I'm Testing Something...

Hello world!  This is me testing the Microsoft recorder. It records your voice instead of having to key this whole thing out, which is really cool.

Oh, it did it! I said: "new line" and it made a new paragraph!

I might leave this up all the time now. I'll just have to think about what I'm going to say... and say it.

Bloody hell, my phone is listening too; typing all the words. Stop listening! 

Self-Serve Checkouts Should Pay Superannuation

I have decided I am no longer using a self-serve checkout unless the supermarket puts me on the payroll.

I arrive as a customer, but within seconds I’ve been promoted to cashier, bagging assistant, security officer and unpaid investigator of unexpected items in the bagging area.

There is no unexpected item. It’s a bloody avocado.

Then the machine freezes and flashes a light above my head, alerting the entire supermarket that I may be attempting to steal 37 cents worth of coriander. A teenager eventually wanders over, scans a magic card and releases me back into society.

Meanwhile, an employee watches twelve screens showing close-ups of everyone’s hands. Apparently, Woolworths now has better surveillance than the Pentagon, yet it still can’t tell the difference between a bread roll and organised crime.

And after I’ve scanned everything, found the barcode on the roast chicken, entered my own fruit, supplied my own bags and paid an amount roughly equal to a small mortgage repayment, the machine has the audacity to ask:

“Would you like a receipt?”

Yes. I’d also like a payslip, annual leave and recognition for prior learning.

If supermarkets want us to work there, fine. But I expect penalty rates on Sundays, ten percent off my groceries and a little name badge.

Carol — Employee of the Month. Or maybe the damned year!

Bring Back Shame... Please.

I know we spent decades telling people not to be ashamed of themselves, and that was probably very kind and progressive of us.

But I think we may have overcorrected.

Nobody is ashamed of anything anymore.

People film themselves crying in supermarket car parks. They announce their “personal journey” because they stopped eating bread for four days. They share photographs of surgical wounds, marital arguments and the contents of their children’s nappies.

Nothing is private. Nothing is embarrassing. Nothing is too stupid to upload.

Years ago, if you behaved like an idiot in public, you went home and hoped nobody had noticed. Now you go home, edit the footage, add dramatic music and upload it in three parts.

“Part Two coming tomorrow!”

No. Please don’t.

Shame used to perform a useful social function. It stopped people from singing loudly in cafés, giving medical advice despite working in real estate, and describing themselves as “public figures” because 312 people followed them on TikTok. Don't get me started in "influencers"

It kept your personal business personal.

Now, every bowl you dish up is a podcast.

We don’t need the brutal, soul-destroying shame of the olden days. I’m not suggesting we ring a bell and parade people through town.

I’m only suggesting a tiny amount.

Just enough to make someone pause before posting a photograph of themselves attached to a drip with the caption, “Don’t ask.”

Because you know perfectly well, we’re going to ask.

That’s why you bloody posted it.

Your Trauma Is Not a Free Pass to Be an Arsehole

Apparently, once you’ve had a difficult childhood, a toxic relationship, an unpleasant divorce or a mother who didn’t hug you enough, or cut the crusts off your peanut butter sandwich, you are no longer responsible for anything you do for the rest of your natural life.

You can lie, manipulate, scream at people, destroy relationships and generally behave like an absolute arsehole—and the moment somebody objects, you simply announce that you have trauma.

Conversation over.

Now, I’m not saying trauma isn’t real. Of course it is. Most people have been damaged by something. Some far more than others. Life has a remarkable ability to run over you, reverse, and then come back for another go. Hell. I should know! 29 brain operations and counting and 3 ex-husbands!

But trauma may explain why you behave badly. It doesn’t give you permission to keep doing it.

At some point, you have to stop handing your childhood the steering wheel. You’re an adult now. If you know your behaviour hurts people, then it becomes your responsibility to do something about it. Get help. Learn better habits. Apologise without adding, “But you made me…”

Because that isn’t an apology. That’s just blame wearing a little apology hat.

We seem to have confused understanding someone with excusing them. You can understand why a dog bites and still not let it loose in a childcare centre. Yet with people, we are expected to tolerate almost anything once a sufficiently tragic backstory has been produced.

Everyone has a backstory.

The person you’re treating badly probably has one too.

Trauma deserves compassion. It deserves patience, support and proper treatment. But it does not entitle anyone to spend the rest of their life creating trauma for everybody else.

Eventually, you have to take responsibility for the person you have become.

Even if it isn’t entirely your fault that you became them.

Where the Hell Did Everybody Go?

A few days ago, 2,500 people were reading my blog every day.

Now there are 200.

Two hundred!

Apparently, I have gone from being mildly interesting to someone people actively cross the road to avoid.

I don’t know what happened. Did the internet hold a meeting? Was there a vote? Did 2,300 people collectively decide, Well, that’s enough of her?

It’s quite unsettling. When thousands of people arrive, you start to think you’ve finally cracked it. You imagine your blog spreading across the world. People in America are laughing over breakfast. Someone in Brazil is translating your wisdom. Hollywood may call at any moment.

Then you check the statistics the next day and discover you’re performing to a nearly empty room with one bloke asleep near the back.

Blogging is a strange business. You can spend hours writing something thoughtful about politics, ageing or the gradual collapse of civilisation—and twelve people read it.

Then you write two paragraphs about being sick, forgetting where you put your drink or producing an alarming amount of mucus, and thousands turn up.

Perhaps I’ve been trying too hard.

Maybe nobody wants insight. Maybe they want to know whether I’ve fallen over, forgotten something important or developed a suspicious rash.

So, to the 200 people who are still here—thank you. You are either exceptionally loyal or you haven’t worked out how to unsubscribe.

And to the missing 2,300:

Where the hell are you?

I’m prepared to become ill again.