So it's another small step for mankind, but one giant leap for gutter-crawling, garbage-mouthed real estate agents everywhere. If creating deceptive buy-lines to sell a derelict apartment on Earth can be fun, imagine the opportunities space presents for the inventive property writer (one with the imagination of Borges and the perversity of Bukowski). In space, the "opportunity of a lifetime in need of TIC on sunny Beach Road*, situated a stone's throw from the thriving 'soma' district, close to transport, suit FHB" would translate to an unsewered, unconverted second-stage booster rocket with zero gravity and no atmosphere.

While a sensible, down-to-earth person with something approximating a soul might view "marketing the void" as an ideological dilemma of immense proportions, most real estate agents would see it as the culmination of their craft" - the selling of endless amounts of emptiness. "The view might hurt your eyes but you can't get any closer to the Sun. And with this north-facing unit you'll get a lovely glimpse of Earth - for two days every January.

With all the trouble in the world, wouldn't it be better to just get out? Weird weather, greenhouse gases, global warming and those annoying protesters whingeing about human rights issues is getting to be too much for anyone. Why bother fighting it when, from the comfort of space, you could watch in temperature-controlled luxury as our little blue and white planet turns a mouldy shade of brown? Eventually the whole sky will be filled with condominiums surrounding a deserted ball of mud. By that stage the old rental property will appear very small. We'll be constantly looking over our shoulders saying, "How on Earth did we live there? No wonder we were always at war - there's no room. look at those pathetic oceans. Look at those tectonic plates - they're minuscule. Europe, what a joke, why fight over that when it's no bigger than my thumb?" It's highly unlikely that we'd miss any aspect of our Earthbound existence; after all, who needs that "old reality" when you've got great reception for satellite TV?

The wealthy, as always, will be the first to head into orbit (several billionaires have already attempted to buy a berth on the station). They'll leave us poor dirt-eaters behind, envious, as they nibble on the edge of the cosmos. But there'll come a day when the stratosphere becomes overcrowded and, assuming nothing else does, land prices will start failing in space. By then, flights to the newer satellite suburbs should be as regular and safe as an old Greyhound coach on a winding coast road. Zero-gravity retirement villages will become all the rage. Recently evacuated, unrenovated space junk will be in every young homebuyer's price range and really, who wouldn't like to live a little closer to heaven? Tragically, with the influx of the poor and those annoying protesters, the sanctity and perhaps even the silence of space will be shattered. If the descendants of the pioneers ever develop a way of graffitiing the outside of their orbiting homes, then high-density-upper-atmosphere living will go to hell in a handbasket. On a positive note, the meek may finally inherit the Earth because everyone else has left it.

With space becoming a slum, the wealthy will want to leave and they'll be eyeing up that largely forgotten ball of mud. Thus, having made their fortunes selling the carefully legislated boundaries of acceptable saleable space, the real estate agents, property developers and the rich will return to Earth, leaving the hapless rabble circling the planet. And the cycle of life can begin again - at a price.

* If you're already thinking of the future and want to pick up a cute-as-a-boot space capsule for your nuclear family, then the only advice I can offer about buying in the sky is to never buy a property on Beach Road. Few things in life are certain but this is: any road called Reach Road will be as far away from the beach as possible (and when you're in the stratosphere that's a long, long, way from shore).

Our birthdays are usually cause for celebration but some members of the community they're a yearly curse. Their approach is enough to cause panic, dramatic changes of character, upheaval and tragedy.

I became aware of the hidden dangers of birthdays when I met a man born on November 22, 1973 - ten years to the day that John F. Kennedy was assassinated. His paranoia took seed when he discovered there was no way he could seperate his birthday from that terrible event. Every year, as he opened his presents, the Zapruder footage would be shown on TV. By the age of ten he found himself subconsciously tearing wrapping paper "back and to the left". When he cut his birthday cake he saw grizzly subconscious images of "exposed cranial material". He lived with the persistent feeling of being less interesting to his own family than a dead American president.

After his harrowing account I asked a number of people if their birthdays coincided with horrific events. I was surprised to find a great many who claimed their birthdays were marred for life by natural disasters, man-made tragedies or bizarre quirks of fate.

Like in 1997, when disaster struck a girl, born on August 31, who was looking forward to celebrating a happy 25th birthday. It was on that day that an unbuckled Diana careened off a tunnel wall in Paris. It was on that day that our hearts stopped dead in their tracks and a young girl's birthday stopped being a joy. How could she ever truly celebrate "her birthday" again, knowing it was the same day the "princess of hearts" departed this realm? No-one wants to have to share their birthday with anybody else, especially when it is someone the world truly loved.

