Which could be weeks, I thought, looking at the muddied wreck that had been home for the family of four.

We’d seized as many of their possessions as we could, splashing through the rapidly rising waters in our little convoy – cars and a truck bursting with mattresses, fridge, clothes and fluffy toys. A team of touch football mates appeared from nowhere to help load and disappeared just as rapidly to help other families.

But the rapid rise of the waters over the roads prevented a second trip, and much good stuff was left behind.

Then the waiting, on that fine and sunny eleventh of January, eerily free of portents of the rising catastrophe. Within hours all access was cut off and the broadcast warnings were increasingly grim. We had no idea how high the waters would rise.

The next day, an urgent call from an old neighbour’s – could we help her sister on the edge of the flood zone get her things and herself out? So with our son and other volunteers we loaded up a couple of utes, took out what we could and lifted big items onto blocks inside the house, as the water slurped up from her backyard drain.

By the end of the day the slab beneath our high-set Queenslander looked like a bazaar, with son’s and neighbour’s chairs, rugs, fridges, beds, cupboards and linen jammed together.

Fortunately our newest guest had rescued some bottle of vintage wine to add to the party atmosphere that night, with candles called into service when the long blackouts hit. This was turning into fun!

But then the waters receded, and after another day we finally saw our son’s house. And saw his heartbreak. Their little nest, bought only a year before and improved in a hundred little ways, was now like a mud hut, full of junk. Everything inside and out was coated in the rapidly drying black muck left behind by the river, its stench filling our nostrils.

Colorful stickers of rockets and planets on the walls of our little grandson’s room were stained and grimy, while limp stars dangled from their threads. Beds and cupboards, boxes, toys and muddied teddies lay upended where the tide had dropped them.

Crockery was smashed or scattered in strange corners of the house, relics of the unseen whirlpools of the late-night watery invasion.

The kitchen clock was frozen at 26 past 6, witness to the moment the waters had reached half-way up the walls.

The waters had climbed relentlessly past midnight until they were several roof tiles above the guttering. We’d glimpsed footage of the floating roof on TV news, filmed from a boat that sailed down our son’s street some three meters above the road.

And suddenly the clean-up was on, like a pitched battle. Friends and family were joined by dozens of robust volunteers who streamed through the house, carting out everything in sight. The footpath looked like a long garbage tip. Water tankers drove up and down, hosing the slimy mud off the road while trucks picked up the rubbish.

The street took on a carnival atmosphere, with sausage sizzles, drinks and ice creams, everyone helping each other. It was Brisbane at its finest.

People from all kinds of backgrounds – receptionists, plumbers, accountants, public servants, electricians, teachers, medicos, lawyers, police, pensioners – they all pitched in with equal enthusiasm. And as well as locals there were supporters who’d come up from interstate together with friends and strangers visiting from New Zealand, Britain, Germany and elsewhere. Local politicians praised the Queensland spirit, but it was in fact a universal demonstration of the human spirit at its best.

The deconstruction started. Out came the plaster walls. The gyprock was like wet cardboard – we pulled it out with bare hands. Down came the ceilings, creating waterfalls as the saturated insulation slopped through. Up came all the floor coverings, a mixture of carpet and tiles.

The house ended as a skeleton, a framework of studs, joists and trusses, but with the outer boards and tiled roof in place. It had plenty of time to dry out.

We heard later that people who’d just hosed out their VJ-lined Queenslanders and moved back within weeks of the 1974 flood were left with reminders of the river smell for years afterwards, whenever the humidity worked on the unseen remnants of mud behind the walls.

Meanwhile my wife Helen and I settled into a new life – empty nesters no longer. The fledglings sent off by the parent birds had returned fully grown with chicks of their own.

There were sympathetic looks from old friends. “It must be difficult,” murmured one. They saw my cheerful denials as lacking credibility, perhaps because they knew how grouchy and difficult men of a certain age can become.

And indeed adjustments had to be made – as much as possible by the house guests, not me.

So I was able to keep my ABC classic FM music station, although with the sound a little muted. I had to yield on my aversion to television when the sun is in the sky, and to TV programs with commercials. But I made sure interloping teabags didn’t supplant my precious leaf tea.

We’d allocated the little family two rooms plus the second bathroom. Yet over the months there seemed to be a gradual encroachment. The carpets in living areas were colonised by little cars and trucks, a dolls house, blocks and a train table.

