Are we falling victim to lists?
Why do we slavishly adhere to what’s considered to be currently
socially acceptable?
Why do we so willingly cast off the old and embrace the new?
To list a few
What’s hot, what’s not
What’s in, what’s not
Who’s in, who’s out
Where to go and what to see.
Where not to go and what not to see
and the lists just keep coming….
We must be taking notice of and responding to them otherwise they wouldn’t exist.
Surely our life should be about what we want, desire and enjoy, not what we’re told
we need, should covet and take on to make our life more exciting.
If speckled nail polish were to appear on the ‘what’s not hot’ list an entire generation
of users would stop using it. The small manufacturer who is on the ascendancy with
this short lived winner would go to the wall. His suppliers and distributors would lose
a customer and his loyal staff would lose their jobs.
On the ‘what’s hot’ and ‘what’s not hot’ lists our personal dress code is under
unrelenting scrutiny. List follower, Kyle Sandilands has the audacity to tell Australian
Idol contestants that their gear ‘just wont grove it.’ These poor sods are being
humiliated on National Television and have to stand and take it as he is the one that
holds the power - and the list.
Would it not be better to check them out behind the scenes and make the necessary
adjustments to their style before the show? Since when did a good voice have to come
with the ability to wardrobe plan under pressure? Surely it’s the singer and the song
that count, not the perceived wardrobe disaster.
A casualty of the ‘what’s in’ list, Crown Princess Mary of Denmark is a robotic
version of her former happy, casual and relatively carefree (I’m speculating here) self.
Apparently to be a successful Princess it’s important to adopt a reserved demeanour
and have that ‘current’ look –the one that the stylist comes up with. The ‘look’ goes
on a ‘must have’ list and before long there are Mary clones popping up everywhere.
Sadly our friends fall victim to lists to. One of my so called good friends
recently commented “you keep your clothes for a long time don’t you”
and in response to my quizzical look, replied “that coat you’re wearing; you
don’t see that look here”, implying that it is just so not this seasons. For the record it’s
this year’s model that I bought in Amsterdam. Obviously to make us acceptable and
pleasing to the trained ‘spot this year’s fashion icons’ eye we need to adhere rigidly
to the dictates of the local scene.
Food is another area that falls victim to the list mentality.
This is confession time for me. Yes, I do check out lists, purely in the name of
research (of course). Two food fads that I was pleased to farewell were building food
pyramids and covering half the plate in a sea of exotically flavoured ephemeral foam.
The café and restaurant crowd are fickle when it comes to embracing lists.
They act like the passengers on a sightseeing flight, all rushing over to the side with
the best view – the pilot has to adjust the trim to avoid disaster.
Then it’s back to the other side for a new and more exciting view.
I haven’t done a survey so I can’t confirm my hypothesis. That the ‘what’s hot’ and ‘what’s not’, and the ‘in and outs’ of food fads lists are the most thumbed through lists.
There is one list that I do half heartedly respond to though - the 'don't put off till tomorrow what can be done today' list.
I’m starting a comments list to comment on lists - interested?
All comments welcome
Thursday, September 4, 2008
Age sensitive - gender - F
Don’t worry, you’re not the only one that’s getting older.
Sure it’s frustrating, but it doesn’t have to be a death sentence, well not quite yet anyway.
Yes it’s winter and we’re wearing our full length coats, fleecy lined gloves, pure wool scarves and sensible flat shoes.
Take off our outer layer and what do we reveal underneath, more of the same comfortable clothing. Why? for warmth and practicality’ - we left our mini skirts and midnight frolics in near freezing temperatures, way back in the past.
Let’s just agree to let the sweet young things in their designer gear, freeze instead of making our generational grumpy asides to them. Remember, we’re the enlightened ones, the ones that have “been there, done that” and are now so far ahead of the pack that our practicality
is to be envied, not pitied.
Why does age have to be such a leveller, something to run from, to pretend that it’s not happening to us.
“The young”, as my Grandmother referred to them (she pronounced it as YUNG), see us as old (do you blame them). It’s our fault – we’re the ones guilty of labelling ourselves. We make disparaging comments – “I’ll ask the old boy what he thinks”; “she’s having a senior moment”. And on health issues – “it comes with age”, regardless if it’s
only constipation or a simple nose bled, its just got to be age related.
