My blog has moved!

This blog has moved to here:

Stinge part deux

Hey, this isn't Dior!

Today is a Big Day in our household. It's not my daughter's birthday, first tooth or steps. No, today, I bought her a new item of clothing. A brand new, off the shelf, garment.

You see, as a rule, I don't buy new things. To my daughter, "new clothing" simply means 'previously unchartered skidmarks!' (Prada, are you listening?) In fact, I try not to buy second hand things that cost more than a dollar. I like to pretend I am some kind of principled middle class anti consumer, like these ten friends in San Francisco, who, in 2006, got famous by declaring they would not buy anything new for a whole year. You know, like almost the entire population of Sub Saharan Africa, Asia and large parts of South America. Alright,maybe I'm being too cynical. I mean, one of the women in the group stuck her rowing glasses back together with tape! Tape! (This isn't that new either, as Chinese boatmen have been taping their rowing glasses together since the dawn of time)

My stingyness has more in common with the second group mentioned above: skintness. But also, I've had a good long think about the value of things, and come to realise that the western world's 'Buy more shit or we're fucked' motto (there really is a tee shirt) of economic growth is just a bit lame. Add to that, I love scrounging and re-using things in weird ways. Alright, maybe I'm in the first camp as well as the second.

So more about scrounging....

Scrounging is an art more than a science. For instance, when faced with a mountain of second hand crap, you've got to get your eye in. Float like a seagull, sting like a bee, as they say. I look for interesting fabric, natural fibres, weird clothes, and antiquated, possibly medical devices that look like they require a strong stomach and a British enthusiasm for machine oil.

Apart from being an inveterate scrounger, there's another reason I've never had to buy clothes for my daughter. As any new parent will tell you, announcing a pregnancy sounds the avalanche horn to all those who have gone before you. Within a week you will be buried in football fields of clothing. It is truly brilliant.

Because, the reality is, babies don't need much more than a comfortable western adult already has; food, somewhere warm to sleep, and the odd preening toff to present ABC arts programs on the television.

Being on the scrounge has other advantages as well; You meet other scroungers. Our cot, for instance was the result of a phone call that went like this:

"Gidday, it's me. I'm up in Sydney, outside some hideous fucking mansion in Cronulla. They've chucked out a brand new, still-in-its-plastic cot. Probably had to assemble it. People are such retards. Shall I get it for you?"

These phone calls are the best because they assume that not only would we, A) like a new cot, but B) are the kind of people who can assemble one.

You can see then, that today's clothing purchase was a Big Deal.

In fact, it only came about because yesterday I took the endlessly patient Possum to the beach in the howling wind (see cute pic above) only to discover that not only was the zip on her salvaged jacket broken, it had fucking flowers on it. Thrown into a fit of Shakespearean rage I flung it back in the car and declared that I was going to buy her some new clothes.

And man is she cute in her new, slightly too large, Navy blue hoody, like a chubby little car thief. Awww.

women's business

I know I shouldn't do this. I know it. But I can't help it. I read the Monthly. And this month's grim liturgy on the plummeting state of humanity deals with, wait for it, gendercide, brought to us by well respected author Anne Manne.

Gendercide refers to the selective sex abortion and infanticide that has resulted in "100 000 million missing women" according to Amartya Sen. In countries such as India and China (but not exclusively) boy babies are preferred for largely socio-economic reasons, an attitude entrenched in cultural norms and values. At the pointy end of poor village life, girl babies are at best undesirable, at worst, expendable, spelling catastrophic loss of status or future economic wellbeing.

Throughout her research, Monthly author Anne Manne is vexed by western silence over the issue,

"I was continually confronted by a mystery; how to explain the silence of the mainstream Western press in the face of the moral enormity of the story. In its own way, this was as shocking to me as the facts themselves"

Western media, ploise exploine.

Well. I'll give it a red hot go. The western media reflects western society: that is, a society squeamish about pointing the finger at countries who allow abortion. Although we in the west don't routinely gender test prior to abortions, we still perform hundreds of thousands of abortions each year. Last year 820,151 in the US alone. So we're equal opportunities aborters. You know, like the bumper sticker; "I fish, abort and vote"

But hey, at least we're not performing abortions for social reasons, like loss of status or future economic wellbeing.

Furthermore, feminists in the west have fought hard for access to safe, legal abortions. It seems trite for a feminist author such as Manne to to invoke anti-abortion sentiment in relation to poor Indian women, but advocate its acceptability for wealthy western women. It's no surprise to me the western media isn't touching that one with a pole.

I've got thoughts about the second issue in her article, infanticide, but it's late and I've already used up my daily quota of ABC style fuckspeak. Almost. I'm now going to explore what it means to be a curry in a post colonial pedagogy. A clue: it's more didactic with yoghurt.




Post Script.
This blog post reflects an inconsistency in the reporting of an issue; abortion. It does not reflect my personal opinions on abortion, which I keep to myself.

I say this for all who have left an Australian airport needing a shower.

The planes!

It's not often i get surprised by the workings in parliament. But yesterday, the speeches included the reading of the Airports (On-Airport Activities Administration) Validation Bill 2010 Amendment. Swoon! Member for Makin, you had me at "Validation"!

The bill itself was aimed at rectifying an oversight in the legislation, invalidating over 100 000 parking fines at Australia's largest airports. It turns out that squeezing yourself into a shiny polyester pant-suit and Day-Glo vest is not enough to issue legal notices. Naturally, this strikes at the very foundation of Australian democracy, and so one might expect the resulting debate to be frothy. Because, as Mr Randall who followed the 'Member for Makin me Crazy' so delicately put it,

"The airports (On-Airport Activities Administration) Validation Bill 2010, while being technical in nature, gives me the opportunity to speak about the more substantial commercial nature of airports".

