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Add to that the faint odour of vomit (unmasked by copious applications of lemon-scented freshness) and you have the perfect ingredients for motion sickness. I have decided to close down the computer before I bring up my breakfast on the active matrix. It would be impossible to remove the stench from the keyboard. But as I have learned, this is the price you pay when you embark on an experiment in writing.

It’s a crime against the laptop to allow it to languish in one spot. To tether it to a wall end render it immobile is against its very nature. The laptop lives to move, it thrives in open spaces, and is only ever truly happy when it’s out in public.

However, although these environments are perfect for the laptop, they may be less than perfect for us. People tend to function at their optimum level when they are in places that are familiar and unmoving. For instance, something written in the stillness of the home has a different fell from something written in a car or aboard an aeroplane or on the upper deck of a wind-tossed ferry.

With this piece, I have attempted to write a coherent essay on a variety of transport systems an d in a number of unfamiliar places to establish the effect on the written word. These are my initial observations:

1. As a passenger in a car it’s possible to write in a steady, if occasionally distracted, manner. If you must write in a car, find a long flat road with little scenery. I wouldn’t advise driving and writing at the same time. In fat, I think there’s a law against it.

2. The bus was a comfortable, unobtrusive place to write until peak hour and then it became virtually impossible. Luckily I gave up my seat to an elderly woman who was so touched by my actions she allowed me to balance my Powerbook on her head.

3. The train. If you are attempting public transport, a train on the city loop is best. It gives consistency and familiarity, and it may tie into the cyclical nature of your story – you begin where you end, you end where you begin.

4. The aeroplane is fine as long as the strangers beside you do not feel inclined to talk. Once they have begun, there is no stopping them. They may even pour out their life stories because of fear and a shortage of oxygen. If they do, don’t take notes in front of them – write it up in the car on the way home from the airport.

5. The ferry. I’d prefer not to talk about this experience. Suffice to say that it is difficult to get the smell out of the keyboard.

It’s also the height of bad manners and considered exceedingly poor form to work on your laptop at the cinema. I only mention this as I once saw a critic review a film on his laptop as it was screening. The two-fingered typist from the local rag hammered away in row H illuminated by the glow of his screen and oblivious to the discomfort around him.* Normally even the most arrogant critics will restrict themselves to a pen and unobtrusive notepad. Currently there’s no etiquette governing the use of the laptop.

I would suggest that it’s also unwise to use one if you’re in a confessional or on any type of rollercoaster ride. All other environments are decent enough if you can find a way of isolating yourself and being unobtrusive. Even coffee shops can be tolerated if you can cope with the constant murmurs of “wanker” every time someone passes you.

The only conclusion I managed to reach, after all this self-induced pain, is that it’s unnatural to write and travel in any direction at the same time. It’s disorienting and disturbing, and this is precisely why it should be explored.

People have always done what is unnatural and this is the reason we’ve progressed, while other beasties in the filed have done what comes naturally and, as a consequence, are still in the field. As we continue to push ourselves beyond our limits, it’s important to know that the laptop will be there to record it all with its stinking keyboard.

* I was positive this self-glorifying freak was writing a review. The only other explanation is that he had attained his highest ever score at Tetris and would not stop for anything, including a film.

Was this wheel some crude weapon? Was it used in some barbaric rite of passage 40,000 years ago? The patterning and distribution of the blood indicate that it was spilt while making the tool. The only conclusion that can be reached - that it was an unfinisned stone wheel made by one of our clumsier forbears.

To this day, most accidents occur the horne. A recent survey has suggested that a staggering 37 per cent of injuries happen in the safety of our domiciles. It doesn't matter if it's the single storey brick veneer, a weatherboard bungalow, an adobe hut or an igloo or a milion-dollar mansion on the shore of Malibu - people trip over and knock their heads in all of them.

Our homes lull us into a false sense of security, and this is when fate strikes. It's my belief - although more research is desperately needed in this area - that most of these accidents in the home occur in front the TV. We take eating and ironing in front of the telly for granted and yet both are fraught with danger*.

Other activities I would suggest to be wary of while watching the box: wood turning, drilling, using semi-hailucinogenic wood glues, repairing seagoing vessels.

There are ways we can avoid accidents in the home:
1. Stay at work longer.
2. Stay away from your home longer.
3. Live in a hostile, cheerless flat and never get comfortable enough to call it home.

Alternatively the quantity of accidents that occur in the home may be significantly reduced if we relocated our homes to the vicinity of medical centres. Some people are fortunate enough to live right next door to hospitals. So when they do have an accident in the home, they can just walk across the road (unless, of course, the accident in some way limits the use of their legs).

