Saturday, December 05, 2009

Yes, memory. Without that, time would be unarmed against us.


People in Tasmania store all manner of things in their front yards: cars, broken washing machines, unwanted children et cetera. In Battery Point, however, things are quite different. Ever since the suburb threw out the prostitutes and drunks was gentrified, the front gardens have assumed an air of little England circa 1907. Roses, violets and stiff upper lips reign supreme. Houses named "Charlesworth", "Heathcliffe" and "Edgar" abound, and one assumes that the abodes simmer with firm manners, forced smiles and repressed sexuality.

Occasionally though, one bucks the trend. This little split terrace features an old weather beaten plough shear not fashioned into a tank, rather a novel little perch for a concrete cockatoo. This household better be careful, I suspect that the neighbours are already preparing the giant wicker man to burn them in, lest they continue to bring down the tone of the neighbourhood....

2 comments:

Roddy said...

I like it. Where do you think I can get one just like it? I reckon it would look good in your yard!

Kris said...

Roddy, not my yard.