c’est la


I have never quite understood why some people have some tea towels for using and some tea towels just for looking at. Now I am considering that perhaps I just never had cool enough tea towels to want to protect from the inevitable wear and tear that comes from drying dishes. I have reached this theory due to the fact that I now own such a tea towel.

I have secretly admired these art works for some time (it is not a secret that I appreciate the art of a well used expletive). They are a fun blend of traditional (the embroidery) and modern (the designs) with the added benefit of SWEAR WORDS!! Well, last week my mum won a giveaway for an apron and tea towel by cate bolt. And she said I could have the tea towel. So I chose this lovely c’est la fucking vie one. She just chose one of the boring not sweary items. Ok, they aren’t boring. Just prude friendly ;)

A bit tired today. Seeing as how I had to get up in the middle of the night to clean up someone’s sick. That was pretty much everywhere except in the bucket she had put beside her bed earlier incase she threw up. Because when she woke up and felt sick she sat up and sat there waiting and did not see the point of a safe > sorry policy with regards to the bucket. 

I still love her and I cleaned that shit up but.. it is really hard to be sympathetic and caring when it is cold and I am not asleep and it stinks and the other person is yelling about her toys and the ..


Hugh Jackman teaches Jimmy Fallon the correct way to eat Vegemite


FINALLY! Every time anybody non-Australian tries Vegemite in a video every single person here yells at the screen “THAT’S NOT HOW YOU DO IT!” Now, Hugh Jackman has taken it upon himself to set the record straight and demonstrate proper Vegemiting technique. And funnily enough, the foreigners didn’t hate the Vegemite when it was done right! I already thought Hugh Jackman was cool, but now I’m thinking.. PM maybe?



Everytime I come out of somewhere and have to go to my car it is strange because one of the main things I look at when I’m looking around to pick out my car amongst the others is the number plate. And it is different now. I will get used to it. It is like when someone you know gets new glasses or a different haircut or something. They still mostly look like themselves but something in your brain sets of a little alert each time you see them, saying “this isn’t right!”

thought dump


I’d really like a penseive. (God damnit, autocorrect, no, I do not mean ‘pensive!’) One that was perhaps a combination of magical and muggle technology would be ideal. I could use a wand to pull certain threads of thoughts out of my head and put them into this device that would translate them into the words I want to express to other people. Or no one. 

The one thing I always wondered about a penseive, though, is that is you have taken the thought out of your head does that mean it isn’t in your head anymore? Because I don’t recall it ever being specifically said that it’s more like a copy of a thought but it does seem like people are still aware of thoughts even after they’ve taken it out for putting in a penseive but then on the other hand Dumbledore talks about being able to organize his head better by taking out some thoughts that he wasn’t using or something. Can’t remember exactly, been a while since I read and do not have the books on hand.

So anyway. I have wanted a few times recently to sit down and relieve myself of some thoughts but one thing or another meant that it didn’t happen. So today I am going to do a bulk thought cache dump. (Imagine how much more efficient brains could be if that were really possible.)

1. Anzac Day. I’m not a fan. And this is pretty much the most un-Australian thing I can say, except for perhaps “Steve Irwin is a dickhead.” (Relax, I thought he was as cool as everyone else did.) The problem I have with Anzac Day is not the sentiment of it, it’s the… publicness of it. People talk about dawn services and marches and this event and that event to commemorate the service people of our past and it is heavily implied that if you are not doing one (or more) of those things then you are an ungrateful, unfeeling, selfish asshole who doesn’t care about the sacrifices of the past. And that annoys me. Because I do care. I just don’t care to do my caring in the middle of the night with hundreds or thousands of other people. And I think it’s a little bit like religion, or faith, which I also don’t want to do with other people at a set time every week or year or whatever. My appreciation is in my memories of sitting on the lap of an old man and examining his hands with the innocent curiosity of a child, running my fingers over the scarred skin where his index finger should have been, but wasn’t, because it was blown off in the war. In having to consciously look at his face to notice the scarring and the eye that was different, because to us he was just silly Uncle Gary who would not go in the pool with us because he did not like wet water. But every now and then you see those things and remember that war is serious business and many people lost lots of things.

It seems like the marches and services and stuff are more so that you can make sure people have seen you doing something and they know that you appropriately appreciate the freedoms we have rather than actually appreciating and enjoying them.

This entry has been a saved draft WIP for about a week. Everything gets interrupted. My train of thought gets lost, then when it is found again it is not always in the same condition it was before.