Our bathroom had the house’s only bath, so it became a home for rubber duckies, turtles and tiny boats. I’d often find the toilet had a little insert in the seat. The backyard soon had a sandpit and play castle, plus scooter, balls and tonka truck. Soon it seemed that Helen and I were confined to two rooms, while the young family had the rest.

I discovered that my preference for dining at a civilised hour would mean dining alone, as Helen was intent on sharing the evening meal with the family. So I found myself sitting at table at a time I hadn’t known since I was aged 10.

And it didn’t seem such a bad thing, especially in the winter. It seemed natural to be eating as the sun set. Dinner was over and cleaned up well before the 7pm news, and often even before the 6pm news.

Having two talented cooks in my wife and daughter-in-law was a nice compensation. They took it in turns to produce a variety of culinary delights. The legendary Chinese ideograph of two women under the one roof representing trouble was fortunately proved wrong. (The ideograph, too, is an urban myth.)

At table I observed parenting styles while keeping my counsel, and was a little sheepish to see shadows of my strict regulations at meal times. These days I felt far more indulgent about youngsters’ infractions.

But story-time and goodnight kisses were a daily boost — something grandparents normally don’t get to experience every day.

Our grandson Patrick turned 3 during their stay. He delighted in nicknames, often telling us that his little friend Annie called him Patches while he called her An-yan. He’d already renamed Gran as Nan, and now the tongue-twister of Grandpa was simplified to Punka. I got to like that name.

I had all the fun dads have with little boys – he loved listening to made-up stories with himself as hero, and when I mowed the lawn he’d follow me about with his toy mower.

Little granddaughter Grace seemed the less interesting of the grandchildren when she moved in aged 4 months, but soon wormed her way into my heart. It was amazing to see her developing mobility as she learnt how to roll over and sit up, and then made the big break-through into crawling, suddenly having the whole house as her domain.

She’d crawl up to me, snuggle her face into my corduroy pants, and then look up with the expectation of being picked up. Who could resist her?

But it couldn’t have been easy for the young parents, suddenly thrown into a role of dependency while trying to manage their family as well as do their jobs and part-time study, on top of dealing with all the complications of rebuilding.

My son was heard to say laconically when introduced to a new friend: “I’m 32, I’m homeless and I’m living with my parents.”

Perhaps our assurances that at a similar age we had camped with our oldies for some months after returning from overseas helped convince him that his situation wasn’t entirely unique or even unbearable.

My daughter-in-law kept a calm appearance for many weeks after the disaster, but an encounter with then lord mayor Campbell Newman at a council function to hand out plants resulted in her breaking down in tears as she told their family’s story and the funding uncertainties. The tears were contagious. Lady mayoress Lisa Newman was bawling, the mayor’s male minder shed tears, even the stony-visaged Newman had a lip tremble. For weeks after, as he made his transition to state politics, Newman told the story of my daughter-in-law’s tears as he lashed the state government.

The aftermath of the flood left us all feeling depressed, including our toddler grandson. He was alarmed every time it rained, and having been kept away from the house for weeks during the clean-up, we found he’d formed the idea that the house was still under water.

We shared the young couple’s ongoing set-backs. The inevitable disappointment when the insurance company finally decided it was the wrong type of flood. The disappearing mirage of the Council’s buy-back scheme for inundated properties (again, the wrong kind of flood). The disappointingly inadequate first offer of financial support from the government, with a means test so stringent that no-one who’d qualified for a mortgage could possibly have such a low income.

The waiting for answers from bureaucrats meant weeks of inactivity and a sense of helplessness, like swimming in custard.

I made a submission to the flood inquiry. Couldn’t the inadequate insurance of so many flood victims be partly the fault of the banks who provided the mortgages? Shouldn’t they have ensured that their mortgagees’ insurance covered realistic risks? And should rebuilding of low-set houses be sanctioned on a flood plain? Houses in this area are doomed to flood again and again, whether Wivenhoe is full or empty.

Buttressing the young family was the support from friends and strangers who didn’t forget and kept pitching in.

Gifts of toys, furniture and clothing poured through our doors. An acquaintance sent a huge hamper of goodies, while meals, cakes and drinks kept arriving from myriad friends.

Very generous cash gifts were quietly and often anonymously dropped in. A former student in Japan sent a donation, little knowing his own country was just weeks away from a far more terrible devastation. And ongoing labor was at hand to get the major reconstruction started, led by my son’s redoubtable parents-in-law.

