![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
Sparks Flying
There are two ways to get to the Australian Defence Force Academy from the main Canberra City rank. The first is to go down London Circuit, turn left onto Constitution Avenue, follow that all the way to Defence Force HQ on Russell Hill, and then take Northcott Avenue over the hill, putting on the high beams to pick out kangaroos through the bushy bits. The second is to go up Ainslie Avenue, turn right along Limestone past the War Memorial, and take Fairbairn Avenue towards the airport round the back of Campbell, again watching out for Skippy as you go.
I’ve tried both ways, and they work out to exactly the same distance and the same number of traffic lights. If the passengers express a preference, that’s the way we go, but otherwise, I take whichever way feels best at the time. The cadets know that the fare will be fifteen dollars either way, and they usually organise themselves into parties of three or four to share a cab.
It works the same way in reverse, going from the academy or the nearby Royal Military College into Civic, where the nightclubs are, and a cabbie can make a few dollars ferrying cadets into town in the dusk, and dropping them back to their barracks around midnight. They are good passengers, because the military cadets aren’t going to misbehave or do a runner at the far end.
The downside is that often they organise themselves into groups while waiting at the Academy rank for separate cabs called previously. The first cab to show up gets the fare, any other cabs miss out. I can’t blame the cadets for teamwork and making the best use of available resources, but it’s a bit of a pain to drive all the way out there on a radio booking and find no passengers waiting.
These jobs aren’t my preference, but if it’s a slow night, I figure that a fare’s a fare, and if I luck out, all I have to do is wait a while and a bunch of other cadets will wander up wanting a ride into town. And because I’ll be booked into the zone, that’ll be my job.
I saw a cover job at the Academy on Saturday arvo, and as I was in the area looking for work, I accepted the job. There were three cadets waiting for me at the rank, and they continued their conversation as they climbed in.
“I was driving past the War Memorial,” one said “and there was this kid hiding behind a parked car. He shot off a rocket at me as I went past. Jeez, but I nearly pissed myself!”
We came up to the academy gates, and I turned left. “We’re going the other way,” I announced.
It’s the Queen’s Birthday long weekend here in Canberra. It’s not the Queen’s actual birthday, which is 21 April, not the second Monday in June. But for some reason, we celebrate the day in early winter, and for most people it’s pretty much the last public holiday before Christmas, so there is always a flurry of activity, with public servants heading off on Friday for a long weekend away interstate.
Those of us who are left can either love or loathe the fireworks. In every State in Australia, fireworks are banned, except for displays set up and run by professionals. Here, any adult can go to a shop, buy as many fireworks as their wallet allows, and set them off all weekend. While the impromptu displays are colourful and exciting, the sound of a series of nearby explosions at four in the morning as some hoodlum lights up a load can try the patience a bit.
Perhaps closer to home is the effect on pets. My wife’s little terrier dog shivers in fear all weekend, and this morning’s paper brings a flood of lost animal reports, including at least two run over by cars.
On the whole, I can’t say I approve. The noise, the litter, the danger, and the misuse outweighs any pleasure. I’ll happily go out and watch one of the big official displays, where the time and place is advertised, the actual fireworks are set off well away from the onlookers, and all appropriate safety regulations are observed. But when it comes to putting fireworks in the hands of the public, there are always going to be a few yahoos, blowing up mailboxes and firing rockets off at passing cars.
The actual holiday brings with it a list in the morning paper of those who have been honoured with a decoration in the Order of Australia. Established thirty odd years ago, these honours replace the old British knighthoods, British Empire Medals and so on. I think it’s a lot more fun to call someone Sir Fred Nerk, but there it is.
I doubt anyone’s ever going to nominate me for “services to taxidriving”, but still, I look through the list in a faint hope. Dashed.
I’ve tried both ways, and they work out to exactly the same distance and the same number of traffic lights. If the passengers express a preference, that’s the way we go, but otherwise, I take whichever way feels best at the time. The cadets know that the fare will be fifteen dollars either way, and they usually organise themselves into parties of three or four to share a cab.
It works the same way in reverse, going from the academy or the nearby Royal Military College into Civic, where the nightclubs are, and a cabbie can make a few dollars ferrying cadets into town in the dusk, and dropping them back to their barracks around midnight. They are good passengers, because the military cadets aren’t going to misbehave or do a runner at the far end.
The downside is that often they organise themselves into groups while waiting at the Academy rank for separate cabs called previously. The first cab to show up gets the fare, any other cabs miss out. I can’t blame the cadets for teamwork and making the best use of available resources, but it’s a bit of a pain to drive all the way out there on a radio booking and find no passengers waiting.
These jobs aren’t my preference, but if it’s a slow night, I figure that a fare’s a fare, and if I luck out, all I have to do is wait a while and a bunch of other cadets will wander up wanting a ride into town. And because I’ll be booked into the zone, that’ll be my job.
I saw a cover job at the Academy on Saturday arvo, and as I was in the area looking for work, I accepted the job. There were three cadets waiting for me at the rank, and they continued their conversation as they climbed in.
“I was driving past the War Memorial,” one said “and there was this kid hiding behind a parked car. He shot off a rocket at me as I went past. Jeez, but I nearly pissed myself!”
We came up to the academy gates, and I turned left. “We’re going the other way,” I announced.
It’s the Queen’s Birthday long weekend here in Canberra. It’s not the Queen’s actual birthday, which is 21 April, not the second Monday in June. But for some reason, we celebrate the day in early winter, and for most people it’s pretty much the last public holiday before Christmas, so there is always a flurry of activity, with public servants heading off on Friday for a long weekend away interstate.
Those of us who are left can either love or loathe the fireworks. In every State in Australia, fireworks are banned, except for displays set up and run by professionals. Here, any adult can go to a shop, buy as many fireworks as their wallet allows, and set them off all weekend. While the impromptu displays are colourful and exciting, the sound of a series of nearby explosions at four in the morning as some hoodlum lights up a load can try the patience a bit.
Perhaps closer to home is the effect on pets. My wife’s little terrier dog shivers in fear all weekend, and this morning’s paper brings a flood of lost animal reports, including at least two run over by cars.
On the whole, I can’t say I approve. The noise, the litter, the danger, and the misuse outweighs any pleasure. I’ll happily go out and watch one of the big official displays, where the time and place is advertised, the actual fireworks are set off well away from the onlookers, and all appropriate safety regulations are observed. But when it comes to putting fireworks in the hands of the public, there are always going to be a few yahoos, blowing up mailboxes and firing rockets off at passing cars.
The actual holiday brings with it a list in the morning paper of those who have been honoured with a decoration in the Order of Australia. Established thirty odd years ago, these honours replace the old British knighthoods, British Empire Medals and so on. I think it’s a lot more fun to call someone Sir Fred Nerk, but there it is.
I doubt anyone’s ever going to nominate me for “services to taxidriving”, but still, I look through the list in a faint hope. Dashed.
no subject
no subject
Order of Australia
Order of Australia
no subject
no subject
no subject
no subject
You win :) That was a few monarchs ago
I shall call you Sir Skyring.
And nearly set my fence on fire.
As my husband was out of town, I lost my temper and chewed them up one side and down the other, then called the police on them.
Not that the police ever showed up. Too many knuckleheads out that night.
no subject
Maybe you should check FlyerTalk. I think if you accumulate enough OneWorld miles they throw in a knighthood and unlimited lounge access for life. You might be nearly there.
You should be nominated...