My love of words was born in the Catholic Church
Here is an institution with a language that is evocative, spiritual and, at times, more than a bit scary. Or at least that’s what I thought as a kid in the 60s.
Here is an institution with a language that is evocative, spiritual and, at times, more than a bit scary. Or at least that’s what I thought as a kid in the 60s.
The most vulnerable cohort of our nation are blatantly targeted. Where’s the champagne flavoured vape? The Scotch whisky one? Crickets, of course. The industry knows what it’s doing.
I know I should be old enough to know better and admit I am fully aware that I have an unfeasibly large head – but I still blame the doors on the BMW X6.
Over the decades there’s been a number of attempts to get rid of me from the ABC. For a while I became unsackable. Now I’m calling time on my own terms.
The fat flower spikes of tiny blooms are nectar-filled, attracting bees and other beneficial insects, even small birds.
I’m taking you back, back, back in time. It’s now 1958 and Australians are either watching 17-inch Astors in their loungerooms or taking group geeks at sets in shop windows.
Gen Z is split. Two separate worlds. Of increasingly aware girls not afraid to call it out, and frustrated boys trying to deal with the new voices roaring at them.
When do we start remembering people, places, experiences? I have a good memory of family life from the age of two onwards – but there are glimpses of earlier times.
I am marking in stone this car as the moment Chinese cars arrived as a force to be reckoned with. And this MG4 happens to be a Hyundai Excel-sized bargain.
I’m mistrustful of those without curiosity. Who never ask questions, quest, doubt; who never seek out the world beyond the safety of familiar borders.
For the past 25 years – including the year 2000 – I have struggled to find an acceptable term to describe the first two of the 21st century’s decades. But I can finally rest easy.
I sometimes struggle to understand, or enjoy, stupidly expensive and otiose vehicles like the Bentley Bentayga SUV. But this car takes the cake.
As The Australian celebrates its 60th year – and me my 85th – things have changed just a little. And perhaps a little for the better.
He did not want his death noted, let alone commemorated. Sorry, my friend – but this is a column I had to write.
For some of us this feels like the start of history, a new historical cycle, which will be more destructive than anything this Earth has seen before.
Australia’s housing market has become so tight, so heated, that I think it’s time to become quite forensic in tracking all parts of the housing market. Including entry-level.
When naturalist Chris Packham said something annoying on TV, I decided to annoy him back by buying a Range Rover with a V8 that produces more carbon dioxide than India.
Soap, cereal, suits, cars, postcards … they even hate milk. These ‘things of the past’ now seem destined for the younger generation’s dustbin.
This modified Isuzu D-Max is a pick-up truck on steroids, with a tent on the roof and kitchen in the back. Who needs something like this? Perhaps only you Australians.
Unity is a national rallying cry but the reality is different. This is the nation of rabbit proof fences, of city versus bush and Covid-induced fracture.
Original URL: https://www.theaustralian.com.au/weekend-australian-magazine/columnists/page/10