Give freely to him that deserveth well, and asketh nothing: and that is a way of giving to thyself.

So this is Christmas, and what have you done?

Quite a bit, actually! Pressies been handed out and all wrapping, boxes and packaging has been scooped up before they can present a problem for the tidy-inclined (I had a process that worked out beautifully, thank you very much.

Shifting all the food preperations to Christmas Eve emerged as a masterstroke, as the timing for an early feast of turkey (rolled in ham) and a mountain of veggies, followed by a HUGE vat of homemade chocolate mousse was all completed in a timely fashion to accomodate all the sleeping needs of both kidlets (not to mention the proud parents).

The gift choices also seemed to be a winner, even the Frankenstein-ish concoction of Marino, Silk and Possum that I took a punt on. Very pricey, but the meterage has to be seen to be believed. [How they get these beasties to mate with each other really must be a sight. I can find nothing on YouTube...]

Henry elected himself chief present-opener, and showed excellent form. I am pleased this his keeness to tear more wrapping off meant that he had little problem with actually handing the gift over to its intended reciepient.

Ezra's form was a little patchy. I thought that a four A.M. start was a little unecessary, but then again he did have some decent naps and held it together for the most part. Not a bad effort for a bloke with two new teeth in the past couple of days.

And I got a new camera. As soon as that battery charges, I'll take some snaps and test it out!

I hope that all of your Christmas Days out there in the wider world went as smoothly, and if it wasn't quite as laid back, that it was of your choosing.

Merry Christmas people.

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. ...

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...

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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