By Donna Kelly  

By the time you read this, something I just can’t believe will have happened.  I will have turned 60.

“How could this be so?” I hear you ask. “You look so young in your photo,” you  cry. Thank you, but I assure you it is true, and also that this photo is about 12 years old.

If something ain’t broke and all that…  

I am writing this two days before my birthday on May 29 so I don’t yet know  what 60 feels like, but I don’t feel like 60. Something around the 40 mark perhaps.  

The body, of course, tells a different story now and again. Lately more now. I  decided last year, turning 59, that I would work hard to become a fitter 60-year-old.  

Then I broke my wrist celebrating my father-in-law’s 80th so that put the gym off for a while.  This year, with my wrist all good, I went hard at the gym and am now suffering from Achilles heel tendinitis.

It is not the end of the world but I can sort of see it  from here, especially if I stand on my tiptoes. Makes the gym hard again.  

So I am stumbling through the 60s goal posts a little worse for wear. I was also  going to take a nice long break from alcohol, as you should now and again, but I think I chose the wrong life to give up drinking.

I mean, I have to deal with Kyle on a daily basis.  Celebrations, or commiserations, have already been taking place.

I am one of  those people who like a “birth month” although that seems to have fallen on deaf ears  to those around me. Just Kyle really.

I was hoping for a gift a day but I don’t think I will even see a gift on Thursday. That’s OK, I have more than enough, and am really  at the point where I need to start giving things away.  

I remember the last few years with Mum. Every time we left her place, she would call me back in and ask if I wanted a bag, a scarf, a set of golf clubs way too short  for me, and I don’t play golf. I took them all. I guess it was her way of letting things  go.

When I think about it she might have been a bit of a hoarder. Not in a “can’t get  inside the house way” or “there is nowhere to sit down” but in a “I bought another shirt and now it’s in the wardrobe with 20 more with tags still on them”.

Maybe she was just a serial shopper.  Anyway, back to me. I haven’t yet applied for a Seniors Card, I just can’t even.  And when I am offered seniors price seating at the cinema, I still say no. Just makes it  all a bit too real.  

But we were talking to friends the other night on the phone and they shared the news that their nephew, all of 32 years, a really nice bloke, and has spent a year living  with them and in and out of Peter Mac, has now been told his cancer is terminal.  Anything from six months to two years.  That makes you think.  

So I will wake up on May 29, wish myself  Happy Birthday and start the guilt game with Kyle when he says things like “you told me not to get you anything”.

The only thing I really do want is a cake. I ordered it four years  ago and it never happened. Something called lockdown got in the way. So if this turns up I will be a happy woman. Although I am not  sure how anyone can slice it up. Just sayin’…  

By Donna Kelly  

We had a call a couple of weekends ago from friends in Brisbane. Wondering if we were OK.  

I asked why we wouldn’t be and they said ‘the bushfire – everyone is being evacuated’.  We said we were fine and it was not under control, but getting there, and  hopefully all would be well. And we are at Glenlyon, so a fair bit of distance between us and Sailors Falls.

I remember getting a call when I lived in Japan during the Tiananmen Square Massacre. A friend was wondering if I was OK. I kid you not. I think the media was saying Asia was firing up – or else my friend was dumber than I would like to think.  

The media can be a funny thing. Yes, we are part of it, but I don’t like a lot of it.  As you would see on our back page we do let facts get in the way of a good story, but  some media does not mind the odd beat-up.  

Back to the fire, which was a controlled burn, until it was not.

A meeting was  held with residents to talk about what was happening and the media just happened to be there.  One long-term resident, who knows the bush, wrote to me afterwards.

“I attended a public meeting of the residents of the Ridge Road area who were impacted by the planned burn off. I was interviewed by Channel 9 but didn’t make  the cut. I believe Channel 9 deliberately slanted the news to suggest that the residents  were angry. That was untrue.  

“I spoke up in defence of the CFA and Forest Fire Management and got a round  of applause. I was then asked to speak on behalf of the long-term residents. I was  interviewed at length by the journalist and afterwards he shook my hand and said  ‘well spoken’.  

“I just want to make it clear that those of us who knew we had to have a planned burn and were hoping for it weren’t represented at all by Channel 9 news and the only thing I’m angry about is the slant they put on it to suggest that we were angry.  

“We all have faith in Forest Fire Management and would rather have a planned  burn in autumn than a bushfire in summer.”  

Then of course it all hit Facebook and those just trying to provide real-time information were slammed so hard they pulled down their helpful comments and left the discourse. I don’t blame them.

And Channel 9 just returned to their Melbourne  studio never to be seen again.  And probably the journo who did the interview presented this person’s words and maybe it was too long or just didn’t fit the optics of angry residents. Who knows?  

But I think that’s why local media is so much more accountable. If we write rubbish, we can be held to account in the supermarket, or walking down the street, or in the pub. So we make sure we write as succinctly as we can – because I would rather  have a pleasant visit to Coles than one with an angry reader. Same with the pub.  

I always said to my mum to never talk to the media, well except for me, and I would suggest that to most people. It feels like the right thing at the time but comments can be slanted and I have actually seen them rewritten. Or, as above, just ignored.  

My favourite media story is when our house caught fire in Frankston. An ABC  journo appeared in the front yard just after the dogs were saved by us and the firies.  I told him to go away. He said he had driven all the way from Southgate.

I said  that was rubbish because the Triple 0 call had only been made 30 minutes prior. He  said our house had a For Sale sign so….I told him ‘No, I get the quirk but no’. He  said ‘you would want to thank the firies…’ I said ‘No, we will do that ourselves’.

