The Sharks Haven't Changed... We Have.

Every time there's a shark attack, the headlines are almost identical. "Something must be done."

As though the sharks have all held a meeting somewhere off the coast and decided this is the year they're finally coming after us.

Here's the thing. The sharks haven't changed. Not one little bit.

They've been swimming around Australia's coastline for millions of years, doing exactly what sharks do. They hunt. They eat. They occasionally mistake people for lunch. It's hardly a new business model. We're the ones who've changed.

We've built cities along the coast. We surf before work. We paddleboard at sunrise. We kayak, jet ski, foil board and swim hundreds of metres offshore. Then we wonder why we occasionally bump into the locals.

Imagine if a shark started swimming laps in Kardinia Park during a Cats game. People would think it had completely lost its mind. Yet every summer we wander into the sharks' home, wearing black wetsuits that vaguely resemble seals, splashing around at dawn and dusk, then seem genuinely surprised when a curious shark turns up.

For years, our answer was simple. Catch the sharks. Cull the sharks. Blame the sharks.

But something interesting is happening.

Instead of trying to change the sharks, we're finally changing ourselves.

We're using drones, smarter surveillance and better technology to spot sharks before people swim into trouble. It seems obvious now, but it's a much more sensible approach than expecting a 400-million-year-old predator to suddenly read the warning signs.

The sharks are still doing exactly what they've always done.

We're just getting better at living alongside them.

Maybe that's the lesson.

Not everything dangerous exists because it's out to get us.

Sometimes the world is simply being the world.

The ocean isn't safe. It never promised to be. The mountains don't apologise for avalanches. Snakes don't issue press releases. Crocodiles don't put up warning signs outside their favourite river. Nature doesn't have a personal grudge against us. It just doesn't know we're the main characters in our own story.

Perhaps that's why I like the idea of using technology to help us rather than trying to punish nature for behaving naturally.

The sharks haven't declared war on humans.

They didn't change.

We did.

And perhaps that's exactly how it should be.

My House Is Slowly Becoming A Museum Of Expensive Mistakes

I've reached the age where I can no longer pretend my house is full of "investments." It's full of expensive mistakes. Every room contains something I bought because I was absolutely convinced it was going to change my life.

The advertisement promised it would make life easier. I'd be healthier. More organised. More productive. Better looking. Possibly immortal.

Three clicks later, I owned it. Although sometimes it is within one click…

Fast forward a few months and it's sitting in a cupboard wondering where it all went wrong. Take the bathroom. There are shampoos that promised thicker hair, creams that would erase wrinkles, miracle serums and enough beauty products to supply a small salon.

I'm still waiting for the miracles.

Then there's the technology. Robot vacuum (although I use that twice a day and it is good… But I have to do a good vacuum and mop once a week…

Smart gadgets. Apps that promised to organise my life. Subscriptions I forgot I was paying for. Every purchase follows exactly the same pattern. "This is brilliant." "I'll use it every day." "I should have bought this years ago."

The thing is, we're not really buying products. We're buying hope. Hope that this gadget will finally make us organised. Hope that this exercise equipment will somehow make us exercise. Hope that this miracle cream can negotiate a ceasefire with gravity.

Most companies aren't selling stuff anymore.

They're selling the fantasy of a slightly better version of ourselves. Sometimes they deliver. Mostly they deliver another cardboard box.

I keep telling myself I'm going to clean everything out. Then I pick something up and think, "I might need that one day." Apparently "one day" requires an entire spare room.

One day my grandchildren will inherit mysterious cables that fit absolutely nothing, unopened gadgets, instruction manuals in twelve languages and enough charging cords to wire Geelong. They'll probably think I was a collector. I wasn't. I was just ridiculously optimistic every time Facebook showed me another advertisement.

My house isn't really cluttered.

It's simply a museum of every version of myself I thought I was about to become.

Admission is free.

Just don't touch the exhibits.

I might need them one day. 

Every Hobby Is Now A Side Hustle

Every pastime requires branding. Every hobby needs a logo. Every creative outlet apparently deserves its own Instagram account, YouTube channel, Facebook page, TikTok profile, email newsletter and a podcast for good measure.

The funny thing is, most of them never amount to anything. They keep us busy for a week or two before quietly joining the ever-growing graveyard of abandoned channels and forgotten dreams.

And why would you even want to be an influencer?

One bad post. One joke that lands badly. One opinion that half the internet decides to hate and suddenly you're public enemy number one. Imagine living your life knowing that every sentence could end up on a thousand angry Facebook pages.

No thanks.

I'd much rather enjoy my hobby than spend my life worrying whether strangers approve of it.

God forbid you simply enjoy doing something.

We No Longer Own Anything

I miss buying things.

Remember that? You walked into a shop, handed over your money, took the thing home and, in a radical concept that now seems almost quaint... it belonged to you.

You bought a lawnmower. It was yours.

You bought a record. Yours.

You bought a television. Yours.

If it broke, you fixed it. If you didn't like it anymore, you sold it. If you wanted to keep it for twenty years, nobody turned up demanding another monthly payment before allowing you to switch it on.

Somewhere along the way, ownership quietly disappeared.

Now everything is rented. Music? Monthly subscription. Movies? Monthly subscription. Television? Three monthly subscriptions because apparently each company has decided it deserves its own streaming service. Software? Subscription. Cloud storage? Subscription. And that’s just off the top of my head!

It's a strange arrangement. We pay more than ever before yet own less than ever before.

Our movies can disappear from streaming services overnight. Our eBooks can be removed from our libraries (if we had any; I prefer the old fashioned book in hand). Our music exists only while someone keeps billing our credit card.

Half the things in our homes work only because a server somewhere, owned by someone we've never met, continues to exist.

We've become permanent tenants in our own digital lives.

Nothing is ever finished. Nothing is ever fully ours. Everything renews automatically, expires unexpectedly or asks for another payment just when you thought you'd already bought it.

I don't mind paying for things that genuinely need ongoing support. That makes sense. What I object to is buying something only to discover I've entered a long-term financial relationship with it. I don't want a monthly commitment with my software. I don't want one with my television.

