Brisbane perspectives.

I'm sitting beside the Brisbane River enjoying the sunny view and a cafe latte. (Brisbane finally knows how to make them.) I'd forgotten how much brighter than Melbourne the mornings are. Sleeping past 7:30am without comprehensive blackout curtains, even in May, is an impossibility. So even though my breakfast date is  not until 11am, I'm up, checked out and sitting by the river.

A favourite thing of mine is to visit markets and the Brisbane Riverside Markets were a huge sprawling cornucopia of handmade artisan wares. I expected to easily fill an hour and half but have been disappointed. Perhaps twenty stalls exist, some of them lovely, but most selling junk. Perhaps the online shopping revolution has hit here too.

The Story Bridge looks more serious by day. Its structure black and grim, contrasting with the clear blue sky and sparkling water. The river beneath is busy with traffic - ferris zigzagging from one side to another while cars cross the river above.

Just before 10am my phone tells me it's currently 22 degrees Celsius, yet a man sits at a nearby table wearing the strange combination of skimpy shorts, thongs and a polar fleece jacket. I'd forgotten the craving for seasons that one gets living somewhere like this. During the week, I saw women on their way to work defiantly wearing knee-high boots, scarves and coats. I watched them, dressed in a summer dress.

As I walked in this morning, the river was on my left and the skyscrapers loomed on the right, their footprints substantial, standing solidly, in contrast to the mercurial water opposite. They look so clean and impossible. It must be the space around them that makes them seem bigger than anything in Melbourne.

Three metres from where I sit, a white-haired woman has paid a woman with a matching hair-do to tell her fortune. Her husband has opened his wallet, handed over the cash  - and his wife - and made himself scarce. The two women look like old friends meeting for coffee.

My weekend has been filled with friends and food. I love living in Melbourne but I do feel a tug whenever I come back to Brisbane!

Refractions
© 2014 divacultura 

Refractions II
© 2014 divacultura

How was your weekend?

What I'm wondering

I'm wondering why I keep receiving notification that peak hour train services have been cancelled due to "driver training". Surely there's a better time to train.

I'm wondering why big organisations pass the buck and fail to take responsibility and help customers (ie citizens, the public).

I'm wondering how to extricate myself from a whirlpool of buck passing.

I'm wondering why hotel bathrooms are lit to make me look at least thirty years older than I am.

I'm wondering why caterers think that luke warm water is any way to make a decent cup of tea.

I'm wondering why rice paper rolls marked as "nut free" contained walnuts - the nut to which I'm most allergic. (I can answer this one, partially...because the chicken mix from the sandwiches was used to make the rolls and the chicken mix from the sandwiches contained walnuts. Still doesn't explain the sign.)

I'm wondering why there are still people in the catering business who think that food allergies are not serious, that is potentially life threatening.

I'm wondering why a person who has requested "fructose free" food is served a plate of fruit at morning tea. Sigh. It is marginally better than cake.

I'm wondering why I have to fight so hard to be paid for my services on a regular basis.

I'm wondering why I didn't decide sooner to call it quits with a couple of clients who are bad payers.

I'm wondering why people (ie politicians) don't take responsibility for their decisions to do something different from what they "promised" in the election campaign.

I'm wondering whether there's a definition of "promise" of which I'm unaware.

I'm wondering why people don't listen.

I was wondering why a nurse working in a health care organisation was doing theatre reviews until I realised that I'm the only embedded creative and that her theatre always involves blood, while mine involves blood only sometimes.

What are you wondering about?

* Posts will be erratic this week due to other commitments. *

What are you afraid of? - leadership action

Don't be afraid of what will happen if you act. Be afraid of what will happen if you don't act.

I've found myself having this conversation a lot lately. Leaders tell me that they haven't tackled something they know they should, because they're scared or worried about a reaction. I ask them about what that reaction is likely to be and they describe another person's bad or immature behaviour. They'd rather battle on - and force their team to battle on -  than address a problem.

When I ask what will happen if they do nothing, eye contact is broken, they get a guilty look and then they tell me they know they should do something, but they are gripped by fear.

I ask again - what will happen if you don't act? - and keep asking until they face themselves. Eventually they realise that doing nothing about a problem is worse for everyone.

Sometimes they tell me stories about how they've inherited a problem and that a person has been allowed to get away with certain things for a long time. They tell me these stories, manifesting frustration and blaming the others who came before them and did nothing.

I then ask whether they are about to be the next person who does nothing or will they be the person to make the choice to act?

Some people make the decision to act at that point, others need another nudge, so I tap into their empathy.

"Imagine if you were that person, acting and believing you're doing okay, but actually there are major problems that everyone else knows about, but no one has ever respected you enough to talk to you about it."

It's easy to make excuses when the path of action is challenging. It's easier to do almost everything else when you've made an effort to address problems that need fixing.

I've realised this week while working with another group of leaders that I've brought my activist mindset with me. To me, the business of leading is about acting in a way that sets your people free to do their best work. The key is that leadership is an action, not a noun. It's not a title or a name on a business card. It's action framed by mindset. In any setting.

Are you taking action? What are you avoiding? What are you afraid of?

To shake or not to shake.

I offended people today. A split second later, everyone was okay and I had their undivided attention.

I'm facilitating leadership development for the next couple of days and I usually greet each participant with a smile and a handshake. Today, I refused the offers of hands to shake on the grounds of social responsibility. I'm still struggling with a head cold and so my hands are constantly handling tissues that I've used and covering my mouth and nose when I sneeze and cough, if I don't have a tissue handy. I know that a lack of hand hygiene is one of the best ways to share germs.

The reaction of people whose hands I refused to shake, was interesting. After an initial moment of uncertainty and offence (in one case), I was then thanked for my consideration.

I know how I've felt when offered the hand that I've just seen used to wipe a nose or a mouth, or handle a used tissue: I don't want to shake the hand. Being put in a position where the dirty hand is offered and then it's shake or refuse, is awkward. I'd say it's far better to be proactive and protect others by being as mean as possible with your germs.

I also hope that those whose hands I didn't shake today will consider their own actions the next time they are afflicted with a head cold.

Something else happened as a result of my choice today. The first impression people had of me was of a considerate and respectful person - because I didn't shake hands. It seems counter-intuitive, but shows that sometimes it's worth consciously breaking with convention.

I'm off - the tissue box is calling.

when do you shake hands?

Cold season - excuse for TV marathon.

This weekend has been a write-off. I left the house once, today, in search of food and cold medication. I've got one of those really annoying head colds; the kind where your head feels full of fluid, your ears are itchy and every time you sneeze, it's both a relief and a violent act. It started with a sore throat yesterday. That's gone today, so hopefully I might feel reasonable by tomorrow morning.

So what is one to do when it's cold and wet outside and you're sick? Fire up the Blu-Ray player and surrender.

Yesterday started with The Master, starring Phillip Seymour Hoffman, Joaquin Phoenix and Amy Adams. It's apparently about the beginnings of Scientology. It's a curious film, with fine performances and a very slow pace. The slow pace suited the cotton wool in my head. I'm not sure I would have coped with the 144 minute duration otherwise.

Next came the first three episodes of The Americans, a television spy drama about Russian sleeper spies living in the US while Reagan was President. I was a bit non-plussed and was beginning to wonder whether I should abandon watching anything while ill.