Could this, in an extreme case, cause a vehement hatred of the princess? Could it produce irrational and paranoid responses to hearing her name. For a sensitive person, could it ruin their lives? Heaven help the child born on the same day that that black Mercedes bit the bitumen in Paris. If you were born on that day you'd have to be inhuman not to feel, in some way, directly responsible.

Without doubt, the worst day to enter the world, in terms of the Western calendar, is December 25 (although I'm sure all other major religions have days of significance that stymie the enjoyment of socially condoned and encouraged selfishness).

I have met several embittered individuals who share the date of their birth with the Christian God-made-man. It's been my experience that these individuals have a countenance and physiognomy dictated by this unfortunate coincidence. More often than not their eyes sit uncomfortably close together, their brows are bovine and their thin, colourless lips are permanently pursed. I'm sure it was never the Son of Man's intention but it has left a legacy of broken and embittered people. They're usually hunched over, as if beaten low by life, as if it's an enormous struggle for them to continue their contempt for humanity. And who could blame them? Could you contain your jealousy? Even the most lavish birthday party, with as many firends as you could muster, could not compare to the celebrations for His birth all over the planet. It must significantly diminish your "special moment" when everyone around you is aimlessly giving generously, and loving each other indiscriminately. How could you not fall into fits of madness and develop messianic tendencies?

the hidden dangers of birthdays can be devasting, but it isn't all bleak. Occassionally people share their birthdays with a moment in time that continually showers them with joy: Nelson Mandela's release from jail, the birth of Mozart, the opening of the first chain store, Crick and Watson's discovery of the double helix, oral contraceptives, the first moon landing. I'm fortunate enough to know someone born on the day Jimi Hendrix set fire to his guitar at Woodstock. Each year, the media is filled with stories of happier days, of nude hippies rolling in mud, of pipe dreams of peace, of one world united by the music of Donovan. And whenever she has a birthday, you can't help but smile.

1. Country people are obsessed with water - particularly rainwater.
The amazing thing is, you don't have to travel very far from the city to find this out. As soon as you see a bit of dry grass, people seem to be more interested in the weather.

The problem is that it can be taken to the extreme. The people we met were almost fanatical about rain, going so far as to suggest that if it didn't come soon something terrible would happen. I took this to be a reference to some kind of pagan orgy and virgin sacrifice to the Wheat God, but my companions disagreed. As the country folk prattled on I thought of my uncle Arturo, who would use any excuse to talk about the weather. Sadly, being holiday makers, our only natural enemy was rain. Any hint of cloud could bring about an instant depression and an over-reliance on card games. And although we looked earnestly empathic, we crossed our fingers behind our backs when we said, "Yeah, we really hope it rains, too."

2. Never mention the 'wonderful burnt aroma of the bush ".
As we journeyed deeper into "the country", we were impressed by the purity of the air. At one stage, we even dared to wind down the windows and experience some of this wonder first-hand. It was crisp and sharp with the unmistakable tang of something. Something 1 couldn't quite put my finger on. It was as if someone had thought to perfume the air with charcoal. As we raced along, the aromatic scent filled our nostrils with its "campfire charm" and made us dizzy with excitement. We were informed later that the reason for the smell is that during certain months of the year the whole place is on fire. This places property, businesses, even people in danger and is also the reason, we were told, why rain is so highly valued.

3. Never assume that country folk don't want to make gratuitously violent American--style splatter movies in their own backyards.
Our next stop was a Sunday market. It turned out to be a small communal affair with New Age stalls sitting neatly beside more traditional wares. The market was organised around a beautiful but derelict old building, flowers were in full bloom and children pranced happily in the sunshine. In a delirium of rural bliss we picked up some jams, a few records, a book on palmistry and the vague feeling that all was not right in this sleepy little hollow. Beneath the surface of rainbow colours and organic goodness we overheard dark, conspiratorial murmurings. A group of locals, dressed in natural fibres and eating vegetarian fare, were talking about making a big- budget film using the idyllic setting. We looked around and saw gentle folk doing gentle things: laughing together, crying together, sharing their lives and produce. It was a place of such serenity the only film we thought you could make was Little House on the Prairie 2000 (The Angels Get a Massey). But the good folk of the country surprised us when they pictured a Reservoir Dogs-style bloodbath in the old building - walls coated with arterial sprays and corpses littered along the wide, sunny verandah.

