Skip to main content

A man can do what he ought to do; and when he says he cannot, it is because he will not.


Walking to work, Monday morning, what could be finer?

Oh, I know! NOT walking to work on a Monday morning.

Staying home in bed.

With children who are quiet and well behaved and let you lie in.

Walking to work, Monday morning.
Labels:

Comments

-K- said…
What a quiet and peaceful place to live. Quite unlike my part of the world.
29 March 2010 at 08:43
ratatouille's archives said…
Hi! Kris,
What a beautiful photograph...of downtown, smalltown as people prepare to "walk to work, on Monday morning"...The quote is
straight and to the point!

Thanks, for sharing!
DeeDee ;-D
29 March 2010 at 13:16
Magpie said…
I know it's work, but it looks like a lovely walk.
29 March 2010 at 14:09
Roddy said…
Who's kids are you looking after if you expect a quiet day in bed?
I know your kids are well behaved, but to expect them to be quiet all day is asking the impossible.
Nearly time for us to visit again. Are the kids ready for us?
29 March 2010 at 15:11
Kris McCracken said…
K, it has its moments.

DeeDee, we've 200k!

Magpie, I am lucky to take in the water.
29 March 2010 at 19:06
Kris McCracken said…
Roddy, "who's"!?!

As in "who is"?

Really, I would have expected far better...
29 March 2010 at 19:06
Roddy said…
Typo, typo, typo. I stand mortified. My proof reader stands humbled. Whose, as in who belongs to them kids.
You still haven't answered my question! Are the kids ready to terrorise me again this weekend? I am looking forward to being subjected to any manner of torment a child can mete out to a grandparent.
29 March 2010 at 20:28
Kris McCracken said…
They're dreading it.
2 April 2010 at 08:31
Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

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
5 comments
Read more

There was nothing left. No reason, no conscience, no understanding; even the most rudimentary sense of life or death, good or evil, right or wrong.

Here is a self portrait. I’m calling it Portrait of a lady in a dirty window . Shocking, isn’t it? However, it is apt! Samhain , Nos Galan Gaeaf , Hop-tu-Naa , All Saints , All Hallows , Hallowmas , Hallowe'en or HALLOWEEN . It’s Theme Thursday and we’re talking about the festivals traditionally held at the end of the harvest season. Huh? No wonder Australians have trouble with the concept of HALLOWEEN. For the record, in my thirty-two L O N G years on the planet, I can’t say I’ve ever seen ghosts ‘n goblins, trick ‘n treaters or Michael Myers stalking Tasmania’s streets at the end of October. [That said, I did once see a woman as pale as a ghost turning tricks that looked like Michael Myers in late November one time.] Despite the best efforts of Hollywood, sitcoms, and innumerable companies; it seems Australians are impervious to the [ahem] charms of a corporatized variant of a celebration of the end of the "lighter half" of the year and beginning of the "darke
38 comments
Read more

In dreams begin responsibilities.

A life at sea, that's for me, only I just don't have the BREAD. That's right, Theme Thursday yet again and I post a photo of a yacht dicking about in Bass Strait just off Wynyard. The problem is, I am yet again stuck at work, slogging away, because I knead need the dough . My understanding is that it is the dough that makes the BREAD. And it is the BREAD that buys the yacht. On my salary though, I will be lucky to have enough dough or BREAD for a half dozen dinner rolls. Happy Theme Thursday people, sorry for the rush.
36 comments
Read more