IT'S 9.45am and I'm drinking champagne, eating muesli and crying alone in my house. Big, fat, salty, wet tears rise up from a place in my belly. I feel another wave of emotion envelop me. Embrace me. Slowly. Will I dive under this one or will I ride it? Can't stop the waves. Better try surfing. Where's my emotional Boogie board? Pass me that champagne and I'll hang on for dear life. Now I'm elated. Like I've just run through a crepe paper banner. Some weird sense of achievement about something I didn't achieve. It's just a scientific experiment I've been observing for what seemed, at the time, to be a hundred years. But what now feels like a blink of an eye.

I feel lighter. But kind of emptier too. A burden lifted. A milestone reached. A millstone lifted. "I'll probably be a bit emotional today," I said as I cut fruit, wrapped cheese and slapped together sandwiches. "What do you mean emotional?" asked the 10-year-old. "Not sad, not happy, just open. Your heart's open and your emotions are going in and out at the same time. Don't be surprised if I cry." "Don't be such a wuss, Mum."

My dear little Charlie, six years old, the monkey in a boy suit, started school an hour ago. And I can't stop crying. The youngest of my three boys is now one of them. A member of Club School. Where things are gross or fully sick. Three kids, three lunch boxes, one drop off. Almost 11 years it's taken, but we made it.

Dear little Charlie. Our third, just for spare parts we'd say. More like a pet than a child. Our mascot. The boy who once told me when he grew up he wanted to be flour. "A flower do you mean?" "No," he said, "Flour, so you can make me into a cake." The boy who wore a Spiderman suit for an entire year when he was three. He didn't walk to school, he ran the first bit, got piggy-backed for the middle and ran the last bit. He's not here covering the cat in stickers, digging worms out of the ground with a fork or asking me for more "staple ammo" to finish stapling the extension cord. Long story.

All at school. They're all at school. I thought it'd never happen. The elders would say, "They grow up so fast, just enjoy them" but how can you when it's so intense at times. So relentless. It doesn't seem like a part of your life, when you're in it, it is your life. It goes so slowly, at times you feel as if you are standing still, going backwards almost. But you are moving. In the tiniest increments. Invisible to the naked eye.

I realised this when I saw a mum down at the school yesterday with her newborn. The youngest of three boys. Yes, we should, but no, we can't always enjoy it because we're more than our children. But that shouldn't stop us from trying.

I didn't burst open when I expected. Parents and grandparents bumped up against each other in the prep room and bystanders wafted in for a gawk at the emotional roadkill. But everything was cool. No clinging kids. Just shaky parents.

"This is your last one isn't it?" they'd ask, "How are you feeling?" I was pretty stoic. "OK actually. Maybe it'll hit me later."

We got to the staff room and the champagne was brown, warm and served in tea cups with milk and sugar so I decided to mark the occasion on my front deck with my friend spumante.

I thought it would be a big bang. But the sound of emotional tectonic plates shifting is quiet. It's not the way I expected but when is it ever?

I never understood these "Oh God, my baby started school and I can't stop crying" rants. I would think, "Get over yourself, read a book, get a job or go help migrants learn to read." I'd tell people: "Cry when the last one starts school? Are you serious? Mate I'll be dropping them off at the pick up-zone the night before and heading to the pub to celebrate." Now I get it. But I still can't explain.

We've made it. Where? I'm not sure. But somewhere. It's not success or achievement but a rite of passage I am privileged to have experienced. I'm mindful of those who didn't. The disabled kids who'll never start school. The parents who died before tearing up at the sight of their child in an oversized uniform, carrying a gigantic backpack. And the ones, like my niece, who never made it to school age.

Like bikes?

Like listening to talking?

Well you'll love Pushy Women.

Noni Hazelhurst, Ethel Chop, Clementine Ford, Emilie Zoe Baker, Nelly Thomas, Stella Young, Anna Krien, Jess Maguire and me all talking bikes at for Melbourne Bike Fest. Will sell out. Please come. BUY TICKETS HERE!

