Thursday, May 28, 2009


Maybe you already know about Savage Chickens. I'm usually late to the party on these kinds of things.

Enjoy, or, alternately, endure long stretches of misery punctuated by brief moments of happiness!

Monday, May 25, 2009


From page 4 of today's newspaper:

I think it's tragic that our young people are being pushed into risky behaviours like drinking cask wine. What's next? Eating an inferior roquefort? Watching commercial television? Buying a Daewoo? Getting your broccolini from the supermarket!?

It's all too hideous to contemplate.

Act now, parents of Australia! Pull your children back from the brink and into safe behaviours, like complaining about excessive food miles, making their own dukkah, and base-jumping.

Friday, May 22, 2009


It's been an interesting project, comparing coffees and cafes over the last week. At least it has been for me – judging by the dearth of comments everyone else has grown bored and flicked over to I Can Has Cheezburger. I hope they're LOLing it up as we speak.

However, it occurred to me this morning that I may be losing sight of what really constitutes a quality coffee. In sipping the crème de la crema, it's conceivable that I'm losing track of what the range of coffee truly is. I realised that it was time to establish a baseline, as scientists and characters on 'Lie To Me' say.

So I went to Gloria Jeans in Victoria Park, to reconnect with what truly bad coffee tastes like.

It was busy at around 4pm, filled with undiscerning people and comfortable furniture. I noticed that they had something in the cake cabinet called Yummy Mummy Cupcakes, which made me want to hunt down and murder their entire marketing department. If that wasn't reason enough to excoriate Gloria Jean's, a whole new world of reasons came up as soon as I sipped my flat white.

It's not the worst coffee in the city. The worst coffee in the city comes from an open tin of International Roast that's been sitting under someone's kitchen sink since 1987, slowly absorbing flavour from a neighboring bottle of Domestos. But it's the worst coffee in the city that costs $3.50 and comes out of something claiming to be an espresso machine.

It's an angry, bitter brew, burnt by unscrupulous hands and shoved out into an uncaring world. Once there it can only truly be accepted if it slathers itself in sugary bling. Then people will drink it, but they definitely won't respect it. Gloria Jean's coffee is the downtrodden whore of the caffeinated world.

It's well known that Gloria Jean's is an evangelical Christian creation, just as Sanitarium comes from the Seventh Day Adventists. As such, I can only imagine that it's all part of a grand but misguided conspiracy to turn the world's caffeinistas away from the false god of coffea arabica (or, judging by my jitters, coffea robusta) and toward the one true God. Either that, or it's a diabolical double-cross plan to make Christians look like clueless killjoys who wouldn't know a decent cup of coffee if Jesus himself did the water-into-wine thing again, only this time with ristretto instead of riesling. Either way, it's not an uplifting scenario.

However it does tell us one thing. If you go to Zekka, Cantina, La Gallette de France or even “Meerlidelishass”, you will get a better cup of coffee than you will get at Gloria Jean's. This just goes to show that there is plenty of good coffee out there - I just needed a reminder of how bad it can get to realise how good I usually have it.

Thursday, May 21, 2009


There's a certain cafe that appears to have just recently opened in Victoria Park, almost exactly halfway between Food For Me and The Imp, and almost exactly opposite 868 Gourmet. As such it's in exalted company, and a useful addition to a neighbourhood which could probably use one or two more places that serve decent coffee.

It has a distinctive name, and I'm not going to tell you what it is. Distinctive names are easy to search on Google, and as the Milkd episode taught me if there's a chance one's review could be become the primary one then it's possible that one will, as they say, publish and be damned. I don't want that responsibility. Let's just call it “Meerlidelishass”.

As I sat at one of the outdoor tables and waited for my order to arrive, I pondered the name. The font – Microsoft Word's Papyrus, I think – made it appear eastern. What is that, Italian? Some sub-continental Buddhist word?

Er, no. It's just cute. And I don't mean “Aw... cute!” as much as “Hmph. Cute.”

My order came out, and I ate and drank. The coffee was... good. The fruit toast was... good. The décor, the service, the prices... all middle range quality. And that's the unfortunate thing. It's impossible to say anything about this cafe without it sounding like damnation through faint praise. The coffee isn't as good as it is at Urbanstar or The Imp. But it's better than it is at Gloria Jean's or The Dome. The fruit toast wasn't up to the standards of Food For Me or Zekka, but it was a lot better than a couple of slices of Tip Top fruit bread stuck in a toaster, which is what you'll get at some of the less reputable cafes in this city. I'd certainly go there again, if I wanted better food than The Imp could offer, or if I wanted more substantial food than 868 Gourmet could offer, or if Food For Me was closed.