4. Never assume that anything is the same as it is in the big city.
I saw a queue at the market (which surprised me in itself) and joined four other people whom I believed were desperate for the toilet. It took me a while to realise we were all waiting in line for a psychic reading. What shocked me was the look of surprise on the face of the psychic when she opened the door and saw people waiting there - you'd have thought she'd have known.

We left the country and returned to the grey grid of the city. Why, we wondered, would anyone want to leave such a pristine place? There wasn't a cloud in the sky, the sun was a brilliant fiery shade of red and the air was fragrant with smoke. With heavy hearts we passed through lush valleys and over beautiful rolling hills strangely dotted with "for sale" signs.

The signs made us aware that we often undervalue the country. We undervalue the strength and courage of the country people but we especially undervalue the land. This notion was made infinitely clear when one of my fellow companions said, "Hey, that house is cheaper than my last Balinese holiday."

Their favourite hiding places are public transport and food halls, where the gum can nimbly transfer itself from stainless steel to silk, from Formica to the back of your hand. I try not to think about it too long. The idea that any part of my flesh has come in contact with the gooey cud of another is so repulsive, it's enough to send me into an emotional tailspin. How long has it been there? Whose mouth did it come from? What was their oral hygiene like? Do I know them? How much more gum is out there waiting, undiscovered?*

It's not only the individual who suffers the indignity of these vulgar finds. As a society we pay the price, our piebald streets strewn with the darkening gum-baccy of the lazy. Our pavements are dotted with spots, and millions of dollars are spent every year in an attempt to rid them from our proud concrete structures.

In other countries where civic pride borders on fascism, it's illegal to possess chewing gum, much less chew it. These countries, often developing nations, have seen how this blight can ruin the smooth architectural lines of a city, especially one made exclusively of cement.#

Now, at last, something is being done. In the cummunal heart of our nation's capital, Canberra, there's an inventive and radical concept to battle these "melanomas of the pavement'. Nestled in the left ventricle of Garema Place is a white panel, no bigger than a door, emblazoned on which in fine print are the words, "disposable chewing board".

The idea is simple - instead of throwing your chewing gum onto the street or tossing it in a bin, you whack it on the board. What surprises me is that people are actually using the board. Its surface is clustered with colours, from drab greys to luminous blues. Fresh deposits glisten in the bright Canberra sunshine while older ones have dried rock hard. It has the appearance of a miniature climbing wall, or a fun park for insects.

The popularity of the board is said to rival that of the Captain Cook Jet Memorial Fountain. There's a rumour (and, I admit, not one that I invest a lot of faith in) that this marvel of inner-city cleanliness is so popular that people travel for miles to deposit their mouth-waste there. They come from Belconnen and Woden, they journey in micro-buses from Tharwa, eager just to say, "I've touched it". Family outings and school groups have given a new vitality to Garema Place as people stare in disbelief at the amazing diversity of sticky mouth candy.

Meanwhile, the kindly folk of Queenbeyan, many of whom love a good gum, remain quietly jealous of the clever capital they dwell beside. The area has become a Mecca for the devotees of Juicy Fruit, PK and sugar-free Extra. Conveniently, toilets are located nearby for the overexcited who consume too much of the latter, which can have a "laxative effect" when taken in great quantities, although this is a risk it appears many are prepared to take.

But late at night, when the rest of the town sleeps, who'll be watching the board? What will prevent feral packs of ravers attacking the hoarding in search of free, tasty snacks to cushion the pain of their manically grinding jaws?

* I rarely, if ever, allow chewing gum to pass through my body. I have an inherent fear that in years to come, when some ailment forces a surgeon to open me up, they'll find a stick of bright pink 'Big Charlie' stuck to the underside of my small intestine.

# In countries where there's a chewy crackdown, a lucrative black market has sprung up. The high cost and dwindling supplies of Western gum have meant gum fanatics take terrible risks with inferior brands developed in the sweatshops of South-East Asia.

An afterthought: With this valiant system in place, I believe the time has come to combat other social ills - like spitting. I've noticed, of late, a rise in the number of public spitters. People are hoiking up all over the place. I suggest creating a spitting pit somewhere near Parliament House where people of all races, ages, creeds and colours could come and spit together. Where men and women with flooded lungs could romantically heave an oyster or two against the backdrop of that magnificent edifice. Canberra already has one man-made lake - why not create another that is truly man-made?