Good Morning!

I’m astonished but not at all surprised by the profound selfishness and complete lack of thought displayed when you parked your car this morning. 

I say not surprised because anyone purchasing a dangerous antisocial monster truck like you have (that, like 80% of 4WDs, never leave the metropolitan area and are involved in three times as many collisions, speeding fines, drink driving convictions and failure to wear seatbelt infringements. And as far as backing over toddlers is concerned 4WDs have the game stitched up) would not be known for their thoughtfulness or intelligence. 

Nothing that says provincial loser more than a 4WD Mazda.

I’m sure you think your car makes you look wealthy. It doesn’t. It makes you look poor. It makes you look like an insecure, aspirational, loser. It makes you look like a poor person trying to look rich.  Like a little girl walking round in mummy’s high heels with lipstick smeared on her face thinking she looks like a grown up. Successful and/or wealthy people would not be seen dead in a car like that. Tacky. Gauche. Vile.  How do I know? I am one.

This spot regularly fits two medium sized cars.  Medium sized cars owned by residents of this street and people who visit them.  Take a look around.  Most people in our street do NOT have driveways. And most have only one car. Many have small children, are elderly and some have a disability.

You've managed to park your car so as to take up TWO car parking spots when you could easily fit into one. And yet only three doors up there are over 20 parallel parking spaces. Empty spaces.  There should be public recognition for that level of narcissism.

And this is not the first time. You are a serial offender. Over the years every time I see your suburbanite shrine on wheels I'm reminded of the TISM lyrics, 'You're only ever five yards away from a fuckwit.'

I will root Tony Abbott backwards if you own a tent, have ever towed a horse float or own a boat. You work in the area and apparently park near houses for 'safety and shade.'

I am certain you have a driveway and perhaps a double garage where you live for the cars you need to drive to Chadstone, Fountain Gate, Knox, Highpoint or whatever cathedral of greed you visit to buy stuff you don’t need with money you don’t have to impress people you don’t like.  And you need that double garage to store all your stuff in.  Mouth breathing, chinless food tubes existing only to consume. You are nothing but wetware. 

Feel free to continue to display your profound lack of thought and complete disregard for others when you park here in our street.  It reminds us why we ride bikes, drive the cars we do, and have chosen to live here. A place you would never want to live. And not because the houses don't have en suites for Diesal, Taylah and Beyonce but because 'it's full of Muslims, gays and boatpeople.' Give me boat people over car people like you any day.

Let me guess? Caroline Springs?

I couldn't help noticing the crucifix hanging from your rear vision mirror. Sucked in. God is not real. You are not his special friend. There is no heaven. 

"To the common man religion is true, to the wise it is false, and to the rulers it is useful." That's a quote from Seneca. No, he doesn't play for Carlton. 

Enjoy the next seasons of MasterChef, The Biggest Loser and Packed To The Rafters. And don't forget to pick up the Herald Sun on the way home. You better hurry!  You don't want to miss A Current Affair. 

And by the way your kids aren’t gifted.

Sincerely 

The Residents

Clare Bowdicth, Marieke Hardy and Catherine Deveny. LIVE! Book now

HERE'S a question for you. How would it harm our society if we eradicated gambling, and, in particular, poker machines? It wouldn't. What would we lose? Nothing. If we banned pokies, people would find other things to do and the Government would find other things to tax.

And if the pokie addicts missed the feeling of losing money, they could just flush half their pension money or their pay cheque down the toilet every week. How can we live with ourselves and support a Government that is raking in $1 billion in toxic revenue from pokies? I can't understand how we've let this happen. It's dirty money. And it stinks.

An article in The Sunday Age, "Pokies scourge creates new criminal class" outlined yet again how poker machines are causing law-abiding citizens to turn to crime to feed gambling addiction. I was sickened for the thousandth time to be reminded of how people's lives and families are being ripped apart by these evil, mindless, addictive one-finger bandits.

