You can always tell you're in trouble when the good option involves a prosthetic leg.

Ezra woke everybody up and three am this morning, and I couldn't get myself back to sleep. Fair dinkum, I needed a crane to lift me out of bed to get ready for work. Above is a photo of the CSIRO crane down here in the Salamanca district of Hobart. I cannot confirm or deny that this crane is used to lift up whales to measure and weigh their farts (thus helping solve the global warming/cooling conundrum).

My wife wasn't allowed to watch much commercial television when she was a child, so her knowledge of pop culture references is limited, to say the least. I, on the other hand, had no such limitations. Thus my head is filled with all sorts of ~~useless~~ interesting and informative bibs and bobs of ephemera. This affords me many opportunities to scoff and shake my head at Jen's inability to identify my subtle reworking of J.J. from Good Times DY-NO-MITE! catchphrase or humorous "someone should blow those nuns up" that evokes the very best of Ted Bullpit.

Of course, I do try to fill in the gaps of knowledge as they emerge, but I am certain that it can all get rather confusing. Last night was an interesting case in point. Riffing on a familiar theme (a useless local politician that those in the know loathe and those don't admire), I was mediating on a shared acquaintance who had both Jen and I's respect, who worked for the [un-named] pollie.

I could not see how such an intelligent person could stand working for such a dill (a theme familiar to us all, no doubt), and my wife - who I love very much - opined that perhaps it was a case of "Mr Humphries" at work.

Hmmmm.

Mr Humphries?

"I'm free!" Mr Humphries?

Did she really liken the talented bureaucratic puppet master to the flamboyant senior menswear assistant of the Gentleman's Department?

It didn't take long to see that she was thinking of Sir Humphrey Appleby, GCB, KBE, MVO, MA (Oxon).

It appears that I have some work to do.

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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