I have reached that sensitive age – the ‘Claytons’ the age when you apparently don’t admit your age. I’m past being coy about it, past stretching the truth and happy to embrace where I’m at now.
Recently I celebrated a chronologically significant birthday. Significant only because I achieved a milestone that 100 years ago would have been inconceivable and unattainable. Although we’re all moving onward and upward at the rate of one year per year my friends felt it necessary to point out the obvious.
Birthday cards were oh so tongue in cheek – singled out were wrinkles, wisps of greying hair, tacky teeth, back problems, failing eyesight and a slow down in lateral thinking and information processing – who needs enemies?
Presents have moved from the pretty and sexy, through the practical (toasters, irons and vacuum cleaners) and onto the everything perfumed vintage, or worse still, nothing.
Well worn clichés and ultimate put downs – “you’re only as old as you feel” and “age has nothing to do with ability”, were sympathetically offered.
Damn it,don’t we want to be accepted and acknowledged for who we are and for what we have achieved? We’ve seen a lot, heard a lot, and lived through a lot.
A World War, the first sub four minute mile, the moon landing, the assassination of John F Kennedy – at that time in that moment, these events were history in the making.
Here’s to a future of health, happiness and a large dose of social altruism.
Sure it’s frustrating, but it doesn’t have to be a death sentence, well not quite yet anyway.
Yes it’s winter and we’re wearing our full length coats, fleecy lined gloves, pure wool scarves and sensible flat shoes.
Take off our outer layer and what do we reveal underneath, more of the same comfortable clothing. Why? for warmth and practicality’ - we left our mini skirts and midnight frolics in near freezing temperatures, way back in the past.
Let’s just agree to let the sweet young things in their designer gear, freeze instead of making our generational grumpy asides to them. Remember, we’re the enlightened ones, the ones that have “been there, done that” and are now so far ahead of the pack that our practicality
is to be envied, not pitied.
Why does age have to be such a leveller, something to run from, to pretend that it’s not happening to us.
“The young”, as my Grandmother referred to them (she pronounced it as YUNG), see us as old (do you blame them). It’s our fault – we’re the ones guilty of labelling ourselves. We make disparaging comments – “I’ll ask the old boy what he thinks”; “she’s having a senior moment”. And on health issues – “it comes with age”, regardless if it’s
only constipation or a simple nose bled, its just got to be age related.
I have reached that sensitive age – the ‘Claytons’ the age when you apparently don’t admit your age. I’m past being coy about it, past stretching the truth and happy to embrace where I’m at now.
Recently I celebrated a chronologically significant birthday. Significant only because I achieved a milestone that 100 years ago would have been inconceivable and unattainable. Although we’re all moving onward and upward at the rate of one year per year my friends felt it necessary to point out the obvious.
Birthday cards were oh so tongue in cheek – singled out were wrinkles, wisps of greying hair, tacky teeth, back problems, failing eyesight and a slow down in lateral thinking and information processing – who needs enemies?
Presents have moved from the pretty and sexy, through the practical (toasters, irons and vacuum cleaners) and onto the everything perfumed vintage, or worse still, nothing.
Well worn clichés and ultimate put downs – “you’re only as old as you feel” and “age has nothing to do with ability”, were sympathetically offered.
Damn it,don’t we want to be accepted and acknowledged for who we are and for what we have achieved? We’ve seen a lot, heard a lot, and lived through a lot.
A World War, the first sub four minute mile, the moon landing, the assassination of John F Kennedy – at that time in that moment, these events were history in the making.
Here’s to a future of health, happiness and a large dose of social altruism.
Tuesday, September 2, 2008
An observation
Uninvited, I watched a couple of pigeons at play.
He circled triumphant around his hapless female prey, then
unabashed, casually walked away.
She crouched shell shocked, her head jammed up against the
the concrete wall of the bus depot; her dishevelled tail fanned out.
Some time later she moved away.
No questions asked, no guilt perceived, no defence needed...
He circled triumphant around his hapless female prey, then
unabashed, casually walked away.
She crouched shell shocked, her head jammed up against the
the concrete wall of the bus depot; her dishevelled tail fanned out.
Some time later she moved away.
No questions asked, no guilt perceived, no defence needed...
Monday, September 1, 2008
The Peach and the Rosary
I used a new shampoo this morning - it had the perfume of a freshly picked peach.
Outside the rain was bucketing down, as it had been for the past fortnight.
