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

Something unpleasant is coming when men are anxious to tell the truth.

This is the moon. Have I mentioned how much I adore the zoom on my camera? It's Theme Thursday you see, and after last week's limp effort, I have been thinking about how I might redeem myself. Then I clicked on the topic and discover that it was BUTTON. We've been hearing a lot about the moon in the past couple of weeks. Apparently some fellas went up there and played golf and what-not forty-odd years ago. The desire to get to the moon, however, was not simply about enhancing opportunities for Meg and Mog titles and skirting local planning by-laws in the construction of new and innovative golf courses. No, all of your Sputniks , "One small steps" and freeze dried ice cream was about one thing , and one thing only : MAD Now, I don't mean mad in terms of "bloke breaks record for number of scorpions he can get up his bum", no I mean MAD as in Mutual assured destruction . When I was a young man you see, there was a lot of talk about the type of m...

Hold me now, oh hold me now, until this hour has gone around. And I'm gone on the rising tide, to face Van Dieman's Land

Theme Thursday again, and this one is rather easy. I am Tasmanian, you see, and aside from being all around general geniuses - as I have amply described previously - we are also very familiar with the concept of WATER. Tasmania is the ONLY island state of an ISLAND continent. That means, we're surrounded by WATER. That should help explain why I take so many photographs of water . Tasmania was for a long time the place where the British (an island race terrified of water) sent their poor people most vile and horrid criminals. The sort of folk who would face the stark choice of a death sentence , or transportation to the other end of the world. Their catalogue of crimes is horrifying : stealing bread assault stealing gentlemen's handkerchiefs drunken assault being poor affray ladies being overly friendly with gentlemen for money hitting people having a drink and a laugh public drunkenness being Irish Fenian terrorist activities being Catholic religious subversion. ...

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...

This will hurt me...

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