Originally published by The Clifton Courier, July 15, 2020

I’ve snapped.

I’ve gone months of deprivation of one of the biggest sources of elation in my life. I’d managed to put it out of my mind for a long time, but when something gives you so much bliss, you can only go for so long without it before you start getting the cravings. The hunger eats away at your willpower like cola eroding a human tooth.

You try to find the satisfaction in other ways. Cleaning the stovetop. Intensive vacuuming. Shining up the taps in the bathroom. Anything to take your mind off the one thing you can’t have.

And, look, that can be pretty satisfying, don’t get me wrong. But when you’ve got a particular itch you need to scratch, meticulously cleaning the bathroom isn’t going to cut it.

Of course, I’m referring to mowing the lawn.

I’m well aware that we’re in the height (or is that the depths?) of winter. And I know that winter isn’t the time to be mowing the lawn. It’s the season when the mower goes into hibernation deep in the darkness of its garden shed cave, surviving off the stores of fat it built up of the summer months.

Winter outdoor jobs include cutting firewood and backburning and clearing space for a garden bed you’re going to end up ignoring after the first few weeks of spring.

Mowing is not a winter job.

But it’s been a relatively mild winter in my neck of the woods. Aside from that one weekend where it felt like I was back in Armidale, the weather has been pretty pleasant.

Now, I know it sounds like I’m bragging to you all, what with the frosts and icy Darling Downs winds, but if it makes you feel any better, keep in mind that Brisbane gets very hot and sticky in summer to the point where one’s thighs fuse with plastic seating.

We haven’t had a lot of rain here, but there was enough of a rain and sun combo to encourage the grass to do a bit of growin’.

It’s not as if the backyard looked like a jungle or anything, but it was a little untidy. It’s kind of like when your bed has a few crinkles in it and you can’t resist pulling the quilt taught so it looks like no one uses the furniture or even lives in your house.

There was no pressing need to mow.

It wasn’t about safety – I assume the snakes fly north for the winter so there’s probably none of those slithery bois lurking around in the grass. And it’s not a house inspection thing – the people I live with own the place so the only people I need to impress to keep living in the joint is them and I think I’ve already done a pretty good job of that (I’m think they keep me on because of my A+ banter on the house whiteboard).

It’s more of a compulsion thing.

I was missing that feeling you just can’t get from other household chores. I mean, finally cleaning that stubborn soap scum from the shower comes close, but less people see that.

Of course, when there’s a sense of guilty pleasure there’s also the compulsion to hide what you’re doing. But mowing the lawn is very public; those machines aren’t quiet. The neighbours would definitely hear. And I knew what they’d be thinking:

“It’s winter. You don’t mow the lawn in winter. And if you’re going to mow the lawn in winter, which you defs shouldn’t do, you probably shouldn’t do it before the sun has a chance to wake up properly and dry the morning dew off the lawn.”

Would they think I was a fool? Would they think I had a mowing problem? Would they think I was sending a passive aggressive message by using loud machinery in suburbia at 9am?

But you can’t live your life worrying about what the neighbours might think.

I also really, really wanted to mow. So I started that mower anyway.

And when the motor roared, the smell of cut crass wafted into the air and I could see that first length of crisp lawn, all of those thoughts drifted away.

My reward was that sense of satisfaction  you can’t get from completing any other task…and the sound of someone else’s mower running in the distance.

Originally published by The Clifton Courier, July 8, 2020

Ok, I’ve got another extremely irrelevant, trivial hot take that nobody asked for, so prepare to roll your eyes.

I’m getting real tired of all the negativity surrounding high mileage on cars.

Yep, I’m aware of how dumb that sounds. But hear me out.

I know that a lot of Ks on the clock means the car is old. And old isn’t as good as new. It means the parts aren’t all whizbang, shiny and working perfectly. It’s generally safe to say that a car that’s clocked up a hecktonne of Ks probably isn’t running as smoothly as a brand new car. And, look, you want a car to be safe on the road so you’re going to avoid driving a rattly old death trap if you can.

Those are logical points. And I get that.

But aren’t cars supposed to travel long distances? Isn’t that the whole point of them; to transport humans to places that are too far for humans to travel on foot? Like, are you going to drive a 100,000km and then just chuck your car away?