I'd just like to buy something again... and have the outrageous expectation that it's actually mine.

"AI-Powered." My Toothbrush Will Probably Ask Me To Prompt It Next.

I don't know exactly when it happened, but apparently, we've reached the point where absolutely everything is now powered by Artificial Intelligence. Not just the obvious things. Everything.

I swear if I walked into Bunnings tomorrow, I'd find an AI-powered garden hose that analyses my lawn's emotional wellbeing before deciding whether the roses deserve watering.

Every advertisement now has the same sales pitch. "Now with AI!" Wonderful. What was wrong with it before?

It used to be enough to tell me a vacuum cleaner sucked. That was literally its entire job. Now it apparently maps my house, learns my cleaning habits, predicts where the dust will appear next Tuesday and sends me performance reports. (While I don’t have a dust prediction system, I do have a robot vac lol)

All I want it to do is to vacuum the bloody floors!

Even toothbrushes are getting in on the act. Somewhere, someone is brushing their teeth while an app congratulates them for achieving an above-average molar performance score.

I don't need feedback from my toothbrush; I need it to remove yesterday's coffee stains.

Everything now promises to "learn." My television learns. My car learns. My phone learns. My coffee machine probably knows more about me than the Squeeze; and frankly, that's a little unsettling.

The funniest part is that companies don't even explain what the AI actually does anymore. They simply stick those two magical letters on the box and add another hundred dollars to the price.

It's become the modern equivalent of "low fat," "organic" or "gluten free."

AI mattresses.

AI pet bowls.

I'm waiting for AI toilet paper.

"It anticipates your needs before you sit down."

At some point we've got to reach peak stupidity. We'll buy an AI-powered kettle that refuses to boil because it has analysed our caffeine intake and decided we've had enough for the day.

Meanwhile, I'm still standing in my kitchen yelling at my robot vacuum because it's trapped itself under the same chair for the seventeenth time this month.

Apparently it's intelligent.

I'm not convinced. 

The Problem With Donald Trump Isn't Donald Trump

The problem with Donald Trump isn't that he says outrageous. ridiculous things.

Politicians have been saying outrageous things since somebody first discovered that outrage gets attention. The problem is that he proved being a fucking nutcase running a country, works.

Before Trump, there was still a vague expectation that presidents should occasionally sound... presidential. They didn't always manage it, but at least they pretended to aspire to it.

Now politics often resembles a never-ending online argument where the loudest person wins. Insults have replaced debate. Nicknames have replaced policy. Every disagreement is treated like a heavyweight title fight.

Winning the news cycle has become more important than solving world hunger.

Trump didn't invent division, but he has become one of its greatest beneficiaries. Every inflammatory comment guarantees another twenty-four hours of headlines. Every confrontation becomes another loyalty test.

Every criticism becomes evidence of a conspiracy. And somewhere in the middle of all the shouting, the actual issues quietly wander off unnoticed. The issues remain.

What worries me most isn't Donald Trump himself.

One day he'll leave the political stage.

The style won't.

Future politicians have watched him dominate attention and learned a dangerous lesson. You don't need thoughtful speeches if outrage keeps people watching. You don't need compromise if conflict raises donations. You don't even need people to like you. You just need them to never stop talking about you.

That's a terrible lesson for democracy.

Democracy depends on disagreement.

It doesn't survive very well on permanent warfare.

We should expect more from our leaders than the ability to trend on social media. We should expect honesty, restraint, respect for institutions, and the ability to admit when they're wrong.

But those qualities don't generate viral clips.

History won't judge leaders by how many headlines they created. It will judge them by whether they left their nation stronger, calmer and more united than they found it. And that's a much harder test.

And it's the one that really matters.

The Death of Being Average

Being average has become embarrassing.

Somewhere along the way, we decided that ordinary wasn't good enough anymore. I sometimes think the worst thing social media ever did wasn't making us compare ourselves to celebrities. And I mean real ones – not “influencers”. 

It convinced us that being ordinary was some kind of personal failure. Apparently, we're all supposed to be exceptional now. Not just reasonably competent. Exceptional.

You can't simply enjoy cooking anymore. No. You need a food channel, a cookbook, a knife range and an opinion on Himalayan salt.

You can't go for a walk. You're on a wellness journey.

You can't have a garden. You're creating an outdoor sanctuary.

You can't own a dog. You're a pet parent raising a fur baby with emotional intelligence.

Everything has become a brand.

When I was younger, nobody expected greatness from everyone. Most people simply hoped to have a decent job, raise a family, own a house if they were lucky and perhaps retire before their knees completely gave up (and most don’t get to). That wasn't considered failure. That was considered life.

Now every second person online claims to be an entrepreneur, an influencer, a thought leader, a mindset coach, a digital creator or a visionary. I'm never quite sure what half these people actually do. They seem to spend their time teaching other people how to become people who teach other people.

It's like watching an endless pyramid scheme built entirely from motivational quotes.

The pressure to stand out is exhausting. Every photo has to be perfect. Every holiday has to be breathtaking. Every meal has to be restaurant quality. Every birthday has to look like a Hollywood movie premiere.

If your life doesn't attract strangers on the internet, apparently it barely counts.

Meanwhile, most of us are just trying to remember where we left the bloody car keys…

My Aunt Died Today. Ninety-Two.

92! Which, let’s be honest, is a bloody good innings.

It changes the way you think about death. When someone dies young, it feels like someone slammed a book shut halfway through the story. When someone reaches ninety-two, they’ve finished the last chapter, read the acknowledgements and are probably asking whether there’s a sequel.

I don’t mean it isn’t sad. It is.

Every death leaves an empty chair somewhere.

But there’s also something comforting about a long life. Ninety-Two years. Imagine everything she saw.

She was born into a world without the internet. Without mobile phones. Without Google telling you how long to boil an egg. People actually had to ask other people things. If you wanted directions, you stopped the car. If you wanted to know something, you went to the library. If somebody ignored your phone call, they genuinely weren’t home.

She lived through wars, recessions, governments, fashion disasters, music that horrified one generation before becoming classics for the next. She watched televisions become color, telephones become computers and photographs disappear into little glowing rectangles we carry around in our pockets.