People kept turning up as volunteers to help with carpentry. A retired builder in partnership with the dad of a mate did important structural work. Maverick councillor Nicole Johnston appeared one day and energetically wielded a wheelbarrow to clear away rubble.

Surplus gifts of furniture were distributed back and forth between other families in the street, until finally anything extra was packed off to the serious flood victims at Grantham.

A week or so after the flood, the muddied kitchen clock began ticking again. Surely a good sign.

Finally came the break-through with the second round of government financial support, drawing from the millions in donated funds. Coincidentally I was in parliament when Premier Anna Bligh made the announcement, and messaged the good news to the family. It was enough to make all the difference, to permit serious rebuilding without substantial borrowings or deferral of important work.

But fresh uncertainty emerged. Did all the work and expenditure so far count for nothing? Would they be financially penalised for having made a start? And while the funds were in the pipeline, was it wasting money to keep working on the house?

“If I know anything about governments,” I intoned, “they’re going to want receipts for everything and they’ll dole the funds out in stages.”

Fortunately I was wrong. Perhaps in reaction to the political flak over the flood money, the government handed over the lot to affected households after seeing two quotes. I wondered if the casinos would prosper, but for our little team it was a great break-through. They could proceed apace with the bottleneck of jobs that needed significant funding to be started.

I felt some sympathy for the government and bureaucrats responsible for distributing the funds, knowing that con-artists are always on the prowl, on top of the problems of incomplete or tardy applications. I felt less sorry for all the whingers who seemed to think every natural disaster was the fault of and should be totally rectified by the “guv’mint”. I doubt much help goes to flood victims in countries like Bangladesh.

Rebuilding gave the young family a chance to make some changes to a house that had now been inundated twice in its 60 years. The bathroom became the kitchen, a french door was opened to the back yard, giving the house much more light, and two bedrooms had their size adjusted.

There was one significant discovery. A major support beam visible below the ceiling turned out to be a hollow structure of wood veneer – an ancient builder’s shonkiness. The roof would have sagged inwards if the flood hadn’t revealed the secret.

And removal of floor tiles revealed hardwood boards in unexpectedly good condition – brush box from northern NSW. Instead of recarpeting, the boards could be sanded and polished to a beautiful golden brown.

After months when nothing much seemed to happen, a flurry of professional building activity rounded off by painting and reconnecting to electricity meant the house was ready to be lived in again. And so the little family left us, seven and a half months after the January disaster.

It was disturbingly quiet and still the first morning after they’d gone. No happy babbling of baby chatter or toddler’s yells and laughter. No toys being trundled up and down the hallway. No little boy waking us at dawn to ask if we’d play. No calling to order from the parents. No big pot of porridge on the stove. A dreadful hush that made the place seem very lonely. Carpets lay sadly bare, deprived of their toys and kiddy furniture. It was all too quiet and neat.

A couple of days later, as we visited the little family and I looked around at their beautifully restored house, my grandson begged us to stay longer. We realised he was missing us too.

I told him we had to go back to our house, but we’d be seeing him and his sister often. He threw his arms around me and gave me a tight hug. “I love you Punka,” he said. Not entirely a bad flood.

_____________________________________

A shorter version of this story was published in the Brisbane Courier-Mail on 13 January 2012: Nest feels a little emptier after family ties fortified by floodwaters.

But tea merchants are on hand to explain the subtleties of tea and encourage more consumption.
 
Acupuncturist turned tea merchant Peter Markwell stocks more than 110 different flavours at his Camp Hill Herbal Tea shop and said he had seen a rapid increase in the popularity of tea.
 
“Popularity of tea is increasing so much. Everyone’s got the coffee culture – they’re now looking for something different,” he said.
 
Similarly, Nundah’s Queenie’s Tea House founder and owner Julie Clissord said tea was becoming more and more popular and its drinkers were embracing new flavours.
 
“People are getting more adventurous with trying teas,” Mrs Clissord said, although she pointed out Brisbane tea drinkers still had a long way to go.
 
“[We’ve] still got a long way to go until mainstream people understand how to make a good cup of tea.”
 
According to global business research group Datamonitor report Hot Drinks in Australia to 2013, the Australian tea market is expected to reach a value of $473 million in 2013.
 
Tea consumption in Australia currently stands at 0.8 kg per annum per capita and is expected to rise quickly in the next few years.
 
