Only the wisest and stupidest of men never change.

Mysterious birds lurking in the grass of St John’s Park. New Town, July 2010.

I think that these fellows are finches, but I cannot be sure. If there are any keen-eyed twitchers out there who can identify these buggers and set me straight as to whether they taste nice when battered and deep fried, I’d be most appreciative.

That said, I have yet to find a substance that does not taste better battered and deep fried. Indeed, it is the key reason that I do not own a deep fryer.

Comments

Magpie said…

I agree...battered and fried. Mmmmm good...and why I also don't own a deep fryer. :)

6 August 2010 at 12:05

smudgeon said…

European Goldfinch (Carduelis carduelis). Introduced. Crunchy.

6 August 2010 at 12:54

Roddy said…

They look to me like Gaudion Finches.
As for deep fried, I don't know2 that they would have enough meat on their bones.
Still, I have known some to eat Sparrow.r

6 August 2010 at 18:13

Tom said…

they do look a lot like finches. or sparrows, which we have in the states...thick as flies. everything tastes good deep fried, even a nice crunchy beak

7 August 2010 at 06:25

Misfit in Paradise said…

There is a saying that in the south (US) even water is deep fried.

9 August 2010 at 02:15

Kris McCracken said…

Magpie, deep fryers are dangerous!

Me, that explains why none of my Australian Birds books had it there! I will snare a few for Sunday roast.

Roddy, gaudy finches? Hoiw rude!

Tom, I save the beaks for Ez.

Misfit in Paradise, deep fried water? Sounds interesting...

12 August 2010 at 08:54

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. ...

Something unpleasant is coming when men are anxious to tell the truth.

This is the moon. Have I mentioned how much I adore the zoom on my camera? It's Theme Thursday you see, and after last week's limp effort, I have been thinking about how I might redeem myself. Then I clicked on the topic and discover that it was BUTTON. We've been hearing a lot about the moon in the past couple of weeks. Apparently some fellas went up there and played golf and what-not forty-odd years ago. The desire to get to the moon, however, was not simply about enhancing opportunities for Meg and Mog titles and skirting local planning by-laws in the construction of new and innovative golf courses. No, all of your Sputniks , "One small steps" and freeze dried ice cream was about one thing , and one thing only : MAD Now, I don't mean mad in terms of "bloke breaks record for number of scorpions he can get up his bum", no I mean MAD as in Mutual assured destruction . When I was a young man you see, there was a lot of talk about the type of m...

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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