When the Shoe Thief Calls

Did I tell you about our shoe thief?

I’d always wanted a verandah, shielded from the street behind a hedge. So we built one.

Most days we'd leave our shoes there, preferring quiet entries and hoping to postpone wear and tear on timber floors. A family lives here and until recently, a very cute but yappy dog. That's another story, tinged with sadness.

When visitors come and go, a sensor light helps them up the stairs in the dark.

It takes a brave person to open the rickety gate, walk down a floodlit path, up the stairs and steal every pair of size eight women’s shoes om that verandah. Given three people share a shoe size, there was always plenty to choice during a spree which lasted over fourteen months.

At first we spent lots of time with our heads in each other’s wardrobes looking for the runners or the flats. We blamed each other. We argued amongst ourselves. One night the uni student returned late and left the birthday boots at the door. She was due at work very early the next morning. She didn't think she could be that unlucky. When she opened the front door, the boots were gone.

Then there was the time I demanded the return of my turquoise loafers.

Raised eyebrows from the teenagers. Perhaps the shoe thief did the household a favour that time. Our thief traversed the seasons, visiting often, stealing everything from rubber flip flops to stilettos.

When the cold snap arrived, I decorated the verandah with pots of cyclamens and winter bulbs. The verandah faces south and in the winter gloom, the pretty colours cheered our days and made us smile. Those flowers disappeared but the heavy planters remained. I replaced the flowers and moved the pots out the back. The plants vanished again.

There were nights when the outside light flicked on unexpectedly or the dog barked and scratched the door. We raced out, tore down the path and searched the street. We were jumpy and irritable, living on constant alert.

One morning, the hubby went out for the paper and there she was, escaping down our path: a tiny, wrinkled old woman, dressed in black and wearing a pair of our shoes. She carried a pile of empty shopping bags in anticipation of a haul. But she was unlucky that day. The verandah had been stripped bare as we became depressingly accustomed to our life under siege.

When she heard his roar, she took off and was chased by a man twice her size, his confused wife, a barking dog and the half dressed teenager who wasn't going to miss the drama.

On the footpath outside, she panted and wailed but denied everything.

We demanded proof of identity and dared to grab a wallet from her gaping handbag.

She went unpunished because her Medicare card was a fake and the police are too busy fighting serious crime to bother with trivial misdemeanours.

She may have come out of retirement during the past few weeks, because a friend in a nearby suburb has just lost two pairs of size eight runners from beside her front door.

Easter Gluttony

Easter is looming and it might be cool and damp outside. Chances are I will be taking in a film or two with the family - and I am dreading it already.

First of all, join the queue and chances are there will be only one person behind the counter, some poor soul whose job it is to sell tickets, flog junk food and experience our impatience.
I suspect many families will be converging on the nation's cinemas over the break.

If we are unlucky enough to find ourselves behind a large group, we will probably miss the start of the movie. How many ice-creams? What flavour? Who wants popcorn? Maybe we should take the large size because it is better value, but passing it around is tricky. OK, why don't we skip the popcorn and just get drinks. How many Cokes? Oh, you want Diet Coke? Excuse me, do you make coffee? I don't like that dripolator stuff.

I will try to curb my impatience, but my death stare will make the kiddies squirm.

Our turn will come eventually and I will ask for tickets. Then will come the interrogation. Do we want ice-creams? Many flavours; many options. Then it's the popcorn. Do we know the unbeatable value of the large box compared with the small? Don't forget the drinks, the smallest size served in a bucket large enough to quench the thirst of an entire cinema.

We will have only just had breakfast. I will decline.

Several issues will contribute to unfortunate blood-curdling holiday rage.

Where is the additional staff to cope with the crowds? In the US, some cinemas are entirely workforce free. No staff at all, with all tickets and junk food dispensed from a vending machine. At least we haven't reached that abysmal stage yet, although with the current system it may be a more efficient way to run things.

And what's with the junk food promotion? Look around and notice the national obesity scourge. Super-sizing and promoting rubbish food is so passe as to be ridiculous.
I suppose an express queue for those who want to watch the film without stuffing their faces is out of the question?

If I want to eat or drink, I am quite capable of doing so without the due consideration of others who wish to make a buck at the expense of my spreading girth.

Ditto the eager, smiling faces at the local service station. If I wanted three lots of sweets, or a crate of gum for the price of a single packet, I'd go for it. I don't need to be invited to be a pig.