Then I dusted off the Danish political drama, Borgen (Danish for "government") and was gripped from the very first moment. It's the story of a woman's rise to be Prime Minister after negotiating complex deals with coalition partners to lead a minority government. Sound familiar? I kept thinking about our former Prime Minister, Julia Gillard and wondered if she's seen it. I suppose it's a bit like a Danish version of The West Wing. (I had to swap my knitting for something I can do without watching or thinking, so I can read the subtitles.) I don't know why I waited so long.

Now, I'm waiting for The Voice to start and the latest dose of cold tablets to stop my nose running, the sneezing and the blocked ears.

Off to facilitate a leadership program tomorrow. Early to bed.

How are you?

Curious people - on the trains today

Travelling home on the train tonight I saw a curious thing. That's not unusual, but I've never seen this before.

The train itself was a model with the articulated joins between carriages. You know the ones? They have sides like a piano accordion and a round platform in the middle of the join. In the middle of this platform, a man stood. Unusually for a peak hour train, there were plenty of seats available so it was a little strange that he would choose to stand, but even stranger that he would choose to stand there. He was wearing a serious blue suit, pin-striped and immaculate. He looked to be in his early 50's. He was looking at his mobile phone, holding an umbrella with his other hand and not hanging on to anything.

I watched him, fascinated. It was a rough ride standing where he was standing. Even if he didn't want to sit, there was plenty of space to stand up in the aisle. At one point, he could have been a surfer out on the waves. I wonder whether he is a surfer and was taking the opportunity to practise his balancing techniques.

The train lurched wildly as it moved from one line to another. The man almost toppled over. He righted himself, but continued to travel in the articulated join.

I stopped watching him when a 50 year old woman sat opposite me wearing a jumper with repeated pictures of Bart Simpson all over it. Eye searing is the only description. The woman wearing it wasn't exactly svelte.

What curious sightings did you have today?

We've boundless plains to share - lest we forget

The alarm went off at 4:45am and I was immediately awake, despite being mid-dream. I could hear light rain falling on the corrugated roof and my resolve to attend the ANZAC Day dawn service in Tamworth nearly crumbled. I pressed on. We drove through the streets, deserted until we neared ANZAC Park, found a park and walked towards the crowd assembled in the pre-dawn.

Wreaths laid in Tamworth at the dawn service for ANZAC Day.
Copyright 2014 divacultura

The rain had stopped. The service was conducted with moving simplicity. The crowd was asked to join in for the hymn, "Abide with Me". I did, but couldn't hear many others. The bugler played "The Last Post", lacking power, volume and confidence, but adding in lots of notes not usually heard in the piece. (Bugles are very hard to play, especially if you're nervous or emotional.) The gentle morning warble of magpies filled the silences.

A piper played something I didn't recognise on the bagpipes and the kookaburras thought it was hilarious. My brother and I found that hilarious and had to avoid looking at each other to avoid ruining the solemnity of the moment. Meanwhile the kookaburras laughed and laughed and laughed.

Both verses of the national anthem, "Advance Australia Fair" were sung, including the lines about welcoming people who come here from across the sea: "we've boundless plains to share". There were a few more voices joining in this time.

Flag at half mast as the dawn breaks in Tamworth this morning.
Copyright 2014 divacultura

We dispersed just as the sky was beginning to lighten. People staying to talk, look at the wreaths, while others took off to find their sometimes precariously parked cars.

We went back into town later for the march down Peel Street. As the bands played, the servicemen and women, and children from every school in Tamworth, paraded before an appreciative crowd. Overhead, planes flew in a formation that looked like the outline of an aeroplane itself. Tiny children, weighed down by the medals of a deceased relative, walked restlessly; others looked curiously at the crowd while waving, delighted to receive the occasional reciprocal wave.

I was heartened to hear that all but a handful of Australia's servicemen and women are back home. I hope the others return soon and that there is no need for them to go away again unless in a community assistance role. We are fortunate. I hope that today's reflection may cause our community to be appreciative of the fact that our citizens can generally live safely and peacefully, acknowledging that this is not the case for all people in the world.  I hope that we can extend our hands to those people and be true to the words of our national anthem. Lest we forget.

Advance Australia Fair

Australians all let us rejoice,

For we are young and free;

We’ve golden soil and wealth for toil;

Our home is girt by sea;

Our land abounds in nature’s gifts

Of beauty rich and rare;

In history’s page, let every stage

Advance Australia Fair.

In joyful strains then let us sing,

Advance Australia Fair.

Beneath our radiant Southern Cross

We’ll toil with hearts and hands;

To make this Commonwealth of ours

Renowned of all the lands;

For those who’ve come across the seas

We’ve boundless plains to share;

With courage let us all combine

To Advance Australia Fair.

In joyful strains then let us sing,

Advance Australia Fair.

Talking to the animals

Whenever I visit my family I am surrounded by animals of all kinds. It's a welcome change from my urban life, where I admire other people's dogs from afar. 

Sometime yesterday one of the heifers gave birth to a female calf, chocolate brown with soft curls. Her mother seemed to take little interest and the calf was left alone, breathing heavily and rapidly. The calf was able to stand up but seemed exhausted by the effort. Meanwhile the mother looked on and moved away whenever the calf approached. The calf sniffed my legs and groin, imagining that I might have milk to offer. I didn't. Somehow, the calf managed to attach herself to the mother's udder, but this was short lived when the mother wandered off. 

Another cow tried to nudge the calf towards its mother. The calf responded by trying to drink from it. 

We decided to separate the cow and her calf from the rest of the herd. We got them into a separate paddock, carrying the calf part of the way. While the calf rested in the shade of a tree, the mother bellowed and stared at us but made no move to be near her calf.  We ran her up along the fence line towards a smaller yard and then the cow climbed over the fence - back into the paddock from which we'd just removed her! A horse was saddled and the job finally completed. 

I've named the calf "Kylie", even though she's not mine to name. I hope it sticks and I hope she makes it.

Checking each other out.
Copyright 2014 divacultura

We tried to feed Kylie on the bottle but she didn't like that much either. 

Trying the bottle.
Copyright 2014 divacultura

I decided that Shirley the lamb was a better prospect as I explained she would one day help me knit a jumper!

Shirley the lamb
Copyright 2014 divacultura 

Lolling about with a novel - holiday bliss.

Yesterday I did something I haven't done in a while. I spent the whole day reading a novel. The novel in question was "The Goldfinch" by Donna Tartt, winner of this year's Pulitzer Prize for literature. The last thing I did before sleep the night before was read more pages. I reluctantly stopped for sleep.  The first thing I did upon waking was reach for the book. I stopped for breakfast and then placed a chair on the verandah to take advantage of the autumn sunshine and took my spot. I stopped for lunch and then finished at about 4pm. I raced towards the end because I was so engrossed in the story. Upon finishing I felt simultaneously satisfied - as if I had just finished a delicious meal - and bereft, because the story was gone. 

I think "The Goldfinch" is my new favourite book of all time. 

It's a long time since I've been free to completely absorb myself with a novel in this way. It's also been a while since I have loved a novel so much that I feel part of the story. It reminds me of Easter holidays long gone. 

Returning home from boarding school or university, it was nothing for me to stay in bed with a big novel. I read Peter Carey's "Oscar and Lucinda" and "Illywhacker" in single, day-long sessions, emerging bleary-eyed and jet-lagged from my trip into other places through the pages of a book. 

Taking literature subjects at university, with their demanding reading lists, meant homework was a pleasure, even if the choice of what to read next was dictated by upcoming assessments. 