He  said ‘oh well, not to worry, I already got a house fire around the corner’ and off he went. Never trust the media. Not even the ABC.      

By Donna Kelly  

We went to our first gay  wedding a week ago. In Sydney.  It was fantastic. Very casual,  in a cafe in Surry Hills. Great celebrant called Zoe.  

I met one of the grooms, Steve  Dow, back in Frankston Leader days, but he was always destined for bigger things. Including his  husband as it turns out.

More about that later.  Anyway Steve is a freelance  writer and author and so I have  asked his permission to run a piece from his speech on the night. It is an essay he wrote 20 years ago, in 2005, that was published in The Age, and titled All my friends are getting married.  

“There are certain delicious, subtle things about being a gay couple, out of the  range of society’s radar. Hands furtively held on the armrest in the cinema, or a covert brush against one another in the street.

“My partner – also named Steve – and  I moved house from Melbourne’s Prahran to Sydney’s Darlinghurst and, in doing  so, gained such liberties.

“Public affection between persons of matched sex is not the done thing in Chapel Street on a Saturday night. That is Oxford Street behaviour, on  dedicated Mardi Gras evenings.  

“Most intimate relationships around us already come with a tradition of public  affirmation: gifts and ribbons and cake and speeches follow solemn vows between a  man and a woman, to the exclusion of all others, for life.

“Other relationships, such  as ours, tend to inch along in a linear fashion, unmarked by pomp, although the  signifiers are clear to those who care to notice the detail.  

“Steve and I have never been much for bouquets. But contemporary same-sex  marriage debates do make me ponder if I would like that public approval, and  moreover the legal protection of a piece of paper that confirms I hug the same guy on  the couch every night.  

“Steve and I met one surprisingly sober autumn night in April 1999 at the Sir  Robert Peel Hotel in Collingwood during a men-only monthly dance party marketed  as, ahem, Throb.

“Climate is something of a conduit for fidelity: Melbourne’s winters  can be long, so gay boys begin their annual hunt to partner up against the cold.  

“It was dark in the disco, but I chose well. He was dancing tall and alone with his  shirt off in a corner, showing off his squarely constructed shoulders. Classic square  jaw. ‘Hi,’ I might have said, ingeniously. ‘Hi.’ He smiled.  

“‘Want some water?’I asked, proffering my half-full bottle, which I suddenly no  longer saw as half-empty. ‘Sure.’  

“We danced off centre stage together. A cheap date, even considering the $5  door charge. He’d seen me some weeks earlier, marching up and down Peel Street,  preparing for the Sydney Gay and Lesbian Mardi Gras, torso exposed with fairy  wings strapped to my back, a little white wrap around my butt. A Melbourne  Marching Boy in miniature.  

“We barely fitted in his small one-bedroom South Yarra flat that first year, but  we were happy. He quickly dubbed me Mini Me, after the small person in the Austin  Powers films. Naturally, I named him Bigger Me. It’s the closest we edge to tactility as  a public couple. I can’t tell you where my wings flew.”  

Fast forward 20 years and in his 2025 wedding speech Steve said:  “After 25 years together, and more than seven years since marriage equality was  achieved, the question has become, ‘Why get married now?’, with the implication  ‘what took you so long?’, to which my answer is, this is to celebrate Steve and I  making it this far.

“We want to mark the occasion with friends and family as well as  to thank you for accepting us for who we are. We want to respect and celebrate our  respective differences with one another.  

“We also have an eye to looking after one another as we get older, especially after  being reminded of our mortality with the loss of mine and Steve’s parents. So, there’s  the legal certainty that we are one another’s significant other.

“And the other question  is ‘who proposed to whom?’, to which I have no answer – it’s been a long road to get  to this point, and the detail gets lost in the martini mists of time.”  

Congratulations Steve and Steve – and many thanks for the honour of inviting us  to your wedding. We had a blast – best wedding ever. And while it’s early days, may I  say I think marriage becomes you. Just sayin’…   

By Donna Kelly

“You should have never started it,” Trump said. “You” being Ukraine and “it” being the war that Russia clearly started when it launched a full-scale  invasion of Ukraine in February 2022, having annexed Crimea in 2014.  

The world has gone nuts. And the sad thing is some people, perhaps mostly MAGA idiots, will believe it. And history is rewritten. Much like the Gulf of America with Google maps already showing the new title – almost before the ink was dry on the presidential order.  

Then there’s the renaming of Denali, the highest mountain in North America, to Mount McKinley. Denali is based on the Koyukon name of the mountain, with the Koyukon a people of Alaskan Athabaskans.

The McKinley bit happened in 1896  when a gold prospector came upon it and thought he would randomly commemorate former US president William McKinley. Of course, McKinley never stepped foot in Alaska.  

Anyway, enough about that. I am just glad I got to Europe before Covid and then America last year. I love Australia and I think I will just do a bit more wandering around this great nation – which doesn’t need to be made great again, no matter what Clive Palmer thinks. Good grief.  

New Zealand is also wonderful and I hear the Chinese are buying up land there in droves in readiness for climate change. Along with southern Australia. Smart  buggers.  

We popped over the ditch a couple of weeks back for a family catch-up. Had a  great time, well apart from the B&B which you can read about over on the left in Kyle’s Rant.

The family was fun, food was great, scenery (Kaikoura) was absolutely breathtaking and Kyle and his 80-year-old dad and a few others even went ziplining.  

Came back a little worse for wear but obviously had the time of their lives. Not my thing so I went shopping with the 11-year-old great niece who was so cute I couldn’t resist buying things for her. Mind you, she loves op-shopping so it wasn’t too onerous on my credit card.

