Lock me up, I’m a smacker
Did I hear correctly? Is it now an offence to smack your children? Because if it is, lock me up now and throw away the key. Yes, I admit it, I am a smacker. And to all your do-gooders with your “time out” mats and naughty corners, I bet your kids are brats and all you friends think so too.

If my children ever get access to legal aid I am completely buggered. There goes the house and the car. Anyway, who is responsible for the no smacking initiative? I bet it’s a spinster with an overbite and thick glasses or worse, a church person.

Stay out of how I raise my kids. I love ’em and you know what, it’s because I love ’em that I keep them on the straight and narrow with a smack.

The Unionist
My brother-in-law is an unashamed unionist. I love it because at Easter and Christmas there is no greater sport than “pushing his buttons”. I find a short but sharp statement like, “hasn’t Howard got the economy booming?” or “With these new work laws, it makes is easier to get rid of tardy workers, don’t ya think?” his eyes begin to change colour as he fights the urge to comment. They go red, amber, green then back to red.

He clenches his teeth and sweats profusely. Just one more jibe like, “I wouldn’t mind seeing Peter Costello with the reins as the next Prime Minister” and he’s away. With an amazing 360 degree turn of his blue collared scone he starts. “Did you know, Jamie, that when John Howard was treasurer interest rates rose over 20%?”

You know, you can actually leave the room, make some coffee and raisin toast and he’ll still be going when you get back. I love it!

Anna-Nicole Smith
So now the world knows who the father of the baby really is, thanks to DNA technology. Oh for the days when a girl actually knew who the father of her baby was and didn’t have to go through the A-Ks in the phone book just to get a clue.

Easter
Well, Easter came and went as expected. I got the week off which, on the surface of it, looks like a bonus except that being a shift worker, Kym’s not used to me actually being there when she wakes up.

I tried to be a good partner but I got the distinct impression that my constant presence was becoming an irritation to her. One morning after I’d bought her a cup of coffee I sat at the end of the bed eating my breakfast, she suddenly sat bolt upright and exclaimed: “You eat muesli like an old man!”

I must have been picking the nutty residue out of the gaps in my teeth with the tip of my tongue. And I admit, first thing in the morning I may look a little worse for wear, with my 57-year-old death breath and PJs that gape.

But hey, “I am not an animal, and anyway Kym, I actually work for a living”.

The Trip
I know my wife loves a place called the Beach Shacks in the Town of 1770 so I booked a couple of nights there as a surprise. But beware, it’s a five-hour trip north.

To offset this and to break the drive time up a little, we overnighted in Maryborough, a beautiful town filled with wonderfully old style houses. The tourist brochure I picked up said, “come and visit our cemetery”.

I thought, “don’t worry, I’ll get there eventually”. The next day we lunched in Bundaberg. I bought Stella and Poppy a little piece of porcelain each, with their initials S and P on it at the second-hand shop.

Poppy asked: “Why do they have holes at the top, Dad?” Stella was quick to answer: “Because they’re salt and pepper shakers, he’s just being cheap.” Isn’t it the thought that counts?

Anyway, another 130 kilometres on from Bundy is the town of 1770 and after many hours of the kids repeating, “are we there yet?”, I opted to feed them pizza.

I stood at the counter waiting to order when I heard the chef say to a waitress who had just bought back a pizza from a customer, and I quote, “I don’t care if it’s the wrong f’ing pizza, I’m not f’ing cooking another one!”

I tell you, the only thing missing from this vacation was Chevy Chase.