Look, I know it’s hard to use your car’s indicators properly. Having that little switch so close to your hands on the steering wheel, and remembering to use it to… err… indicate… obviously there isn’t enough training in this when learning to drive.

I’ll give you a few specific hints though.

• To the guy in Prahran on Sunday morning: When you’re driving straight across an intersection, don’t put your left indicator on. Naturally I, the pedestrian who is crossing in front of you, am going to step back when realising what you’re really up to. The little wave to acknowledge this was gracious, but I’m hardly likely to do anything different, am I? Jumping in front of your car doesn’t seem like a sensible option. My repeatedly opening/closing my hand at you wasn’t designed to prompt that puzzled look you gave, but to prompt you to look at your damn indicator, which was still merrily flashing as you went past.
• Same guy: I suppose on some levels it’s kind of amusing that you kept driving down to the end of that street with your indicator on, then turned it off at the end to turn. It doesn’t matter if it was a T-junction — you’re still meant to indicate when you turn. Either your indicators need some maintenance work, or perhaps you need to be sent to a re-education camp to learn how they’re really meant to be used.
• The guy coming out of the service station in Carnegie on Sunday afternoon: you were turning right out of the servo to get to the intersection. Fine, all very good, first class. But your indicator stayed on afterwards. Which is why I drove around you. It was still clicking away. Since you weren’t turning at the intersection, switching the indicator off would have been a good idea, to avoid me thinking I can zoom away from the lights and then merge right… straight into your car.
• The guy in South Caulfield on Monday morning: I drove up behind you to join the line waiting at the traffic lights. Yeah I could have taken the nearly empty left-hand lane, but it’s kinda bad etiquette if everyone else is queuing and nobody’s turning right. Besides you have the hassle of merging back. So I queued. We must have all been there a good thirty seconds. I even left a gap in case someone further up in the line decided at the last minute to turn. What I didn’t expect or appreciate was you waiting until the light turned green and we all started moving (including more cars coming up behind and to the left of me) and then changing your mind. That’s why I beeped my horn in frustration as I drove around you. Hint: the indicator is for indicating. Indicating to turn. Indicating to turn before you actually do it. A little forward planning is required, that’s all I’m saying.
• To the P-plater zooming along behind me in Carnegie on Saturday: Yes I saw you back there. Yes your car zooms along. Very — yawn — impressive. You can tailgate with the best of them. Bully for you for living up to the P-plater cliché. I indicated a right hand turn in plenty of time, so you could spot it, slow down, and get around me. You only have yourself to blame that you took no notice until I’d slowed right down, then had to jerkily get around me at speed. I indicate, you notice and take timely appropriate action. That’s how it’s meant to work.

Dear Mr Wrong Number Man,

My name is Daniel Bowen. I said as much when I answered the phone. My name is not Ricky Bowden. Never has been. I don’t know what you’re talking about. Good luck in dialling the right number next time.

Dear PHL970,

You know where you exit off the Westgate Freeway, onto Kingsway? Well you know how there are three lanes turning into Kingsway? You know how there are solid lines there leading from the freeway exit, around the corner into Kingsway?

Well the general idea is that you follow the lines. So if you’re in the left hand lane from the freeway exit, you end up in the left hand lane on Kingsway.

You don’t drift across while turning, miss my car by a few centimetres, scare the crap out of me, then continue driving merrily on your way oblivious to my horn honking just behind you.

Oh well, on the bright side, I did brake sharply enough to avoid hitting you. It would have been a bitter end to what until that point had been a thoroughly nice day.

Man I hate it when I’m looking for a big piece of coloured card for one of Isaac’s projects, and I dash into the newsagent that merged with the post office, look around, and they don’t have any. Then further down the road I dash into the post office that merged with the newsagent, and they have plenty, $1 a pop, I’ll take two thanks, and oh damn there’s only one queue, and one guy serving.

