I wrote this article Is Grandma fit to babysit? KPI Test for Independent Australia when I heard that there is such a thing as Grandma School.
Grand Sale. Country for Sale. Dirt Cheap.
By Kerry Cue
Do you ever dream of becoming the dictator of a small European country, but you are too lazy to organise a military coup? Do you have a Hellinic face that looks noble in profile and would suit the newly minted coinage of a realm? Do you like Feta cheese, olives and Nana Mouskouri and have a grand passion for cats?
Then we have the perfect country for you. Greece lies in the idyllic Mediterranean just far enough from the central European banks to avoid excess rational economic thought. It will appeal to anyone who believes ‘everyone except me should pay more tax’ (a policy Australian political parties push during elections) and that the retirement age should be reduced to 14 years (This, of course, is another way to reduce youth unemployment and may be adopted by Aussie politicians in the near future, that or raising the legal school leaving age to 67).
You can own a little bit of paradise for not much more than you pay for a 2-story inner city home in Australia and Greece comes with many Heritage Listed buildings (often listing to the left, but there is scaffolding) and an ensuite with a toilet that flushes every 2nd Tuesday after the local plumber has downed 3 bottles of Retsina and turned up to unblock it.
Greece offers unparalleled panoramic views of glorious beaches, massed sun beds and jumbo-jet loads of fat, drunk UK tourists. Greek islands boast little fishing villages that are so idyllic your eyes water … Or that could be the sewerage again.
The Greeks are a law abiding people with a cousin in Melbourne, who abide by laws on a may or may not be bothered basis, but you can be guaranteed that you will not be run down by a motor scooter driven by a retired 14year old in your own lounge room. This guarantee may not apply to shopping malls or outdoor dining areas. The Greeks also have a great fondness for cement. But they are not like the Italians. There are no cement shoes. They just love cement in all its raw and unfinished glory.
The Greek people are stoic (they invented the word) and devoted to democracy (they invented that the word too). Some say their attitude to their economy is crazy. But they haven’t lost their marbles. Well, they have lost their marbles. They’re in the British Museum. (Subleasing potential there!) Others say, when it comes to their economy, the Greeks are in Cloud Cuckooland (Another word they invented with full credit for this economic theory going to Aristophanes.) Cloud Cuckooland is, however, a very popular economic theory at the moment, but it’s called Quantative Easing in America.
Greece. Buy now. This is a once in a lifetime opportunity to rule a realm, own an Acropolis and stage your very own Olympic Games for all the family. Hurry while stocks last. And for no extra cost you get an ancient home amphitheatre with dry stone walls, an as-new roofless Olympic size swimming pool and a holiday island for lesbians.
photo source: Elgin Marbles unsourced.
I’ve written in the media, all types, for 30 years.
And in all this time, I’ve avoided what is quaintly called the F-bomb. But, OMG, I forgot to keep myself nice and wrote this article for The Independent Australia to king-hit the idea of niceness.
I flew to Sydney last week courtesy of Saxton’s Speakers Bureau to speak at the Cuscal Women’s Initiative Networking Program Event. When I found myself surrounded by a diverse and fascinating group of highly capable women I was inspired to write this humorous piece.
I’m a humourist. This isn’t a word you’ll find on many corporate CVs, but I have worked for over 30 years as a presenter dispatched to enliven serious but dull corporate conferences. Over that time, I have met some fascinating and inspiring individuals. I have also met many corporate clones, who talk the same clichéd talk. I’ve met so many, in fact, I kept thinking ‘Didn’t I meet you last week, but wearing a different tie?’ Come to think of it, the tie wasn’t that different. A narrower stripe, perhaps.
Many corporations evolve a culture that forces staff to shed the greater part of themselves as they walk in the office door. The workplace protocols, in-house rules and/or megalomaniacal memos and edicts that rain down on the lower ranks suppress all human spontaneity and interactions, leading to unbelievably hilarious and inefficient outcomes such as demonstrations of how to sit in an office chair in a ‘Best Practice Chair Sitting’ workshop. Here are just two terrifying corporate archetypes:
Read full article here:Why the Corporate Cloning Culture kills Productivity
8am. Saturday. Bored while waiting for the kettle to boil, I pick up The Age Form Guide. Words leap out of the page and hammer my eyeballs. This is gold. Pure gold. I wonder if I could write a story using HORSES’ NAMES from the 10 races scheduled at one race meeting? And here it is: EPIC SAGA* in the new poetic style – Form Guide Poetry.
*See actual form guide below.
The streets we walk, the food we eat, the people we know and lives we lead become so familiar, so assumed, we hardly notice them at all. So I have travelled halfway across the world at great cost and inconvenience to bring home something vital for a writer namely a yardstick to measure our own culture.
I’m in Italy oohing and ahing over an extraordinary Italian icon, a thing of such beauty it wraps you in total sensory bliss. It is a tomato.
There are lots of tomatoes in Italy and each one of them, it seems, is a culinary temptress. This red beauty isn’t the supermodel of tomland, all fiddled with, half-starved and fake. It is an earthy, fleshy, full-bodied and ripe tomato and it floods my mind with memories of tomatoes from my childhood. The taste is warm, rich and sweet. Its smell recalls my mother shredding the lettuce and whipping up some mayonnaise from, of all things, sweetened condensed milk, vinegar and mustard. But the women’s mag mayo couldn’t kill the taste of the tomatoes. They were real tomatoes.
Read Canberra Times article here: Pomodori by Kerry Cue
Photo source: josiesjuice blog
I wrote this when my daughter was in the kinder nativity play. And that was in 1993, over 20 years ago! But little has changed from the delightful yuletide chaos known as the kinder Nativity Play.
No Stephen Spielberg, Fred Schepsi or Peter Weir could bring to life a story bursting with the tinselled excitement or wide-eyed wonder of that choreographed chaos known as the Kinder Nativity Play. The job of feverish direction rests with an experienced kindergarten teacher. And the play has become a cherished Christmas tradition of cherubic grins and dimpled mayhem.
The first problem facing the director involves casting. Kinder kids can be very definite about the part they wish to play. They want a good line. And that line is often ‘Baa’.
The kinder teacher is then left with the problem of putting on a nativity play with 25 sheep and no one else. After much begging, pleading and coaxing she can muster one sulking Joseph, a radiant freckled Mary -who is allowed to wear her patent leather shoes and a brides veil – and a donkey, if they can wear the donkey suit.
Full article from The Advertiser, The Herald Sun and The Canberra Times here: CHRISTMAS ACCORDING TO ST JASON