If they want me to be nice to them they should not call me at dinner time. But still the man in India trying to fix my computer or sell me solar panels for my roof insists on phoning when I am trying to cook. This and the small matter of the clear invasion of the Do Not Call Register provisions drives me nuts and tends to make me say words that are somewhat less than ladylike. And as soon as the home phone calls I am ready for it because people who know me use my mobile (except my mum and I always know when it will be mum). Thus my cranky pants were on when the phone rang still I reluctantly agreed to market research. Question after question about why I live where I live and what it would take to consider moving to Logan. "Logan?" I said. "Not going to happen". And while I was well aware that sounded all judgey that wasn't my intent. I love where I live and I have no intention of moving. Not now. Not ever (well not until I win Lotto and I can buy that house right on the beach I want). Living in walking distance of South Bank, West End and the City suits me just fine. More than just fine. Just don't phone me at dinner time to confirm.