I woke today to a beautiful, glittery Melbourne day. The air was sweet and the sky was blue, I popped on a nice frock, fixed my hair, dropped the kids off at school and drove in to Crown Casino.

A mate said: "I work near Crown and see all the pensioners pile out of the tram on my way to work."

"On your way to work? What time does Crown open?"

He looked at me as if I were an idiot. "It's open 24 hours a day."

As I drove into the car park, I was asked to pay for my parking up front. The cold, stark reality of this great monstrosity of greed and broken dreams is that some people, maybe many people, don't have the cash to pay for their parking when they leave. Let alone their mortgage, groceries, petrol, bills, car payments or child care.

As I write this I am sitting in front of a poker machine called Cash Express. There are others, indeed 2500 others. I look around at the faces of the people on the other machines. No one looks happy. Pokies do not bring joy. How bad are these people's lives and how fractured are their souls if sitting in front of a poker machine on a beautiful day at 10am is an escape?

What would these people be doing if they didn't have access to the pokies? Watching telly? Lying in bed? Flicking through a mag? Would any of those pastimes be more valuable? Maybe not, but at least they're cheaper. None of these people around me punching the pokies has walked in here today expecting to be a loser. Despite knowing that these machines are programmed to make losers of them, they each feel as if they're the lucky one. They are mesmerised by the pretty lights, the dark ,windowless room and the electronic music. Their basic instincts have been manipulated by thousands of dollars of interior design, flashing lights and electronic music researched and proven to separate people at their weakest from their money. Their faces don't look happy, beautiful or wealthy. Just sad.

Gambling is theft and deception. It's manipulative, corrosive and it diminishes us all. How are the social misery and catastrophic outcomes that poker machines create worth the bucks they pull in? I challenge the Victorian Government to take an excursion to a pokies joint and spend a couple of hours watching the faces, finding out about the lives behind the faces and then explain to me how any amount of money is worth that kind of cynical revenue raising. Politicians are elected for their brains, education, imagination and experience, so how is raising revenue through pokies the best we can do?

Why don't they just cut out the middleman and tax stupid people, gullible people, sad people, tragic people, addictive people and broken people? Because that is exactly what they're doing. The other day I drove past a pub and a sign next to the entrance to the gaming room read, "Everyone's a winner!" No, they're not. A friend told me about one of her students who works at a suburban pokies venue. A man won $5000 and gave her and another girl $100 each. When he left later that evening the girls had more money than he did.

Judge Roland Williams said he didn't see "any real civilised justification for (poker machines) other than a means of indirectly taxing the people who are too stupid to work out what they are doing". I'm with him. I have trouble reconciling my strong sense of civil liberty with the overwhelming feeling that all poker machines should be piled up and detonated. We humans are weak and some people need to be protected from themselves. We're pleasure-seeking machines programmed to a certain level and type of risk that gambling exploits. We think "It won't happen to me", despite the fact that sometimes it does.

Book Catherine for your next conference, panel or think tank

Tony Abbott's daughter called him a ''lame, gay, churchy loser'' - I'm quoting her. Tony Abbott's daughter for PM! And AM. 24/7! On every station. What do we want? Tony Abbott's daughter. When do we want her? Whenever she's mouthy.

I need to make it clear that despite persistent rumours, sadly, there's nothing between Tony and me. Sure, we sat side by side on Q and A. Me in the Tony Sandwich. Abbott to the left of me, Jones to the right. There was a magic moment just before we went to air when Jones said to Abbott: "Just warning you, Tony - last time Catherine was on, John Elliot was sitting in your seat and when we walked off set, he pinched her bum and she smacked him across the head. Hello. Welcome to Q and A, I'm Tony Jones. Joining us on the panel this evening … "

The frisson between Tony and me began when I called him a ''flappy-eared pope muncher''. And increased when I told him his white T-shirt under a white shirt made him look like a horny Mormon. The chemistry built when we were discussing abortion and I said: "Get your rosaries off my ovaries" and when he said: "Calm down, Catherine", I replied: "Don't tell me to calm down, you fire up."