I find the choice of "what's next" after such a big, satisfying book as "The Goldfinch" difficult. After such absorption and connection with one writer I find the switch to another author can be jarring. My choice this time is a slimmer book: "The Italian Girl" by Iris Murdoch - my book group's next choice. The gears changed as I opened to the first page and began the task of reorientation. They are still grinding a little, but I'm sure we'll settle in together. 

Having finished the novel, I now understand a conversation I had with my local Yarraville bookseller about the Booker Prize winning "The Luminaries" by Eleanor Catton - another big, fat book which I enjoyed immensely. The bookseller hadn't enjoyed "The Luminaries" because she was part way through "The Goldfinch" when she grabbed it to take on her Christmas holidays. She was dismayed to discover she had the wrong book and was forced to commence "The Luminaries" while she was stranded, remote from her copy of "The Goldfinch". Devastation! Disappointment! Frustration! Restlessness! All would have ensued. 

I'm amazed that in such a busy year I've managed to finish two huge novels - along with six others!

How do you like to read? What are you reading now? What's your favourite book?

My view from the verandah. The aeroplanes were very busy. 

Copyright 2014 divacultura

Superannuation - what's your name again?

I've made some progress on my superannuation campaign! I've also been stuck in another bureaucratic loop.

The good news is that I've received a refund of insurance premiums and fees. It's a small amount of money but an important acknowledgement that other people were spending my money in a way I had not authorised and that is of no benefit to me.

In the meantime, the Australian Tax Office is investigating whether I've been denied choice of superannuation fund under the requirements of the superannuation choice legislation. I suspect I know what the answer will be, but it's all part of amassing evidence to then mount an argument and perhaps broaden the campaign.

My local members of parliament will soon be hearing from me.

Today I received a letter from the UniSuper Fund thanking me for my request to change my membership details. They then went on to note my new name and new address.  I've had the same name since birth and the same mailing address for fourteen years, so I was a little concerned. I rang the fund and was advised that the university HR department had changed my details.

"Change them back please," I said.

"We can't do that over the phone," came the reply from Alice.

"Why not?"

"Only the university HR department can change those details. You need to speak to them."

"Am I the owner of the account?" I asked.

"Yes."

"If there was money in the account, would that money belong to me?"

"Yes."

"Why can someone who is not me change my name and address?"

...silence...

"You'll need to speak to HR. I can't do anything."

Maybe I'm feeling a bit sensitive after having to convince another employer on the weekend about what my name is. There was no folder with my name on it. Several people pointed me to the folder with the right first name, but the wrong surname.

"Oh, you're not Tanya Frew?"

"No I'm not."

"Are you sure?"

I have no patience for conversations like that.

I refuse to be sent back into the bureaucratic haze of buck passing between the employer and the superannuation fund. I insisted that the details be fixed. Alice just called back and told me the problem had been rectified. It's amazing what becomes possible when you persist, sound like you know what you're talking about and sound like you mean it.

I'll be calling the university HR department tomorrow to remove any authority for them to make changes to my account. I'll also be asking for details of the authority that they had to make the changes in the first place. That should be interesting.

In the course of the call, I've discovered that my account has been reopened, but no money has been paid in. It is set up without insurance attached, so that tells me that someone, somewhere is listening.

I'm a supporter of compulsory superannuation, but won't accept this distortion of the system.  Stay tuned.

To borrow a phrase - I can't stand the rain

It's raining in Melbourne. It's been raining solidly for the last couple of days. Apparentlly we've received our monthly rainfall in a couple of days. I forget which month. It's a bit wearing, travelling around, hauling umbrellas, avoiding others' umbrellas, being constantly damp, managing frizzy hair, but it's been lovely to see the grass green again.

I've been persisting with my daily walk. The trains and trams are so stuffy and humid that it's actually nicer to be out in the air, even if you are a bit damp and your hair has turned into a fuzz ball. In one spot where I walk there is a glorious stand of eucalyptus trees. I pause to take in the scent. I also notice the bubbles forming on the puddles and feel sorry for the people trapped in their cars, lined up and going no where.

I've been puzzled by the people I've seen hunched over, as if they are making themselves so small, they would fit between the raindrops. In one hand they clutch an umbrella. Why don't they open it and take shelter?

Umbrellas are particularly hazardous when boarding and alighting from trains and trams. I was nearly stabbed to death by a small Asian woman who suddenly changed direction while we waited to touch off our mykis on the way out of the station. I stood very still and she looked terrified.

All the floors are slippery and I walk like a 90 year-old woman everywhere I see a smooth service. Since my fall last year, I'm acutely aware of how a simple fall can cause serious injury. I'm constantly surprised by how many walking surfaces are completely unsuited to wet weather and rushing crowds of people.

This morning's commute was chaotic. Power failures further down the line meant cancellations and delays. As the train pulled into the station 15 minutes late, the windows were dark with crowds inside and fogged with all their breathing. I insinuated myself into an inadequate space, having already let one train pass. I held onto an overhead railing at an angle just wrong enough to make me feel discombobulated when I finally arrived at my destination.

Coming home a woman asked whether station announcements are made on the train.

"Sometimes," I told her. "If you're lucky, they might even be accurate."

She looked at me like I was some kind of zealot.

Soon the voice of Metro trains announced that the next station was Seddon. It wasn't. It was South Kensington. Only two stops out. The woman looked at me with mistrust when I told her where to get off. The train, I mean. I shrugged. She could trust me - a stranger on a train - or she could trust the disembodied, malfunctioning woman with the voice. Or she could look out the window and see the name of the station.

It's nice to arrive home to a dry place; although I'm slightly nervous that the unattended hole in the ceiling will soon prove to be catastrophic.

As I settle in to watch Survivor tonight, I'm reminded to be glad that I'm not camping on a beach, even if I was in the running to win a million dollars. Or in north Queensland waiting for the cyclone to arrive.

How do you feel about rain?

In concert - Bernadette Peters

I spent last night with Broadway star Bernadette Peters in concert. I saw her a few years ago at the Sydney Opera House and remember being a little disappointed. I put it down to the dodgy acoustics. When she came out and started with "Let me Entertain You" from the musical Gypsy, I wondered if it wasn't the hall that was the problem last time.

Before the show I struck up a conversation with a woman whose table I was sharing while I had a cup of coffee. She didn't really know who Bernadette Peters is and had won her ticket on the radio. I told her that she's 67 years old as the woman looked at her program. The woman told me that she hadn't looked as good as Bernadette when she was 25! I considered her now and believed this to be true.

Ms Peters looked fantastic wearing a spaghetti-strapped, soft lilac gown with just the right amount of sparkle and a split in the front of the skirt coupled with satin heels. She shimmied around the stage and wasn't always on the microphone.

Hamming it up during one of the best versions of "Fever" I've ever heard, the diva slinked her way up the stairs to lie on a black velvet pillow and strike a shapely drape on top of the piano, she sang the song with lust and wit accompanied by double bass and drums. Yes! This was great performance.

Charming conversation interspersed the evening. "Joanna" from Sweeney Todd started with a cracked note, but improved from there. I started to get a bit twitchy and then I realised what the problem was. Bernadette Peters is much more an actress who sings, than a singer who acts. She is at her best when there's an emotional or comic element to the song. Listening to her sing is not enough and will be a disappointing experience. If you can absorb yourself in the emotion of the performance, then the experience is sublime. Losing my Mind from Stephen Sondeheim's Follies was extraordinarily emotional and like watching someone have a break down driven by the grief of a broken relationship.