The report also attributes tea’s increasing popularity to the perception that it is healthier than coffee.
 
Mr Markwell said stressed people particularly benefit from the soothing process of making tea.
 
“Some people had so much stress in their work that no matter what they were taking it wasn’t helping,” he said. “Tea leaves make you stop.”
 
And while tea bags are convenient, he criticised the “double-dunk and done” method of making tea.
 
He said getting people to stop working for 10 to 15 minutes was half the battle against stress.
 
“All of a sudden they’ve got to sit there… They cannot concentrate on work things,” he said.
 
Mrs Clissord said she constantly reminded customers to “brew it not stew it”.
 
“A good quality tea made well is always better than a good quality of tea made badly… It’s not rocket science but it is a science,” she said.
 
Other benefits of tea include the anti-oxidant levels – which are higher in lighter coloured teas.
 
“The lighter the tea the lower the caffeine and the higher the anti-oxidants.”
 
Both the tea merchants we interviewed said the beverage could be used to benefit a person’s health.
 
This includes peppermint tea for digestion, ginger for circulation, some teas even assisting weight loss.
 
However, Mr Markwell was quick to remind people they still had to work out after drinking tea.
 
“People are drinking these weight loss tea bags all day and they don’t know… you have to actually exercise,” he said.
 
Other misconceptions include the temperature of teas.
 
“Most people won’t drink green tea because they say it tastes really bad. That’s usually because they’re burning it,” he said. The optimum water temperature for green tea is 60 to 70 degrees.
 
“People boil the water, throw the tea in and wonder why it tastes bad.”
 
But tea drinkers should experiment with the flavour of teas until they found their favourite.
 
“You can mix and match anything,” he said.
 
The Queenie’s founder agreed and said she hoped to educate people in the different forms of tea.
 
“I try to educate the world one customer at a time to let people know how they can get the best tea,” Mrs Clissord said.

She said she hoped genuine iced tea, “not that commercial lolly water,” would grow in popularity in Queensland’s hot climate and that restaurants would stop offering English Breakfast after dinner.
 
She encouraged everyone, men and women to try tea.
 
“It’s not a highbrow thing,” she said.
 
“It’s not magic, it’s simply tea.”

Webber recorded the fastest lap at Abu Dhabi this month and is fourth overall.

Ever wondered why brakes work better now or why your new car uses less petrol and yet is more powerful than your old car? The chances are Formula One racing may have had a hand in these and other advances.

Ever since car companies started making cars they were drawn into racing them to test their products in competition.

The F1 World Championship is the pinnacle of motor racing and the only global competition run by motor sport’s world-governing body.

It is run over 18 races in 18 different countries all over the world.

It is a sport steeped in history, glamour, technology, danger and excellence. Drivers have been killed pushing the technological marvels beyond their capacities. But this has brought many safety advances to road cars, probably saving thousands of lives.

Technology gains are driven relentlessly forward every week by global automotive giants in partnership with F1 teams. The teams’ huge sponsorship budgets allow cutting-edge, risky innovation. This is a race born not only of sporting glory, but huge commercial pressure from sponsors and car makers to succeed.

Only war, a space program or an arms race between great powers speeds technological development faster.

Ford, Mercedes, Renault, BMW, Honda, Bridgestone, and many others have developed and tested their technology in this never-ending competition.

New parts are often flown in at the last minute to a race track on the other side of the world to make a car 0.2 seconds faster that weekend.

If the car carries less fuel it means less weight and faster times.

An extra litre of fuel weighs a kilogram slowing the car about 0.2 seconds per lap. Pressure to reduce fuel consumption and engine weight has resulted in massive improvements in engine fuel efficiency as well as increases in power in smaller engines.

Manufacturers competing in F1 transfer technological innovations into their road cars.

BMW sport spokesman Jörg Kottmeier said competing in the world championship had driven huge advances in design and technology.

“We worked on a dedicated F1 foundry, developed leading edge casting technologies with ultra-precise process management yielding lightweight components with very high stiffness,” he said.

Today, this light alloy foundry produces high-tech road-car components.

“Carbon fiber was first used in F1. In 2013 BMW will introduce the Megacity, the first mass produced car with a carbon-fiber body.

“Innovation is essential in motor sport. Racing is about competition, and that includes technology. Looking back to our own F1 project, there was lots of innovation and technology transfer.”

