What Does a Member of Parliament Actually Do?

As of today, my nomination is in. I am officially a candidate for the by-election.

Walking home, I caught myself thinking a simple thought I had avoided: I could actually win this. Then another: what does a Member of the Legislative Assembly actually do?

I always assumed I knew. I did not. So I asked.

Here is the answer I found.

An MP is meant to be a bridge between people and government. A person who listens, fixes problems, votes on laws in Sydney, fights for their community’s fair share, and asks hard questions when ministers would rather not hear them. Someone with a megaphone that belongs to the electorate, not to donors.

And when I saw the job written plainly like that, I laughed.

That does not sound like work. That sounds like joy. The State will pay a serious salary, nearly two hundred thousand dollars, to hold powerful people to account and to make sure my community is looked after. To show up. To listen. To fight for funding. To vote with a conscience. If that is the job, sign me up.

It is serious work. It will be frustrating at times. But helping your community is deeply fulfilling, and that is what makes it worthwhile.

Which leads to the only honest next question. If this is the work, why are so many Members not doing it?

Why are phone calls not returned. Why do people get bounced between offices. Why does Kiama still live with unfinished promises and tired infrastructure. Why does the chamber sound like a stage show while real decisions are made elsewhere.

The answer is not complicated. Too many MPs are there for their party and their donors, not for you. Safe seats teach bad habits. Party rooms decide the line. Donors decide what is urgent. The job gets flipped. Instead of speaking up, they stay quiet. Instead of fighting for a fair share, they cut deals. Instead of answering to the public, they answer to people whose names you will never know.

I am not naive about how government works. I have heard all the excuses: the budget cycle, the cabinet process, the need to coordinate messaging.

But I also know this: when government wants to act, it acts. It finds the money. It moves the timetable. It makes the phone calls.

The difference is not complexity. The difference is courage.

Here is the funny part. As you all know, I have already been making a whole lot of noise. That is what my writing has been about for months, calling things by their name and refusing to stay quiet when everyone else did. Now the State says they will pay me to keep doing it. The only real difference is that I will be standing in the chamber, not just online, meeting the constitution face to face.

So here is my plain promise if I win.

I will return calls. I will publish clear priorities for Kiama and report on them every quarter. I will fight for finished projects, not photo-ops. I will use the microphone in Sydney to say what you are saying here. I will sit down with anyone to get results, and I will not sit quietly for anyone. The megaphone is yours.

And that brings me back to why I am running at all.

What is missing in government is not expertise or process. It is authenticity. Too many bureaucrats doing what bureaucrats do, treating children in childcare as ledger items, treating homeless people as clients, treating citizens as numbers on a spreadsheet. Somewhere along the line, the humanity was stripped out of government.

That is what I want to restore. Humanity. Plainness. A willingness to say what everyone can see, and to act on it.

One person cannot overhaul Parliament alone. The rot runs deep. But we have to start somewhere.

When I get elected, it will be a start.

If you want that kind of Member, one who works only for you, then your vote on 13 September is your answer. Choose a genuine representative.