They come in their hordes, not content to keep their smug coupledom locked up in the privacy of their own home, to cruelly dangle their satisfaction in front of single people at every turn.
But this is nothing new. The public display of affection has been haunting those members of the public with no affection to display since the beginning of time. Wikipedia’s page on the public display of affection is complete with the painting titled ‘Arthur and Guinevere kiss before all the people’, a somewhat restrained image of the mythological royalty.
Such is the frequency of public displays of affection that its own acronym has been even been invented – the PDA.
Lately I’ve been catching the bus from a different bus stop, which in itself is not a problem. What becomes a problem is the route from college to this bus stop – right past the UQ Lakes.
For those initiated with this area of UQ, let me enlighten you. The rancid smell of duck, geese and other assorted bird’s poo wafts through the air, with these incriminating poultry lurking menacingly ready to attack. The lake itself beckons, the water a murky mixture prone to transmitting rashes to any who dare to succumb to its allure – or perhaps that’s due the PDAs themselves.
Doesn’t exactly sound like the perfect romantic getaway, now does it? Wrong! UQ students have unofficially voted this the ideal spot of PDAs, and choose to demonstrate their choice daily.
To these self-satisfied couples one word of advice – stop flaunting your love lives to the rest of us singles. We don’t care.
Monday, 30 April 2007
Angry TV Addict
Every Sunday night I find myself in a huge dilemma. If you’re anything like me you have spent the whole weekend working, trying to catch up with friends and attempting to include uni assignments into the equation. By the end of the week you are deprived of sleep. All you feel like doing is laying yourself on the lounge with a packet of Tim Tams, and watching some good quality TV.
And this is where the problem lies. Not that there’s nothing worth watching but that there is too much to watch. Where do I begin? Ugly Betty, Grey’s Anatomy, What About Brian. Then there was Super Sunday in the Big Brother House. Yes I am a self confessed BB addict. The secret relationship was revealed, Mr X was outed and the White Room Wildcards hit breaking point. And don’t let me forget Rove. I’ve got a headache just thinking about it.
I’m not a social outcast, but I have to admit that my life does mainly revolve around TV. I was forced to flick through the channels in the ads, something that has always annoyed me. I ended up having to compromise and miss out on parts of the programs.
Why is it that during the week I struggle to find something enjoyable to watch? And then Sunday night comes around and I find myself in a head spin?
Television stations listen up! Reorganize your programs or you’ll be receiving a very threatening phone call.
And this is where the problem lies. Not that there’s nothing worth watching but that there is too much to watch. Where do I begin? Ugly Betty, Grey’s Anatomy, What About Brian. Then there was Super Sunday in the Big Brother House. Yes I am a self confessed BB addict. The secret relationship was revealed, Mr X was outed and the White Room Wildcards hit breaking point. And don’t let me forget Rove. I’ve got a headache just thinking about it.
I’m not a social outcast, but I have to admit that my life does mainly revolve around TV. I was forced to flick through the channels in the ads, something that has always annoyed me. I ended up having to compromise and miss out on parts of the programs.
Why is it that during the week I struggle to find something enjoyable to watch? And then Sunday night comes around and I find myself in a head spin?
Television stations listen up! Reorganize your programs or you’ll be receiving a very threatening phone call.
Don’t you know you look like an orange?
Fair enough they don’t want to get skin cancer. Power to those who don’t want to turn out looking like a leather hand bag. But if you’re not going to go in the sun for what ever reason, remember, fake tan looks, well, fake! Not only does it look fake, it stinks! People who wear fake tan look like ridiculous vain individuals. People who wear fake tan carry a disgusting stench made worse by the layers of perfume put on to cover it up. Who cares if you’re brown or not? And it’s not even brown, it’s orange. Yes we can see that it is streaky! Yes it looks really dark and hideous on your feet. Yes I can tell you forgot to wash your hands after. Then there’s the fake tan a few days later; rubbing off in all the wrong places, arm pits, behind the knees, behind the elbows. I’m yet to see any reason behind this fake tan insanity. I can’t see any benefits to fake tan application. Wake up you crazy, orange, stinky people!
Are your lights dimmed?
Yes speed kills.
But what is the Queensland Government doing about “slow kills”.