On a subconscious level, our fear of the home is the reason we go out. Our fear fuels the economy. We huddle together in coffee shops, pour into sports stadiums, enjoy mass entertainment and linger in the lobbies of casinos purely because we're too terrified to go home. Who in their right mind would stay in their hazardous house when they know outside the front door lies the safety of the streets? It is something our homeless are only too aware of. According to a recent government circular, the homeless aren't homeless for any socio-economic reasons. They're often just too scared to go home. These people roaming our streets are merely neurotic. They're overcome by the fear of going home to await the inevitable calamity.

Another recent survey has shown that nomadic people seldorn, if ever, have accidents. The reason for this may be the fact that they are always on the move and thus do not have a place they can call home. It may also be that. because they're never home they never get to fill out any surveys.

As for myself, I have gone several weeks without any domestic mishaps, and instead of filling me with a sense of achievement it is having the opposite. effect, I realise it's only a matter of time before sometihing hideous comes to pass - before the oven attacks me, a box drops on my head or the toaster makes a grab for my soul. Each step across the threshold brings with it a sense of foreboding and dread. It has led me to this conclusion - we must broaden the accident base and try and get some accidents happening out there in the open, on the streets, and in the workplace. Why should our homes have to bear the brunt and cope with the emotional turmoil of being known as the heartland of mishaps?

Across this wondrous Earth, the only aspect of our nature that truly binds us together is our clumsiness. Forget music, philosophy, and those constant talks of world peace. The only fact that we can be sure of, as we stumble and fall into the next century, is that we, as a people, are incompetent.

Although we have progressed in almost every other facet of our beings, we're still as clumsy and awkward as the Neanderthal who cut his finger open on shards of stone in the safety of his cave as he tried to make a wheel.

* To illustrate the horrors of ironing in front of the telly... A gentleman in Dubbo was engaged in this task when the phone rang. He answered the iron rather than the phone and managed to steam-press his ear.

In times of peace there's always a war raging somewhere. Can we continue to believe we're immune to this type of terror? We live in a paradise and the time has come to defend it. The first step in this process is finding a suitable catchcry. A rallying call to bring the young people together and, frankly, "For God, King and Country" just doesn't cut it anymore.

There was a time when I would have killed and maimed others for the greater glory of God, and for Queen/King and Country. It began around 1066 and ended with the Charge of the Light Brigade. Incidentally, my early education could be at fault for lending this period of combat a chivalrous feel. But the Kings of the Old World are not the Kings of the New, and it's difficult to commit acts of atrocity for your king if you're uncertain about his sanity and aesthetics.

In the future, with Charles in charge, I might have second thoughts about going "over the top". And the battlefield is no place for second thoughts. At least that's what I am led to believe, having never been on the battlefield. Can one procrastinate on the Field of Glory? Before one rides into the Valley of Death, is there time for quiet reflection?

After some consideration I thought the dilemma could be resolved if we ripped out the word "King" like an abscessed tooth and replaced it with a new, shiny antipodean reference. Something that filled our Australian hearts with pride, something that would push us forward in times of hardship.

That replacement phrase sounded in my head like a thunderclap. It was so obvious: For the Prime Minister. I went to sleep armed with a battle cry that would take us into the new millennium.

And then I woke form a terrible dream. I was a cloud passing over the violent landscape of Gallipoli. Young Australian soldiers were pinned down by Turkish guns. A sour-faced sergeant, little older than his men, stalked the trench looking for the first wave of volunteers. He knew he was sending them on a suicide mission.

His powerful words could not disguise his trembling voice. "Who'll go over the top for God, Howard and Country?" At this point in the dream the soldiers looked at each other. they shuffled uneasily on their feet. There was uncertainty in their eyes.

Like the soldiers in my dream, I suddenly realised I was doubtful about going over the top of John Howard. It isn't a political thing. I have qualms about "going over the top" for Beazley and Lees as well. And no-one coming up through the ranks is inspiring me to kill, either.

Some of us may live in a world of candyfloss and daydreams, but those realists among us know that war is an ever-present danger. And in the times of war our brave lads and lassies will rally to the call. For God, Howard and Country. It's stirring, it strikes in your chest...but something about the middle part just doesn't ring true.

Faced with this hurdle we're forced to reduce the statement to For God and Country, leaving out the messy, uncertain political bit. The problem then becomes the belief or non-belief in an omnipotent being who overseas and governs all our actions.