I’m in a hurry but I need these now, so I’ll queue. Behind the couple who are paying numerous bills (WE HAVE B-PAY AND THE FREAKING INTERNET FOR THAT, YOU KNOW) and querying why the guy didn’t rip off the bottom bit off the bills (No, he says, we don’t rip off the bottom bits) and buying a magazine (No wait, is it this magazine? Or did I already buy this issue? Hold on now, I’m not sure) and buying stamps (how many do we need? Okay here’s some for overseas. Cards only. Oh, we have to write “Card only” to get the cheap rate? Okay. Now local ones, how many? 1… 2… 3… 4… JUST BUY A FREAKING 10 PACK!!!) and fumbling with their change (WHY DIDN’T I BRING $2 CHANGE, THEN I COULD LOB IT OVER THE COUNTER AND RUN FOR IT) and multiple receipts and making small-talk with the guy behind the counter (I’M ALL FOR A CONVIVIAL RETAIL ATMOSPHERE, BUT I’M IN A HURRY AND THE QUEUE BEHIND ME’S GETTING LONGER) and querying again why the guy didn’t rip the bottom bit off the bill.

Ten minutes queuing, then all of ten seconds for my transaction. And I beat them out the door, too.

Bet they’re the same people who walk slowly down the middle of the pavement, blocking both sides.

People who wanted their supermarket transaction split-up into separate $30 bills just to take advantage of “spend $30 for 4 cents per litre off petrol” and other such deals would have to queue up again between dockets.

The expression “I’ll let you go”, which is meant to sound like the person is doing you a favour finishing up the conversation but in fact means “get off the damn phone, I’m tired of talking to you now, and have more important things to do” would be banned. A couple of my friends are guilty of using this.

Drivers who consistently fail to use their indicators; needlessly park in driveways blocking the footpath; speed at more than 20kmh above the limit; or deliberately stop at intersections blocking the pedestrian crossing (and may I add often consigning themselves to longer delays because their car is not on the traffic light sensor, so the traffic light may not know it’s there) would in the first instance have a large shiny “MORON” sticker applied to the front and back of their car. In the second instance they would be shipped off to re-education camps where they would face very stern Vicroads testers to try to convince them of why they should get their driver’s license back.

The world’s foremost ant experts would convene at my house one afternoon for a cup of tea and to give me their opinions on why ants are visiting my toilet.

People who complained about stupidly trivial things like the colour of their wheelie-bin would have their bins taken away for a month, to see how they liked it with no bin at all. I mean really, a line of yellow and blue rubbish bins in a street is no less or more ugly than a line of plain green rubbish bins. They’re rubbish bins. They’re ugly whatever colour they are.

I don’t think I’ve ever shouted at the television in frustration before. Certainly not when I was on my own, nobody else to hear it. I don’t consider myself an angry person by any means, and it took several steps to get there before it all boiled over.

Step 1 was doing ironing and wanting to find something to watch.

Step 2 was finding nothing worth watching.

Step 3 was giving up on finding anything worth watching, and deciding to see what they were up to on the Logies.

Step 4: “Coming up… Delta Goodrem”

Step 5 was Eddie presenting.

Step 6 … and continually pronouncing her name as Deltra, while recounting her past year like anybody (even me who doesn’t read the gossip rags in the supermarket checkout) wouldn’t know. CD hit, the lymphoma, new look, new boyfriend…

Step 7 was bringing Deltra up on stage and recounting it again. At first I thought she might be embarrassed, but wait, she’s a singer and former soapie starlet, right? It would have been all pre-arranged.

And the final straw that broke the camel’s back? Eddie: “Mark!” And they cut to the boyfriend in the audience.

“Oh for fuck’s sake!” I shouted, changing channels hurredly, find some commercials to watch instead.

Who watches that crap? Not me, that’s who. I can only assume it’s aimed at the type of people like my dad’s old neighbour, who one time when I went over to collect his mail, found her breathless, almost weepy, over something that had happened to Maggie in Blue Heelers. Not that I’d begrudge someone their favourite TV series or personality, and I’m sure Deltra’s been through a lot, but there are more important things in the world.

