Reading through recent discussions about Australia’s “lost decade” of wage growth has stirred up some deeply troubling thoughts. The latest research from Per Capita think-tank paints a stark picture of how the 2012-2022 period of wage stagnation has fundamentally altered the Australian dream of home ownership.

The numbers tell a devastating story, but they barely scratch the surface of what this means for real people. My daughter, now in her teens, often talks about her future, and I find myself struggling to give her honest answers about housing affordability without crushing her spirits entirely.

The headlines are trumpeting that Australia has finally ended its per-capita recession, with GDP growth outpacing population growth for the first time in 21 months. Break out the champagne, right? Well, not so fast.

Standing in the queue at my local café this morning, I overheard several conversations about rising costs, and it struck me how disconnected these GDP figures feel from everyday reality. Sure, the numbers might look good on paper – a 0.1% increase in GDP per capita – but try telling that to anyone who’s recently done their weekly shop at Coles or Woolies.

The housing debate took an interesting turn this week when a property investor with 26 properties tried to blame immigration for Australia’s housing affordability crisis. The irony wasn’t lost on anyone, but it highlighted a deeper conversation we need to have about property distribution in our country.

Living in the inner suburbs, I’ve watched perfectly good houses sit empty for months or even years, while desperate renters compete for increasingly scarce rentals. Within a kilometer of my home, I can count at least ten vacant properties - some waiting for redevelopment, others seemingly forgotten by their investors. It’s a pattern repeated across Melbourne, where approximately 50,000 properties are tied up in short-term rentals like Airbnb.

Reading about Peter Cutmore’s story from the Waterloo Creek massacre has left me deeply reflective today. The brutal truth of what happened on January 26, 1838, when a young boy watched his people being slaughtered, stands in stark contrast to the barbecues and celebrations happening across the country.

The survival story of Peter Cutmore, preserved through generations of oral history, tells us of a child who survived by hiding in a log where his mother placed him. It’s a testament to both the horror of colonial violence and the incredible resilience of First Nations people. His descendants are still here, still telling his story, still waiting for justice after 187 years.

The recent discussions about tax reform in Australia have got me thinking about how we keep circling the same drain without making real progress. Reading through various proposals and community reactions, it’s fascinating to see how deeply entrenched our resistance to meaningful change has become.

Remember the carbon tax? That brief moment when we actually led the world in climate action, only to have it torn down by political opportunism and vested interests. Now here we are, a decade later, still debating the same fundamental issues about tax reform, land use, and economic fairness.

The recent news about private schools spending $2.5 billion on capital projects while public schools grapple with overcrowding has reignited the perpetual debate about school funding in Australia. Twenty years of working in tech has taught me that following the money often reveals the true story, and this situation is no different.

Looking at the numbers, elite private schools like Cranbrook receive around $4,000 per student in government funding, which is less than 10% of their total funding per student. Meanwhile, many public schools struggle with basic infrastructure needs. The argument that “private schools save the government money” keeps surfacing, but this overlooks a fundamental question: should we be subsidizing private choices with public money at all?

The proposed social media ban for under-16s in Australia is yet another spectacular example of our government’s knack for missing the point entirely. While scrolling through discussions about this latest policy announcement, I found myself getting increasingly frustrated at the sheer absurdity of it all.

Picture this: we’re living in a country where teenagers can’t watch YouTube videos about their homework or play online games with their friends, but they’re bombarded with gambling advertisements at every turn. The cognitive dissonance is staggering.

As I was browsing through online discussions, I stumbled upon a conversation about local council candidates in Bacchus Marsh, and my eyes landed on Paul Tatchell. His campaign slogan, “I don’t do Woke,” left me scratching my head. What does it mean to “do Woke,” and who exactly is Paul Tatchell?

From what I gather, Paul is a Bacchus Marsh council candidate with a rather…let’s say, “interesting” approach to politics. His decision to capitalize “Woke” is a telling sign of his stance on social issues. It’s clear that he’s trying to appeal to a certain type of voter, but in doing so, he’s coming across as out of touch and, quite frankly, a bit cringeworthy.

As I sipped my coffee at a busy Melbourne café the other day, I noticed a familiar sight: a sign on the counter warning customers of a debit card surcharge. It’s a small but annoying fee that many of us have become accustomed to, but it’s about to become a thing of the past. Under a new plan announced by the Albanese government, shoppers will no longer pay fees when using debit cards from 2026.