So, anyway. Cars. Have been being vexatious this last week or so. We essentially have three of the things (one is technically Allan’s but he is in a different country so he does not need to use it right now.) Something went bad with Horatio (Daniel’s car.) So he started using Allan’s instead. It had needed a new battery and to be registered which we did. This car does not have a name. (When Allan first got it, some suggestions were made but he did not seem keen on any of them and he didn’t think of anything himself. I don’t think he realises how important a name is for a car’s sense of identity.) It was all going nicely and Horatio was on “the list” to be fixed when we had money and Richard had time. My Neville is faithful and he is very good to me. He needed a new battery recently but that was reasonably simple. But then last week something went fucky in the blue car so Daniel had to take Neville. One day while he was at work someone decided to steal Neville’s number plate. They only took the rear one but the front appeared to have been fiddled with too. I don’t understand why someone would do that except to be an asshat. It’s not like they can be of any use what with plate recognition and stuff. So someone just wanted to make our lives annoyed and inconvenienced. It is reasonably simple to go to Qld Transport and get new ones but it’s just annoying, not to mention costs us $26 for the privelige. 

once again


It is school holidays yet again. There are good things about school holidays and less good things. The primary good thing about this particular holiday is, of course, the chocolate. And the public holidays, so it started off with four whole days of Daniel and that is very nice. 

I do like not having to necessarily get dressed by a certain time in order to take everyone to school. I especially like not having to go in to school sometimes. And not having to plan the rest of my activities around school times is handy. It makes the day seem so much longer. Which is sometimes good and sometimes not. The biggest challenge for me is that I run out of charge so much more quickly when there are three people there all day who like to talk and sing and play games and go to the park and whatever else they might think of, all while I am still trying to manage the usual jobs. They are incapable of being quiet and quiet is an essential thing for me. 

There is also the whole love-hate sibling relationship thing that taxes my brain’s capacity for understanding. I find it difficult enough to understand how people in general can be intentionally hurtful to ‘mere’ friends or acquaintances; to see it happening between siblings when just a short while ago they were playing, giggling and whispering, pretending and imaginating just defies my only child comprehension. Sometimes they make me cry. Sometimes because they are so absofuckinglutely hateful to each other. And sometimes because they do the simplest, littlest nice thing for their brother or sister for no reason other than because they are siblings.

I have been doing some thinking about my back. About a month or so ago I had a particularly nasty muscle tension knot headache event which coincided with monthly menstrual migraine and they kind of fed each other and it was not good. Because of the muscular pain I could not relax enough to get any kind of useful sleep to help the migraine and that made me more tense and continuing cycle bla bla. After several days Daniel stayed home so he could take me to the doctor to get knocked out. Sometimes when I am washing my arm in the shower I can still feel the tender area from the injection. But so, so worth it. I slept through about 18 hours or so and was much better feeling once I woke up. If a little groggy.




Before I had children I kind of thought that essentially I knew what to expect in terms of how they would interact with me. Drawing on my own past experience of being a child. And I made that mistake of assuming that my experience was the normal experience, that my children would behave much as I did, and it would all be lovely. I hindsight, I don’t know why I had this expectation. It is not like I was ever unaware that I was an odd child, different to most of the others. But maybe it’s because you are a different person when you are at home than you are elsewhere. While it was clear that I was strange compared to the other kids at school, there was not really anything to indicate that at home, everyone else was not just as agreeable and unobtrusive as I was.

My children disagree with me all the time. They tell me so. They tell me exactly what they think of my choices, decisions and opinions and do not hold back in making me understand how very wrong I am. They ask the same question over and over and over in the hope that I might give a different answer this time. If I didn’t like what my mum said regarding any particular topic I would have probably just pouted and went to sulk with my face in a book. Or three. 

I wasn’t a perfect child but I never had to be nagged about doing my homework or brushing my teeth. I do recall some discussion about my tooth brushing technique which involved little pink tablets that highlighted all the bits you hadn’t done properly. Other than a few isolated things I was never really naughty. I think the main problem was that my bedroom wasn’t as tidy as my mum would have liked. And I got told to tidy it up and that I wasn’t allowed to read until it was done. So I did it.  Sometimes it did take me a while (because I got distracted by stuff as I was tidying it up.) My children.. bitch and moan and whine like you have asked them to remove a limb. And then bitch and moan and whine some more when whatever consequence they were warned about comes to pass. 