Charlie ended up with a present to give her grandmother, another one for her mum, a stuffed alpaca, lip gloss, strawberry fudge, a tin of marshmallow, some chocolate biscuits, Kiwi biscuits including Shrewsberries and Ginger Nuts to give to Kyle, an orange slushie and a can of Dr Pepper – yuk.  

Kyle’s sister’s family used to live in Christchurch, until that massive earthquake, with Sharlene working just across from the CTV building that collapsed. She ran all the way through the city, through liquefaction, to her son’s school.

I always  remember thinking she was fitter than I realised.  So they moved to Kaikoura just in time for the earthquake there that lifted the sea level by three metres.

They were living by the beach, heard the tsunami warning,  got to the grandchild staying with them and then drove off up the hill – pulling up only to unhitch the boat that was being towed behind them.

I have asked them not to move to Hepburn Shire – just in case.  

Anyway, back home now, with summer slowly coming to an end which means it’s time for fun with festivals – like ChillOut.  The Local has been a proud media partner for 11 years now and I must admit I do love being in the parade. This year is no  different.

The theme is circus which, as  Kyle says, suits us perfectly. We are pretty much a three-ringed circus most of the time, just keeping the balls in the air. And the general manager is a bit of a clown at  times. Just sayin’.  

By Donna Kelly  

I think ambos are among the nicest people in the world. And I have never met one I didn’t like. (Well, there was one but there’s always one.)  

Mind you, when you do catch up it’s usually in a pretty stressful situation, but it always feels like “the adults have arrived”.  

They never run, not sure if that is part of their training, they are calm, serious but ready with a smile, and never tell you off for doing something stupid like breaking your ankle.  

So I reckon the media release that came across my desk this week is a real winner.  It’s headline was: “AUSTRALIA’S FIRST PARAMEDIC PRACTITIONER LAWS  PASS PARLIAMENT.”

Not sure why they have to do that in shouty capital letters  but lots of media releases come full of random caps. Must be something they teach in PR school.  

My training was in journalism. Old school. I had an editor who would throw my work back at me, it was bits of typed paper stapled together, a couple of paragraphs to a page, and yell “this is shit, do it again”.

I also had a sub-editor who asked me about something I had left out of the story. I told him “if in doubt, leave it out” and he yelled back “if in doubt, bloody well find out”. But I digress.  

So this media release said Paramedic Practitioners will be able to deliver urgent care and prescribe medicines while saving Victorians a trip to hospital.  That is just fantastic and makes so much sense.

Ambos do so much training but spend half their time just sitting with patients waiting for hospital beds to open up.  

The release continued: “Paramedics regularly transfer patients with serious, but not life-threatening, conditions to hospitals. With their new advanced clinical  training, Paramedic Practitioners will now be able to assess, diagnose and treat patients in the field, make clinical decisions and take pressure off our busy emergency departments.  

“The key change will allow Paramedic Practitioners to prescribe and administer scheduled medicines when treating patients, providing Victorians with immediate  treatment on the spot.”  

So the first lot of 30 is now at Monash Uni getting their free Paramedic Practitioner master’s degree, with the next cohort starting in a few weeks.  

Once they graduate, the ambos will be equipped to treat conditions that often lead to hospital visits, such as urinary catheter care, wound care and closure, minor infections, dislocations and fractures.  

Of course, only a sceptic would wonder if this could eventually lead to the closing of small regional hospitals, which generally cover this kind of thing.  

And only a sceptic would wonder if the ambos will now be really run off their feet  and become like a quasi, and free, doctor on call. Caring for people in their homes so those people can avoid paying a doctor for simple treatments.  

I must say on the face of it, this seems like a great idea. If it works.  

Oh, the ambo I didn’t like. He was no longer an ambo, having quit during Covid after being completely stressed out. Almost PTSD according to him, and I get that.  But he had taken up a job doing first aid training and he was awful. Rude, belligerent, making fun of people who did not have English as their first language.  

We also had to make noises when we sucked in our fake Ventolin, and got yelled at if we didn’t. But because I yelled when I had my fake Epipen jammed in my thigh I got in trouble.  

And when we had a short break he leaned back and asked if anyone had any pets.  He had a snake, of course. And any other animal mentioned was “better off dead”.  But apart from him, never met an ambo I didn’t like. Just sayin’.  

By Donna Kelly  

Like many, our first Radio Springs experience was during their first week.  Ken and Jackie had opened during Easter and it was a disaster.  

Service was crap, food was late, no one seemed to know what was happening…  But still, it felt like our kind of place.  

So we gave it another try. And then another try. And then finally it was our place.  

We were Radio Springers.  What caught our eye was the fun, the eclectic experience, the bar where anything could, and would, happen.  

Ken was the maestro, Jackie was the perfect host, people like Simon, Julian and then Graeme, were the perfect bar people. Great with bar banter and great with whatever drop you preferred.  

The kitchen was always pumping. Chips from local spuds, my favourite of all time, the scallop salad reigned supreme, and Kyle found his best scotch fillet with multiple gravy and jus combinations. And plenty more.  

The late, great, David Wellings called it the Centre of the Universe, and it was.  We filmed a fun little piece, I don’t know why now, with some Daylesford locals  chanting: “Time travel, when do we want it? It doesn’t matter.” I kid you not.  

Strange things happen at that pub. Magic perhaps.  

Thanks to Radio Springs you are still reading The Local. It was early days and the cost of our print bill was killing us.  

We sat at the bar and wondered how we would continue. Then I looked down the  bar and slowly said: “You’re not Tony, are you?” And the guy said: “Donna?”  And we realised we had worked together on the Frankston Standard, before Leader days, in the 1980s.

