A beef with restricted lunchtimes.

 Lunch breaks used to be leisurely one-hour affairs, now, in the name of efficiency, many workplaces have trimmed it down to half an hour. This poses a dilemma – where to go and what to eat in such a short time.

 If you work in an office building or in the city, the half-hour lunch time usually goes something like this: sprint out the door at 1pm; walk briskly to the food court; wait to get served; search desperately for a seat while balancing a plate of stir-fried beef and rice; find a table and start making inroads on the rice mountain and beef tower. No matter how much you eat, the pile of rice will refuse to go down. Chew like a madman, to no avail. The rice mountain will expand and the beef tower will rise. Another five minutes of concentrated eating and the voice in your head starts: “You should be close to finishing by now.”

 “You have 10 minutes to eat that beef, don’t worry about the rice, then clear your plate and start making your way back to the office. Ten minutes. I very much doubt you’re going to make it.”

 Your supervisor’s office sits opposite the door so he/she can see people coming in. There is nowhere to hide if you are late. It doesn’t matter how long you take for lunch when you reach a certain level – but when you are in a subordinate position, every minute is noted.

 You check your watch again. Twenty-five minutes has elapsed – how can that be? You push most of the food to the side of your plate so it looks like you’ve eaten more – you don’t want the nice ladies behind the counter to think that you didn’t like it. You push past the tables, motor through the door, up the steps and down the street; cursing everyone for walking in slow motion. You cross against the lights and narrowly avoid being mowed down by a Mercedes sports car. The driver beeps his horn.

 You reach your building, throw yourself through the double doors and hurry to the lift, with two minutes to go. The stir-fried beef is repeating on you like an FM radio playlist but at least you are in the building. Trouble is, you are on the ground floor and you need to be on the 11^th. You are willing the number to light up. Come on, come on. You tell yourself that your watch is sometimes fast but you know for a fact that it is on time. The lift doors finally open. It is packed but you force your way in. This is a matter of life and death. It slowly creaks its way to the 11^th floor.

 You reach your floor, race out of the lift like an Olympian, swipe your card to open the door and collapse in front of your computer as the clock ticks over to 1.30pm. Your head is spinning, your heart is beating and your digestive system is protesting strenuously. It doesn’t matter.

 The great lunch race is over. You now have 24 hours to get your strength back, rest up, take some heartburn medication and do it all again tomorrow. Then again, you could just bring a sandwich.

Abortion is none of Justin Bieber’s business (online blog).

 FOR one glorious moment last week, I became a Justin Bieber fan. And then, with the same haste in which Greg Norman changes wives, my infatuation soon faded to a distant memory. It was the pop star’s assessment of Lady Gaga’s over-the-top arrival at the Grammys that prompted my temporary conversion to Bieber mania.
 Amid the commentators seeking to feverishly analyse the subtext of her red-carpet entrance while “incubating”, the Canadian had a refreshingly simple take on the attention-seeking stunt. “People say it’s artistic and stuff,” he later remarked. “I’m just like, ‘You’re an egg.’”
 While not exactly profound, it was an observation more astute than most in piercing the slavish pop-culture reverence that usually surrounds the one-woman publicity machine known as Gaga. “It’s enough to make me actually like the guy,” I begrudgingly told Kathy McCabe when she filled me in on Bieber’s uncharacteristically insightful comments. But in less than 24 hours it was all over.
 Drawing on his considerable life experience (IE: not very much) and extensive knowledge of family planning (IE: even less), Bieber has aired his opposition to abortion in Rolling Stone. “I think [an embryo] is a human,” he said. “It’s like killing a baby.” Hardly surprising coming from a devout Christian who was raised by a single mother who shares Bible verses with her Twitter followers and ensures a pastor is among the entourage whenever her son is on tour.
 Yet he with the allegedly dreamy good looks didn’t stop there. When asked if exceptions should be made when an unwanted pregnancy is the result of rape, he revealed his naivety in all its adolescent, sheltered glory. “I think that’s really sad, but everything happens for a reason,” he replied. “I guess I haven’t been in that position, so I wouldn’t be able to judge that.”
 After feeling the heat once the magazine hit newsstands, Bieber’s management heavied Rolling Stone into admitting the interview included an “incomplete quote”. Turns out what Bieber really said was: “Well, I think that’s really sad, but everything happens for a reason. I don’t know how that would be a reason. I guess I haven’t been in that position, so I wouldn’t be able to judge that.”
 While rape victims may be slightly less insulted by the acknowledgment that there’s not always a perfectly good “reason” behind a violent crime, it fails to dilute the breathtaking ignorance of his remarks. As others have noted, Rolling Stone’s clarification only served as proof of the clout of Bieber’s minders rather than absolving the baby-faced crooner for mouthing off on things he patently knows nothing about.
 As he himself admitted, he’s in no position to judge rape victims faced with an unenviable choice. But it’s not only rape victims who deserve his compassion. Bieber is in no way qualified to judge anyone faced with an unplanned pregnancy, irrespective of their circumstances. None of us are.
 Like Bieber, I’ve never found myself in that position either. But plenty of women do, and fortunately their right to access safe, legalised medical care should they opt to terminate their pregnancy is not in the hands of a pious 16-year-old. This is the problem with what passes for “debate” over the issue of abortion. The most vocal of opponents tend to be the very people least qualified to comment.
 Religious zealots convinced a higher power is on their side. Self-righteous teenagers certain they already know everything there is to know about life. That’s what separates being pro-life from pro-choice. Being pro-choice doesn’t equate to advocating abortion. Most reasonable people would be in agreement that the lower the termination rate, the better.
 But for those who find themselves faced with unplanned or unwanted pregnancies, legalised abortion must remain an option. It’s a decision very few women – or couples – take lightly, but one that is ultimately only theirs to make. That’s pro-choice. Pro-lifers, however, seek to impose their one-size-fits-all beliefs on everyone.
 That Bieber – an immensely privileged, overprotected teenager – felt it appropriate to comment on matters so beyond his understanding is characteristic of this arrogant disregard for the complexities of each individual case.
 Bieber would do well to remember it’s really none of his business. Unless the subject matter happens to be Lady Gaga, he’d be wise to respond to all future questions with a polite “No comment.”

