Yes Minister or Yes Mate?

Two telling pieces from the this week's news. First to the Parliament House in Canberra, where I spent much of last week, the flagpole of which you can see here. I've noted before that it's a very informal place, where Ministers expect to be called by their first names when they drop into the staff canteen, so it came as a surprise when security staff were told in a memo that they should no longer use the word "mate" as a form of address. Even a newcomer like me was shocked. The word is ubiquitous, a form of male bonding and the last thing that anyone would take offence to.

Predictably, the media denounced it as "un-Australian", which is the most damning indictment you could possibly use here; the Prime Minister, no less, said it was absurd and looked disgusted; and mate-ship was resumed at the security desks within 24 hours.

The other item has a less happy ending. Further north, in Queensland, the state that is home to all things crawly and poisonous and vicious, a husband and wife were fishing from a boat in one of their favourite water-holes when he was taken by a crocodile. She made it to the shore and raised the alarm but there was no sign of her husband. That's horrific, but what was interesting was the reaction.

It's been illegal to shot wild crocodiles since 1972 and there were calls for culling to be restarted. I thought this was ridiculous. There are parts of this wonderful country where very wild animals live and humans really shouldn't venture, unless, to put it bluntly, they want to become part of the food chain. If you do venture into that territory, then I reckon you go at your own risk.

And that is exactly what the man's widow said. She objected to the shooting of the crocodile thought to have taken her husband and said no others should be killed. That was not what her husband would have wanted, she said. Clearly a woman of some character.

Neighbours

Been a weekend for meeting more neighbours, or at least finding out more about the people you wave at when you see them on the street. This came about about because Carmen, next door on one side, had a small party on Friday, and because my new two-stroke whipper-snipper wouldn't start on Saturday.

Carmen is the owner of Stolly, the large Russian Blue cat who spends some time sleeping at our place and her house has many large fish tanks, housing local fish she and her parents have caught while diving nearby. They're quite intrepid, I think. Not sure fish tanks go with having a large, confident tom-cat but apparently they live in harmony.

Greg and Linda, on the other side have two children, two cats and a husky. Greg does a lot of fishing when he gets the chance. He has a ferocious four-stroke whipper-snipper but he wasn't around yesterday. Phil and Tracy live across the street with their children - Phil used to drive a wrecking truck in Sydney but prefers it here. We first met Phil when the people who sold us this house failed to provide us with any means of getting in. At least, we had remotes for the garage but they'd locked the interior door. He was very helpful and calm.

Liz and John live behind us. She's a lawyer working from home and John runs his own smallgoods supply business and he's surfed since he was five, but not in the winter. He dreams of buying some land and living off it, which seems to be a recurring theme here. Having met them once, it'll be shame if they move.

Lee, directly across the road I'd met with her Jack Russell on one of my morning runs. She was trying to take a photo of the moon just as the sun was coming up over the ocean. Partner Peter I met when I was about to dislocate my shoulder trying to start our new whipper-snipper. He's originally from Germany and they actually do have a small farm, inland from here. He kindly confirmed that the failure to start was not due to my incompetence (that must be a first)and then kindly dealt with the offending grass with his own four-stroke. Oh yes, and as I mentioned previously, Anne from Bethesda lives round the corner. That's all for the moment.

Meeting and Sleeping

The beach is a great meeting place, I suppose for no other reason that people spend so much time there. Marcus, the estate agent who sold us this house, told me he often did deals "out the back" ie bobbing up and down beyond the wave-break on his surf board. And Luke, the MP for whom I work, often gets harangued about everything from the Pacific Highway to industrial relations when he dons his boardies and wanders down to Diggers, where we used to live.

My own meetings are simpler, I'm glad to say. Among the regulars on the dawn shift at Sandy Beach is Ann, a colleague of Sara's whose terrier sometimes licks the salt off my legs when I've been running. Actually, it's not quite so simple, because Ann comes from Bethesda, so there's an element of coincidence. But it's very simple for the dog.

On Saturday, I was wandering along, sizing up the surf, when I saw a familiar figure in T-shirt and boardies, board under his arm, clearly making his way back into the village. I see him often but don't know his name. Had he been in, I asked? No, he replied. "I came down early but then I fell asleep and now the wind's come up. Tomorrow morning about 7.30 to eight. I'll give it another go then." I went home, changed and surfed despite the wind.

Come 8.30 on Sunday, I was in the water and noticed the same bloke - same T-shirt, boardies and board - and watched him make his way down to the end of the beach, put down his board on the little dunes, lie face down in the sand, and evidently fall fast asleep. He was still there when I left, desperate for breakfast, some time later.

I suppose there's simplicity in the fact that, if you don't feel like doing anything, you can just lie down on the beach in the middle of winter and fall asleep, but I can't help feeling there are one or two questions hanging in the air as well.