And unfortunately that still sounds as if I'm criticizing, when it's more a simple statement of fact.

Maybe they should just shrug their shoulders and put it on the sign. “Meerlidelishass – you could do a lot worse.”

Wednesday, May 20, 2009


On the recommendation of Prudence, I ventured into the west this morning and took my breakfast with the Ladies who Lunch. True, they weren't quite lunching yet, but they were only a nail appointment and a friend named Bunty away from it.

I was at La Gallette de France on Broadway. It had everything that a pre-Lunch Lady could want in a cafe: a Nedlands address, the latest white on white interior with shabby chic chandeliers, a range of brand new BMWs and Mercedes parked outside, and, in a surprise move for an Australian French patisserie, an actual Frenchwoman behind the counter.

Not Vietnamese, as most French patisseries have around here. French. The rich sure know how to live.

The coffee was made by a very large man, the antithesis of the pale slender boys who usually man espresso machines in smart cafes. But as Prudence promised, it was an excellent flat white. Unlike a lot of other baristas who can't tell the difference between a flat white and a latte he was light on the steamed milk, so that the strong flavour of the coffee came through loud and clear. I also noticed from the sign outside that they use 5 Senses coffee, which further helps to explain the potency of the taste.

As I was in a French patisserie I couldn't have my usual breakfast choice of fruit toast, so I went with a plain brioche. It was superb, like a light, puffy cloud of carbohydrates. Then I had an escargot pastry, which somehow managed to be crisp and gooey at the same time. Then I felt sick and ashamed of my gluttony, which didn't taste very good at all but at least was light in calories.

I spent more than an hour there, reading the newspaper, writing on my netbook and stuffing my greedy face with French pastries. La Gallette de France will definitely go on the Good Cafe list, but I may have to ration my visits lest I end up more brioche than man, both in shape and in fat content.

Tuesday, May 19, 2009


As I walked up Beaufort Street in Highgate/Mt Lawley I became increasingly desperate. I needed a new cafe, and I couldn't find one. I saw coffee shops I'd already visited, and restaurants and bakeries which didn't really specialise in coffee. But cafes that are new to me were thin on the ground.

This is the result of being the sort of person who goes out to cafes too much instead of staying at home and doing the vacuuming, or going out and helping the homeless, or combining the two and vacuuming the homeless... all more worthwhile activities than hanging out in cafes drinking coffee until my skin vibrates.

Eventually I ended up at Cantina, which is in one of those locations which Jerry Seinfeld dubbed the Bermuda Triangle of retail. It used to be a Cino To Go. Before that it was a place called The Globe, I think. At some point in its past it may even have been a Dome. The point is that you've always been able to get a cup of coffee there, although you'd know that the coffee beans were ground up like the hopes and dreams of innumerable previous proprietors.

The interior is still vaguely Dome-like, with bentwood stools, benches upholstered in worn leather, tables topped with white marble and lots of varnished wood. The staff were all very friendly. The waitress smiled and acknowledged me as I walked in. As I walked up to the counter to inspect the cakes, a waiter advised me to find a seat so that he could come and take my order.

I took a seat at long marble-topped table and leafed through a copy of GQ. Or HQ. Or possibly just Q. Anyway it had Clive Owen on the cover. I read about the latest looks in men's shoes (pointy, and laces are for squares), and what all the best people are having for breakfast these days (poached eggs with pesto, and posh versions of ham and cheese toasties), and how George Clooney thinks that Clive Owen is quite the man (possibly because he's not an insufferable commie, George). The two waiters and one waitress shuttled back and forth behind me, evidently not noticing that I was there, or that there was nothing in front of me other than the news that Clive Owen is famous for his smouldering. After about fifteen or twenty minutes of not being offered coffee, I heaved a sigh and headed back to the counter.

“How are you?” the waitress asked cheerfully.

“Fine, thank you.”

“Where were you sitting?”

“Just over there.”

“Oh of course, I saw you there.” She confidently tapped a few buttons on her touchscreen, then slightly less confidently frowned at it. “Er, what did you have?”

“I haven't had anything.”

