This is about asbestos. It is also about memory, power, and who gets protected.

Toxic City: Asbestos, Amnesia, and the Collapse of Care lays out a story many in Shoalhaven already recognise. Swift action when risk sits inside council walls. Silence when that same risk sits in a small village, under roads, near creeks, beside homes.

This is collaborative community advocacy at its best, from Spark Shoalhaven in Politics. It opens with a preface by Cat Holloway and centres the long, sustained work of Peter Allison. His work is seminal. It shows what happens when ordinary people keep records, keep asking questions, and keep going long after institutions move on.

This is about asbestos. It is also about memory, power, and who gets protected.

How many versions of this reckoning do we need before we all stand up, in some way, no matter how small.

First they came for a small place.
Then they came for people without power.
Then they came for something they should never have ignored.

If you live in Shoalhaven, read it.
If you care about how councils work, read it.
If you wonder how systems drift away from accountability, read it.

And if you are part of a group somewhere else, watching something similar unfold, this is an invitation. We are learning that shared stories, shared evidence, and shared pressure travel further together.

Do stories about powerful men and sexual abuse keep you awake?

Stories about powerful men and sexual abuse surface with grim regularity. Court cases reopen. Investigations expand. Survivors speak after years of silence. Support networks mobilise around the accused. Each time, the details differ and the structure stays the same.

When I read about these cases, the response is physical. Grief for the survivors arrives first, for what they carried alone and for how long. Then comes a deeper ache, watching support groups for powerful men contort themselves into justification, language bending to protect status rather than truth. Alongside that sits the cold recognition that power has learned to normalise its own behaviour, to treat harm as collateral and entitlement as reason.

and this

Across these cases, women are treated as surfaces rather than people. Their bodies become terrain. Their consent becomes negotiable. Their pain becomes background noise. Power trains itself to expect access and compliance, then reacts with disbelief or rage when either is withdrawn. What shocks many observers is the brazenness. What repeats is the logic. Status rewrites the rules.

Women are framed as disposable, disbelievable, or dangerous once they disrupt entitlement. This is not about desire. It is about dominance, control, and the preservation of rank. When accountability threatens, women carry the cost first, through disbelief, delay, character attack, and isolation.

Threaded through it all is exhaustion of recognition. This pattern has appeared before. It appears again. History keeps looping, each time asking who will refuse to look away.

I interviewed a psychologist to help me make sense of what we are watching play out around Donald Trump. They stayed with the human mechanics rather than relitigating each allegation, the racist imagery aimed at Barack Obama and Michelle Obama, or the Epstein material. Those facts are well documented. The questions that keep me awake at night sit elsewhere. Why does support stay entrenched even when behaviour crosses lines that would end any other public career?

When I asked the psychologist “will understanding bring peace or restore sleep ?” the psychologist said

“Understanding may not soften care or the dull feeling. It helps gives you  a way to make sense of them. You still care. You still feel it. It gives you orientation. You know where to stand, where pressure has impact, and where stepping back preserves strength. Sleep patterns may stay the same, and your thinking can shift. When you are awake, your attention shifts. The mind spends less time circling and more time observing. Helplessness eases into alertness. You stop trying to solve everything. You take in what you have learned, piece by piece.

This is what I learnt.

When politics becomes identity, evidence loses its force

For many supporters, Trump functions less as a politician and more as an identity marker. Criticism feels like criticism of the self. Once politics shifts from preference to identity, facts lose leverage. Evidence triggers defence rather than evaluation.

People protect what they have invested themselves into

People seek material that confirms what they already believe and discard what threatens it. This operates as a protective reflex. Admitting wrongdoing requires revisiting years of emotional, social, and financial investment. The price feels too high.

Power grants itself exemptions without ever announcing them

Supporters grant a special licence. The internal logic goes unchallenged. He fights the people I hate. His behaviour becomes justifiable. Cruelty, corruption, and abuse get reframed as necessary weapons. Standards change without comment.

Dominance feels comforting when the world feels unstable

Trump projects certainty, dominance, and contempt for the status quo. For people carrying humiliation from social change, economic dislocation, or cultural loss, this offers relief. He promises order. The pull intensifies under stress.

The way powerful men treat women tells the real story

A deeper truth sits underneath the rest. These men often relate to women through entitlement rather than reciprocity. Women appear as instruments, rewards, risks to be managed, or problems to be silenced rather than full moral equals. Power distorts intimacy. Access replaces consent. Control substitutes for care. Hierarchy teaches permission, and repeated escapes thin consequences further. Empathy erodes. Boundary crossing becomes ordinary.

