This will hurt me...

It was a miserable, wet and cold Saturday morning today. So, of course, Henry, his balloon and I all decided to go for a wander down to the river's edge at 7 am. That should give you some semblance of an idea of the mood Ezra was in, and the necessity of him having some peace and quiet in order to get to sleep. Oh happy day.

The rigging of a sailing ship presents ample opportunities for photographs. I like this one because I've not used any filters, it's just the colour of that morning. The heavy mist enabled me to take the image looking directly at the sun (bottom centre), and also cast an interesting hue. Also, it's ANZAC Day again. I can't say that I feel all to differently than I did a couple of years back. If you are so iclined, you can revisit my vent by clicking this link .

This one is about a month old. Ezra is playing footy. I've got nothing more. Sorry.

Some time ago I posted a similar shot , taken at a similar time, of who I think are the same pair. The difference is of course in the colour. Maybe someone of a more scientific bent can explain to me why this morning displayed a golden hue, and the previous shot was of a pinkish tendency. Now, I happen to like today's photo a little bit more than the one of a month ago. Now I want to know which one you like better? Why?

Henry loves mashed potatoes. So I get him to mash them. I usually fancy the Dutch Cream , which is a superior Tasmanian speciality. The Dutch Cream is like the Henry and Ezra of the potato world, smooth, sexy and world class. I rank it as top of the class. However, a new pretender to the throne has emerged with the flash American-bred Innovator . This brash, yet versatile little beauty (mash it, boil it, roast it, fry it) is kind of like a plain Russet with a creamy undertone. I won't lie, it's drawn my eye. My name is Kris. I am a spudoholic.

As Whitesnake proclaimed in a record I bought from the 7EX record bar way back in 1987, here I go again! Theme Thursday madness is upon us. Once again, the masters that be have challenged me to stretch credulity as taut as possible to extend my post to the nominated theme. So what is it? Could those who are sitting there shouting “ ROSE ” or “ FLOWERS ” at their monitors/laptops please kindly call the local authorities for help. Screaming at computers, it ain't natural, is it? No, it's nothing flora-related at all. It is, in fact, FIRE ! No, like the humble rose above, it’s a common [clichéd?] literary conceit to utilise fire as a metaphor for both desire , as well as love . Although the simple rhyme no doubt helps, the frequent recourse to the fire/desire allegory must have something going for it, right? Now, I know desire – oh lordy, don’t I know it – and I know what it is to feel love . I am also aware that desire and love are most certainly not one and the same . That said

Ezra loves the vacuum cleaner, LOVES it. I would go so far to say that it is his favourite thing at the moment. If I let him, he'd vacuum morning noon and night. I like this photo, if you don't mind me commenting. There is a subtlety to the colour, tone and light that I wish I could replicate at will. I'm not one of those "straight out of the camera" Nazis, but this one was!

Here is an empty Salamanca Square as seen from above. At the back there should be a mountain, but the clouds decided to hide it for the day. I thought I'd share my notes from a meeting last week: talk. talk talk talk. blah blah BLAH blah blah. talk blah talk BLAH blah talk blah. BLAH blah BLAH BLAH BLAH blah blah BLAH BLAH. ner NER NER NER talk talk BLAH NER BLAH BLAH ner NER NER.

Here is the little urban commando patrolling the mean streets of the docks. Always on the lookout for trouble, he's like one of those Guardian Angel fellows you used to see about with those silly red berets. Only Henry don't wear no Raspberry Beret .

A convict peep show? I don't know! It's a hole in a sandstone building. I know that people have been dying for another drabble . Never let it be said that I'd fail to deliver (much). People Brian was a fellow who assumed that he knew why he did the things he did. A rational man, Brian had long considered his actions the result of a deliberate and clinical assessment of the facts . Ultimately, he believed that he did things because he chose to do so. Then he met Cheryl. Cheryl worked in accounts. She liked a drink, loved a laugh, and found Brian quite tolerable. After he deduced this, Brian began to suspect the soundness of his judgement. His aforementioned clarity of thought had deserted him and this caused him no end of great worry.

This one is MEGA old, taken at least a month and a half back. I like the black power salute, and I think that we all know the answer to the question posed by the little froggie on the book.

Just this morning I spotted the Marine Board building talking to the Hydro building. What were they saying? I'm none the wiser, as I don't speak architecture. I did overhear an enlightening conversation on the bus this morning, that despite best efforts, I couldn't satisfactorily turn into a poem. I was able, however, to utilise my advanced note taking abilities to share with the world the genius that is the Tasmanian public servant. "For me, I need, like , 30 minutes to get ready. Then it takes me, like , 40 minutes to walk from my girlfriend's house to, like , work. Then, like , it's another, like , 40 minutes to walk home after work. That's, like , that's, like , an HOUR every day!" Much to my dismay, this young fellow informed his collegue that he was shifting from his present job - in the Department Education - to a new one, Treasury . May God have mercy on all of us.

Here is Captain Charisma deep in thought the other day. Henry is my first born, and as such, has rightful claim to the mantle of my favourite oldest son . Ezra - who some of you may remember from previous posts - is my favourite youngest son . Yes, I have enough love in my heart for two favourites.

This one is from a few weeks back and involved me on the ground, the Aurora Australis in the foreground, and the Diamond Princess in the background. The bird I didn't spot until post-production. Here is a poem. a poem an incident of indecent actions, activities and understandings can mean something or mean nothing to others. it is all about where you stand, or whether you sit.