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You’ve probably seen it on social media before: a paragraph of scrambled text that looks like nonsense at first glance, yet somehow you can read it with surprising ease.

Aoccdrnig to a rscheearch at Cmabrigde Uinervtisy, it deosn’t mttaer in waht oredr the ltteers in a wrod are, the olny iprmoatnt tihng is taht the frist and lsat ltteers be at the rghit pclae. The rset can be a toatl mses and you can sitll raed it wouthit porbelm. Tihs is bcuseae the huamn mnid deos not raed ervey lteter by istlef, but the wrod as a wlohe.

This effect, often playfully referred to as typoglycemia, is frequently shared online as a quirky insight into how our brains work.

But this viral claim is only part of the story. To understand why it works, we need to look at how the brain actually processes written language.

There is no magical ‘rule’

The claim that usually accompanies this snippet is that as long as the first and last letters of a word are in the right place, the order of the middle letters doesn’t matter.

At first glance, the claim seems plausible.

But while there is a kernel of truth here, the explanation is misleading.

Reading scrambled words has much less to do with a magical “rule” about first and last letters, and much more to do with how our brains use context, pattern recognition and prediction.

We don’t read letter by letter

When we read, we typically don’t painstakingly process each letter in sequence. Instead, skilled readers recognise words rapidly by drawing on multiple cues at once. Psycholinguistic research shows that we process words as patterns rather than as sequences of individual sounds.

These include familiar letter patterns, the overall shape of the word and, crucially, the context of the sentence. Our brains are constantly predicting what is likely to come next, then checking those predictions against the visual input.

This is why we often miss typos in our own writing. We don’t see what’s actually on the page, we see what we expect to be there.

The same principle helps us make sense of jumbled words. Even when letters are out of order, enough of the structure remains for the brain to make an educated guess.

Word shape and structure matter

The viral meme suggests that only the first and last letters matter.

But this oversimplifies what’s really going on. We are sensitive to how letters relate to each other within a word. Common spelling patterns and familiar combinations make words easier to recognise, even when slightly distorted.

This is also why certain visual disruptions make reading harder. Text in alternating caps, such as “AlTeRnAtInG CaPs”, is difficult to process because it disrupts the usual visual contour of words. The same goes for “ransom note” lettering made from mismatched fonts, which interferes with pattern recognition.

In other words, readability depends on preserving enough of a word’s internal structure, not just its outer letters.

Not all scrambled text is readable

If the meme were true, any sentence with intact first and last letters should be easy to read. But that’s not what we find.

Take this example:

Salhal I cmorape tehe to a srmmeus day

It follows the supposed “rules”, yet it is much harder to decipher. In fact, this is the opening of Shakespeare’s Sonnet 18: “Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?”

So why is the viral paragraph so much easier to read? Because it has been carefully (if unconsciously) engineered to be readable.

The hidden tricks behind the meme

Several factors make the famous example easier to process than it appears.

First, many of the words are short, which limits how many possible combinations the letters could form. Words like “you” and “can” are often left unchanged.

Second, function words such as “the”, “and” and “is” are usually intact. These small, common words provide the grammatical scaffolding of the sentence, making it easier to predict what comes next.

Third, when longer words are scrambled, the changes are often minimal. Adjacent letters are swapped (“wrod” for “word”), which is much easier to process than more extreme rearrangements.

Finally, the passage itself is highly predictable. Once you recognise the topic and rhythm, your brain fills in the gaps automatically, much as it does when listening to speech in a noisy environment.

The key to understanding this phenomenon is context. Words are not processed in isolation. Each word is interpreted in relation to the others around it, and within a broader framework of meaning.

This allows us to compensate for missing or distorted information.

But there are limits. As scrambling becomes more extreme, or as words become less predictable, comprehension quickly breaks down. Reading speed also slows noticeably, even when we can still make sense of the text.

Humans and machines

Interestingly, computers can now unscramble jumbled words with remarkable accuracy. By analysing probabilities and patterns across large datasets, algorithms can determine the most likely original form of a word or sentence.

In this sense, machines and humans rely on similar principles. Not rigid rules about letter position, but flexible systems that weigh patterns and probabilities. This highlights why the “typoglycemia” claim is an oversimplification, rather than a scientific rule.

The idea persists because it captures a genuine insight in a catchy way. It reveals that reading is not a simple, letter-by-letter process, but a dynamic interaction between perception and expectation.

At the same time, it’s a reminder of how easily scientific ideas can be distorted as they spread online.

So yes, we can often read scrambled words. But not because the order of letters doesn’t matter. It’s because our brains are remarkably good at making sense of imperfect information. So good, in fact, that they can turn a mess into meaning.

Karen Stollznow, Research Fellow of Linguistics, Griffith Centre for Social and Cultural Research, Griffith University; University of Colorado Boulder

This article is republished from The Conversation under a Creative Commons license. Read the original article.

Taiwanese pop music superstar Jay Chou, known in Mandarin as Zhou Jielun (周杰倫), has put country Victoria’s Sovereign Hill on the map.

Chou’s 25 albums have sold more than 30 million copies, and the music video for his latest hit, Gold Rush Town (淘金小鎮) was filmed in the open-air museum.

With over 9 million views on YouTube, the video offers a global audience for both Sovereign Hill and the Chinese Australian experience.

Chinese people and the Australian gold rush

Gold Rush Town marks the first time a pop superstar has told the history of Australia’s gold rush through Chinese eyes. But the Sovereign Hill museum has an admirable record of including the history of Chinese people during the Australian gold rush.

Led by historian Anna Kyi, the museum’s Chinese exhibits exemplify a new push in Australian heritage to rediscover the foundational role played by Chinese migrants in Australian history using Chinese-language sources.

The museum’s “Chinese camp” was opened in 2024, promoting the multi-ethnic nature of the goldfields and the rich cross-cultural relations that developed as a result.

Tens of thousands of Chinese came to the Victorian goldfields in the 1850s, interacting with people from all over the world.

The music video features Chou as a sharply dressed Chinese detective, walking stick in hand, chasing down Chinese bank robbers through the twists and turns of a frontier town in which the main characters are ethnic Chinese.

The Chinese in Ballarat were a prominent community in the 1850s. They made up 25% of the community, and may have been the majority in some areas of the colony. As late as 1871 – after the end of the city’s gold rush – 14% of men over 15 in Ballarat were Chinese.

Some Chinese Australians became wealthy during the Gold Rush. Chinese locals showed off their wealth just as Europeans did, with swagger and style and public display.

While stereotypes of Chinese as miners and market gardeners have some basis, many were involved in all variety of occupations, including police work.

Detective Fook Shing served on the Victorian police force from the 1860s to the 1880s, solving crimes across the colony and even as far off as Sydney.

Chou also plays a detective in the video clip – and you can clearly see the similarities between Fook Shing and Chou’s character.

Sharing an Australian Chinese story

Despite the intense political scrutiny for artists trying to maintain popularity on both sides of the Taiwan Strait, Chou has managed to avoid being boxed into a political position. He has carefully crafted an audience of everyone from Chinese ultra-nationalists and Taiwanese independence sympathisers.

Those trying to emphasise his politics often refer to a deliberately ambiguous 2007 quote: “Of course I’m Chinese. I’m also Taiwanese.”

Gold Rush Town has been incredibly popular on Chinese-language social media, spawning dozens of commentary videos and covers on popular sites such as BiliBili.

While The Ballerat Courier has reported the clip could be “boosting Ballarat’s tourism industry”, we haven’t seen any evidence of this on social media. Indeed, many international Chinese speakers are commenting that the video was filmed in Melbourne – 90 minutes’ drive away.

Without travel to Sovereign Hill being part of the social media buzz, it seems unlikely the video will lead to huge tourist numbers beyond the small bump this month.

But the video’s value isn’t in tourism. Chou’s video highlights a shared Chinese and Australian past and a common humanity at a time of rising diplomatic tension between China and the West.

Chou has pushed the memory of the Chinese Australian gold rush experience away from simplistic discussions of racism, and towards the complicated and multifaceted experiences of real people in the 1850s.

The video shows Chinese Australians as gold rush pioneers, rather than gold rush victims. Heroes in the national story, rather than marginal players.

People in China and Taiwan may not even register this as an Australian music video. But Chinese speakers in Australia will recognise the iconic location and the significance of this shifting history.

Gold Rush Town marks an important moment for Asia-Australia cultural relations, with a popstar bringing Chinese Australian history into the light in a positive way. We have come a long way from the 1983 filming of David Bowie’s quasi-racist China Girl in Sydney’s Chinatown.

Sophie Loy-Wilson, Senior Lecturer in Australian History, University of Sydney and Craig A. Smith, Associate Professor of Translation Studies, The University of Melbourne

This article is republished from The Conversation under a Creative Commons license. Read the original article.

The Devil Wears Prada’s Miranda Priestly (Meryl Streep) has become a mythic cinematic character. The magazine editor is icy, commanding, manipulative, cruel, oddly sympathetic and endlessly imitated.

Streep’s portrayal was surprisingly inspired by the quiet authority of powerful men such as Clint Eastwood. Her Miranda is soft but steely, controlled rather than overtly theatrical.

The trailer for The Devil Wears Prada 2 proudly proclaims “Icons Reign Forever”. This certainly holds true for the original film, 20 years later.

The film still feels urgent

Set at Runway Magazine – a stand-in for Vogue – The Devil Wears Prada tells a timeless story saturated with workplace toxicity, psychological manipulation, burnout culture and the quiet tyranny of demanding bosses.

