My world is still round

this morning.
Vanessa is still there so her world must be round too. That makes me feel better. I will prowl around Jane's world later. She's throwing a pitch party over at How Publishing Really Works.
If anyone heads here from there please say hello. I am friendly. I do not scratch visitors. I will visit you.
All this will make a nice change from trying to work out something which is still puzzling me. My job is to write communication boards for what are technically known as CHEs or 'complex humanitarian emergencies' - disasters, natural and manmade. There always seem to be more of the latter. They are always made much worse by the blinding stupidity and intransigence of some of the protagonists. I try to be neutral but this is difficult. It is especially difficult in the face of an apparently complete lack of logical thinking. If someone can explain the following I will be grateful.
"A woman's place is in the home. She does not need to learn to read and write. There is no need for a girl to go to school. A woman most certainly cannot go to university or work outside the home."
That's bad enough but then comes the next bit.
"No, a woman may not be examined by a male doctor."
Logic says that this means that a woman may not be examined by a doctor. We get around it by having other women present and witholding something the men need. Even then I am told that asking something as simple as "Are you pregnant?" or "Have you been violated? (Raped.)" can be dangerous. Doctors need to know. Women are fearful of telling them. They are suspicious of everyone. They do not trust other women to interpret for them, especially to interpret accurately. Many of them cannot read or write and the marks on a communication board are meaningless. Even some of those who are there to interpret are not really able to read and write - or only a little. It makes the doctor's job almost impossible.
It's a power thing of course. The men who run the displacement camps and refugee centres are using disasters to impose more disasters on the most vulnerable. Writing communication boards for these situations is like treading through a mine field. I await the day that someone puts a fatwa on me for adding something that should not be there or accidentally misspelling something in a language I cannot read, let alone speak. Or perhaps they will put a fatwa on me simply because I can read and write.

Is the world flat?

When nine out of ten people tell you that you are wrong it is tempting to believe them. It is much easier to be part of the majority. It is comfortable. Most of us like comfort.
If you belong to the majority then other people help to do the work too. That's nice. It adds to the comfort and the 'feel good'.
Why then do I have to go stirring up trouble? Why do I have to be in the minority? I should know better. I tell myself, "Cat, you are already in the minority why do you want to add to the difference?" Then I add to the difference anyway. I keep telling people the world is round. They keep telling me it is flat. Round is harder to stay on. Flat means you just need to stay away from the edges. That way you cannot fall off. Round is a constant balancing act.
This morning I told Vanessa the world is round. If she bothers to answer me she will probably tell me that the world is flat. Flat is better when you are upset. I think I understand that although the world has never been flat for me.
I wonder what the flat world is like? Does it exist?

Bookaholism?

If you are interested in what British booksellers have been contemplating as an advertising campaign then head for the Fidra blog. Vanessa has plenty to say on the issue and I have to agree. I do not like the idea of associating the reading of books with addiction for marketing purposes. Addiction is much too negative. It reeks of illicit drugs, tobacco, and an over-indulgence in alcohol. The idea of bookaholism is not even a starter in my book.
My cat like self has other views on marketing books. I can see cats of all shapes, sizes and colours curled up around books, paws neatly in place on the pages, whiskers twitching with laughter, eyes in narrow slits with anticipation or wide with pleasure, tail tips flicking at the foolishness of human behaviour.
I might even allow a dog or two in on the act - if they can behave themselves and learn to read.

Remember that glue at school?