Is it hot in here or is it just me? It certainly isn't global warming. Just ask Tony. The climate-change sceptic poster boy. In budgie smugglers. Not because it's hot - because he's hot. Don't mind me while I lie back and think of the Vatican.

I love Tony Abbott. There. I've said it. And who wouldn't? He's a man who tells it like it is. In 1970. Not only does Big Tony believe in God, the monarchy, fault-based divorce and controlling women's bodies (NOTE TO SELF: must ask him about guns, David Irving and Nostradamus), Big Tony also believes in The Tooth Fairy, Santa and Donald Trump's hair.

But surprisingly denies the existence of Malcolm Turnbull.

Politics hasn't been so invigorating since Mark Latham. Who knew the demise of the planet could be so entertaining? Or more specifically a white guy in a suit. The journalists' faces when Big Tony came out after he'd been elected leader? The crowd went mild! Why would you want to lead the Liberal party? It's like claiming ownership of a fart. Tony Abbott has done the impossible: made me feel sorry for a merchant banker.

Has he smoked dope? He gave it a red-hot go. But the inhale wasn't successful. But he did, he revealed, have a lassi in India that was the ''house specialty'' and it turned out to be hemp yoghurt. He was apparently ''away with the fairies'' for a good 12 hours. I have a vision of him cleaning out a deep freeze with his tongue. Wearing a mitre. In the nude. While listening to the soundtrack of Jesus Christ Superstar.

Abbott is an early Christmas present for comedians and people  everywhere who don't believe in science.

And he's the gift that keeps on giving: amateur firefighter, ex-seminarian, lifeguard, mad monk, Lycra lout, Queen fancier, flirt and potty mouth. He's part-man, part-ventriloquist dummy.

He may be a gay, lame, churchy loser. But he's our lame, gay, churchy loser.

You know what? I'm voting Liberal in the next election if he's still leader. And when I say leader, I mean patsy. Pump up the global warming and pass me a martini. I'm enjoying the show.

Families eating around a wide-screen TV the size of a dining table. Mega-meal deals devoid of nutrition complete with a stuffed cheese crust, chocolate Bavarian and 1.25 litres of fizzy emptiness to wash it down. Shopping centres so massive it can take more than an hour to find your way back to your car. And as for coffee, once it was, "Sugar and milk?" These days not only is there a dazzling array of sexed-up artificial flavours but we have the choice of jug, bucket or trough. A simple cup of coffee is no longer enough. We want more.

If bigger was better I'd be thrilled for us. I'd be dancing in the streets wearing a T-shirt saying, "SUPER-SIZING IS YOUR TICKET TO SPIRITUAL AWARENESS AND INNER HAPPINESS". But it's not. The bigger things get, the smaller we are becoming.

The more we have, the less we're enjoying it. The hole just gets bigger and that button inside us never turns off, no matter what we buy it, feed it or stuff it with. Obesity is soaring and depression is an epidemic. We're knee deep in mortgage stress, debt slavery and the time poor. And the water is rising.

Abundance takes the value from everything. Nothing seems special any more. And we can't help ourselves because we're just mammals programmed to binge in times of plenty. Going to one of those all-you-can-eat places makes me feel sick. Eat more. It's cheap. We've got heaps! This food means nothing. Pile up your plate. You deserve it. You've paid for it. The more you eat, the more value you'll get.

You go from feeling empty to feeling stuffed, empty and sick. It's a false economy. And it's not making us happy. We don't know what it feels like to be sated any more. We have two settings. Empty or overdosed.

Costco has now been open for two years. That sentence seems benign enough until you realise what Costco it. It's an American chain of warehouse clubs. I hear you ask, what's a warehouse club? Well, it's a massive supermarket where you buy things in bulk.

Cheap. Very cheap. You pay a yearly fee of about $50 to be a member and because you've paid you feel compelled to drive out, stock up and get your money's worth.

