Make yourself an honest man, and then you may be sure there is one less rascal in the world.

MERRY CHRISTMAS (flower). Royal Botanical Gardens. October 2011.

While I am busy keeping a lid on proceedings in the real world, I will let the robot take care of business on the blog front. Today, the robot gets the great privilege of drafting A Very Special Sunday Top Five. Well, robot...?

Today I present to you The Very Top Five Things That I Like To Do On December 25 That Does Not Involve The [Alleged] Birth Of A Baby Of [Alleged] Uncertain Parentage Or A Fat Bloke In A Red Jump Suit!

Eating chocolate mousse!

Visiting the beach!

Having My Feet Rubbed!

Vacuuming!

Quietly rocking in a dark corner gently hitting my forehead onto the ground!

If I can be bothered, I'll post some pictures of children with presents 'n stuff later on...

Comments

Roddy said…

Well, it is 6.22pm here. 7.22 your time. Christmas thankfully is over for one more year.
Did my grandchildren,your infants have an exceedingly good day?
I and your mother are yet to confront them with our Christmas.
Sometime if February.
Anyway, all the best for the festive season.
You know the deal. Lots of kisses for the kids.

25 December 2011 at 19:27

Kris McCracken said…

I hate Christmas.

6 January 2012 at 14:34

If you want to be loved, be lovable.

Henry admires the view.

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

Zeal, n. A certain nervous disorder afflicting the young and inexperienced. A passion that goeth before a sprawl.

Here I have tried my hand at the homemade sepia-toned photo. I wasn’t happy with the way that the sun had washed out some of the colours in the original, so had a bit of a fiddle because I like the look on Henry’s face, and didn’t want to pass on posting it. I have a tip for those of you burdened with the great, unceasing weight of parenthood. I have a new recipe, in the vein of the quick microwaved chocolate cake . Get this, microwaved potato chips . I gave them a run on Sunday, Henry liked the so much I did it again last night. Tonight, I shall be experimenting with sweet potato. I think that the ground is open for me to exploit opportunities in the swede, turnip, carrot and maybe even explore in the area of pumpkins. Radical, I know. I’m a boundary-pusher by nature. It's pretty simple, take the potato. Slice it thinly (it doesn't have to be too thin, but thin enough). Lay the slices on the microwave plate, whack a bit of salt over the top and nuke the buggers for five minut

This will hurt me...

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