Soft and Strong

Today I happened to be in the household aisle of the supermarket - a cornucopia of domesticity which I visit with alarming frequency. I swept down it with my trolley, confidently plucking my soft and strong, pure white, 2-ply loo roll from the shelf. The woman nearest me must have noticed my omniscient approach to the range of lavatorial goods the supermarket offered because she stopped me in my tracks and asked if I recommended that particular brand. I was momentarily taken aback, not yet fully accustomed to antipodean familiarity, despite having lived in Australia for 18 months. I mumbled something in the affirmative, hoping to move on quickly to the laundry detergent shelf but she pressed me for details. Was it very thick? I stopped. Clearly this was going to take some time.

"Yes", I replied, casting my mind back to the last time I had used it, but reluctant to expand on the subject further with a complete stranger.

"Because I don't want it too thick - my toilet blocks very easily," she added. Reeling slightly from the image that statement conjured up, I hastily assured her that it was just right - being not as thick as the quilted and embossed luxury brand to our right, but thicker and therefore more effective than the thin and papery recycled brand to our left (though less environmentally-friendly, it has to be said).

After a bit more reassurance, I eventually left her looking at them all, stroking her chin in thought. I hope she was happy with her decision.

Shopping centre tragedy

Every so often we are given a very sombre reminder of death. Usually we just see it through the windows of our television screens and another person murdered or killed in a car crash is another headline on the news. Last week, I arrived at our local shopping centre (where I go nearly every day) to find that someone had just committed suicide by jumping off the balcony on the fifth floor). Apparently some poor person had tried to talk him out of it and it was a good twenty minutes before he jumped, which gave police time to erect a tent, but hundreds of people witnessed what happened and no doubt are extremely traumatised as a result. It left me feeling physically sick and cross-examining in my mind how someone could be so desperate to end their life that they would do it in a shopping centre full of people on a Wednesday afternoon. My sympathy turned to anger at what cafe waiters, check out girls and shoppers (not to mention any children) will have to live with for the rest of their lives. I am aware of the sensitivity of such an issue but the selfishness of suicide, especially in such a public place, has left me reeling.

However, these emotions do not even compare with what I felt when I discovered people were filming this desperate act and subsequently posting their footage on You Tube. Gross indecency of the very worst kind - that we have supposedly become so immune to death that it merely serves to provide entertainment of the sickest, most depraved sort. It was not a day I wished to remember.

Red tape

Australia gives off this wonderful attitude of being a really easy country to live in - the people are friendly, the weather is great, everything is pretty relaxed. Not so. When it comes to bureaucracy and red tape they'd give the Swiss a run for their money. Last week I lost my bank card - an inconvenience at the best of times. It was duly replaced but instead of being able to change my PIN at an ATM, I had to go in to the bank to do so, producing at least two forms of identification in the process. The teller had to print off a form for me to sign, confirming this change but the printer wasn't working so I sat there waiting, fury mounting at the precious time being wasted. However, as Australia' financial regulations are some of the strictest in the world and therefore the safest, I was prepared to accept such stringent measures, especially when the teller saw my exasperation and waived the need to sign the form.

Not so at the Post Office. Now, I don't know about you, but I have always found post offices to be the last true outposts of officialdom. The tellers always wield a certain power, smug in the knowledge that you not only have to use them to send your important parcels, but to certify your passport applications, witness documents or transfer money. They are virtually omniscient. When I attempt to send a CD of wedding photos overseas, there is thinly-veiled glee in the teller's voice as she tells me it requires a customs check and I will need to provide -yes you've guessed it - two forms of ID in order to send this potentially subversive material. More form-filling, signatures and an official scrutiny of driving licences, marriage certificates, birth certificates and passports (well, almost) and I am free to post my explosive package.