Morality is the theory that every human act must be either right or wrong, and that 99 percent of them are wrong.

Another cloudy day in Hobart. New Town, July 2010.

The was once a time when I very rarely got ill. Tired, yes. Bored, indeed. Disenchanted, abso-bloody-lutely. But sick? Hardly ever. Nary a sniffle.

Then I had children.

Since they arrived, scarcely a month goes by without a headache, temperature, sore throat, runny nose, trots or generalised pain. I’m not sure if they’re cursed, or they’re out to get me.

Either way, I think they’ve won.

Comments

smudgeon said…

Little germ factories, no?

I like your photo for today.

30 July 2010 at 09:05

Roddy said…

I think that your stamina suffers thus letting your immune system drop its guard letting the nasties in.

30 July 2010 at 12:38

mouse (aka kimy) said…

and here we think we carry children, but really children are the carriers

be well....

31 July 2010 at 03:22

Baino said…

That's why they give teachers 22 sick days a year, imagine working with 30 of he snot boxes on a daily basis! Think of it as building your immunity.

31 July 2010 at 08:25

Sue said…

My first year working in a school, I had colds absolutely non-stop! I used my sick pay up extremely rapidly.
I only average one illness a year now...usually on the first day of the winter holidays. (OMG... I hope I haven't just jinxed myself!!???)
As the person who does sick bay at our College, I average twenty odd (very odd!) "patients" a day! Hand sanitiser is the key...(I think) and I dispense my assistance from a distance as much as possible!
You will build up your immunity after a while, as will they!
And I agree with Roddy...your weakened state allows the nasties a toehold!

31 July 2010 at 23:22

Kris McCracken said…

It is a cruel life.

4 August 2010 at 17:53

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

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

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.

This will hurt me...

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