She gave me a baffled look, as if to ask why I was presenting myself to her if I wasn't paying for something, and furthermore why had I been lurking at one of the tables for the last quarter of an hour reading about Clive Owen when I should have been eating and drinking?

“Could I have a flat white, please?” I asked, in a tone which suggested that I was fully prepared for the possibility that such a thing might be beyond them.

“Um, okay, sure,” she responded, and took my money. I went back to my marble-topped table and flicked through a copy of Vogue Living (it seems orange is the new brown) for a couple of minutes before my flat white turned up. It was good. A touch on the milky side, perhaps, but otherwise as good as I'd expect in this quality end of town.

I didn't bother with food – nothing in the cake display inspired me – and after my coffee I slipped out with the same flawless stealth that I'd apparently employed the whole time I was there.


The first of my New Cafe A Day places was Zekka, on King Street in the city centre.

I had heard, from a couple of people who recommended it, that it was very cool and hip, so I prepared myself with due care. I practiced my expression of aloof ennui, checking it in the reflections in shop windows as I walked up the street to see if I needed to add more sneer. Even though I'd been told exactly where it was it took a moment to find, as it's tucked up a narrow ramp in the depths of an anonymous building.

In order to further fit in, I wore the coolest outfit I could dig up: my new Industrie jeans, a brown 70s vintage leather jacket and a retro checked blue shirt. But as I entered I immediately saw that this was unacceptable. Everyone else was wearing black, except for the occasional glimpses of white that made the black blacker.

I'd forgotten that it's late autumn, and as every fashionista knows in the winter season one wears black. Never mind that the day was as bright, hot and sunny as the most glaringly vulgar spring morning – it's late May, and one doesn't wear colour after Easter.

Oh well. The other patrons pointedly ignored the comparative harlequin that had appeared in their midst, and at least it was fairly dim in there, making me look like less of a neon billboard for gaucherie. The rear of the cafe is open to the air, via a large lightwell, but the surrounding skyscrapers create so much shadow that that only a diffuse light gets in. There are a few blocky, squared minimalist tables, a cubist wall mural, severely architectural zamias growing in simple black containers and some zeitgeisty art.

The baristas, slim scruffily bearded young men wearing skinny black jeans and wan smiles, took pity on me and brought me a flat white. As my friends had promised it was very good. It was slightly smoky but not by any means burnt, giving it a dense flavour without any bitterness. The fruit toast I had was also top quality – almost cakelike in texture and rich with fruit and oats.

Unfortunately I couldn't spend too long there. I had to get back to my car before my parking expired, and the effort of not broadcasting my lack of cool to all of the black-clad hipsters was taking its toll. I plan to go there again, however. I jut need to get my black skivvy out of storage.

Monday, May 18, 2009


Tonight, on the last minute invitation of a friend, I went out to see the Julien Wilson Trio at the Charles Hotel. They're a Sydney jazz trio who have apparently been making quite a splash on the sort of classy, upmarket radio stations that I'm too proletarian to listen to.

I have a bit of a love/hate relationship with the whole going-out-to-see-jazz thing here in Perth. I love experiencing good live music, but I hate most Perth jazz outfits. Most native Perth jazz bands appear to be into jazz merely because they consider being in a rock band to be beneath them. They still have a rock sensibility, but they figure they can impress a better class of chick with jazz.

Fortunately the Julien Wilson Trio seemed to be of a different breed. Standard Perth jazz consists of band members trying to out do each other in the musical equivalent of pissing up a wall, with long isolated freeform solos demonstrating their ability to play twelve different notes every second. But this trio understood that it's the perfection of the notes, rather than just the quantity or the diversity, that creates beauty. They treasured the sounds they made, rolling them about, letting them hang deliciously in the air until they're ready for some new ones.

This is not to say that they weren't more than a little avante garde. Saxophonist Julien Wilson experimented with the limits of what his instrument could do, driving it up into a flurry of strangled squeaks or down into a drift of deep breathing, like his sax was making an obscene phone call.

Guitarist Stephen Magnussen and accordionist Stephen Grant also worked their instruments to their limits, but not so much that it overshadowed the music. The guitar lent the sound a Spanish influence, and the accordion a touch of the French. I especially liked that accordion – its idiosyncratic, breathy voice gave a depth to the sound which couldn't have been achieved with a piano or an organ.

They did, occasionally, lose their way. Around the middle of their performance they drifted into the sort of blurting, atonal soundscape that puts other musicians into raptures and audiences to sleep. But they got over it, morphing into a Dave Brubeck-style adventure in syncopation, with all three instruments playing off each other on different yet complementary paths.