If I was told to do something then generally I would do it. Not always cheerily and efficiently, but I did do it. We have to ask, tell, order and threaten time and time again when we want someone to do something. I pretty much did as I was told and asked because I did not want to make people annoyed, angry or upset. The same desire to avoid causing conflict seems to be quite absent in my children.

I started this while I was waiting to pick them up from school. Now I am sitting ‘watching’ while they play in the pool. That’s not different. I liked to go in the pool after school too.

The other day Stephanie asked me if I could buy some fish fingers. 

“Yes, I suppose I could,” I told her. “But you will have to wait until the custard is all gone.”

“Ugh! That’s not fair!”



I am having to work extra hard this week to keep myself from slipping too far into the dark. It is really difficult sometimes to find things to be hopeful about. Aside from my own personal battles and worries, there are just times when the world at large seems to be lacking compassion and love. I would like to think that people can make positive changes in the world, but when you are already tired from your own struggles and the world is only showing it’s mean face, you have to wonder where you are supposed to look to find hope.

Australia has been found to be violating international standards regarding torture by the United Nations. It almost seems like it could be a parody headline or something, because last time I considered what my country stood for, it certainly wasn’t assholism and cruelty. People who claim to represent me are creating conditions where people that come to us for help are living in a state akin to a concentration camp. I don’t suppose that this should be a surprise to me, since they don’t even want to help people here who need it. Well, not until they have had 6 months to become truly desperate, anyway.

This morning I saw a news article about an advertisement that was shown last night during coverage of the Mardi Gras. Well, on some channels. SBS declined to show it. Good on them. I can’t believe that the ones who did didn’t find there to be a huge problem with the message it was giving. Primarily, that there should be no marriage equality because it would prevent children from having both a mother and a father, and of course everyone knows that all children who lack that grow up hugely disadvantaged in every way compared to the properly raised children whose right to a parent of each gender hasn’t been compromised. What about a child’s right to feel like their family is every bit as valid and important as any one of their friends’ families – no matter what shape it takes, one parent, two parents, three parents, grandparents or an aunt or uncle or even just an adult who loves you and wants the best for you? What about the children’s right to not have their family discriminated against by the government which is supposed to exist to support and protect everybody’s right to equality and fairness? What would you say to the child who comes home in tears after the other children have been cruel to them because their family is different and the other kids think it is ok to belittle these children because the law itself says that they are not equal to you, not deserving of the same respect and consideration you’d want for yourself? Marriage is nothing to do with parenthood in this day and age. Plenty of “mother AND father” families aren’t even married, either. Whatever, if that’s what they want. They got to make that choice for themselves. That’s all anyone wants and the minimum that everyone should have.

So, yeah. This is a bit of a downer of an entry but that is where I am at today. So, so disillusioned with the world. Struggling to not let that disillusionment overwhelm my limited ability to persevere.



Sometimes when I want to write an entry I start thinking about what has been in my head for the day and it seems like it is more of the same crazy and that becomes frustrating because I don’t want to be forever crazy. Sometimes I start to think that things are getting better and then I have a whole lot of Bad Head Days in a row and I’m floundering and wondering if I will ever find a way to be what I should be.

A Bad Head Day is kind of like a Bad Hair Day. Despite best efforts it is just so hard to make my thoughts and feelings not blow away and be a knotted mess. They squeeze at my throat and my chest and push heavily on the top of my tummy and make me feel so inadequate, useless, unable to be and do all the things I wish I could. Sometimes for me but mostly for Daniel or the kids. The problem is also that the two aspects of my illness feed into each other. Things make me anxious, scared, terrified and because of that fear I can’t just go about life like a normal person. Then my inability to be a normal person makes me feel depressed. Then I feel more worried that struggling with those feelings, I will be someone unfamiliar that Daniel or the children or my mum does not want to have to deal with. Then I feel more depressed at the thought of not being wanted or needed. Then it’s a fifty-fifty between whether I will be filled with fight or filled with the sense that I should just give up and let them be free from the burden of me. Or sometimes it is both because even when I feel the second way I hate that for them to be free of me, I would be free of them, and that would be worse than anything.

