After suffering through an unusually tough, wet winter, don't you just love turning up to dinner and
getting stuck next to the suntanned bore who has been in some warm spot north of the Equator?
“Blah blah blah we were so hot blah blah blah you could always find a quiet beach. Blah blah blah
everything was so cheap blah blah blah check out this wallet − it's made of cork." Fancy.
I realised the other day I have become one of those blow-ins from the north. A house swap in Spain
and another in Portugal, plus an indulgent month in Greece where we actually had to pay for our
accommodation (you know, if you get away from Athens it is really cheap blah blah blah – oops,
sorry) has made me someone to avoid, at least until my tan fades.
The only thing is, don't ask if I am glad to be back.
I have tried to keep a low profile regarding the state of the nation but, when I turn on the radio
or pick up a paper, I wonder why it won't leave me alone. The media noise in this country, the
pessimism, the shrieking ignorance of talkback, the witlessness of truckies with too much time
on their hands, radio announcers proclaiming it would be a good idea to murder the PM. The
doomsaying of our media, egged on by Tony Abbott, an empty suit good for only three-word
slogans. It is relentless. Fair dinkum when will this country ever grow up?
It's like arriving back to a giant creche full of self-entitled dummy spitters.