So in short I had a great time listening to great music. They were the archetypal modern jazz trio - scruffy, in need of a wash, occasionally be-mulleted and ostentatiously talented.

Also the guitarist was wearing the same sneakers as me. I guess that makes me cool.


I'm taking a week off work to do some relaxing and catch up on some of the mundane errands of life – getting my suit drycleaned, getting some repairs done on the scooter, having drinks with friends, and all of the other things that I could do during a normal week if I were motivated, organised and slightly less lazy.

I have two things I want to do each day: write a blog post and visit a new cafe. We'll see how that plan pans out. I'll either enjoy the brilliance of success, or the shame of failure as I spend my days snoozing on the couch and watching bad DVDs.

Sunday, May 17, 2009


Yesterday my state held a referendum to decide whether or not we would practice daylight saving. We've had it for the last three years as part of a trial run, but this state has a notorious antipathy towards daylight saving, so nothing less than a mandatory statewide plebiscite was needed to decide if we'd continue with it. As I have a casual position with the Electoral Commission for elections and referendums, I was called in to man a polling place for the duration of voting.

I worked in a fashionable, upmarket inner suburb where the Yes vote outnumbered the No vote by two to one. Of course all of the polling staff were too professional to discuss either the issue or the voters while any of the latter were in the building, but once polling finished they made their opinions known.

“I noticed a couple of people voting No,” sniffed the Peugeot-driving fashionista at the next desk. “They were from the country.” She said 'country' in a tone which suggested that it rhymed with 'Home for Mongoloid Children'.

“Yes, I've noticed a lot of elderly voting No too,” said her ironically tattooed partner, as if voting No was just another symptom of advanced Alzheimer's.

Sadly they were typical of their type. Prior to the referendum, when I spoke to friends who were planning to vote No, they tended to back up their position by saying that daylight saving made the afternoons too hot and the mornings too dark. When I spoke to friends who were planning to vote Yes, they tended to back up their position by saying that people who voted No were ignorant, stupid and/or retarded. In short, they had the modern progressive mindset that belittles the person rather than the position, under the assumption that their point of view is so obviously correct that only a fool or a dastard would oppose it.

Why were people so invested in something as trivial as daylight saving? I soon learnt that this referendum wasn't really about daylight saving at all. It was about class war. Daylight saving was most supported by the young, rich and clever... basically the people who rule society. Few have the power to say “no” to them, and as such they do not take kindly to being told that they can't have what they want, whether it be daylight saving, abortion or gay marriage. The potential for the old, poor and dumb to be allowed to contradict them is very limited, which makes them all the more indignant when it does happen. They hate the possibility that the people they consider beneath their notice might have the right to tell them what they may or may not do.

I really don't mind whether we have daylight saving or not, but, for the record, I voted No. Not because I care one way or the other, but because I knew it would annoy The Flatmate, who has been loudly denouncing No voters and their position for the last three months.

Friday, May 08, 2009


This morning on my way to work, as I battled the heavy traffic around Curtin University, I noticed a car that at first glance seemed quite cool: a low, sleek, white Eunos with brilliantly polished mag wheels and a deep engine note.

Another well-heeled Asian student, I figured, since they abound in this area and have a thing for slick Japanese cars. However as the car slid past me in the next lane I noticed that the driver was a caucasian man a few years older than me, with smart executive-style hair.

A business man with a taste for interesting cars, I figured. Then the traffic jammed and I ended up next to him. All four windows of the Eunos were wound all the way down, and music was pouring, at biblically loud volume and with exceptional clarity, out of the vehicle.

He was listening to Kenny G.

It's sad, really - he'd spent a lot of money on his luxury car and executive hair. And yet all of the cachet that this gave, and more besides, was completely undone by the fact that he was playing music that would have deafened everyone within earshot, if it hadn't been as smooth and lifeless as a dead eel.

I escaped as quickly as the traffic would allow, before I was forced to start beating my head against the steering wheel in frustration. Later on the freeway I rinsed any residual Kenny out of my ears with some Animal Collective. Not as loud, but much cooler.

Just remember, kids: with a great stereo comes great responsibility.

Thursday, May 07, 2009


I am a tremendous nerd. Not because I know how to program a computer, not because I have my mobile ringtone set to the Star Trek theme, and not because I like to dress up as an anime character and be seen out in public. I am a tremendous nerd because a) I noticed this in the sudoku from today's Australian and b) I thought it was worth preserving for posterity.