The show ended with the big Sondheim song, Being Alive from Company, full of hope (and a fluffed lyric or two).

For encore, Peter Allen's song "I Honestly Love You" left me with tears overflowing. She then shared "Kramer's Song" a song she wrote as part of a children's book written for an animal shelter charity. Kramer is her dog and it was lovely.

I'd love to see Bernadette Peters in a show, rather than just in concert. It must be incredible.

Were you there at Her Majesty's Theatre last night? Have you seen Bernadette Peters? What did you think?

You must want this - because we're telling you you do!

On my way home this evening I walked past the H & M store which opened in Melbourne's old GPO building in Bourke Street on Saturday. Until this week, I had never heard of H & M. Apparently they are a Swedish clothing retailer and we're supposed to be beside ourselves with excitement.

By the middle of last week, builders were putting the final touches to the building and installing red carpets, velvet ropes, spotlights and marquees. There was also a huge digital clock counting down the very seconds until our deprivation would be ended and Melbourne would have the only H & M store in Australia. I watched as two young women shooed the fifty-year old male security guard behind a pillar so they could take photographs of the front entry (before the store opened). A whippet thin, spray tanned PR blond standing nearby smirked as she tried to operate her phone with her stupidly long fake fingernails.

Since the opening on Saturday, people have been queuing for hours to gain entry. To a shop. That's right, people have been lining up for hours so they can go into a shop. If it was World War II and we were in Leningrad, then this might be appropriate if the shop was a bakery or supermarket, but it isn't. Presumably all of the merchandise inside the shop is only a click away from the comfort of bed if your ipad is handy. Amongst all the groaning about the demise of bricks and mortar retailers, the hype seems ridiculous.

On Saturday there was a DJ inside Flinders Street Station. That was nice, but it didn't inspire me to go and stand in a line for hours. Banners at Southern Cross Station told me that the moment I'd been waiting for had arrived!

I wonder what it's like inside and whether there are crowds of people and the restriction of numbers is just to keep the queue in place, with the double effect of scarcity and desirability sending the message that everyone needs to be there.

A quick look at their website suggests that it's Swedish Target or Big W. I suppose that's handy, but it's not enough for me to stand in a line for hours. I would have trouble doing this for the Leningrad Bakery, I'm certainly not doing it now.

The last time I queued was Expo 88 in Brisbane. The whole city learned how to queue for hours at Expo. It was so well-organised and there was passing entertainment, that you didn't mind. You knew that it was only going to be there for 6 months, so there was a now or never aspect to it. Word got out very quickly about what was worth queuing for and logically, the places that were worth the wait always had a wait. I haven't heard that H & M is a pop up shop and will be gone soon. I can just wait until the day I can just walk in the door. I expect to be as underwhelmed as I was when Zara opened at the other end of the mall.

I wonder how long the velvet ropes and security guards will last? Have you been to H & M? What's it like? What are you willing to queue for?

What I'm saying "thank you" for this week.

This morning I woke up at 5am, forty-five minutes before my alarm was set to go off. I'm grateful because it gave me time to wash my hair and still be at work on time. I felt better about myself today.

Thank you.

A participant in the program I have been facilitating this week, bowled up to me at the end of the two days, looked in my eyes, smiled and told me that I had really inspired him.

Thank you.

Another participant told me that he had realised that he has been badly behaved at work. He also told me that his behaviour had been bad for 40 years and no one had ever told him. He told me that he now knows he needs to change. He told me he needs help because he doesn't know how to make the change. I felt privileged to be the person he confided in. I had thought he would be difficult to deal with, but I had really enjoyed his participation. I told him so.

Thank you.

I was to meet a friend who is visiting Melbourne this evening. He received an invitation relevant to the conference he's here attending and had to change our plans. We're meeting tomorrow for lunch. I'll be much fresher and awake! (I'm very tired this evening.) I now get a bonus early night and still get to see my friend.

Thank you.

Listening to the story of a boy who fled Afghanistan at the age of 14 after his father was murdered and spent a year in immigration detention on Christmas Island, I thought about what I was doing when I was fourteen. I was at school. I was starring in the school musical. I was playing music. I was reading novels. I was hanging out with friends and writing letters to my pen pals. I don't think I would have been able travel alone to the other side of the planet and start a new life. This boy is now vice captain at his school and is relishing the opportunity he has to sit exams.

Thank you.

Lastly, I'm grateful for Survivor. Last night was sensational viewing in the Beauty, Brawn and Brains season. The show gave me a point of connection with one of the less engaged participants at today's workshop. I also had a fabulous debrief on the phone afterwards with one of my friends. (For the record, Cass did her dash last night and LJ is very nice to have around.)

Thank you.

And lastly, always, thank you for the music. This week I've been listening to Max Richter's The Four Seasons Recomposed and The Fray's album "Helios".


What are you saying "thank you" for this week?

"Sorry" - pondering the art of the apology

Lately I've been thinking about apologies. I think this is partly because the evening news is filled with stories of the day's proceedings at the Royal Commission into Institutional Responses to Child Sexual Abuse.

The personal stories are harrowing and I find it difficult to comprehend that what now seems like an epidemic was hidden for so long. The stories are also littered with brave souls deciding to speak up and then being further victimised in the way the institutions responded to the complaint. Often one of the things being sought was an apology. Frequently, the institution receiving the complaint was a faith based organisation. I can imagine these organisations are proud of values like compassion, respect, justice and empathy. Money was usually offered and usually rejected as the apology remained missing in action.

Australia's most senior Roman Catholic, Cardinal George Pell, recently apologised to abuse victim John Ellis. As I watched, I didn't notice what was said because I was so overwhelmed by the fact that he wasn't looking at the person to whom he was apologising. It just looked like a person going through the expected steps, rather than demonstrating any heart connection. (I can't judge intention, but am reflecting on what was being transmitted on the visual communication channel.)

Tonight I also heard that two years ago, the British Prime Minister, David Cameron, apologised to the families of people killed at the Hillsborough soccer stadium twenty-five years ago.

Apologies are so often sought. I wonder at the satisfaction when they are received. What is the essential quality that causes the apology to be received in a way that it goes some way to repair damage and hurt?

Australia has its own long record of grappling with the question of saying sorry to our indigenous people. I could always embrace the idea that one should be offered because it just seemed like the decent thing to do. In February I was listening to the radio in the car, while I drove across town. The show was being broadcast from a concert to mark the anniversary of the apology which was eventually delivered by Prime Minister Kevin Rudd. Kutcha Edwards talked about the wound that indigenous Australians have as a result of the removal of children (the stolen generations). He talked about that when you're wounded you have less capacity to deal with further pain; while ever that wound is left unattended it will fester and ache and ooze and weep. The wound needs to be tended to, so that it can begin to heal.

I listened and the tears rolled. It was the most humble and sensible description I had ever heard.

We know the power of words - to heal or inflict pain - so why is it so hard to say sorry with truth and sincerity? Perhaps it' s the surrender of the ego as wrongdoing is admitted. In order to reach this point, empathy needs to be felt and demonstrated.

Kutcha Edwards also made me rethink my working definition of empathy when the broadcaster raised the family metaphor of "walking in another's shoes". Mr Edwards pounced and said that this was not enough; the understanding needs to be deepened so there is appreciation for why a person is in a particular pair of shoes.

Yes!

I was in Federation Square in Melbourne, as the community gathered together to hear the Prime Minister apologise on behalf of white Australians. I cried. I stood amongst others who were also moved.