In a glamorous New York setting, the 2006 film features a strong four-hander character structure. We have the coming-of-age for Andy (Anne Hathaway); the fierce professional ambition of Emily (Emily Blunt); the thwarted loyalty of Nigel (Stanley Tucci); the devastating private unravelling of Miranda.

The tension between ambition and personal values has only intensified in the two decades since the film’s release, as evident by 2022’s “quiet quitting” movement, transforming The Devil Wears Prada into an emblematic snapshot of modern working life.

Miranda also highlights a set of cultural debates that remain stubbornly unresolved: is she a cruel boss or simply uncompromising? Would anyone object to her leadership style if she were a man? Does Andy ultimately betray her own values, or reaffirm them?

The absence of definitive answers is precisely what has kept the film alive in the public consciousness. The film sheds light on the brutality of professional hierarchies in ways that feel even more urgent now than they did in 2006.

Fashion as character

Thanks largely to the work of costume designer Patricia Field (whose work for Sex and the City was legendary), along with actual runway show footage, fashion titan Valentino playing himself, and clothing and accessories loaned by iconic fashion houses, The Devil Wears Prada is the preeminent film about fashion to have captured the public imagination.

Many still consider the cerulean speech, partly devised by Streep, the most incisive piece of fashion-industry commentary ever committed to screen. Its deadpan delivery demystifies fashion’s power structure while simultaneously validating it, showing how consumer choice is largely an illusion.

(Streep even donned) the famous cerulean jumper in Prada 2 interviews.)

The original film portrayed fashion’s glamour and excess as simultaneously dazzling and damning.

But the eager return of fashion houses including Dior, Lanvin, Fendi, Gucci, Jean Paul Gaultier and Prada in the forthcoming sequel demonstrates the industry regards The Devil Wears Prada as a vehicle of genuine cultural prestige.

Even Vogue is getting in on the act by having its retiring editor Anna Wintour appearing on the May 2026 cover with her Priestly/Streep doppelganger.

An online life of its own

The Devil Wears Prada has benefited enormously from the explosion of social media.

Scenes have developed independent lives entirely detached from the film itself: Andy’s makeover montage; the devastating “that’s all” retort; Miranda’s icy side-eye; the coat on the desk.

These moments are endlessly played, memed, and reimagined.

The film’s quotability is inseparable from its longevity.

The Devil Wears Prada was more than a chick flick. Not quite a dramedy, not quite a workplace comedy, nor a satire, romance, coming-of-age story or comedy of manners — it draws confidently on the conventions of all of these.

This deliberate blurring of genres encourages repeated viewings.

The film is light enough for casual viewing, yet rich enough for serious analysis of its feminist credentials. Some argue it presents an essentially conservative message, warning women against unchecked ambition and reinforcing the idea that they must prioritise their personal lives and moral purity over professional power. Others contend the film links female empowerment with consumerism and individual choice, framing this as a form of agency for women.

This ambiguity in the film’s ideological positioning has contributed to its continued popularity.

When Miranda asks, “Is it impossible to find a lovely, slender, female paratrooper? Am I reaching for the stars here? Not really!” is she a model of a woman holding her own in a male-dominated industry, or is she complicit in perpetuating the very beauty standards that oppress women?

The film refuses to decide.

You watch The Devil Wears Prada very differently depending on your mood, age or job. The ability to mean different things at different moments in a viewer’s life is the structural foundation of any truly enduring film.

The film doesn’t feel dated in its look, or its content. Its humour remains biting. Its timeless feel is rare allowing each new generation to discover it as though it were made for them.

William Simon, Casual Lecturer, Education and English Departments, University of Tasmania

This article is republished from The Conversation under a Creative Commons license. Read the original article.

As Homer tells us, Odysseus made an epic journey, against the odds, from Troy to his home in Ithaca. He visited many lands, but mostly dwelt with the nymph Calypso on her island.

We can imagine that his wife, Penelope, would have asked him about that particular time. Odysseus might have replied, “It was nothing. In fact, it was less than nothing. Negative five years I dwelt with Calypso. How else could I have arrived home after only ten years? If you don’t believe me, ask her.”

Quantum particles, it turns out, are just as wily as Odysseus, as we have shown in an experiment published in Physical Review Letters. Not only can their arrival time suggest that they dwelt with other particles for a negative amount of time, but if one asks those other particles, they will corroborate the story.

Photons dwelling with atoms

Our experiment used photons – quantum particles of light – and the against-the-odds journey they must undertake to pass straight through a cloud of rubidium atoms.

These atoms have a “resonance” with the photons, meaning the energy of the photon can be transferred temporarily to the atoms as an atomic excitation. This allows the photon to “dwell” in the atomic cloud for a time before being released.

For this resonance to be effective, the photon must have a well-defined energy, matching the amount of energy required to put a rubidium atom into an excited state.

But, by a form of Heisenberg’s famous uncertainty principle, if the energy of the photon is well defined then its timing must be uncertain: the pulse of light the photon occupies must have a long duration. This means we can’t know exactly when the photon enters the cloud, but we can know on average when it enters.

If a photon like this is fired into the cloud, the most likely outcome is that its energy will be transferred to the atoms, and then re-emitted as a photon travelling in a random direction. In such cases, the photon is scattered, and fails to arrive at its Ithaca.

Photon arrival times

But if the photon does make it straight through, a strange thing happens. Based on the average time when the photon enters the cloud, one can calculate the expected average time it would arrive at the far side of the cloud, assuming it travels at the speed of light (as photons usually do).

What one finds is that the photon actually arrives far earlier than that. In fact, it arrives so early it appears to have spent a negative amount of time inside the cloud – to exit, on average, before it enters.

This effect has been known for decades and was observed in a 1993 experiment. But physicists had mostly decided not to take this negative time seriously.

That’s because it can be explained by saying that only the very front of the long-duration pulse makes it straight through the atomic cloud, while the rest is scattered. This leads to a successful (non-scattered) photon arriving earlier than would be naively expected.

Asking the atoms

However, Aephraim Steinberg, one of the authors of that 1993 paper, was not so quick to accept this dismissal of the negative time as an artefact. In his laboratory at the University of Toronto, he wanted to find out what happened if one queried the rubidium atoms in the cloud to find out how long the photon had spent dwelling among them as an excitation. After an initial experiment with inconclusive results, he asked me, as a quantum theorist, for help in working out what to expect.

When we talk of querying the atoms, what this means in practice is continuously making a measurement on the atoms while the photon is passing through the cloud, to probe whether the photon’s energy is currently dwelling there. But there is a subtlety here: measurements in quantum physics inevitably disturb the system being measured.

If we were to make a precise measurement of whether the photon is dwelling in the atoms, at each instant of time, we would prevent the atoms from interacting with the photon. It is as if, merely by watching Calypso closely, we would stop her getting her hands on Odysseus (or vice versa). This is the well known quantum Zeno effect, which would destroy the very phenomenon we want to study.

Our experiment

The solution is to make, instead, a very imprecise (but still very accurately calibrated) measurement. That is the price paid to keep the disturbance negligible. Specifically, we fired a weak laser beam – unrelated to the single photon pulse – through the cloud of atoms, and measured small changes in the phase of the beam’s light to probe whether the atoms were excited.

Any single run of the experiment gives only a very rough indication of whether the photon dwelt in the atoms, but averaging millions of runs yields an accurate dwell time.

Amazingly, the result of this weak measurement of dwell time, when the photon goes straight through the cloud, exactly equals the negative time suggested by the photons’ average arrival time. Prior to our work, no-one suspected that these two times, measured in entirely different ways, would be equal.

Crucially, the negative value of the weakly measured dwell time cannot be explained by imagining that only the front of the photon’s pulse gets through, unlike the time inferred from the arrival time.

So what does this all mean? Is a time machine just around the corner?

Sadly, no. Our experiment is fully explained by standard physics.

But it does show that negative dwell time is not an artefact. However paradoxical it may seem, it has a directly measurable effect on the atomic cloud that the photon traverses. And it reminds us that there are still lands to discover on the odyssey that is quantum research.

Howard Wiseman, Director, Centre for Quantum Dynamics, Griffith University

This article is republished from The Conversation under a Creative Commons license. Read the original article.

Curious Kids is a series for children of all ages. If you have a question you’d like an expert to answer, send it to CuriousKidsUS@theconversation.com.

Is the science that we do today truth, likely to be a lie, or is it undetermined? – Nathaniel K., age 15, Hamilton, Ohio

For most students, science is something you study and something you have to learn. I remember when I was in school, adults were always asking me things like “Do you like math?” and “Do you like science?” It’s almost like asking someone if they like spinach or broccoli.

In reality, science is not really a specific thing to like or hate, or something to believe in or not. Science is an activity. As one famous scientist put it, “Science is what scientists do.” It’s a way of working, a way to get things done.

So, then, what is it that scientists do? As a historian of science and medicine, I’ve studied how scientists try to understand the rules that govern things in the universe. For example, what makes the Moon orbit the Earth? How do clouds produce rain? How do people catch a cold? To answer questions like these, they do three things: They observe, they experiment and they analyze.

The process of science

All scientists carefully observe the subjects they are studying. Take the case of Charles Darwin and his theory of evolution by natural selection. Darwin traveled the world collecting specimens of plants, animals and fossils to figure out how they came by their different features.

He soon came up with an idea: Maybe certain species in an area look the way they do because they have characteristics that are best adapted to the environment they live in, and they are passing these on to their offspring. Darwin kept testing out this idea everywhere he went, and in the end his theory seemed to work. Ever since, scientists have conducted countless studies that affirm his theory.