Fleeing the Nest

Times are tough when you can’t leave the house for a few days without worrying about the ferals at home. But that’s what happens when the beloveds grow up a bit and you hit the tricky period when kids deem themselves too old to be left with a babysitter, but are not necessarily wise enough to understand the ramifications of parent free gatherings. Teenagers don’t give a toss when it comes to parental sanity or a peaceful relationship with elderly neighbours.

Why F.A.T is a Four Letter Word: http://www.abc.net.au/unleashed/45826.html

There’s a fat war raging and it relates to comments about body size from Mia Freedman, chair of the National Body Image Advisory Group and a subsequent response from ethicist Leslie Cannold.

Online fat activists are yelping about negative community attitudes towards obese people. Some have even called for Ms Freedman's dismissal.

Why can't we talk about obesity? Raise the issue and the speaker becomes a bigot or a hypocrite. Online sites allow freedom of expression to shoot the messenger. Better that than listen to a confronting message. Or should we continue to behave like the fashion industry and ignore the presence of widespread obesity?

A visiting alien might glance at a fashion magazine and wonder why skinny women feature in all the photos while fat women walk the streets. Most of the clothing shops near my house cater for pint-sized teenage girls. These businesses have come under fire in the past because they do not stock higher sizes. Walk inside and feel fat if you wear a size 12. Skin tight boob tubes and skirts which sit just under skinny little bottoms: anyone with normal curves can’t wear this fashion, let alone the obese.

If your daughter aspires to be fashionable and shop in these places, be afraid as she leaves the house resembling an underfed prostitute.

One particularly seedy clothing chain has located its Sydney stores almost exclusively in the city, the eastern suburbs and the north shore. Perhaps the bosses don’t think fat woman live in these neighbourhoods. They would be correct.

Interestingly, the fat lobby has made noises about this issue. They seek attention on matters relating to obesity, but only when it suits them.

There is an elephant in the corner and it is trumpeting a message. Obesity is a class issue.

Thankfully a recent study has shown small improvements in obesity levels among preschoolers. Boyd Swinburn, the director of the World Health Organisation Collaborating Centre for Obesity Prevention at Deakin University, said the fall began after childhood obesity started to receive attention in the early 2000s.

Children from poorer families have benefited most from the turnaround. Among the most disadvantaged two-year-olds, the prevalence of obesity fell slightly between 1999 and 2007.This is welcome news, but what happens when preschoolers grow up?

A Victorian Government website is careful to note that “people with lower levels of education and lower incomes are more likely to be overweight or obese. This may be because they have less opportunity to eat healthy foods and take part in physical activities”.

No judgement here, but the facts speak for themselves. Next time anyone comments about all those fat people in America, be sure to laugh. That country is full of them, but just as there are very few fat people in affluent San Francisco or Manhattan, there aren’t too many in Sydney’s wealthier suburbs either.

If you want to find fat people, stroll through the foyer of your local public hospital. Hop in the lift, find a ward and check out the bloated bodies lying in the beds. It is truly frightening. It is as if you have entered the sick bay on Land of the Giants. The health system is clogged full of seriously overweight people, but when their doctors advise weight loss, some will go shopping and find another GP with a more forgiving bedside manner.

The latest medical drama in NSW is the $1.5 million which the Health Department has just dished out for five new “mega-lift” ambulances to transport people who weigh more than 180 kilograms and who cannot fit on a normal ambulance stretcher. There were 45 patients this size in 2002. By 2008 this number had risen to 576.

I am not suggesting a public flogging, but this nation needs to face up to its rapidly growing obesity problem. There is no point heckling the brave who dare to speak.

Perhaps we should cancel cooking shows and replace them with weekly episodes featuring Stephanie Alexander’s Kitchen Garden Programme which began in 2001 and has since been rolled out in 180 primary schools across all states and territories of Australia. This wise chef is putting her energy into educating children about the goodness, satisfaction and joy around home cooking with healthy produce. One campaigner’s antidote to Maccas. God bless her.

Some might recall Norm from the 'Life Be in It' campaign launched 35 years ago. That little guy was supposed to reflect the inactivity, obesity and lethargy problems endemic in our community. We were supposed to recognise the Norm in all of us. He was popular because he had a sense of humour. We could relate to him. He was credible and like a lot of Australians back then, he made his point in a light-hearted fashion.