Well road safety’s other phrase, “Have you got a nut loose at the wheel?” doesn’t simply apply to teenage speedsters who drag race along Brisbane street, but rather includes the those who creep along Coronation Drive at the pace of a three-legged turtle and break suddenly when someone six cars ahead slows ever so slightly. Maybe the slogan could be, “Hey have you got your lights on…brain lights?” Or “Are your lights dimmed?”
The opinion of numerous people (myself included) is that on highways, slow drivers can cause just as many accidents as the fast drivers. Why?
Well humans are an impatient species; we do not like to be kept waiting. Traffic jams annoy us, Centrelink and Queensland Transport lines that rarely end at the doors make us unusually abrupt to staff. Then there are the deli waiting lists – the ones where you take a number from the machine, then have to endure a marathon wait in the “express” line. We don’t like to be kept hanging around. We have lives to live didn’t you know?
So those who have a problem with waiting do not like to be stuck behind an 80-year-old driver going 80km along the Bruce highway. Therefore, they take risks; overtake when they shouldn’t and if they crash then that’s their fault but please, stick to the speed everyone.
Okay so it’s the recommended speed… but seriously, going 40km along the normal 60km/hr Coronation Drive is incredibly agitating. Driving in Brisbane is already annoying but its nothing compared to Coronation, where breaking non-stop is the norm, and sitting behind the green light because the car at the front hadn’t noticed the red had gone happens every time.
Switch on the brain people. Don’t complain that everything is rush-rush-rush – if you don’t like it, don’t drive or move somewhere else, we don’t enjoy the traffic more than the next person but sitting behind a lame horse on any highway is no fun at all.
But what is the Queensland Government doing about “slow kills”.
Well road safety’s other phrase, “Have you got a nut loose at the wheel?” doesn’t simply apply to teenage speedsters who drag race along Brisbane street, but rather includes the those who creep along Coronation Drive at the pace of a three-legged turtle and break suddenly when someone six cars ahead slows ever so slightly. Maybe the slogan could be, “Hey have you got your lights on…brain lights?” Or “Are your lights dimmed?”
The opinion of numerous people (myself included) is that on highways, slow drivers can cause just as many accidents as the fast drivers. Why?
Well humans are an impatient species; we do not like to be kept waiting. Traffic jams annoy us, Centrelink and Queensland Transport lines that rarely end at the doors make us unusually abrupt to staff. Then there are the deli waiting lists – the ones where you take a number from the machine, then have to endure a marathon wait in the “express” line. We don’t like to be kept hanging around. We have lives to live didn’t you know?
So those who have a problem with waiting do not like to be stuck behind an 80-year-old driver going 80km along the Bruce highway. Therefore, they take risks; overtake when they shouldn’t and if they crash then that’s their fault but please, stick to the speed everyone.
Okay so it’s the recommended speed… but seriously, going 40km along the normal 60km/hr Coronation Drive is incredibly agitating. Driving in Brisbane is already annoying but its nothing compared to Coronation, where breaking non-stop is the norm, and sitting behind the green light because the car at the front hadn’t noticed the red had gone happens every time.
Switch on the brain people. Don’t complain that everything is rush-rush-rush – if you don’t like it, don’t drive or move somewhere else, we don’t enjoy the traffic more than the next person but sitting behind a lame horse on any highway is no fun at all.
Backstage Pass to Disappointment
Backstage Pass to Disappointment
By Carlie Dole
The backstage door swings open to reveal a collection of musicians squatting on the steps Boags in hand. The lead singer crouches at the bottom, apparently deep in artistic thought. The support band huddles around this former child prodigy soaking in his drunken stupor as an aurora of success to come.
I take my place at the top of the grey wooden staircase, seemingly unnoticed by the bodies I had stepped over.
Suddenly the Drummer of the headlining act looks up, as though I may bring him temporary distraction to his own critical analysis.
“Hey, how’s it going, who are you?”
What do you say to a famous rock star who is surrounded by groupies every show of every tour?
“Well…my friend here knows the keyboardist.”
“Ah k, sweet.”
He immediately grows bored of my presence and I feel disappointed that I had let him down, not being someone more substantial in his eyes.
Our keyboardist connection suggests we head upstairs to the bands’ official dressing room elaborately labeled with one typed A4 sheet of paper.
Shabby grey couches in semi-circle formation surround a coffee table littered with paper, bottles and a clip-bag of Marijuana. My friend takes the initiative to roll a joint from the bands stash and I am intrigued by her lack of inhibitions.
