I FEEL like a zookeeper who has just closed the zoo for good. Opened the cage doors, waited until the last wombat had waddled out (encouraged, perhaps, by a helpful toecap), locked everything up, dropped the keys in the letterbox and shuffled home for a cup of tea and retirement. Now I shall spend the rest of retirement like this: making tea, digging the garden in a desultory manner, and wondering if the wombat found a handy burrow. My last child — the youngest of five — turns 21 today. Happy birthday El. Short for Ellen. She writes it: LN, and if she ever buys a can of spray paint the…

LOOK, just because I mentioned a purse in this column on Saturday, it doesn’t mean I carry one. This is important to me. I am not the kind of bloke who carries a purse. Nor do I mean to imply that blokes who carry purses do so to keep their lipstick in. What I mean to imply is that blokes who carry purses are… well, suspicious. There’s a spirit of unhealthy fastidiousness about the carrying of purses, despite the fact that it stops small change wearing a hole in your pocket. It speaks of a breed of psychological tight‑fistedness. There’s a difference between mental tight-fistedness and physical tight-fistedness. People who…

I’M old. Well, old-ish. I can still run upstairs faster than a rock, but perhaps not as fast as a honeymoon couple. Certain benefits accrue to age. Intolerance is one of them. And the curious thing is that, as you get older, people face the blast of your intolerance with increasing tolerance. Take Geoffrey. A neighbour. Not a near neighbour, I am pleased to say, but a neighbour, nevertheless. We met the other day and I said to him: “Geoffrey, you’re a pillock and I don’t want to waste my time talking to you. Go away.” And he did. It was exhilarating. There was a time when I would have…

I SEE from the photo in the Weekend Australian that the Howards (John and Janette) have been in Java, where they have kissed the feet of the Buddha at Borobudor Temple. For good luck. Well, that’s a relief then. For one awful moment I was afraid our prime minister might be relying on stuff like information and expertise – that somewhere in Canberra we had offices containing people with Ph Ds in economics or international affairs. Clearly that’s not the case. The office with the door marked ‘Rabbit Control’ is not where they plan the permanent extermination of the bunny. It’s where highly paid bureaucrats sit in earnest groups with…

YOU know the words a father least wants to hear? No, not that his son is gay, or his daughter’s pregnant. It’s the proposal that girls take partners who are like their fathers. Oh my God. Does this mean “like” as in “physically resemble” or like as in “personality similarities”? And does it make any difference? I have nothing to gain either way. My world has collapsed. Are they suggesting I have hair like a lantana thicket, or a skull like a billiard ball? Do I look like the sort of person who drills holes in his eyebrow, or his navel? Do I have short legs, more body hair than…