And we told Tony about our printer issues and he told us about an affordable printer and we were away again. The magic of Radio Springs.  

Another time we were sitting there and Kyle said to some bloke: “You’re not Grubby (from radio) are you? and he said:”That’s my brother.” And it turned out to  be my late uncle’s best friend whose daughter had just bought in Glenlyon. Talk about the six degrees of seperation.  And so much more.  

Kyle spent many days over many months working with the late Don Breen,  another great bloke. They worked on the generator and Don shared plenty of  knowledge with Kyle. Slowly changing him from his usual “rip, shit, bust” to a more  methodical way of working.  

He also taught Kyle to worry less. Kyle called Don his “Daylesford Dad”. Sweet.  

With The Local we have covered so many events from car club gatherings to the longest lashes, from the opening of the Henri Langlois Screening Room to Toga parties. Always wild and wacky.  

Of course, not everyone got Radio. You could sit at the bar and watch people come in and they were either in the “I love this” camp or the “how odd” camp.

The lovers lingered and came back again and again, the odd ones drank up their wine or  beer as quickly as possible and drove off in search of a pub with televisions, perhaps  pokies, and maybe not someone behind the bar, looking a little like Tim Finn,  wearing a suit with a vest and tie.  

But despite all the big memories I think most of all I will miss just heading over on a Thursday or a Sunday arvo, pulling up a chair or a barstool and just shooting the breeze with whoever is behind the bar, whichever local has turned up, or one of  the “lovers” who has pulled in on a whim and randomly found the Centre of the Universe. And get it.  

Radio Springs is just one of those magical pubs where things happen. And you never know if you will end up friends with the republicans but it has happened. And that is just lovely. Ken and Jackie are now our friends, and we feel very lucky to have them in our lives. Even though they went and closed our favourite pub! Just sayin’..  

By Donna Kelly  

Went for a bit of a roadtrip over the silly season. Up to family at Port Macquarie, then to Queensland for more family time, and then back down again.  

We took the Tesla and it was a lot of fun. Mostly. There’s an EV thing called range anxiety. It happens when you start to wonder if you have enough power to get to the next charging station.  

It shouldn’t really happen at all because you can plan a trip and the car’s computer tells you exactly how much power you will have left when you reach the next charging station on your journey.  

That’s how it’s meant to happen. But one memorable day when we were going to end up in Coffs Harbour with 33 per cent, it trickled down to just four per cent.  

I was having a meltdown, not literally because the aircon was humming away, but certainly my anxiety was up.  

I managed to convince Kyle to call into our motel, about four kilometres from the charging station at the shopping centre down the road, and call for Tesla roadside service. Which we have.  

Turns out the problem, running out of power, is our fault, so there is no service provided. Just a tow at the owner’s expense.

I was a bit annoyed with that. I mean, if you run out of petrol, the RACV will come and top you up. We just needed a few extra amps. I probably should have looked around for an extension lead instead of heading to the bar, while Kyle did the grown-up thing and pushed through the last few kilometres.

Each to their own – again I chose the wrong year to give up drinking.  

Anyway, long story short, we got the top up and decided it was the extra hot,  humid day – and the aircon – that had drained the battery so quickly.  

After that, we had no problems and just enjoyed the quiet drive and the enforced breaks to power up – playing solitaire on the car’s huge screen. Not a bad idea really,  in the past we have often pulled in for petrol and decided to go “just another 100km” without getting a rest.  

The Tesla does well on the open road, no change between going up or down hills,  no straining on gears and quiet as – although it does beep now and again if you go too close to other vehicles or the white lines on the side of the road.

And there is that pesky phantom braking now and again. Just Google that…  

It was really nice to catch up with family too. Lots of kids on Kyle’s side and on my side more people trying to look after ageing parents and work their way through the tricky end-of-life stuff.

Dementia and cancer make for very hard work.

It also has those of us without children wondering who is going to step in and advocate.  

Back at Glenlyon now, to a very dry garden, but also the wonderful sounds of  summer – the cockies (as mentioned by Bill Wootton over the page there in his haiku) and lots of cicadas.

Our trip last year to Central America seems a long way back now, although Trump’s plans to reclaim the Panama Canal is a little triggering, and we have already  booked a trip to the Med in November – all going well.  

I think we have decided that rather than things, we really just want to gather up experiences as we get older.

And, like with Covid, you never know what is just around the corner.  So we are making the most of life, having fun and hanging out with family and  friends.

Oh, we even have two weddings to attend this year. One in Victoria and one in Sydney. One young couple – with one child, and one older couple who said it took 30 years to make sure they were the right fit.

I mentioned to a friend last night that I hadn’t been to a wedding for a long time.  She said, quite gaily I thought, that I could start looking forward to funerals now. I guess there’s always a silver lining. Just sayin’ … 

Does anyone else remember getting ready for 2000? We were going to party like it was 1999 – because it was. But it was also a bit worrying that all of the world’s computers would grind to a halt. 

A few friends stocked up on toilet paper (pandemic triggering) and champagne while my Nan stocked up on flour and sugar and things to bake with. She was a great baker – did a very nice scone. They were always scooped out of the oven into a tea towel in a colander. Not sure why. Keep them light perhaps? 

Kyle and I did nothing to prepare but I still remember wandering around Myer Frankston, which no longer exists, Myer not Frankston, wondering what it was one wore to the potential end of the world. I think I chose a pant suit kind of thing. Not much one for dresses. 

Of course nothing happened although the son of one of Mum’s friends got a very cheap midnight flight to America – the only one aboard apart from the crew. That’s how scared we all were. 