And so the night proceeds in the support bands dressing room. We sit in a circle connected only by the white stick of green stuff and small talk. The lead singer giggles incessantly whilst swigging from a bottle of unlabelled red wine.
On reflection I find that what I expected when I crossed the threshold with my backstage pass was a conversation with a rock star that would instil some wisdom in my young heart. Perhaps I expected these professional entertainers to keep up the act backstage and that is why I walked away disappointed.
By Carlie Dole
The backstage door swings open to reveal a collection of musicians squatting on the steps Boags in hand. The lead singer crouches at the bottom, apparently deep in artistic thought. The support band huddles around this former child prodigy soaking in his drunken stupor as an aurora of success to come.
I take my place at the top of the grey wooden staircase, seemingly unnoticed by the bodies I had stepped over.
Suddenly the Drummer of the headlining act looks up, as though I may bring him temporary distraction to his own critical analysis.
“Hey, how’s it going, who are you?”
What do you say to a famous rock star who is surrounded by groupies every show of every tour?
“Well…my friend here knows the keyboardist.”
“Ah k, sweet.”
He immediately grows bored of my presence and I feel disappointed that I had let him down, not being someone more substantial in his eyes.
Our keyboardist connection suggests we head upstairs to the bands’ official dressing room elaborately labeled with one typed A4 sheet of paper.
Shabby grey couches in semi-circle formation surround a coffee table littered with paper, bottles and a clip-bag of Marijuana. My friend takes the initiative to roll a joint from the bands stash and I am intrigued by her lack of inhibitions.
And so the night proceeds in the support bands dressing room. We sit in a circle connected only by the white stick of green stuff and small talk. The lead singer giggles incessantly whilst swigging from a bottle of unlabelled red wine.
On reflection I find that what I expected when I crossed the threshold with my backstage pass was a conversation with a rock star that would instil some wisdom in my young heart. Perhaps I expected these professional entertainers to keep up the act backstage and that is why I walked away disappointed.
Foreign languages.......
Why don’t more Australians pursue language learning? Not only Australians; Americans and British, in fact all native English speaking countries are lacking in this area of education. It’s true that most children receive a basic knowledge and understanding of a foreign language, but compare this with the standards of countries in the EU and the results are poor.
In what areas do a lack of foreign language skills affect a society? According to Reza Zadeh, “like productivity and innovation, language ability is a key component of a competitive business environment”.
With the widespread use of English all over the world, it is quite easy to overlook the importance of foreign language skills. Did you know that only 6% of the world’s population are native English speakers and 75% speak no English at all.[1]
I have been learning German for the past 11 years. In my view, the lack of interest in foreign languages by Australians is disappointing. I believe my life is enhanced by my German knowledge. I have an intercultural understanding and awareness that I believe other people don’t have.
[1] http://www.cilt.org.uk/key/talkingworldclass.pdf
In what areas do a lack of foreign language skills affect a society? According to Reza Zadeh, “like productivity and innovation, language ability is a key component of a competitive business environment”.
With the widespread use of English all over the world, it is quite easy to overlook the importance of foreign language skills. Did you know that only 6% of the world’s population are native English speakers and 75% speak no English at all.[1]
I have been learning German for the past 11 years. In my view, the lack of interest in foreign languages by Australians is disappointing. I believe my life is enhanced by my German knowledge. I have an intercultural understanding and awareness that I believe other people don’t have.
[1] http://www.cilt.org.uk/key/talkingworldclass.pdf
WATER
South East Queensland’s current water crisis has pushed us call to for desperate measures in a bid to save precious water resources. Restriction is a word which resonates... no washing cars, no watering plants, and limit those showers to four minutes.
Four minutes may seem like a lifetime to some of us. But what about those occasional ‘essential’ shower duties? Sure, the definition of essential varies for each of us; male or female, long hair or short hair, shaver or waxer. Nonetheless, occasionally these duties are certainly necessary.
I truly believe the usual routine can be done in two minutes. Tap on, soap it up, wash it off, and you’re out of there. But what about when Friday night comes around, you’ve just come back from the gym, the hair in is dire need of some attention, and you’re legs vaguely resemble a jungle? It is times like these when four minutes seems a near impossibility.
I’ve gone out on a limb and asked the ‘four minute’ question of a variety of friends and family, and have received a mixed reaction. Some whisperingly reveal they indulge in a fifteen minute flood. Others wash in a bucket and are considering pitching a latrine in the back yard to save from flushing. But having a bath in an inch of water when I need to wash my hair just doesn’t cut it for me.