I’m no automobile expert (in case that wasn’t already made clear by my ill-informed hot take) but I feel like cars are supposed to go further than up to the shops and back. So shouldn’t the fact that a vehicle has covered a lot of ground and can still function be something to be respected? Revered, even?

It’s like society’s obsession with youth, but in automotive form. I mean, there’s some aspects about aging that doesn’t look like the most fun you’ll ever have in the world. But, geez, being alive for a long time is pretty impressive.

If you could chose between an older and a newer model, the newer one would, in most cases, be a logical choice. In an older model there’s a lot more wear and tear when it comes to things under the hood – just to be clear, I’ve switched back to talking about cars here, I’m no longer talking about people. The upholstery has a bit of a musty smell to it. The paint’s a bit faded.

And, yes, these things aren’t features you look for when buying a new car.

I mean, no one’s ticking the “mysterious sweat stains on the seats” box when filtering through used cars online. And you’re not going to go into a dealership asking only to see cars with faded stickers sprouting slogans you don’t agree with on their bumpers.

But you can slap newer stickers over the top of those old ones with improvised, hand-written slogans such as “Love it or… help make it a nicer place for everyone and try making some new friends instead of being a cranky pants who complains all the time”.  You can steam clean the seats. And you can just ignore the paint issue because it’s just paint on the outside of an item that’s supposed to safely carry you over tough terrain and, so, of course it’s going to get a little sun bleached (this is where I drop another hot take about washing the exterior of a car being a futile waste of my time and resources. My thinking is that because cars are supposed to be outside and outside is a place where dirt is, there’s no use pretending my outdoor car hasn’t been exposed to dirt. And in my head can hear my brother in law disagreeing with me, pointing out the rust-creating nature of salty sea water and the safety issues of baked on dust on windows and, yes, the brother-in-law who apparently has a presence in my head makes a good point, but to him I say that the closest I get to any hard core driving is listening to the greatest hits of Metallica as I drive to work).

I know you should look for a car with low mileage and, if I ever buy a new car, I’d probably go for one with lower Ks on the clock, but I wouldn’t want to become the embodiment of a low-mileage car. Because the human form of a low-mileage car would be kind of boring. What kind of stories are they going to be able to tell over a schooey? Are they going to be able to tell you how much the fine is for keeping rabbits in Queensland because they’ve driven past the warning signs at the border so many times? Will they be impressed that you were able to hold in a wee from Guyra to Clifton? How many conversations have they had with themselves in the dead of night on a straight, flat highway to try to distract themselves from a ghost story they just remembered? I mean, that’s character building stuff, the time spent on the open road.

You could say that I don’t know a lot about cars. You could say that this perspective has something to do with me confronting the fact that I’m getting older. You might even say that I’m forming this view because I’m terrified of my own impending obsoletism and need to make some kind of justification to help me sleep at night.

And, look, you’re not wrong.

Originally published by The Clifton Courier, June 1, 2020

We’ve all got fears and phobias.

I am not a fan of heights. Well, more accurately, I don’t like the idea of my soft, fleshy body falling from a great height. I’m scared of most things that have the potential to cause me grievous bodily harm.

And, when you think about it, there’s actually a lot of things in this world that could possibly maim me in some ghastly way. Boiling water from the kettle. A dodgy gas line. Irons. Cars. The oven. All the crows and magpies in my neighbourhood who haven’t yet realised that, if they coordinated their efforts to overpower me, they could pick away at my flesh until there was nothing left of me.

But that’s not really what I think about (I mean, except for the bird thing) on a day-to-day basis. I boil the kettle without fear. I casually drive off in my car. I avoid the iron but only because I can’t be bothered and I can get away with not wearing crisply-ironed shirts to work. It’s all very mindless.

I don’t think about the actual harm these things would do; instead, the things that take up my brain space are the fears about small inconveniences I’d have to endure as a consequence of my mindlessness. They’re far from horrific but they’re not things I would desire to happen.

Here’s some of the mild fears I think about on a regular basis:

Driving to work with my prescription sunglasses on and forgetting to bring my inside glasses with me: I can see some things without my glasses, I don’t think it’d be able to sit at my desk and be productive without those blessed lenses. So I’d be sitting there at work with a pair of sunnies on, like I was trying to hide my bloodshot eyes from the people I work with. I don’t want to have to put up a sign that reads: “I don’t think I’m cooler than you. On the contrary, I’ve left my inside glasses at home and am doomed to look through the shadows all day”.