That brief waft of peach perfume lifted a weather induced gloom and
put a smile back on my face as I reflected on the taste experience of lifetime.
That first bite of a giant sized peach, on the stone steps of the Church of Saint Domenico, at the top of the main Piazza, Perugia, Italy, May 2004.
That moment I felt sure that Saint Domenico, the patron saint of Astronomers,had purposely steered me here for an as yet to be disclosed reason.
The skin of that over-sized unforgettable peach had taken on the muted pink and golden hues of an early sunset. Surely nothing so big could deliver the flavour that its external appearance so teasingly promised. Just one bite proved that it could.
The nectar, sublimely sweet; the juice oozed through my teeth saturated my mouth and lips and trickled slowly through my outstretched fingers and down my bare arms.
Unannounced, out of the corner of my left eye, I caught sight of an exquisite object, a dainty rosary made of tiny ruby coloured wooden beads with a delicate silver Crucifix, its fragile anchor.
Lost, friendless and waiting to be found.
What was its history, who had loved and cherished it, were they upset to have lost it? With a furtive glance sideways and one subtle scoop downwards, it was mine.
A souvenir of sorts that’s been pricking my conscience ever since.
After ten days of walking in the rolling hills of Tuscany I headed for Umbria arriving at the station in Perugia a hilltop town, in the very centre of the Italian Peninsula,a seventy minute train trip from Terontola in Tuscany.
Italian trains run on timetables of their own making. Different gauges mean several uncouplings and changes of train per journey.
Passengers go along on this ‘pot luck’ mystery ride, uncomplaining, and with little expectation of an on-time arrival.
Umbria is earthy - rich in natural beauty; craggy mountains, unkempt landscapes, harsh gorges, wild woods, sweeping hills, fertile plains and arable farmlands.
Perugia is its sparkling gem built atop Roman ruins, sitting on an ugly speckled carpet of light industrial sprawl(food companies and textile manufacturers) at its base.
The bus from the station takes new arrivals on a short ride to an escalator that transports them and their luggage to the main Piazza.
This modern escalator system is in marked contrast to the several steep flights of uneven stone stairs the locals use to access their shoe box size homes in equally narrow shoe box size streets.
In this predominately Catholic country students from every creed and of every colour become honorary Italian citizens for the summer. They come to the Italian University, a centuries old institution, to learn the Italian language. In step the locals they
gravitate to the main Piazza late every afternoon to embrace the daily ritual of the Promenade. It’s that time of the day when families ‘step out’ to be seen and to exchange pleasantries.
Pre pubescent teenagers, self conscious to be seen with what they consider to be their ‘caught in a time warp’ parents, dream idly of Rome and well beyond.
Post pubescent couples, with the blessing of their parents, stroll arm in arm, stopping off at a colourful Gelateria to buy a fruity gelato before continuing on their Promenade.
Franciscan monks (the order was established by St Francis of Assisi)in their plain brown habits, wander the main Corso on their way to Vespers. Their dress is simple(they live, sleep and are buried in it),their demeanour serious, their stance humble.
True to the founder of their Order they have taken the oath of piety and poverty with a commitment to serve the poor and the less fortunate.
The local dogs, their pedigrees indistinguishable after centuries of in-breeding,also pay court to the sunset ‘promenade’. Unfortunately they have no consideration as to where they do their business and in the warm summer months the narrow, cobbled,
grassless, treeless back alleyways take on the distinctive smell of fresh excrement.
The Piazza buzzes with excitement; the cafes serve local Italian beers and wines;there’s espresso that you could stand a spoon up in; trays of yummy pastries, and marvellous ceramic platters groaning with fresh olives, cheeses and ample slices of pancetta and fresh bread - the classic anti pasto plate.
My insatiable curiosity took me on an unscheduled journey to trace the origin of these platters. Naively with this mission in mind I boarded what turned out to be a ninety minute bus trip to the ancient walled town of Gubbio, the home of gorgeous ceramics.
A pretty but winding drive through a deep gorge with grandiose mountains closing in on either side. Don’t do this trip alone though - there I was heading for the hills on a local bus with only a grumpy faced bus driver and three craggy locals as companions
- none of whom spoke a word of English. No one knew where I was - I could have disappeared into the black hole of history without a trace.
