England expects that every man will do his duty

So part two in my attempt to make myself feel better at work, and here we have a photo of the similarly lovely Ezra. This one is from yesterday evening, meaning that he is (in comparison), an old man of fourteen days.

You'll have noted that due to him not actually being due until August 7, he has not nearly been as bruised and battered as poor old Henry. That may well account for his more easy-going nature.

I hope that having these photos up makes the day a little easier to work though, but am sure that Jennifer will give me running updates on all the shenanigans on the home front. May God have mercy on her soul...

Comments

Anonymous said…

so nice baby, he/she is your baby?, you are lucky.

6 August 2008 at 16:56

the Albino Bowler said…

Hey. Just stumbled upon your blog as I was curious what else folks are writing about. Very nice. I live in New Orleans and will be visiting Tasmania in less than a month. I'll have four days there. What should I do and see?
Matt

7 August 2008 at 00:55

Kris McCracken said…

Hendrawan, this is Ezra, he is indeed my youngest son. He's 19 days old.

TAB, four days is tight. I think that it would probably be easiest to pick on section of the state and stick to that. From there, it depends what experience you're after.

Rugged wilderness? I'd do the North West, Central Highlands and West Coast, making sure to visit Strahan.

If that isn't your thing, the most common trip would involve basing yourself in Hobart and visiting the Tasman Peninsula (Port Arthur etc], Richmond, Mount Wellington and maybe some of the wineries in the Coal River Valley.

7 August 2008 at 15:15

Kris McCracken said…

Oh, and yes Hendrawan, he is indeed my baby!

9 August 2008 at 08:33

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

There was nothing left. No reason, no conscience, no understanding; even the most rudimentary sense of life or death, good or evil, right or wrong.

Here is a self portrait. I’m calling it Portrait of a lady in a dirty window . Shocking, isn’t it? However, it is apt! Samhain , Nos Galan Gaeaf , Hop-tu-Naa , All Saints , All Hallows , Hallowmas , Hallowe'en or HALLOWEEN . It’s Theme Thursday and we’re talking about the festivals traditionally held at the end of the harvest season. Huh? No wonder Australians have trouble with the concept of HALLOWEEN. For the record, in my thirty-two L O N G years on the planet, I can’t say I’ve ever seen ghosts ‘n goblins, trick ‘n treaters or Michael Myers stalking Tasmania’s streets at the end of October. [That said, I did once see a woman as pale as a ghost turning tricks that looked like Michael Myers in late November one time.] Despite the best efforts of Hollywood, sitcoms, and innumerable companies; it seems Australians are impervious to the [ahem] charms of a corporatized variant of a celebration of the end of the "lighter half" of the year and beginning of the "darke

In dreams begin responsibilities.

A life at sea, that's for me, only I just don't have the BREAD. That's right, Theme Thursday yet again and I post a photo of a yacht dicking about in Bass Strait just off Wynyard. The problem is, I am yet again stuck at work, slogging away, because I knead need the dough . My understanding is that it is the dough that makes the BREAD. And it is the BREAD that buys the yacht. On my salary though, I will be lucky to have enough dough or BREAD for a half dozen dinner rolls. Happy Theme Thursday people, sorry for the rush.

This will hurt me...

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