I have had a few memorable New Year’s Eves. One was in Japan where we did nothing that night but the next morning climbed a mountain to watch the first sunrise of the year. And drank some really disgusting thick, sweet sake from a square wooden cup. And then visited lots of families and pretty much ate for the day. 

Only a few years back we had a small affair at Glenlyon and burnt a giant blow up Corona beer bottle Kyle had managed to acquire online. Along with a big photo of Trump. They were clearly both gone for good. Hmmm. 

Another time, Kyle, who seems to play a role in these events most of the time, decided he would light a handful of sparklers, inside the school.

They quickly caught alight, to his apparent surprise, so he ran outside and promptly dropped them on the deck.

This was also at Glenlyon where the dry summer meant there were plenty of leaves under the deck, just waiting to catch fire. 

Luckily a friend, who was just a bit more onto it, poured his beer through the cracks and put the fire out before it took hold.

Yes, it can happen as easily as that. And Kyle, who had managed to stand on some of the burning magnesium, ran inside as it burnt a hole into his heel, and flushed his foot down the toilet. I don’t mean his foot came off, just ended up pushed into the S-bend. I guess that’s toilet humour. 

One of the strongest memories, and I shouldn’t really remember this at all, was when we lived at Frankston and we took a limo to a boat tour out of Hastings. It was all very posh and we had a great night.

We returned home, feeling quite grand, only to find our dogs had obviously had something frightened out of them by fireworks. All over a lovely, shaggy wool rug.

The smell was unbelievable, so we dragged the huge rug out, draped it over a balcony rail and sprayed it down. 

We were exhausted and for some reason I decided it was time to make some cookies. Special cookies using some lovely herbs some friends had given us in a fair sized Tupperware container.

I mixed the concoction up, waited for it to cook and then chomped in. The more I ate the hungrier I got. Strange that. And then the world took a turn for the worse.

I realised Kyle had died. He was lying on the floor, Pink Floyd in the background, and he was clearly dead. I was so sad. I called 000 but luckily, in my altered state, I called the old trunk line 013 and no-one answered.

This was probably quite good for my future but I railed against the unfairness of life. Kyle dying while just listening to music. 

I then popped out to the balcony and screamed “my husband’s dead” but no-one came. Again, quite lucky in retrospect.

I decided to drag Kyle to a more comfortable spot, down the hall, and hoisted him onto the bed. Obviously I had developed superhuman strength. On the bed, I felt a hand grab my wrist. “Paranoia,” Kyle said. 

Oh, I thought, not dead, just me being paranoid. And I slept well. Until I woke up and wondered if I had put the rest of the cookies away or left them in reach of the dogs…Dogs fine, Kyle fine, no more herbs ever. Happy New Year! 

By Donna Kelly  

As a journo of some years, let’s say 40, I have a love for words. I also like that language is always evolving. So it is always interesting to hear what the word of the year is, especially from the Australian Macquarie Dictionary.  

Drum roll please. The Word of the Year for 2024 is ‘enshittification’.  

The committee said the noun described the “gradual deterioration of a service or product brought about by a reduction in the quality of service provided, especially of an online platform, and as a consequence of profit-seeking”.  

They said it was a “very basic Anglo-Saxon term wrapped in affixes which elevate it to being almost formal; almost respectable. This word captures what many of us feel is happening to the world and to so many aspects of our lives at the moment”.  

I like it. And so did many others, as it also won the People’s Choice Word of the Year. For only the third time since the awards started in 2006.  And I agree that while it would be easy to say the world is going to shit, using the term enshittification almost sounds polite.

Committee Honourable Mentions included the right to disconnect, another noun, which is a law that grants employees the right to not work or be contacted about work during non-work hours. I must mention that one to Kyle.

The waking me at 3am with a query like “did you put that final advert in?” is getting ridiculous. Then there is rawdogging. At first I thought this was something rude but it means the act of undertaking a long-haul flight with no electronic entertainment, devices or reading material, as in film, music, games, laptops, books, etc.

Hmmm. When we went to America we did a long-haul flight but maybe a sky couch is not really rawdogging.  

The People’s Choice first Honourable Mention was brainrot, which it seems many people have these days, and means being on a social media platform for an extended duration causing diminished mental capacity.  

Second was social battery, which I think I get, and means a supposed energy reserve someone has for engaging in social interactions, the reserve being depleted or stimulated depending on circumstances and an individual’s personality.  

The rest of the shortlist went like this:  

Fairy porn — a subgenre of fantasy fiction which explores relationships between humans and supernatural characters.  Incidentaloma — a tumour which is unexpectedly discovered while undergoing a  physical examination or surgery for an unrelated procedure.  

Looksmaxxing — the act of improving one’s physical attractiveness as much as possible, especially as undertaken by young men.  

Kup murri — an earth oven for pit cooking in the traditional Torres Strait Islander style.  

Overtourism — a situation in which too many people are visiting a tourist  destination, causing damage and degradation, and adversely affecting local residents.  

Q-day — a theoretical point in time at which quantum computers will become large-scale enough to enable the decryption of public key encryption algorithms.  

Pig butchering — a type of fraud in which a scammer portrays themselves as a friend, romantic interest or financial adviser, in order to gain the trust of their victim.  

Rent bidding — the practice of a prospective renter offering a higher price than that advertised in the hope that their rental application will be accepted over others.  

Sigma — a person who is well regarded as being exceptional in some way.  

Skibidi — a nonsense word used to mean any of various things depending on context, but often ‘cool’ or ‘excellent’.  

Spoon bowl — a match between the two lowest teams in a competition to determine which finishes the season at the bottom of the table.  

