So, like, last Friday I went to the Greta Thunberg inspired climate change rally in Canberra.  I was hesitant to go, not because of any disagreement with the rally’s ideas but that I’ve found Canberra incredibly ageist and that, as it was a school and Uni strike, I’d not be welcome.  I didn’t want to stand out with my greyed hair and lined face but girded and went.  It was a fantastic turn out of people, not just the young but all ages. It brought back vivid memories of the peace rallies in Sydney in the 1980s, great wit and bite and earnestness in some of the placards. 

Amongst the calls-to-action speeches, there were a few recurring themes, one of which I found disturbing; the blame was laid squarely at the inaction of Governments.  While this is a great factor, it continually bemuses me that people have absolved themselves of one of their most significant rights – choice. 

There’s a straightforward choice – an individual can choose NOT TO CONSUME.  And also not to consume products produced by unethical companies. 

No speech made mention of this.  I know at some point we have to consume, eat, drive or be driven in a car, catch a plane, but there are a thousand choices to non-carbonate along the way.  At BIG W the other day, the person in front of me had left their docket in the machine, having bought a box of tissues and purchased a plastic carry bag, and that was all.  WTAF.  Yes, I know, maybe they were carrying other things and needed the bag, but really??

So yesterday Robert “Bob” Trudeau, our cat, jumped up to one of his favourite places; a small table in my office which houses my printer and scanner.  He misjudged the jump, and his near 7 kilos brought the scanner crashing to the floor.  He hung for a moment, upside down and entangled in cables, and I feared my whole desk’s contents were going to slide into the vortex.  Cats have nine lives and Bob magically untangled and righted himself to the floor and scampered from the room. 

Of course, the scanner no longer worked, emitting a small bleating sound and gave up.  I picked it up, shook it, shook it again, tried it again, and gave up.  I tried to get it open, but queerly there were no screws and, let’s face it, I’m useless with my hands, in that masculine type of way. 

This morning I had to scan some things and was about to drive into Civic to buy another scanner, $154 with an unclear cost of how much carbon had been produced to produce it.  As a last resort, I typed into Google – how to open a cannon scanner – and lo-and-behold there was a YouTube video.  The only interdiction was the video was in Hindi.  I found the tool kit and pressed on.

To open it, evidently, one had to prize away all the glued-on plastic trim.  Carpe diem.  It seemed destructive and vandalism to hack at it in this manner but despite the fact the scanner’s casing now has gouges all over it, I got it open. 

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And I found the issue.  The stem of a small plastic cog had jolted from its clasp.  It took a bit of huffy-puffy, but I got it back in.  And it works. 

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I grew up with parents born in the 1920s who never surrendered the belief and pride in fixing things.  How easy it would have been to shell out more money, ignoring the far higher cost of all the carbon and energy to produce the broken scanner, and buy a new one, legitimising more carbon loosed upon the world.  Clearly, from its glued together construction, Cannon didn’t want me to open the scanner and try to fix it.  And I think it’s poetic that the only help I could get was from India, in Hindi. 

It just underscored the need of the individual to think about what they do, what and how they consume, and just make just choices.  Now, what is wrong with that bloody toaster?