ATTWilliamsF1 [STAT] Team technical director Australian Sam Michael said racing has pushed road car design in many areas over the last 50 years.

“The disc brake spent many years with problems before being sorted out in motor racing in the 50s,” he said.

“F1 is all about making the impossible happen. Short term is overnight. In the road car manufacturing it is months or years.

“Honda used this in the last 30 years putting young engineers into F1 teams to learn how quickly you can improve engineering when the incentive of competition is there.”

The latest new technology being developed under this pressure is the KERS system. A kinetic energy recovery system stores energy created from braking (stopping) and stores it to propel the car forward later. WilliamsF1 is working to transfer this clean energy technology being perfected in F1 into road cars.

Mr Michael said a single “braking event” in a F1 car stores about 70KJ of energy which translates to about 80 extra horsepower to use later.

“The system has already been installed in a Porsche with some success and is being developed for wider applications such as mass transit and lifts,” he said.

Development of hybrid vehicles has benefited, according to BMW’s Jörg Kottmeier.

“On the environmental side, KERS has pushed the envelope and provided invaluable experience in hybrid power train solutions gave today’s hybrid and electric vehicle projects a big boost,” he said.

The Vegetarian/Vegan Society of Queensland co-founder and dietician Amanda Benham said the popularity of veganism would continue to increase.

“The human race has no choice but to move away from eating animal products for environmental reasons… and in order to feed our population,” she said.

Mrs Benham, who became a vegan in 1983, said the decision was not one to take lightly but would grow in popularity as people became aware they didn’t have to eat animal products.

“Having that clean conscience and knowing that you’re not contributing to any animal suffering is a good feeling,” she said.

Sunshine Coast chef Sudha Hamilton from the Sacred Chef said vegetarians and particularly vegans could feel isolated socially.

“It can be a great thing… but it’s difficult for them to get a good feed and to feel welcome,” he said.

But he said the recent push towards organic foods had opened up more opportunities for vegans to eat healthy food.

“Availability has completely changed across the board,” he said.

The presence of support groups such as the Vegetarian/Vegan Society of Queensland, founded in 1990, would also support the lifestyle choice in the future.

“I think it’s really good for people to meet other people that have similar ideology and that have similar lifestyles – whether it’s swapping recipes or talking about where to get a good vegan pizza,” Mrs Benham said.

Mr Hamilton stressed the importance of education before making the ideological decision to become a vegan.

“You need to get educated on both sides. It’s great that you’ve got a passion and a fervour and you want to stop animals being hurt… but at the same time you have to balance that by making sure you know what you eat.”

The technical measure of spice heat is a “Scoville unit”. By virtue of some secret chilli concoction, Off the Wall’s “Megadeath Burger” has a claimed 5.5 million Scoville units – 10 percent stronger than United States police pepper spray.

To eat the burger, patrons must sign a legal waiver.

Off the Wall’s co-owner Jessica Fernald said the sauce was roughly 650 times hotter than an average jalapeño.

About 20 to 30 people a week have tried the meal over the past six years, she said.

That’s about 8,000 people.

Of those, only 193 have finished.

Ms Fernland said there were no defining characteristics of people who manage to finish the burger.

“Everyone’s different. You’d think a big dude with tattoos and piercings all over him would be able to do it, but no: he’ll throw up and cry like a baby,” she said.

“It could be absolutely anyone. I had this tiny woman this week; a small little petite thing did it. She was stubborn as hell and she ate it all.”

Another equally stubborn customer refused to give up on the dish for the better part of a day.

“Eleven hours is the most it’s dragged on for. In October last year, he came in the morning and stayed until 9.20 at night. I had to say ‘eat it or get out.’ He stayed on a bit the size of a 50 cent piece for about five hours. He was lying all over the table moaning and groaning. I thought I’d have to call an ambulance for him,” Ms Fernland said.

Harry inspects the burger

University of Queensland Nutrition and Food Science researcher Dr Eugeni Roura said such reactions, though possibly funny, are always indicators of possible damage to the body.

“If there is something general we can say about spices it is that the doses well above the ‘standard’ might indeed be detrimental,” he said.

“For example, pungency, at the end of the day, is a defence response, a warning signal that our sensors are sending to our brain and signals nothing else than potentially harmful substances.”

Royal Melbourne Institute of Technology School of Medical Sciences associate professor of toxicology Dr Paul Wright said even the experts in the field measured spices foremost through the lens of physical pain.