She saw children become parents… and then grandparents themselves.

That is an extraordinary amount of living.

We spend so much of our lives complaining about getting older. The wrinkles. The knees. My back... The memory that doesn't quite work as it should.

Yet getting old is actually the prize.

Not everybody gets to do it.

When someone reaches ninety-two, I think the sadness sits beside something else. Gratitude. How lucky are we that they were here for that long?

How lucky are we that they left stories behind? Family behind. Memories behind.

I hope that if I make it to ninety-two, people will say, “Bloody hell… she squeezed every drop out of life.”

Rest easy, Aunty.

Ninety-one.

A bloody good innings.

Selling Stuff Online Isn't a Hobby Anymore

I've decided to have a clean-out. 

Out with the old (which is brand new some of it!)

I've probably got about five thousand dollars' worth of perfectly good stuff sitting around the house that I no longer use or bought, and it didn't fit. A coffee machine. A television. A few bits and pieces that deserve to be in someone else's home instead of gathering dust in mine.

Simple.

I'll just stick them on eBay. How hard can it be? Good Lord. I swear you now need a university degree just to list one item. It used to be easy. Take a photo. Write, "Works well." Put a price on it. Done.

Not anymore.

Now it's like filling out an application to join the FBI.

What category?

Which sub-category?

What brand?

Which model?

What year?

Serial number?

Condition?

Features?

Measurements?

Does it have Bluetooth?

Wi-Fi?

HDR?

4K?

OLED?

QLED?

Does it come with the original box?

Original receipt?

Original owner's first-born child?

By the time I'd answered all the questions I'd completely forgotten what I was trying to sell.

Then came the photographs.

Front.

Back.

Side.

Other side.

Close-up.

Power cord.

Remote control.

Another angle.

One proving it actually exists.

Then eBay politely suggests that my description could be improved.

Really?

It's a coffee machine.

It makes coffee.

I'm not submitting it for the Booker Prize.

Then there's postage.

How much does it weigh?

I have absolutely no idea.

Enough that I'm not carrying it to the post office if I can avoid it.

And then there are the buyers.

You list something for $500.

Five minutes later someone offers you $75.

Seventy-five!

I'm all for negotiating, but that's not negotiating. That's seeing whether I've completely lost touch with reality.

Remember garage sales?

You'd write "Garage Sale Saturday" on a bit of cardboard, stick it on the nearest corner and people would just... arrive.

No algorithms.

No keywords.

No postage calculators.

No AI trying to improve your listing.

Just a driveway full of junk and people wandering around hoping to find a bargain.

Technology was supposed to make life easier.

Instead, selling one coffee machine now feels like a project that requires planning permission.

I've still got about five thousand dollars' worth of stuff to sell.

The problem is...

...after listing the first item, I think I've earned a little lie down.

Brain Is A Bit Iffy...

I think my shunt is playing up; or starting to break down. Hopefully it isn't.

But after twenty-seven brain operations, you get to know when something doesn't quite feel right. You can't always explain it. You just know.

Of course, my brain, these days, looks like a washing machine; bits and bobs added here and there. When my neurosurgeon operated last time it was his first time. I told him it was the left and side to which he replied “it all comes from the same well, so it won’t matter…” So, I had the operation on the right side only to be back in two days later to have the left done.

He learned a lesson. He sent me for MRI’s and pieced the whole thing together.

The good news is that I actually feel okay. Well... my brain would want to. The problem isn't necessarily how I feel today. It's the waiting.

First, you have to see the GP. Then they send a referral. Then it takes a few days to reach the neurosurgeon's office. Then it gets triaged. Then someone decides when you get an appointment.

Brains don't always appreciate bureaucracy.

I've learnt over the years that, when it comes to your brain, it's probably better to be the annoying patient who came in too early than the brave patient who waited too long. So yes, I may have jumped the gun.

I'm perfectly happy to have a neurosurgeon tell me, "Carol, you've worried over nothing." That would make my day!

Because if they're right, I get to go home and continue annoying the Squeeze for a few more years.

I’m worried about my bloody hair. I have just got it right. Honestly, you'd think after twenty-seven/twenty eight brain operations I'd have my priorities sorted out. Apparently not.

People imagine that facing brain surgery involves deep philosophical thoughts about life, mortality and the meaning of existence.

Not me… I'm wondering how long it'll take before I can get back to the hairdresser.

I genuinely hope everything is fine. But after everything I've been through, I've learnt one thing. If your brain starts behaving differently, don't wait for it to send you a second reminder. And if this all turns out to be a false alarm...

...I'll happily apologise to my shunt.

Right after I apologise to my hairdresser.

Neurosurgery. What Fun. Not.

Before anyone wonders...  I'm fine.

Well... I'm reasonably fine.

It just feels suspiciously like one of the shunts in my head is deciding it's had enough of gainful employment and is considering early retirement.

If I'm right, it'll mean another trip to the neurosurgeon. Another operation. At this point I honestly can't remember the exact number. Twenty-seven? Twenty-eight? Somewhere around there. Once you've had enough brain surgeries, they all start blending together.

You know what annoys me the most?

Not the operation.

Not the hospital.

Not even the recovery.

My bloody hair.

I have just got it right.

After months of trying to get it to an even length, because neuro’s ain’t no hairdressers! They don’t have a hairdressers brain between them! And now some surgeon is probably going to shave a chunk out of it again. They may as well use a lawnmower with the GT stripes up the back.

Honestly, you'd think after this many brain operations I'd have my priorities in order.

Apparently not.

People imagine facing brain surgery involves deep philosophical thoughts about life, mortality and the meaning of existence.

No.

It is my plan to go out this way. Just go to sleep and never wake up! No pain. No awful accident. I’m well prepared for it; well who wouldn’t be after twenty seven/eight brain operations? I’ve even got the plot at the cemetery and the plaque to go on it!

But I regress lol. I'm standing in front of the mirror wondering whether the hairdresser can somehow work around another scar.

The thing is, after this many operations, fear isn't really the emotion anymore.

It's irritation.

"Oh... not this again."

You know the hospital.