Being out and not having a spare hair tie on my wrist: I usually have two on the go, but at the moment I only have one. It’s a little risky because if I blow my hairtie, I will have nothing to hold my hair off my face – which is especially necessary when it comes to eating, concentrating, engaging in any kind of physical activity, existing in a windy area or just generally being alive. Sometimes I try to think about what I would if I ended up in situation where I was without a way to tie my hair back and I have to stop because it’s too confronting.

Running out of milk for my tea: Look, I know I can just duck over to the shops to get more milk, but I don’t want to be caught without that cow juice when I really need a cup of tea and I’m in a vulnerable state. What it it’s cold? What if it’s late and I’ve already showered? What if I’m feeling like a bit of a sooky la la? I don’t want to have to put on shoes and go into a shop in those circumstances, but I also don’t want to have to go without a cup of tea.

Originally published by The Clifton Courier, June 24, 2020

Ok, so I know I talked about clothes last week, but apparently there’s a lot of unpacking to do there.

There’s honestly so many ways to look at clothing. What is I mean is that it can be about more than encasing one’s body in fabric and protecting your soft, fleshy body from the elements.

In the privacy of your own home, clothing can mean something completely different to the role of clothing when you’re in the outside world. When you’re at home, clothing is mostly about comfort and how it makes YOU feel – unless you’re living with someone super judgemental who has strong opinions against messy buns and singlets.

But in the outside world, I would argue that clothing can be about more than the practicality of putting a layer between a public bench and your private parts, beneficial as that may be. It’s about communication. It’s about projecting an identity. It’s about persuading other people that you’re not a piece of poo bobbing around in the toilet water of life.

It’s about what other people think, whether you think you care about that or not.

What triggered this deep contemplation about the role of clothing was my housemate, who said it was weird that the fabric or colour of your clothing determined whether you could wear said clothing in public.

I mean, I still don’t really have the answers there. I like to think that wearing something with confidence will soon convince people that your threads are suitable for the occasion, but confidence will only get you so far – especially if you’re trying to get into a fancy bar. I mean, the bouncer might appreciate your high self-esteem, but that won’t change the fact you’re covered in food dye.

There are dress codes everywhere you go, but they’re not always printed out in black and white on a laminated sign that tells you not to wear thongs or dirty work shirts.

Sometimes, they’re unwritten. The dress codes are laminated in our minds and stuck on the wall in our brains.

It’s like how when I go for a jog, I wear this oversized unisex t-shirt that hangs down to my knees. I also wear a pair of lose running shorts inbuilt bike pants, which protect me from the dreaded thigh chafe and gives me somewhere to put my phone so I can listen to music without having to hold my phone in my hand like a chump.

But the shirt hangs lower than the shorts, making it look like I’m only wearing an oversized shirt with nothing on underneath. So when I’m in that outfit and not running – say, if I’m too puffed to continue and I have to make the walk of shame home – I feel pressure to tuck one corner of the shirt into the band of the shorts to show that I’m not just wearing knickers under that top. And it’s weird, because the outfit in no way changes – I mean, tucking in the shirt doesn’t change the length of the shorts – but the tucked in option feels so much more appropriate for public wear.

It’s those weird tiny details that make you feel like you’re better dressed, but you haven’t really changed anything.

Like, I’ll put my watch on if I want to make an outfit that’s teetering on the fence between “sloppy” and “put together” fall firmly in the paddock of the latter.

For example, I have a marle grey (which is another way of saying “it looks like the static you’d see when a TV wasn’t working back in the days before digital TV and their blank error screens”) jumper that I’ll often pair with a pair of high-waisted denim shorts. Depending on the occasion, I’ll feel the need to look a little more polished. So I’ll put on my watch and suddenly it looks like I thought more about what I’ve put together outfit-wise. And I suppose I have, because I’ve thought to put on a watch, but it just looks a little more… proper? Less… slouchy? More acceptable?

The weird thing is that my watch ran out of battery long ago, so it doesn’t serve any practical purpose except for making people think that I’m less slapdash than I actually am.

But, then, when I think about it, you could argue that most clothing has that element to it.

Except, of course, what I’m wearing as I write this column in the privacy of my own room: a tattered Christmas-themed pyjama top, no pants and an overstretched bright purple cardigan. That’s obviously 100 per cent about style.