This Be The Verse by Philip Larkin (Don't Google it!)

With some reticence I must share with you all a thought. A seemingly innocuous phrase – one that I both use and hear with predictable regularity – has taken a new, possibly sinister, turn of late.

“When the baby comes.”

I am not entirely certain what it is about the expression that chills me, but increasingly it resembles an ominous message dripping with menace.

“Things will be different... When the baby comes.”

“Are you all set for... When the baby comes?”

“How do you think that Henry will react... When the baby comes?”

I am staring to think that this young person who enters our home will present itself like Heathcliff the foundling, think of all the joy that he bought to Wuthering Heights!

That said, I always like the support the underdog, and I am the youngest of two in my family, so I could well pick this one as my favourite.

I just hope that it is not a dud. Or bald. And I'd like it just a tad more quiet than Henry please.

But damn it, you can't yet tick these things of when you place your order (yet). Time will out, and with just nine weeks left on the clock I guess we won’t really know until when the baby comes.

Comments

Dan said…

Wow the light is just fantastic! Great colors. Meanwhile, around here the temps are over 90f and humidity is well over 80%

6 June 2008 at 12:13

Dina said…

Golden light and trees.
Here in Israel many are in the habit of saying ". . . when the Messiah come." Messiah, baby, same thing, no?

6 June 2008 at 18:32

Kris McCracken said…

Although the last couple of days have been a little warmer, most mornings have been around five or six degrees as I arrive in town in the morning.

Dina, I'm not sure whether the new baby will be the new Messiah. Perhaps, but that will upset Henry!

12 June 2008 at 08:31

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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