You know the forms.

You know the smell.

You know they'll wake you up every two hours to ask how you're feeling.

"Tired."

"I wonder why."

The upside is that modern neurosurgery is extraordinary. The people who do this for a living never cease to amaze me. They've kept me going through more than two dozen brain operations, and for that I'll always be grateful.

I just wish my shunt would stop behaving like an ageing appliance.

Everything else in my house seems to want to be replaced lately.

I'd rather my brain wasn't trying to join in.

Why Is Everything a Subscription?

I have spent the last few weeks trying to cancel subscriptions I didn't even realise I had. At this point, I'm fairly certain I'm financially supporting half the internet.

It starts innocently enough. You buy a program. An app. A streaming service. A photo editor. Makeup. Something that promises to organise/beautify/fix your life, improve your photos, teach you Italian, make you fitter, thinner, smarter or somehow transform you into a better version of yourself.

You click "Buy Now."

What you don't realise is you've actually entered into a lifelong financial relationship. Nothing belongs to you anymore. You don't buy software. You lease it. You don't own music. You rent it. You don't own movies. You subscribe to them.

We've somehow accepted the idea that paying once is old-fashioned.

Now everything politely helps itself to your bank account every month while sending you cheerful little emails thanking you for your continued membership. Membership?

I only wanted to edit one photograph. The worst part is cancelling them. Signing up takes approximately twelve seconds. Cancelling requires an archaeological expedition.

The "Cancel Subscription" button is never on the first page. It's hidden somewhere between "Manage Preferences", "Account Settings", "Privacy Choices" and "We're Sorry To See You Go."

Then comes the guilt. "Would you like to tell us why you're leaving?" Because I don't want to pay you forty-three dollars a month forever, Karen. Then they offer you fifty per cent off. Then seventy per cent off. Then a free month.

It's a bit like breaking up with someone who suddenly becomes the perfect partner the moment you walk out the door. And somehow, they all renew at three o'clock in the morning.

Nobody ever gets an email saying,

"Congratulations! We noticed you haven't used this service in eleven months, so we've cancelled it for you and refunded your money."

No. That would be ridiculous. Instead, they quietly keep collecting money while I continue to forget the app even exists.

The other day I looked through my bank statement and discovered subscriptions I'd completely forgotten about. One was teaching me a language. Based on my progress, I can now confidently order one coffee and ask where the train station is.

For several hundred dollars.

Companies love subscriptions because they're predictable. Consumers hate subscriptions because they're invisible. Twenty dollars here. Nine dollars there. Another fifteen somewhere else. Individually they don't seem like much. Collectively they're funding someone's beach house.

I miss the old days. You walked into a shop. You bought a thing. You owned the thing.

The end.

No monthly fee. No automatic renewal. No reminder in six months that your "introductory offer" has quietly become a premium package.

Maybe I'm just getting old. Or maybe we've all become so used to renting our lives that we've forgotten what it feels like to actually own something.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to go and cancel three subscriptions I only remembered while writing this.

Assuming, of course, I can actually find the cancellation button.

Apparently Size Matters...

Yesterday I listed my coffee machine for sale.

Perhaps I should put it into context… We were going out for lunch, so we dressed; I put makeup on, so we are looking good! We start off down the highway and when we are about halfway there, my brother-in-law calls. It seems my call to check the time we were expected caused a catastrophe. My sister went running for the phone, tripped and went down hard on the tiles. So, lunch is out and they are off to the hospital.

We were near JB HIFI when the call came so the Squeeze suggests going in for a look as it is end of tax year sales (June). So, we went in.

We were only in there half an hour tops! Came out, $5500 lighter… Came out with a new TV, Coffee Machine and new Sonos sound bar and a sub. I'm convinced those shops pump some sort of gas through the air-conditioning.

So, there is absolutely nothing wrong with my coffee machine. It makes excellent coffee. Every morning it faithfully delivers caffeine into my bloodstream without complaint. But apparently, we've reached that stage of life where perfectly good possessions are discarded because we've bought something else.

Then came the television.

Not because it's broken. Not because the picture is bad. Not because it catches fire occasionally. No. Because it's only sixty-five inches.

Apparently seventy-five inches would be better.

Now, for context, this television lives in the bedroom. The bedroom. You know... the room where you're supposed to be asleep for roughly a third of your life.

Our current television is so large that if I wake up suddenly, I briefly think I've been admitted to a private cinema. I genuinely don't understand how another ten inches is going to transform our viewing experience. At some point you're no longer watching television. You're being stalked by it.

Men have an extraordinary relationship with size. Cars. Engines. Barbecues. Power tools. If there's a larger version available, somewhere a bloke is already convincing himself he absolutely needs it. Which does not fit with the Squeeze. His weird relationship is technology… He couldn’t care less about Cars. Engines. Barbecues. Power tools. But put him near technology and he is preaching from the handbook!

"It'll be so much better." Will it?

It's the same Netflix. The same football. The same news reminding us that the world is on fire. Just... bigger. The funniest part is trying to sell perfectly good things online. Within minutes someone messages, "What's your lowest price?" I don't know, Karen. What's your highest?

Then someone else asks if I'll deliver it. For free. To the other side of Victoria. Another asks if it's still available, then disappears forever, only to reappear three weeks later asking exactly the same question.

Facebook Marketplace isn't a marketplace. It's a psychological endurance test. I swear it's designed to find out exactly how many stupid questions one person can answer before they snap.

So today I'm saying goodbye to my faithful coffee machine and trying to convince complete strangers that a sixty-five-inch Samsung Frame television is somehow inadequate. Personally, I think it's enormous. But apparently around here...

...it's just not big enough.

And my sister... A broken arm!

Getting Older Is Like Running Windows 95

When I was younger, I imagined getting older would be a graceful process.

You'd become wiser. More patient. More sophisticated. You'd sip wine, read books, and dispense life advice to younger people who'd finally realise how brilliant you were all along.

Turns out, getting older is less like becoming a wise elder and more like trying to run Windows 95 in 2026.

Technically it still works.

It just takes a while to boot up.