The designs of the ceramics are modelled on ancient shapes and patterns; the brilliant colours reflecting the strong earthy tones of the mineral deposits found in the surrounding mountains.
Had I done my homework I would have found out that most of the ceramics in Gubbio are so big that it would require a shipping container and a ten ton truck to transport them out.
Sadly there was no room on the local bus for these monuments to beauty and style.
Not to be put off, once back in Perugia I scoured the back streets
in search of a less cumbersome reminder returning triumphantly to the hotel with my very own piece of Umbrian earth – a white ceramic jug embellished with a bunch of grapes and a full blown rose. The significance of the rose - rose bushes are planted at the end of each row of vines to ensure a fruitful harvest
Unlike the ‘only on loan’ Rosary, the jug became my rightful property. It sits on display in my suburban kitchen ready to decant the next bottle of Italian Red.
Time to leave Perugia to its ancient past and head reluctantly back to the present.The train trip to Rome was made in the company of thirty three brown robed Franciscan monks,yes, the same Monks that I’d passed on the Corso in Perugia.
What should have been a short two hour journey turned into a four hour travail.There was no eye contact made during the three unscheduled stops for three gauge changes.
From under lowered brows thirty three pairs of eyes watched me hump my 20kg suitcase not once, not twice but three times into and out of the carriage. What happened to their vow of caring and compassion? What would the Holly Father have said about their lack of consideration for others?
Maybe they had been simultaneously visited by a sense of injustice
and I had been identified as the one guilty of transporting an icon from its spiritual home to worldly parts unknown.
A moment of silent self confession ensued followed by an unspoken vow - to return the ‘borrowed’ icon to the steps of Saint Domenico before I meet my maker.
I’ll go back to enjoy the fruits of this arable land, to share in and embrace the history of this core of civilization and above all, to return the delicate ruby red Rosary to its spiritual home.
Only then will I consider my journey done.
Outside the rain was bucketing down, as it had been for the past fortnight.
That brief waft of peach perfume lifted a weather induced gloom and
put a smile back on my face as I reflected on the taste experience of lifetime.
That first bite of a giant sized peach, on the stone steps of the Church of Saint Domenico, at the top of the main Piazza, Perugia, Italy, May 2004.
That moment I felt sure that Saint Domenico, the patron saint of Astronomers,had purposely steered me here for an as yet to be disclosed reason.
The skin of that over-sized unforgettable peach had taken on the muted pink and golden hues of an early sunset. Surely nothing so big could deliver the flavour that its external appearance so teasingly promised. Just one bite proved that it could.
The nectar, sublimely sweet; the juice oozed through my teeth saturated my mouth and lips and trickled slowly through my outstretched fingers and down my bare arms.
Unannounced, out of the corner of my left eye, I caught sight of an exquisite object, a dainty rosary made of tiny ruby coloured wooden beads with a delicate silver Crucifix, its fragile anchor.
Lost, friendless and waiting to be found.
What was its history, who had loved and cherished it, were they upset to have lost it? With a furtive glance sideways and one subtle scoop downwards, it was mine.
A souvenir of sorts that’s been pricking my conscience ever since.
After ten days of walking in the rolling hills of Tuscany I headed for Umbria arriving at the station in Perugia a hilltop town, in the very centre of the Italian Peninsula,a seventy minute train trip from Terontola in Tuscany.
Italian trains run on timetables of their own making. Different gauges mean several uncouplings and changes of train per journey.
Passengers go along on this ‘pot luck’ mystery ride, uncomplaining, and with little expectation of an on-time arrival.
Umbria is earthy - rich in natural beauty; craggy mountains, unkempt landscapes, harsh gorges, wild woods, sweeping hills, fertile plains and arable farmlands.
Perugia is its sparkling gem built atop Roman ruins, sitting on an ugly speckled carpet of light industrial sprawl(food companies and textile manufacturers) at its base.
The bus from the station takes new arrivals on a short ride to an escalator that transports them and their luggage to the main Piazza.
This modern escalator system is in marked contrast to the several steep flights of uneven stone stairs the locals use to access their shoe box size homes in equally narrow shoe box size streets.
In this predominately Catholic country students from every creed and of every colour become honorary Italian citizens for the summer. They come to the Italian University, a centuries old institution, to learn the Italian language. In step the locals they
gravitate to the main Piazza late every afternoon to embrace the daily ritual of the Promenade. It’s that time of the day when families ‘step out’ to be seen and to exchange pleasantries.
