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The Palm Sunday Refugee Marches have come and gone; the travails of people who seek asylum continue. In a recent article that reflects her rich experience, Moira Rayner was right to say that marches are not effective in changing policy. Where they are, as in the Vietnam War marches in Australia or in Manila under Marcos, the fortress was already crumbling. Yet even when they are not effective, marches are not a waste of energy. Their value lies not in their effectiveness but in their ritual.
Each time I see a Melbourne driver wait for a pedestrian, it seems they can barely restrain the urge to run the poor person over. Similar observations could be made about how our politicians confront the most vulnerable individuals.
The first symbol of my 'outing' as a person with multiple sclerosis was a walking stick. I cringed as I bought one but I soon realised that a walking stick is good for more than balance and strength. One night I was stopped on the street by an angry drunk man. 'You're too young to need a walking stick,' he shouted. 'Are you an idiot?' I replied, 'You're picking a fight in a dark laneway with a tall man who wields a large stick. Who's the idiot?'
George Orwell lamented that socialism attracted 'fruit-juice drinkers' and 'sandal-wearers'. Former prime minister Paul Keating accused Sydney mayor Clover Moore of being a sandal-wearer and 'muesli-chewer'. 'Sandal wearing' survives nearly a century to be the star insult for each of them.
As a cyclist who shares the pavement with pedestrians and the road with cars, I am constantly struck by how common is the unkindness of strangers. The relations between cyclists, drivers and pedestrians mirror the qualities I see as characteristic of News Limited commentary.
Unreasonable hope is when we think God will save Christchurch, or that anything is going to be the same again. Reasonable hope means we become realistic, sensible and moderate, directing our attention to what is within reach.
I am a pigtailed nine-year-old in frocks when I first lay eyes on the album. At a glance I can tell my grandfather's obviously old stamps from my dad's newer ones. Excitement fills me. What a treasure! I am rich! Now I can buy all the dolls I want!
It's serious business cycling in Sydney. Cyclists tell of cycleways that suddenly finish, and recently, when one cyclist was hit by a car, instead of checking on his injuries, the driver got out and abused him. In Sydney, the car dominates.
Jack Charles is an Aboriginal elder, professional actor and part-time criminal. He describes his acts of burglary as 'collecting the rent' from white suburbanites who dwell on what could rightfully be considered Aboriginal land.
Adelaide has a large, country-town feel about it. Sputes (sports utes) abound and the word 'bogan' is a term of endearment. The mullet hair cut, check shirt and ugg boots have never really gone out of fashion here. These are my people.
I don't support the view that cab drivers are sources of homespun wisdom and arcane knowledge. Australian cabbies are an amiable, diverse lot, not given to philosophy, though I encountered one spectacular exception.