In the fight between you and the world, back the world.

Playgroup HQ. St Johns Park. New Town. July 2010.

Here you can see the HQ of Playgroup Tasmania, which is located on the way in to St Johns Park, as you make your way up into the road that leads to ~~nowhere~~ the Carruthers Building.

What most intrigues my boys about Playgroup HQ is not their wargaming tables, reams of maps or extensive files relating to millions upon millions of naughty and nice children; no, their interest is about one thing and one thing only: TOYS.

You see; this innocent-looking former church hall (I’m speculating about that bit) is actually home to ~~the worlds~~ ~~Australia’s~~ ~~Tasmania’s~~ Hobart’s largest and finest TOY LIBRARY.

Comments

Magpie said…

It's a lovely building. Does have the look of a church.

4 August 2010 at 14:31

Kris McCracken said…

I suspect it was once a church.

4 August 2010 at 18:03

Roddy said…

Methinks a bawdy tavern Circa 1800ish. Churches for some unknown reason tended to be a little more pretentious. I like the colour scheme though. Very vibrant and outgoing.

4 August 2010 at 18:25

Unknown said…

I think it was part of the colonial orphanage. Isn't there a church next to this building and then on the other side of the church another building like this one? Maybe one side for boys and the other for girls?

I have tried to join an group called "Friends of the Orphanage" because they do historical tours around St John's Park and I want to know more about it. But they are very hard to contact.

4 August 2010 at 20:20

Kris McCracken said…

Poor orphans!

12 August 2010 at 08:50

Hold me now, oh hold me now, until this hour has gone around. And I'm gone on the rising tide, to face Van Dieman's Land

Theme Thursday again, and this one is rather easy. I am Tasmanian, you see, and aside from being all around general geniuses - as I have amply described previously - we are also very familiar with the concept of WATER. Tasmania is the ONLY island state of an ISLAND continent. That means, we're surrounded by WATER. That should help explain why I take so many photographs of water . Tasmania was for a long time the place where the British (an island race terrified of water) sent their poor people most vile and horrid criminals. The sort of folk who would face the stark choice of a death sentence , or transportation to the other end of the world. Their catalogue of crimes is horrifying : stealing bread assault stealing gentlemen's handkerchiefs drunken assault being poor affray ladies being overly friendly with gentlemen for money hitting people having a drink and a laugh public drunkenness being Irish Fenian terrorist activities being Catholic religious subversion. ...

But when the strong were too weak to hurt the weak, the weak had to be strong enough to leave.

Can you believe that it is time for Theme Thursday already? Today we are not talking chocolate , toddlers , mess or ignominy . No, today we're dealing with ANIMAL . Now I could have posted a picture of a possum, numbat, wombat, wallaby or any other furry killing machine that roams our fair isle, but I figure that I'd use a far more deadly creature as an example of an animal . Some people - I know them as fools - have chosen to embrace that highfalutin idea that human beans are for some ungodly reason superior to animals. Of course, what these imbeciles seem to forget is that were are simple animals ourselves ! Anyone with a baby, toddler, teenage boy or Queenslander in their household could tell you this. Look at Henry [above]. One chocolate frog in the back of the car on a sunny day and all of a sudden it's Elagabalus meets Bacchus for a quick shandy in the Serengeti and we're down on all fours carrying on like a cat in heat. Fair dinkum, anyone who chooses to ...

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...

This will hurt me...

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