This will hurt me...

As you all will know by now, I’ve had both Henry and Ezra undergoing rigorous physical exercises to prepare them for the harsh realities of walking to the south pole… barefoot! In all seriousness, this winter has seen life resemble more the rugged and brutal training scenes of Rocky IV (the one where Rocky drags trees around in Siberia in order to beat the dastardly communists and bring freedom and democracy to a godless inhuman totalitarian system). In these photos, you can see the lads doing shuttle runs between the posts, whilst weighed down with packs filled with lead cannonballs. I have them on fifty groups of fifty reps, with a punishment of fifty additional reps if they don’t complete ANY of the first 2,500 laps with a certain time frame. These boys are now so fit that I’m thinking of sending them to North Korea, to sort ‘em out! As you can see, the lads are enjoying all of that pain.

A pair o’ ragamuffins tredin’ de tidal flat. Five Mile Beach, February, 2010. I need sunshine. I need a clear blue sky. I need less of this cold. In order to cheer you up, I’ve dug out this fine old Philip Larkin poem. This Be The Verse , Philip Larkin They fuck you up, your mum and dad. They may not mean to, but they do. They fill you with the faults they had And add some extra, just for you. But they were fucked up in their turn By fools in old-style hats and coats, Who half the time were soppy-stern And half at one another's throats. Man hands on misery to man. It deepens like a coastal shelf. Get out as early as you can, And don't have any kids yourself. Oops.

Let us no bide lang in this place laddie, jist tak' mah photae an' be aff wi' ye!

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.

Oh Henry, what are you doing? Off to London are you? To see the Queen you say? Well, make sure to say hello from me!

Photographing the lights while waiting for the lights. Elizabeth Street, Hobart 2010. Yes it is Theme Thursday again, hello to all Theme Thursday’ers who may be passing through these parts today, or tomorrow (if you are on the backwards part of the world and your today is our yesterday). It is not too much of a stretch today, as one of the many sources of tension to be found in this blogging lark – and I am at 2080 posts and counting – is the balance between keeping it LIGHT and getting heavy. It is a tricky one, because a lot of excellent things are exclude by getting too heavy on matters; and a LIGHT touch cannot possibly do justice to. That said, keeping it heavy requires a bit of effort, and can be a bit of a bummer to infrequent visitors, or diverse audience. Indeed, there is a lot to be said for keeping things LIGHT. Like working clean and not BLUE, LIGHTness of touch broadens one’s appeal!

He's a little man with a big plan. Not overawed by the harsh realities of life in Terra Australis Ignota . Indeed, not thirteen seconds after this photograph was taken, Ez was molested by ten wallabies, nine possums, eight bandicoots, seven echidnas, six potoroos, five Tasmanian Devils, four pademelons, three numbats, two wombats, a quoll and a disoriented crocodile.

Is that Christ in the bushes? St Johns Park, New Town, July 2010. I've been doing a lot of writing for the new job of late, churning out words by the thousands! While that's good news in some respects, it has left me a little dry by the time it comes around to thinking up things to say in the daily posts. I had been hoping for some divine inspiration, but would be content with any suggestions from the [virtual] floor...

Look mum, GERMS!

As we have seen demonstrated countless times on the journey that is Ads that I like… , nothing quite so defines the advertising industry as the promulgation of guilt . Like unhappiness, shame and self-loathing; guilt has proven to be an effective motivational tool in wrenching open wallets over the past century or so. Of course, like any from of resource extractions, some sources are better than others. Like the copper-rich mountains of Chile, gold-strewn hills of North America’s west, or zinc deposits of Tasmania’s west coast; the seemingly endless source of maternal guilt has proven to be a money spinner for innumerable advertising executives, snake oil salesmen, flim-flam man and confidence trickers throughout history. Who could possibly fail to be moved by the notion that by simply touching your child, you are harming it. Every interaction , caress and soothing embrace could prove deadly ! Mothers of the world unite! Buy this product or you stand to hurt your child ! Now, what ...

Hinsby Beach, looking to the south-east. Taroona, May 2010. If I could, I would locate any workspace I would be required to be at each day right on a beach. I am not too fussed which beach, just some beach somewhere, preferably protected from the elements by a well-placed bluff. That and a view off into a vast expanse of ocean with all the glories that sea and sky can conjure up through the day. A small, but well ventilated, glass box set upon a windswept coastline would be a vast improvement on a cubicle, strip fluorescent lighting and the now closed venation blinds that constitutes my vista these days. That’s my dream. What’s yours?

t E nacious ama Z ing cleve R A dorable

The view west from Geilston Bay. July, 2010. See that fog there? There. There! Yeah, that fog there. That's about where New Town is. Just behind the ship there you can see Cornelian Bay cemetery. It's quite a popular location. People ae dying to get in there. [Ahem.] I'll get my coat.

doug H ty gorg E ous adama N t obdu R ate extraordinar Y

The big men fly fall over, OR, " CARN THE SHIPS! " Geilston Bay, July 2010. In the rugged Tasmanian winter, every weekend is footy weekend . Those of you who take note of such things will have already processed the news that the next AFL team - to be located on the sinful Queensland Gold Coast - have adopted the moniker of the "Suns". The Gold Coast Dubious Property Speculators The Gold Coast Nikhedonia The Gold Coast Royal Commissions The Gold Coast Bjelke-Petersens The Gold Coast Discombobulation