Prime Minister Julia Gillard also apologised to mothers and their children who were separated at birth through policies of enforced adoption. It was overshadowed by the internal political shenanigans of the Labor Party at the time, but I remember being just as moved.

It seems we have a lot to say sorry for as a country and probably as individuals too. Have you apologised lately? Perhaps you've received an apology - what made it work? or fail? 

Power dynamics and patient feedback

This morning I was working with one of the health sciences schools at a Melbourne university. I happened to be working with the same student I had a couple of weeks ago when my character was one day post-operative. I remembered the student, but I think he became confused as he wondered whether he was supposed to remember me (even though I was playing the same character). Sometimes what happens within a simulation takes on a life of its own.

The student who was working with me was professionally polite, but a little cold and formal. He needed to relax a little to build better rapport with my character who was gung-ho and very motivated to get on with her rehabilitation. In the feedback afterwards, I gave him a quick refresher on rapport building and he looked like he'd heard it all before.

The main thing I talked to him about though, was quite personal and is an example of why feedback from simulated patients is so powerful. The student had a cold and was sniffling and fighting nasal congestion throughout our consultation. On several occasions he apologised for his cold, which I noted as a sign that he was aware of what I might be noticing. Great. What wasn't so great was when he wiped his nose with his hand and then moved in to touch me as part of my treatment. I considered saying something during the consultation, but it didn't really fit with my character, so I suffered through the hand-to-nose-to-knee sequence several times, silently giving thanks that he wasn't my dentist.

When I gave the feedback he looked shocked and was very apologetic. He told me he wasn't aware that he'd been doing that. I know that hand hygiene receives heavy attention throughout health education and continues into the workplace, so I was surprised to see this behaviour. I suppose it highlights why there are signs everywhere with instructions about how to wash your hands or use hand sanitiser properly. (Don't forget to do the back of the hands too!)

I know that it would be rare for a real patient to tell their allied health professional to wash their hands after they wiped their nose. This is because of the power dynamics and powerful protocols in play, as we align to playing our designated roles.

How's your hand hygiene? Would you stop someone from treating you if they had wiped their nose just before touching you? 

Things I noticed this week

A city craft and fabric shop is in the midst of a closing down sale with all merchandise selling at half price. I went to stock up on knitting yarn.

While there, I spied a man who looked about fifty with a long roll of bright blue satin fabric under his arm and a steely look in his eye.

A young girl screamed with delight as she saw some horrendous, brightly coloured acrylic yarn, "OMG! OMG! OMG! Look mama!" Mama looked, but was having trouble meeting her daughter's level of enthusiasm.

While shopping, I asked another woman if she knew what was happening to the store - were they closing all together, or moving to another city location? The woman told me they were closing all together.

"Well that's a shame," I said, "but it's better for my bank balance!"

"You're such an optimist!" another woman told me. "I was feeling sad that the store is closing, but you've managed to find the up side."

"You're right - I am an optimist."

As I stood in the queue waiting to pay for my haul, a woman discussed her financial woes, loudly, on her mobile phone. She was going to talk to Centrelink about getting a loan as an advance on her welfare payment. That would come to about $1500 but by the time she paid everyone back the money she already owed them, there would only be $80 left. After she paid for the fabric she was buying in the sale, she'd only have, like, $20 left! She could not discuss further because she was about to be called up to pay for her purchase. I held my tongue.

*****

I've started to take my car to be cleaned at a nearby place that has a dozen young men working on the cars and a cafe for the car owners to sip on a latte and watch the work like members of the privileged class. I am always greeted promptly and enthusiastically and the coffee is excellent.

Today, when I arrived, one of the staff stormed past me, closely followed by the man in charge. The man in charge was intercepted by the man who had greeted me, and asked to make a recommendation on what the best service for my car would be today. He stopped, smiled, gave me and my car his full attention, recommended a wash and polish and then continued in pursuit of the other man.

As I walked up the stairs into the cafe, I heard a raised voice and saw the man who had stormed off, waving his arms and yelling at the man in charge. Something about just wanting to go off and have a smoke. The man in charge very calmly asked him not to raise his voice. The other man continued to wave his arms and yell. He was asked again, firmly and politely not to raise his voice. I turned and looked. The man in charge apologised and suggested I continue into the cafe to wait for my car. I did.

Sitting behind the glass window, I soon noticed the loud man arrive back on the scene and start work again. He looked willing. I wondered what was going on, but soon forgot that as I settled in to read the Sunday paper and my novel over a delicious cafe latte. Forty minutes flew by and soon the man in charge came and told me my car was ready - with a huge smile and a sense of pride.

I really like these guys. They seem to take real pleasure in their work and service and even if I pay quite a bit for it, I'm willing because the whole experience is so smooth and pleasant.

*****

Signs in workplace kitchens and rest rooms always fascinate me with their earnest futility.

This week in the women's toilets of one of the places where I was working I saw this sign:
"If you are brushing your teeth, please don't leave food particles in the sink. Thank you."

My mind boggled as I wondered what had led to that note. Perhaps someone had vomited. Imagine being unwell at work and followed closely by the workplace prefect, ever ready with a printed sign to tape to the mirror.

In the same rest room, behind the closed door of one of the stalls was this sign: "The state of these toilets has been leaving a lot to be desired. Please leave them neat and tidy and make sure you flush."

Everything looked perfectly okay when I was there. Maybe the sign was working, or there was some neat freak with too much time on their hands writing anonymous signs and posting them in the bathroom. I bet that if I visited the kitchen, there would be signs there too. Alas, I didn't get to see.

How are things with you?

The compulsion of the mobile phone - is that email really so important?

When I facilitate groups, I've noticed that the way I set up expectations about the use of personal devices like mobile phones, ipads, laptops has changed significantly. If I don't have an explicit conversation about boundaries and respect, then participants would be checking emails, facebook and tweeting throughout their learning sessions.

When I'm working with leaders, I talk about the messages they send to their team if they are consistently responsive to emails and phone messages. I ask whether they have faith in the team they have around them to carry on in their absence. Generally they nod and smile and tell me they have complete faith in their team. A few moments later, they'll be surreptitiously reading email under the desk.

Reading email on the phone under the desk is the same as picking your nose when you're driving the car: everyone can see what you're doing!

Why is it that the information and communication on our phones has apparently become more compelling than the interactions occurring beside us?

After setting up and gaining explicit agreement about phones being put away and only checked during breaks so that focus is intense, participants engaged and fellow students respected, usually people adhere to that agreement.  Sometimes, however, they don't. I know that this really gets under my skin and I need to make a choice about how I respond.

I'm now clear that when I've set boundaries, the group looks to me to help them hold those boundaries in place. If behaviour that is outside what the group has established occurs and is left unchecked by the leader (me) then very soon resentment will breed and the agreement will crumble.

Sometimes when I speak directly to someone about the boundaries and how they're outside them, they look to me to tell them what they should do. I don't. I remind them of where they are and what they've agreed and tell them that they need to make a choice that takes account of their commitment and respect for the group as well as their own needs. Mostly, they put the phone away and meet the needs of the group and their commitment to it.

And then at the end of the day, someone will shake my hand and say goodbye with the ipod already plugged in. Talk about feeling dismissed!

How do you manage the compulsion of the mobile phone?

Move over - where do you sit on public transport?

Lately I've been thinking about where people sit when they're on public transport, including how people interact with each other.

