Microfiction

I own my teacup. I was able to take this rickety old teacup and renovate it. Others rent theirs. Mostly with cannabis. Though I've heard tell that the currency used to be opium.

Regardless, this one's mine, and I'm not giving it up.

Occasionally my teacup breaks. That's when I talk to Jo, mostly. She tends to forget about me.

This place was razed to the ground after the zoo incident. The walls are trembling just thinking about it. The old tasmanian devil died before her eyes. No violence, just life leaving the body. Jo cried.

“What the fuck, Jo,” Barney had scolded, “they're horrible creatures anyway.” Jo looked up, then averted her eyes. The girl walked to the nearest bench.

“C'mon 'tard, I didn't mean it,” he called out, “I just don't see why you care about it. It's not cute or anything.”

Jo has a mild behavioural disorder. Knowing this, Barney had begun to refer to Jo as his 'social retard'.

A sharp realisation met Jo on the bench. Barney was a prick.

Her head made the decision. Emotionally she was shattered, much like my dear old teacup. Jo and I picked up the pieces together.

I eventually helped her heart catch up with her head. I suppose I had an agenda. My teacup residence depends on her happiness.

Patriotism - oh hey there.

Overseas, Australians have become known chiefly as racists in the last few years. The old defense, "I'm not racist, but..." just isn't cutting it anymore. And I mean, I know a lot of you really aren't racist, but you're xenophobic. And the only defense for xenophobia is ignorance.

And that is why I get wholly confused when people start asking everyone to "assimilate" or leave. There will always be a problem while we still use words like assimilate and tolerate, rather than integrate and accept.

It's not fair or adult to ask someone to shrug off their culture just because yours has become the norm. Sure, you might want to be able to interact with them, and you might be a bit tentative because they have customs you're not familiar with. But the problem is, the people spouting these xenophobic lines - in my experience - live in almost wholly white neighbourhoods. Who are these people they want to assimilate into their culture?

I have to presume it's a media thing. And I guess the lack of diversity in their own neighbourhood fuels their disinterest in educating themselves about these other parties.

"Boat people" are generally people whose original country is in such disarray and so dangerous that they cannot reach an Australian embassy. They aren't "jumping the cue", and we aren't taking all of them. Britain, that tiny little densely populated country that we spilled off from, takes in more asylum seekers. In Australia, it's 1 for 1583 people (population of 22 million). In Britain, it's 530 (population of 62 million). And roughly 90% of those arrive by plane.

Asylum seekers are people who are seeking shelter from their country which is often categorised by cases of torture, starvation, war and death.

Moving on from asylum seekers, which aren't actually a big deal; if you still oppose them you obviously have a false sense of entitlement, which is my next issue.

Some Australians have this crazy mix of mindless patriotism and a sense of entitlement which borders on fanaticism. They're the people saying things are "Un-Australian", saying it's the best country in the world (without having left it - I mean, surely you need to do the appropriate legwork?), and telling people to "go home" if they want to change things.

Even if it was "the best", surely we could aim to make it better. If we forget everything about culture and diversity; we still have problems with our schooling, problems with our hospitals, and currently we are in a government deficit. So obviously, we still aren't perfect.

And this entitlement. Where does it come from? You managed to be born within the Australian borders. Cool. What have you actually done to be more worthy of being Australian than someone who comes here on a plane or a boat?

Okay, I'm done.

Les plaisirs de l'hiver

You know how your mother always told you to wear socks in winter? Or ugg boots? Well, mine did.

But once my feet are cold, they don't warm up with just socks. So I would have this phenomenon every time I took my socks off - they were as cold as a packet of frozen peas. This is after an entire day of wearing freaking thermal socks.

Yeah, so I might have bad circulation. But um, I have shortbread, so nerrrrh. Anyway, the only way I have ever been able to remedy what I call pea-feet (yeah, I don't actually say that) is to expose them to things which give off heat. You know: heaters, baths, showers, or (if you're particularly lucky) human skin.

Ah yes, we all know the "Is my hand cold?" line. It's schadenfreude at it's best. Now try it with feet. Sure, it's a little harder to do. But don't you enjoy a challenge? Creep your foot up someone's pant-leg. Casually lie with your feet near someone's abdomen (on the couch or something) and slip them under a jumper. Or, if you want the fifty-pointer, go for the neck (no hints here).

I mean, you don't want to get frostbite.

#First World Problems

My boyfriend hates raisin toast. He hates anything to do with sultanas or raisins or genetically modified super sultana-raisin hybrids (or whatever).

So, imagine me pulling a cafe style loaf of raisin toast from the shelf - spicy, and very thick. He pulled his 'Gah Face' at me, like I had agreed to house the Anti-Christ in our spare room.

"No! I want it!" Yeah, I reverted back to a five-year-old. You see, that's how far back my nostalgia for this humble loaf goes. Me and Mumma (and my siblings), waking up early for school, her making me a cup of tea and some raisin toast - before coaxing up the embers in the fireplace.

Later, it was just us in the middle of rural Queensland. I would wake up to an electronic alarm clock (yes, this was before children had mobile phones) and the "ERNH ERNH ERNH" would fill me with rage. However, my mother had been preparing classes since three in the morning, so I would hand her the sixth cup of tea and a slice of raisin toast meekly. My rage would be let out by watching cartoons - their violence sated me.

One day, though - and I remember this clearly, because I felt wholly betrayed - there were no cartoons. Every channel had the news. I was not happy.

"Mummy! My cartoons aren't on!"
"What's that?" she looked at the TV, "Oh."

Al Qaeda, I am to understand you killed hundreds (thousands?) of people, but I think you should answer to the trauma you caused millions of children. Because I have talked about this to many people my age, and they agree - you deprived them of their cartoons. You are monsters.

So anyway, I bought some raisin toast, and the decadently thick slices would not allow my toaster to turn on. I am twice traumatised.

Usurp the throne!

Oh historic day. Gillard glides into the role of Prime Minister so swiftly as to draw attention to the knife stuck between the ribs of her ailing predecessor. It's a fine line.

I think it's sad, and somewhat backward, that this is our first 'Female Prime Minister'. She clothes the ascent of a female to the democratic throne in the scent of Claudius.

The question remains: who is our Hamlet? And who exactly is our Fortinbras?