So anyway. Sometimes I don’t want to write the same things and I’d imagine that nobody really wants to read the same depressing shit all the time either. But I think my mum might be the only person who really reads this anyway and it’s not like anyone else is actually being forced to read it. And I feel that way about telling people or telling Daniel that I am having a bad moment or a bad week or a bad whatever. I know he already knows that I am crazy but him knowing and me calling attention to it are two different things. I don’t want to be his broken wife. I want to be his awesome wife. I don’t want him to work hard at his job all day and then have to deal with my failings when he comes home. I look forward to him getting home because I feel better when he is there and I can talk to him or do things with him or watch something with him or even just do something by myself while he is doing something else but sitting next to me. And I want him to be able to look forward to coming home for the same things. Talking about all the things I worry about and all the ways in which I feel pathetic and unworthy of being his wife and our children’s mother is not really fun times.

I didn’t realise when I was younger just how hard it could be to live in the world like this sometimes. I’ve always felt this way, inadequate, less, wrong. But it only affected me before. If something was too hard then it was ok to not do it. There was nothing I wanted to do so much that it was worth the internal seasick tornado to do it. Well, there was one thing. And I managed that mainly because the thought of not taking that chance and missing out on how amazing it would be with Daniel was more terrifying than the thought of doing it. But now when I have other people who rely on me I don’t want to disappoint them. I don’t want to say no. Everytime they need something I feel unable to give it is a choice between making them angry or disappointed or somehow trying to do it and feeling the anxiety, the shivering self-consciousness, the fucking uselessness and trying to not let that show and keep it under control enough that I don’t need to spend an extended period hiding in a dark place afterwards. Sometimes I risk the angry people (and some of my family members have quite prodigious tempers) but usually it is the second option. Being Atlas. Wondering if one day it will be too heavy.

there’s not always a hidden message.


I always hated in school when we would study books and the teachers pushed you to “read between the lines” and figure out what the author is “really” trying to say, what message they are trying to impart. No one ever seemed interested in my hypothesis that maybe there wasn’t a message. Moth eaten blue curtains doesn’t necessarily have to be a representation of the protagonist’s emotional state.. it could just mean that they like the colour blue and are really shite at housework. Of course, I knew that that wasn’t the answer they were looking for so I was smart enough to never actually submit that. But I thought then, and I still think now, that stories don’t necessarily have to have a moral message or a life lesson as their purpose. It could be that the simple purpose of a story is to entertain, or amuse. The author might not want to convert you to a new way of thinking or cause you to have a big revelation. They might just want to give you something that is different from your own life that is a pleasant way to pass some time. Not everything has to be epic and meaningful.

I’m starting to get towards my point now, and it is this: I’m really sick of reading articles about how Fifty Shades of Grey (and by extension, Twilight) are terrible works that encourage people to be abusive and creepy. Maybe I read different books to everyone else (though I actually have read them, which is a step ahead of the countless people who are writing critiques of books they confess to not having bothered to read) but I kind of thought that if anything, they were giving the opposite message. There are some questionable behaviours depicted in those books, but nowhere does it saying that those are fine and normal. Edward and Christian know that they are “fifty shades of fucked up” and that their mindsets are not the way to a healthy relationship. But habits are called habits instead of whims because they’re hard to break. And it may be cliché, but Bella and Ana know that despite these failings there is a person there worth loving, worth giving a chance. By showing that trust they start to teach Edward and Christian to relinquish control and the need to control and move towards a more equitable relationship. It’s not like they are both perfect at the outset, though, either. They both learn about give and take and mutual respect. Ana happens to learn a little about “kinky fuckery”, too. Pain is so close to pleasure, and both Anastasia and a crap load of women around the world have learned that it can be exciting and arousing to explore to find out where the line between the two is.

How is teaching people that it’s ok to try new things and giving them the confidence to do it a bad thing? Especially when there are still people in the world who won’t get naked in front of their spouse, or women who don’t know what an orgasm or clitoris is.

It occurred to me, too, that perhaps the tagging of “Mommy Porn” that has been used to describe Fifty Shades and other works in the same burgeoning genre is perhaps part of why people are so keen to criticise it all. Everyone knows that these books are kinky and explicit. No one wants to think about their mother like that. Mothers are the no-go-zone, one just does not suggest that another person’s mother is anything other than the embodiment of pure and perfect. By calling it “Mommy Porn” and acknowledging that this new genre is both targeted at women and more than just a little bit risqué, it’s like one huge big “yo’ momma” insult. Yo momma likes to be blindfolded. Yo momma likes to be restrained. Yo momma likes to be spanked.

