There is no other bookshop in Melbourne that has the same feel. Staff offer a sense that you belong. It is the kind of place that draws people to it.
Should I have to listen to teenagers on a tram slagging off their teachers,or wannabe tough guys trying to outswear each other in restaurants?
With no schools,pubs or noise,little disturbs the expected peace of this inner-city suburb’s streets – at least until the Barmy Army is in town or Collingwood plays at the MCG.
We all share the same rain. There is no defence for the assertive behaviour of “mine is bigger than yours,so give way”.
What is it with know-alls who commentate throughout plays,and concert attendees who bring their hacking cough to the show?
It’s been three decades since I began waking up in the middle of the night,but it’s not all doom,gloom and yawning.
Men are now too scared to give compliments to a woman lest their words be met with a withering rebuke. But if a woman gave a man a compliment,would there be a difference?
Why do we persist with imagery of the outdoor bloke who is tough and physical?
Presenting French impressionist Pierre bonnard’s work on lurid wallpapers is cultural vandalism and visual assault,with the NGV converting itself to an institution of superficial entertainment.
Yes,it brings greater freedom,a cleaner home and more time,but having all your children leave home does not necessarily mean new-found happiness. In fact,it’s overrated.
The view that Boomers somehow owe the state is frankly so misguided as to be deeply unsettling.