When I say bulk I'm talking "One-kilogram packets of potato chips … toilet rolls in packs of 36. Listerine in three-litre packs. Laundry detergent in nine-kilogram boxes … maple syrup by the gallon (3.8 litres) chocolate bars in packs of 30 … and dog food in 25-kilogram bags." Items are displayed on pallets and the shopping trolleys are twice the usual size.

Don't get conned by "it's bulk and there are no plastic bags at the checkouts so it's environmentally friendly". It encourages a mentality of fear, famine and greed. It encourages people to consume more than they need. Eat three chocolate bars for the price of one. I've opened that kilogram bag of chips, so I may as well polish it off. We don't need any more towels but they're so cheap! Lets get 20. Because it's cheap people feel they're getting value for money. They're not. It just means they're eating more, spending more and feeling emptier. Instead of going to the local supermarket to buy what they need, they're driving kilometres, taking 20 minutes to park and buying stuff they don't need, because it's cheap. And it's there.

You may be thinking, "What's she going on about? If people want to buy stuff to make them feel better, let 'em. We're all going to die anyway. There's more important stuff to write about: war, famine, poverty, the environment, the under-funded education system, overburdened health care …"

Can't you see? All this gorging on abundance is destroying the environment, creating landfill and making us slaves to multinationals with "buying power". It's making us fat, sad and scared, which affects the cost of health care and leaves fewer resources for schools and aid. We're getting stressed and sad and that impacts on our productivity, quality of life and happiness and that of those around us. And it's corroding our souls.

Do what you like, buy what you like, drive what you like and shop where you like. But ask yourself if you are really getting value for money.

I'm glad the price of petrol is going up and the price of food is rising. It's the only way that we're going to stop, look around and realise what things are really costing us.

If you are a conservative and/or a right-wing bigot you need Devine and people like her to massage your prejudices.

If you are a progressive you need her to voice the extreme beliefs of the other team to get your beliefs over the line. And if you are a progressive it's in the best interest of your interests for the conservatives to feel lulled into a false sense of security with words like 'decency', 'tradition', 'family values' and 'community morals'. Because the more the conservatives believe the majority of the world is with them living in the 1950s the louder they shout when the gays, feminists, atheists, greenies, asylum seekers, disabled, ethnics etc appear to be gaining recognition as human beings with equal rights. Or as right-wing bigots say "stealing or jobs, marrying our women, pinching our parking spots and taking over the world".

CLICK THROUGH TO READ MORE AT THE DRUM

N

Just when you think you've got being an adult sorted, along comes big, fat, messy life and throws you a red herring, a poison chalice, a blessing in disguise or a total catastrophe just to keep you on your toes. Or on your knees. Or flat on your back and out for the rest of the season with a groin injury.

No matter how much we delude ourselves, life is never going to be a linear swim from pier to pub. We're all just paddling, hoping the next island gets us somewhere closer. To where? We don't know. We don't know where we're going. We just think we do. The only other options are treading water. Or sinking.

You can have your goals, your five-year plans and your illusion of security, but you can't count on them. It gives you a target to run to but don't be surprised if you find yourself detoured, disqualified or running past the finish line to find yourself off the map. In his book Too Soon Old, Too Late Smart, Gordon Livingston says: "Though a straight line seems to be the shortest distance between two points, life has a way of confounding geography. Often it is the detours that define us." Ring a bell?

A few weeks back I wrote about everyday heroes. People suffering and battling loss, grief, hurt, pain, depression and addiction. I wrote about my huge admiration for these heroes who, despite everything, and with nothing but the smallest glimmer of hope, just keep going.

I received a big response to the piece both from people suffering and from others grateful to be reminded that there are people around us engulfed by pain. Some people we're aware of, but others keep their pain private and hold it close to their broken hearts. People we work with, family we live with and strangers who sit next to us on the tram, serve us our coffee or write the words we read in the paper.

It happens to all of us, at times. We go to a dark place on a journey alone. Walking blindfolded through a maze, not knowing the way out, just fumbling through. Hoping that with each step, each turn and each dead end that we will find ourselves in a better place, a happier place.