PS. Footy tipping. By the end of Saturday night, I’d got 4 out of 5. Hooray. By the end of the weekend, 4 out of 8. Boooo. Oh well, could be worse.

What the FUCK do you think you’re doing, Mr White Stationwagon? Where the FUCK did you get your driver’s licence? Why the FUCK do you think you can decide as you’re driving through an intersection in the left hand lane, that you are suddenly going to turn right, across three lanes of traffic, cutting me off as I’m about to turn right the other way, leaving my car helplessly stuck in the intersection? It’s not as if that’s a FUCKING hook turn there, and even if it was, you didn’t do it FUCKING properly, did you?

Ahem. Pardon that burst of invective, but I don’t particularly like having sudden scares like that as I’m peacefully driving home of an evening. I think I’ll eat some chocolate.

The rest of the day before that was comparitively calm. Went to work, did stuff, had dinner, headed home.

At Melbourne Central Station I tried to balance on some weirdo bar things they’ve installed, which are too low to sit on or lean against, and got out the book I’ve been reading, Sue Townsend’s Public Confessions of a Middle-Aged Woman. It’s not quite as compelling as Adrian Mole ever was, and on some train journeys I can’t be bothered getting it out to read it. But I’ll keep at it for a bit longer, if only because (a) my sister gave it to me, and I’d feel guilty if I didn’t give it a proper go, and (b) given its extremely pink cover, to prove I’m comfortable with my sexuality by reading it in public.

When I got off the train I wandered into the supermarket, thinking I might pick up one or two items, and coming out with $25 worth. The teenaged checkout chick was astonishingly chirpy to each customer, jabbering away as she scanned things, asking if I’d been at work, had it been a hard day, how many hours I worked (?!) and finally remarking as she scanned the two chocolate bilbies I’d bought for the kids’ Easter presents, “Oh! They’re so cute!” It’s situations like these that I always wonder what the reaction would be if a jumbo box of condoms was in the mix.

It’s been a fun April Fools Day, scouring the media for spoof reports. On the net the most successful has been the Google “G-Mail” one, having been picked up by the major outlets including CNN, BBC and News.com. I suppose they can all claim later they were in on the joke. The original press release pretty much gives it away. ABC Online originally covered it like the others, but now seems suspicious. Funny stuff.

PS. 2/1/2004. Or is it real after all??

For the second day in a row this morning one of the builders was needlessly blocking the driveway with his ute. It’s one of those bright red ones that is way too new and shiny for a builder’s ute, and I bet he never drives it onto proper building sites where there might be mud and other such things.

The driveway in this place is a wide one. Convention is that people park on the side next to the fence, leaving the side next to the building free for people to drive along to and from the car ports at the back. It’s not rocket science, right? So when I saw this ute parked on the wrong side again, I got rather flustered. None of the builders were visible, so I beeped the horn a couple of times.

Some seconds passed and I was getting impatient. I beeped again, longer this time. I stopped the engine and got out of the car, looking around. The owner of the ute appeared. "Maybe you could park it on the other side next time" I remarked. "I’ll park it there any time I like", he replied.

What? Fucking WHAT? He kept walking down to move it, and I shouted after him "Hey I’m still paying rent here you know. You guys shouldn’t even be here for another two weeks!" It’s true - the notice to vacate specified a deadline of 26th July. Now, I don’t mind that renovations have started earlier on the other flats, and fair enough that occasionally they’ll be unloading a truck or something in the driveway. But this fucking arsehole sure as hell has no right to deliberately block the remaining residents’ cars.

So when I got to work I rang up the agent to hassle them again. Sympathetic noises were certainly forthcoming, but whether they can or will do anything about it is another matter. Grumble.

Still, it leaves me wondering if they’re trying in their way to apply pressure for people to leave early.

I had a word to a very helpful bloke atConsumer Affairs (okay, so he’s a friend of mine, but I’ve always found them to be very helpful) who has suggested various avenues of action should this happen again. We shall see…