Pre pubescent teenagers, self conscious to be seen with what they consider to be their ‘caught in a time warp’ parents, dream idly of Rome and well beyond.
Post pubescent couples, with the blessing of their parents, stroll arm in arm, stopping off at a colourful Gelateria to buy a fruity gelato before continuing on their Promenade.
Franciscan monks (the order was established by St Francis of Assisi)in their plain brown habits, wander the main Corso on their way to Vespers. Their dress is simple(they live, sleep and are buried in it),their demeanour serious, their stance humble.
True to the founder of their Order they have taken the oath of piety and poverty with a commitment to serve the poor and the less fortunate.
The local dogs, their pedigrees indistinguishable after centuries of in-breeding,also pay court to the sunset ‘promenade’. Unfortunately they have no consideration as to where they do their business and in the warm summer months the narrow, cobbled,
grassless, treeless back alleyways take on the distinctive smell of fresh excrement.
The Piazza buzzes with excitement; the cafes serve local Italian beers and wines;there’s espresso that you could stand a spoon up in; trays of yummy pastries, and marvellous ceramic platters groaning with fresh olives, cheeses and ample slices of pancetta and fresh bread - the classic anti pasto plate.
My insatiable curiosity took me on an unscheduled journey to trace the origin of these platters. Naively with this mission in mind I boarded what turned out to be a ninety minute bus trip to the ancient walled town of Gubbio, the home of gorgeous ceramics.
A pretty but winding drive through a deep gorge with grandiose mountains closing in on either side. Don’t do this trip alone though - there I was heading for the hills on a local bus with only a grumpy faced bus driver and three craggy locals as companions
- none of whom spoke a word of English. No one knew where I was - I could have disappeared into the black hole of history without a trace.
The designs of the ceramics are modelled on ancient shapes and patterns; the brilliant colours reflecting the strong earthy tones of the mineral deposits found in the surrounding mountains.
Had I done my homework I would have found out that most of the ceramics in Gubbio are so big that it would require a shipping container and a ten ton truck to transport them out.
Sadly there was no room on the local bus for these monuments to beauty and style.
Not to be put off, once back in Perugia I scoured the back streets
in search of a less cumbersome reminder returning triumphantly to the hotel with my very own piece of Umbrian earth – a white ceramic jug embellished with a bunch of grapes and a full blown rose. The significance of the rose - rose bushes are planted at the end of each row of vines to ensure a fruitful harvest
Unlike the ‘only on loan’ Rosary, the jug became my rightful property. It sits on display in my suburban kitchen ready to decant the next bottle of Italian Red.
Time to leave Perugia to its ancient past and head reluctantly back to the present.The train trip to Rome was made in the company of thirty three brown robed Franciscan monks,yes, the same Monks that I’d passed on the Corso in Perugia.
What should have been a short two hour journey turned into a four hour travail.There was no eye contact made during the three unscheduled stops for three gauge changes.
From under lowered brows thirty three pairs of eyes watched me hump my 20kg suitcase not once, not twice but three times into and out of the carriage. What happened to their vow of caring and compassion? What would the Holly Father have said about their lack of consideration for others?
Maybe they had been simultaneously visited by a sense of injustice
and I had been identified as the one guilty of transporting an icon from its spiritual home to worldly parts unknown.
A moment of silent self confession ensued followed by an unspoken vow - to return the ‘borrowed’ icon to the steps of Saint Domenico before I meet my maker.
I’ll go back to enjoy the fruits of this arable land, to share in and embrace the history of this core of civilization and above all, to return the delicate ruby red Rosary to its spiritual home.
Only then will I consider my journey done.
Desperate and dateless
Where have all the available Aussie men gone?
Long live a unique piece of Australiana – but first you’ve got to find him.
A statistically proven shortage of males brings out a sense of anguish and concern in our unattached females.
I recently flew to Europe for, in my mind, an eagerly awaited holiday.My friends viewed it differently - a mind boggling opportunity for me to indulge in an international talent pool of eligibles. Hot Italian Romeos, steamy Irish Lepricorns, sensual Spanish Don Juan’s, pompous pooch loving Brits and ‘in the grove’ Dutch guys.
