This will hurt me...

Equal parts Papunya Tula and Jackson Pollock, my little Hank is becoming quite the artist. Here he is endeavouring to convey the frighteningly original notion of man's inhumanity to man through a confronting montage of a whale being molested by a vole. Shocking stuff.

Here are what I think are poplars in the [deep voice required] Valley of Love , the Derwent Valley . While you are enjoying that discussion, I will be the one trying to find a large rock to crawl under and die. Yes I am still sick.

As Ezra is rapidly shifting from walking to running , I figured that I better post some of these photos I have stockpiled before he loses all of the chubbiness in his cheeks and becomes a lean, mean, grizzling fighting machine like Henry. Here he is hard at work cleaning the floor with his toothbrush. I've been applying a theory on child-rearing that I like to call United States Marine Corps .

Ah, the wonders of a four day week ! Stricken by some kind of mucus producing virus, Henry and I slowly traipse down to the river and lethargically toss some food to a pair of geese. We then shrug our shoulders and look at the swings, then wisely opt to struggle our way back home to watch the clock until it is okay to go for our afternoon nap. It is a hard life.

To the swings, boy's! To the swings! Here is Henry enjoying the swings down in Lindisfarne. He's in the process of trying to get the swing to go all the way over the top of the frame. One day, Henry. One day.

Despite my change of heart , people appear to have given up on 10 Murray. Similarly, even though there has been some belated effort to save her , she's going to be blown up and knocked down . Thus, it is with a heavy heart that I concede that this week, Theme Thursday has hit the nail on the head. The consensus of the Tasmanian public is that the imposing princess of late-1960s functionalist architecture, 10 Murray Street, is well an truly OVER THE HILL . They're knocking her down. Judged as an ugly testament to a period people would like to forget, the elite have conspired to concoct a death warrant for this misunderstood beauty and replace her with [and I am not making this up] a giant television screen . No doubt this television screen will continually remind us that we've always been at war with Eastasia. Tasmanians are addicted to sandstone it seems. For Hobartions, the entire functionalist movement in architecture should be erased from history! The world over; work...

As I have already said, these men are New Man . Guaranteed 175% better than Old Man , or your money back!

Wall in Battery Point, September 2009 . Look at that wall will you? Just look at that shoddy workmanship. Bloody convicts. No wonder they got sent off to the other end of the world... Tasmanians are a funny mob when it comes to convicts. You are probably aware that one of the primary reasons for the British settlement of Australia was the establishment of a penal colony far, far away to send their overabundance of criminals. Over the whole period of transportation of convicts, over 165,000 rapists, murderers, handkerchief thieves were dispatched to Australia. For us Tasmanians, we have an extra-special relationship with these vile scum pesky miscreants. You see, the soft, feeble and indolent New South Welch-people decided that the vilest, smelliest and foulest criminals would be better suited to somewhere else, away from them. Thus, a new penal colony was established in Van Diemen's Land! All those buggerers perverts cannibals kiddie fiddlers Irish prisoners who were unable to...

He's worn out. So am I. I hope that all have a good night's sleep.

Look at these poor buggers waiting at the lights, ready to head in to work for another day of soul destroying, mind numbing, blood pressure raising work! And it doesn't even matter that these guys will be working in the waterfront precinct, with lovely views and the chance of seeing seals frolicking during their coffee break. It matters not one jot, because they are disenchanted through the crushing numbness that is paid employment in the year 2009. One that fine note, here's Tuesday Q and A! This is an easy one today: do you hate your job?

My baby is in a rush to not be a baby any more! When does a baby stop being a baby? Wait a sec, Henry is still my baby, so maybe [baby] Ez will stay my baby for a while yet... [Note: I'm not sure whether this photograph indicates that Ezra is really big or Jen is really small.]

The sea birds are taking advantage of the end of the football season and setting in on the Henry Fitzgerald McCracken Recreational Ground. Watch out for the rollers though fellas, cricket is just around the corner!

The gender tests are in, and unfortunately they have very much confirmed that Henry is indeed, a boy . His mother is said to be devastated. And he can keep his medal.

Looking at a tree, what do I see? Sunday Top Five! Today I can present my Top Five Pets To Buy Henry For His Third Birthday: 5: one wombat ; 4: a breeding pair of fairy penguins ; 3: one Siberian tiger ; 2: one [male] saltwater crocodile ; 1: one [female] Great White Shark . I'm thinking that it will make for a hell of a party.