Lost among the tanorexics.

There are many reasons not to go to Bondi Beach, even if you are British. One of them, of course, is that there are sharks there. Sharks that will not only eat you, they will find out where your family lives and eat them too. I learned this the hard way.
 But it is not just murderous fish you have to look out for – it is also sunbathers. Every time I go to any beach in Sydney these days I am constantly assaulted by these people lying there like a shag on a rock and, like any shag on a rock, it makes me feel uncomfortable.
  Let’s face it, if I wanted to see something bronzed and perfectly formed I’d commission someone to do a sculpture of Angelina Jolie eating a toasted ham and cheese sandwich. But there is no nutritional value in the vistas of Sydney’s shores. Instead one is confronted by an endless horizon of people impersonating a stocking stuffed with pawpaws – which are, incidentally, a food I don’t like.
  There are some benefits to this. One is that these finely honed people never actually go in the water for fear it will mess up their hair – and the women are even worse. This leaves more room for the pale and pasty among us to frolic in the waves and delight in our zinc-creamed cousins from the north glowing like embers beside us.
  However, it also has the drawback that it makes the tanorexics on the beach less likely to be eaten by sharks and therefore play their part in Charles Darwin’s grand tapestry of evolution. Indeed, the beach is a place where a kind of perverse Darwinism exists in counterpoint to the rest of society. But sadly things are changing in the outside world.
  In the good old days the planet was run by fat people and nerds. Alan Bond, Kerry Packer and Bill Clinton did the heavy lifting while Bill Gates and his team of wily computer programmers did the rest. Even in the sporting world there was room for the generous proportions of Tony Lockett and David Boon while for the pencil-pouch-loving among us there was the delightful Bruce McAvaney. But now there is no place at the table for a decent girth, a pain Shane Warne knows only too well.
  In Sydney the problem is more acute. We lost our last bastion of nerdity with the departure of Bob Carr and, while the compellingly spherical John Della Bosca is still with us, embodying both noble qualities in his bookishly broad physique, one must ask: How long?
  The further east you go in this city, the worse it gets. And, if my geography is correct, you don’t get much further east than the beach. Of course the Darwinian principle vis-a-vis humans is that the fittestness we need to survive is primarily mental. (Ironically, I now recognise that my use of the word ‘fittestness’ means I may have only days to live.)
  The point is while the nerdy ones might not necessarily have been the fittest; they could use their knowledge of quantum physics to overcome this. Incidentally, here is a nerd joke I found on the internet:
Q: How many theoretical quantum physicists does it take to change a light bulb?

A: One. One to hold the ladder, one to turn the bulb, and one to renormalise the wave function. I do not understand this but I think it constitutes a serious criminal offence.

  Anyway, on the beach a reverse natural order exists. The fat and nerdy powerbrokers cower beneath their layers while the bronzed and buff beauties who spend all day soaking up sunshine – a category of people who used to be called “the unemployed” – walk like gods among them. And sometimes do a little jogging too.
 And despite my own lean, muscular physique and occasional propensity to brown out, I know I am no match for them here, primarily because of a lack of access to weaponry. Still, maybe it is right that we leave the himbos and bimbos this stretch of shore. It is nothing a little fencing couldn’t handle.

Little voice reminds me of the need for courtesy.

Sarrah Le Marquand. From: The Daily Telegraph. September 27, 2012 12:00AM

WITH that peculiarly potent mix of aggression and irritation that fuels road rage; a roar erupted from the back seat and reverberated throughout the car: "Come on mate! What are you waiting for?"

 The source of this verbal onslaught? My three-year-old son. The very same little boy who charms strangers with his beguiling eyes, disarming giggle and wide-eyed innocence.

 One of the more confronting aspects of parenthood is occasionally seeing yourself reflected back in all your unguarded, uncensored glory. This was one of those moments - and it was not pretty.

 From the vantage of his toddler seat he had seen me raise my hands in melodramatic despair over the car in front failing to react to a perpetually red light eventually - and fleetingly - turning green. After three years of watching his mother behind the wheel he clearly knew the signs - over-the-top gesturing followed by an indignant exclamation as to the incompetence of the driver who had dared elongate our interminable crawl through Sydney traffic by another four minutes.

 The stalling of the vehicle ahead of us was all he needed to recognise the cue. Within his short life he's already absorbed endless commentary about the wisdom of authorities who impart driver's licences to certain motorists.

 Too fast. Too slow. Selfish. Reckless. Blind. Deaf. There's no sledge he hasn't heard falling from the lips of his impatient chauffeur. Mutterings about being "stupid" are common. The regretfully non-legally-binding pronouncement "You've got no business being on the road" is an old favourite.

 Despite being acutely aware of a child's uncanny ability to parrot conversation, I had failed to realise the extent to which he was observing the throwaway remarks that have become commonplace to me after two decades of navigating this city's gridlock.

 If anything the content of my semi-regular contribution to road rage has become far more G-rated in recent years.

 The thought of him replicating a sample of the more colourful language I was known to occasionally employ before my back seat was overtaken by baby capsules would be enough to have me blacklisted from every childcare centre in town.

 Yet, even when devoid of any four-letter components, those peak-hour outbursts still qualify as rage, road-related or otherwise. Deduct "road" from the vernacular and all you're left with is plain old fury - a sentiment that can spill into a face-to-face encounter all too easily.