Conspiracy restores clarity when reality becomes uncomfortable

As allegations accumulate, conspiracy thinking offers relief. Courts, media, academics, prosecutors, and foreign governments merge into a single corrupt force. The leader stands alone as truth teller. Complexity collapses into certainty.

Belonging carries a higher price than truth

Support remains social. Churches, families, media ecosystems, and online communities reinforce shared frames. Leaving carries cost. Belonging, reputation, and connection sit on the line. Many choose group coherence over reality coherence.

Accountability elsewhere exposes tolerance at home

The investigation into Elon Musk in France punctures the myth of inevitability. When other systems hold powerful men to account, the degree of normalisation elsewhere becomes visible. That contrast hardens defence rather than inviting reflection.

Survival trains expectation

Power shields itself. Wealth, legal firepower, media saturation, and procedural delay blur consequences. Each scandal that ends without consequence trains everyone to expect nothing to change. It lowers the bar. Survival becomes assumed.

Change starts quietly

Many supporters see the racism. They sense the corruption. Loyalty feels easier than confronting what that recognition would demand of their judgement, their community, and their past choices. Movements weaken first at the edges. People stop posting. They stop arguing. They withdraw. Collapse begins there.

and now the most important part. How can we have impact?

The call to action is refusal

Refusal to normalise exemption.
Refusal to excuse abuse as strategy.
Refusal to accept that power equals immunity.

Name the pattern. Support institutions that still act. Protect journalists, survivors, and whistleblowers. Watch the quiet exits. That is where history shifts.

I have a habit of pulling things apart to see why they work

I will follow up and get a link for you to buy these sweaters 

I’m a curious person. I like understanding what turns ideas into action, what shifts something from theory into behaviour. When I saw this sweater being advertised, that instinct kicked in. What held my attention wasn’t the message itself so much as the way it had been framed.

It struck me as a sharp example of something done well. Understanding why turned out to be the more interesting part.

So I spoke to a marketing strategist and asked her to look at it purely from a framing point of view. What is this doing?

She started with the reference.

The line draws on Martin Niemöller’s poem First they came…. The poem is widely recognised. Its progression is familiar. The sweater relies on that familiarity.

“That tells you who it’s speaking to,” she said. “It assumes recognition.”

From there, the sentence pivots. “Because I know the rest of the goddamn poem” isn’t about remembering history. It’s about timing. The speaker places themselves earlier in the sequence, before the final lines, before the regret people talk about later.

That’s the point where the clock starts tapping its foot.
Recognition is treated as the starting point. The line moves straight to choice.

She pointed out how this reframes familiarity.

Quoting the opening line of Niemöller’s poem has become a kind of shorthand. People recognise it, feel aligned, and move on. This line removes that pause. Knowing carries responsibility.

Then there’s the delivery. A sweater. Something worn, seen, carried through ordinary spaces. The message travels through daily life rather than sitting in a book, a speech, or a memorial context.

“That’s where behaviour shifts,” she said. “Inside routine, normalising action.”

She also drew my attention to where the sentence ends. One line.

“It stops at the moment of commitment,” she said.

That was the explanation I was looking for. The sweater works because it treats recognition as the starting point.

Most of us want agency. We want to move through the day, or get to the end of it, with the sense that we made a difference. That we stepped in early enough to matter. That we chose action while choice was still available.

This line offers timing.

I know how this ends. I’m acting before it does.

That’s why it works. As a prompt. As a reminder. You read it and feel slightly behind schedule.

And it does it in one sentence.

Full credit to the person who wrote it. I’m filing it away at the front of my brain for the next time I feel the urge to quote something and hope people do more than read it and nod.

Are you feeling swamped by the world’s biggest problems?

Source Facebook

Do you feel overwhelmed by the biggest issues shaping everyday life climate disruption, housing pressure, food prices, insurance, government spending? I did too.

For a long time my response lived in my head. Reading more. Arguing better. Feeling frustrated that public debate kept sliding into blame. None of that helped. What shifted things was doing something much simpler. I joined groups. I went to workshops. I put myself in rooms with people who were already translating big problems into practical action.

I have written before about the victim triangle and how easy it is to slip into it when the world feels out of control. What I learned through participation is how people climb out of it. Not by pretending the problems are smaller, and not by blaming others, but by reconnecting with responsibility and control.

One of the clearest examples for me has been Farmers for Climate Action. What works in spaces like this is not ideology. It is community. You learn alongside others. You share uncertainty. You are shown where effort counts. No one is cast as a villain or a victim. People are treated as capable decision makers.

That pattern repeats across other community based organisations like Landcare. Workshops, peer networks, and practical forums all do the same capacity and capability building work. They replace overwhelm with participation. They turn big abstract issues into things you can act on with others.

