Supermarket Guilt

In Australia, as in England, I have always found supermarket shopping to be an exhausting and mind-numbing experience, invariably due to the multitude of choice and the ethics of shopping to which one is supposed to subscribe, which do not change from London to Sydney.  This indecisive maze I find myself in usually begins in the fruit and vegetable section – an area particularly fraught with moral dilemmas.  For a start, I know I shouldn’t even be there. I should be waiting serenely at home for my box of organic, crunchy fruit and crooked, earthy vegetables - picked that morning by an apple-cheeked farmer in Kangaroo Valley and delivered by horse-drawn cart (or white van) to my door.  But as usual I’ve not got around to setting this up online and the supermarket’s four-day old lacklustre fare will have to suffice. Though at least in Australia they have a large selection of exotics such as dragon fruit, which adds a temporary frisson to the experience.

Rummaging around the sweet potatoes (low GI, healthier than white), I look for those with a manageable, rounded shape – easier to peel and chop than the wonky ones.  After a momentary pause to reflect on the fact that life has become so busy that one has to pick a vegetable whose ergonomic shape might shave valuable seconds off its preparation time, I move on to the halves of shrink-wrapped butternut squash in order to add some more plastic to the landfill. Small wonder that environmental change cannot be brought about in supermarkets when consumers like me are about.

Staving off this guilt, I move from aisle to aisle, weighing up the sugar content of various breakfast cereals, assessing the positive aspects of wholemeal versus multigrain and ending up in the household aisle, where my conscience is caught in a tussle between eco-green cleaning materials (somewhat ineffective but morally superior) and old-fashioned, bleach-based liquids that will remove anything from biro to blood (invaluable with small children).

Wearily I traipse to the check-out, only to remember that I’ve not brought my own shopping bags and will have to bring home another mound of plastic. This criminal act of environmental recklessness is further exacerbated by the till operator’s insistence on placing solitary items such as milk in their own bags. Apparently they can’t run the risk of placing more than one inside - in case the bag bursts, milk sprays everywhere and they are sued for negligent packing.  Still, at least they pack for you here.

Once I am home, I promise myself that next time I will order my fruit and vegetables online, that I will take my own bags to the shops and that I will set myself a maximum time in which to race round the aisles, making swift, decisive choices.  But it never happens.

Playground Politics

Playgrounds are always playgrounds - and no matter where you are in the world, the politics that prevail are always the same. Living in London meant queuing for the swings, demand always being greater than supply. In true British fashion we stood patiently waiting our turn, trying not to look annoyed when one parent pushed a little longer than was politely acceptable, and shushing impatient children desperate for their turn. This sense of order was rudely disrupted for me one day when, next in the queue and waiting my turn, a child (heaven forbid) shot out of nowhere and grabbed the next available swing before me. I looked round for the parent, expecting them to appear and perform the smiling-through-clenched-teeth "You must wait your turn darling" ritual, but no one came. I was thus faced with the dilemma of ousting the child (not a popular choice, given the determination with which he bore down on the swing) or waiting another ten minutes with my son wriggling in my arms. In the end, swing etiquette prevailed and I deferred to the queue-jumper.

In Australia, as everywhere, mothers and fathers are particularly keen to demonstrate their honed parenting skills and an aptitude for peacekeeping more suited to a United Nations summit. As soon as one child grabs another’s toy, both mothers descend on the warring parties, determined that each should benefit from a moral lesson on the issue of sharing and taking by force what is not one’s own. However, the social and emotional development of a toddler is not advanced enough yet to grasp the concept – which is why they all go round the playground in a state of autonomy, blissfully unaware of any underlying protocol, while their mothers hover like wasps, ready to pounce at the first sign of social injustice.

Rather like the United Nations, come to think of it. Third world government ruled by despotic madman, totally unaware of any democratic imbalance, first world country hovers to see how the situation affects its own and then dives in, moral guns blazing. One would hope that said despotic madman would have enough cognitive awareness by now of right and wrong but history points to the contrary. When it comes down to it, we are all living in one vast global playground.

Mother's Day Discounts

Today is Mother's Day in Australia. Now, my family have never really acknowledged Mother's Day, Father's Day or any parental celebration of that ilk, but we would be hard-pressed to ignore such a media-fuelled frenzy in Australia.  Weeks before, radio advertisements broadcast suggestions for what to do on the day and of course the ideal Mother's Day present - a gift certificate from Woolworths (ubiquitous "good value" supermarket), the Big W (discount department store, whose motto is "live big for less") and Dick Smith (electronics).  Now, I am not saying it isn't every woman's dream to be given the freedom of choice between grocery supplies, discounted homewares and computer gadgetry, but still...one has to draw the line somewhere. Luckily, my children (husband) know me better than that and after the customary card-giving and, "here's what I (teacher) made at preschool", I was presented with a cup of tea and an English newspaper - heaven!  And then taken out for what Australians really excel at - breakfast.

Sanctimony, hospitals and where is winter?

When did we become so openly self-righteous? Last week I passed a car proudly bearing the bumper sticker, "Drive safely, I'm a blood donor - you might need me", or something equally sanctimonious.  Resisting the urge to ram the car from behind, I marvelled instead at how someone could be so publicly pharisaical about their role in saving lives when, behind the scenes, in neon-strip-lit hospital wards, doctors and nurses are working day and night to save lives, through diligence and hard work. 

Though it must be said, there are times when I wonder if the government's money is not better spent. We took my son into the Emergency department last night after he gashed his forehead on the bath. He was attended to by not one, not two, but three members of the hospital staff, in addition to my husband and me. A doctor, a nurse and a play therapist. Yes, one of those endlessly cheerfully-dispositioned women who waves toys in the child's face to distract him from the administrations of the doctor. 

Whilst I understand entirely the role they play for emergency cases (and more importantly, for children without parental support), I do believe that for minor cuts and bruises, the toy-waver can be relieved and sent to do something more productive, like make the coffee to keep everyone alert. But it seemed rude to suggest this, so we gritted our teeth and laughed as she made acutely perceptive observations about the helicopter on my son's shirt.

Winter is here, and to herald it's arrival Sydneysiders have donned trousers, jumpers and scarves - all this despite the average daily temperature being a balmy 23 degrees.  We must be the only people walking around still in shorts and t-shirts, but they are determined the season has changed and it seems futile to point out that in England this would be like midsummer.