The question followed a series of incidents in the space of a few weeks.

These included a 93-year-old man driving into a parked vehicle, an 88-year-old unlicensed driver crashing into a fence and an elderly motorist crossing the footpath and smashing into a clothing store.

Call me alarmist if you like, but I saw a pattern developing here.

Fact is, I’ve always been concerned whenever I see a motorist in a hat crouched over the steering wheel. I have a sneaky suspicion they really shouldn’t be on the road.

I know young men without fear cause most accidents, but as a proportion of the population I suspect the geriatric brigade are significant contributors.

I’ve long felt it should be an offence to drive at 20 percent under the speed limit on open roads.

People doing that without a good reason (eg towing a trailer) cause impatience and push reckless drivers to take risks. Not to mention there is no justification for it and no real safety benefit.

Most Australians hold that view, I believe, but I don’t know many who think Hicks is an innocent babe in the woods who has been unfairly persecuted.

Hence my surprise at the front cover text on the Saturday magazine of The Australian, generally regarded as a conservative newspaper.

Five years ago, David Hicks was seen as a traitor who deserved to be locked up for good. Now he’s portrayed as a freckle-faced kid and a victim of injustice. Just how did this sinner become a saint?

The magazine subs must be of the left-wing latte supping breed to produce that sort of rubbish. They are the only people I’ve come across who regard Hicks as a saint.

Juliet and I are reviewing our superannuation strategy and our financial adviser is setting up new accounts. Juliet’s super was dormant in a retirement savings account with NAB.

We’d lost the relevant paperwork so Juliet visited the bank to obtain the details and recover the money.

The woman who served her mistook our little-used joint savings account for the retirement savings account, closed it and gave Juliet the balance of $116.

I couldn’t believe there was so little money in Juliet’s superannuation and was ranting about how it must have all been consumed in fees when NAB lady rang and said she’d made a mistake.

According to her the super account thankfully did exist and held about $3000 but was lost. Needless to say there were numerous minions at the bank working in a frenzied manner to find it (we’re still waiting).

Meanwhile, NAB lady asked Juliet to drive back into town and re-deposit the $116 in our joint savings account. Hardly worth the trouble, except we have an investment account linked to that account.

That done, NAB lady rings again to say she was unable to reactivate the account and had to create a new one. That means my linked investment account with another bank is no longer linked and I’ll have to go into that bank to change the details.

From a personal perspective I prefer to focus on the positive but unless you're colorblind or wearing rose-colored glasses the world necessarily appears in different hues. The "negative" stories need to be told as part of a balanced overview.

The stories that disturb me most involve assaults on children.

The Kalgoorlie Miner has this month reported a terrible case in which an immigrant father admitted to sexually assaulting his 13-year-old daughter 40 times.

I won't reprint the appalling details here.

I will say however that I received email contact this week from the victim's family overseas requesting copies of the reports. They thanked me with courtesy for providing the information in reply.

It was reassuring for me to know that people suffering indescribable pain appreciated the role of a newspaper in communicating such shocking information.

If society preferred to ignore that such things happen they would happen more often. 

I have an account with them into which my former employer made its nine percent compulsory payments.

Upon starting at the Kalgoorlie Miner I transferred my main super account seamlessly from ING to the WA News company fund without any hassle. That’s how it should be. Just fill out a form, sign it, send it away and everything is done.

HESTA though wanted extra proof of my identity. My name, address, signature, account number, birthday, phone number, etc wasn’t good enough. They demanded a certified copy of my licence before they would transfer MY money to the the account of my choice.

A cynic would say they just want to hold MY money for as long as they can. That’s me. I’m a cynic. If they had doubts about my ID they could have called my mobile number or my workplace.

Privacy is one thing but service with respect should be paramount. They’ve got it wrong. Avoid HESTA if you want service.

I was honoured to be invited and used the opportunity to give some personal views on the media’s role in society and more particularly the role of newspapers in country communities.

I finished with this joke, which like nearly all jokes was adapted from elsewhere:

There were three men: an editor, a photographer, and a journalist, walking down a street when they discover a lamp. As they rub the lamp a genie appears and offers to grant them each a wish:

The photographer went first. “I would like to spend the rest of my life living in a huge house in Margaret River with no money worries.” The genie granted his wish and sent him off to Margaret River.

The journalist went next. “I would like to spend the rest of my life living on a huge yacht cruising the Great Barrier Reef with no money worries.” The genie granted his wish and sent him off to the Whitsundays.

Last, but not least, it was the editor’s turn. “And what would your wish be?” asked the genie.

The editor replied: “I want them both back after lunch. The deadline for tomorrow’s paper is in three hours.”

At least we’re all sleeping in our own beds tonight.

We nearly didn’t have it delivered today because I had to fax back a quarantine form declaring we had no fruit or vegetables in the container, and I only got back from a meeting before the deadline.

