Modesty is the gentle art of enhancing your charm by pretending not to be aware of it.

I like to call this series Ezra³.

Any party which takes credit for the rain must not be surprised if its opponents blame it for the drought.

The water taxi chugs its way across the Derwent River Estuary towards Sullivan's Cove, perhaps from the Geilston Bay pier, loaded with cranky toddlers ready to hit the pubs and clubs and give the usual gang of pissed idiots a run for their money.

One can only hope!

There are two kinds of egotists: Those who admit it, and the rest of us.

A small boy who thinks that he's a big boy sitting on park bench in Cornelian Bay. Note the seagull on the upper left, the Tasman Bridge in the centre right, as well as the boatsheds on the right. The boatsheds burned down the day after this photo was taken, and no, I don't let Henry play with matches.

Glory is largely a theatrical concept. There is no striving for glory without a vivid awareness of an audience.

These fish have undoubtedly seen better days. The orange fellow in particular seems surprised at his predicament. Henry and I took this snap at the fish mongers at Mures Lower Deck.

There is a cruel beauty in the fact that I live in a place that has the world's greatest seafood, and I'm not much of a fan of fish. That said, a nice bit of squid, octopus and the odd John Dorey, and I'll be right!

It is always the secure who are humble.

Right, you've got exactly fifteen seconds to bring me my supermodels back!

I support gay marriage. I believe they have a right to be as miserable as the rest of us.

Another day, another photograph of rigging. You will note that today, there is no frigging in the rigging, as the navy has just passed a law against such activities.

Henry and I did a little experiment before: poem writing. After a long and arduous explanation of rhyme and metre, we set about writing his first ever poem! Henry supplied the core concept, and the key words that rhyme, I banged it together into something [hopefully] servicable. Without further ado...

Henry's First Ever Poem

If I were a little fish
I would have but just one wish
my one wish would be to fly
doing such would make me cry

I dare do all that may become a man; Who dares do more is none.

Watching Henry trying to figure out a drinking fountain is one of life's richer pleasures.

Nearly all our disasters come of a few fools having the 'courage of their convictions.'

My moles in the ornithological world report to me that this little dickie bird specimen is Egretta novaehollandiae, better known as a White-faced Heron. I got a couple of snaps of this baby down in Cornelian Bay the other day, but couldn't decide if I liked it better in black and white or colour.

I thought that I'd post both, and let YOU be the judge.

Cowards die many times before their deaths; The valiant never taste of death but once.

Three parts heavy water...

One part self raising flour...

A pinch of enriched uranium...

Stir...

Either life entails courage, or it ceases to be life.

I am once again reminded of something the world's most famous Jewish Cowboy - Kinky Friedman - said in a book once:

Friday night was the night most people thought they were supposed to have fun. Trouble was most people didn't know what fun was or how to have it, so things usually ended up pretty ugly.

To be honest, a parking sign in the river is a reasonable result if it's the worst thing to come from thousands upon thousands of pissed idiots that descend on the waterfront at this time of year. Trouble is, it is rarely the worst.

Flattery is all right so long as you don't inhale.

Rainbow ice cream?

Henry gives it the thumbs up.

Ezra is not quite so sure...

It is curious that physical courage should be so common in the world, and moral courage so rare.

There's this little thing that happens this time of year and gets far more coverage than it deserves - and consequently annoys me - the Sydney to Hobart yacht race.

Referred to incessantly as the Bluewater Classic in the Australian media, the Sydney to Hobart is little more than the mega-rich (come on, the naming sponsors are Rolex ferChristsake) in their expensive toys playing soldiers pirates for the weekend and then have the nerve to carp on about how dangerous it all is. If it's so dangerous that you need to go on and on (and on and on and on) about it, don't do it! If not, then shut the hell up about it.

For two bloody weeks, all we get is a bunch of private school-educated prats bathing in the glory of you stupidity bravery while the spend the week after they arrive getting drunk, pissing and vomiting in the streets and harassing the local ladies with their tales of valour, and I for one don't like it!

A great deal of intelligence can be invested in ignorance when the need for illusion is deep.

How about that smile?

I'm considering entering him the the 200 metre smile at the Commonwealth Games in Delhi...

I never yet touched a fig leaf that didn't turn into a price tag.

So yesterday we went down to check out the chickie babes pleasure craft down on the waterfront. Much to our surprise, we found this Christmas tree perched upon a cray boat. What the crayfish make of the sight as they are pulled from the murky depths to their eventual deaths, I am not sure. Henry and Ezra, on the other hand, enjoyed it very much.