Unsolicited pre take-off advice on how to attract your would be mate was ruthless,relentless and unashamedly directional – “don’t waste time, just go in for the kill”;make sure that you pack your sexiest underwear, little black dress and matching killer heels”. No thought given to the pending eight flight sectors in a month, 20kg (must be adhered to or strong financial penalties apply) baggage allowance and the numerous tourist style activities planned. Climbing mountains in Italy which left me looking like something the cat dragged in; walking all day around Barcelona, passing plenty of Spanish hunks enroute - none showing the slightest inclination to cast an eye on a bedraggled tourist (their Crown Princess is drop dead gorgeous as is her Prince); hitting the sales in London and the Fashion strip in Milan – neither historically hallowed turf for mere males; travelling to the west coast of Ireland where it’s so cold that the numerous layers of clothes disguise your physical attributes and meandering the canals of Amsterdam - so gorgeous you don’t notice a potential date
cycling past.
Why was it so important for me to snare a European Adonis? - pass
Only now can I appreciate the pressure that our Mary’s bridesmaid was under.Mary was successful, our Nicole scored, our Kylie snared a French man and our Livvie has recently pulled in a big overseas catch.
Back in Sydney the post mortem/inquisition continues unabashed – “did you find your Prince and if not where did you go wrong?” “Which nationality took your fancy?” and the million dollar question – “how did they compare with our Aussie blokes?”
Home, where the turf is familiar, the language a breeze, and attitude and approach, predictable, it’s time to return to the hunt for a true blue blooded Aussie bloke.
This ‘get a guy at any cost’ is puzzling. It’s reassuring that the desire for companionship and co-habitation are strong but surely it’s not healthy when it reaches this level of obsession.
Come on girls – chill out.
Name withheld - for fear of being inundated with approaches from fair dinkum Aussie guys…..if only.
Long live a unique piece of Australiana – but first you’ve got to find him.
A statistically proven shortage of males brings out a sense of anguish and concern in our unattached females.
I recently flew to Europe for, in my mind, an eagerly awaited holiday.My friends viewed it differently - a mind boggling opportunity for me to indulge in an international talent pool of eligibles. Hot Italian Romeos, steamy Irish Lepricorns, sensual Spanish Don Juan’s, pompous pooch loving Brits and ‘in the grove’ Dutch guys.
Unsolicited pre take-off advice on how to attract your would be mate was ruthless,relentless and unashamedly directional – “don’t waste time, just go in for the kill”;make sure that you pack your sexiest underwear, little black dress and matching killer heels”. No thought given to the pending eight flight sectors in a month, 20kg (must be adhered to or strong financial penalties apply) baggage allowance and the numerous tourist style activities planned. Climbing mountains in Italy which left me looking like something the cat dragged in; walking all day around Barcelona, passing plenty of Spanish hunks enroute - none showing the slightest inclination to cast an eye on a bedraggled tourist (their Crown Princess is drop dead gorgeous as is her Prince); hitting the sales in London and the Fashion strip in Milan – neither historically hallowed turf for mere males; travelling to the west coast of Ireland where it’s so cold that the numerous layers of clothes disguise your physical attributes and meandering the canals of Amsterdam - so gorgeous you don’t notice a potential date
cycling past.
Why was it so important for me to snare a European Adonis? - pass
Only now can I appreciate the pressure that our Mary’s bridesmaid was under.Mary was successful, our Nicole scored, our Kylie snared a French man and our Livvie has recently pulled in a big overseas catch.
Back in Sydney the post mortem/inquisition continues unabashed – “did you find your Prince and if not where did you go wrong?” “Which nationality took your fancy?” and the million dollar question – “how did they compare with our Aussie blokes?”
Home, where the turf is familiar, the language a breeze, and attitude and approach, predictable, it’s time to return to the hunt for a true blue blooded Aussie bloke.
This ‘get a guy at any cost’ is puzzling. It’s reassuring that the desire for companionship and co-habitation are strong but surely it’s not healthy when it reaches this level of obsession.
Come on girls – chill out.
Name withheld - for fear of being inundated with approaches from fair dinkum Aussie guys…..if only.
The Coffee Addiction
Is it a habit, an addiction, or a social condition? Whatever - it’s firmly ensconced.
It’s not life sustaining, but it does seem to be the essential ingredient needed to kick start the day – we’re talking coffee in a paper cup.