Guess what happened to Norm? People started to copy his "couch potato" approach.

A Good Bargain and a Glass of Milk

Finding a bargain out there in consumer land has never been trickier. Every dollar saved brings on a crisis of conscience.

Lately I reflect on some items I buy and I am infused with guilt. Never before has shopping involved so much introspection and deliberation. Bargain hunting is selfish these days. We must consider the plight of others.

First of all: online book shopping. Many book lovers I know use a UK-based bookstore which sends cheap books, postage free. I have bought books from there once or twice, but guilt, impatience and a preference for shopping at a local haven has stymied massive bargain hunting online. I don’t want to wait the usual three weeks to receive a book and nothing beats a coffee and a wander around the local bookshop. My personal preference means I pay up to $20 more for each book purchased in the sweet old-fashioned way.

My gesture is too little, too late. Several weeks ago I received a plaintive email from the local bookshop proprietor who cited a convergence of crises plaguing the industry, including the online shopping boom, the strength of the Australian dollar and the proliferation of e-readers as her reasons for closing.

She hopes the industry survives this state of flux and signs off with the heart-rending “I love my bookshop and I’m sorry we don’t have a home now; I’ve loved every second of it”.

I feel sad about the loss of her business. Not to mention that every shopping precinct large or small is enhanced by a bookshop and the landscape around here doesn’t need another convenience store or homewares outlet.

Now it’s milk. Personally I can’t stand the stuff. I drink it because it’s good for my bones and because calcium tablets make me feel ill. I pour it into my tea and order it skim in the daily flat white, but don’t wait for me to guzzle a glass. One whiff and I feel queasy. My friend who feeds soy milk to her chubby baby says we shouldn’t drink milk because we are not cows. It’s evil stuff really. I only ever drink small amounts, but I still have a cholesterol problem. And no, it’s not the butter cheese, cakes or biscuits that sends my “big C” rising. I’m a dietary saint. I don’t eat that rubbish (very often).

It’s not enough that I drink milk because apparently I need it. Now I feel guilty about it. Last time I filled up the car, the very pleasant chap behind the counter interrogated me.

“Gum, lollies, chips? What about a drink?” Just as I almost barked “if I wanted to buy junk food, I would, with or without your kind invitation” I spied the chilled section, and contained within it, the bargain of the moment: Milk: two for the price of one.

This is a saving of $4, and it’s rare these days to save that amount on a single food item. I grabbed two. I should have grabbed four, given the number of banana smoothies the beefed up 19-year-old consumes.

I drove home wondering where the golden infused moment went. You know, when you snare a bargain and feel pure joy; a light, floating sensation, as if you’ve won Lotto, not that I ever have. I felt it this morning, birthday shopping with the baby. Whilst she threw chunky scarves around her pretty neck, I grabbed a “three for $10” offer on exotic bubble bath, usually retailing at $24.95 a bottle. Pretty, sweet smelling and always good for presents. Eureka! But whose livelihood have I compromised, pouncing greedily on this fabulous little bargain?

Back to the milk. With the senate inquiry into milk price wars starting this week, I wonder about the rhetoric flying around at the moment. Coles would blame the multinational milk processing companies but isn’t sure that lower milk prices will hurt the dairy industry anyway. For them $1 a litre is a magnanimous gesture, giving best-value milk to customers.

Coles and Woolworths may practice blinkered vision but I cannot imagine how those bargain bottles of milk in my fridge can help our farmers, battling to stay upright in this vicious market economy.

Fortunately Independent senator Nick Xenophon agrees. He initiated the upper house inquiry.

"The risk is that the Australian industry is at the tipping point of having mass walkouts from farms around the country, particularly in North Queensland," he said.

"Coles needs to explain themselves to the Australian people in terms of their conduct and behaviour."

If a bargain is all you care about and bugger the farmers, don’t expect your daily caffeine dose to drop in price any time soon. Baristas aren’t happy about cheap milk which they believe is watered down and decidedly dodgy. Nothing froths better than the expensive stuff.

I have always needed an excuse to support the local grocer. Wasting my valuable time driving to the supermarket mall, guzzling petrol and polluting the air has never felt enough. Now I can happily say I’m supporting the farmers. I am also supporting a local treasure: Sam, father of four, sports lover extraordinaire and keeper of all good things, including his mother’s home made baklava and all the local gossip.

Guilt free shopping. Expensive, but worth it.