“Capsaicin is the active agent and it works on the nerves in your body that release ‘substance P’—which stands for pain. And that’s the whole physiological basis of why things feel like they’re burning, it’s because they’re releasing ‘substance P’,” he said.

“The reason you can eat spicier and spicier food the more you do it is because the ends of your nerves actually die and if you don’t eat it for a while, those nerve endings grow back. So when you only eat sweet foods and then eat your favorite chili again, it’s going to taste even hotter because your nerves are back responding again.”

But Dr Wright said although normally spices could be adapted to with practice, at the extreme end only a superhuman could withstand them.

“In the field of pharmacology, spiciness – as in chili heat – has its own rating scale. capsicum spray, the spiciness of which the burger equals, dissuades people from what they’re doing.”

The only time such amounts of the ingredient were ineffective was when people had taken the drug phencyclidine, also called PCP or “angel dust.”

“Normally it works unless they’re on phencyclidine, in which case quite often those people have to be held down by half a dozen officers because they basically have superhuman strength,” Dr Wright said.

Harry takes his first portion

One such superhuman who was able to complete the capsicum spray’s chemical equivalent “Megadeath challenge” was James Murray, a 25-year-old IT expert in Brisbane. He agrees that the spice is too off the scale to prepare for.

“I mentally prepped myself for it. I was always sort of into chili food, but I think the thing is it’s so much hotter than anything else you can possibly imagine that no amount of preparation can really help,” he said.

“I’d eat all the chili stuff I could. But it was a totally different level. Not even comparable.”

The experience was more reminiscent of an extreme sport than dining out.

“The funniest thing for me was that as soon as I started eating it, my body just went into adrenalin overdrive. My glands just went crazy so for the first four or five minutes I was pretty fine because my body was so full of adrenalin. But then my hands started shaking and I started to feel nauseous. It was just like a massive adrenaline high and then after that you start to feel the pain.”

His strategy for becoming one of the rare few to finish the meal?

Rapid and ceaseless consumption.

“I did it pretty quick, probably about 10 or 15 minutes. It’s the only way to do it – just smash it down. Once you stop eating it’s pretty much over, because to make yourself start eating it again would be impossible. Just don’t think about it and just eat it,” he said.

So, experts did not encourage the consumption of such level of spice, and even former patrons attested to the horror of the experience.

But this writer did humbly attempt the dish.

For me, the realisation of the gravity of the meal came somewhere between ordering and paying for it, when I was asked to sign the previously mentioned legal waiver.

I can’t quote from it because I wasn’t allowed to keep a copy, but its general theme was: we won’t be responsible if you die trying to impress your friends.

I was given a pair of rubber medical gloves, so I could safely handle the burger.

Then I waited.

The shop itself was mostly kitchen and counter, with only one magazine-littered table inside. The option then, was by necessity an outdoor table, which was fine because the weather was too. The sun was shining, the bogans were singing in the pub across the road, and groups of young women in negligibly short pants walked along the strip under the vast canopies of jacarandas.

Then my Megadeath burger arrived. It came after a wait because it had to be prepared separately to avoid contaminating anything else in the kitchen.

How did it taste?

Harry begins the recommended "rapid and ceaseless consumption"

Well, for me, insignificant. The challenge is culinary, but not for a connoisseur. Soon after the first bite, precedence goes to instinctive fears for simple well-being. Notions of flavour belong rather high on any hierarchy of human needs, far, far above concerns about actual bodily impairment.

In hindsight however, I would describe the taste in those first few mouthfuls as dry with a slight hint of bile. But then the crippling, toxic agent’s evil shadow descended and my more advanced faculties fled and scattered.

Within a remarkably telescoped period of time, I was set upon by a variety of physical reactions. Of course there was burning, burning of an intensity I had never before experienced. But overlayed with this I began to convulsively hiccup. What’s more, my lips tightened up so I could barely open my mouth to speak, my face began to tingle with pins and needles, and my skin began to crawl.

Between the tears welling in my eyes, my vision was actually vibrating. Even looking at one point in the distance, objects shook rapidly from side to side as if I was watching a bad TV reception while sitting on the backseat of a bus. Mucus and tears ran freely down my face, and I was afraid to wipe it away in case I transferred even a trace of the noxious sauce to anywhere near my eyes.