Increasingly I notice people sit on the empty seat nearest the aisle, even where the other two seats further from the aisle are empty. I then notice many other people standing, even when there are seats available. Other people do ask to access a seat. Often the response from people already seated is to remain where they are, forcing others to step over them to reach a seat.

I find it bizarre. I regularly request people to move over so I can sit. Mostly people respond by moving over and leaving the vacant seat more accessible for all of us. Once when someone didn't move and required me to crawl over their lap, I asked them where they were getting off the train. This enabled me to establish they were getting off after me and it just made sense for them to move over. They moved begrudgingly.

If you don't want to sit next to other people, either don't catch public transport, or don't take a seat.

This afternoon I had a different problem. I was seated and had a couple of bags on the floor behind my legs. A man sat opposite me and splayed his legs out, kicking me and my bags. I asked him to give me a moment, so I could rearrange things and it was as if I had not spoken. How weird! There we are, knees virtually pressed together and he can't hear me? Can't see me? Maybe if he acknowledges my existence in that moment of pressed together confinement, it will become overwhelmingly intimate and confronting. Better to not believe I even exist.

The other thing that drives me mad is people pressing me from behind as I stand aside to let passengers off the train, before I try and board. It's as if they think the train will leave before the one hundred people on the platform board. The same thing happens when trying to disembark during peak hour - people push from behind to get you out of the way. Then they press you up the escalators and press you through the turnstiles to exit the station.

Everyone needs to get on and off the train. We all need to travel together, so why not be courteous and considerate of each other as human beings? It's not difficult and you may even be rewarded by a smile and a thank you!

Where's your preferred travel spot on public transport? What's your strategy for securing a seat?

Discoveries - music sub-genres!

And we're back. Life has been overwhelmingly busy for the last couple of weeks and I haven't had the brain space to write. I've missed the discipline and noticed that I wasn't being as observant in the world either. Thanks to readers who have expressed grief at the lack of regular posts from divacultura. It's nice to be missed!

Yesterday I did something that I used to do all the time, but haven't done for ages. I went into a music shop and I bought a CD! I mainly buy my music online, but will buy CDs direct from artists when I attend a gig.

I'd just had lunch with a friend and we decided to have a post lunch wander. A nearby music shop, specialising in classical, jazz and soundtracks beckoned. Fatally, I plugged into the listening post and was seduced by long-buried Cuban dance music, West African desert music and something else that defies classification but is about birds. It was gorgeous. We even engaged in passionate and animated conversation with the staff member who knew about music and appreciated the conversation.

Having had a taste, we crossed one city block and went to a second hand vinyl and CD shop. The shop was located at the end of a narrow, grungy staircase and we were immediately in the middle of the Heavy Metal section. I decided to browse. This is one genre of music that holds no appeal for me. I just don't know how one accesses it to the point of appreciation. Obviously there is a way as many people embrace the form, but I just don't know what it is. Prior to yesterday, I was aware that there are a couple of sub-genres, for example, Death Metal and Thrash Metal. This section included others: Tech, Grindcore and Black. Most of the album covers were black or a variation on black. I might have been wearing a black jacket, but I felt like I couldn't have looked more incongruent if I had been wearing a cream cable knit jumper to a goth fest.

As I browsed, it struck me how difficult it must be to come up with a band name in the Metal area. Examples I noticed included: Trepanning (yes, that's usually a word that refers to drilling into the skull), Horrendous Injuries, Napalm Death, Cannibal Corpse. There are detailed descriptions of the various genres available on Wikipedia. It's actually fascinating and the drummers are incredible as they generally play very, very fast.

I moved to the next section and discovered a genre called "Krautrock". I'd never heard of this and it seems the genre was obscure to others as there was a helpful sign with information.  Krautrock was popular in the 1960's and 1970's and is a "mix of anglo-american post-psychedelic jamming and moody progressive rock". It originated in Germany, in case that wasn't obvious. It was also about challenging formulas, like the three chord patterns that dominate rock and pop music. I have no idea what it sounds like.

Over in the punk section, I was unsurprised to find albums with titles ranging from the prosaic "Shit gets smashed" to the more political, "Social Unrest". Right next door I discovered another genre: Stoner Doom. Sounds cheery. My online exploration has revealed that "doom" is a genre of its own and that there are the following subgenres: traditional, epic, stoner, sludge, funeral, drone, death and black.

There were many delightful curiosities: only 9 albums in the 20th Century section, but 10 items in the Spokenword and Poetry section. Nearby, I resisted purchasing my very own copy of the Chipmunks sing the Beatles. My friend resisted buying a record (yes, an LP) of French poems read in French. Neither of us has the space to store physical copies of joke recordings.

Aimless wandering and browsing in company is a great thing to do on a lazy Sunday afternoon. I remember doing this in bookstores too. Now I do it online at home by myself. Tweeting about a discovery or exclaiming over an album title just isn't fulfilling.

What musical discoveries have you made lately?

Cuban jazz gets feet tapping

Last night I had the great pleasure of hearing Cuban jazz pianist Roberto Fonseca play with his band at the Melbourne Recital Centre. Woooo-eeee! It was amazing.The only thing that would have made it more amazing would have been the space to get up and dance! Within the constraints of my chair, I was dancing anyway. The band was interesting - double bass/bass guitar, drum kit, a second percussionist with congas, djembes and various other things to hit and rattle (he also sang vocals occasionally) and kora, an African stringed gourd instrument. There was also clever use of recorded sounds and vocal tracks. They were a tight ensemble.

I was selling CDs afterwards (my friend is the tour promoter) and we sold every one in a flash. The album is the Grammy nominated "Yo".  I was so pumped after the show, it was hard to sleep.

Roberto is playing The Basement in Sydney tonight. Even if jazz isn't your thing, if you like music at all, this is a band to see and hear, they are an incredible ensemble.

Roberto Fonseca and me after the show.
© 2014 divacultura

Cultural intake - what I've been seeing and hearing lately

I've had a cultural kind of weekend.

Friday night, I went to the Melbourne Recital Centre to hear the Balanescu Quartet play. Well, it was quartet plus occasional drum kit and looped recorded sound. Visual interest was added with film, including projections on the back of the music stands. Perfect! This was always redundant space and it's great to see it used for something other than advertising!

Anytime I hear music played in Elisabeth Murdoch Hall it is magical. The sound is incredible, no matter what is being played.

On my daily walk past the Malthouse Theatre, and on my way to the Balanescu Quartet, I stopped in at the box office and bought a ticket to see Simon Stone's production, "The Government Inpsector".  It was to be a production of "The Philadelphia Story", but rights were refused and this production cleverly turns this rejection into an opportunity. I needed to see it out of curiosity, if nothing else.

I had the best seat in the house (centre front) and laughed myself sick for the duration. It was a matinee though and I wondered how the "language" would go down with the audience. I walked out still laughing, but noticed the rest of the audience seemed quiet, reserved and then I overhead one woman say to another, "Well, it takes all types of people doesn't it?" The I noticed she had been sitting beside me. Was she talking about me or the play?

It's delightfully creative and refreshing. Who needs to see another production of "The Philadelphia Story" anyway? The Age has a review here.

