The word is that in a few weeks from now the federal minister for the environment, heritage and the arts, Peter Garrett, will give his yes or no decision on the Traveston Crossing dam.

Then, and only then, we will see whether he is going to toe the party line – given that it’s a Labor state government that gave it the go-ahead – or whether he will once again become the ultimate environmentalist he purported to be when frontman for Midnight Oil.

Since he has been in politics, I sense that he has lost some of that green integrity that was so easy for him to espouse when nobody actually cared what he said.

One man’s trash ...

I just love going to the Yandina Road dump, so I jump at every opportunity to clean up around the yard and the house just so as I can go and visit all my friends at the tip.

I can’t quite remember the name of the guy on the weighbridge, but I know he’s Welsh.

I said to him, “After I dump this lot, I might come back and have a look around the shop”, which I might add is a green shipping container.

“Righto,” he said with a smile.

As I walked towards his “store” – I think it’s called Scavengers are Us – I spied 10 star pickets hardly ever used.

“How much?” I yelled through the crows and seagulls.

“Five dollars, boyo!” was his reply.

Bargain, I thought, and loaded them in.

God knows what I’ll do with them; I don’t need them for anything, but a bargain’s a bargain.

Road-kill instructions

I think I may have turned into my father, because last Sunday I took the family for a “drive”.

We ended up on a dirt road in the back blocks of the Mary Valley.

As I turned the corner next to a creek there was a dead wallaby that had been freshly hit, lying on the road.

My 11-year-old, Jackson, who is obsessed with Steve Irwin and subsequently knows all there is to know about Australian wildlife, instructed me on what to do.

“Dad,” he said in all seriousness.

“You have to shift the body off the road because other animals will come to feed off it and they could get killed as well.”

My head did a complete 360 and I asked: “Do you seriously want me to pick up a dead wallaby and carry it to the side of the road?”

“You have to Dad,” he said emphatically, “or other animals will die, I saw it on a documentary.”

So there I was dragging Skippy’s carcass off into the bush.

I was either Father of the Year or idiot of the week ... I’m not sure which.

Where’s my dinner?

I don’t know what I’d done to deserve such treatment, or perhaps it’s just a case of out of sight, out of mind.

When I got home last Monday night there was no dinner made, and so I had jam on toast (a diabetic’s delight) and went to bed.

The very next night I got home at seven o’clock, walked through the door and said: “Is there any dinner?”

Kym’s voice came from the darkness in front of the television screen.

“No, the kids had baked beans on toast.”

I kept walking to the kitchen and made peanut butter on toast (a diabetic’s desire) and went to bed.

Is it wrong of me to expect my wife to actually make dinner for a working man?

Please send all your letters of complaints to Jamie Dunn, C/- Single Men’s Shelter, Kilkivan Community Hall.

Lighten up

What’s all the fuss about?

Chinese security guards.
As I understand it, there are four guards.

You can get a number 27, a number 32, a number 23 and an 11 to take away.

What a good combination.