The question is: why do we continue to delude ourselves that our rumpus rooms and backyards are the problem? This frantic desire for domestic improvement may well be disguising the real issue. It's all well and good to paint over the cracks and rip up the underlay but at the end of the day, when we look in the Tonya Todmanised mirror, we come face-to-face with what we can not escape. Jung suggested the home represents the unconscious self.

Bachelard believed various rooms within a home depicted different aspects of our nature. Why waste time with 24-hour revamps of prop when we should be renovating ourselves? The logical extension of this trend would then be to take unsuspecting members of the public (offered up for televisual consumption by concerned family, friends or business partners) and radically alter them. The technology is available and with a few clauses to prevent lawsuits we could be away. Seven, 8.00pm: Jodie thinks she's a frump. In 24 hours we'll transform her into Jodie the Supermodel. Impossible? Come with us as we find out. It starts at Jodie's birthday party. Won't she be surprised when she discovers the party is just a ruse to 'knock her out'? Once she's away with the fairies, we'll take her to Australia's finest cosmetic surgeon for some much-needed rhinoplasty. When we achieve the button-nose she's always wanted, we'll swap wards to rip that unsightly fat out of her inner thighs and buttocks with some high-powered lip osuction. We have two new breasts from our good friends at Dow Coming. And as a special bonus, to give her those Formula One racing curves, we'll remove two floating ribs. When she wakes up she won't be able to recognise herself.

If you think people are surprised when they see the change to their backyards, imagine their shock after a head-to-toe total body makeover. It'd be like watching a car crash, backwards, in slow motion. And why stop there? What about a show that physically transforms women into men and vice-versa? Many people feel uncomfortable with their gender but don't have the finances for that most delicate of operations. It'd be a doddle for a TV network. There'd be kickbacks from airlines, hotels and product placements, not to mention experimental pharmaceuticals from the chemical giants and scads of free scalpels. It's a win/win situation for everyone involved.

Nine, 10.00: You may remember Jodie. She was uncomfortable with her beautiful new body and face. After extensive grief counselling, our psychiatrists found the answer - she's a man trapped in a woman's body. It's now our job to get him out. Jodie has agreed to let us fly her to Mexico, where she'll be pampered before being placed in a coma. We then bus her to Tijuana, the black-market plastic surgery Mecca, for a heavy-duty overhaul. It's here, at a secret location, that she'll enjoy all the wonders of gender reassignment. Be there to see her ribs come home.

Combine this personal version of Backyard Blitz with Love Rules and you'll have a hit.

Ten, 11.30: Lara is a 35-year-old mother of two with her own plumbing company. She's desperately seeking true love and an honest relationship. We've decided to team her up with our most recent success story - Hank. Hank has gone from strength to strength after returning from Tijuana. Lara is totally unaware that Hank used to be a woman. Our hidden cameras will reveal the fun and games. And if we're lucky we could see ol' Jodie taking Hank Jnr for a test run.

And on the other stations?

SBS, 9.30: TVTV. A team of Hungarian footballers hang up their boots in favour of crimpled slacks and hit the town. Meanwhile, Olga is having trouble deciding which side to dress on. ABC, 12.05: A sensitive documentary about a couple who fell in love on a TV show. Hank thought he knew everything about Lara. But the one thing he didn't know, and the one thing the production company didn't tell him, is that his new wife used to be a man.

Where one ended neatly at an altar with a young couple vowing undying love, the other ended in a confusion of surreal images: an armless mother is laid to rest as hirsute dwarfs juggle the intestines of a white stallion while cobbled streets are washed down with a big ol' bucket of cow's blood. The End.

They were worlds apart - as were the people who went to see them. On fortunate evenings when the art-house cinema finished at the same time as the cinema of frippery, the two groups would meet and ascend the stairs. Ours, dressed in fashionably faded black, faces set like stone, trudged solemnly out of another largely ignored Fassbinder classic. Our post-picture conversation was littered with uncertainty: Who's Maria Braun? What did it all mean? That was great, but I wonder if anyone could tell me if I enjoyed it?