When I was at school (and I admit it was a very long time ago) we had glue called, "Clag". I believe you can still get it. It was, and probably still is, a thick glug of paste. You had to put it on with a little brush that looked a bit like a witch's broomstick.
I suspect it was made of starch. I had to make something similar yesterday. Late in the day I sent off the necessary work via the wonders of computer and decided that I should tackle the hat.
The hat is cotton. It is knitted. It is destined as an entry into the craft section of the "Royal Show" I mentioned some days ago. It has to be what we knitters call "blocked" - in this case put over a mould, stretched to shape and then - somehow - kept there. This is where the "Clag" part comes in.
I had to find starch - good, old fashioned starch and turn it into a mixture as thick as the glue was. Thankfully I rescued some boxes of this rare and precious commodity when the local supermarket stopped stocking it. (I remember the check-out girl Brenda saying to me, "What are you going to do with all that? Nobody starches anything these days.") I mix the paste. I pour on the boiling water and mix the glug. It gurgles in a rather satisfying way.
When it is cool enough to handle (and it needs to be warm to soak properly into the cotton) I dunk the hat and squeeze and squelch. It is rather fun. I should probably have saved it for Ciaranne to try over the weekend. She would really have enjoyed playing "glue pie" - after all, she is only ten.
Eventually the bit of cotton is thoroughly soaked and I manage to get enough glue off me to pin it out over the plastic form I rescued when my friend Georgie was throwing it out.
As I pin out the brim I realise I could not do this unless my paternal grandmother had taught me how to starch a detachable collar. I know she told me at the time that, "It will come in useful one day." She was right. I wonder how many people know how to starch a detachable collar - and whether they have done it recently?

It started out

with an 8am meeting. The idea behind this is that other people have to go to work. Note I say "other people". I do not go to work. People who work from home do not work. It's simple. I do not know why I do not understand this. Everyone else does.
I did not even have to make the effort to get there. I arrived by magic carpet. Pedal power does not count. The meeting was only about 5km away. The traffic is not heavy. It is not yet peak hour. We will forget the extra traffic because they have pulled up the railway line. That does not count. "Oh, sorry Cat. I could have picked you up. You should have asked." I do not ask for rides unless it is pouring with rain and blowing a gale and I absolutely have to be somewhere. They know that.
And no, I am not doing the work they are paid to do. I explain this nicely, kindly, patiently. I tell them I have just been asked to do another round of unpaid work for some UN workers and some micro-aid workers who are volunteering their time for people living in tents. The faces around the table are not pleased. I am, after all, there to work for them because I do not work. I have lots of time. They go to work.
I pedal home telling myself I am not being un-nice.
Dad has been waiting anxiously. This time it is not because of me but because the elderly woman I check on twice a week has rung. She is in a state because her daughter is not answering the 'phone. I 'phone her and then go around to the next street to see if her daughter is there. She is not. That does not help much. She still thinks her daughter has had another seizure and is lying helpless on the floor. Her daughter always talks to her every morning.
Her daughter's husband is a teacher. I do not know what school he works at. It has never been an issue before. I do know what school her granddaughter goes to. I 'phone that and explain the problem and say that I am aware that privacy, security and all that goes with 21stC safety awareness will probably prevent them from letting me talk to the child and I do not wish to alarm the child anyway. The child is sensible but this is a school. There is silence at the other end of the'phone and then the voice says, "Tell me something about yourself that I can ask her."
Easy, "Ask her if she knows the Cat on the Tricycle." There is a laugh. "I know the Cat on the Tricycle. Hold on and I'll see what I can find out."
A little later there is a voice at the other end of the 'phone, "Cat, is something wrong?"
I hastily explain I do not think there is. "Oh, tell Granny that Dad has taken Mum to the hospital. It's about the skin graft from last time. They did tell her. She's forgotten again."
Thank goodness for clear headed twelve year old girls. I 'phone my elderly friend. She is almost in tears. I tell her to go and make herself a cup of tea.
There is no time for a cup of tea but I pedal off to the other meeting wondering why the school secretary knows the Cat on the Tricycle? I really should have asked her.

