The Darlocline: A new measure of Australian rurality

I've conducted several scientific studies on my road trips between Melbourne and Far North Queensland. By scientific, I mean completely ad hoc. And by studies, I mean stuff that I recorded when I remembered to do so.

Some of these studies were ornithological. When do apostlebirds first appear on the Newell Highway? How far north do white-winged choughs extend? Where does the white-backed form of the Australian magpie give way to the black-backed form.

I'd like to be able to provide answers, but on all trips so far I've usually driven a couple of hundred kilometres past the crucial location before I remember that I was supposed to make notes. Although I try again on the way back, my attention is often taken up in designing limpet mines that will attach to the corrugated sides of slow-moving caravans. It is not a simple task, you know. How do you slap a mine onto a target that's ahead of you? How do you set a delayed fuze? Are fridge magnets strong enough to do the job? You can see why I might miss the odd apostlebird, chough or magpie.

Anyway, I've applied the same scientific methodology (and all its flaws) to social history as well as natural history. Many years ago (ie the 80s), I developed the concept of the Patsycline. It is loosely based on the thermocline.

A thermocline … is a thin but distinct layer in a large body of fluid (e.g. water, such as an ocean or lake, or air, such as an atmosphere), in which temperature changes more rapidly with depth than it does in the layers above or below.

The Patsycline is the location where the proportion of country music on the radio suddenly becomes 100%. It is measured as the distance from the nearest state capital.

In the late 1980s, the Patsycline was on the Newell Highway somewhere south of Dubbo. Unfortunately, the proliferation of local FM stations combined with the existence of Lee Kernaghan has rendered this methodology unworkable. The Patsycline has been retired.

But it has been replaced by another measure of Australian rurality — the Darlocline. This is the geographical spot at which people in service stations call you 'Darl'. Although pinpointing it does depend on how often you stop for petrol, I am happy to report that the north – south Darlocline seems to be located in Biloela in central Queensland.

Now who says science isn't relevant?

The view from my window

Despite being so close to the house, the Melicope bonwickii in the front garden is important to the local fauna. It is the site of turf wars between the Victoria's riflebirds and the spotted catbirds. Lewin's honeyeaters guard it against incursions from Eastern spinebills. During the day, brush turkeys perch in the lower branches to watch the world go by. At night, coppery brushtails take their place.

Prime real estate?

Having not spotted any (live) tree kangaroos for a couple of months, I was both delighted and surprised to see this from the living room window.

Under the misapprehension that there was something interesting in the Melicope, this tree kangaroo hopped over from the forest and scrambled up the trunk. It realised the mistake very quickly. Then it discovered that down wasn't as easy as up.

After negotiating its way through the tangle of climbing pandan (Freycinetia), it hurtled off into the scrub. It's good to know the neighbours' dogs haven't killed all of them.

Why'd it have to be snakes leeches?

The rainforest is a fairly benign place. Apart from the stinging trees, of course. And 6m-long scrub pythons that can give a nasty bite. And cassowaries with claws that can razor open an adversary. Not to mention venomous small-eyed snakes that lie just where you're about to put your sandalled foot. But apart from that, there's not much around here that will do lasting damage.

There are, however, bucketloads of animals and plants that will cause inconvenience. I know this, because I've encountered them all. Numerous times.

The leeches are lively at the moment. They lurk in leaf litter and on low vegetation, waiting for a meal to pass by. Most often, that meal is a pademelon, but sometimes that meal is me.

A leech from the garden.

These leeches (family Haemadipsidae) have two cutting jaws, which leave a characteristic wound pattern. (On my heel.) Other families of blood-feeding leeches, such as the medicinal leech, have three jaws that make a Y-shaped incision. A large number of species are jawless and either insert a needle-sharp proboscis into their victim or swallow their prey whole. Fortunately, in the latter case, their prey is usually small, soft-bodied and spineless.

They might turn up anywhere. This one was resting on the garden hose, looking as though it might be digesting a gutful of macropod blood. (Anterior to the right.)

Lateral view of the leech. The posterior sucker (right) is used to anchor the animal.

Business end of the leech. The anterior sucker is just visible as a small, pale halo.

As you go through life, always remember to stop ...

... and eat the flowers.





A pademelon takes advantage of a rare moment of sunshine to prune the plants.

Telco woes

In one of my previous places of employment, the start of Semester 1 always brought great anticipation. Not because we'd be facing a new group of students, but because we'd be facing a new stuff up. Every year, we would kick off the first day with a different mess. Lecture theatres locked. (Apparently, the start of semester took people by surprise.) No room numbers on the timetable. (An issue waved away as trivial.) And numerous problems, of course, with computers and projectors. (Don't ask.) ( Really. Don't ask.) They would always happen, but the variety and novelty of the stuff ups meant that you could not prepare for them.

Which is exactly the same problem I'm facing with Telstra.

In late June May, my landline began to play up. I had to call the fault reporting line from my mobile phone. But there isn't any mobile coverage at home, so I had to go for a drive in order to get a signal.

Having contacted the fault reporting line, I then explained my predicament to an operator at an overseas call centre, who seemed to be confused by the idea that I had to leave the house to ring. Anyway, after some time she put me onto the service technician … and the call was immediately disconnected.

Eventually, the service techie called me back. He did a check and informed me that the line was working perfectly but he would 'reprogramme' it, whatever that means. By the next morning, everything was tickety boo.

Until last week, when it went to crap again. This time I drove into town to talk directly to the franchise, where they are used to dealing with customers inarticulate with fury over Telstra service. I took the telephone with me, just in case that was faulty.

It wasn't.

The service techie went through the whole 'it's not a fault with the line, but we'll reprogramme it anyway' and said he'd call me on that number. But he couldn't get through. Because the line was faulty.

A local technician turned up unexpectedly at some ungodly hour the next day. He worked on the wall socket and then pronounced the line fixed.

It wasn't.

But wait! There's more. Not only is my landline still borked, but Telstra is also now charging me for phone calls that I haven't made. Since 6 July (which was when the most recent fault began), I've been charged for 14 calls that I did not make, including a long distance to Brisbane. I am looking forward to Telstra offering a supernatural explanation for that one because, as we know, there is nothing wrong with the line.

Oh, did you think that was the end of the problems?

They have also resumed charging me for a BigPond dial up service that I cancelled more than six months ago.

What else can go wrong?