Oh, one last one. Over at the Australian National Dictionary Centre, they picked Colesworth as their Word of the Year.  Just one question. Are you getting your Colesworth? Just sayin’…  

By Donna Kelly

I enjoy travel as much as imparting a cautionary tale. So you can’t imagine my joy at our latest travel adventure. Hmmm.  

After four years of Covid we were off on a cruise to Central America, a bucket list for Kyle if you will, as a confirmed boatie and someone who has always wanted to see the Panama Canal in action.

So off we went. Not cheap, but Mum left me some money in her will when we  lost her in 2020, well she died, and I always thought it would be a good idea to spend it on travel.  

Mum loved travel and we took her on a number of bucket lists, Iceland and Russia, and we had booked a 2020 trip to Japan, Hong Kong and China, but we all  know how that worked out. Stupid Covid.

Anyway, I felt we had Mum’s blessing to spend the inheritance on a once-in-a lifetime trip to America and beyond.  And it was an amazing voyage. But not without a few hiccups. As seems to be the  case. I think as a journo I attract issues. Not sure.  

Our first little blip was arriving at the airport, all excited and being asked if we had our ESTA – an Electronic System for Travel Authorization. So you don’t need a visa for the US.  Now I had read all about it and knew that as Australians we didn’t need a visa but  I didn’t know I needed a waiver so I didn’t need a visa.

But the woman at Air New  Zealand knew because when she heard we didn’t have one she simply said: “Well, you can’t go.” And that was that. I kid you not.  

They can take up to three days or 72 hours if you count slowly and our plane was leaving in two. So we hotfooted it to a travel agent over the way who said it might  come through in less. She helped us fill out the form, took some money from us and  said she would be in touch. FFS.  

Meanwhile, distraught, we decided we would fly to at least NZ, our stopover, and maybe end up having a few weeks there. The OK for the US came after we had checked our luggage and while we were in the security queue. Safe. Off we went, all smiles again. Doesn’t take much to make us happy. 🙂

Next little hiccup was feeling a bit average about a week before the cruise ended.  So off I popped to the ship’s medical centre for an antibiotic. Too easy. At 59 I know my health. Not as much as them apparently.  

Over that day and the next I was given a Covid/influenza/RSV nasal swab and a urine test for legionnaire’s disease – both clear, then a chest x-ray which showed I probably had pneumonia, despite no cough, and needed morning and night rounds of nebulisers, two rounds of intravenous antibiotics, a oral course of antibiotics and steroids, cough mixture, paracetamol and antihistamines.  

I got better really fast – although I nearly had a heart attack when I got the bill for the first day – US $4000. Again, I kid you not. I have not yet opened the bill for the second day. That has the urine sample – who knows what that added. We do have  travel insurance so it should work out – but if not, the crew Christmas party might be a bit low key.  

And now I think about it, I really should have gone for extras. Maybe asked for a quick tummy tuck, or get them to take care of that ingrown toe nail, perhaps a routine colonoscopy. I mean, in for a penny, in for US$20,000, said no-one ever.  

Oh, almost last thing. Our vaccination doctor talked us out of yellow fever vaccinations but coming back through border patrol they were a little unhappy with our decision not to bother. “If you feel sick, tell your doctor,” were the final words.  Not sure I ever want to see a doctor again though, just sayin’…  

The really last thing. This (below) was a dessert one night. Is it just me? Or, well, you know. Are they having a lend and laughing their heads off out the back as the passengers bite into this. Not sure…

By Donna Kelly

I am sitting in an information centre in Puerto Rico – trying to finish The Local – after finding the promised  high speed internet on our cruise is not so high speed.  

You might think it is not a bad place to be but it is hot, really hot and humid, and a pretty poor country. At least the internet works.  

The info centre has a nice lounge  suite, a round table with four chairs,  some banner signs and two people sitting under aircon which is set at 23 and struggling to keep the temperature down.

The big swinging glass door is not quite built right and every time someone comes in it sounds like it is breaking.  Outside people perch on concrete steps, with colourful flags trying to wave in the wet conditions.  I guess I am not Hepburn Shire Toto.  

But the internet is whirring away and I have managed to download the photo of Jack and various other images. The download is not really the big problem, it’s when we finally finish and we need to upload this big ol’ edition of The Local.

I just asked Kyle how long the ship is in port and he answered: “Until we get The Local up.” Hmmm.

Now we couldn’t get our regular sub-editors involved, Nick and Lindsay, so  I have done my best to edit, but I am sure there are a few typos. If you find them please don’t tell me. It’s a need to know basis and I really don’t need to know.  

Last edition, after all our work, I had an email saying I had chosen a European/Asian crow as an image for a funny letter about some breakfast cereal. They said I  should build up an Australian bird catalogue.

Sadly I don’t know my birds and my free web photos come from a site that mainly sources from Americans, Europeans  and Asians. Not so much Australian content. Anyway, I will check from now on.

The cruise has been interesting. Long, but fun, although sadly we have lost two of our people so far. As in they died. I guess people die on land and with the age and,  let’s be honest, some of the health issues of the passengers, there has to be a few who don’t make it.  

There was also that brawl that Kyle has already mentioned over there on the left.  It wasn’t actually in the buffet but a high end restaurant. Apparently one bloke stood  up and said “Make America Great Again” and another bloke punched him in the  face.

Then the wives got involved and it was on. The blokes went to ship jail and the  wives were contained to their staterooms – and all four were escorted off the following  morning.

I wonder if they get a refund.  

Talking of America, there is a great piece by Jeff Glorfeld on the back page about the election results over there. And if you are over that you can read where you can listen to his radio show, The Down Under Hour. All good fun.  

Anyway, I think I better get going now. Time for a beer. It is 12 o’clock  somewhere – and it is actually just 12 in Puerto Rico. I wonder if they have chardy?  