If you agree, be careful who you divulge this information to, as you may be likened to the devil incarnate- which I found out the hard way. Sure, restricting flushing and trying to keep to two minute showers every other day seems a given. But desperate measures for the long haired, shaving women out there may not actually be delivered via the four minute shower. Even if they won’t actually admit it.
Four minutes may seem like a lifetime to some of us. But what about those occasional ‘essential’ shower duties? Sure, the definition of essential varies for each of us; male or female, long hair or short hair, shaver or waxer. Nonetheless, occasionally these duties are certainly necessary.
I truly believe the usual routine can be done in two minutes. Tap on, soap it up, wash it off, and you’re out of there. But what about when Friday night comes around, you’ve just come back from the gym, the hair in is dire need of some attention, and you’re legs vaguely resemble a jungle? It is times like these when four minutes seems a near impossibility.
I’ve gone out on a limb and asked the ‘four minute’ question of a variety of friends and family, and have received a mixed reaction. Some whisperingly reveal they indulge in a fifteen minute flood. Others wash in a bucket and are considering pitching a latrine in the back yard to save from flushing. But having a bath in an inch of water when I need to wash my hair just doesn’t cut it for me.
If you agree, be careful who you divulge this information to, as you may be likened to the devil incarnate- which I found out the hard way. Sure, restricting flushing and trying to keep to two minute showers every other day seems a given. But desperate measures for the long haired, shaving women out there may not actually be delivered via the four minute shower. Even if they won’t actually admit it.
when the grass grows green in West End
Crunch under my feet went the little burnt-orange shoots pushing their way stubbornly through the cracked cement footpath.
My brother crouched down and gently plucked one. He closed his eyes and took a whiff. He straightened and I just knew I was about to be imparted with that older sibling wisdom – again.
“See, there is definitely not a drought,” he said, waving the evidence in front of me like a priest on Palm Sunday.
“As long as there is grass growing in West-End there is not a drought.”
Crunch crunch crunch.
That to me did not sound like green pastures.
It didn’t even sound like a single healthy sprig.
No, that there was the sound of dead-as-dead, crunchy stuff. I don’t know if it could even be called grass.
But I sucked it in.
Instead, out came the harmless look of approval and the subtle change of subject.
“So it’s peppermint tea you like, hey Sam?” I say, gently guiding him into The Shire tea house.
Call me a wimpy little sister, but I love my big brother and his out-of-this-world ideas.
Perhaps that day will come when the grass grows green in West End.
Until then, I’m content to be refreshed by the unrealistic ramblings of my brother the optimist.
My brother crouched down and gently plucked one. He closed his eyes and took a whiff. He straightened and I just knew I was about to be imparted with that older sibling wisdom – again.
“See, there is definitely not a drought,” he said, waving the evidence in front of me like a priest on Palm Sunday.
“As long as there is grass growing in West-End there is not a drought.”
Crunch crunch crunch.
That to me did not sound like green pastures.
It didn’t even sound like a single healthy sprig.
No, that there was the sound of dead-as-dead, crunchy stuff. I don’t know if it could even be called grass.
But I sucked it in.
Instead, out came the harmless look of approval and the subtle change of subject.
“So it’s peppermint tea you like, hey Sam?” I say, gently guiding him into The Shire tea house.
Call me a wimpy little sister, but I love my big brother and his out-of-this-world ideas.
Perhaps that day will come when the grass grows green in West End.
Until then, I’m content to be refreshed by the unrealistic ramblings of my brother the optimist.
I hate Supre
I Hate Supre
By Supre hater
I hate Supre, I refuse to shop there, one because I hate there clothes and two because I think there partly responsible for sexually transmitted diseases and unwanted pregnancy. That may seem extremely brash, but I’m angry.
I was taught that sex was supposed to be special, apparently not, well that’s what my Friday night out proved to me. ‘Not drunk enough yet, so don’t bother”, “my boyfriends out of town” and one with an image of an ice-cream that said “lick me” were the fashion statements that seemed to prove popular for a night out on the town, all kindly supplied by Supre.
I’m no prude, but these t-shirts bothered me, it’s not the fact they were distasteful and in my opinion cheap and nasty, but it was the fact that young girls are increasingly open and un-phased by the idea of sex. Not that I’m at all preaching the notion of no sex before marriage but I do think that it is something to be valued and not necessarily out there for the whole world to see.
