It opened like a front bar on a Sunday morning: people leaning in, swapping notes about work and weather, prices and patience. From Brisbane’s flight path to snowy Perisher and the salt air at Tathra, the calls piled up into a portrait of Australia right now — inventive, weary, funny, stubborn, hopeful.
“It’s Like a City With No Petrol Stations”
Brendan, under Brisbane’s early-morning freighter traffic, runs a cottage industry with a grand title and a very hands-on reality: boutique spare parts for personal electric vehicles. “About twenty percent goes to the States,” he said — a market that can’t get parts thanks to tariff tangles. “It’s like having a whole lot of cars and no petrol stations.” He does it largely alone: “Had someone last week work one day and never came back.”
Macca riffed on prices doing the long march upward — the $20 litre of oil, the coffee that’s quietly dearer, the grocery total that no longer makes sense. “We’re earning more,” he said, “but the money doesn’t buy nearly as much.”
The Beach That’s Beautiful Until It Isn’t
Down in Loch Sport, Steve had a fisherman’s bulletin from Ninety Mile Beach: spring is the crankiest season — wind, a slick of fine weed that makes casting a farce. His YouTube channel Steve Outside posts a Friday weekend outlook and a Tuesday mid-week update. “If you’re driving two or three hours,” he said, “you’d like to know before you go.” He’s walked other long beaches, too — Eighty Mile Beach in WA — but he knows when to tell people to stay home.
UV Light and Underground Rivers
Jason’s crew had come up from Victoria to reline Ipswich stormwater pipes — 375, 600, 675 millimetre mains. “We pull a fibreglass liner in, inflate it, then cook it with UV,” he said. Rain can stop a whole day’s work. He’s noticed something else: “You don’t see rubbish on the roads up here. In Melbourne, it’s truckloads.” Sunday was the day off: a designated-driver run to Kingaroy with his brothers. Between jobs he hunts for Tillandsias — air plants that cling to trees and power lines, “no soil, no roots,” a small, stubborn kind of magic.
Strawberries Don’t Taste the Same Anymore
A throwaway lament — “Why don’t strawberries taste anymore?” — turned into a proper paddock-to-plate reckoning. Doug Moore, once a Navy clearance diver, grew strawberries through the 1980s. He remembers NSW’s lethal yellow disease and the scramble at the Gosford research station to find clean plant stock. In came selector varieties — including lines imported from South Africa — that solved one problem and created another. “They picked for keeping quality,” Doug said. “Not sweetness.”
That choice echoes down the cold aisle today: big, glossy fruit that can ride a truck and sit in a fridge, but rarely sing on the tongue. Doug’s rule of thumb is old-fashioned and accurate: pick or buy to eat today or tomorrow. Beyond that, you’re bargaining with texture, sugar and scent.
Callers added their fieldcraft. Gail in Melbourne said she watches with her nose: “If you can’t smell it, don’t buy it.” Macca linked it to roses and tomatoes — breed for beauty and travel and you bleed away the thing itself. And later, Rick — a grower straddling the Yarra Valley and Queensland — gave the production view: tunnels and hot houses let you coax softer, sweeter fruit, but outdoor crops often need tougher skins to survive. “Some of the best-tasting varieties are harder to grow,” he said. “Keep buying though — the Victorian season’s on and I need the income.”
The strawberry became a metaphor for half the morning: cost-of-living, trade barriers, design choices that travel well but land thin. What’s the premium now — flavour or logistics?
Hay Like Money in the Bank
On the Fleurieu Peninsula, Taz called between bales: half the usual rainfall, perfectly timed, and the shed is filling fast. “Hay in the hay shed is money in the bank,” he said, channelling his grandfather. At 70, he’s still camp-drafting — “a disease” he laughs — sorting a beast from the mob and running a clover-leaf pattern around pegs in 40 seconds. The family worries. He saddles up anyway. “You only live once, mate.”
