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.

If your nose is running, you use a tissue right? Apparently not!

 Winter is the season of the year that I often find myself defending to my family and my friends. My sun-loving friends don’t see its beauty, but I take pleasure in the joys it brings: hot soups, snuggling by an open fire, hot steaming mugs of tea (or hot chocolate with marshmallows!); how spending the weekend indoors, watching TV, becomes a totally acceptable social practice.

 But as much as I delight in the frosty season’s positive attributes, I admit, I do have one issue with winter: it brings with it a multitude of anti-social behaviour that really does annoy me.

 With the cooler months comes the usual onslaught of colds and flu. Don’t get me wrong, it’s not that I’m unsympathetic to the cold sufferer. I’m the first to throw my own pity party when my sinuses are blocked to the point where I have to fight to inhale. But I do take issue with people who refuse to follow simple etiquette guidelines that help us all get through the cold season without killing each other.

 Public opinion is divided about who’s more annoying – the cougher or the sniffler. But although both can make you want to tear your hair out when you’re stuck in a confined space with them, I vote the sniffler as the most annoying of pests. I sympathise with the cougher, because a cough is an involuntary spasm of the body that no-one has the power to control. And a cougher usually has the decency to remove themselves from company to find water or a lolly to soothe their throat.

 The sniffler on the other hand, has no defence. For those who may have been napping in kindergarten during this simple lesson on manners: if your nose is running, use a tissue. Anyone who’s ever sat next to a sniffler in a car, on a plane, or a train – as I did recently – will understand my frustration.

 Unfortunately, the train was pretty much packed to the rafters when I boarded it so I was just grateful to find somewhere to sit for the hour-long journey. This person’s “sniffle show” began not even two minutes after I was settled in my seat. I let the first couple of sniffles slide, because one can be forgiven for the occasional sniff. But, after the fourth one, I thought, surely it’s time to reach for a tissue right? But no, he continued, his snivelling chorus not even drowned out by the rowdy bunch of teenagers singing off-key and talking loudly two rows back.

 Unable to contain my irritation any longer, I pulled a tissue (a CLEAN one of course) out of my pocket and decided to offer it to him, which he declined. Driven almost to insanity by the revolting, repetitive noise, I tried to calm down by turning the situation into a game, so I began to count the seconds between each sniffle. He couldn’t last 15 seconds without making the disgusting noise.

 I don’t think serial snifflers are bad people, but I can’t understand why they aren’t aware of how irritating that sound can be. And what’s more, it’s SO avoidable. Maybe they relied too much on their mothers to wipe their noses as children? In fact, I bet snifflers are the same people who take their dirty laundry to their parent’s place for Sunday-night dinner.

 The only bright side to this man’s refusal to blow his nose is that he didn’t carry a handkerchief. Don’t even get me started on those dirty, germ-ridden snot rags that fester inside coat pockets!