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.