Smart de­ci­sion to boost our tourism

Sunday Territorian - - NEWS -

AS the old adage goes, “If you build it, they will come.”

The Ter­ri­tory Gov­ern­ment are ev­i­dently wa­ger­ing this will be the case with a planned 300m cliff­side board­walk for Nitmiluk Gorge.

The struc­ture will make up a ma­jor slice of $20 mil­lion to be de­voted to tourism ad­ven­ture projects to be an­nounced in the up­com­ing Bud­get on May 24.

One can see why any gov­ern­ment would jump at the chance to back such a pro­posal.

It ticks all the right boxes — en­hanc­ing the lu­cra­tive NT tourism sec­tor, cre­at­ing jobs, pro­mot­ing in­dige­nous in­dus­try.

While in­ter­state and over­seas tourists will no doubt see the so-called “Skywalk” as a draw­card to go to the re­gion, it also has the po­ten­tial to en­tice trav­ellers from the Ter­ri­tory to visit Kather­ine.

Territoria­ns who may have had the gorge on their bucket list could soon have an­other rea­son to choose to go soon, or make a re­turn visit to check it out.

The NT’s nat­u­ral won­ders are the jewel in an al­ready glow­ing crown, so it’s a stand-up plan to find a good-look­ing case to hold them in. IF there’s one thing I hate more than pick­ing lint off a black top it’s a snarky note.

Nothing says ‘ I’m a cow­ardly dick­head’ quite like a piece of snarky prose.

And this week I was re­minded that no­body does snarky notes bet­ter than a body cor­po­rate.

Here’s a le­gal- ish def­i­ni­tion of what a body cor­po­rate is: Body cor­po­rates are formed by the own­ers of a piece of land that is sub­di­vided into flats, units or apart­ments to man­age, and main­tain the com­mon ar­eas ev­ery­one uses like the stair­well, carpark, or pool.

Here’s what a body cor­po­rate is for any chump un­lucky enough to rent one of said units: Judge, jury and ex­e­cu­tioner of how you carry out your life. Kinda like Big Brother but with less bunny ears and no Gretel Kileen.

I’ll never for­get the first time I was on the end of a snarky note penned by an out­raged group of unit own­ers.

My friend and I had not long moved to what we were led to be­lieve, was a lovely, friendly unit com­plex.

It was only the sec­ond place I had ever rented and the first time I’d ever lived in a unit.

We were young and pretty or­di­nary at be­ing adults so do­ing the ba­sic things re­quired to run a house­hold was bridge too far back then.

We un­der­stood get­ting the elec­tric­ity con­nected was pretty im­por­tant to run our hair straight­en­ers but all we needed gas for was our hot wa­ter — ev­ery­thing else was elec­tric so it wasn’t un­til win­ter came round a few months later that the lack of hot wa­ter be­came a prob­lem. But not for long.

In­stead of mak­ing the fiveminute to call to get the gas con­nected, we started us­ing the com­mu­nal shower in the pool area. Prob­lem. Solved.

This went on for a week or so un­til our new walk-downto-the-pool-area-in-our-py­ja­mas-and-wash rou­tine was in­ter­rupted. There, crudely stuck on the door of the shower, was the snarki­est of notes.

It read some­thing/ex­actly like this:

“It has been brought to our at­ten­tion that there are cer­tain res­i­dents in this unit com­plex who are us­ing this shower on a daily ba­sis, with­out swim­ming in the pool. This will not be tol­er­ated. This shower is to be used be­fore and af­ter a visit to the pool only. It should not be used in place of your own bath­room. If this con­tin­ues ac­tion will be taken. Re­gards, Body Cor­po­rate.” Rea­son­ably, we took the “ac­tion will be taken” line as a threat against our lives.

It was ob­vi­ous this was the work of a true psy­chopath — the au­thor was up­set we were show­er­ing in a shower — sheer lu­nacy.

I could un­der­stand if we were tak­ing body wash and a ra­zor into the pool to shave our legs but why would some­one get up­set about a shower be­ing used for its pur­pose?

It’s a ques­tion I never got an an­swer to but that was the start of a long, un­healthy re­la­tion­ship be­tween us.

I would do some­thing, usu­ally pretty in­nocu­ous but of­ten ob­nox­ious, and in re­turn would re­ceive a note de­nounc­ing what­ever it was that I had done that week.

The notes were al­ways posted in the “com­mon area” so ev­ery­one in the com­plex could en­joy the body cor­po­rate re­ally stick­ing it to us.

My legacy at the Lan­gler Drew apart­ment block in Bris­bane is a neat lit­tle CCTV cam­era sys­tem at the front gate.

They were in­stalled so body cor­po­rate had ev­i­dence it was me stick­ing a phone­book in the gate to prop it open be- cause I’d lost my gate key again.

Ap­par­ently they wanted to pros­e­cute me to the full ex­tent of their pow­ers … which, as I loved to point out in my snarky re­sponse notes, doesn’t ac­tu­ally ex­tend as far as they think.

But petty com­plaints aside I don’t ac­tu­ally have a prob­lem with be­ing chas­tised for be­ing a thought­less wanker but what I ab­so­lutely can’t stand is a pas­sive ag­gres­sive note stuck up in the dead of the night signed by a face­less, anony­mous en­tity.

Body cor­po­rates know what you eat for break­fast and what time you usu­ally go to bed so they def­i­nitely know which door is yours to knock on if there’s a prob­lem so what’s wrong with a good old fash­ioned con­ver­sa­tion?

It’s the equiv­a­lent of be­ing at work, less than two me­tres from some­one, when they send you an email. Since then I’ve spent the last 10 years avoid­ing liv­ing in any dwelling that had a body cor­po­rate at­tached … un­til now.

The first few weeks in our new unit were bliss­ful. But it didn’t take long for us to piss off the lead­ers. Here’s how we did it. We hired re­moval­ists to get some of the big stuff up­stairs but de­spite their best ef­fort, they were un­able to get the couch up­stairs and so left in the “com­mon area” — the com­mon area is what the lay per­son would call carpark.

The owner of the couch wasn’t sure what to do — if two gi­ant men couldn’t lift it up the stairs then maybe he would have to sell it. In fair­ness to the lead­ers, this de­ci­sion did take in ex­cess of two weeks. He had just de­cided he would keep the couch and had en­listed the help of 46 mates to come around and get the mon­stros­ity up the four flights of

Nothing says ‘I’m a cow­ardly dick­head’ quite like a piece of snarky prose. And this week I was re­minded that no­body does snarky notes bet­ter than a body cor­po­rate

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