Yesterday, it was off to the movies to see "Her", the film that won the Oscar for best original screenplay and has one of my favourite actors, Joaquin Phoenix. It's an interesting premise and I would suggest, is actually a science fiction film. It's set sometime in the not too distant future where technology is familiar but can do just a little more than what mine does for me right now. Phoenix plays Theodore, a man separated from his wife and living alone with only virtual reality "people", the receptionist at work and a woman who lives in the same building for company. He purchases the new OS1, a "smart" virtual assistant, customised with a female voice (played by Scarlett Johannson) and falls in love with her. There's a suggestion that she also falls for him.

Cut 30 minutes out and it would have been fantastic.

Oh, and get the two women sitting next me, chatting away as thought they were alone in their loungeroom, to SHUT UP!

Tomorrow night I'm off to see Cuban jazz pianist Roberto Fonseca at the Melbourne Recital Centre. I'll be selling CDs too, so if you're there, come and say hello.

What have been doing lately?

Retrospection - today from dusk to dawn

At about 5:30 this evening I walked into a store and said hello to the woman behind the counter. I asked her how she was. She said she was fine and then smiled and told me that I was the first person to genuinely connect with her all day. That would have been a long day.

Before that, I was on a tram. The tram was very crowded. As I sat, travelling along, my phone rang. Just as I answered it, the tram driver asked everyone to stand back from the doors. That tram was like a sardine can. There was no stepping back from anywhere. There was a woman right in front of the doors with a baby in one of those old-fashioned prams that take up an entire city block. She wasn't stepping back from any doors. That tram must have had the only PA system that was working - if by working you mean announcements were louder than a thrash metal concert. In the space of a ten minute tram journey, the driver made about five announcements. The person who had rung me offered to throttle the driver.

Before that, a colleague asked me to look at a bowl of something in the fridge. It was a white bowl and covered in plastic wrap. The contents looked like tomato sauce, but lumpy. I felt sick and walked away. It looked like offal.

Before that, I was sitting at my desk. The desk is one of many I occupy on a regular basis. I don't have an exclusive desk. I "hot desk". Colleagues in the office recognise me by the sound of my wheels on the carpet as I move in for the day.

Before that, the N'Espresso machine in the tea room spluttered out the last bit of milk. I didn't know where the "fresh milk cannisters" were kept and there was no one to ask, so I decided I would have a macchiato.

Before that I awoke to find no milk in the house so had breakfast on the run. I'd ordered what I call a breakfast tortilla - a tortilla with bacon and eggs wrapped inside. The girl who handed it to me told me what it was to confirm the order with these words: "ingri blekky lap". I had no idea what she had said. The first time was because I didn't hear her. After the sixth request for her to repeat herself, I understood she was handing me an English Brekky Wrap. Thank GOD. If she hadn't told me what it was, I could have been eating anything for breakfast.

It's been a long day, but looks better when considered backwards.

How was your day?

What is your superannuation paying for - a Kafkaesque tale of bureaucratic madness.

Superannuation is not at the top of my sexy topics list, but lately I've been educating myself. Maybe the advertising is sinking in and I have been researching different funds so I can streamline and consolidate. One of the things at the top of my list has been to sort out the superannuation I receive when I work as a casual employee at various universities.

What I've discovered is a bureaucratic, wasteful process - a discovery made only after I uncovered the fact that I even had an account with Uni Super.

Every time I earn more than $450 in a month, the university is obliged to pay 9.5% contribution to "my" superannuation fund. The rest of the country can choose their fund (a great initiative to allow people to consolidate their retirement savings), but the university's enterprise agreement has made the choice for everyone and sets UniSuper as the default account for all employees. That might be a fair and reasonable response, even an efficient one, for the bulk of people working in universities and serve the union agenda of supporting industry superannuation funds, but for me, a very casual casual who reaches the superannuation threshold once or twice a year, it's unfair.

My only option to address this is to fill in a paper form, that has to go in the post, requesting closure of the account and a rollover of all money in the account to another fund of my choice. Next time the employer makes a contribution, a new account will be opened for me. I will then have to fill in the same paper form, put it in the post, and request the closure of the account and rollover to my other fund.

The other thing that happens is the premium for the "optional" insurance for "death and total permanent disablement" is automatically deducted from my account. To have the premium stopped, I have to fill in a different three page paper form and put it in the post. I failed my first attempt and the form has been returned to me with the parts I handled incorrectly highlighted for me to complete and put in the post. I had to phone to find out what I should say on the form. It's full of jargon and requires knowledge about one's arrangements that I do not have, because I didn't make the arrangements.

I recently got around to filling in the form to close the account and rollover to my preferred fund but today I discovered that I have an account again - and the insurance premium is being deducted. Here is the ludicrous sequence of events:

• my account was closed on 26 February
• an employer contribution of $61.92 was made on 27 February
• contribution processed and account opened today, 4 March 2014.
• "optional" insurance is being paid for from my money.

Since 2010 when an account was first established for me a total of $727.34 has been contributed. From that, $274.20 has been paid out of my account for "optional" insurance that I don't want, didn't ask for and don't use. I pay for this insurance in another superannuation fund. Almost 40% of my meagre earnings have been given away without my permission. I'm happy to give money away, but I'd rather give it to a homeless person or a charity or an artist, not an insurance company. 

On 26 February the balance available to rollover was $284.20; a mere 39% of my money is left for me. 

I've been advised that it is not possible to have a default on any future accounts I have opened without my permission to not take out this "optional" insurance - the paper form is required every time; OR, I should be able to make the selection on the application form.

Application form? What application form? I don't believe I've ever completed an application form and will make a request to the privacy officer (by writing a letter and putting it in the post) requesting to see my records. That should be interesting.

So I went and looked at the application form. It gives me the opportunity to decide if I want to provide my tax file number, to select my beneficiaries, to NOT take up insurance and to choose my investment mix. Someone somewhere has made all these choices for me without any communication about what has happened or what it means. On reading the university's FAQ page about superannuation, I've discovered that I can also elect to reduce my employer contribution from 9.5% to 0% (and other amounts in between). Well this is good news! Surely I can just make this election and take the 9.5% out myself and pay it to my preferred fund? Well probably, but I'm sure there's some hideous tax implication that will erode my meagre earnings even further. Funny that no one has mentioned this as an option.

As it stands, whenever I am paid enough for the employer to make a superannuation contribution, an account will be opened and the insurance premiums will be calculated daily and deducted monthly from the moment the account is opened. I will only discover that superannuation has been paid when I receive a pay slip. Oh, wait, I haven't received a payslip for a few years. To get a payslip, I have to log into a system. The password expires every three months. I work there once every six months. This is not front of my mind. Anyway, by the time I discover I have a new superannuation account, money is already being deducted to pay for "optional" insurance. I will fill in TWO forms and put them in the post - one to cease the insurance and one to close the account and rollover the balance. Rinse and repeat. Indefinitely.

Is this sounding repetitive? Well it is. I wonder how happy members of the funds would be to know about this wasteful administration? I wonder how happy the insurance company (whose name I don't even know) is to receive lots of tiny amounts from unsuspecting and poorly informed superannuation members? 

On top of all of that, casual employees receive only 9.5% employer contribution, while others receive 17%! I just discovered that when I stumbled across this campaign. Despite being on the payroll (albeit as a casual) I have not had the opportunity to vote on the enterprise agreement which came into effect last year and expires in June 2017. It would seem this campaign is a little late. 

As discussed on a previous post, joining the union is not an option because I'd have to join four different ones to cover me in all my employment settings. Who can afford that? 