Every morning begins with a series of loading screens. Knees first. Then hips. Then lower back. My neck usually joins the conversation somewhere around breakfast.

If I stand up too quickly, my entire operating system freezes while it decides whether today's going to be a good day or whether it's going to throw an unexpected error message.

"Balance.exe has stopped working."

Then there are the updates.

I went to the hairdresser yesterday to get my lovely silver hair back. Instead of silver, it had developed a rather attractive shade somewhere between yellow and swamp water. Apparently it could be the shampoo. Or the water. Which means I now need a shower filter.

A shower filter!

When did washing my hair become a chemistry experiment? Nothing is ever simple anymore. I buy silver shampoo. Now I apparently need a different conditioner. Then a treatment. Then a filter for the shower. By next week I'll probably need a laboratory technician standing beside me with a clipboard.

Every problem seems to generate three more purchases.

I don't remember my mother needing an engineering degree just to wash her hair. Then there's the memory. I can remember the phone number of the boy who sat next to me in primary school. I cannot remember why I've just walked into the laundry. Or where I left my glasses. Usually, they're on top of my head.

I've reached that wonderful stage of life where I spend ten minutes looking for my phone while using the torch on... my phone. The body's no better. Bits of me make noises now. Not painful noises. Just... announcements.

Every time I stand up, my knees sound like someone slowly crushing a packet of barbecue Shapes. Apparently that's normal. So is discussing bowel habits with complete strangers. Nobody warns you about that.

At twenty-five, if someone had told me a conversation about fibre could last forty minutes, I'd have laughed. Now I'm contributing. Enthusiastically.

And passwords.

Sweet Jesus, the passwords. Every website wants a different one. Must contain a capital letter. A number. A symbol. The blood of a unicorn. The tears of your first-born child.

Then they ask you to prove you're not a robot.

At my age, I'm not entirely convinced.

Still, I wouldn't go back. Sure, the software's a bit buggy. Some of the hardware has seen better days. The memory's patchy. The maintenance costs have skyrocketed. But the older version of me worried far too much about things that don't matter.

This version laughs more. Says no more. Knows who her real friends are. And has finally accepted that perfection was never the goal. Besides...

Windows 95 may have been slow... ...but it still got the job done.

And so do I.

😊

Why Does Being Blonde Require a Degree in Chemistry?

I went to the hairdresser today.

Now, when I was younger, going to the hairdresser involved sitting in a chair, chatting about absolutely nothing for an hour, paying an alarming amount of money and leaving looking vaguely the same; just nicer washed locks.

Apparently, those days are over.

These days my hair has opinions.

I want silver.

My hair wants to be a swamp.

Somewhere between the shampoo, the water, the atmosphere and possibly the alignment of Jupiter, my lovely silver hair has developed an unattractive green-yellow tinge. I currently resemble an elderly tennis ball…

Poor Kim (my hairdresser) spent ages trying to rescue it, with first one stripper and then another (not the good kind either)

"It's probably your shampoo. It could be the minerals in your water. You might need a filter."

A filter. Not for drinking (I only drink bottled water). For washing my bloody hair.

I apparently need industrial water treatment just to avoid looking like Shrek's grandmother. Nobody warns you about this when you're young. They didn’t tell me about wrinkles. Or aching knees.

Nobody says, "By the way, your hair may one day react to municipal water supplies."

Every part of ageing seems to become a science experiment. You don't buy shampoo anymore. You buy purple shampoo. Silver shampoo. Clarifying shampoo. Moisturising shampoo. Shampoo that removes minerals. Shampoo that adds minerals. Shampoo that costs more than a decent bottle of wine (and I’d rather have the wine!).

Then someone tells you you're using it too often. Or not often enough. Or you're leaving it on for three minutes instead of four. It's like baking a bloody cake.

And don't get me started on conditioners.

Apparently, one repairs. One protects. One hydrates. One seals. One detoxifies. My hair has a better support team than I do.

The solution now appears to be fitting a water filter to the bathroom. I swear, by the time I reach seventy, I'll have reverse-osmosis plumbing feeding directly into the shower. All because I wanted to look naturally silver.

The irony, of course, is that the hair growing out of my head is naturally silver. Then, it turns into guacamole. Growing old really is fucked. Because every week you discover another body part that requires specialist equipment.

Everyone's Opinion Comes With Entrance Music

I've noticed something strange about the internet.

Nobody simply has an opinion anymore. Every bloody opinion arrives with entrance music.

You know the sort of thing. The metaphorical guitar riff starts playing. Smoke pours across the stage. Fireworks explode. Someone strides confidently towards the keyboard, points dramatically at an invisible enemy and prepares to deliver the hottest take the internet has ever seen.

At least, that's how they imagine it.

Nobody says, "I quite like this movie."

No. It's either the greatest masterpiece ever created or absolute garbage made by talentless idiots who should never work again. Politics is worse. People don't quietly explain why they support a particular policy. They march into the comments section as though they're entering a championship fight.

The crowd cheers.

The crowd boos.

Someone inevitably announces they're "destroying" someone else with facts and logic.

Nobody is destroyed. Everyone is just annoyed. The internet has somehow convinced us that every opinion deserves a dramatic unveiling.

It's all wonderfully theatrical considering most of us are sitting in our pyjamas with a cup of coffee and a biscuit that's gone a bit soft.

The strange thing is that real life doesn't work like this.

You can have a conversation with someone who votes differently, watches different television, barracks for another football team or thinks pineapple belongs on pizza, and somehow the world keeps turning.

Nobody needs theme music.

Nobody needs pyrotechnics.

Sometimes it's enough to simply have an opinion.

Colder Than A Witches Tit…

That is a teenager description, if ever I heard one; but that doesn’t negate the fact that it’s bloody freezing here. 

In fact it’s only 10 degrees but it feels much colder. 

I’m stilll in bed. I think I’ll stay here!

The Entire Internet Thinks It's WWE

I sometimes wonder if we accidentally replaced democracy, conversation and common sense with professional wrestling and nobody noticed.

Not actual wrestling, of course. Real wrestling requires athletic ability, training and a frightening willingness to wear sparkly lycra in public.

I'm talking about the performance. 