So see you when we return in a week or so. Another column about travel perhaps.  Did you know you need an electronic form so you can waiver needing a visa for the US? Neither did we until we tried to check in at the airport. Always something to  learn. Just sayin’…  

By Donna Kelly  

There are a lot of big things going on. The biggest is the memorial service on Tuesday for the tragic incident last November which changed the history of Daylesford.  

There are also elections in the wind, a legacy of a book being launched and even a woman recognised for her tireless work in getting CresFest up and running – and  much more.  

So plenty to write about but I am going with what some people might think is a smaller thing, but it really is one of those things that keeps our communities strong.

You may have already read the story on page 9 but long-standing Korweinguboora resident, and renowned cook, Jean Howard has had the local reserve’s kitchen aptly named after her – Jean’s Kitchen.

The kitchen was part of extensive renovations at the reserve’s complex, with an official high tea attended by 50 people on October 27 to celebrate.  

Now even if you can’t spell Korweinguboora you should know where it is, on the Daylesford to Ballan Road. Blink as you drive by and you could easily miss it.  

And that is why some people might think it’s a story of little consequence. But I  reckon it’s a huge story and just one reason local papers need to continue. Like The Local.  Because without people like Jean, and committee chair Sue Bottrell, and indeed all the committee members, places like Korweinguboora could easily find themselves without a gathering space.  

And it is repeated throughout all the small towns and hamlets in Australia.  Volunteers giving up their time to ensure that future generations can enjoy  weddings, birthdays, dinner dances, Christmas parties and even funerals in their own communities.  

No matter how much money local, state and federal governments hand out, if  there’s not a willing band of volunteers, it ain’t going to happen.

Jean, who has lived in the town for 75 years and was on the committee for 26  years, says it was exciting to have the kitchen named after her. A real honour, she says.  

“It was a lovely get together and catch up, especially with those who mean the most  to me.”  

And the town is rightly proud of her work. Committee chair Sue Bottrell says the facility “is the most wonderful asset for Korweinguboora and brings people together to develop bonds and friendship”.

“In these times of unprecedented loneliness and isolation, it is very important.  Jean is renowned for her cooking and was a key driver behind upgrading the hall in the late 1990s by purchasing the local school and moving it to the reserve,  instantly doubling the size of the facility.

“Without Jean’s leadership, dedication and determination, we would not have this wonderful space to use today.”  

So that’s my take on the news this week. Wonderful people just going about their days, doing wonderful things for others. Never expecting anything in return but quite chuffed when their contributions are noted.

This is what keeps our communities  strong and vibrant. And why places like the Central Highlands make for such  wonderful living.  

Oh, back to the importance of local papers. I don’t think Jean’s Kitchen will make the Herald Sun or The Age or The Australian. But it makes The Local. Because Jean is local, and we only celebrate locals. Just sayin’…   

By Donna Kelly

“Every day I would wake up with this knot in my stomach thinking am I going to be screamed at, white-anted or publicly humiliated today, or is it someone else’s turn? Watching the humiliation happening to others was almost as bad as being the target, but at the same time you were grateful it wasn’t you that day.”

No, not another day at TL HQ, but many days at the Nine Entertainment Corporation according to an independent review of the company’s workplace culture.

The report is really damning. As we were all being entertained, although we mostly avoid free-to-air television, except for the ABC and SBS, the staff were being terrorised.

It’s hard to believe that it is still happening in 2024. Even after the Me Too movement, RUOK? and much research into mental health and the importance of being made to feel a productive part of life.

Surely someone would be standing up for these people being bullied and harassed but as the intro says, it was hard to watch but you felt grateful it was not you being targeted.

I worked at a newspaper a few years back, maybe 15 or so years ago, not in Victoria I would like to add. I applied for the role of deputy editor at a daily, and was successful. Or so I thought.

Every day we would have an editorial meeting and the editor would go around the room and sweetly ask: “Who wrote this piece?” It all seemed quite nice that first morning of my employment, for about a minute.

Someone slowly put their hand up and was then subject to the line: “Well, it’s really f..king stupid and I don’t know why we pay you.” I kid you not.

Next up was a sub-editor who got the same for their headline. “You are f…king useless and I don’t know why you turn up for work.”

This went on around the room and I just watched, in horror. For some reason I was exempt but I also know I did not jump to anyone’s defence, for which I remain truly sorry.

The meeting concluded every day with the editor saying: “Well, let’s move on and make tomorrow’s paper sing.”

I think people were more likely to be looking for a razor blade. However, the editor was heading off within a week for a four-week trip to Europe so I made an appointment with the bosses of the newspaper company and drove an hour to meet with them and tell them my concerns – basically that their employees were in harm’s way.

It was a very short meeting which ended when one of them asked me: “Why did you apply for the job if you don’t want to work with us?”

Hmmm. Top-down management and culture at its worst. So I quit.

I think I was there two months all up and then headed back to Victoria where things seemed a little saner. Started The Local not long after and had some T-shirts made up with our logo and the slogan: “Arsehole free zone” or something like that.

It’s a strange world, when some people make themselves feel better by bullying or intimidating. Must be something pretty wrong at home or in their heads.

I don’t know what will happen at Nine but I hope some heads roll. Probably not, but at least it is out in the open. I wish them all the best. And, more importantly, RUOK? Just askin’… (If you need help call Lifeline Australia on 13 11 14, Beyond Blue on 1300 22 4636 or visit beyondblue.org.au, and Kids Helpline on 1800 55 1800) 

By Donna Kelly

So the Local Government Inspectorate will not release any report into its five-year investigation of Hepburn Shire Council and The Rex Theatre development.

