Skip to main content

There are people who are so full of common sense that they haven't the slightest cranny left for their own sense.


How disappointed we all were when we made out way under the eastern end of the Tasman Bridge and discovered that there was not a troll in sight!

That said, in my general working week, I am certain that at least seven percent of those I am in contact with have some troll ancestry somewhere in their bloodlines...

Comments

Hi! Kris,
I'am assuming that you referring to definition 1...If so, LOL!!!!

Definition...1
Troll:In Scandinavian legend, a supernatural being depicted as either a dwarf or giant and living in caves or under bridges
Definition...2
Troll:a carefully worded but incorrect statement that is designed to lure other Internet users into sending responses


DeeDee ;-D
Roddy said…
Shades of West Gate. Don't stand under the bridge, just in case.
Megan said…
I'm inclined to put it higher than seven percent...at least, in my case...
Kris McCracken said…
DeeDee, number one, but one never knows with two...
Kris McCracken said…
Roddy, this one fell too.
Kris McCracken said…
Megan, maybe sevenTEEN percent...
Roddy said…
A gentle nudge from a ship. The West Gate fell of its own accord.

Popular posts from this blog

If you want to be loved, be lovable.

Henry admires the view.

Zeal, n. A certain nervous disorder afflicting the young and inexperienced. A passion that goeth before a sprawl.

Here I have tried my hand at the homemade sepia-toned photo. I wasn’t happy with the way that the sun had washed out some of the colours in the original, so had a bit of a fiddle because I like the look on Henry’s face, and didn’t want to pass on posting it. I have a tip for those of you burdened with the great, unceasing weight of parenthood. I have a new recipe, in the vein of the quick microwaved chocolate cake . Get this, microwaved potato chips . I gave them a run on Sunday, Henry liked the so much I did it again last night. Tonight, I shall be experimenting with sweet potato. I think that the ground is open for me to exploit opportunities in the swede, turnip, carrot and maybe even explore in the area of pumpkins. Radical, I know. I’m a boundary-pusher by nature. It's pretty simple, take the potato. Slice it thinly (it doesn't have to be too thin, but thin enough). Lay the slices on the microwave plate, whack a bit of salt over the top and nuke the buggers for five minut

Ah, Joe, you never knew the whole of it...

I still have the robot on the job. Here you can see the Tasmanian Museum and Art Gallery . And here is a poem: Soliloquy for One Dead Bruce Dawe Ah, no, Joe, you never knew the whole of it, the whistling which is only the wind in the chimney's smoking belly, the footsteps on the muddy path that are always somebody else's. I think of your limbs down there, softly becoming mineral, the life of grasses, and the old love of you thrusts the tears up into my eyes, with the family aware and looking everywhere else. Sometimes when summer is over the land, when the heat quickens the deaf timbers, and birds are thick in the plumbs again, my heart sickens, Joe, calling for the water of your voice and the gone agony of your nearness. I try hard to forget, saying: If God wills, it must be so, because of His goodness, because- but the grasshopper memory leaps in the long thicket, knowing no ease. Ah, Joe, you never knew the whole of it... I like Bruce Dawe. He just my be my favourite Austral