Meanwhile, the opposition, faces beaming, would stride happily out of the cinema. They would dance on the stairs and swing from the banisters. They couldn't control themselves and occasionally broke into spontaneous song. They had no questions. What was there to question? They made statements: That was brilliant. Dustin Hoffman was great as a woman. That Macaulay kid is going to be big. And when they returned home, they made love for hours fuelled by the memory of their big-budget American film experience. We, on the other hand. seldom made it home. With the themes of horror and estrangement fresh in our minds, we'd retire to coffee shops to dissect and discuss: It was so German, but somehow universal at the same time. It spoke to us all - in another language. Even though it was set in Holland in the 1640s and everyone wore wigs, something about it reminded me of Queanbeyan.

I was happy in that world of angst, blissfully unaware it was about to change, Unaware my redemption was at hand. It was a cool Melbourne night and myself and two companions were at a loss for something to do. We scanned the cinema listings, and the dark and dire fodder that was our favourite fare was nowhere to be seen. Instead, a banquet of banality was stretched out before us - wall-to-wall American pap. Unable to make a decision, I washed my hands of the situation and left it to my friends. It was bad enough agreeing to see one of these offensively expensive and shallow films without being implicated in its selection.

The film they chose was Back To The Future and it was showing at a kitsch monument to excess called The Forum*. I kicked and screamed on the way in but I left elated. I had been saved. Michael J. Fox (who many considered at the time to be the Antichrist) led me into the light. He rescued me from the long, bleak corridors of European cinema, out of Tarkovsky's spiritual landscapes and Herzog's examinations of human suffering. And in their place he filled me with happy-go-lucky-gosh-gee-whillikers wonder. Since then I have taken every opportunity to indulge my passion for crap, My friends abandoned me, preferring to focus on Kieslowski festivals - Dekalog instead of Doc Holliday. I'm just grateful I'll never have to sit through foreign credits again, earnestly appreciating names I can't even pronounce.

* Shortly after my filmic Damascus, The Forum became a place of worship (perhaps the spirit was already moving in it) where a Christian outreach group performed musical plays every Sunday night. The interior of the venue housed a number of classical statues. The new proprietors considered them offensive but, as they were part of a National Trust building, they couldn't be moved. It was strange to witness Charismatic Christian ceremonies surrounded by naked Greek and Roman figures but it gave the room a joyous pagan warmth. One could imagine, after a round of praying in tongues and bit of interpretation, someone would be sacrificed to 'Jasper, the horn'd god of fun' and a Bacchanalian orgy would ensue. Thankfully, in a room packed with corduroyed Christians, tings, it never happened.

There are hundreds of actors out there and hundreds of diseases that need to be cured. Must we wait for a star to be struck down with a debilitating disease or should we engage in some sort of aggressive action? Think about it - if Leonardo Di Caprio was ever struck down with the common cold, there'd be a cure before he could sneeze. The outcry from prepubescent girls would be heard around to globe. The terrible wailing and gnashing of braces would make Krakatoa seem like nothing more than an embarassing eruption in a bathtub. For years, actors have unintentionally made us mindful of the hazards that surround us. Vic Morrow made us more aware of helicopters. James Dean cleverly highlighted the dangers of reckless driving. Grace Kelly drew world attention to the deadly combination of alcohol and the French Riviera's winding roads. We're all more conscious of baldness because of Sean Connery and Bruce Willis. They've proved that men of little hair can be virile love machines capable of Herculean acts of bravery and compassion. Sadly, many actors wait too long until they fall sick, are injured or die. Their messages of hope and salvation can be lost if they contract diseases in the latter stages of their careers. That is why we must act now.

Actors need to be constantly in the spotlight and many of them yearn for the popularity that would accompany an (as yet) incurable disease. Marlon Brando could be given McArdle's Disease, Meryl Streep could come down with multiple angiokeratoma and Don Johnson would be happy to have anything. What a wonderful world it would be. Once matched with their chosen diseases, there'd be a massive imperative on the part of performers to find a cure. It'd give charities the public awareness they so desperately need and offer the actors a chance to really "pull one out of the bag". Who among them could reject a 15-minute-close-and-personal interview concerning their terminal illness on 60 Minutes? Another bonus: because they feel comfortable around cameras, actors would have no qualms about having their operations filmed. In fact, many would see it as their most challenging role.