It was just as well I took

some work with me. I went shopping with my sister. I do not like shopping but this was 'essential stuff' - food not stocked by the local shops.
Shopping with my sister is an experience. She inevitably arrives later than she says she will. I am prepared for that. I always tell Dad we will back much later than she says we will be. That way he will not worry quite as much when she is delayed.
She arrived only half an hour late and we took off for Gaganis. This is a warehouse on the other side of the CBD. It stocks bulk food - a lot of it Greek or otherwise Mediterranean in nature. It is (dis)organised according to a Greek male's idea of how to cook. (Do not get me wrong. Greek men are brilliant at barbecues - if you like meat.)
We have to pull over twice on the way for her to have a conversation on her mobile. Hers is hands free and she can use it in traffic but she has the sense not to. Yes, I would much rather wait for her to finish talking!
We arrive and, wonder of wonders, discover a parking spot near the entrance. All I have to do is get out and move sundry shopping trolleys and then use one for us.
We go into the barn. There is a security guard at the door. This is new. There was an attempted robbery a couple of weeks back the guard tells us. He lets us in. We are apparently not a threat. (Not a threat?)
My sister goes hunting for the haloumi. She buys this cheese by the bucket load for her family. I go hunting for pumpkin and sunflower seeds, barley and almond meal. We then both go hunting for other things that Helen needs. She really does buy in bulk. There are two growing 'boys' in her family - aged 20 and 22. They still eat a lot. So do their friends. The friends seem to descend regularly. There is blue gum honey on special so I succumb and buy some of that.
They do not stock rye, wheat or barley flakes. You cannot make muesli without these - not according to my father. Helen informs me that we will head for the natural food shop in the Central Market - after she has picked up "the signs".
I never did find out what the signs were or what they were for. We find the place after a detour to a greengrocery so she can get a banana. It is 3pm and she has not had any lunch. I was wise enough to eat something before we left. I wait in the car and do a little work. We arrive at the sign place and I wait in the car. I wait in the car. I wait in the car. She eventually returns forty minutes later. The job had not been finished so she had to wait. I had an entire page translated by then and had started on the second one.
She starts the car and her 'phone rings. She switches off. I translate some more while she talks.
We then head into the market. No car park spaces. "I should have dropped you off," she tells me. Well, yes that would have been a good idea. It would have saved time. I walk back while she tries to find somewhere she can park for more than the loading zone allows. She has a disability sticker which means we get 20 mins in a loading zone but we are both conscious it IS a loading zone.
I race frantically around the shop gathering up the things I need. She saunters in having another conversation. "It's all right. I found another park." Ah yes, all right for her. I sneak a peek at the time. Dad will be wondering - no worrying. She sees me, sighs and rings to let him know we have been delayed. I think about getting work e-mailed back to people who will soon be starting to head into their various offices on one side of the world or leaving their offices on the other.
We make it back. I load up the work I have done and send it off. There is more waiting - but I consider I have the right to put the kettle on first.

I am not an economist

or a mathematician so I fail to understand how paying some people more, a lot more, will be a good thing for the economy.
I am perfectly happy for people to be paid adequately. They should be paid well for doing a good job - whatever that job happens to be.
There are other things that can get in the way of being paid more than that. Can your employer afford it? Is paying you more going to put someone else out of work? Is it going to put you out of work because your employer can no longer afford to pay you and your workmates the extra you have so blithely demanded? Does it mean that your employer, who has taken all the risks and done the really hard work of building up a business so that you can be paid, must lose everything for your short-term gain?
Australian unions seem to be thinking this way. They are back in power. The ACTU is a loud voice at Labor Party conferences again. They claim to be standing up for "workers' pay, rights and conditions" and for Rudd's "working families". They say that the previous government's "Work Choices" scheme had nothing good about it at all. It seems the ACTU has all the answers. You pay people more. You give them more rights. You impose more conditions on employers. When the employer goes under it is never the fault of the employees - after all employees have rights.
Yes, there are bosses who have been greedy, excessively greedy. They have mismanaged their businesses. Their faults are many and, if press resports are to be believed, their virtues are few. I suspect they are in the minority. Most bosses want to do the right thing by their employees. They want to do it because it is the best thing for them as well as their employees. Everyone benefits. Bosses and workers have mutual obligations and responsibilities.
So it is sad to learn that a thriving small business here which employs just eleven people is in danger of closing because the union movement has now threatened to make it impossible for them to carry on. They have been harrassing the employees for months. The employees do not want to join the relevant union. With just eleven of them they are in close contact with the boss all the time. They work hard. They work together. They get well paid. They get the same conditions as union members and more besides. The union does not like that.
Unions had their place. They still have their place. They do not however have the right to interfere in a well run business simply because people do not belong to the union movement.