Everything online now feels like WWE. 

Every issue has heroes and villains. Every disagreement requires a dramatic entrance. Every opinion must be delivered as though you're standing on the ropes pointing at your enemy while pyrotechnics explode behind you.

Nobody simply disagrees anymore.

You can't say, "I think taxes should be lower." No. You must declare war.  You must inform the internet that the opposing side are either evil communists trying to destroy civilisation or greedy capitalists determined to grind the poor into dust.

There is no middle ground because middle ground doesn't get clicks. The algorithms don't reward sensible. They reward spectacle.

The internet has convinced us that every issue is a championship match, and every conversation is a title fight.

Maybe that's why we're all so tired.

We're living in a world where every day is WrestleMania.

And if there's one thing I've learned, it's this:

When every argument is treated like the main event, eventually nobody can remember what they were fighting about in the first place.

They just know they're supposed to keep booing.

Back To Reality...

Well, the children’s author has gone home.

The guitars have been put away. The pizza has long since been digested. The grandson has blown out the candles on his birthday cake, and the weekend of real conversations, laughter and actual human interaction is over.

Which means it's time to return to the real world.

Not the real real world.

The internet world… The world of followers, algorithms and likes.

It's strange, really. We spend a few days laughing with friends, making memories and having conversations that don't require Wi-Fi, and suddenly it dawns on you how bizarre modern life has become. Because somewhere along the way, we decided that moments only counted if strangers approved of them.

Did you even have a great weekend if you didn't photograph your dinner? Did your grandson really turn five if nobody clicked a heart emoji? Did the guitars actually get played if there isn't a video somewhere proving it?

Apparently not.

The algorithms stand waiting patiently for our return, like needy ex-lovers.

"Where have you been?" "Why haven't you posted?" "Your engagement is down." "People aren't interacting with your content." The algorithms always sound slightly disappointed, as though you've failed some invisible exam.

Well, that is what normal people do. I don’t care about any of that. I blog because I’m an opiniated bitch. I like to voice my scathing attacks on the modern-day human. Have an opinion about the “influencers”; I mean who cares what they think? I see the “influencer” tag to describe someone and I just think “moron”.

We wonder why one article gets five thousand views and another gets five hundred. Who the hell knows or really cares?

We refresh statistics that have absolutely no bearing on our happiness and somehow convince ourselves that they do.

One day I'm thinking, "What a beautiful life. Friends, family, music and pizza. Who needs anything else?" The next day I'm checking visitor numbers before I've even downed a cup of coffee.

Perhaps that's why weekends like this are so important. They remind us that followers aren't friends. Algorithms aren't companions. And likes don't laugh at your jokes, eat your pizza or argue over which song should be played next.

The internet is wonderful. I love writing. I love connecting with readers all over the world. 

But in reality, I’d do it no matter what.

Children’s Author Stayed…

What a fantastic couple of days we had.

My friend Isobelle, who writes young adult books, came to stay with her guy. We only get to see each other every now and then, so it’s always special when we can all get together. There is something wonderful about spending time with people you've known for years. You just pick up where you left off.

Isobelle and I took charge of the important things in life and made the pizzas while having drinks. The smell coming out of the oven was enough to make us all hover around the kitchen like starving seagulls. They tasted even better than they smelled, which is saying something because they smelled magnificent.

Meanwhile, the guys started talking about guitars.

As anyone who lives with a man who owns more guitars than common sense will know, "talking about guitars" is merely Stage One.

Stage Two involves bringing the guitars out.

Stage Three involves discussing pickups, strings and amplifiers in a language nobody else understands.

And Stage Four, naturally, involves playing them.

Before long, our dining room had turned into an impromptu music session. We all threw song suggestions around, although finding the right songs proved harder than expected. Some songs you love listening to just don't work when you're sitting around with acoustic guitars. Still, that hardly mattered. The laughter between songs was every bit as enjoyable as the music itself.

After demolishing far too much pizza and somehow finding room for dessert, we sat drinking, talking, laughing and generally solving none of the world's problems.

And that, I think, is the beauty of nights like these.

Just friends, food, music and conversation. Real life, in all its ordinary glory.

The next morning, they flew back to Brisbane while the Squeeze and I headed up the freeway with my son in the back seat, on our way to my daughter's house for her son's fifth birthday.

One minute you're sitting around with guitars and homemade pizzas, and the next you're watching a small person blow out candles and wondering how on earth five years have gone by so quickly.

All in all, it was one of those weekends that remind you what really matters.

Not followers.

Not likes.

Not algorithms.

Just family, friends, laughter, and enough pizza to feed a small country.

And honestly, I wouldn't swap that for the world. 😊

Children's Author Staying – So I'm Not Blogging 😊

One of my best friends, Isobel, is coming to stay tonight. She's a children's author, young adult mostly. We live in different states; us in Victoria and them in Queensland so I don't get to see her that often. I think the last time was a couple of months ago and I stayed at her place on the Great Ocean Road. Fantastic place to write with a view of the ocean...

She's bringing her guy and so, with the Squeeze, the four of us are going to make pizzas and do that strange thing people used to do before social media.

You know?

Converse.

In the real world.

We probably won't have a phone between us. No social media. No doomscrolling. No arguing with strangers on Facebook. Nothing.

Bliss.

We'll probably have a night of music. Playing it, rather than just listening to it. Pity the only instrument I play is the tambourine. 😊 We have a couple of acoustic guitars, a mandolin, a ukulele, a slide guitar, a cigar box guitar, a Fender Telecaster and a Stratocaster, just to name a few.

And I still can't play a bloody thing.

But I love nights like this.

Because as much as I enjoy writing and social media, nothing beats sitting around with good friends, eating too much, talking rubbish and laughing until your sides hurt.

It certainly beats the Squeeze and I sitting in front of the television every night dreaming of a different life.

Although, to be fair, he's probably dreaming of a life where I don't exist.

Mind you, after twenty five years together, I suspect I've crossed his mind as a murder suspect more than once.

Still, he'll have to keep me.

I know where the guitars are hidden.

The Death Of Embarrassment

I don't know exactly when it happened, but I think embarrassment died sometime around 2015…

There was no funeral. No minute's silence. No flowers.

