(My) Photo of the day

Chaos in Hobart overnight! The city centre was a mess with branches and leaves everywhere. I was quite please by the lack of rubbish though! It was all very post-apocalyptic. Unfortunately I couldn't find the camera as I left for work today and missed some interesting photo opportunities.

So instead I have dipped into my reservoir of pictures taken over the past couple of weeks and fished out a shot of a far more pleasant Hobart morning. I endeavoured to find out more about this building, but have come up blank. So if anyone does know something about it, please let me know.

Comments

stromsjo said…

Branches and leaves, eh? I still find it hard to grasp how our seasons remain eternally opposite. Here it's very much a case of finally getting a bit of sunlight on your cheek and merrily welcoming the very first flowers. The world's an oyster.

4 April 2008 at 02:11

Destitute Rebel said…

The picture looks good with the light and shadow, thanks for stopping by lahore daily photo.

4 April 2008 at 08:04

Benjamin Madison said…

I believe the building in question is the humble cottage where Errol Flynn was born.

4 April 2008 at 15:44

Kris McCracken said…

Errol's former house was actually in the real estate guide yesterday. On the Glebe, seven bedrooms. Very lardy da!

5 April 2008 at 22:00

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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