
Look up a picture of 'trattoria' in the dictionary and there will surely be a picture of one of Applecross's most proximate Italian restaurants, Viva... (more)
The Federal Treasurer Peter Costello recently announced that he would crack down on the State Government for double-taxing the people of Western Australian. MOTOR spoke to him about this and the industry’s own double-dipping woes…
In A Nutshell: The Federal Treasurer believes that with GST revenue far surpassing all expectations, the States need to now make good on their pledge to abolish the nine State taxes GST has replaced in accordance with the inter-governmental GST agreement signed by all States in 1999.
However, many States feel they have already met their obligations to the Federal Government, with many holding the view they have been ‘ripped off’ by the Treasurer and Democrats Leader Meg Lees citing him as ‘mischievous’. NSW recently offered the Federal Government $1 billion to pay its way out of the GST deal, which was rejected, after refusing to cut stamp duties.
On 1 July, the Treasurer announced he would put measures in place to force NSW and WA into honouring the GST agreement. Eric Ripper conceded his government would fully comply with the GST agreement with the abolition of the Bank Accounts Debits Tax. He also said WA had already axed the Financial Institutions Duty and Stamp Duty on Quotable Marketable Securities.
On 7 July, WA State Treasurer Eric Ripper announced that there would be a new review of State taxes.
JSL: According to you, many Australians are currently being double-taxed by the GST as well as the taxes it was designed to replace. As you are probably aware from your meeting with Peter Fitzpatrick, the vehicle dealers of WA are also the victims of double-dipping by the State Government following the introduction of the new stamp duty Ruling on loan and leave vehicles on 1 July 2005. Can you provide a national perspective on this issue for our readers?
HGM Goes Worldwide
WA-based engineering and environmental consultancy company Halmpern Glick Maunsell (HGM) has joined the international firm AECOM. AECOM is represented outside the Americas by the Maunsell company and comprises a network of individual consulting companies, operating in their own geographic markets, but brought together to service client needs in the global market.
Member firms employ a total of 13,000 people worldwide.
HGM will continue to service the WA market but also integrate with the Australia and South-East Asia region of the Maunsell operations.
The activities of HGM will expand beyond its traditional WA market to become more closely integrated with those of Maunsell.
However, the Perth operation will continue, with the company intending to develop centers of technical excellence to service Australasia from HGM’s Perth base.
Playground Politics
A peal of laughter erupted from the room next to me. Outside, I dejectedly kicked a ball around the playground and watched the children take turns on the slide. Afterwards, amid a volley of cheery farewells – ‘Talk to you tomorrow’, ‘See you on Saturday’ – I received a polite ‘Have a good week, then’. But this wasn’t school. It was playgroup. And I was the interloper.
For many Mums, the weekly ritual of playgroup is an event to look forward to. It’s a chance for a bit of a chat, a bit of a laugh and some adult interaction while the kids have a play. For some Mums however it can be a mixed blessing. Sure it gets us out, gets our children stimulated and socialising. But it can sometimes lead to us feeling more alone than we were before we joined. Take my first playgroup experience. When my son was born I was late off the mark in joining a local playgroup and, with the walls closing in around me ten months later, I was beginning to understand why they were so popular. So I signed up with a local playgroup. My first day was nerve-wracking – getting my tongue pierced sounded more attractive than fronting up to a bunch of women who had already enjoyed a year of bonding and asking if my child and I could be their friend. At first it all seemed fine. Sure, they didn’t ask much about me or my son but that just took time, right? Several troubling months of playing catch-up ensued, after which I somewhat belatedly realised that these women were never going to let me in. And I don’t think it was personal either. It was just abundantly clear that this group didn’t want any new members in their club. Over those months I watched as other new Mums tentatively joined, got ignored, and crept out again several weeks later. I guess I was a bit slow – it took me nearly a year to twig before taking my son and what was left of my dignity and bolting for the door.
The pack is a fickle beast. Street gangs who have been happy enough to beat someone up are, when separated, rarely able to give an adequate explanation as to why they did it. Individually, I had gotten along with most of these women incredibly well. As a group however there was a distinct code – they talked and us interlopers listened. If one of us dared interject the ambient room temperature dropped by several notches. As a lifetime member of the ‘sisterhood’, I found this lack of support between women – especially Mums – a little bemusing. Mums (and Dads) need peer groups that support and encourage, not reject them. Surely being a parent is a tough enough job - who needs this kind of flack?