Every puzzle has just one solution my arse. Behold the two solution sudoku! May it rock your world as it has rocked mine!


Hello everyone! It is my pleasure to take over from Mr Blandwagon today and do some "guest blogging", and I hope that my contribution will be every bit as uplifting as his posts on where to get a good coffee and the man with the big face.

Keen followers of Azerbaijani politics will be aware of my recent entanglements with the anti-corruption tribunal, and while the loss of my lucrative government position has been trying, I am treating it as an opportunity to indulge my first love and carve out a new career in home decorating. I use my own residence as my showpiece, and I believe that it perfectly captures my design philosophy.

And so, without any further ado...

How to Decorate Your Home with Understated Elegance

by guest blogger
the former Secretary of Health Care
Republic of Azerbaijan

1. The Dining Room

Who doesn't love a big plate of Azerbaijani delicacies in opulent surroundings? As such, the dining room is the perfect place to indulge your love of classical-ass bling. To begin decorating, ask yourself what would it feel like to live inside Zsa Zsa Gabor's wedding cake, and then take it from there. Ideally it should end up looking as if you've upholstered all of the furniture with Marie Antoinette, then brought in Saddam Hussein's contractors to finish the rest.

Of course you don't want to overdo it. Notice that there are palm trees rather than flower arrangements in the centre of the table. With a floral motif on the upholstery, flowers in the centrepiece would make the room look a bit girly.

2. The Living Room

Whoever said that "less is more" is an idiot and an infidel, and will burn in the fires of hell for all eternity along with Marcel Breuer and Mies van der Rohe. As Ayn Rand or any good drag queen will tell you, more is more.

Hence you should not choose between gilding and rococo carving - go for both! Give that couch more decorative surface area than the QEII, then cover it with such a weight of gold that it cracks the floor tiles. In short, make it look as if King Midas tried to burgle Liberace's house. If you have any gold left over, you can slather it over the walls or even the ceiling. Work that gold until the walls look like one of Amy Winehouse's arms.

Also never underestimate the impact of an elegant chandelier, both visually and physically, especially when any visitor over 6'2" is inevitably going to get a concussion after walking into a lump of dangling crystal the size of a grapefruit. Serves them right, the lofty bastards.

3. The Bedroom

The bedroom is a place of sanctuary, relaxation and gettin' it on. It should be a large, airy space, to allow room for your bar, your fireplace, your grandma's lounge furniture and that glider you got at Heidi Fleiss' garage sale.

Putting your bed up on a stage, with recessed lighting and swags of red velvet, will make your ladyfriends feel at home. After all that's the sort of decor they were in when you first met them, give or take a stripper pole and a bouncer or two.

But as every experienced interior decorator knows, it's the accents that make or break a room. Notice the leopardskin print cushion on the armchair. It reminds your ladyfriends that it's not all elegance and sophistication around here - there's a certain amount of "wild animal" going on. Like all girls facing a wild animal they will probably scream a lot and try to run away, but that's why you have a taser and a bottle of rohypnol in the bedside cabinets.

This is just a taste of what you can expect from my new book, "How to Decorate Your Home with Understated Elegance", due for release this summer through Maldives Internet University Press. Bring your copy to the Azerbaijan National Prison and I will gladly sign it for you!

Tuesday, May 05, 2009


I've been meaning to post links to some blogs I've been enjoying, and since I seem to be breaking my recent blogging drought I figure I may as well do it now. Click and enjoy!

First we have the fine foxes at Sexy People, a collection of glamorous professional potraits gathered from around the globe. Here's my favourite:

That's one sexy family. The kids look like Midwich cuckoos who slept in and missed the whole take-over-the-world gig. Mom is either a) hanging upside down, b) freaked out on drugs or c) the Bride of Frankenstein following a successful visit to her colourist. And Dad just stole his face from a guy with a much bigger head.

Second we have the evocatively titled This Is Why You're Fat, a blog featuring the culinary equivalent of a Roger Corman movies. They're big, bold experiments in gastronomy that really push the envelope, usually with fingers so thick with grease that they tear right through the envelope and plunge into the great unknown beyond.

My arteries hurt just looking at it, and yet I challenge you to read an entire page without slavering.