Assuming our war to be just one, we'd be in mortal combat with His other less politically sound creations who also believe this fickle God is on their side. we live in a multicultural society with a host of different creeds that must be supported by this sweeping statement. What about all those noble Aussies going into battle for Buddha, Krishna, Osiris, Odin, Mars and a host of lesser known deities?

Will the powerful Satanist lobby, always well represented in times of war, be upset by all this talk of God? What about the pagans? Going over the top of Howard, woodland sprites and faeries would be even more embarrassing.

In the end we are left with For Country, which sounds a trifle brief. Ye gods are fickle, and kings come and go. All we have in common is the country. It's our responsibility to pass down a battle cry to future generations. It's not going to be easy. There's no doubt it's confusing trying to discover a cry that unites everyone, especially when you've multiple personalities, communities and agendas to deal with.

But until we reach a resolution we'll have nothing to cry out in times of war. We may even be forced into the impossible situation of having to try to solve disputes with dialogue and compromise.

I was lured into the bar by the aged. What were they doing here? What did they know that we didn't? What had 70-odd years of joy and sorrow taught them? Was this where the accumulated knowledge of a life-time had led them? Is this what their wisdom, like some long dormant instinct, has demanded of them? To sit on high stools for hours, riding the one flat shandy, pumping machines they claim are "theirs"? We have so much to learn from the older members of our community. I wanted to learn why they love the pokies.

I found a quiet corner of the bar. Elf Forest, Golden Apples, Big Safari, Mighty Pyramids, Jungle Adventure. No wonder the old ones were packed in like sardines. It was like a Johnny Weissmuller film festival. I settled on a pokie emblazoned with lions but felt uncertain, even slightly dirty, as I smoother my plastic money and slid it into the slot. (My only previous gambling experience had been with religion. It was the standard bet: a life of moral servitude and faithful adherence to the laws of the church for a crack at eternal life. I'm still waiting on the outcome.) At first my machine was reluctant to take the cash. It spat it back out with a groan. Maybe it was a decent bandit? Maybe it was giving me the option to walk away? I pushed again and, this time, it accepted the donation. That was when the world changed. By just putting the money in the machine I had leapt from a measly $20 to a phenomenal 2000 one-cent credits. I was already ahead. Maybe there was more to this than I thought.

The barrels began spinning with dizzy enthusiasm, taunting me with a small victory. With that minor win - the melody, the little song the machine sings to let everyone know you have won the battle of wills. But the machine is a relentless tempter. It tempts with the first bet, the amount you bet, and the number of lines you bet on. When you finally win, it tempts you with double or nothing, half-stake, spin again. It stretches the wealth of the world before you and asks you to choose red or black. And again. And again.

Gambling is emotionally addictive. they should take those cancer-ridden rodents off the shit-sticks (cigarettes) and give them a turn on the pokies. At every touch of the button, you embark on a rollercoaster ride of emotions. The giddy high when the uplifting chorus of chimes indicates you are a master of the buttons. The humiliating silence when Lady Luck turns her back and slinks off with some other punter. Between the histrionics and the heart attacks, the crinklies are having a ball.

I had believed pokies were a blight, mechanical maggot, money-milking machines. they transformed user-friendly pubs into inhospitable mini-Vegas landscapes. They were responsible for the destruction of the live music scene. They created monsters within families. But when my machine sang its little song, when I witnessed five scattered zebras with two pixilated eagles flying on a 50-cent bet over ten lines, I found I could forgive them everything. There on the credit counter was my dream numeral - 200,000.

Even as I watched my instant wealth drain away, I found it hard to harbour any feelings of mistrust toward them. Although it did cause me to cry out in a loud voice, "Father, Father, why hast thou abandoned me?" In the happy mid-afternoon bar-room limbo, no-one turned a head. This sort of pathetic petition to the heavens must happen all too frequently. With a feeling of resignation I was aware I had reached our new century, my starting point, on the one-cent credit counter. I found myself falling backwards through time - 2000, 1985, 1935, 1900, 1815. It took mere seconds for me to reach the Age of Reason, bypass it and tumble headlong into the Dark Ages. And still the credit counter fell - 800, 750, 700. Eventually I was down to a one-cent bet on one line. If I lost this I'd be present at the birth of Our Lord, year dot, nothing left in the bank. The electronic barrel turned and then there was silence.

The pokies may be pure evil but, when everything turns against you, here, sheltered from the roar of the world, you're capable of glorious, if momentary, victories. today I could walk away but there will come a time, when I'm older and wiser, when the shandies are cheap and it's happy hour in Purgatory, and then I'll stay. I'll stay to hear the song of the machines.