Full grown men, resplendent in business suits, sucking on the nozzle of the lid of a paper cup. A hang over from their infant dummy days perhaps, or a more recently discarded cigarette habit? It’s not gender specific though, the females of the species
are equally ‘sucked’ in.
If you’ve ridden a peak hour escalator you’ll relate to this comic situation.
You’re standing directly behind a suit clad, briefcase carrying, umbrella wielding, coffee balancing person; it becomes a matter of judgement as to which you should dodge to avoid - a crack in the ribs, a poke in the eye, or a coffee down your front
I’ve watched bus, train and ferry passengers on a short commute, either sitting or strap hanging, clutching their precious morning coffee fix without touching a drop. There are those that put it on the floor for safe keeping and then promptly kick it over leaving a trail of lukewarm milky liquid that makes its way under the seats. There it stays for the rest of the day unless some unsuspecting person accidentally uses their bag to soak it up. If the carrier and the cup do make it to the office the cup often gets knocked over in the flurry of the morning’s activities. Result – a soggy keyboard or worse still, a drowned laptop.
During office hours these same coffee addicts punctuate their day and hence the time they spend at their desk, with frequent trips out to get another ‘fix’.
City bins overflow with discarded cups; that’s if the drinkers subscribe to the ‘keep Australia clean’ message. If not, you’ll notice these wayward cups dumped on ledges, in gutters or heaven forbid, on a vacant table of an outdoor café.
Office workers haven’t got exclusive rights to this ‘sucking’ compulsion.
Bus drivers have cottoned on to. Here’s a real life experience: It’s the end of a shift, time for a change of driver. Passengers sit patiently while the driver checks the destination board, ticket machine, and then for a place on the dashboard to rest his coffee cup. Passengers pray that we will stop at every red light, not a prayer you’d normally want delivered, to allow him time to finish his coffee before we reach the peak hour CBD traffic.
He has competition on the inside lane; a sweet young thing, in a mini minor, is doing a juggling act with, you’ve guessed it - a coffee, a mobile phone and a steering wheel.
What guise will this socially acceptable norm take on next, how about coffee on a kebab or coffee tapas perhaps?
It’s not life sustaining, but it does seem to be the essential ingredient needed to kick start the day – we’re talking coffee in a paper cup.
Full grown men, resplendent in business suits, sucking on the nozzle of the lid of a paper cup. A hang over from their infant dummy days perhaps, or a more recently discarded cigarette habit? It’s not gender specific though, the females of the species
are equally ‘sucked’ in.
If you’ve ridden a peak hour escalator you’ll relate to this comic situation.
You’re standing directly behind a suit clad, briefcase carrying, umbrella wielding, coffee balancing person; it becomes a matter of judgement as to which you should dodge to avoid - a crack in the ribs, a poke in the eye, or a coffee down your front
I’ve watched bus, train and ferry passengers on a short commute, either sitting or strap hanging, clutching their precious morning coffee fix without touching a drop. There are those that put it on the floor for safe keeping and then promptly kick it over leaving a trail of lukewarm milky liquid that makes its way under the seats. There it stays for the rest of the day unless some unsuspecting person accidentally uses their bag to soak it up. If the carrier and the cup do make it to the office the cup often gets knocked over in the flurry of the morning’s activities. Result – a soggy keyboard or worse still, a drowned laptop.
During office hours these same coffee addicts punctuate their day and hence the time they spend at their desk, with frequent trips out to get another ‘fix’.
City bins overflow with discarded cups; that’s if the drinkers subscribe to the ‘keep Australia clean’ message. If not, you’ll notice these wayward cups dumped on ledges, in gutters or heaven forbid, on a vacant table of an outdoor café.
Office workers haven’t got exclusive rights to this ‘sucking’ compulsion.
Bus drivers have cottoned on to. Here’s a real life experience: It’s the end of a shift, time for a change of driver. Passengers sit patiently while the driver checks the destination board, ticket machine, and then for a place on the dashboard to rest his coffee cup. Passengers pray that we will stop at every red light, not a prayer you’d normally want delivered, to allow him time to finish his coffee before we reach the peak hour CBD traffic.
He has competition on the inside lane; a sweet young thing, in a mini minor, is doing a juggling act with, you’ve guessed it - a coffee, a mobile phone and a steering wheel.
What guise will this socially acceptable norm take on next, how about coffee on a kebab or coffee tapas perhaps?
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