A sign came into our kitchen this week.
"Do not wash pots with boiling water," it says.
Thank God! I think he'll end the three-degree burns we've had for years.
If only someone told me earlier, I could have avoided all these boring skin grafts. All I need now is a sign that says "do not hold the knife in the toaster" so that I can not suffer an electric shock every week.
But if you think it is crazy, there is nothing about what Bunnings dreamed about health and safety.
If you are like me, the only reason anyone can accompany you to accompany him to Bunnings to buy a mixture of taste is the promise of a sausage.
Soft white bread, knotted in tomato sauce and trans fats, acting like a fluffy pillow for a sausage, usually of dubious origin, moistened with fat onion and grated.
Nothing beats him.
Except for a role of Chiko who stood in bain-marie on a rural road for six hours, but that's almost a call.
Now an absolute hero has decided to boast with humble sausages in a blanket.
Put the onion underneath, not on the top, because it could fall and somebody might slip, they say.
It's unclear if someone slipped a forgotten onion at Bunnings, but these health and safety people have to justify their existence, I think.
I slipped once on a piece of lemon that fell off Irish Murphy's drink.
I was dancing my heart when the heel caught my little squeak and before I could sing "I want to dance with somebody." I broke my head on the dance floor.
I got up, washed myself, waited for the whole location to laugh and continue with my life.
Murphy's Irish have not forbid lemons, because it would be unreasonable; a drunk slip is a fact of life.
How far will we let this madness go?
First, they made an exception to the way we pick up the boxes.
"Bend your knees, do not lift more than 200g at a time, watch this stupid movie about bending your knees and lifting over 200g at a time."
Then they came for our Christmas parties.
Limiting the amount of beverages per person, sending "handy suggestions" to not make you a boob.
If the Christmas services are not going to make a total joke then why the fuck are I going?
Maccas will not let you through the unit.
So if you have a kneading for a sausage and a McMuffin egg at 2am and the restaurant (and I use this term freely) is closed and you do not have a car, then bad luck. No dice.
Why can not you go through the unit?
It's dangerous, of course.
So you fill your face with sausages and McMuffins eggs and I have a much greater chance of dying of heart disease than I have to be run by a Toyota Prado in a car through.
If you want to try a pair of swimmers in the store, you have to let go. Wait a minute, it's really a good rule. Remnants of wreckage.
When was the last time you saw an old fashioned set of monkey bars?
They became public enemies years ago, after too many children have fallen and kicked their knees.
When I was raised, if you did not break your arm down from monkey barracks, or if you caught your head between bars on the playground, you were nothing.
Our second year teacher had a bottle of Crisco on his desk; that is, how often he needed to rub a bit of his head to get rid of something.
It would be a large-scale parliamentary inquiry if this would now take place on a playground.
It reaches the point where all our lives are wrapped in cotton wool, everyone is afraid we will be wounded.
But this is life.
Sure, it's not just about getting hurt, but broken knees and broken hearts are usually looking back with pride in the big scheme of things.
Laughing to slip on a lemon with your friends, destroy the Bunnies sausages and fall in love before the heart breaks – it's the matter of life.
If we cancel all the potential dangers, what's left?
Rolled signs of boiling water and a medium beer at your Christmas party, that's what.
Give me a crushed noggin and a broken heart every day.
Jill Poulsen is a courier journalist and columnist.