Confessions of a Bondi Blonde

Here’s a weird one.

I’m really liking the ATO at the moment, and I don’t mean the Automatic Teller Overpayment (though I wouldn’t say no).

The Australian Tax Office is doing a Robin Hood and trying to get the bad guys to play nice.

Allegedly Mr Westfield forgot about that holiday he had once in that haven Lichtenstein. Apparently it makes Gympie look like fun, so I could understand his ability to remove from his memory bank any dealings he may or may not have had in that flyspeck of a Eurospot.

But really, Mr Lowy, how low can you go?

You’ve got more cash from me than I knew what to do with. And the same goes for all of my friends. If I buy my essentials at WBJ and linger longer than two hours, I get hit $6 for parking for the pleasure of playing in your Westfield.

Your temples of spend have sucked the life out of surrounding shopping precincts and they echo like country mining towns after the rush has passed. Going to WBJ is a bit like a few hours in Star City; there are no clocks, it’s impossible to get to the street and there are only brief glimpses of the world outside the retail windows. A trip to the Medicare Office is a Ground Hog day; escaping from Westfield, waiting in the Medicare queue and somehow finding my car again gives me a migraine so bad I need a doctor’s appointment and another trip back to Medicare.

The high street has been decimated and you’ve built a community of consumers but provide no social infrastructure. Where are your parks, community noticeboards or free pensioner buses? What services do you provide to serve the people who spend freely of their cash and time at your malls other than a information desk to direct us to shops and a crappy microwave in the parents’ room?

Your success has bred power and your allegiance has been sought by others that matter. You’ve been graced with appointments like serving on the Board of the Reserve Bank of Australia and was awarded a Companion of the Order of Australia. Next thing, you’ll probably be made one of Australia’s Living National Treasures. Well, maybe that treasure is bigger than it should be, hey?

I have always paid my taxes. All of my friends pay their taxes. We don’t have a choice, but feel that the hospitals, schools, roads and mostly good political system we get in return is a fair-ish trade, excepting pollies like Belinda Neal, Morris Iemma and Troy Busswell.

And though your largesse as a philanthropist is legendary, why is it up to you to decide where, what is rightfully all of ours – via taxation – goes? Surely that is best left to those we elect to make those decisions in the first place?

Here’s some news from the front line of the average taxpayer – the Bondi blonde. Because of my separation I have a tax bill I just can’t pay right now if I want to feed the brats anything more than baked beans – which would I wouldn’t do to those in Bondi who want to keep their olfactory senses in place and their windows intact. But I can pay the taxman, when all the muck has been raked. I was really scared when I called the ATO hotline; looking for a solution of partial payments or something like that (they’re the experts of getting us to cough up in painful chunks, after all). Well, nice ATO lady Larissa was ever so helpful. She gave me until December to pay without asking too many questions and wished me luck for my future. They even removed the interest payment that had accrued on the outstanding balance. The only hairy bit was when Larissa asked how I knew that the money well would run again by year end. When I explained that my clairvoyant told me, there was a bit of a silence. I have no idea what she wrote on the paperwork, but my sphincter released gently when the ATO letter arrived three days later with a nice December reprieve. If I get that Powerball win the clairvoyant also predicted, it definitely will begin to look a lot like Christmas.

So to all those big wigs out there who give to the opera and arts councils while forgetting to pay taxation on their earnings, keep your cruddy kudos pennies and pay up the tax dollars that you think you have a right to keep.

So, if the allegations are proven to be true, stuff the Socceroos and give us our buckeroos, Mr six billion dollar man.

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