Supre is like a celebrity, it is a role model for hundreds of girls, responsible for supplying them with there monthly intake of cool. Stocking these sexually charged t-shirts are a blatant condoning of sex, not that there is anything wrong with sex, but when it is portrayed in such a blatant and disrespectful manner, that is the problem. Selling these t-shirts to thirteen year olds is the same as selling alcohol to people underage, all I have to say is I hate Supre.
By Supre hater
I hate Supre, I refuse to shop there, one because I hate there clothes and two because I think there partly responsible for sexually transmitted diseases and unwanted pregnancy. That may seem extremely brash, but I’m angry.
I was taught that sex was supposed to be special, apparently not, well that’s what my Friday night out proved to me. ‘Not drunk enough yet, so don’t bother”, “my boyfriends out of town” and one with an image of an ice-cream that said “lick me” were the fashion statements that seemed to prove popular for a night out on the town, all kindly supplied by Supre.
I’m no prude, but these t-shirts bothered me, it’s not the fact they were distasteful and in my opinion cheap and nasty, but it was the fact that young girls are increasingly open and un-phased by the idea of sex. Not that I’m at all preaching the notion of no sex before marriage but I do think that it is something to be valued and not necessarily out there for the whole world to see.
Supre is like a celebrity, it is a role model for hundreds of girls, responsible for supplying them with there monthly intake of cool. Stocking these sexually charged t-shirts are a blatant condoning of sex, not that there is anything wrong with sex, but when it is portrayed in such a blatant and disrespectful manner, that is the problem. Selling these t-shirts to thirteen year olds is the same as selling alcohol to people underage, all I have to say is I hate Supre.
Art and Drama
You don’t even have to leave your study to be exposed to visual art both brilliant and questionable anymore.
In the limitless expanse of cyberspace there is an art community that has been filling up with user submissions for 2,456 days, as the homepage proudly proclaims.
DeviantART.com is host to over 35 million submissions of prose, poetry, and visual art of all possible genres. Origami, traditionally drawn comics, computerised vector art, original costumes, anime and any other art form imaginable. The quality ranges from the incredibly professional works of such ‘Deviants’ as `Zancan or *angelreich to the snapshots that whiz across the new submissions page that bear a cringe-worthy resemblance to a typical MySpace display pic.
There are journals for users, newscasts on art, tutorials for beginners and possibly most importantly – chatrooms.
Forget politics – the internet is the only free-for-all where the voiceless truly have a voice. People can (and do) say whatever they want.
If you can imagine a group of thousands of art enthusiasts between the ages of 12 and 60 into a room and given equal opportunity to express their opinions, you’re starting to come close to the feel of the DeviantART community.
Last year there was an intense drama over the firing of a moderator, by the screen name of Jark. For weeks upon weeks submissions were dominated by little yellow aliens (Jark’s symbol) and the entire community was divided into Jark Supporters and Those Against.
For a community that revolves around art and creativity, DeviantART drifts towards drama as often as life out here in the real world. But at least online it comes punctuated with visual assistance, and avoiding the drama is as simple as clicking the red X.
Staying in the study might be the answer after all.
-Alex Caton
In the limitless expanse of cyberspace there is an art community that has been filling up with user submissions for 2,456 days, as the homepage proudly proclaims.
DeviantART.com is host to over 35 million submissions of prose, poetry, and visual art of all possible genres. Origami, traditionally drawn comics, computerised vector art, original costumes, anime and any other art form imaginable. The quality ranges from the incredibly professional works of such ‘Deviants’ as `Zancan or *angelreich to the snapshots that whiz across the new submissions page that bear a cringe-worthy resemblance to a typical MySpace display pic.
There are journals for users, newscasts on art, tutorials for beginners and possibly most importantly – chatrooms.
Forget politics – the internet is the only free-for-all where the voiceless truly have a voice. People can (and do) say whatever they want.
If you can imagine a group of thousands of art enthusiasts between the ages of 12 and 60 into a room and given equal opportunity to express their opinions, you’re starting to come close to the feel of the DeviantART community.
Last year there was an intense drama over the firing of a moderator, by the screen name of Jark. For weeks upon weeks submissions were dominated by little yellow aliens (Jark’s symbol) and the entire community was divided into Jark Supporters and Those Against.
For a community that revolves around art and creativity, DeviantART drifts towards drama as often as life out here in the real world. But at least online it comes punctuated with visual assistance, and avoiding the drama is as simple as clicking the red X.
