That which makes the splendour of the present and the glory of the future remains for ever unforgotten.

I will admit that this Elmo cake that I made for Henry is perhaps not the best or most handsome Elmo cake that has ever graced the Earth, but I made it. I made it despite having had a few consecutive nights without sleep. I made it in the face of the unceasing barrage of wailing from Ezra, the second loudest baby in the world. I made it even though the entire way through making it I had a pushy little toddler demanding more more MORE of something that I wasn’t actually sure of. I made it without proper planning and forethought, which left me perilously close to running out of icing (hence the slightly jaundiced look of Mr Elmo). Yet despite these odds, I still made it on time for the party.

Of course, the point of any birthday cake lies in its predestined destruction. In moments of philosophical crisis, I tend to ask myself questions like is a cake a cake if it is not eaten? I answer myself - ever the conversationalist - "of course it isn’t, it is something altogether different" (a swan?).

But, to the cake, armed with a bloody great big knife (as he usually is in these heady days of armed youths out of control), the little bloke’s nerve was steeled by his mother’s cold words of encouragement: “remember Old Yeller, Henry. You want to be a man like Travis don’t you?” And with that, he plunged the blade right into Elmo’s nose to a murderous cheer from the baying mob!

Afterwards, when given time for reflection, I decided that the Elmo cake was indeed a cake, for there was nary a crumb left.

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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