One day people simply stopped being ashamed of anything and carried on as though this was perfectly normal.

Once upon a time embarrassment was useful. It stopped you from doing stupid things in public. It prevented you from dancing on restaurant tables, filming yourself sobbing after a break-up, or announcing intimate bodily functions to complete strangers.

It acted as society's handbrake.

Not anymore.

These days people record themselves crying and upload it to millions of strangers. Couples broadcast their arguments. Families reveal every scandal. Influencers discuss things with the internet that previous generations wouldn't have discussed with their doctors.

And apparently this is now considered authenticity. I'm old enough to remember when people suffered humiliation in private.

If you tripped over in the street, or at the shopping centre as I did… You got up as quickly as possible and scurried away for checking on the bruises.

Now you end up on Facebook with dramatic music and hundreds of views.

They film themselves having emotional breakdowns. They confess things online that should probably remain between themselves, a close friend and perhaps a licensed therapist. Nothing is off limits anymore.

Births.

Deaths.

Divorces.

Medical procedures.

Family feuds.

The strange thing is that nobody seems embarrassed by any of this.

Meanwhile, I still apologise to mannequins if I bump into them. I whisper when discussing personal matters at the chemist. I still lower my voice when talking about money. And if I accidentally wave back at someone who wasn't waving at me, I spend the next six years considering emigration.

Perhaps I'm showing my age. Or perhaps embarrassment existed for a reason.

Maybe not every thought needs to be shared.

Maybe not every moment needs an audience.

Maybe some things are meant to remain private.

And perhaps civilisation began its decline around the same time people started filming themselves crying for content. Because if aliens landed tomorrow and spent ten minutes on social media, I suspect they'd quietly return to their spaceship and decide humanity wasn't quite ready for first contact.

And honestly, I couldn't blame them.

Why Is Everyone Filming Everything?

Nobody experiences life. We document it for strangers.

I don't know exactly when it happened, but somewhere along the way we stopped experiencing life and started documenting it. Filming it. Apparently nothing happens anymore unless somebody records it.

Nobody just goes to a concert anymore. They record the concert. They hold their phones in the air for two hours filming something they'll never watch again while blocking the view of the poor bastard behind them. Annoying? Well, I've been that poor bastard, so yes. I've also had the pleasure of being the blocker at times. Jon Stevens on Saturday night, for example. But I only filmed a little of it, just so the world would know I was there.

That seems to be the way of it now. People don't go on holidays. They create content. Nobody eats lunch. They photograph lunch. Nobody sees a sunset. They film the sunset. Nobody attends weddings. They spend half the ceremony trying to capture the perfect angle for Instagram while the bride and groom are standing there wondering if anyone actually saw them get married.

My son got married last year and the celebrant asked everyone not to film. They had professional photographers taking millions of fantastic shots that anyone could have later. They simply asked everyone to enjoy the moment. Sans phone, at least for me, was fabulous. Well, it was after I got over the first withdrawal symptoms!

I saw footage recently of people filming fireworks. Fireworks! As though there won't be another lot next year. As though their grandchildren are going to gather around one day and say, "Grandma, please show us that blurry video of New Year's Eve 2024 again."

And don't get me started on people filming complete strangers having meltdowns in supermarkets. Once upon a time you'd quietly think, "Hell, that bloke's having a bad day," and move on. Now everyone whips out a phone and hopes to go viral.

We're no longer participants in our own lives. We're unpaid camera crews. Everything has become content.

Birthdays. Engagements. Car accidents. Marriage proposals. Gender reveals. Funerals. Apparently nothing is allowed to happen unless complete strangers can watch it later. And the strange thing is, I don't think we're even doing it for ourselves anymore. We're doing it for people we don't know. People we'll never meet. People who will scroll past our precious memories in about three seconds before watching a cat fall off a sofa.

Maybe I'm showing my age, but sometimes I think the best memories I have are the ones nobody photographed.

The holidays where nobody carried a phone.

The concerts where everyone sang instead of filmed.

The dinners where we talked instead of taking pictures of our food.

Perhaps memories were never meant to be content.

Perhaps they were just meant to be memories.

The Professional Wrestlingification of Everything

I've come to the conclusion that professional wrestling escaped the ring years ago and quietly took over the rest of society.

Not actual wrestling, of course. Nobody is getting hit over the head with folding chairs in Parliament. Although some days, I'm not entirely convinced that they shouldn’t be…

No, I'm talking about the “spectacle”.

Everything has become bigger. Louder. Angrier. More dramatic.

Nobody simply disagrees anymore. They destroy. They annihilate. They humiliate. Apparently, every argument must end with somebody being body-slammed into oblivion while a cheering crowd waves digital signs in the comment section.

Politics became wrestling years ago.

Then social media joined in.

Then the news.

Then celebrities.

Then influencers.

And now ordinary people seem to have joined the cast. Every opinion requires an entrance. Every disagreement requires a villain. Every discussion needs heroes, betrayals and shocking plot twists.

Even corporations have learned the game. Once upon a time companies sold soap powder. Now they issue statements. They take sides. They apologise. They clarify. They release carefully worded responses to controversies nobody had heard of six hours earlier.

Everything has become theatre. Nothing can simply exist without an audience. If a celebrity breaks up with their partner, we pick teams. If two billionaires have a disagreement, we choose sides. If somebody says something stupid on Twitter, half the internet grabs popcorn while the other half searches for a folding chair.

The strange thing is that professional wrestling has always known exactly what it is.

Entertainment.

That's the joke.

Meanwhile, the rest of us are pretending this endless drama is perfectly normal. Perhaps that's why everyone seems exhausted. We're living inside a twenty-four-hour pay-per-view event. And there are no off-seasons. No wonder people are tired. No wonder everyone is angry. No wonder we're all permanently waiting for the next shocking betrayal, devastating comeback or explosive revelation.

Personally, I miss boring. I miss the days when the most exciting thing that happened was someone forgetting to put the bins out. These days, civilisation apparently collapses three times before lunch.