Long stretches away from your family aren’t a bad thing.

 We all look forward to the holidays because it’s time to relax and share with our families. But would I be a bad person to suggest that, sometimes, as much as you miss your family, long stretches away from them aren’t necessarily a bad thing?

 Family can be a bit like a big bowl of creamy Carbonara. You crave its comforting warmth and rich, fulfilling flavour, but after a generous serve, you’re bloated, uncomfortable and swearing you’ll only ever eat it in small doses. Some of us may be feeling the same way about our loved ones at the moment. We miss them when we don’t see them, but it usually only takes one family holiday to reduce them to small-portion status for the rest of the year.

 Why is it that I can function quite well in the real world, but when I’m seated at the family table, I suddenly revert to the disgruntled 13-year-old who cant wait to go up to her room and listen to music? Maybe it’s because, under the blanket of unconditional love, relatives have an access-all-areas pass to comment on every aspect of our lives.

 And you can never win, because the flippant appraisal of your situation swings both ways. One year, it’s, “You’re too thin, you’re wasting away,” and the next it’s a raised eyebrow and “Should you really be having a dessert?” Then there’s the chorus of aunties analysing why you don’t have a boyfriend, only to corner you in the kitchen the following year (leaving your new squeeze awkwardly alone at the table) to tell you, “You can do better than him, darling.”

 Family have an uncanny knack of cutting to the bone and drawing out a lifetime of insecurities. I mean, can you imagine a colleague saying, “What are you thinking, wearing that dress? It does nothing for your shape.” No, because the most honest of remarks are reserved for the people who love you the most.

 That’s what makes dealing with in-laws tricky. They sit in that strange middle ground, where there’s a lot of biting your tongue and forced politeness. While you can tell your mum to go easy on the dressing, you have to swallow every mouthful of your mother-in-law’s coleslaw with a smile, despite the lumps of curdled mayonnaise gathering in your throat. And when your partner abandons you to play cricket with his brothers, you’re left batting away a barrage of questions from his aunts while his five-year-old nephew attacks you with a BB gun.

 But you know that, despite all the grief and frustration that come with family gatherings, by next summer, you’ll be yearning for heated debates over how to cook chops on the barbie. You’ll even be missing the cousin who never lets you forget that Gremlins scared you so much, you wet the bed.

 They’re family and you love them. After all, who else would let you fall asleep on the couch after lunch, with your belt undone, remote in hand and a bowl of ice-cream on your lap?

There goes the neighbourhood.

 We have very good neighbours. Ah yes, but what makes a good neighbour? Someone who’ll help you in a crisis? Certainly. Someone who greets with a cheery ‘How’s it going?’ on those rare moments you bump into each other out on the street? Probably. Someone who pops around uninvited to see what you’re up to? Release the hounds!

 I’m proud to be suburban and I like where I live at the moment – quiet retirees on both sides.  But years ago I lived in a unit and I found living in it to be hard. I lived on the ground floor of a unit for about eight months. The people above me were quiet enough, except when they expressed their love for each other, if you know what I mean. Also, unfortunately, the teenage son of the next-door-neighbour kept his car in the front yard. He liked reggae music so much that he turned his car into one giant boom-box. Whenever he was short of petrol money, he would stay home, polishing his pride and joy with Bob Marley thumping out of the car’s monster speakers, the bass turned up to 11, sending out shock waves which shook the paintings off my walls. I reckon all that vibration works its way out to sea and is the reason whales beach themselves – they want to get down to that reggae beat – man! It’s as good a theory as any; ask a marine biologist.

 I thought we’d found the ideal home a couple of moves back. It was in a quiet street and was apparently peaceful. It wasn’t until we moved in that we realised just how many children lived next door – seven. They were actually well behaved and only acted up when their mates came around.

 But when they moved out, I was delighted to see a young couple move in. OK, there’d probably be a baby crying in a couple of years, but it had to be quieter for a while. It was...until they got the German shepherd. This beast could bark for Australia in the Olympics – and I’m talking the long-distance, marathon barking event. When they were home, their dog was happy and only barked if he was over-excited at feeling so loved and included. But when they went off to work every day, he barked at every movement until they came home again. This couple couldn’t believe the dirty looks their new neighbours were giving them – particularly the bloke across the road who worked nights and was trying to sleep.

 There’s no doubt that noise pollution is one of the biggest stresses of city living. People living outside capital cities would be blissfully unaware that the people living under the airport flight paths make as much noise moaning about the jets as the planes make themselves.

 I guess we all have to live and let live. If you want to be able to buy a litre of milk and a bag of chips at ten at night, you have to put up with the downside of city living. Anyway, I reckon the kid across the road who plays a drum kit in his garage is actually starting to get some rhythm. Fingers crossed he doesn’t start a group, because if they’re a Bob Marley tribute band, I’m out of here!