That’s pretty amazing. Imagine working on something for five years, using taxpayer money, and then deciding “nothing to see here”.

Or imagine working on something for five years, in a private company, and then telling shareholders “nothing to see here”. Wouldn’t pass the pub test. Or the shareholder test.

The Inspectorate issued a media release last Monday, September 2, which said there was insufficient evidence for any disciplinary breaches or criminal offences. It also said the Chief Municipal Officer was satisfied that the council had taken remedial action to avoid future complaints of a similar nature.

So, nothing to see here, but let’s not let it happen again. What the actual?

The release went on to say the Local Government Inspectorate is “the dedicated integrity agency for local government in Victoria”.

Good to know. Hepburn Shire Mayor Cr Brian Hood says it’s disappointing and the failure to issue a report into The Rex project denies transparency and accountability, and lets down the community, councillors and council officers.

The community is not that rapt either. To put it lightly. Social media went into overdrive with ratepayers left wondering where their rates had gone and who was accountable.

“So where is the explanation for the missing money?”

“Outrageous!”

“It’s astounding that after all this, millions wasted, project unfinished, massive debt accrued putting council at danger of existence, residents saddled with debt through increased rates…a whole host of negative and destructive outcomes to the shire and to the public…yet no finding of wrong doing, none worth publishing a report, none worth taking action, no criminal or unlawful activity found, not even incompetence, ‘misguided’ action with detrimental effects, incorrectly followed processes…nothing.

“Just a mysterious massive blunder that cannot be explained or has no accountability, no responsible decision makers who may have cause or contributed to the problem.”

“Unacceptable.”

“One wonders how much it’s cost for the LGI and the CMI to come to this conclusion! What a total f”!k up!”

“It’s like we need a Hepburn Shire ratepayers’ private investigation into where the $$$ went, we personally worked out we are all owed $500 each at the time of the blunder.”

“Unbelievable.”

“Speechless. All these years and we’re left with this. It’s as if we live in a totalitarian state. No one accountable. Shocking.”

“What a strange and flawed process where no one is ever held accountable! What a debacle and utter disgrace.”

And yet on we go. Millions lost, no-one accountable, no explanation and anyone who rocks the boat and releases the report – well, you wouldn’t want to be them.

The integrity agency has made that clear. Ask your local councillor about the report and you will probably hear: “What report?” No longer exists. Nothing to see here. Just sayin’…

By Donna Kelly

I managed to break my wrist, in two spots, during a recent weekend celebrating Kyle’s dad’s 80th over  in New Zealand.  

It happened on the Saturday night,  I must admit after a couple of wines,  but there was also a very slippy patch on the lawn where a tree had recently  been removed.  

We were heading home on the  Monday so I hoped it was just a sprain and nursed it back to Australia.  

I went to the doctor who was  worried I had broken my scaphoid  which is apparently quite a bad thing to do. It’s also known as the snuff  box – sort of the spot between the base  of your forefinger and your thumb – I  guess where people used to put stuff to  snuff.  

If that was the case it was going to be about eight weeks in a cast which would  have been a real pain with showering and plastic bags etc.  But the x-ray showed it was a bit lower down, or is that higher up the wrist, and  all I have to do is wear a wrist brace for a few weeks while it knits up.

And I can still type, which Kyle is pretty happy about. Would be a slow news day every day if I had to rely on Kyle and his two-finger typing for the paper.  

So I am pretty happy and also very pleased that I live in Australia. Someone asked  if I had thought about getting an x-ray in NZ but that is a hard no. Especially where  we were up north of the north island.  

Kyle’s step-mother died a couple of years ago after about six months of severe back pain, so bad she was doing nightly trips to the local hospital in an ambulance.  Each time they sent her home, telling her the last time, she needed to walk  around more because she was basically being lazy.

I kid you not.  Then came the call that the tests, finally done, revealed she had stage four bone cancer in her back – and was heading to palliative care.  

More recently, after years of grieving, Kyle’s dad put himself back onto the  market and met a lovely woman who we were introduced to at the party weekend.  

Di had some pretty bad stomach pains happening and a few days after we left she got a call to say the tests showed she had stage four bowel cancer.  But, and this is the rub, they were happy to catch up with her in six weeks to  have a chat about moving forward.

No mention of pain relief, mental health help, nothing. You couldn’t write this stuff. And of course, they are of an age where doctor knows best and there is no-one to advocate for them.  

I felt lucky that the few times Mum needed help I could be there for her. She  had a fall once, straight onto her back, off a stool that she apparently needed to find something on a top shelf in the kitchen.  

Anyway, she had to go into respite care for six weeks but was lucky enough  to find something just over the way from her retirement village unit – in the same  complex. But when we arrived there was just a bed.  

I asked whether there was a television happening? No. A chair for visitors? No. Not sure what they thought Mum would do for six weeks in an empty room but Kyle just marched back to her place and returned the first time with a comfy armchair and then on the second trip, a television.

While she was there, they had a food poisoning outbreak and closed off all the  rooms so the patients could not spread anything around. I remember visiting one day  and asking when the movement ban would be lifted. It turned out to be the previous day but they hadn’t got around to telling patients or removing strict signs. FFS.  

Finally, Mum was given clearance to return home, but the head matron told me she thought Mum should stay one more night. I asked why and didn’t get a real reason. I think there must be some nice government funding available for high needs people. Or is that just me being cynical.

Anyway, Mum went home that day.  Not sure what to do about Di. Do we head back over and try to fix a broken medical system? Or leave Di to die?

Can you pay for advocates or do they have to be related to the patient to get involved?  Not sure on this one. Just sayin’…