Supernatural screencap

If the pizzaman truly loves the babysitter…

And that is not cool, because there’s still a strong social perception that you don’t do kinky things with women you actually care for. It’s ok to do that shit to whores and sluts who don’t really matter, but you treat the woman you love better than that. This mindset has even affected me. There was one time that Daniel didn’t want to do something that I had suggested because he said it felt wrong. Disrespectful. Because he loves me. This is pretty big because I’m the vanilla loving, ain’t-broke-don’t-fix kind of person whereas he’s generally the one to come up with new ideas to try. If that thinking has entered the collective psyche so deeply that even someone as laid back as Daniel can be affected by it, that he could still feel that unease despite how well we communicate, what hope are there for other people still plagued by the weight of thinking that anything other than good old missionary (in the dark, of course) is not good enough for people they actually care about? It’s so backward. If you love and/or trust someone – which if you are choosing to make them your sexual partner, you should – then nothing you are both interested in should feel wrong.

And then, so what if your mother or sister or grandmother (for realz) likes “Mommy Porn?” If you know that she’s educated and confident enough to make informed and non-coerced choices about who she shares a bed (or Red Room) with, what does it matter if yo momma likes whips and chains? Be glad that she’s a happy and fulfilled modern woman rather than a repressed and depressed historical lady.

One final thought. If you don’t like a book or a movie – don’t read it, don’t watch it, don’t write about it and call attention to it. Bad publicity is still publicity.



some shit that has pissed me off lately: (because I am feeling particularly under the influence of hormones today – the angry, bitchy, everyone is stupid kind of hormones.)

1. Kristian telling me yesterday afternoon that his teacher said he should get a reading log book (this is a specific printed publication, not just a generic notebook to use for that purpose). I don’t know exactly who writes the booklists but surely the teachers are asked for input. If they want them to have a thing, THE THEY SHOULD WRITE IT ON THE BOOKLIST. You know, the booklist that I have spent the last 10 or so weeks ensuring is complete.

2. My washing machine is broken. And luckily it is still a few months inside the extended warranty we got. Last week I rang up, initially on Wednesday, to see about getting it fixed. Except that for who knows what reason somehow there is a difference invoice number to the invoice that I have and that must be the one that the shop forwarded to the warranty place so without that they could not find my washing machine in the system and therefore could not start arranging to fix it. So the lady there told me I had to ring the place where we bought the machine and ask for the other invoice number. But I needed a break after having done the one phone call so I got Daniel to ring the shop up when he got home but they were already closed. So then I had to do it the next day. And they gave me the number but even then the warranty place had some completely different info coming up for that and I was getting annoyed but the guy said that if he could still start the fixing process if I stated that I was definitely the owner of the machine while it was being recorded. So I did that and he said that the washing machine fixing company would call me within 24 hours to arrange when to come check it out. This was Thursday. Late Friday afternoon when I realised they hadn’t called I thought I better ring up before 5pm otherwise I would have to wait until Tuesday since it was a long weekend. Except .. turns out the fixing people are an 8-4 kind of office rather than a 9-5 so it was too late anyway. When I finally actually could talk to them yesterday, they claimed to have already texted me on the 22nd asking me to call them (which is not them calling me within 24 hours!) and the person told me they were very busy at the moment and no one could come til Monday. Fucking Monday. Do you know how FRICKING annoying it is to have to take washing to someone else’s house every time?

3. Leggings lady. She decided, after a conversation with her friends, to stop wearing leggings.

The conversation was about leggings and how when women wear them it creates a stronger attraction for a man to look at a woman’s body and may cause them to think lustful thoughts.

Fuck me, lustful thoughts. How scandalous. Three main problems I see with this. 1. Other people’s thoughts which are inside their own heads are not your responsibility. How they choose to act on those thoughts is not your responsibility either. Isn’t this the basis of that whole rape culture thing that is everywhere is the news right now? Not wearing something because it might make some dude feel a little bit horny is just reinforcing the message that it’s a woman’s responsibility to not be attractive rather than a guy’s responsibility to not be a douchewad. 2. Not all people necessarily find that look hot. Some people might prefer the looser, less ‘revealing’ type of pants or skirts as more attractive on a woman. What are you gonna do about them? 3. What about women who might like to look at your ass and think lustful thoughts? Why are they not a problem?

4. Spaghetti strap mystery lady

I sat her down and said, “Ella, we do not wear spaghetti-strap tank-tops without a sweater over them because we are so beautiful and they do not protect our incredible mystery. Mom does not wear them without something over them, and it’s not something you will be allowed to do, now or when you are older.” We chatted a bit more about it and she said, “Okay mom, I want to protect my mystery, so I’ll wear the sweater.”

