I’D have thought a free mow over the front lawn would be part of the deal if I was to throw my hand up to become a Logan city councillor.
Nope. Property valuations, plumbing from council-employed engineers, additional green bin pick-ups.
None of the above, as the law would have it..
Turns out being a councillor doesn’t bring the huge perks I might have expected.
Instead, it brings a burden laden with responsibility. In the paraphernalia, they call it civic duty – like it’s a good thing.
After my enthusiasm last week, I was ready to fill in the forms and stump up my $250 deposit.
I hadn’t even thought about whether people would vote for me. After all, why should such a thought cross the mind of anyone who’s going to make Logan even greater?
The map was drawn – I had a plan.
I give the local signwriting folk a call to pop my passport photo onto a few sticks which we get the kids to belt in with a mallet at every busy street corner.
I create a policy document which I print and send to every household, telling them that as your representative in local government, I’ll cut rates, build more roads, install traffic signals at every second corner for safety, widen footpaths, and host free parties every Wednesday night at council-owned halls.
Oh, and more public holidays. Not council’s jurisdiction, but who cares? It’s a good look.
That should be enough to fill out an A4 piece of propaganda that makes me look smarter, and shows I understand the needs of my community.
Primed at the ready, it’s at this point that I notice there are requirements of candidates.
There’s a 21-page booklet that tells me how elections work. In there, it tells me I don’t need a computer in order to fill out the forms to nominate.
It tells me about electoral advertising, those words “civic duty” again, some important election dates, and a heap of things I already know.
It also instructs me to do a mandatory training course which I find has 12 modules, each which will take me about 10 minutes to complete.
I finished school more than 40 years ago. Never mind, here goes.
Within the training there’s a lady, well meaning I’m sure, who sits in front of a video recorder – which, might I add, would be very difficult to watch without a computer – and proceeds to tell me what I can and can’t do as a councillor.
She says I must read recommendations from council staff and take them to meetings where I’ll need to debate with other councillors the merits of said recommendations before voting on whether or not I agree.
And she says I’ll need to have an opinion, which is something I have well and truly covered.
She also rattles off a long list of things I need to make public.
My close associations, the stuff I own, the donations, gifts, loans and election expenditure, and any friends I might have who might influence my opinion.
My friends will tell you they’ve never influenced my opinion on things. But they’ve never packed $50 bills in brown paper bags in order to do it, either.
So I wrestle my way through 12 modules of learning to be a councillor, only to find that the occasional free sandwich and a handy $132,900 or so a year salary are the rewards.
Seriously, pay me in beer. I don’t mind.
But somewhere in the back of my mind, I had myself convinced that being a local representative would help me fix all my problems.
Wags would have a new dog park, Wanda a new exclusive parking bay, the children a ratepayer-funded pergola, Harry down the road a new fence.
But no. They’re paying me to make decisions about things I ultimately can’t control. They’re paying me to spend hours listening to other people’s problems, and to provide information on topics I don’t know about.
They’re paying me to question whether council policy is helping all these other whingers, whining about their personal desires. Just like Harry and how we can change the by-laws to make his damn fence legal.
I thought it would be easy.
Hey Wanda, I don’t need Harry’s vote anymore. Can you tell him his fence can wait?