This is an example of casual employees not being considered in arrangements at all.  Yet we are essential to many programs in the universities. By all means, maintain the default fund arrangements for people other than casuals and provide the option for casual employees to nominate either UniSuper, or a different fund of our choosing. I'm flabbergasted that an enterprise agreement can override federal legislation about superannuation choice, given the impact it has, undermining the legislation.

I'm lodging a formal complaint, through the internal mechanism first, and will be contacting the university's superannuation officer tomorrow. I can write an email or do it over the phone, as well as write a letter and put it in the post.

Customer service doesn't seem to exist as a concept. I wonder if it will kick in as I move through the complaint process?

How informed are you about your superannuation? Do you have insurance you don't need or want? 

What does the label say?

The other day I was drinking a 300ml bottle of sparkling mineral water. I'm a bit of a food label reader and since I've given up sugar, sparking mineral water makes a pleasant alternative to the juices and soft drinks which are usually on offer. The other dimension to my label reading lately is looking for where things are made and the origin of ingredients.

I noticed that the label said the ingredients were "Australian natural sparkling mineral water". When I turned the bottle around, the label said that this product was made from "local and imported ingredients". That was quite confusing. Some people suggested that it might be referring to the bottle or the label on the bottle. It seemed possible, but unlikely.

I decided to call Coca-Cola Amatil's consumer information line. I was presented with the usual raft of options to choose using the numbers on my keypad. I chose to speak to a consumer experience executive. I just wanted to see what they were like. In the meantime I noted that the web address included the words "live positively" and once there, the site explained their commitment to fighting obesity. As they sell sugar laden drinks.

Darren was initially confused about what I was asking and then realised that he had no answer. Refreshingly, he admitted this and said he would find out and call me back. Before we ended the call he gave me a reference number that was too long for me to write down anywhere. I didn't tell him that.

He called me back the next day with the news that there is an error on the label. I told him I was glad I'd called to bring to their attention the labelling problem. "Oh no, we've known about this for a while," came his reply.

That was the most interesting part of the conversation. I wondered about the organisation's commitment to truth in labelling and disclosure generally. I was surprised that one of the most brand aware organisations in the world was so lax about something like this. I'll be reading the labels very closely and seeing how long it takes to notice a change.

How quickly do you act to fix known problems? What message are small errors sending to your customers about your business?

Sunday Slide Show

It's been a while since I posted a Sunday Slide Show, so here you go. All taken on my iphone.

In the shadow of the windmill, there is no moisture.
© 2014 divacultura

Yarnbomb in Swanston Street
© 2014 divacultura

View from the 53rd floor of the Rialto Tower - looking west.
See the Westgate Bridge just in front of the horizon? And the train in the foreground?
© 2014 divacultura

Looking west again, but more to the north than the last shot.
Here is the Bolte Bridge.
© 2014 divacultura

I love the way the bike shadows look like tulips in pots.
© divacultura 2014

6000 mobile phones weigh 1 tonne. That's a lot of landfill.
Art meets activism.
© 2014 divacultura 

Lunch table yesterday in Yarraville.
© 2014 divacultura

What have you been taking photos of lately?

I love him - a ten year old's perspective.

When I saw my niece Heidi last, she asked if I could make her a koala. I like to say yes if possible, so I did and thought I'd just figure it out later.

Today is her tenth birthday and I finished this fellow and popped him in the post during the week. He started out as a series of nondescript grey shapes, then a series of grey balls. As I assembled him, attached his eyes, ears and nose, he gained a personality. I felt vaguely worried as I sealed him in the darkness of the post bag and then put him in the letterbox!

Introducing Mr Chub, the koala
© 2014 divacultura

She texted me last night to say hello and let me know that she had learnt how to do a fishtail braid on hair. And that she was watching the Smurfs and that it was her birthday tomorrow. Today she gave the Smurfs five stars.

When we first spoke this morning, she was yet to receive my parcel. I asked her about how her day was going. She told me about her gifts, including a saddle blanket. I asked her to tell me about it and she told me it was red and navy blue with her name and her logo on it, as though it was perfectly normal for a ten year old girl to have a logo. I haven't even sorted out the logo for my business yet! I asked her what my logo should say and she replied without hesitation "Tanya's Knitting Service". 

The child is Nostradamus. About half and hour later Heidi called me again to tell me she had received her parcel. She expressed her feelings: "I love him!" 

This was such a relief. Clearly I will have risen in the Favourite Aunty Stakes. I'm still scarred from when my nephew pointed at my sister-in-law identifying her as his favourite aunty.

"Do you think it's a he?" I asked her.

"Yes, I do," she replied solemnly.

"I like his nose." 

"He's eaten a lot of eucalyptus leaves!" she laughed.

"Why do you say that?"

"He's so fat!"

"Well I had to make sure he didn't starve to death on the way up to live with you Heidi. Is he okay? Is he still alive?"

"Yes. His eyes are as big as Sofia's." Sofia is Heidi's younger sister.

"I know! He's definitely an Edlington."

She laughed and I asked if she had a name for him yet. She hadn't yet and promised to send me a message when she had come up with his name.

A few hours later, I was informed that his name is "Chub". He'd better not lose weight now that he's survived the epic journey.

I'm off to work out how to make a kangaroo for her sister.

Queue anxiety - when you play outside the rules

I like the sleek new post offices. Australia Post has been thoughtful in aligning the design of their retail outlets to the focus of their offerings to customers. There's an efficient but friendly vibe, even if the queuing direction is a little unstructured.

Personally, I'm happy without structure, but yesterday when I went to the post office to buy a parcel satchel, I met a fellow customer who craves structure.

It was about 5:15pm, and there were three service spots open at the counter. The staff there were all attending to customers; there were two people waiting when I joined the queue behind them. Soon there were other people behind me. The staff were dealing with people smoothly and soon I was at the front of the queue. Because of the loose organisation of furniture to give structure to the queue, I stayed standing where I was because I was right in front of the staff providing service and would only need to take two steps forward when called.

I could feel the anxiety of the person behind me rise, when I did not move the way she thought I should. She moved in front of me and stood where she thought the head of the queue was. The other people behind me remained where they were. I said nothing, intending to step forward when called. I had no reason to assume she was actually (gasp) pushing in.

A staff member called the next person forward and the anxious woman stepped forward.

"Hello. I'm next," I said to her and the staff member.

"Oh, yes, yes, I know. Yes, but you weren't in the queue," she contradicted herself in a flurry of nervousness.

"Yes I am. You were behind me in the queue," I replied.

"Yes. I know. But you hadn't moved up and I just thought..." she trailed off. I imagine she heard the contradiction of her argument in her own ears and decided it was best to be quiet.

I paid for my satchel and as I left, the woman was being served.

I wonder what was going on for her? I've noticed the same level of anxiety in queues at places like the airport. Everyone is standing too closely and so when the person and their luggage in front moves forward, I tend to stay where I am, only moving forward when it's "worth it". I'm the same when I'm driving. What's the point of moving a millimetre forward? I thought I was going to be rear-ended on the weekend when I made the decision not to go through an orange light when I saw the number of cars queued on the other side of the intersection. I actually locked the doors of my car when I saw the anger of the male driver behind me. He swore. He punched the steering wheel. He thrashed his head. He continued to call me everything under the sun.

I sat and shrugged inwardly (after I'd made sure my doors were locked). When the light turned green I took off at a safe pace with him sitting right on my tail. At his first opportunity he flung his vehicle into another lane and glared at me as he drove past in a blur.

I'm glad I'm not that wound up. How do people live like that?

What have you noticed about queue behaviour? What are your rules of engagement?