Who's to doom, when the judge himself is dragged to the bar?

...The look of apprehension on young Henry's face tells much of the tale. Elmo put on a brave front, but even the ever present positive vibes that emanate from the furry red gem could not dispel the facts as they emerged.

Our pleasant jaunt was beginning to turn into a nightmare.

You must understand the sub-Antarctic tendencies of Mount Wellington. As if aware of our insolence, the mountain struck back.

The fact that we set out on a fine and clear day mattered not a jot. Nor, it seems, did the fact that we sit smack bang at the height of our summer.

No, these "facts" (and how I spit out that word here today), were of no consequence to the mountain, nor the gods of nature themselves. For, as ye shall see below, nature had one of her brutal ripostes up her sleeve.

A snowstorm!

To be continued...

Comments

Tash said…

What??? Gimme shelter.

2 January 2009 at 17:59

CrazyCow said…

WOW, a snowstorm in summer! Nature is ignoring the facts here too - we are in the middle of summer, and every day is overcast and cold. Although no snowstorms!

Note to Mother Nature: This is certainly not a complaint, merely an observation. If it weren't for the clouds and refreshing rain, we would all be baking.

2 January 2009 at 18:32

Julie said…

Good heavens - similar topsy turvey here! Yesterday was hot, close and nearly 35C. Today it is cold - 23C. That is cold after 34! I wished I had thought to blame everything on my kids. I might start now and see how long I get away with it - before I am put into old folks home, that is.

2 January 2009 at 18:53

Kris McCracken said…

Tash, thankfully they have some up there!

CrazyCow, it's a MADHOUSE!

Julie, I blame the Welsh.

Or spiders.

5 January 2009 at 16:01

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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