road in terror. The next minute you’re sitting in a nail salon being aggressively exfoliated into a better person.

Oh why can't I be back there! I barely thought of Trump or the stupid impending war!

The Whole World Is Addicted To Outrage

Nobody talks anymore.

They perform.

Every opinion now arrives like a WWE entrance theme. People storm into conversations foaming at the mouth over things that, five years ago, they wouldn’t even have noticed while eating a sandwich.

The internet has trained humanity to react like poisoned squirrels.

Everyone is furious.
Nobody is happy.
And somehow every single person believes they are the reasonable one.

You can’t say:
“I’m not sure.”

Oh no. That’s weakness now.

You must arrive screaming with absolute certainty about geopolitics, celebrity divorces, plastic straws, chickens, pronouns, billionaires, electric cars, Palestine, America, capitalism, socialism, gluten and probably the moon.

Silence used to mean peace.
Now silence means your Wi-Fi dropped out.

And honestly? Half the world doesn’t even care about the issue they’re screaming about. They care about belonging to a side.

Why Can't These Idiots Get Along..?

They always say it like it’s a movie trailer – Out Now. Watch this! “Evil will be answered.”

Answered by who? A man in a suit standing behind a podium pretending he’s in an action film while the rest of the world quietly updates its emergency contacts?

Every international conflict now sounds like two blokes in a pub car park yelling, “Say it again. SAY IT AGAIN.” Except these idiots have missiles.

The media doesn’t help. Everything is “fury”, “rage”, “humiliation”, “retaliation”, “final warning”. News headlines read like a WWE promo written by a caffeinated twelve-year-old. (Come to think of it, that would be funny!)

And meanwhile normal people are just trying to buy groceries without needing a small personal loan for tomatoes or fuel to get to the grocery store!

There’s something deeply absurd about world leaders threatening each other with “consequences” while ordinary people are sitting on the couch eating garlic bread wondering if World War III will interrupt whatever the viewing pleasure is that night.

Nobody powerful ever says:
“Perhaps everyone should calm the hell down.”

No. It’s always:
“We will respond.”
“We will not forget.”
“Evil will be answered.”

Fantastic. That sounds stable.

The frightening part isn’t even the threats anymore. It’s how performative it all feels. Politics has become theatre for angry people online. Every leader talks like they’re auditioning for the role of Tough Guy Number Three.

And social media claps like trained seals every time someone says something dramatic.

At this point, humanity isn’t being led.
It’s being comment - sectioned into oblivion.

Six Energy Drinks! Is that all?

The world’s most powerful leaders now communicate like Year 8 boys fighting near the bike shed.

“I’ll bomb you.”
“No, I’ll bomb YOU.”
“We’ve got bigger missiles.”
“Well WE don’t care.”

Honestly, watching the US and Iran carry on lately feels less like international diplomacy and more like two kids squaring up behind the portable classrooms while everyone else nervously backs away holding a juice box.

Meanwhile the rest of the planet is sitting there thinking, “Could you idiots maybe calm down before petrol hits twenty dollars a litre and the world catches fire?”

Every statement sounds like it was written by a bloke pacing around after six energy drinks. Every response sounds like someone yelling, “Say it to my face then!”

And of course the media treats it like the world’s most expensive reality show. Dramatic music. Red flashing graphics. “WAR IMMINENT.” Then twelve hours later: “Peace talks progressing.” Then five minutes later: “Massive retaliation possible.” Pick a lane.  

The frightening part is that these aren’t children in a schoolyard. These are grown adults with armies, missiles, oil routes, and the ability to accidentally ruin the global economy before breakfast.  

And still they posture. Threats. Ultimatums. Chest-beating. Public tantrums dressed up as “strategy.”

At this point, diplomacy seems to consist entirely of:

1. Threaten war.
2. Deny threatening war.
3. Go on television.
4. Repeat.

The whole thing feels less like leadership and more like ego with nuclear capability.

The world doesn’t need alpha males with fighter jets. It needs one adult in the room saying, “Right. Everyone sit down and stop acting like dickheads.”

Ouch! Everything Hurts!!

Yesterday I fell off the back porch like an elderly magpie trying to escape a wheelie bin.

One minute I was walking outside like a perfectly capable adult. The next? Gravity stepped in like an unpaid intern desperate to contribute. Down I went. Straight onto the ground with all the elegance of a dropped fridge.

Everything hurts.

Not in a dramatic “take me to hospital immediately” way. More in a “why does my elbow hurt when I blink?” kind of way. I’ve discovered muscles I didn’t even know existed. Even my hair feels bruised.

The worst part is the delay. You hit the ground and for three seconds you lie there thinking, “Maybe I’m fine.” Then your body starts sending official complaints to management one by one.

Knee? Ruined.
Hip? Furious.
Back? Filing paperwork.
Pride? Dead at the scene.

And so the first five minutes, I lied there and howled. I wanted to say to the Squeeze just cover me in dirt and leave me here!