 Earlier this week an apparent spat between two motorists in the carpark of a shopping centre in Edgecliff culminated in an argument where a woman, aged in her 40s, was allegedly assaulted. The danger of road rage escalating into a physical altercation is of increasing concern, with a study last year revealing half of Australian drivers admit to yelling and swearing at fellow motorists, and 18 per cent confessing to deliberately tailgating those they deem obnoxious or dangerous.

 In an increasingly time-poor world, it's a worrying - if unsurprising - result. It doesn't take much provocation to further aggravate a stressed, overworked and exhausted commuter as they try to get to work on time.

 Much of it is simply blowing off steam. An understandable response to having to slam on the brakes thanks to a careless driver as they casually endanger the lives of their fellow motorists.

 But, just as happens with social media, there's a tendency to feel invisible and detached from those with whom we are communicating. Cocooned within the relative anonymity of our metal confines we feel emboldened to unleash a character assassination at a passing driver we would rarely deliver in person.

 Newly mindful of the impact my sometimes harmless but invariably heated tirades are having upon my back-seat passengers, I'm trying to adhere to a new era of self-imposed road rage regulation.

 Now I save the insults for a far more deserving culprit - the people who invented car stereos and Wiggles CDs. 

Oh my God! The horrors I have seen on the catwalks!

 Fashion has always escaped me. I have no idea how to layer, colour co-ordinate or accessorise. Most days, I look like a hobo. So I cannot, for the life of me, understand the appeal of Fashion Week. I always feel like running up on to the catwalk and giving one of those poor thin models a big fat hamburger. Or tucking their breasts back into their shirts. Or just tickling them to get a smile out of them. Why do they have to look so miserable? It must be taught at modelling school.

Lesson 1: Pretend this lettuce is a really juicy steak.

Lesson 2: Allow random body parts to pop out of your clothes.

Lesson 3: Never, ever, look like you are enjoying yourself.

 I know they’re on a catwalk, but why do their faces have to look like cats’ bums? Sorry, I’m rambling. This blog is supposed to be about the clothes.

  Each year, an especially unwearable item becomes the new “must have”. (Why does everything have to be the new black? What’s wrong with the old black?) At Sydney Fashion week this year it was the mantan. For the uninitiated, it’s a kaftan for men. Think Demis Roussos, the Greek singer from the 1970’s.
  To give it a fresh look, the designer strapped a pillow to the back of the embarrassed-looking model. The purpose of this was unclear. Is it similar to an airbag to protect him from falling flat on his back? Maybe he’s a human Bounce Back toy? Or maybe it’s foreplay. Gives new meaning to the term sleeping around.
  Then there were the flame-haired super mutants, who looked like characters from a sci-fi comic book. It was an explosion of colour, according to the fashionistas. More like a technicolour yawn. The models wore armour on their wrists and forearms, probably to protect them as they fight charges of misleading and deceptive conduct, for pretending such clothes are actually wearable.
  I guess they are, if you’re Wonder Woman. I, however, am Daggy Suburban Woman – guess I’m not the target market. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not anti-designer. The Australian fashion industry provides jobs and brings in export dollars. Artists need to push boundaries.
 But, for most of us, fashion is all about comfort. Give me a t-shirt and jeans; and on a special occasion, a nice frock to hide the tummy. Maybe our fashion retailers would be in better shape if designers made clothes that were flattering, and not fanciful.

If there’s free frozen yoghurt, then, I’m in!

  Strolling the streets on a recent shopping trip with a friend, we stumbled upon a health and fitness expo. Tempted not by the prospect of educational information, but by the possibility of finding free frozen yoghurt, I let my friend drag me in.
  Last time I visited a health fair, I walked out with all sorts of potions and vitamins, which are still sitting in my cupboard, seals intact. You see, I’m good at being motivated while at an expo, but unfortunately, when I get home, despite all the talk of renovating myself, I’m still the same old me. Now that I’m more cynical, my message to stall holders is this: quit calling me over with promises of changing my life; there are only two things that will draw me to your stand – frozen yoghurt, and lollies.
  Dragging my heels like a grumpy child trailing behind her mum around the supermarket, I was suddenly grabbed by a man at a holistic healthcare stand who said he had to ‘read’ me. Measuring up his wizened eyes and wispy white beard, I let him seat me on a stool – not because I wanted a reading, but because I’m susceptible to stereotypes and I was pretty sure this guy was Gandalf.
 With an all-knowing look, he said he could tell what was wrong with me. Trying not to be offended because I thought I was the only one who was aware of the personality hang-ups that made me less than perfect, I let him look into my eyes with a flashlight and magnifying glass. Lowering the torch, he asked if I wanted to hear the bad news. There I was, thinking the bad news was simply that I was bored at a health expo, but no, he said he’d seen in my left iris that I was going to have heart problems. Great! Thanks for the heads-up, strange man who only just met me and hasn’t even bothered to ask about my health or family history. I mean, I haven’t got any medical training, but I’m pretty sure it takes more than staring into someone’s eyes for 10 seconds to determine their health status.
 Then he asked if I wanted the good news. The only good news he could possibly give me at this stage was that he wasn’t a health expert and was off to film the next instalment of Lord Of The Rings, but no, apparently he had a sure for my heart issue.
  Turning around, he pointed to a shelf filled with bottles of tablets that would ensure I lived a long and healthy life. How convenient! I kindly declined his offer, and walked away. I had bigger and more important things to deal with, such as trying to find the frozen yoghurt stand.