In retrospect, and despite the nagging feeling I’d failed to give it a red-hot go, I’m so glad we left when we did. And happily, several weeks later another door opened in the form of an invitation to join a different playgroup. My son and I eagerly jumped back into the fray and are now active members of a group that is not only very inclusive, but does finger-painting as well. We both get to enjoy the social contact and acceptance we were looking for in a loving, nurturing environment. Which is what playgroup is all about, really.
Picture the scenario. You’ve put your best frock on and painted your toenails with a classy little red number. Your hair’s been blow-waved to within an inch of its life and, basically, you’re as ready as you’re ever going to be. Your date picks you up, and both he and his car are sparkly clean. You look at each other and smile: it’s going to be soooo good.
You arrive at the restaurant and it reeks of style. Elegant table lamps on starched white linen, cutlery winking at you, a little jazz in the background – it all points to a big bill at the end of the night. But you don’t care. You won’t be paying.
Cut to the meal, and you are starving. It’s 8:30pm and your stomach has been making embarrassing gurgly sounds for the past half hour. Ah, here comes the meal. A stylishly camp waiter is placing it in front of you with a flourish. But hang on, what’s this? Oh right, this must be a complimentary appetiser from the chef. No? Surely this can’t be the meal you ordered, in all its mouthwateringly vivid detail? It’s so…. compact. You give your date a sick little smile, stab your one piece of smoked trout and dip it in the accompanying home-made egg mayonnaise. Mmmm. Now, where’s my meal?
Yes, folks it’s true. Nouvelle cuisine is back in style. I’ll never understand how it got there in the first place, but here it is again, in all its glory, mocking us peasants. Who made it stylish? Rich eccentrics? French people? Who else in their right mind would pay $25 for a sliver of artichoke? Yes, alright, it’s on a big white plate swimming in a pool of exquisite sauce, but where’s the value for money? Where’s the food police? Where’s my MEAL? And the worst thing is, you are powerless to complain for fear of being sniffed at by the mait’re de. Yes, sir, I understand that the hens who laid the eggs for my mayo were hand-fed by fair maidens in Austria, but I’m still hungry. Just give me a dollop of Praise, OK? I want the meal that was described on the menu. No, I don’t want a complimentary macciatto. I just want a serving that is more than a mouthful. What?! Another $25?! Look, just give me everything on the dessert menu, OK? With extra cream.
What exactly does ‘nouvelle’ mean, anyway? I think it means ‘new vogue’. I looked it up in the Collins dictionary, but it didn’t rate a mention. I tried my thesauras: it had three meanings – ‘new’, ‘vulgar’ and ‘wealthy’. Hmmm. Could this possibly mean that my meal is modern and revoltingly expensive, therefore justifying its diminutive proportion? Or that it is a new trend only for the filthy rich? I don’t know, but one thing I do know is that it certainly doesn’t mean a great big roast with lashings of gravy and four different types of root vegetable.
So what to do about nouvelle? Revolt and insist that all our meals come with chips and HP? Eat pizza for the rest of our lives? Rest assured, lovers of food, things change and they will change again (thank God). In the meantime, viva the free bread roll.
But before I tell my little tale, just a word to all the pregnant women out there who are about to read this. Don’t worry about this happening to you. It was a one in a bazillion thing that happened and as I was the bazillionth, you’re off the hook. Gynaecologists who had been gynaecologising since Mary was in a manger scratched their bald pates when they saw me and proclaimed they’d never seen anything like it.
I was giving birth. And it was all going swimmingly well. My baby was out, a perfectly red eight pounder who was enthusiastically exercising his right to yell. The doctor looked at me. Frowned. I heard him murmur that there was a lot of blood. Then I heard a ‘Code Blue’ being announced over the PA system. As I worked in the hospital sector in a previous life I knew what that meant. Oh crap, I thought as a seething mass streamed into the room and fell on me. But I wasn’t half as worried as they appeared to be. There was no pain. My baby was out. Why were these people panicking? Finally I was unconscious. When I came to I had so many tubes attached to me I could barely wiggle my toes. And I was in another room, heck, I was in another hospital. Still no pain. What had happened? An inverted uterus followed by massive haemorrhaging, five litres of blood and four hours of surgery resulting in an emergency hysterectomy. Pretty impressive really. I am the miracle woman. And I never did feel any pain, even when days later the nurses realized they’d forgotten to open the valve to my self-administering pain relief. I lost my fear of dying that day and a magnificent little boy came into my life. A good day’s work really.