And somewhere, in the middle of all this madness, common sense is lying unconscious under a folding chair while Karen from Facebook climbs onto the top rope to defend her views on seed oils.

Honestly, if aliens landed tomorrow, they'd probably assume humanity settled its differences through professional wrestling and YouTube comments.

And frankly, I wouldn't blame them... 

So You Want to Become a Professional Wrestler?

I suspect nobody wakes up at six years old and says, “When I grow up, I’d like to wear sequins and jump from ropes, on people.”

And yet, somewhere out there, a young person is watching grown men in tights insult each other before body-slamming one another through a table or chair and thinking, “Yes. That’s the career for me.”

Professional wrestling is fascinating because it might be the only occupation where being loud, dramatic and completely unreasonable is considered a job skill.

And I don't know; I'd say the money is pretty good. I mean look at The Rock...

The first thing you need is a name. You can’t just be Steve from Geelong. No. You need something terrifying. “The Crusher.” “The Executioner.” “The Viper.” Or if you’re over sixty and your knees click when you stand up, perhaps “The Arthritic Menace.” lol and you'd be too scared you'd break something so there is no jumping off the ropes for you!

But, then you need a costume. Normal people wear sensible clothing. Wrestlers apparently raid the reject section of Spotlight and emerge covered in glitter and fake leather and usually, bad hair.

Of course, wrestling isn’t just about athletic ability. It’s about creating a character. A villain. A hero. Someone the crowd loves or someone they desperately want to see punched in the face.

Come to think of it, that’s exactly how politics works these days.

Nobody debates ideas anymore. They create personas. They insult opponents. They perform outrage. Their supporters cheer wildly. Facts are optional. Drama is mandatory.

Perhaps politicians should simply stop pretending and embrace it.

Imagine Question Time with entrance music.

The Prime Minister bursts through the curtain to AC/DC. Which kind of reminds me of when Joan Kirner was premier; she dressed in leathers and sang Joan Jett, I love rock and roll. I think White was on guitar (the Minister for Health)

It was hysterical!!! I loved her for that... Joan Kirner

The Opposition Leader enters riding a Harley-Davidson while smoke cannons explode.

The independents come out carrying steel chairs.

At least we’d all know what we’re watching.

And unlike politics, professional wrestlers have the decency to admit it’s entertainment.

Your Opinion Is Not A Wrestling Personality

I have noticed something rather strange about modern life…

People don't seem to have opinions anymore. They become them.

Once upon a time, you could think pineapple on pizza was an abomination against humanity and still get on with your neighbour who thought it was perfectly acceptable. (I actually think its perfectly acceptable to; but I like heaps of chillis! So Pineapple goes out the window.

Now? Apparently, you must defend your position to hate pineapple, to the death.

Everyone has become a professional wrestler.

Not literally, of course. Nobody is leaping off the top rope in Woolworths. Although give it time…

But we have all developed wrestling personas. There are the heroes. There are the villains. There are the loyal fans. There are catchphrases. And heaven help anyone who wanders into the wrong corner of the internet wearing the wrong colours.

People don't simply disagree anymore.

They issue challenges. They cut promos. They deliver verbal body slams.

They announce that they've "destroyed" somebody with facts and logic, which generally means both parties spent three hours arguing with complete strangers while neglecting to empty the dishwasher.

The strangest part is that nobody is allowed to change their mind. Changing your mind used to be called learning. Now it's considered betrayal. You must remain faithful to your tribe, your team and your chosen champion until the bitter end.

Meanwhile the rest of us are sitting in the cheap seats wondering when having an opinion became a full-time identity. I miss the days when people argued, had a cup of tea and then moved on. Now everyone behaves as though civilisation itself depends upon whether a stranger on Facebook agrees with them.

Honestly, the only thing missing is entrance music, sparkly underwear and a bloke with a folding chair.

Why Is Everyone Filming Everything?

Nobody experiences life. We document it for strangers! I don't know exactly when it happened, but somewhere along the way we stopped experiencing life. Instead, we film it. Nothing happened that isn’t filmed or documented somewhere… If you pull your head back from the phone, you can see what is really looks like! Sigh...

Nobody just goes to a concert anymore. They record the concert. They hold their phones in the air for two hours filming something they'll never watch again while blocking the view of the poor bastard behind them. Annoying? Well, I’ve been that ‘poor bastard’ so yes. I’ve also had the pleasure of being the blocker at times… Jon Stevens on Saturday night, but I only filmed a little of it, just so the world would know I was there.

But that seems to be the way of it now. People don't go on holidays. They create content. Nobody eats lunch. They photograph lunch. Nobody sees a sunset. They film the sunset. Nobody attends weddings. They spend half the ceremony trying to capture the perfect angle for Instagram while the bride and groom are standing there wondering if anyone actually saw them get married.

My son got married last year, and the celebrant asked everyone not to film. They were getting millions of fantastic shots that anyone can have – they just asked everyone to enjoy the moment. Sans phone, at least for me, was fabulous. Well, it was after I got over the first withdrawal symptom!

I saw footage recently of people filming fireworks. Fireworks! As though there won't be another lot next year. As though their grandchildren are going to gather around one day and say, "Grandma, please show us that blurry video of New Year's Eve 2024 again."

And don't get me started on people filming complete strangers having meltdowns in supermarkets. Once upon a time you'd quietly think, "Hell, that bloke's having a bad day," and move on. Now everyone whips out a phone and hopes to go viral.

We're no longer participants in our own lives. We're unpaid camera crews. Everything has become content.

Birthdays. Engagements. Car accidents. Marriage proposals. Gender reveals. Funerals. Apparently, nothing is allowed to happen unless complete strangers can watch it later. And the strange thing is, I don't think we're even doing it for ourselves anymore. We're doing it for people we don't know. People we'll never meet. People who will scroll past our precious memories in about three seconds before watching a cat fall off a sofa.

Maybe I'm showing my age. But sometimes I think the best memories I have are the ones nobody photographed.

The holidays where nobody carried a phone.

The concerts where everyone sang instead of filmed.

The dinners where we talked instead of taking pictures of our food.

Perhaps memories were never meant to be content.

Perhaps they were just meant to be memories.