Many scientists take observation a step further by performing experiments. In an experiment, the scientist might use a laboratory and special instruments to modify something they’re studying and look at the effects of the change. Their aim is either to test a theory or to see whether certain changes occur regularly.

A good example of this process can be seen in the experiments conducted by Ivan Pavlov in the 1890s with dogs. By introducing a sound right before a dog would be fed, Pavlov found the dog would start reacting to the sound the very same way it reacted to a bowl of food. For Pavlov, this demonstrated that animals learned through a process of association, or “conditioning.”

Finally, scientists are constantly analyzing the results of their observations and experiments. Scientists use measurements, logic and math to consider what their findings mean. But it’s often not clear what the findings mean, and so the investigators end up having to make more observations, conduct more experiments and rethink their methods and guesses.

Reporting the findings

The analysis process doesn’t stop there. Scientists show the results of their work to others, who, in turn, are invited to weigh in on whether they did a good job answering their research question. The criticism can be pretty intense at times. In most cases, this practice includes telling other scientists who work in the same field about what they did and what they found by giving presentations at conferences.

Scientists also have to submit their work for more evaluation if they hope to get money to support their research. After that, they go through even more evaluation when they try to publish the findings of their research in professional magazines called journals.

In both cases, scientists undergo a process called peer review, during which other scientists who study similar topics are asked to basically grade the quality of the researcher’s work and provide both negative and positive feedback.

If reviewers decide the study is not good enough, the researcher won’t get funding or their study published.

Is science truth?

The work of a scientist isn’t just observing something out in the world. Scientists must invite other experts to weigh in on what is right and wrong about their methods and ideas. As a result, every scientist has to be ready to rethink what they have been doing and believing.

Through this process, scientists work at getting closer and closer to the truth. New observations and new experiments may support or disprove earlier ones, or they might open up a whole new set of questions to answer.

The scientific results of today aren’t the whole truth, but they are the closest we can come to it right now. And as scientists today and in the future keep working, they seek to bring the whole truth more and more into focus.

When you see science as something people do to reach the truth, you realize it’s a way of working, whose strength comes from scientists being open to changing their approaches and conclusions.

Hello, curious kids! Do you have a question you’d like an expert to answer? Ask an adult to send your question to CuriousKidsUS@theconversation.com. Please tell us your name, age and the city where you live.

And since curiosity has no age limit – adults, let us know what you’re wondering, too. We won’t be able to answer every question, but we will do our best.

Greg Eghigian, Professor of History, Penn State

This article is republished from The Conversation under a Creative Commons license. Read the original article.

What’s the point of play? Is it simply a way to keep children occupied, or something more? For some, it’s about learning literacy and numeracy. For others, it’s how friendships form and relationships deepen. But it can be all of these at once, and more.

Most parents recognise that play matters. But there’s less agreement on what kind of play is best. Should children be guided towards activities designed to build specific skills, like sports for coordination, or construction for maths and engineering? Or should the child’s own interests lead the way, regardless of perceived educational value?

Our research focuses on a type of play often dismissed as “just for fun” – playing with dolls. Across a series of studies, we found that doll play can help children understand other people’s thoughts and feelings. This is a skill that underpins social interaction throughout life.

There is pressure on parents to create the “right” environment for development, often filled with toys that promise clear educational outcomes. STEM-focused toys (science, technology, engineering and maths), in particular, are widely seen as beneficial for learning. Doll play, on the other hand, can be viewed as having little educational benefit.

Our findings challenge that assumption.

More than make-believe

When playing with dolls, children often play out scenes between characters. These may seem simple on the surface but could present opportunities for the child to develop social and emotional skills.

As parents, it seems obvious that playmates are important for building and learning about relationships and other people, and recognising others’ emotions (empathy). But what if children can develop these skills even when playing alone?

Previous studies have found that children who engage more in pretend play tend to have stronger social understanding and empathy. Earlier studies, however, didn’t often use controlled methods to separate out the different factors linking pretend play and social understanding.

So, we set out to test this more directly. We worked with children aged four to eight, assessing their ability to understand that others can hold different beliefs and desires to their own. This is an important milestone in social development. If children recognise that their own mental states may vary from others, this should help them better understand other people and know how to interact with them.

After that initial assessment session, children were randomly assigned either a set of dolls or a tablet with open-ended creative games. They were asked to play several times a week, with parents logging how and when play occurred. We didn’t instruct children how to play because we wanted to understand their natural behaviour.

After approximately six weeks, both sets of children came back and again completed the task about understanding others’ mental states. We found that the children who had been assigned dolls to play with, rather than tablets, showed a greater improvement in their understanding of others’ mental states during the intervening period.

The findings suggest that doll play can actively support the development of social understanding. This is consistent with prior research of ours showing that areas of the brain linked to social processing are activated during doll play, and that children use more language about thoughts and feelings when playing with dolls than when using tablets.

Why it matters beyond childhood

For parents, the message is reassuring – playing with dolls lets children practice skills that they can also use when playing with playmates, like understanding others, anticipating behaviour and responding appropriately.

These abilities matter far beyond childhood. They help us collaborate, resolve conflicts and navigate relationships. In a world that often feels increasingly divided, the capacity to see things from another person’s perspective is not just useful – it’s essential.

Sarah Gerson, Lecturer in Developmental & Health Psychology, Cardiff University; Ross E Vanderwert, Lecturer in Neuroscience, Cardiff University, and Salim Hashmi, Lecturer in Psychology, King's College London

This article is republished from The Conversation under a Creative Commons license. Read the original article.

At the time of the dinosaurs, the oceans were teeming with life. Below the waves, giant marine reptiles, such as the fearsome 4m (13ft) long mosasaurs, were the undisputed apex predators.

In artistic reconstructions of these ancient oceans, cephalopods – the animal group that includes squid, cuttlefish, octopuses, and their ancestors – are almost always portrayed as prey, often seen desperately swimming away from the jaws of a marine reptile to avoid becoming lunch.

However, a remarkable new fossil suggests our view of the ancient oceans is incomplete, and that giant octopuses, perhaps reaching as long as 19m (62ft), may have been the ones doing the hunting.

The fossil in question is a giant octopus jaw, belonging to a new species called Nanaimoteuthis haggarti. It is found in Late Cretaceous rocks of Japan, making it between 100 million and 72 million years old.

Like other cephalopods, octopuses have a hard beak that looks like a parrot’s bill, used to bite and tear prey, and this fossil example is enormous – larger than that of the famous giant squid Architeuthis.

Based on the shape and size of the beak, Shin Ikegami, from Hokkaido University, Japan, and colleagues, identify it as belonging to the Cirrata, a group of finned octopuses still found today in the deepest oceans. They estimate that the animal may have reached between seven and 19 metres in length. Details have been published in the journal Science.

If that upper estimate is even close to correct, Nanaimoteuthis, would represent the largest invertebrate yet described from the fossil record — an animal rivalling the largest marine reptiles in scale.

The authors also use the wear and damage on the octopus beak as indicators of ancient behaviour. Scratches and pits on the surface point to an animal hunting and crushing prey with bones or shells, not scavenging or feeding on soft-bodied organisms.

Additionally, the wear pattern is asymmetric, interpreted by the authors as evidence of a preference for chewing on one side over the other, a trait associated with higher cognitive function.

Far from being food, Nanaimoteuthis may have been one of the most formidable predators in its ecosystem, in an era we have long assumed was defined by vertebrate dominance.

That such a claim can be made at all is remarkable, because cephalopods almost never leave any trace in the fossil record. Unlike fish, marine reptiles, or even ammonites, most cephalopods have no hard parts like bones.

Octopuses, in particular, are almost entirely “skin bags” filled with water. When they die, they rot quickly, and even the few hard parts, such as the beak, are seldom preserved.

This creates a systematic bias that skews our understanding of ancient ecosystems: animals that preserve well dominate our reconstructions, and the animals that don’t, even if they were common among certain ancient ecosystems, are largely invisible to us.

Every fossil cephalopod, therefore, represents a vital piece of palaeontological information, giving us a fleeting glimpse into a lost world of squishy invertebrates.

But not all cephalopodologists are convinced by the size estimate, with the potential length of 19m in particular drawing scrutiny on social media.

Scaling cephalopod body sizes from beaks is not straightforward. The relationship between jaw dimensions and total body size varies considerably across cephalopod species, a problem compounded by the patchy data available for rarely caught deep-water cirrate octopuses.

Other researchers have also questioned the behavioural inferences drawn from the wear patterns, arguing that bite asymmetry can be caused by many factors, and that drawing conclusions about animal intelligence from a single specimen is premature.

It is also important to put this finding into context of the living relatives of Nanaimoteuthis. Modern cirrate octopuses are not known to swim after prey, typically hunting small invertebrates on the seafloor, raising questions about whether their giant ancient cousins would ever have encountered, let alone challenged, the formidable marine reptiles.

But step back from the debate over metres and scaling equations, and something fundamental comes into view. Our reconstructions of ancient ecosystems are shaped by what preserves (bones, shells, teeth) and often systematically blind to what doesn’t.

While future investigations may test the size estimate or refine behavioural interpretations, this remarkable fossil shows that there may have been giants lurking in the vast, deep, and dark waters of the ancient oceans. We just couldn’t see them until now.

Thomas Clements, Lecturer, University of Reading

This article is republished from The Conversation under a Creative Commons license. Read the original article.

In the 1990s, Melissa Auf der Maur played bass in two of the decade’s most notable rock bands: Hole and Smashing Pumpkins.

Her new book, Even the Good Girls Will Cry: My 90s Rock Memoir, documents this wild chapter in her life, as she navigates the heightened emotions and destructive excesses of Courtney Love and learns to wrangle the controlling influence of Billy Corgan (of Smashing Pumpkins).