And of course nobody falls normally anymore. There’s always some ridiculous flailing involved. I apparently attempted interpretive dance on the way down. If there’d been security footage, it would already be online with circus music behind it.

The Squeeze did that thing people do where they try not to laugh while also asking if you’re okay. Which somehow makes it worse. Don’t smirk at me while I’m folded into the garden like broken patio furniture.

Anyway, today I’m moving around the house like a haunted Victorian woman with a spinal condition. Every time I stand up, I make a noise that sounds like an old wooden ship.  But I have to move! There is so much to be done...

Aging is honestly just your body becoming increasingly committed to slapstick comedy.

I haven't even been through the paper yet which is when the real comedy begins!

Group Therapy…

There is something uniquely Australian about dragging yourself to the football in weather that can’t decide whether it wants to freeze you to death or cook you alive. And yet there we all were, marching toward the stadium to watch Geelong Cats take on Sydney Swans like it was some kind of religious pilgrimage.

The crowd was already buzzing before the first bounce. Half the people looked emotionally stable. The other half were Geelong supporters screaming about holding the ball before the players had even run out. Football really is the only place where grown adults can lose their minds over a bloke named Gary (we still miss Gary senior, let alone junior!) 

We squeezed into our seats carrying enough food to survive a minor apocalypse. Meat pies. Chips. Drinks. The kind of dinner that says, “Cardiologists hate this one simple trick.”

The Squeeze immediately became an elite-level coach from Row P.

“MOVE IT!”
“KICK IT!”
“WHAT WAS THAT?!” 

 As though Chris Scott might suddenly stop the game, look into the crowd and yell, “Hang on everyone, Carol’s husband has a point.”

The game itself was chaos. One minute Geelong looked unstoppable. The next Sydney came charging back and the entire stadium developed collective high blood pressure. Every near mark caused fifty thousand people to inhale at once like a giant asthma attack.

And the umpiring. Dear God. AFL fans don’t actually attend football to enjoy the sport. They attend to passionately boo men in fluorescent clothing for three straight hours. Some bloke behind us spent the entire night explaining the rules incorrectly at full volume to his girlfriend, who looked like she was reconsidering every life decision that led her there.

By the final quarter everyone around us had emotionally deteriorated. Voices were gone. Nerves shot. Beer prices criminal. Yet somehow there’s nowhere else Australians would rather be than freezing in a stadium screaming “BALLLLLL” at strangers.

And honestly? Walking out afterwards with thousands of other exhausted supporters, still arguing about free kicks and bad decisions like any of us actually know what we’re talking about, is part of the fun.

The scores; The Cats (Geelong) won; we were 107 to Sydney 80’

Football in Australia isn’t just sport. It’s group therapy with scarves.

Back To Reality

Home again. Back to reality. Back to washing mountains, mystery smells in suitcases, and wondering why we thought buying extra clothes meant we’d somehow avoid laundry. We wouldn’t. We never do.

The house looked offended we’d left. Dust everywhere. Benches needing wiping. Plants hanging on by a thread. And me? Absolutely buggered. Holiday adrenaline has officially worn off and I’m operating somewhere between “functioning adult” and “woman found asleep holding a sandwich.”

Still… it’s my birthday today.

So despite the chaos, the Squeeze is taking me out for dinner tonight which honestly feels less like a celebration and more like a rescue mission. If I make it through the entrée without my head slowly lowering toward the soup bowl, I’ll consider it a success.

Travel is funny like that. You spend weeks wandering around eating, drinking, laughing, buying things you definitely didn’t need… then you come home and immediately get attacked by three suitcases, seventeen loads of washing, and the crushing reality that nobody else cleaned the house while you were away. Rude, honestly.

But it’s good to be home too. Exhausted, slightly sunburnt, poorer than when we left, but home.

Sheez, I need to find enough energy to put real pants on for dinner. Pray for the Squeeze if I start snoring into the bread rolls.

Ok; We Are Off the Plane, But Buggered

Not much to see here but tomorrow, when I've got my brain back (and my new computer working...) we will see! Suffice to say we made it home in one piece, exhausted - but alive!

Escape the City

This morning we decided to escape the city and head to the beach about half an hour away. Absolutely stunning. One of those long stretches of coastline that makes you instantly think, “Yep. I could stay here forever.”

The only issue? The ocean apparently took one look at me and decided violence was the answer.

I got in about knee deep before the waves started trying to sweep my legs out from under me. Not gently either. Full “return to sender” energy. One wave hit and I thought, no. This is how tourists end up on international news reports. So I bailed with what little dignity I had left.

Meanwhile, the Squeeze wandered out there like some kind of heroic sea captain completely unbothered while I stood safely on shore pretending I’d made a sensible adult decision.

We got there around nine this morning because by lunchtime Vietnam turns into the surface of the sun. It’s over 40 degrees again today and honestly the heat hits you like opening an oven door directly into your face.