And why limit this pursuit of cures to the acting profession? Models have long been attacked by the media for their bad habits. Among the more obvious problems filling the pages of weekly women's magazines are smoking, drinking, eating disorders and substance abuse. It's often thought that a combnination of all four is necessary to clamber to the top of this most demanding of professions. Society as a whole is appalled by this behaviour but in years to come models may provide a rich and profitable crop of diseases. Certainly, any one of these four offensive pastimes could cause illness in later life, from lung cancer to kidney and liver failure to numerous unexpected and delightful neurological problems.* So why wait? Let's get them while they're popular.

Then there's the music industry, where physical disaster and potential mental problems lurk around every bend. Haven't many of them warned us of the dangers of air travel? If Elvis had only spoken about his problems, aired his dirty linen, took fewer drugs and ate a lot less food, he might still be alive today. As a society we can calmly sit back and value individuals, or we can use them for the greater good. With so many performers in the world, will we really miss one of two if it all goes horribly wrong?

* One of the most graphic consequences of smoking is gangrene. In the fume-filled world of high fashion, this is a real worry. In the future, who knows how many models will be affected? That said, it certainly wouldn't be the first time we've seen Kate Moss legless.

Just when we were poised to take advantage of the Olympics, those pesky sharks surfaced and took a huge chunk out of our tourist market. Who's going to want to come to our sun-drenched paradise just to watch family members being taken by white pointers? So I thought, at this moment of hysteria, it'd be appropriate to cite some examples of living in harmony with nature.

My first uninvited non-human companion was a mouse. He'd made his dream home in the electric range top. I'm not adept in the kitchen and he was quickly aware there was nothing to fear from the oven suddenly firing up. The interior of the old Modern Maid must've been a palatial apartment to the rodent. It featured a giant smoked glass window with uninterrupted views of the kitchen, four separate living areas above a warehouse-sized space with dark enamel walls, and a charming entrance through the missing back left element. I knew, as I prepared the cold cuts and he stole them, that we were living together.

My companion eventually became so bold he'd stroll across the wooden floorboards, grab a couple of cotton balls for pillows, and settle down with me to watch TV. I felt, as an inter-species "odd couple", we might make it through to late middle age without even the ripple of an argument. However, it was not to be. I went away on a trip and left the house in care of some friends with cooking skills. I choose to believe that my TV buddy packed his bags and left, his tiny mouse brain unable to cope with my Macarthurist intentions. The other option is just too horrible to contemplate.

After this tragedy I lived alone for a while. That is, until they came. I've always hated pigeons. They spread disease. They're little more than rats with wings - murky grey monstrosities that feed off the waste of society. But when you live with them, you get to see a different side. For fours years now a family of pigeons has made its home in my lounge room air vent. It's a great location - north facing with versatility and character, second-story rear lane access and close to overflowing bins. Each year they prepare their nest, and there's nothing so gosh-darn cute as watching twigs falling from halfway up your lounge room wall. I've been there for the romance, the difficulties and the disappointments. I've listened to their gentle and fevered cooing and recently heard the sweet, wheezy high squawks of new and uncertain life.

As spring rolls into summer, they parade their fledgling charges with puffed-up pride on the window ledge beside my desk. I'm as familiar to them as Jane Goodall is to a Gombi chimp. There's no doubt in my mind that I share my house with a loving family of birds. Now, if I could just hit them for some rent, there'd be no tension at all.

When you become aware you're living closely with groovy inner-city creatures, you begin to see their residences everywhere. And occasionally, their mistakes - a sparrow's nest in a cement mixer or a "bluey" curling up for a nap in the Weber. Because, just like us, there are not only happy homemakers, there are some stupid ones as well. But what catches a pigeon's darting domestic eye? Why do some prefer broad, tree-lined streets in ritzy suburbs and others the great exhaust outlet at the rubber factory? Are they content to find any accommodation or do they go house hunting? What does a redback like in a pile of bricks? In the past we've constructed houses and offices to protect us from the elements and distance us from nature. Today, our buildings are more sympathetic to the environment. So would it be possible to incorporate architectural havens to a number of families? Homes where teenagers are not the only animals that come and go as they please?

There's a world of wonder out there - perhaps we could invite it in. And, sometime in the future, when the sharks frolic happily in the above ground, we might find some mutual respect.