They’re very strick about quarantine regulations in WA, much more so than South Australia, where I crossed the border without fuss. At Eucla they searched my car and confiscated an apple box.

1. We visited my parents at Moe. It’s awfully hot everywhere at the moment, and the Latrobe Valley was no exception. After a couple of nights, Juliet and I went to Melbourne for two days, while my parents minded the twins and Kathleen and Dude went with my sister and her husband to their holiday house at Port Albert. It was the first time Juliet and I had left the little ones.

2. We stayed at the Novotel on Collins. It’s a great location and the rooms were comfortable and quiet.

3. I wanted to buy some work shirts at the post-Christmas sales. It was absolute mayhem, with people everywhere. I couldn’t really find what I wanted, but picked up three shirts at David Jones and some standard white business shirts at Target. For some odd reason, given our climate, it’s difficult to buy short-sleeve work shirts.

4. On Wednesday night we went to Southbank for dinner. The riverfront was packed, but eventually we found a Thai restaurant (Jasmine), which had a spare table. We enjoyed the food and the atmoshpere, but it was more expensive than we’re used to, even in Melbourne.

5. On Thursday we had breakfast in Swanston Street and strolled the shops before most of them opened. Myer was one of the few to open at 9am and the lack of a crowd made it an amazing contrast compared with the previous day. I found some shirts that I hadn’t seen the day before in the throng. I even had patience in reserve to go shopping with Juliet.

6. After lunch we strolled in the heat to Federation Square, planning to catch the ferry to the Exhibition Centre. The ferry was a tiny boat, little bigger than a typical outboard, and could only pick up six passengers. We forfeited a place and walked. There was a massive book sale at the Exhibition Centre and I picked up a few titles.

7. We then walked back to Crown and bought tickets for Narnia. I enjoyed the movie and on Juliet’s “weeping scale” it ranked highly as well. If she doesn’t cry during a film then it’s not worth watching. I read the book as a child and didn’t twig to any of the Christian themes, so God only knows what all the current fuss is about.

8. The next walk was to an Indian restaurant (Curry on the Docks) on Flinders Wharf near the World Trade Centre. The decor, food and view were all superb; sensational even. Surprisingly, we were the only sit-down customers. Flinders Wharf is off the main route from the city to Docklands, but that area is developing all the time and I’m sure the restaurant, which we found was only six months old, will take off. If I had a spare million I wouldn’t mind an apartment in that area.

9. Next day it was back to Moe to pick up the toddlers, then back to Porepunkah.

I had a few opinions I wanted to toss in here, but just now I can’t remember them, so they can’t be very profound.

Best wishes to everyone who read this far for a happy, peaceful and prosperous 2006.

Today’s figures confirmed they’re about as unalike as twins could be. James weighed 12.2kg and he’s 86cm tall. Margaret weighed 9.44kg and she’s 82cm tall.

Margaret is small and underweight for her age. James is average.

We’re not worried about Margaret. There’s plenty of puppy fat there still and she’s a vibrant, energetic and healthy child.

Many Gorey women are vertically challenged. Five feet is an acceptable adult height for our girls and it looks like Margaret may carry on the tradition.

Normal readers will assume that I just returned from a night on the town. The fact is that I woke up half an hour ago, having gone to bed at 8.30pm!

The story begins at 4am yesterday when the alarm work me at an hour that only exists in my subconscious.

I then had a 75-minute drive to Albury to catch a 6.30am flight to Sydney. I met unplanned at Albury with a mate from Walwa. We chatted on the plane and took a bus into the city together. The peak hour traffic was unreal.

I left my bag at the hotel, asked for directions to the SCG and embarked on the 45-minute walk. It was actually an hour by the time I dodged traffic and found the correct entrance.

I was settled in the grandstand at 10am, 30 minutes before the start of play. Not bad considering that six hours earlier I had been sound asleep in Porepunkah.

The cricket itself was pretty good; slow in the first session as the ball moved around a bit. Gilchrist was sensational when he came in. Hayden’s innings was stodgy more than entertaining.

Back to my hotel a little after six, I bought some Thai food from a neat little restaurant across the road, briefly explored the local area and came back to phone Juliet and the kids.

The area here is hard to describe. I’m at The Boulevard in William Street, accommodation purchased through Travelmate six months ago. It’s equidistant, as I said, from major attractions, but close to nothing.

There are car-hire firms everywhere, hostels, terrace houses, empty shops, convenience stores, hairdressers and seedy-looking pubs. I can’t easily compare it with anywhere in Melbourne, as all the inner suburbs there are now yuppified. Richmond or Collingwood comes closest.

The hotel is okay. Nothing flash, but 10 floors up the constant street noise is slightly diminished.

There was no power point near the phone socket, and my ancient Dell laptop needs power for an external modem. I improvised a solution, logged on and happily found just 14 emails.

The plan now is that I’ll go for a run at first light. The map shows that I’m close to the Domain. Hopefully I won’t trip over any drunks.

RIP party animal.