Ten years earlier, Kim Gordon’s career began during New York’s post-punk era. Her book, Girl In A Band (2015), recently re-released as a tenth anniversary edition, chronicles her time with Sonic Youth, and charts her role within an alternative scene that shaped and influenced independent music culture across the United States.

By the early 1990s, she was something of a godmother figure for Auf der Maur’s generation of women.

Review: Even the Good Girls Will Cry: My 90s Rock Memoir – Melissa Auf Der Maur (Atlantic); Girl in a Band – Kim Gordon (Faber)

Introverted individuals with distinct perspectives on the peculiar challenges of the rock industry, Gordon and Auf der Maur appear to have benefited from a stability missing in many of their peers.

As bass players, they avoided the spotlight until embarking on their solo projects. And with backgrounds in the visual arts, they each had access to independent creative identities away from the stage, which no doubt minimised the pitfalls of rock stardom.

As a music journalist throughout the 1990s, I interviewed many of the people in their stories, including Courtney Love, Billy Corgan, Dave Grohl, Thurston Moore and Kurt Cobain. I witnessed their complex politics and fierce power plays, some still ongoing.

Once or twice, I was personally impacted.

For example, a very high profile singer tried to persuade other women not to speak to me for my first book because my magazine profile of her was badly altered by a male editor. Another musician blamed me for publishing personal details in an interview after I’d given her full copy approval.

It was, as Auf der Maur says, a time of “messy humanity”, low-level trust, and delicate egos.

It was also, as she points out, the last analogue decade: a time before the music scene was transformed by the internet, when rock culture appeared to be finally embracing powerful women and female agency. But in my experience, and as each of these books reveals, it was never that straightforward.

Musical callings and romantic dreams

An artistic free spirit raised in Montreal by unorthodox, creative parents, Melissa Auf der Maur first saw Hole and Smashing Pumpkins within a fortnight of each other in July 1991. Both bands played at the legendary punk club, Les Foufounes Électriques, where she worked part-time while studying photography.

More impressed by Hole’s calm, centred bassist, Jill Emery, than the band’s infamous, volatile frontwoman, Auf der Maur was truly starstruck by Corgan. She introduced herself to him after he was bottled on stage by her roommate. Watching him play, she experienced a “new musical calling”. Four months later, she travelled to a Pumpkins show in Vermont and spent the night “soul fucking” him in his motel room.

“I am you and you are me,” she remembers Corgan saying to her, in what sounds like a rock-starry show of narcissism towards an impressionable fan. But for Auf der Maur, who occasionally veers into grandiose claims, the encounter was a “romantic dream come true” and “a turning point […] musically, personally and cosmically”.

More tellingly perhaps, though she describes Corgan as eventually exerting “more influence on my life than anyone other than my parents”, Auf der Maur didn’t question his patriarchal power dynamic for many years – despite being in one of rock’s most notorious female-fronted bands.

But Corgan’s hold extended to his former girlfriend, Courtney Love, long after she left him for Kurt Cobain. When Hole’s second bassist, Kristen Pfaff, died from an overdose, it was Corgan who decided Auf der Maur should be the replacement.

The Hole drama

Life in Hole was nothing if not dramatic – and Auf der Maur’s account harbours no illusions about the difficulty of working with a grieving, traumatised widow.

But her empathy and compassion keep her story from collapsing into the critical terrain so often provoked by the outspoken, uncontained Love who attracted considerable vitriol, particularly after becoming involved with Kurt Cobain.

Auf der Maur is also more forgiving than drummer Patty Schemel, who paints a harsher picture of the ambitious, tempestuous singer in her brilliant memoir, Hit So Hard. But she was very aware of her marginalised position as Love’s “good girl” in the autocratic Hole. She had no artistic freedom in the band and eventually grew frustrated with her unfulfilling situation.

After five years in Love’s orbit, Auf der Maur wanted out. By 1998, the singer’s Hollywood film career had catapulted her into a different stratosphere of celebrity culture, further widening the existing chasm between her and her band members.

And the glamour and excitement of big festival billings and hit records were not enough to prevent the bass player from feeling ultimately “disillusioned and disconnected”.

Her decision to quit was compounded when she fell in love with ex-Nirvana drummer Dave Grohl, now with the Foo Fighters. His long-running rift with Love had previously made him “off-limits”.

But before she was released from her restrictive contract with Hole, Corgan was back in touch, asking her to replace D’arcy Wretzky in Smashing Pumpkins for a year of intensive touring. Wretzky’s sudden departure is glossed over in the book as a “touchy subject”, though she played with the Pumpkins for 11 years, and was reputedly a friend of Auf der Maur.

I remember Wretzky as a quietly intelligent individual with a striking stage presence, but Corgan’s domineering personality and punishing work ethic apparently proved too much for her.

And Auf der Maur makes no secret of Corgan’s ruthlessness. At her first rehearsal, he issued her with three rules: “One, you can’t make a mistake. Two, you can’t get sick. And three, there are no days off.”

Away from Grohl, who was also on the road with his band, she was bound to a gruelling schedule at the hands of a man she now saw as a moody overachiever. In response, she began to change her perspective.

Corgan’s partner at the time was the gifted photographer Yelena Yemchuk, who, Auf der Maur notes, had become “a bit of a kept woman”. Knowing Grohl wanted marriage and children, she witnessed Yemchuk with “her beautiful talent trapped in the bell jar of Billy’s world” with growing alarm.

As the two women became close, together they realised they needed to “step out of the shadows of these bigger, more successful men” and forge their own paths.

With the culmination of the Pumpkins world tour in 2001, Auf der Maur was 29 and finally ready for a new direction. She left her relationship with Grohl and turned down Corgan’s invitation to collaborate on a new project. She finishes her book with a glimpse into her next chapter: motherhood, and a grounded life of artistic ventures in upstate New York.

It’s more of a beginning than an end.

Feminism and challenges with men

The first time I interviewed Kim Gordon was over the phone in 1990. At the time, she was the bass player with Sonic Youth, the seminal no wave band she co-founded with her husband, singer/guitarist Thurston Moore, in 1981. Hinting at what I suspected was sometimes a lonely situation, she told me that while the band’s relationship was essentially a beautiful one, her male colleagues could be “so non-communicative”.

Three years later, I had a second, longer conversation with Gordon in her New York apartment for my aforementioned book, during which she elaborated on her original theme. Being in a band with men could be challenging, she said, because “there are some really boring aspects to it” and “no matter how much of a new man someone thinks they are, they’re just not!”

Gordon’s experience is summed up by both the content and title of her acclaimed memoir. With a new foreword by her friend, celebrated American writer, Rachel Kushner, and an additional closing chapter where Gordon reflects on the intervening decade, the latest version of the book is testament to its ongoing relevance for feminism, popular culture and music history.

Infused with the visceral, embodied sensuality of her artistic perspective, Gordon’s memoir details her upbringing in Los Angeles with her schizophrenic brother, Keller, whose moods clouded her early life, and whose death in 2023, aged 74, she recounts in the new edition.

It charts her pivotal move to New York as a 27-year-old in 1980, her involvement with the city’s post punk arts and music scene, her relationship with Moore and their resulting career with Sonic Youth.

Crucially, it details her influence in the Riot Grrrl movement, and her side projects, Free Kitten, with best friend Julie Cafritz, and fashion label, X-Girl, with Daisy von Furth, all of which afforded her the female companionship she lacked in Sonic Youth.

‘Painfully protracted’ marriage breakdown

It also tells the more universal story of a painfully protracted marriage breakdown and a couple’s failed attempts to save their relationship, following Gordon’s discovery of Moore’s affair. The book refrains from specifying dates, but by the time she found out through texts and emails, her husband had been unfaithful for several years.

The woman in question, who is not named in the book, was Eva Prinz, who became Moore’s second wife in 2020. At the time of the affair, Prinz was married to her second husband. She had previously been involved with one of Sonic Youth’s collaborators.

An editor for an independent publisher, she had initially approached Gordon about a potential book project in the early 2000s, but Gordon had passed it onto Moore, with fateful consequences.

Sickened by Moore’s long-concealed infidelity with someone well known to their inner circle, Gordon was left to navigate the devastating impact on her family, her career and her sense of self. Given the pivotal nature of this episode, it seems fitting that she starts her story here, at the end of a significant personal and professional era, with Sonic Youth’s final performance in 2011.

According to Gordon, this last appearance in Sao Paulo, Brazil “was all about the boys”. Struggling to hide her misery, anxiety and anger on stage, while her ex regressed into an adolescent display of “rock star showboating”, she was tempted to verbalise her fury on stage. But she didn’t want to follow the unboundaried example of Courtney Love, who was then ranting and raving her way around South America on tour with Hole.

“I would never want to be seen as the car crash she is,” writes Gordon. “I didn’t want our last concert to be distasteful when Sonic Youth meant so much to so many people; I didn’t want to use the stage for any kind of personal statement, and what good would it have done anyway?”

Distance as power

Gordon is highly adept at balancing between strong emotion and careful restraint. Throughout her book, she considers herself honestly, but thoughtfully. She conveys a quiet self-possession and enigmatic presence, writing as she speaks: with intelligence and a guarded openness. It’s how I remember her: warm enough to gift me a pair of John Fluevog sandals straight from her own closet, yet somehow always slightly removed. As Kushner says in her introduction to the memoir, “distance is the power of her performance”.