Thirdly and finally there's Voodoo Village, which is what Amelie Poulain's photo/video blog would look like if she had one. It consists almost entirely of bizarre photos bunched according to theme and forgotten music videos, interspersed with just enough vintage advertising, newsreels, public education films and occasional screaming weirdness to keep it from getting same-y.

Voodoo Village is proof that the world is always unexpectedly beautiful and astonishing. Well astonishing, anyway.


Ever since I've been on a diet I've stopped having sugar or other sweeteners in my coffee when I go out to cafes. Interestingly enough, once you take sugar out of the equation it becomes very apparent when you are fobbed off with an inferior latte. Good coffee tastes better and bad coffee tastes like a car wreck.

As others have noted, the quality of a coffee depends more on the barista than on the beans or the espresso machine. A good barista can make a drinkable coffee by hitting wet, stale grounds with a hammer. A bad barista can take the finest beans and run them through the most expensive machine and still get something that looks and tastes like a caffeinated oil slick. This would explain why the Dome franchises tend to turn out wretched coffee despite using good beans and state-of-the-art machines - it's a natural result of putting a ditzy student behind the controls rather than a seasoned professional.

Fortunately I know a few good places where the man or woman at the espresso machine can be relied upon to produce good coffee. Food For Me in Victoria Park. Urban Star in Northbridge. Ned's in Nedlands. And The Imp in Victoria Park.

The Imp opened a few months ago, and it’s quickly filled a niche in the local coffee market by offering excellent coffee in a stylish environment. There are plenty of chic establishments which offer style but not good coffee, and a couple which offer good coffee but not style, but only The Imp seems to manage both. The surprising thing is that the industrial/luxe interior (a blend of rough brick and poured concrete contrasting with polished wood and designer wallpaper) is not the creation of a commercial design consultant, but something the owners came up with and mostly did themselves. They deserve a big warm bucket of kudos for that alone.

They also offer a range of newspapers and upmarket magazines, and they actually have opening hours that cover the times when I want a coffee. For example I had a late afternoon coffee there with a friend on Saturday, at a time when places like Food For Me and 868 Gourmet had closed. The coffee was so good that I couldn't stop drinking flat whites, and as a result when I finally got home I was twitching and jittery.

So it’s a chic place selling great coffee at all hours within easy reach of my house – thus far all is bliss. But what is their Achilles Heel? Where are these guys falling down?

To answer that question, one need only order some food. The food is bad. The muffins are rubbery. The poached eggs are cooked solid. The fruit bread is salty - how that even begins to happen is beyond me. The cakes and pastries are generally okay, presumably because they are shipped in from somewhere else. Anything prepared on the premises tastes like it was made by aliens unfamiliar with the nuances of human food.

I'd feel guilty about criticising the food at The Imp but for two considerations. One, the food really is terrible, easily the worst I've ever had at an urban cafe. Two, the place is always packed. Even if this review hits the top of the google searches for "The Imp", it's not exactly going to drive them into bankruptcy. I've never been in there at any time of the day or night and been the only customer there.

I’m certainly going to keep going there for first-rate coffee. I just won’t eat their food. Which makes my diet a lot easier, so it all turns out well in the end.


Some time ago conservative blogger Tim Blair identified a certain phenomenon among the caring classes - the compassionate head tilt. He routinely offers up examples of both professional and amateur compassionistas showing their very deep concern with a simple crick of the neck.

The greater the angle, the greater the concern... and if you can get your angle from acute to obtuse, I think you qualify for some sort of award, possibly hand delivered by Hetty Johnston.

But I think I may have discovered a new variation on the classic compassionate head tilt. Observe this photograph from the front page of today's Australian newspaper:

It's a rearward compassionate head tilt! From the context it would seem that this is the appropriate tilt for concern about the environment rather than people. It gives the impression that one is looking away from the tawdry masses of one's fellow men and bathing in the unsullied light of the sun, or a greener future, or both. It also allows one to look down one's nose at the less enlightened, which is a considerable bonus.

Unfortunately the article attached to the picture rather subverts the purity of the subject's eco-concern. Apparently this enivronmental lawyer is pained because her investment in a greener planet is not also paying out quite as much cash as she'd hoped. Which is a little like investing in BHP Billiton and then complaining that your dividend is only being supplemented with one free ticket to the rugby.

Overall I suspect that this article is just another example of The Australian trying to provoke class warfare by reporting the effete trials of the socio-economic elite as if they were more extreme than the daily struggles of ordinary Australians. They can be kinda bitchy like that.