There's a set of traffic lights near where I live which may be the region's first optional signals. Several residents of the estate preceding them, you see, don't have time for red lights.
I drive past these lights most every day, and it's regular occurrence - wait ten seconds, then they drive on through.
(Perhaps after parking in the school no-stopping zone, or doing some good ol' force-merging-without-indicating.)
No big deal ... until a school kid is crossing with the red light at the same time.
How can I unlock this special state of mind? Perhaps my car's not big enough. It seems having one of those oversized Tonka trucks might win you some freedom from the rules that bind everyone else.
Up north there's a strip of houses where the front windows look across the main road to the Pacific Ocean. Big blue thing, whole lotta water, always there. But some trees are growing, as trees do, and residents don't think council's trimming them enough. So they poison them, because, you know, they're entitled to, for the view. Yes, Coledale and Sandon Point, I'm looking at you.
Don't get me wrong, I'm no more a fascist than the next green libertarian. Some rules are better bent. But there are some we need if we're to live together in cities. And with second dwellings popping up like mushrooms, our quarters are only growing closer.
I lived in Sydney once. It's not an experience I'm anxious to repeat. Such a ridiculous amount of time it takes to get anywhere. But three things got my goat just as bad.
There's the way people swallow fashions whole - where Melbournians take bits from here and there to form their own style, Sydneysiders download and install the entire package, from the shoes to the jeans to the hair. But that's kinda funny.
There's the cool things who walk five- or six-abreast down the footpath, a human grader doused in Reb'L by Rihanna. They'll mow you down, or drive you into the street.
But for a deeper indictment on the city board a bus, where despite signs, pleading from the driver, and common sense, people refuse to move back. Buses drive past old ladies in the rain because it seems full - except for all that standing room at the back.
Who do we think we are?
Who am I to lecture? Nobody. But I'm not wrong.
In a divisive era, it's more vital than ever to be considerate. This is what manners are for - a DIY system to enforce consideration.
Social rules, perhaps, are there for those who can't do manners - not without both a carrot and a stick prodding them repeatedly.
As Kendrick might say to Donald: Sit down. Be humble.