As much as we would like to, we cannot go with the people we love on these journeys. But we can help. And the mere act of helping can touch another human being's spirit. We are not just bones, skin, hair and blood. Most of who we are is not visible to the eye. Our thoughts. Our spirit. Our soul.

When my mother's house burnt down, she said that it wasn't the people who did the wrong things that upset her, it was the people who did nothing. Which taught me that when you don't know what to do, do anything. Be assertive in your caring. But don't stay long. And don't expect anything. Chances are if you say to someone, "call me if you need anything", they won't. So just do something. Anything.

Cook them a meal and tell them to keep the container. Call them. And if you leave a message, let them know they don't need to call back. Lend them your favourite movie and leave a stamped, self-addressed envelope so they can send it back to you. Take them to the library. Buy them some flowers. Walk their dog. Take them a pie for lunch. Organise a massage for them. Or buy them a pair of red socks. If they are stuck in bed, buy them a new set of sheets and change them if they'll let you. Do their washing. Take their kids to the park and bring them back fed and tired at bedtime. And when in doubt, make soup.

Just let them know you're there. Even if they're not. You'll be doing far more for them than you'll ever know, and far more for yourself than you'd think possible. Be there holding the lamp and you may be the light at the end of someone's long dark tunnel.

We're all in this together. One moment you're holding the lamp, the next you'll find someone's holding it for you. We'll all have good times, bad times, happy times, sad times and times that we won't remember. That is certain. The only thing we don't know is what order they'll come in.

Tomorrow night I will be sleeping in a car for the again for Women's Car Sleepout.

Check out the column I wrote last year.

REDUCE greed. There's your answer. Thank you and good night.

Nothing new, nothing fancy, nothing even slightly original. Here's a tip to increase your happiness. Just stop trying to fill that gaping hole inside yourself with more stuff. Or shelving for the stuff. Or a bigger house for the shelving. It doesn't work. It just makes the hole bigger. Everything won't be fine if you just get new light fittings, replace the curtains or buy a new mobile phone. No one needs 12 doona covers. Everything will be fine if you take a big breath and stop buying crap you don't need with money you don't have to impress people you don't like.

Does anyone else want to slap half the people around you and say "You'd have more peace if you just spent less money"? People complain about how hard they work, how little money they have and how their relationship is at breaking point. And then what do they do? Exercise? Meditate? Work less? Nope. They buy themselves a cappuccino machine they'll only use twice, an exercise bike that will be the most expensive clothes hanger they have ever owned, shoes they'll never wear and then sign up for cable TV. And then put their hand up for more overtime.

Next time you find yourself itching for some retail therapy, think about what would really turn off that desire button inside you, not just put it on snooze. Take a look at your wardrobe overflowing with clothes you don't wear, your shed chockers with tools you don't use or that entertainment unit groaning under the weight of the hundreds of dollars of DVDs and CDs that you've never played. Remember how excited you were and how you truly believed, deep down in the soul of your being, that each purchase would bring you happiness. How it would soothe those wounds of feeling unloved, unappreciated and unhappy. How you had to have it. The thrill of the purchase,

the excitement of the homecoming and then the punch in the stomach when your credit card bill arrived.

Middle-class whingers complaining about how hard they are struggling need a good slap. They are offensive to true battlers out there who stock up on their brand of margarine when it's on special and don't buy new socks but mend the ones they have.

Someone handed me $300 cash the other day. It felt like a million dollars. It felt like far more money than 10 times as much sitting in my bank account. Because I could see it, feel it, smell it. These days money is invisible. People don't actually know how much things cost them. If people had to slave away and earn the cash before they could acquire the things they wanted, given the choice and knowing how much sweat it'd taken, they'd go for the cash. The invisible money culture is not only ravaging the environment, it's corroding lives and destroying happiness. Putting it on the credit card or taking money out of the mortgage? It's all invisible money.