For the first few bites I ran a narration for observers, physically- and psycho-analysing the unfolding biological bedlam. But by the first quarter I stopped this, following the partial paralysis of my face and mouth. My speech became increasingly fragmented.

“It’s spreading…to my back…I can’t feel my back,” I said in response to my friend’s nurturing pats on the back.

But, bothering to talk was fairly rare. The video evidence shows I mostly just emitted a kind of mournful bovine groan, complete with snot bubbles from my dribbling nostrils.

Thankfully, there seemed to be a plateau in the reactions and no new horrors came until the final bite of the first half, when I thought I would vomit.

I’d been told to avoid this at all costs, because it spread the spice into the sinuses, so I spat out the half-chewed blob and rocked back and forth in my chair, with my belly full of fire and my heart full of nothing but gladness I’d given up.

The result? The picture says it all

Immediately to hand (for an extra $5 you’d be crazy not to spend) was a “recovery pack” of yogurt and milk. I skolled the glass of milk with a few hearty gulps and lavished my fiery mouth with the honey yogurt’s sweet salve. This effectively disqualified me from the challenge and the prospect of having my name printed on the wall of fame for those few superhuman finishers, but by this point I was simply ecstatic the torture had ceased.

Over the next quarter of an hour I descended slowly back into a state of equilibrium and found myself high on a combination of mild pride and enormous relief. The pain had probably given me a kick of endorphins, much like a marathon runner. My body was still pumped on the exhilarative burst of neurotransmitters. Or at least this was what my friends explained to me as I sat grinning at passers-by like a barnyard imbecile.

I won’t go into the gory details of gastronomic fallout over the following 24 hours, but at that point I was a happy chap with no notion of further impending pain. As we walked back to the car, I gingerly sipped a strawberry-flavoured milk. I was still unsteady on my feet and gave the keys to my friends for the trip home.

Police and Corrective Services Minister Neil Roberts hopes all offenders will be fitted with the new technology by the beginning of 2012.

Each device, using GPS technology, will cost more than $200,000 per offender.

Abakus Elmotech Pty Ltd, a subsidiary of 3M was awarded the contract to supply the tracking devices.

“Abakus Elmotech was selected following a rigorous procurement process to ensure the technology to be used in Queensland was the most up to date available,” Mr Roberts told Parliament this month.

The $13.7 million allocated to the implementation of the devices would be also used to employ more monitoring staff, enabling a 24-hour surveillance service.

Child protection advocacy organistion Bravehearts praised the introduction of the devices but insisted investment also had to be made in a range of preventative measures.

Bravehearts researcher and criminologist Carol Ronkin said although the system would let authorities track an offender, she questioned its ability to stop an offender who wanted to re-offend.

“What we know about the GPS system is that it has the potential to increase safety through increased capacity to monitor offenders’ movements, but it needs to be utilised as part of a suite of management options,” Ms Ronkin said.

“We need to invest in management and treatment programs for offenders and…ensure that they remain in detention, or even a treatment centre, until such time as that risk is at a level that can be managed safely in the community.”

Mr Koch, who received an honorary doctorate from Jschool in recognition of his contribution to journalism, said recruits to journalism should uphold the values of the profession and respect their role in society. They should be a “voice for the voiceless”, bringing the plight of marginalised groups to the attention of policy-makers.

Mr Koch, who is renowned for his coverage of indigenous issues, said journalists should be persistent in getting information.

He said they should never stop asking questions, using old-fashioned one-to-one interviewing rather than depending on internet sources of information.

Awarding the honorary doctorate, Jschool director Professor John Henningham said Mr Koch was a splendid example to young journalists.

“He has helped huge numbers of reporters at the beginning and later stages of their careers, a fact noted by Laurie Oakes – last year’s Jschool honorary doctorate recipient – at the Queensland Clarion Awards in September,” he said.

Mr Koch, who retired this year as chief reporter of The Australian newspaper, received the Clarion award for Most Outstanding Contribution to Journalism

“His work shows how important good journalism is within society, and what a difference it can make,” Professor Henningham said.

As well as winning five Walkleys, Mr Koch has been Graham Perkin Australian Journalist of the Year and winner of the Keith Murdoch award, has won almost 50 state awards and the Premier’s award for literature for his books on Queensland politics.

A woman in the jury suffered the migraine yesterday afternoon, drawing a complaint from a defence barrister who was worried she hadn’t been paying attention.