Now 72, Kim Gordon has been a touring musician for almost 40 years. Having made multiple forays into the worlds of fashion, art and film, since Sonic Youth she has launched two experimental bands with male collaborators, Body/Head and Glitterbust, been nominated for two Grammy awards, and released three highly acclaimed solo albums as a formidable frontwoman with an all-girl band.

These days, Gordon performs as if her life depends on it. With her second chapter well underway, she’s on fire – and cooler than ever. Let’s hope a second memoir is in the works.

Liz Evans, Adjunct Researcher, English and Writing, University of Tasmania

This article is republished from The Conversation under a Creative Commons license. Read the original article.

Most people know about “good” and “bad” cholesterol. But few realise there is another type called lipoprotein(a). It can raise the risk of heart attacks and strokes, even in people who do everything right.

This lesser-known cholesterol particle, often written as Lp(a), is gaining increasing attention from researchers and drug companies.

Lp(a) isn’t included in routine cholesterol tests and there’s currently little we can do about it. That may now be changing.

What is lipoprotein(a)?

Lipoprotein(a) is a cholesterol that carries lipoprotein – particles made of fats and proteins – in your blood. It’s structurally similar to LDL (low-density lipoprotein, or “bad” cholesterol), but with an additional protein attached called apolipoprotein(a).

This extra protein component seems to make Lp(a) more likely to contribute to the build-up of fatty deposits in arteries. It may also promote blood clotting. Together, these processes increase the likelihood of cardiovascular disease (heart disease and stroke).

Large-scale studies and international guidelines now recognise Lp(a) as a risk factor for heart disease and stroke.

What determines your Lp(a) levels?

Unlike most other cholesterol measures, Lp(a) is largely determined by genetics.

Around 70-90% of variation in Lp(a) levels is inherited. This is driven mainly by differences in the LPA gene, which controls the structure of apolipoprotein(a).

Because of this strong genetic control, Lp(a) levels are usually set early in life and remain relatively stable over time, with little influence from diet, exercise or body weight.

There are some smaller influences. Levels can vary by sex, ethnicity and hormonal changes, and may be slightly affected by factors such as menopause or kidney disease.

How does it affect your risk?

A growing body of research shows higher Lp(a) levels are associated with an increased risk of heart attacks, strokes and aortic valve disease.

Importantly, the relationship appears continuous. In long-term studies, cardiovascular risk rises step by step as Lp(a) levels increase.

Lp(a) also adds to overall risk. For example, someone with high LDL cholesterol and high Lp(a) is likely to be at higher risk than someone with elevated LDL cholesterol alone.

For people with higher Lp(a) levels, cardiovascular risk rises mainly when inflammation is elevated.

This helps explain why some people develop cardiovascular disease despite otherwise favourable risk profiles.

Can you lower lipoprotein(a)?

There are currently few options to lower Lp(a).

Lifestyle changes that improve heart health, such as eating well, being physically active and not smoking, remain essential. But they have minimal effect on Lp(a) itself.

Most commonly used cholesterol-lowering medications, including statins, do not reduce Lp(a). In some cases, statins may even increase Lp(a) slightly. Despite this, statins still reduce overall cardiovascular risk and remain a cornerstone of treatment.

Some newer drugs, such as PCSK9 inhibitors, can lower Lp(a), but typically only by a modest amount of around 15–30%.

Several drug companies, including Novartis, Amgen and Eli Lilly, are racing to develop treatments that specifically lower Lp(a). These new medicines work very differently from statins. Instead of helping the body clear cholesterol from the blood, they use a “gene silencing” approach that reduces how much Lp(a) the liver makes in the first place.

This means it switches off production of cholesterol rather than trying to remove what is already there.

In early clinical trials, these drugs have lowered Lp(a) levels by 80–90%, far more than existing treatments. This is why Lp(a) is suddenly getting attention.

If upcoming trials show these large reductions also lead to fewer heart attacks and strokes, it could change how cardiovascular risk is assessed and treated, especially for people whose risk is driven largely by genetics rather than lifestyle.

Should you get tested?

Lp(a) is not included in standard cholesterol tests. A specific blood test is required.

Medicare doesn’t cover these blood tests, so if your doctor orders one you’ll have to pay out of pocket – around A$25 to $80 – plus any costs associated with the consultation.

International guidelines now recommend measuring Lp(a) at least once in adulthood, particularly for people with a family history of early heart disease or unexplained cardiovascular risk.

Because levels are largely genetically determined and stable, a single measurement is often considered sufficient for most people.

What should you focus on?

Learning you have high Lp(a) can feel frustrating, especially given the limited options to lower it directly.

But it’s important to see Lp(a) as one part of your overall cardiovascular risk.

There are still many factors you can influence to lower your overall risk, and particularly your LDL cholesterol. These include:

• LDL (bad) cholesterol
• blood pressure
• smoking
• physical activity
• diet quality
• managing conditions such as diabetes

For people with elevated Lp(a), managing these factors may be even more important.

What happens next?

Research into Lp(a) is moving quickly. If current clinical trials show targeted therapies reduce cardiovascular events, testing and treatment may become more common.

For now, awareness is an important first step.

If you are concerned about your cardiovascular risk, it may be worth discussing Lp(a) testing with your doctor, especially if you have a strong family history of heart disease.

At the same time, the broader message to maximise heart health through healthy behaviours remains unchanged. Even as new risk factors emerge, the foundations of good heart health are still the things we can control.

Lauren Ball, Professor of Community Health and Wellbeing, The University of Queensland and Kirsten Adlard, Honorary Research Fellow, The University of Queensland

This article is republished from The Conversation under a Creative Commons license. Read the original article.

Loneliness is something most of us will experience at some point. It is a normal emotion, not a character flaw. But it is also something that can quietly affect how we think and remember, and researchers have long debated whether it might even raise the risk of dementia.

A new study, published in Aging and Mental Health, suggests the picture is more complicated than either side of that debate has allowed for.

First, it is worth being clear about what dementia actually is. It is not a single diagnosis but an umbrella term covering a range of conditions – the most familiar being Alzheimer’s disease – that cause memory loss, confusion, difficulties with language and a gradual loss of independence.

Cognitive decline, meaning a general slowing or weakening of mental function, is not the same thing. The two terms are often used interchangeably, but they should not be: you can experience cognitive decline without ever developing dementia.

We do not fully understand what causes Alzheimer’s. We know that a healthy lifestyle lowers the risk, but it is no guarantee. Plenty of people who have done everything right still develop it. The disease is shaped by genetics, ageing and biological factors we are still working to understand.

The new study followed just over 10,000 adults aged between 65 and 94 over six years. All were in good health at the outset, fully independent and free of dementia. Researchers tracked their memory over that period and asked whether loneliness played a role in how it changed.

The answer was nuanced. Loneliness did appear to contribute to memory difficulties – but there was no evidence that it led to dementia itself. That is an important distinction. Memory problems and dementia are not the same thing, and conflating them causes unnecessary alarm. This distinction is crucial, and while the researchers did not conflate the two, this nuance is often lost in interpretation.

Not the whole story

It is also worth noting that loneliness rarely travels alone. Many participants in the study also had diabetes, high blood pressure, depression or low levels of physical activity – all of which affect the brain independently. Diabetes, for instance, can interfere with how the brain processes glucose, the fuel it runs on, which in turn affects memory. Depression has a similar effect. Unpicking loneliness from these other factors is genuinely difficult, and the study does not fully resolve that problem.

One finding that stood out was the high rate of loneliness reported in southern Europe – a region often assumed to have strong social networks. It is a reminder that loneliness is subjective. Feeling lonely is not simply about how many people surround you – it is about how connected you feel to them.

There is also a methodological limitation worth noting. The study treated loneliness as a fixed state, when in reality it shifts – sometimes day to day – across the whole of a life. A single snapshot cannot capture that.

The broader research on loneliness and cognitive decline remains genuinely mixed, and this study does not settle it. What it does suggest, usefully, is that health services might benefit from screening for loneliness alongside routine cognitive testing: treating social connection as part of preventative medicine rather than a soft concern left to one side.

And there is reason for optimism. The brain is resilient. Research suggests that memory difficulties linked to loneliness can improve once that loneliness lifts and that staying socially active may boost cognitive performance more broadly. Loneliness, on its own, is unlikely to be the deciding factor in whether someone develops dementia.

Ivana Babicova, Senior Lecturer, Psychology, Birmingham City University

This article is republished from The Conversation under a Creative Commons license. Read the original article.

The consumer watchdog’s Federal Court case against Woolworths over its “prices dropped” promotions is underway and will run into next week.

This – and a separate court action against Coles – are crucial legal cases, with the potential for hundreds of millions of dollars in fines.

Around two-thirds of all Australian supermarket sales are made at Woolworths or Coles. So most Australians are likely to have seen some of the disputed “discounts” being fought over in these cases.

Together, these cases will decide the line between unlawful trickery versus legitimate marketing tactics in how every retailer sells products to Australians.

‘Illusory’ or real discounts?

If you followed the Coles “down down” discounts trial in February, the underlying complaint in the current Woolworths case will feel familiar.

The Australian Competition and Consumer Commission (ACCC) alleges both supermarket giants misled shoppers over discounts on hundreds of items.

Interestingly, day one of the Woolworths case on Monday suggests the ACCC intends to run this court case a little differently. Instead of spending time on what the supermarket’s strategy was, as in the Coles case, the ACCC cut straight to its core argument about misleading consumers.

The current Woolworths case is focused on a bundle of 12 everyday products, selected from a longer list of 266 raised by the ACCC. Those products include Tim Tams and Tiny Teddy biscuits, Fab laundry powder and Kleenex Aloe Vera tissues.