This is the shift I wish we talked about more. When people feel powerless, blame becomes a coping mechanism. When people feel supported and capable, responsibility returns.

If public debate feels stuck, it may be because we keep asking people to care without showing them how to act. The way forward is not louder arguments. It is clearer pathways and communities that make engagement feel possible.

That was the circuit breaker for me.

HT to Maryvonne Norman whose excellent Fb post prompted this article

If parliament was held to workplace standards

Seen through a corporate leadership lens, the recent analysis by Amplify reads like a board paper titled Why nothing got done.

In a six month period, almost half of parliamentary sitting time was absorbed by point scoring, disruption and theatre, with policy work compressed into what remained. The finding gained public attention through an ABC News report, where the framing was very clear.

“Parliament is wasting our time.”
Georgina Harrison, Amplify CEO, ABC News interview

A board sees executive time diverted from delivery to performance. Behaviour consumes oxygen. Risk and reputation join the discussion. This is the moment directors shift from observation to intervention.

The accountability picture sharpens further when the numbers are spelled out in operational terms.

“In the last six months of parliament, 28 business days were wasted on political point scoring.”
Georgina Harrison, Amplify CEO, ABC News interview

In big business, accountability concentrates at the top. The CEO, the chair and the senior leadership team carry responsibility for how time is used and how people behave in decision making forums. Read through a board lens, this section feels like a leadership issue parked under general business, then left there.

Time spent this way erodes value. Twenty eight business days in six months shows productivity leaking, opportunities missed and direction slipping. In board shorthand, this reads as a performance issue deferred again, while investors circle and analysts mark execution risk.

Governance systems succeed or fail on consequences. Standing rules provide structure, yet boards judge systems by impact. The ABC report captured the long running nature of the issue clearly.

“Decades of criticism about behaviour and limited policy debate have failed to shift the dynamic.”
ABC News, interview summary

A governance committee hears this and recognises a familiar problem. The rules exist. The outcomes drift. That is the trigger for change. Meeting formats reset. Speaking rules sharpen. Incentives move. Performance consequences apply.

Culture sits alongside leadership throughout this analysis. Culture shows how power behaves in daily practice. Persistent dysfunction points to weak authority, incentives pulling sideways and consequence gaps left unattended. On a board paper, this section reads like culture written in the margins of the minutes.

The conclusion arrives without flourish. A corporate organisation facing these signals moves quickly into review mode. Senior leaders face scrutiny. Behaviour links directly to performance. Governance structures undergo redesign with urgency. In business shorthand, this looks like intervention approved, timetable attached.

Politics operates under a different shield. Parliamentary leadership sits apart from the accountability standards applied across big business every day.

To a board audience, the final line reads as risk identified, owner missing.

 

The Kath and Kim meme that turned into a sharp little lesson in public disagreements.

Image Source Facebook

I shared this Kath & Kim meme on Facebook as a reminder. It turned into a sharp little lesson in public disagreements.

It’s doing what satire does best. Pointing at a pattern and trusting people to recognise it. Old ideas come back. The language changes. The instincts don’t.

One response I received took it as a literal claim, as if I were saying these moments in history are the same thing. That reaction lingered longer than the disagreement itself.

Public disagreements often split at a deeper point than the issue being argued.

It made me think about how differently people respond when something presses on identity.

Some people can sit with that pressure. They adjust their view. They accept that history leaves fingerprints on the present. Connections don’t feel dangerous to them.

Others move quickly to shut it down. The first move is separation. These things have nothing to do with each other. End of discussion.

That explanation doesn’t fit what I’m seeing. What feels more relevant is how comfortable people are with revising a view.

Ideas don’t disappear. They travel through history, change names, and slowly get normalised.

If you’re able to admit error, patterns become visible. You expect ideas to repeat, to reappear with better branding, to sound more reasonable the second time around.

People who can revise a view tend to treat history as something you learn from.

If that admission feels too costly, history stays boxed up. Each event stands alone. Calling things “unrelated” keeps the present uncomplicated.

What this exchange clarified for me was that we weren’t arguing about the meme. We were talking past each other. One response was about continuity. The other was about containment.

The difference shows up clearly in conversations like this.

That realisation took the edge off.

It reminded me that people arrive at conversations with different limits, different stakes, and different reasons for holding the line where they do.

How do societies notice patterns early if they refuse to look at where ideas come from?

Often the most telling part is not what someone objects to, but what they refuse to connect.

Looking for a win where there isn’t one

Cartoon by Roz Chast, published in The New Yorker. Used here for the purpose of commentary and review.

