This will hurt me...

Henry and I had a big task before us today: Playgroup hosting duty. This is not a responsibility that we take lightly, so before the crack of dawn we were out of bed and up to our elbows in flour. Scones were on the agenda, enough to feed a whole battalion of ravenous kids. For many people, a scone is a foreign concept. If you don't know what a scone is, think of quick bread . Easy to cook and tasty to eat. Sweet or savoury. The scone is a versatile beast that is enjoyed by toddlers and adults alike! Now some of the Yanks will know the humble scone as a biscuit, but for our friends in the Commonwealth, a biscuit is a biscuit, by which I mean a cookie, which is nothing like a scone. If we're going down the biscuit [U.S.] route, think of the softer variety and not the hard, Southern variety enjoyed with gravy and squirrel ragout. For those pirates or veterans of the British Navy amongst us, this southern biscuit is really tack, specifically hard tack. A bannock might get you clos

There is nothing finer than a paddle in a kayak on a brisk Autumn's morning! Here is a pair that I regularly see on the Derwent that seem to travel up from Taroona all the way to Cornelian Bay and back. That's a fair trip, and will get the shoulders aching. I've written a poem on the bus the other morning, and it rhymes. This is a rare thing for me, so consider yourself blessed. Abourist If I were a tree a tree I'd be a finer tree you could never see if I were a tree I'd never flee you'd not see me run away from thee

When Ez puts his serious voice on, everybody pays attention. I'm posting this in honour of his achievement last night of sleeping through the entire night for the very first time . What makes this feat even more special is the fact that a certain wandering toddler managed to set the clock radio in Ez's room off to ring out at midnight. Bear in mind that the hideous BEEP! ... BEEP! ... BEEP! ... BEEP! ... BEEP! ... noise loud enough to wake me up on the other side of the house. With one bedroom door closed shut. And another as good as closed. Yet in the bedroom, there lay one little baby soundly asleep. The same baby who has woken up when I've gently cleared my throat three rooms away previously. I can't explain it either.

John Campbell's pictures for sad children never fails to tickle my fancy (ooh er missus!). This one particularly resonates.

Go on then, here's the river again! The weather is starting to turn and the Antarctic vessels are returning to berth in advance of colder weather down south. Here's a poem. A Poem You! Me? YOU! Me? Yeah you. Me? Come 'ere! Me? Yeah you! Me? Comeoneovererebeforeifuckencomeonoverthereandfuckendragyouere! Me? You!

Much like the time I found myself stuck on a borrowed bike hurtling down the hill with no brakes, I discover that it is again time for Theme Thursday ! And what a theme it is! As you may know, I have two sons, dear Henry [above, at seven months] and sweet Ezra [below, also at seven months]. Both are wonderful young men, kind, thoughtful, emotionally manipulative loving. In many ways they are alike: big strapping lads capable of powerful kicks that would put a bucking bronco to shame. They are also, it must be said, quite different. Henry is, shall we say, very naughty challenging all of the time occasionally. Strong willed, aggressive, prone to random acts of violence exuberance, he is trouble loud a delight. Ezra is a little more laid back. More a smiler than a fighter, he's like Jimmy Buffet sans the Hawaiian shirt. Although he has the grip of a Polish washer woman and capable of blows that would put most current American heavyweights down inside two rounds, he exhibits a

We went for a walk the other day and spotted this little bloke lurking on a rock. Henry was keen for a look, but didn't want to get too close and risk losing an arm. Some thoughts: Chickens have a certain grace and charm that is far too often overlooked. Polish food is underrated. Issues of insecurity dominate the current age. People are annoying. All generalisations are false.

I think Henry looks here like a young, beardless Castro with a pencil instead of his cigar. How about a young and angry Norman Mailer? Perhaps a caption competition is in order. Can you tell me what he's saying?

Canal is too fine a word, but I guess this is an off shoot of the Hobart rivulet that runs off through Sandy Bay. The week after I first moved to Hobart, this baby was rushing high enough to be classified as "flooded". That doesn't happen much. Go on, have another poem! Last night I met Jesus no time ago walking the wall (inside) mine eyes fell down [ the glory! ] Christ stood still and watched my every move stood right there (only closer) nothing but a smile and a wink

Two toothy terrors in the bath just last night for your enjoyment. My little babies are not so little any more. I'm thinking of renting Ezra out to unscrupulous tour operators tricking foreigners into thinking that they've been attacked by Great White Sharks.

Here is a typical Hobart lamp post in the middle of the day. I like the way that it sits against the sky. Which is worse, having no idea or not having any idea that you have no idea?

Go on then, here's another sleeping baby for your enjoyment... Henry has a new trick now. Every time that you tell him off, he looks up and somehow increases the size of his eyes by around thirty percent. He then blinks a few times to generate a teary-eyed appearance, and follows with "Henry loves you so much , Daddy". I would be appaled if I wasn't impressed at his early - however crude - grasp of emotional manipulation. He's a chip off the old block all right!

Here is an Australian Navy warship that was parked just outside of the office a few weeks back. They must have done twenty fire drills the way their sirens were blaring all day! Here is another one minute poem . things things (i say most things) most things are right not quite right to the point the point, she said, is that now is more than how . it was unbearable she was confident but unruly thoughts are always going nowhere fast Man give me one good man - she said - just one i say she said.

To square the Sunday ledger, here is Ezra looking very much like the кошка that got the Крем . Check out those chompers, and more on the way. отлично!

Henry has graciously agreed to offer up one of his photographs as fodder for an experiment in digital manipulation. This one has all of the hallmarks of great photojournalism. A body has been found, foul play suspected, yet no motive nor suspect to speak of. The police are at wits' end, and a keen amateur sleuth is called up to investigate, with little more than a magnifying glass, a stick and a keen sense of justice.

Someone has been pulled over by the fuzz. I wonder what they did? I was thinking the other day (always dangerous). I was thinking that in order to bridge the gap between what one thinks one knows, and what one knows , one must know what one thinks , and one must know what one knows and - more importantly - doesn't know . That's the trouble, don't you think?