First of all, spaghetti straps? They ruin your ‘mystery?’ Second, and this one is going to be shocking… but your daughter’s body is not a mystery. Unless she is one of the minuscule percent of people who are not outfitted with the typical complement of human body parts, it’s not a mystery what is under her shirt or between her legs. The lucky person who one day gets to see beneath her extremely modest attire is not going to be all ‘holy crap! boobs! was SO not expecting that!’ What is special and beautiful about her body is the way she lets herself and a person/people she cares about discover and practice the ways to touch, kiss and hold her that make her feel like melting and fire. NOT that she lets some people see her wear spaghetti straps and some not.
Also, have you ever heard of SKIN CANCER? If there’s any reason to be wearing full shoulder coverage, it’s so you don’t get sunburn and increase the risk of getting skin cancer! Forget about the fricking mystery.

5. Elections. Elections make me so fucking weary. And cynical. Ads are everywhere, shit talking about the other people and half the time talking so fast to fit their stuff into the short ad time that you can’t even understand them anyway. Or the posters in everyone’s front lawn with people’s mug shot on it and their name and party. Really, what is the point of them? Literally all it tells you about the candidate is what they look like. So are they gambling that you’ll think they’re better looking/more trustworthy/less dodgy looking than their competitors? Because that seems like a pretty stupid gamble for some of the people’s faces I’ve seen spammed around the neighbourhood. How about maybe your name and a key sentences telling me what you actually stand for? Oh.. wait. You can’t actually stand for anything because you aren’t actually there to represent the people that you are supposedly working for, you’re there to do what your party leader tells you. What it the point of “representational government” (there might be an actual term for this but I can’t google it right now) and compulsory suffrage if our votes don’t actually mean anything? If the people we elect can’t actually do what we want, then why are we electing them?
And afterwards I always end up wondering how people can vote for people who are part of a party that is being assholes about any number of things. How can they not care that people are deprived of rights or treated inhumanely or that their few opportunities are taken away from them? How can they think that all that other shit about business and mining and bla bla bla is more important than making a difference to people’s lives? Do rich conservative people sit in their rich conservative homes thinking, “Damnit, I really hate when those liberal minded people want to make my life so much harder by having absolutely no effect on it so that they can let a few unnatural freaks get married.” Or, “How dare those people who are poor have the audacity to have some bad luck and ask for help for a while so they can get back on track when they should have just worked harder and magically earned more so that they would be prepared when this happened. Why should I care about the little people of the ‘community’? If they aren’t fortunate, affluent and conservative like me then they just aren’t trying hard enough to not be dealt a crappy hand. The fact that I got to where I am has ABSOLUTELY NOTHING to do with the fact that I was already born into a family that has never had to struggle. Completely irrelevant.”

6. Australia Post. These are the biggest bunch of wankers in the world. Self important, rule happy, rule inventing bureaucrats. Yesterday I had a parcel card and I signed the back of it and sent Stephanie over to the post office to get it. It said to take ID so she had her school ID card, which has her name and photo on it. They wouldn’t let her collect the parcel. Claimed that she was too young and that her ID had to have her address on it and the address had to match the parcel. First of all, the too young bit. NOWHERE on either the card or the website does it say anywhere that to collect a parcel a person has to be a certain age. I am reasonably sure they completely made that up themselves. Then, the address bit. WHERE exactly do they expect her to get a form of ID that has her address on it? Generally this is a person’s licence. (I can’t think of any other common photo ID that also has your address.) She obviously doesn’t have one of those. But also, there isn’t a rule that says you can only send someone to collect the parcel if they live with you. I collect stuff for my mum all the time and my address does not match hers. So at least half of that has to be untrue. The address does not have to match the parcel. Alright, fine, I cannot send my daughter to collect a parcel for me because she doesn’t have sufficient identification, that being ID with an address. But what about this: a month or two ago, she had a card in the mail for picking a parcel up. They would not let her collect her own mail that was addressed to her. Surely it breaks all sorts of rules about not interfering with mail delivery and people’s right to privacy if the post office is requiring anyone under 17 to bring another person to prove THEIR identity before they’ll let her have her mail.
Apart from all of that though.. we go in that post office ALL THE TIME. They must recognise us. And we have an uncommon, unpronounceable foreign name that about 5 other people in the whole of Queensland have. Her photo ID has the same name as my parcel, it’s fucking good odds that she is from the right house to be collecting the parcel.