Now we’re sitting at this beautiful little café overlooking the ocean having lunch while trying not to melt into our chairs. Later we’ll wander through the town for a bit before catching a cab back to the resort where I fully intend to recover dramatically near the pool.

Honestly though, despite nearly being taken out by the Pacific, it’s been a pretty perfect day.

Authentic Cooking Class

There’s something mildly terrifying about being handed knives, herbs, mystery sauces, and open flames in a foreign country and being told, “You cook now.”

Tonight we did an authentic Vietnamese cooking class, and honestly, it was fantastic.

First up were fresh spring rolls that looked far too pretty to eat. Delicate little bundles of herbs, vegetables, and flavour wrapped tighter than airport security around my luggage. Then came Vietnamese pancakes — crispy, golden, stuffed with goodness.

But the final dish absolutely finished me off. A beautiful pork soup loaded with flavour that somehow managed to taste both comforting and fancy at the same time. Everything was fresh. Everything looked stunning. Even the presentation made me feel underdressed.

The Vietnamese don’t just throw food on a plate. They stage it like a performance. It really did remind me of the play we went last week.

Meanwhile, I’m sitting there pretending I understand what half the ingredients are while happily inhaling everything in sight.

Honestly, I’m surprised I didn’t sink straight to the bottom of the hotel pool afterward. I’ve eaten enough over here to be classified as imported livestock.

And now reality is creeping in.

We fly home Monday, which means tomorrow is our last full day in Vietnam. That strange holiday sadness has already started settling in — the one where you suddenly become emotional about hotel pools, random cafes, and the woman who made your coffee every morning without judging your increasingly questionable tourist clothing.

Of course, in true holiday fashion, I solved the packing problem by buying a massive new suitcase. Not because we planned well. Because apparently both of us believe souvenirs, shoes, tailored clothes, random gifts, and enough market purchases to open a small store “will probably fit.”

They did not.

So now there’s one giant case stuffed with our lives, held together mostly by optimism and zip pressure.

Vietnam has been chaos, heat, noise, incredible food, massages, markets, pools, cocktails, tailors, lantern boats, monkeys, dentists, tuk tuks, and the occasional moment where we genuinely had no idea what was happening.

Which, honestly, is probably why it’s been so good. Mind you, it will be good to go home to the dog and cats; I miss them. 

The Coconut Boats: A Cultural Exchange Nobody Asked For

Today we went on the famous coconut boats. You know the ones — round basket boats that look like someone lost a fight with a giant salad bowl and decided to float in it anyway.

Absolute chaos.

The river was jam packed with tourists, boats bumping into each other, people waving phones around trying to get “authentic travel content” while nearly being launched into the water by enthusiastic rowing. Every second boat had loud music blasting. At one point I’m pretty sure three different versions of Gangnam Style were playing at once.

And then our driver discovered we were Australian.

That was it.

The man transformed into a one-person Australia Day celebration.

“AUSSIE AUSSIE AUSSIE!”

“OI OI OI!”

Every five minutes.

Every time another boat went past.

Every time he spun the boat.

At one point I think he forgot how to steer because he was too busy yelling “OI!” at random strangers on the river.

Honestly though, it was impossible not to laugh. The guy was having the time of his life. Meanwhile the Squeeze looked like he was trying to maintain dignity inside a floating wicker fruit bowl while being aggressively serenaded by patriotic chanting.

The entire thing was ridiculous in the best possible way.

Tourist trap? Absolutely.

Did we love it anyway? Unfortunately yes.

My God. It’s Hot As Hades!

There comes a point in every holiday where you stop looking like “travellers” and start looking like escapees who’ve wandered too far from the hotel. Today was that day.

We went back into the old part of town to pick up the five pairs of shoes I had made. Five. Apparently I now believe I’m some sort of Imelda Marcos wandering around Vietnam in custom footwear. To be fair though, they’re gorgeous, and when someone can make shoes specifically for your feet while you sit there sweating into your own eyeballs, it feels rude not to buy several pairs.

The Squeeze got some shirts made too, because apparently we’ve both decided we’re becoming linen people now. You know the type. Holiday people who suddenly think they’re sophisticated because they own breathable fabrics and say things like “the humidity is oppressive.”

And oppressive it is.

The heat here isn’t normal heat. It’s biblical. It’s the kind of heat where you don’t walk anywhere so much as slowly dissolve toward your destination. By midday we both looked like damp regret wrapped in cotton. I caught sight of us reflected in a shop window at one point and honestly? We looked like two sock puppets who’d just received terrible medical news.

After collecting our haul, we climbed into what I’m still calling a tuk tuk, even if it technically isn’t one, because at this stage I’m too hot to care about transport accuracy. The driver sped us through traffic while we flapped gently in the breeze like exhausted laundry.

By the time we got back to the hotel we were absolutely finished. Cooked. Emotionally steamed. We collapsed dramatically indoors pretending we’d survived some enormous ordeal instead of what was essentially “shopping with humidity.”

Still worth it though.

Five pairs of glorious shoes!