This cartoon by Roz Chast has me frozen at my desk. Elbows planted, fists pressed either side of my mouth, mind ticking over.

A row of lottery balls. Each carries something that holds up on its own. A fraction. A negative. A Roman numeral. Pi. Side by side, they suggest a winning combination. Side by side, they amount to nothing at all.

What I feel first is a sense of helplessness. A reminder that we can only control what is in our control, yet so much feels out of our control. The numbers sit there calmly, as if daring you to argue with them. You cannot. They are correct. They also get you nowhere.

I recognise this feeling. We live inside it.

We gather facts from different places and trust they will cooperate. Data, personal experience, expert opinion, history, instinct. Each comes with its own logic. Each carries weight. Then we stack them together and expect coherence, certainty, reward. When that does not arrive, frustration creeps in.

The digital age feeds this habit. It is a gift. It is also a curse. Access to information feels like power. Volume feels like progress. Speed feels like clarity. What it often delivers is overload. Different systems of meaning collide on the same screen, stripped of context, flattened into equivalence. Everything looks equally convincing. Nothing quite adds up.

The cartoon also speaks to fairness. Even if these numbers were drawn, the system would refuse them. No payout. No recognition. Rules matter. Frameworks matter. Outcomes only count when they are recognised by the structures that govern them. This is uncomfortable to sit with, especially for people who value effort, evidence, and good faith.

I find myself thinking about public debate, policy, community conflict, even family conversations. We argue as though there is a single winning combination. If we explain it better. If we add one more piece of information. If we line things up more neatly. The cartoon suggests something else. Sometimes the issue is not effort or intelligence. Sometimes the pieces belong to different games.

I do not feel smarter after looking at it. I feel more aware of the limits, and of how often I ignore them. There is no win in it. Just recognition.

 

When will we start responding to risk before people are harmed

We are very good at responding to shock.

After something terrible happens, systems move quickly. Reviews are announced. Events are isolated. Responsibility is narrowed to a moment, a person, a place.

What remains harder to face is everything that came before.

The figures state what cannot be ignored. In the most recent year, 3,307 deaths were recorded as suicide. Seventy-nine women were killed by domestic violence. Thirty-three Aboriginal people died while in custody.

Different circumstances, different systems, the same outcome.

None of these deaths arrived without warning.

Risk does not appear suddenly. It accumulates. It shows up in missed follow-ups, thresholds that are too high, services that do not speak to each other, and responsibility that slips sideways between institutions. It lives in the space between what is known and what is acted on.

We talk about safety after harm occurs. We talk less about prevention. We avoid root causes because they require sustained attention rather than rapid response, coordination rather than containment, and action while outcomes are still uncertain.

Prevention does not come with a single defining moment. It rarely produces a headline. It relies on noticing patterns early, intervening sooner, and treating risk as something to be managed over time rather than explained after loss.

If we are serious about safety, the question is not how decisively we respond once lives are lost.

It is whether we are willing to respond while there is still time to prevent harm, even when the story has not yet forced our hand.

Jamberoo history humour and the joy of taking ourselves seriously

Jamberoo has a lot to be proud of and it certainly never lacked confidence.

According to the local correspondent for the Kiama Independent in the late 1800’s what it sometimes lacked was musical ability, favourable weather patterns, and a shared view on how to handle young men with too much energy and not enough supervision. The local newspaper shared his views with a straight face.

In 1887, the colony entertained the idea of calling itself “Australia”. Jamberoo mulled over the proposal and showed little enthusiasm.

The local correspondent described the idea as one of those foolish notions the colonial government picked up from time to time. The idea raised eyebrows, conversations carried on at the pub, in the butcher and baker’s shops, and through sewing groups, while the paper moved on. Readers kept pace or fell behind.

In 1890, Jamberoo floated the idea of forming a local band. The correspondent attended the meeting, listened carefully, then reached for the claws. He reported that a gathering of half a dozen Jamberoo cats produced sounds more pleasing than those scraped from the dead fellow creatures used to make catgut strings.

Visitors received a public service announcement. Arrive during band practice and you would understand immediately what the fuss involved. Action taken, reputation adjusted.

The same year delivered frogs. Not a few, not a rumour, but thousands. Captain Garde of the steamer Illawarra stood on deck at Shoalhaven Wharf when objects struck him like hailstones.

Daylight revealed frogs across deck, wharf and water. They fell for ten minutes, arrived in good health, then carried on hopping towards Wollongong as if aerial travel formed part of normal routine. The paper reported it as routine which made it funnier than any embellishment would have.

