Nat Locke: What sets off my inner Karen, from a bumbling council (mild annoyance) to delayed shipping (fury)

Is it just me, or does everyone have a tiny little Karen inside them, itching to pop out?

And I say this with the greatest apologies to the many, many women named Karen who are actually thoroughly delightful human beings. I have seven Karens on my Facebook friends list (and yes, I am very aware of how this very statement ages me), and not a single one fits the Karen stereotype. It’s a wholly unfair moniker. Still, we’re kind of stuck with it now. Soz Kaz.

Anyway, I find myself occasionally saying Karen-y things and it is almost as alarming as when you first hear yourself sound like your mother.

The local council is currently in my Karen sights, because they have been repeatedly digging up the grass at the local oval and planting new lawn. Then they seem to forget to water it and large slabs of newly laid lawn promptly die. And the whole farce starts again. This is the same council who planted a whole lot of trees around the same oval last summer before forgetting about them.

If I wanted to watch freshly planted things keel over, I would stay in my own backyard. Maybe the council is also cashing in on that Bunnings loophole where if your plant dies, you can get a new one.

The way my ire expresses is not to storm the council chambers and demand action. I’m not that proactive. But I am prepared to complain to other people at the dog park, who all agree with me, by the way. “Our rates at work,” we dramatically declare whilst sweeping our arms in the direction of a giant patch of brown grass.

We’re seasoned observers of these sorts of rates wastage, incidentally. My favourite was the time the council dug into a large grassy bank between the two ovals to install some cricket nets. The earthmoving was an impressive feat. Unfortunately, as soon as anyone who was a frequent visitor to the facilities glanced at the works, it was apparent that when most cricket training happens, the batters in the nets would be staring directly into the sun.

The earthmovers came back and filled in the giant hole and the nets were subsequently installed at right angles to the original proposal. “Our rates at work!” (insert dramatic hand gesture).

My Karen-esque question is this: how did it get to that point without one single person realising that the plan was doomed? Presumably, quite qualified people were involved in the planning phase. Surely somebody at the cricket club would have had an inkling had they been consulted. Surely.

I’m not vilifying my council in particular, by the way. I’m sure every council has their moments. It’s just that this is the one that I pay my money to.

(Yes, that’s exactly what a Karen would say.)

Still, I draw the line at screaming in someone’s face that I would like to see the manager. While I enjoy complaining to fellow dog walkers at the dog park, I’m not prepared to confront anyone in actual authority. My level of outrage is set to “bemused”. I have accepted that nothing I say or do will actually change anything, so I just wait patiently for the next mystifying transgression and roll my eyes.

My theory is that all of us have at least that level of Karen in us: a quiet disdain that occasionally bubbles up to some mild whingeing, but not to anyone in any authority. Rarely do we go full Karen unless we’re pushed to the brink.

Which is where I’m headed with an online order that I have been waiting on for more than seven weeks. SEVEN WEEKS. Whenever I have sent an email questioning where my two T-shirts are, it has taken them a full week to respond, and then they have promised that the goods will be posted forthwith. Except they aren’t. Then they sent me a shipping number which appears to be fake, because it hasn’t updated for over a week. And the package that I hilariously paid international express shipping for still hasn’t arrived.

My Karen surfaced after this scenario and I started shaming them in the only way I know how: by posting some snarky Instagram stories. Hell hath no fury like a girl who is made to wait (more than) seven weeks for an internet order. Shakespeare said that.

So it looks like I’m going to just have to let her out. I am Karen, hear me roar. And also, send me my T-shirts.