The ACCC argues that after these products had been at a stable price for at least 180 days or more (excluding short fluctuations), Woolworths temporarily raised the price for 45 days (or less) by at least 15%.

Then it dropped the price below the recently raised price and labelled it as “prices dropped” – even though that cost was more, or at least as much, as the previous long-running price.

The ACCC calls those marketed discounts “illusory”.

Woolworths denies this, arguing its “prices dropped” labels were literally true: the price of a pack of Oreos biscuits really was $5 the month before, before it was “dropped” to $4.50.

The ACCC has pointed out those Oreos cost $3.50 before the price rise.

In court on Monday, Woolworths’ barrister Robert Yezerski SC focused on the supermarket’s defence that rising costs had forced up prices – and Australian shoppers recognised that: “They know what is happening in the economy, and they are indeed expecting prices to rise.”

So the Federal Court will have to decide whether an average supermarket shopper thought Woolworths’ “prices dropped” discount ticket meant dropped from a long-term price, or dropped from an always fluctuating price.

What if the supermarkets win?

Closing its court case in February, Coles said the ACCC hadn’t provided any evidence to prove “ordinary reasonable consumers” had understood its “down down” discounts meant the new price was lower than a past “regular” price (as opposed to the most recent past price).

If the Federal Court accepts the supermarkets’ arguments that consumers expected prices to change because of inflation, and that their discount tickets were strictly true, it would be significant.

It would send a message that while marketing has to be factually correct, consumers should understand that prices always fluctuate, so promoted discounts are just a point-in-time price.

In other words, shoppers would need to keep a closer eye on prices day to day.

Huge fines if the ACCC wins

An ACCC win would mean every major Australian retailer – not just supermarkets – needed to review their discount strategies.

It would mean Australian Consumer Law applied more strictly in future, ensuring the whole impression presented by a discount ticket was accurate.

The loss would also be backed up by considerable penalties, possibly reaching hundreds of millions of dollars for each supermarket.

The supermarkets’ alleged contraventions took place in 2021–22. During that time, penalties under Australian Consumer Law rose from a maximum of A$10 million per contravention, to the greater of $50 million, three times the benefit obtained, or 30% of adjusted turnover during the breach period per contravention – for every product and every promotion.

The ACCC has made clear it is seeking a “significant penalty” if it wins, plus community service orders funding meal-delivery charities.

Whichever way this judgment lands, two class actions representing consumers are already waiting in the wings.

Setting rules for truth in advertising

A decade ago, the ACCC took on both supermarkets over allegations of unconscionable treatment of suppliers. Coles settled its case and paid a penalty of $10 million. But Woolworths went to court and won; its conduct was deemed “not unconscionable”.

Despite those different outcomes, the court cases did have an impact. They led to the introduction of a binding Food and Grocery Code of Conduct, which came into effect in 2025. It aims to promote good faith bargaining by supermarkets and protect suppliers if they insist on their legal rights.

There is no date yet for when we’ll have the judgments on the Woolworths and Coles cases, both being heard by Justice Michael O'Bryan.

His judgments will effectively set the rules for what “truth in advertising” means for every retailer in the country in the future.

Jeannie Marie Paterson, Professor of Law (consumer protections and credit law), The University of Melbourne

This article is republished from The Conversation under a Creative Commons license. Read the original article.

Most of our food travels many thousands of kilometres across Australia to reach our kitchens. We are highly dependent on a vast web of long-haul trucks to move food between growers, massive food distribution hubs and large supermarkets.

Of course, trucks need fuel – and lots of it. As war in the Middle East leads to diesel price spikes in Australia, food prices will rise too. Already, the National Farmers’ Federation has said it expects food prices will rise “within weeks”.

And as the COVID pandemic showed – where supermarket shelves were emptied after widespread panic buying – it’s not just war that can reveal weaknesses in a system too heavily reliant on available diesel and long supply chains. These problems are also laid bare when natural disasters strike, roads are cut off and trucks can’t get food to supermarkets.

Meanwhile, Australia’s current strategy of releasing fuel reserves may only end up delaying food price hikes, as the war in the Middle East plays out in unknown ways.

This shock to our food system is not the first, and it won’t be the last.

Focusing on band-aid solutions that prop up the current system undermines our long-term capacities for resilience. We need a plan B for when plan A – the current system – isn’t working.

We need a place-based approach

A place-based approach to food systems asks the question: what could work for our own local (or regional) area?

This approach normalises access to locally or regionally grown food, and acknowledges that what works in one area might not work in another.

Access to shorter food supply chains can include things such as policies to promote:

• smaller, regional produce processing and distribution hubs
• local abattoirs
• local canneries
• cultivation and protection of regional food bowls, rather than building housing on them
• direct food sales from cooperatives
• promoting school and home gardens.

Allowing people to participate in the system – or even co-produce food – helps build community resilience to economic shocks and access food beyond just supermarket shelves.

This could include things such as:

• joining a community-supported agriculture group, in which a community of people pledge money to buy produce from a farm before it’s harvested and offers certainty to local farmers
• buying what you can from farmer’s cooperatives and markets
• participating in a community food garden
• buying locally grown produce online, which has become easier in the wake of the pandemic
• participating in fruit and veggie box collectives.

A place-based approach also means focusing on what’s in season in your region and acknowledging that this means you might not, for instance, be able to get mangoes in autumn in southern Victoria.

Having a back-up plan

Governments need to encourage people to have a contingency for tough times, when the long supply chain supermarket system is disrupted.

For communities, this can mean asking yourself what’s your plan if you can’t get food from the supermarket. It might mean taking time to work out where the local suppliers are, what food is in season in your area, and how you can support local farming co-operatives.

Being able to access food reliably from local and regional places is common sense; it means we don’t have all our eggs in one basket.

For businesses, a more strategic approach to local procurement – by preferencing the purchase of locally produced food – means your business can stay open when the food supply chain system is under pressure.

Governments need a plan to shorten food supply chains

Shorter food supply chains means ensuring people can get food within, for example, a 400-kilometre radius. Federal, state and local governments have a role to play in finding policies to support this. This can include promoting and supporting things such as:

• farm gate sales and shops
• pick-your-own produce on farm sites
• community, school and home gardens, and
• purchasing groups.

One example, which I was involved in, was a local farm co-run by students with the Mini Farm Project, on school grounds at Loganlea State High School in Queensland. The students farmed food, donated food to local charities, and learned about self-sufficiency.

Governments obviously have a range of competing priorities. But smart policy-making means embedding access to place-based food initiatives across multiple policy areas, such as climate change, education, urban development and community-building projects.

A system that can withstand shocks

Sudden shocks – such as war, pandemics and severe weather events – reveal the folly of having a food supply chain so absolutely reliant on the price of crude oil.

A major part of our vulnerability to these shocks is our unquestioned and ongoing dependence on government to come in and prop up the system.

The federal government recently announced it would undertake national assessment of Australia’s food supply chains, which will “focus on diesel supply chains, and will then expand to other critical agricultural inputs, including crop protection products and fertilisers”.

This is a start but it fails to solve the problems sustainably.

Place-based approaches to food systems offers opportunities to change the dynamics around how we relate to our food.

Kimberley Reis, Senior Lecturer, School of Engineering and Built Environment, Griffith University, Griffith University

This article is republished from The Conversation under a Creative Commons license. Read the original article.

Raising children to have a good relationship with food and their bodies is one of the best ways to promote good self-esteem and protect them from developing disordered eating.

But this can be tricky if you struggle with eating and body image yourself. So, what should you aim for, and what should you avoid?

First, what is disordered eating?

Disordered eating describes a range of problematic behaviours and attitudes towards eating, weight and the body. It can include dieting, cutting out foods or food groups, skipping meals, fasting, binge eating or exercising excessively.

Not all disordered eating will lead to an eating disorder. But eating disorders are usually preceded by disordered eating, particularly dieting.

Concerns about eating and body image are common and can begin from a young age. Globally, 22% of children and adolescents engage in disordered eating, with higher rates among girls.

Lots of factors influence how kids feel about food and their body, including expectations from media, self-esteem and family attitudes.

Given children observe and model how parents talk about their bodies and food, it can help to model positive or neutral language and eating behaviours. Here are some tips.

4 things to avoid

1. Framing food as ‘good’ or ‘bad’

Don’t talk about dieting, weight loss and “good” or “bad” food, as this can make food a moral issue. For example, saying you’ve “been bad today” for eating something sweet, or “good” for sticking to your diet, can perpetuate shame and guilt around eating.

Instead, aim to talk about how different foods nourish our bodies, or how some foods taste good and are satisfying.

2. Commenting on other people’s bodies

Talking about other people’s bodies, weight or eating habits – whether they’re family, strangers or celebrities – can teach kids to compare and judge themselves against other people.

If your child does comment on another person’s body, you could respond by saying something like, “everyone is different. Some people are taller, shorter, have larger bodies, smaller bodies, and different skin colours”. Celebrating people of all shapes and body sizes can teach kids that weight isn’t a measure of worthiness.

3. Giving appearance-based compliments

When praising your child, focus on things that aren’t related to weight, appearance or eating. For example, “it was generous how you shared your toys today” or “I saw how hard you worked on your homework”.

And when you’re talking to a child you don’t know, an appearance-based compliment (“you look pretty”) may often come to mind first. Instead you might want to comment on their energy, humour, style or creativity (“I love your sense of style” or “you have such good energy”).

4. Criticising your own body

Being a positive body image role model for your children is important. Research shows hearing others criticise their own bodies can lead kids to engage in more negative self-talk about their own bodies. Changing the conversation from appearance to strength, health or function can help (“these arms let me hug you” or “my legs are strong for walking”).