Then came the larrikins. Jamberoo sat inside a wider Kiama problem that escalated from nuisance to civic emergency. Bridges suffered damage. The town pump broke twice. Horses bolted after deliberate scares. Church windows shattered.

One New Year’s Eve saw 40 to 50 men and boys roaming, singing, hooting and pelting buildings. The court imposed the maximum fine. The community debated stronger measures and ordered a cat o’ nine tails by steamer. The cat arrived.

Threats followed. Actual flogging rarely did. The town demonstrated enthusiasm for symbolism and restraint in execution.

Ambition ran alongside all of this. Jamberoo carried pride in hills, cows and distance from coastal bustle. The paper described it as picturesque and impractical in the same breath. Big ideas surfaced anyway. The district dreamed, announced schemes with confidence, then watched resources thin out. Earnest campaigns appeared, gathered momentum, then quietly dissolved. The effect stayed visible. Later jokes carried extra weight because the groundwork was already in print.

When the nation’s capital was being decided, Jamberoo put itself forward as the Bush Capital. Supporters pointed to green hills, dairy country, space, calm, and distance from Sydney politics. The argument reflected how Jamberoo saw itself. Sydney politicians continued their search elsewhere. The paper recorded Jamberoo’s confidence and the broader response in close succession, then turned the page.

Smaller moments filled the margins. Visitors received warnings about local music. Outsiders earned suspicion, hospitality, then criticism in columns. Public enthusiasm surged, committees formed, and minutes followed. Jamberoo showed itself lively, observant, and fond of commentary on its own behaviour and not happy with Kiama Council governance.

Jamberoo took itself seriously. Very seriously. Reading the paper now, you’re reminded how fortunate it was that these debates stayed on the page and in the pub, rather than being amplified in real time. A band meeting, a capital bid, frogs from the sky, all of it received careful attention and confident opinion. Social media would have been carnage. Half the district would still be making its case.

BTW Did you know this? I didn’t.

Before Federation we were know as The Australian Colonies and legally and politically, it was six British colonies, not a country. On 1 January 1901, the colonies federated to form The Commonwealth of Australia

When leadership mistakes discipline for strength

The Liberal National Coalition is back where it started, fractured, performative, and unable to hold itself together when pressure arrives.

Eight months after the post election split and awkward reconciliation, the Coalition is again unravelling, this time in full public view. The immediate trigger is procedural, Nationals frontbenchers quitting the shadow ministry after Sussan Ley insisted three Nationals resign for crossing the floor on the government’s hate crime bill. The response from National’s Leader David Littleproud was escalation, not resolution.

As Michelle Grattan observed, Ley was boxed into a no win position. Shadow cabinet solidarity is not optional theatre, it is the basic mechanism that allows an opposition to function. Ignoring the breach would have weakened the role itself. Enforcing it exposed how little authority the structure now carries.

This is the leadership failure. Not the rule enforcement, but the absence of relational authority that makes rules workable.

True leadership shows itself before a crisis, not during the press conference that follows. It builds shared expectations early, it names boundaries clearly, and it invests in trust so that discipline is not mistaken for punishment when it arrives. When that work is missing, every corrective action looks like aggression and every disagreement turns into a test of dominance.

What we are seeing is a coalition that treats leadership as positional rather than relational. Titles exist, but consent does not. Authority is asserted rather than carried. The result is a constant cycle of brinkmanship where internal players use public exits to gain leverage, knowing the system lacks the cohesion to hold.

The timing makes this worse. With the government under pressure following the Bondi attacks, the opposition had an opportunity to demonstrate resolve, seriousness, and focus. Instead, attention swung inward. The message to the public is confusion, not authority.

The pressure on the Nationals leader is just as telling. David Littleproud abstained rather than lead, then framed the decision as procedural while insisting the Coalition relationship remained intact.

It is the language of someone managing fallout, not setting direction. When a leader cannot carry their party with them on a defining vote, and cannot clearly own the consequence of that choice, authority drains away.

The public sees a leader under constant internal pressure, responding to events rather than shaping them. In moments like this, leadership is revealed not by statements about unity, but by whether anyone is still prepared to follow.

We have explored this in previous posts . Leadership that relies on control rather than legitimacy collapses under stress.

Organisations that confuse unity with silence find themselves brittle when disagreement appears. And when leaders inherit broken structures without repairing how power is exercised inside them, every decision becomes combustible.

The Coalition’s problem is not ideology or personality. It is structural. Until leadership is understood as something built with others rather than imposed on them, these crises will keep repeating. Different actors, same script.

Leadership is not tested by loyalty in easy moments. It is revealed by how disagreement is held without the whole structure tearing itself apart.