Funerals, Potholes and Pokies

The alarm went off at 7.30 a.m.

I know that doesn't sound particularly early to most people, but these days it felt positively cruel. There was a time I'd be up before the birds without a second thought. Now, anything before eight requires negotiation.

Outside it was freezing. Rain was drizzling down, the sky was grey, and all I wanted to do was crawl back under the doona.

Instead, I climbed into the car with my brother and sister and headed for Bendigo for my aunt's funeral.

It's about two and a half hours on a good day.

Yesterday wasn't a good day.

The traffic crawled for what seemed like forever, and once we escaped that, we were introduced to another Victorian attraction... potholes.

Honestly, Jacinta Allen, perhaps instead of announcing another shiny new project, you could spend a few dollars filling the craters between Geelong and Bendigo. Some of those holes were big enough to have their own postcodes. I was half expecting to see road signs saying, "Welcome to Pothole. Population: Three Hubcaps."

Eventually we arrived.

Funerals are odd occasions. Nobody wants the reason for the gathering, yet it becomes a family reunion all the same.

We caught up with cousins, uncles, aunts and relatives we hadn't seen for years. Stories started flowing almost immediately. The older stories became funnier with every telling, and by the end of the afternoon we were all laughing about things that happened decades ago as though they'd happened last week.

My aunt made it to ninety-one. That's a pretty good innings. I think she'd have been pleased that there were more laughter than tears.

After the formalities, everyone headed across to the hall for afternoon tea; where we dumped half the people and headed off to the RSL.

A few drinks somehow became quite a few drinks, and before long someone suggested a visit to the pokies. As it turns out, my aunt must have been looking after me because I walked away two hundred dollars richer. 

Thank you, Aunty.

My sister and I, loath to stay any later and watch the chorus of the shouts for "whiskey!!" went home at about 9.30 where we staggered to bed.

This morning it was time to head home.

I travelled back with my brother and my two sisters, bouncing our way down the same pothole-infested road towards Geelong.

It gave us a few more hours to chat, laugh and remember.

Funny how funerals work.

You go to say goodbye to one person, but somehow end up reconnecting with everyone else. It was a long couple of days; but I'm glad I went!

Cold.

Wet.

A little emotional.

A little blurry by the end.

Alot of laughter and memories.

And I wouldn't have missed it for the world.

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.