A Sorry State of Affairs

So the Indians get their way again? Surprise, surprise. The new evidence that was all over the news last night was pretty damning on Harbhajan, but hey, they were going to “abandon the tour” again, so we better let him off. They may as well throw out any semblance of actually taking racist abuse seriously and let anything go. The ongoing jumble of “he didn’t say it” and “to call the black guy a monkey isn’t racist” from many, many Indian supporters is also doing my head in.

If I have to listen one more time about fair play from the mob that threatens to take their bat and ball home every single time a call goes against them, I will fair dinkum scream. I also feel the need to point to some of the frankly pathetic appeals and attempts to intimidate Bowden in Adelaide, but hey, what would be the point, these blokes don’t see anything but conspiracy against them. The saddest part is that I can just imagine what every drunken yob on the hill is going to call out to Harbhajan (and no doubt the rest of the team, most of them thoroughly decent men). And that is really going to help matters.

Fair play to Roebuck, who really nails it in his column in The Age. I reckon I won’t bother with cricket for a while, or at least not anything involving India. Maybe tune in to England versus the Kiwis...

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If you want to be loved, be lovable.

Henry admires the view.

Ah, Joe, you never knew the whole of it...

I still have the robot on the job. Here you can see the Tasmanian Museum and Art Gallery . And here is a poem: Soliloquy for One Dead Bruce Dawe Ah, no, Joe, you never knew the whole of it, the whistling which is only the wind in the chimney's smoking belly, the footsteps on the muddy path that are always somebody else's. I think of your limbs down there, softly becoming mineral, the life of grasses, and the old love of you thrusts the tears up into my eyes, with the family aware and looking everywhere else. Sometimes when summer is over the land, when the heat quickens the deaf timbers, and birds are thick in the plumbs again, my heart sickens, Joe, calling for the water of your voice and the gone agony of your nearness. I try hard to forget, saying: If God wills, it must be so, because of His goodness, because- but the grasshopper memory leaps in the long thicket, knowing no ease. Ah, Joe, you never knew the whole of it... I like Bruce Dawe. He just my be my favourite Austral

Zeal, n. A certain nervous disorder afflicting the young and inexperienced. A passion that goeth before a sprawl.

Here I have tried my hand at the homemade sepia-toned photo. I wasn’t happy with the way that the sun had washed out some of the colours in the original, so had a bit of a fiddle because I like the look on Henry’s face, and didn’t want to pass on posting it. I have a tip for those of you burdened with the great, unceasing weight of parenthood. I have a new recipe, in the vein of the quick microwaved chocolate cake . Get this, microwaved potato chips . I gave them a run on Sunday, Henry liked the so much I did it again last night. Tonight, I shall be experimenting with sweet potato. I think that the ground is open for me to exploit opportunities in the swede, turnip, carrot and maybe even explore in the area of pumpkins. Radical, I know. I’m a boundary-pusher by nature. It's pretty simple, take the potato. Slice it thinly (it doesn't have to be too thin, but thin enough). Lay the slices on the microwave plate, whack a bit of salt over the top and nuke the buggers for five minut

This will hurt me...

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