The members whipped through the details of the bill in about one sentence, and then went on to deliver a blistering assault on the monopolistic fleecing that awaits all comers to all Australia's airports. This is the kind of thing that makes question time worth the carpet.

Airports, of course, are a monopoly and the ACCC struggles to regulate their profit making regimes. When I say struggle, I mean it in the same way I struggle to keep on top of the washing. Pretty much waiting for it to do itself. I was, of course, intending to watch Channel Ten's exposing mini series about airport parking but it was banned in New South Wales, pending a court case. So, here's the juicy bits.

Airports make much out of parking, Melbourne especially. In fact,

In 2008-09 the five major airports generated around $278 million in combined revenue through airport car parking. This represents about 12 per cent of their total revenue. The highest car parking income generated was at Melbourne Airport, where$90 million or 20.5 per cent of total revenue raised was from car parking. It is estimated that Melbourne Airport makes about 75 per cent or $67 million of profit from its car parking operations. The 20.5 per cent compares with around eight per cent for Sydney, Perth and Adelaide airports.

So you're thinking: well, I guess the airport has to recover costs. I mean, maybe passenger numbers are up... or costs associated with running several hectares of bare tarmac are skyrocketing, not to mention the now infamous worldwide glut in cheek-hugging sweaty polyester pleat pants. Surely there's some explanation other than sheer, unadulterated greed.

According to a previous ACCC report, passenger numbers increased by 41 per cent since 2002, but parking revenues grew by 77 per cent, almost double.

Blatant, gleeful, scraping profiteering. Normally you have to tune into the State parliament for that.

I'll stop now. I've got trains that need spotting.

Winter

It's winter. I keep meaning to write some poetic installment detailing the wonders of winter, but I can't. I just can't be arsed writing anything about anything at the moment. That's not true, actually. I've been writing short stories, and a thesis. And shopping lists to litter every available surface except my back pocket when I'm in town.

So, we've accepted that this post is about as poetic as Hansard*....here's a story about winter.

Things have changed in the last couple of weeks. We had some stormy weather, a lot of rain, and a general lack of enthusiasm about the outdoors. We've had the woodfired oven on every night, and most evenings I've baked a loaf of bread, and sometimes, just for good measure, the startings of an earth-ship as well.

I'm currently a little bit in love with rye flour. Rye flour is gluten free, which means you might have been treated to it in the form of delicious spicy pumpernickle or perhaps, less luckily, you've choked back a slice of gluten-free bread with ten cups of tea. Rye, you see, doesn't really develop, or rise, because it's the gluten in regular flour that gives bread its spring. The trick, therefore, is to mix rye flour with regular flour. Yum yum yum. I've been making loaves with plenty of caraway seeds and just enough neglect to allow the gloopy mixture to flourish. Bread, incidentally, is the ultimate recipe for winter. There's not an afternoon I haven't relished the idea of being allowed to rest in a warm place until I've doubled in size.

We've also been roasting fields-full of vegetables: pumpkin and potato out of the garden, parsnips from the local area, and plastic letters from off the door of the fridge. You know winter has really set in when you're slicing the thin rats-tail ends off the parsnips and affixing them to your temples for a jousting session. Just for the record.

The weather finally cleared yesterday, so the Possum and I spent the afternoon at the beach collecting all manner of exciting things that washed up in the high-water, like sticks and particularly tasty bits of seaweed - see, we're even hippies in our choice of choking hazards.

I think we all knew there was stormy weather on the way. Up until about a week ago the sea water was still beguilingly warm: normally it's turned cooler by now. Many afternoons saw big cumulus clouds roll in over the sea, as the land cooled off with the shortening afternoons. Tis the making of a good storm, that, I said, to no-one in particular. Two days after the rain had stopped the river was still as black as tea but I'm told these are good conditions for Brim. Unless you are a Brim.

The storms also brought a bit of wind, so the first fine day saw me out collecting a new batch of macadamia nuts and tying up the broad beans. And doing mountains of washing.

Today, a few days after the end of the stormy weather, the sea is still brown, only the second time I've seen it like this in the time I've lived here (a couple of years). The bush has dried out a bit, so you can go for a walk without being festooned in ticks, and it's clear, calm and cool, with that incredibly pungent scent of eucalyptus rising.

Makes me ache for a crippling mortgage, some air pollution and an angry confrontation in nose-to-tail traffic.


*Speaking of Hansard and the bedevilment of modern city living..... Today the House of Reps debated an exceedingly dull amendment to the administration of the something or other to do with airport parking tickets. And the member for mumble mumble seized the opportunity to launch a venomous attack on the wholesale cartel that is airport carparking. Who hasn't left Sydney airport needing a shower and a police report? Anyway, I am awaiting the details on Hansard, but here's the juice: Melbourne airport makes something like 78% of its profits from carparking. Perth and Sydney were in the range of 8-12% I seem to remember. 78%! Seldom do I hear an impassioned speech in parliament that leaves me so wholeheartedly fulfilled. Forget health reform, mining taxes and refugee policy, if you want to win votes, go for the crowd pleaser!

Weather

The big news this week is the weather. It's been in the news. I know this, because my relatives have been calling from New Zealand to make sure we are still here. Storms, you see. Rain. Wind. That sort of thing.

Nothing highlights my existence as a foreigner like stormy weather. Because, venturing outaide at its height, I felt the vague urge to miss the number fucking 12 to Karori Park and wander over to the Rice Bowl burger bar for a greasy burger and some diarrhoea.