Sugar, Flood Debris and a Thin Labour Line
In Ingham, Pino Lenza started at 3 a.m. with daughter Zara and young Preston. The harvester eats cane and, this year, whatever the floods left behind: kegs, pods, 44-gallon drums, timber. Miss a scrap and it jams in the base cutters. He’s short of reliable hands and thinks seasonal workers should have a different tax bracket so they can follow the harvests without getting smashed on PAYG. Costs? “Since COVID, everything just keeps going up — tyres, engine oil, filters, labour.” Sugar prices are ordinary. Break-even is a good week.
White Roofs at Perisher, A Stage at Tathra
Photo Credit: Tathra Hotel
Cliff looked out over Perisher Valley: roofs sugared white after a snap change. After 35 years at The Sundeck — the country’s highest hotel — he’s sold and turned to the coast, where the Tathra Hotel now has a pocket-sized theatre. He invited Macca to play. “I’ve written that down,” Macca said — the kind of promise that turns into a community night within months.
Letters from Everywhere
The inbox sounded like a town meeting: Spotify up to $15.99, Adobe up 11% (“the dollar”), arguments for the old BOM layout at reg.bom.gov.au, and a nod to Weather Chaser founders Kath and Paul Barrett in Frankston for building clearer radar tools when users got lost in the redesign. Brett in SA pointed at the trade shortage: “Why would you do an apprenticeship when you can make $72/hour pulling beers on a public holiday?” Another note listed the four aluminium smelters — Tomago, Bell Bay, Boyne, Portland — just to set the record straight.
The Bells of Remembrance
Noel Bridge wrote from the Hawkesbury, rallying churches — St Matthew’s in Windsor (our oldest Anglican church), Ebenezer Uniting (1809), Windsor, Richmond, Kurrajong Heights — to toll their bells until 10:59 a.m., then fall silent for the 11 a.m. minute. Macca replayed historian Les Carlyon, who gently pressed a truth we often duck: 8,700 Australians died at Gallipoli; over 50,000 fell on the Western Front. If memory were proportional, Remembrance Day might eclipse Anzac Day. But myth, like a strawberry variety, is something we once chose — and now live inside.
“Larry” to Christchurch
Harness-racing lifer Kevin Seymour rang from WA en route to Christchurch. His pacer Leap to Fame — “Larry” — is the richest Australian pacer ever, nudging $4.7 million, eclipsing Blacks A Fake. The New Zealand Cup is two miles at Addington, a 25,000-person day with a field that includes Republican Party, Merlin, and Kingman. There’s even an AI-generated song about Larry by Robert Marshall. “My wife heard it and burst into tears,” Kevin said. The talk slid, as it must, to what AI means for real songwriters — clever tools that remix the world, and the uneasy theft some artists feel.
Guitars, Break-ins and the Line in the Sand
Nigel Foote came down from Blackheath with two Martin guitars and a story: a dawn break-in, a Holden Commodore with “GUITAR” plates gone in seconds, the keys later found in another stolen car. The cop’s bleak comfort: Commodores are theft magnets now that Holden’s closed and parts are scarce. Nigel played “Both Sides Now” like a benediction anyway — proof that one thing AI still can’t counterfeit is the air moving in a room when a human hand makes a string sing.
A caller named Susan said it plainly: “What AI does is steal from every artist’s life’s work.” Macca’s line in the sand was simple: live. Be in the room. Know it’s real.
Ordinary Sunday Doing Extraordinary Things
A ten-year-old named Ily from Mansfield — a student at Mansfield Steiner School — tucked a phone under her mum Fenella’s elbow and played “Down by the Sally Gardens” on the violin. She busks sometimes and once made $102 in a session. Asked why she plays, she shrugged through the line: “I just do it for fun.”
And there it was again — the strawberry test for everything: if you can smell it, it’s worth taking home; if you can hear it in the room, it’s worth remembering.
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