The jury member listened to barrister Lars Falcongreen’s final statement in the morning but was unable to continue after the break.

Mr Falcongreen said he was concerned the woman had not been able to pay attention to his statement.

The woman assured Justice Richard Jones she had heard and understood the defence counsel despite having to close her eyes due to sensitivity to the room’s lighting.

Justice Jones said he understood how painful migraines could be and told the woman she should not be embarrassed.

The final statements in the trial of a Morooka woman who pleaded not guilty to charges of wounding and causing grievous bodily harm were expected to finish yesterday.

The trial resumed after 2pm but Justice Jones’ final comments were cut short as the juror felt nauseous.

The judge said he hoped the next day would give the jury an opportunity to hear his statement and come to a unanimous decision.

“Today’s been a bit fractured,” he said.

The trial will resume on Wednesday at 10am.

The truck was carrying a load of sand which spilt all over the steep street.

Senior Constable David Low of Sherwood Police said the accident on Dewar Terrace was caused when a driver lost control of his vehicle trying to haul a heavy load up a hill.

“It’s a really steep hill and with his trailer on he couldn’t make it to the top,” Sen Const Low said.

“He stalled, put his brakes on and then the truck rolled back and the trailer on the back jackknifed which caused the truck to flip.”

While an emergency crew used chains to right the vehicle, a bobcat cleared the sand from the road.

Sen Const Low said the driver was not hurt and investigations into the accident were continuing.

Dewar Terrace was last month listed among Brisbane’s steepest streets. According to a list released by Brisbane City Council the street – a major link road in Sherwood and Corinda – has an incline of 1 in 4.8, an 11.8 degree angle and a 21 percent slope.

Photos: John Henningham

The 82-year-old victim died in hospital a week after being attacked in her backyard by David Samuel Aubrey Ray.

Ray pleaded guilty to two counts of rape and one count of murder as well as one count of break and enter, two counts of burglary and one count of trespass.

Mrs Iris Daphne Temperley, a great-great-grandmother, was raking leaves at 8am on Australia Day in 2010 when she was attacked.

About 8.40am her neighbour Mark Booth noticed a man lying in her backyard on what appeared to be a mattress.

Realising it wasn’t a mattress but in fact Mrs Temperley he immediately called emergency services.

Earlier that morning Ray was caught on CCTV stealing alcohol from a local hotel and partying before breaking into Mrs Temperley’s house.

Ray stole a fire extinguisher from her home and used it to repeatedly assault her, leaving lacerations on her upper thighs.

The court heard that she received extensive facial injuries, broken nose, two fractured ribs, fractured sternum, bleeding from her ears and nose and a collapse in two lower lobes in her lungs.

She also received tears in genital regions which resulted in profuse bleeding that ultimately caused her death.

Ray then went on to commit another burglary, stealing alcohol and a $3000 gold ring, which was later recovered.

Due to the extent of her injuries and blood thinning medication Mrs Temperley died in Royal Brisbane Hospital on 3 February, 2010.

Crown prosecutor Michael Cowen said the evidence against Ray was “overwhelming”, describing the event as vicious and appalling.

Mrs Temperley’s DNA was found on Ray’s vest, which he wore to his interview with police after turning himself in.

“She suffered fear and pain, words can barely describe the evil you have done,” Mr Cowen said.

Afterward the sentencing family could barely speak through their tears.

Mrs Temperley’s daughter Kerry Bickle held a framed photograph of her mother.

Mrs Temperley’s older sister Doreen Shuh flew in from Bundaberg to attend the sentencing.

“I’m glad it is all over,” she said.

Mrs Temperley was described by Mr Cowen as a happy and adventurous woman.

“She was the glue that held the family together,” he said.

The victim’s son, Allen Temperley, said despite the conclusion of the trial their grief would continue because they now had to live without their loved one.

“We will have to live with the knowledge of the horrendous pain and suffering she endured at the hands of this murderer,” he said.

“I would hope no family has to go through what our family has gone through.”

Justice Duncan McMeekin sentenced Ray to life in prison for murder, two counts of rape, 15 years for the burglary of Mrs Temperley’s home, two years for break and enter into the hotel, three years for the second burglary and one month for trespass.

“This sentencing is due to the violent nature of the offence and vulnerability of the victim,” Justice McMeekin said.

Photo: Iris Temperley’s daughter Kerry Bickle with family members on the steps of Rockhampton courthouse.