Staying in the study might be the answer after all.
-Alex Caton
23 reasons to walk out
Jim Carey made me laugh, too bad it was in a psychological thriller.
This film is proof that you can’t trust a preview. I walked into the cinema with high expectations after the preview blew me away and thought to myself, “maybe Jim Carey will pull this off”, thinking back to other comedic based actors like Adam Sandler who tried their hand in a more serious role. However, within the first few scenes, you could see Jim slipping back into funny mode, trying to insert little jokes or humor wherever he could. This straight away killed the eerie, serious mood that good psychological thrillers require. The movie chopped and changed far too quickly between Jim Carey’s life and a journal he was reading which was made more confusing when the actors in the journal scenes were the same actors from the actual real life scenes. Lame one liners like “how much do you wanna bet theres 23 stairs” just compounded the already shattered mood of seriousness, leaving me to consider whether or not I should get up and walk out.
Jim Carey should stick with his comedy roles, because this time around, I was laughing at him for all the wrong reasons.
This film is proof that you can’t trust a preview. I walked into the cinema with high expectations after the preview blew me away and thought to myself, “maybe Jim Carey will pull this off”, thinking back to other comedic based actors like Adam Sandler who tried their hand in a more serious role. However, within the first few scenes, you could see Jim slipping back into funny mode, trying to insert little jokes or humor wherever he could. This straight away killed the eerie, serious mood that good psychological thrillers require. The movie chopped and changed far too quickly between Jim Carey’s life and a journal he was reading which was made more confusing when the actors in the journal scenes were the same actors from the actual real life scenes. Lame one liners like “how much do you wanna bet theres 23 stairs” just compounded the already shattered mood of seriousness, leaving me to consider whether or not I should get up and walk out.
Jim Carey should stick with his comedy roles, because this time around, I was laughing at him for all the wrong reasons.
Brisbane's Water Wastage Woes
By Lea Emery
Brisbanites should suck it up and stop their whining about current water restrictions.
Brisbane residents seem to forget that their rural counterparts have been living with the same water restrictions for the past ten years or more.
The difference is that rural Queenslanders only start to complain when the water gets so bad that they are starting to face the prospect of having to walk away from their entire livelihoods.
Why is it that rural Queenslanders can save water without a complaint but when asking city dwellers to do the same thing it becomes as painful as a pre-school drama production?
The answer is quite clear.
Rural Queenslanders can live without a spotlessly clean car, don’t need a garden to show affluence and have mastered the once a week wash rather than a half-load a night.
While water restrictions are not always imposed, the desperately low levels could have been avoided for longer if Brisbane residents were more careful with water when drought was not imminent.
If simple things like using a broom to clean the driveway instead of the hose and waiting for a full load before washing were all done when Brisbane actually had water its obvious that the water restrictions would be nowhere near as harsh.
Brisbane residents, however, do not seem to have grasped this fact, choosing instead to blame the politicians for not planning for a drought, an unforeseeable natural disaster.
Sure, the politicians should have realised earlier that Brisbane was going to struggle if the rain didn’t come, but the people of Brisbane need to take some responsibility for earlier water wastage.
Brisbanites should suck it up and stop their whining about current water restrictions.
Brisbane residents seem to forget that their rural counterparts have been living with the same water restrictions for the past ten years or more.
The difference is that rural Queenslanders only start to complain when the water gets so bad that they are starting to face the prospect of having to walk away from their entire livelihoods.
Why is it that rural Queenslanders can save water without a complaint but when asking city dwellers to do the same thing it becomes as painful as a pre-school drama production?
The answer is quite clear.
Rural Queenslanders can live without a spotlessly clean car, don’t need a garden to show affluence and have mastered the once a week wash rather than a half-load a night.
While water restrictions are not always imposed, the desperately low levels could have been avoided for longer if Brisbane residents were more careful with water when drought was not imminent.
If simple things like using a broom to clean the driveway instead of the hose and waiting for a full load before washing were all done when Brisbane actually had water its obvious that the water restrictions would be nowhere near as harsh.
Brisbane residents, however, do not seem to have grasped this fact, choosing instead to blame the politicians for not planning for a drought, an unforeseeable natural disaster.
Sure, the politicians should have realised earlier that Brisbane was going to struggle if the rain didn’t come, but the people of Brisbane need to take some responsibility for earlier water wastage.
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