3 things to try

1. Trust your kid knows how much they need

Although it can be difficult, try to trust that your child will eat as much or as little as they need. Children can mostly self-regulate to meet their bodies’ needs. So teaching your child to listen to their body’s physical cues – such as hunger and fullness – can help them build a positive relationship with food.

Parents often want their kids to eat all the food on their plate before they leave the table. But this can lead to struggles over food and teach children to ignore physical cues.

You can still make sure your kids sit until the mealtime is finished, without making it about eating itself.

It can also be reassuring to look at a child’s whole week of eating, rather than focusing on any particular meal or day (which can fluctuate in amount and nutritional value).

2. Find your own pleasure in eating

Eating a variety of foods yourself, and enjoying and appreciating food can provide important role modelling to your child.

If you struggle with your own body image or eating, this might require unlearning diet rules about when, what, and how much to eat. If you find this challenging it could be beneficial to seek professional help.

3. Aim for neutral

For many people, body positivity (“I feel good about my body”) might not be possible, so you might like to aim for body neutrality. This mindset means accepting and respecting your body just how it is.

Body neutrality can involve reframing thoughts and feelings about your body. For example, “I have put on weight” may become “my body is allowed to change”.

What to look out for

Understanding the signs of disordered eating can also be useful to recognise in your children. If you notice drastic changes in your child’s eating or weight, or have other concerns, it could be worth starting a conversation.

Talking about food and bodies can start at any age. Encourage open conversations and invite your child to share their feelings and thoughts about their body and weight.

If your child makes a negative comment about their body, eating, or weight, try to understand what might be driving it and listen without judgement.

And if you’re concerned, reaching out for support can be a crucial step for improving your kids physical and mental health. This could include your kids’ regular GP, or health professionals such as dietitians or psychologists who specialise in eating disorders.

Butterfly Foundation is Australia’s national eating disorder charity and helpline. For free and confidential support between 8am and midnight you can call 1800 334 673, chat online or send an email.

Courtney P. McLean, Research Fellow, School of Psychological Sciences, Monash University and Chelsea Arnold, Clinical Psychologist and Research Fellow (Lead Clinician), Monash University

This article is republished from The Conversation under a Creative Commons license. Read the original article.

Petrol. Groceries. Electricity. Rent. The cost-of-living crisis is squeezing household budgets from every direction, and private health insurance premiums have just joined the list.

From April 1, the average premium rose by 4.41%. Consumer group Choice notes average premiums for some gold cover policies have risen 7.89–25%.

Many people absorb these increases without question. Others may be tempted to cancel their policy.

But there is another option – negotiating a better deal with your insurance company.

Here’s what to think about before picking up the phone.

Why we just keep paying

Human behaviour explains why so many of us renew our health insurance policies without changing our cover or negotiating a better deal.

We’re so afraid of making the wrong change that this prevents us from taking action. Economists call this “loss aversion”. What this means in practice is we are psychologically fearful of removing items from our existing cover (even if we replace them with something else).

Health insurance policies are also complex documents we can struggle to understand. This contributes to what economists call “bounded rationality”. In other words, we choose what to do about our private health insurance based on simplified rules and not on deep analysis. This is especially the case when the topic feels complex and the stakes are high.

Then there are the multiple options available, often requiring significant legal and health literacy to make sense of. Research looking at elderly people suggests they would make better decisions if the policies contained fewer options to choose between.

So it’s no wonder we often settle for what is a “good enough” decision rather than what’s optimal. And once made, we rarely revisit this decision. Economists have a term for this too – “status quo bias”.

Why not just cancel?

If looking for a better deal – either with your existing health insurer or with another – sounds too hard it might be tempting to cancel your policy. Whether that makes financial sense depends on your age, health and income.

But cancelling can come with several stings.

If you cancel hospital cover, you may face the Medicare Levy Surcharge. This is up to 1.5% of your income.

If you cancel now and come back later, you may need to pay the Lifetime Health Cover loading. This adds 2% to your premium for hospital cover for every year you’re aged over 30. This penalty lasts a decade.

If, after cancelling you wish to rejoin, you’ll also have to sit out waiting periods for certain conditions.

Don’t just accept it – negotiate

Health funds have a powerful reason to say “yes” to negotiating with you.

When healthy people cancel their policies, this leaves behind an older and sicker pool of insured people. This forces up premiums, pushing even more people to cancel their policies. Economists call this the “death spiral”.

However, plans tend to have set prices. This makes it hard to negotiate the price of your plan directly. So you’d be better off negotiating other aspects of your policy. For that, you need to do a little homework.

Homework before negotiating

1. Optimise your excess, cover and extras

Would you accept a higher excess? This is the sum you’d need to pay before the policy pays out on a claim. A higher excess means a cheaper premium.

You can reconsider the level of cover for hospital and extras, and the level of cover doesn’t have to be the same. For example, you can have basic hospital cover with top level extras cover.

Why pay for extras if you never use them? Remember you don’t need to include all the extras on offer. You can set them to reflect what you actually use, and save money by removing those you don’t need.

2. Know what you need

Many people set up their plan in early adulthood and do not review this over time (they set and forget). Our medical needs also change over time and you could be paying for things you no longer need.

Why pay for paediatric care if you have no children? You can add that onto your policy later if you need it.

Also remember to add and remove people from your policy as the make-up of your household changes.

3. Find a better deal to bargain with

Next it is important to know the cost of competitors’ premiums for similar policies that suit your needs. You can use comparison sites to seek a comparable product to use as a bargaining tool with your current provider.

Your existing insurer will ask for details of that comparison product, so do your research. Be prepared to answer questions about whether this product is really a good comparison.

4. Ask what they will offer to keep you

Don’t be afraid to ask what deals and promotions your existing health insurer can offer to keep your business.

5. Strike at the right moment

Finally, you should review your policy annually, and this is the best time of year to do so, now policies have just increased.

It is when providers are most willing to negotiate and when the deals for switching to a different provider tend to be the most generous.

Before you switch

Before you switch, take time to read the new policy and compare it to your old one. Watch out for differences in waiting times and cover for pre-existing conditions. Check reviews for providers about their customer support and service.

You can contact the Commonwealth Ombudsman for free, general advice on private health insurance, including comparing policies.

Lisa Farrell, Professor of Economics (Health Economist), RMIT University and Meg Elkins, Associate Professor in Economics, RMIT University

This article is republished from The Conversation under a Creative Commons license. Read the original article.

Earlier this month, multibillion-dollar US tech company Palantir posted on X a summary of its chief executive Alex Karp’s recent book, the portentously titled The Technological Republic: Hard Power, Soft Belief, and the Future of the West.

The book and the post offer a kind of manifesto, making sweeping claims about a hierarchy of civilisations, the rejection of pluralism, Silicon Valley’s moral obligation to US military power, the necessity of AI-powered weapons, and the case for compulsory military service.

The manifesto has met widespread criticism. Some commentators have compared the rhetoric to the monologue of a comic-book villain: grand, moralising, tinged with a sense of historical destiny.

But the manifesto is more than just corporate posturing: it’s helping to construct a new geopolitical reality and normalise a worldview that concentrates power beyond democratic accountability.

From tools to worldviews

For the past two decades, large technology firms have mostly presented themselves as benevolent service providers. They build tools; governments and users decide what to do with them.

That distinction has always been convenient, but it is looking less and less tenable. For some, Karp’s manifesto offered a grim sense of confirmation of the change. As Austrian philosopher Mark Coeckelbergh put it, “reading it is like opening a food item that you suspected has gone off, but you didn’t know it was that much off”.

Palantir is not just any tech company. Its software, offering “AI-powered automation for every decision”, is embedded in military, intelligence and policing systems – not just in the United States, but in many other countries across Europe, the Middle East and Australia.

When a company in that position denounces “regressive” cultures and “hollow” pluralism, it is asserting a worldview rather than just selling technology.

As the manifesto puts it: “the ability of free and democratic societies to prevail requires something more than moral appeal. It requires hard power.” Here, “hard power” means not just military force but the technological systems that shape how force is used.

Palantir’s systems shape how threats are identified, interpreted and acted upon. So when the company advances claims about civilisational decline and the necessity of strength, it is also helping define the terms on which power is exercised.

A stakeholder letter or something older?

In one view, the manifesto is a corporate position paper or a statement of values aimed at investors, partners, the public and policymakers. But there is something older in its form.

It is reminiscent of Cicero, the Roman statesman and master of rhetoric, in its talk of decline, virtue, duty and the survival of the republic. It frames technological development not as a market activity but as a moral obligation tied to the fate of civilisation.

Like classical republican oratory, it asserts that survival depends on strength. And today, that strength is technological.

Cicero wasn’t simply expressing his own opinions when he spoke. He was asserting a right to speak on behalf of the republic. In the same way, Palantir is positioning itself as a legitimate interpreter of civilisational stakes.

The shift from argument to atmosphere

The manifesto does not argue via carefully reasoned policy claims. Instead it offers declarative statements: that some cultures are “harmful”, that pluralism has become “vacant”, that technological strength is the ultimate guarantor of civilisation. These establish a mood: urgency, decline, necessity.

The effect is to manufacture a sense of inevitability. It works via tone and framing rather than evidence, setting the background conditions under which certain policies feel necessary rather than debatable.

Once that atmosphere is in place, the range of acceptable responses shrinks. Palantir is helping to construct geopolitical realities, rather than respond to them.

Supervillain or Cicero? It’s both

Palantir’s rhetoric does bear comparison to the ranting of fictional supervillains. Both feature sweeping claims about decline and the need for decisive action.

Palantir also exempts itself from the accountability that might accompany its claims. Comic-book villains believe they see more clearly than others, but they also place themselves above constraints that apply to everyone else.

The structure of the argument feels familiar. The world is in crisis, the options are narrowing, and power must be expanded beyond normal limits.

Seen this way, the villain tone and the Cicero-like register are two expressions of the same underlying move. It is an effort to define reality at a civilisational scale, from a position that answers to no one.

An infrastructure project

This worldview did not emerge overnight. It has been developed over years through op-eds in prestige newspapers and published by major mainstream houses before being compressed into a social media thread that reached millions in hours.

When companies that build and operate core security technologies put considerable resources into developing and promoting stories about civilisation and its future, their language is not just expression. It is a kind of infrastructure for their actions in the real world.

By the time most people notice the rhetoric, the infrastructure it justifies is already in place.

But the future trajectory of this worldview is not set. The history of democratic politics is, in part, a history of people recognising when power has overreached and building the collective capacity to say so.

That work is not heroic in the comic-book sense. It doesn’t focus on a single figure or decisive moment. It starts with understanding precisely how the manufacture of inevitability works, so what is presented as necessary can be seen as a choice – before it is made for us.

Daniel Baldino, Senior Lecturer in Politics and International Relations, University of Notre Dame Australia

This article is republished from The Conversation under a Creative Commons license. Read the original article.

Many young Australians are beginning their winter sports season, gearing up for sports such as football, hockey and rugby. Apart from the training sessions, weekend games and oranges at half-time, these contact sports also involve mouthguards.

Mouthguards protect the teeth, gums and jaw from serious injury. But while most parents and coaches insist kids wear them, far fewer think about what happens after the game – and whether mouthguards get cleaned properly.

Our research suggests poor mouthguard care can lead to bacterial buildup and potential health risks.

Our research

We studied mouthguards used by under-12s Australian rules football players. This involved ten players who regularly used mouthguards in training and for matches.

We collected samples immediately before a training session. We collected samples from the mouthguard surface and the storage case.

Using advanced microscopic imaging to look at surfaces in very high detail and to map their shape, we examined how the mouthguard surface had changed and how bacteria attached to it.

From this, we could assess just how much bacterial colonisation was occurring — and how it related to mouthguard condition and cleaning habits.

We also swabbed the players’ tongues and mouths to see if the bacteria were the same or different from the mouthguards.

What we found

The results were eye-opening.

We found around seventeen 17 potentially harmful types of bacteria on the mouthguards and in the cases. Some of these are linked to gum disease, tooth decay, oral infections and even respiratory infections if inhaled.

These bacteria were different from those found in players’ mouths.

Even though a mouthguard may look fine to the naked eye, under magnification it was obvious that over time, chewing, contact and improper storage (such as tossing it in the bottom of a sports bag) scratch the mouthguard material, facilitating bacterial attachment.

The roughness on the mouthguard surfaces created tiny grooves and pits — perfect hiding places for bacteria to cling to and multiply.

A quick rinse isn’t enough

These bacterial communities aren’t easily washed away with a quick rinse under the tap.

Our study showed a simple water rinse removed only 60–70% of bacteria. Alcohol-containing mouthwash, hydrogen peroxide mouthwash and denture cleaning tablets also did not remove all the bacteria.

We found a thorough clean with a toothbrush and toothpaste removed up to 98% of bacteria.

The pictures don’t lie

Poorly maintained mouthguards don’t just smell bad, they can become a vehicle for infection.

The same bacteria that thrive on a dirty mouthguard can contribute to oral ulcers or infections, especially when the inside of the mouth is already irritated from sport.

Advice for players and parents

The good news is that mouthguards can be cleaned and maintained easily.

• After every use, rinse thoroughly under cool, clean water to remove debris.

• When kids return home from training or games, we highly recommend further cleaning with a soft toothbrush and toothpaste or mild soap.

• Dry the mouthguard completely before storing it in a clean, ventilated container.

• Regularly clean the case with mild detergent.

• Regularly inspect and replace mouthguards that become rough, cracked or ill-fitting.

Parents should remind kids not to chew on them during games as this can promote bacterial attachment to the tiny scratches and crevices that are formed.

For coaches and clubs, simple hygiene talks and reminders can make a big difference – especially for younger players who might not think twice before shoving their mouthguard into a muddy pocket, bag or sock.

Just as players look after their boots and uniforms, their mouthguards need the same attention. With proper cleaning and care, they’ll not only last longer but be safer for those using them.

Huseyin Sumer, Senior Lecturer in Biotechnology, Swinburne University of Technology; Bita Zaferanloo, Senior Lecturer in Microbial Biotechnology, Swinburne University of Technology, and Vito Butardo Jr, Senior Lecturer in Biotechnology, Swinburne University of Technology

This article is republished from The Conversation under a Creative Commons license. Read the original article.

This week the government unveiled plans to reduce the number of people in the National Disability Insurance Scheme (NDIS) by 160,000 over the next four years, a decision NDIS Minister Mark Butler has called “hard” but “unavoidable and urgent”.

This reduction will rely on tightening the eligibility criteria.

A new assessment tool, likely based on an algorithm, will work out how much someone’s disability affects their daily life – known as their “functional capacity”.

Under the new rules, the threshold to access NDIS support will be higher. This means the day-to-day impact of disability will need to be more severe for someone to be eligible.

So what does functional capacity actually mean, and how will it be used to work out who’s eligible? Will diagnosis still play a role? Here’s what we know – and still don’t know – about the new system.

Functional capacity is not new

The concept emerged in the mid-20th century as a way of capturing what a person with disability can do in everyday life, rather than focusing only on impairment or diagnosis.

This approach – which moves away from narrow, medicalised definitions of disability, to understand how social and environmental factors shape a person’s level of functioning – is also endorsed by the World Health Organization.

Functional capacity is already central to determining eligibility for the NDIS. To meet the threshold, a person must demonstrate their disability is both permanent and substantially reduces their capacity to carry out everyday activities. This might include taking a shower, eating and drinking, moving about, and interacting with others.

The government says the reforms move the NDIS away from the “diagnosis gateway”, meaning functional need will determine who gets support and at what level, rather than a diagnosis.

However, establishing permanence and functional capacity is still required by the legislation. In practice, this is difficult without reference to a specific diagnosis, meaning it is likely to remain a key point of assessment.

But the threshold will be higher

Tightened eligibility will make it harder for some people, particularly those with low to moderate support needs, to access funded supports.

Let’s consider an example. Currently, a child with level one autism who experiences challenges with social interaction and independent self-care skills would have a reasonable chance of accessing NDIS supports, through the early intervention pathway.

Under the new system, that child may need to demonstrate needs consistent with level three autism to be eligible. For example, they may need to demonstrate difficulties with daily routines such as dressing or eating without assistance, engaging safely in social settings, or coping with changes in routine.

Without meeting that threshold, they might instead be expected to rely on mainstream supports, such as school-based supports, or the not-yet-operational Thriving Kids program.

Some disabilities, such as deafblindness, tend to be more readily recognised as meeting the functional capacity threshold.

Other disabilities are likely to face greater scrutiny in assessment – in particular, those that are less visible, harder to quantify, or fluctuating or episodic, or such as many psychosocial disabilities. These are impairments caused by mental health conditions such as bipolar disorder, schizophrenia or post-traumatic stress disorder.

What’s coming next

The government has not detailed exactly how functional capacity will be assessed. Butler has indicated the new assessment tool will be developed over the coming months, ahead of its planned rollout from January 2028.

As part of this process, the government will establish a technical advisory group to advise on eligibility thresholds. It has promised to “engage with the community” – although when and what this will involve remains unclear.

While we have little detail on the design of the tool, one thing Butler has specified is that the new test will be “standardised”. Typically, this means a rules-based system in which a computer algorithm applies fixed criteria to determine outcomes.

A similar approach has been announced for NDIS planning supports, for people who have been deemed eligible. The controversial new tool for support plans, called I-CAN, will be introduced on April 1 2027. It has already stoked concerns that opaque algorithms are increasingly shaping decisions about who gets support and who is left out.

So while we don’t know exactly what kind of “standardised” tool will be used to assess a person’s functional capacity, we have a glimpse of what might come.

The challenge of standardising need

Such tools can be effective at containing costs. But when applied to something as complex and nuanced as disability, they often fail to give a full picture of individual needs.

When this happens, the consequences show up elsewhere in the system, for example, in rising, costly and time-consuming challenges at the Administrative Review Tribunal over poor-quality support plans. These challenges are happening even before I-CAN has been implemented. The current system has some elements of automation – and it looks as though this is only set to increase.

The shift to a more needs-based approach to assessment is a welcome one. But its effectiveness will ultimately depend on the integrity of the assessment tools and, crucially, the professionals using them.

Where computational systems are used to support decision-making, they must be carefully designed to augment professional expertise and be flexible enough to accommodate individual circumstances.

Aged care offers a cautionary example. In a system aged care workers describe as “cruel” and “inhumane”, experienced assessors have little scope to override algorithms with a proven track record of failing to capture need, leaving people without access to essential care.

There are legitimate concerns the NDIS may be heading in a similar direction.

If algorithms are going to determine who gets support and who goes without, then the entire apparatus – including the algorithm itself, its modelling, classification rules and training data – must be open to scrutiny.

And before the new system is rolled out, people with disability must be at the table shaping its design.

Georgia van Toorn, Senior Lecturer in Public Policy and Politics, UNSW Sydney

This article is republished from The Conversation under a Creative Commons license. Read the original article.