The majority is always wrong; the minority is rarely right.

Sunshine on my shoulder. Franklin Square. March 2012.

Theme Thursday already and it seems clear that we have well and truley had a change of SEASON down here at the arse-end of the world™.

Unfortunately, we appear to have waived goodbye to Summer and are entering into the gloomier mornings of Autumn. I cannot be certain, but I suspect that the shift has triggered a dose of SEASONal affective disorder in the youngest member of the clan. The fact that he is three-years-old and a boy seems to rule out early-onset-menopause as the cause of his sudden cantankerous irritability. Everybody else in the house just seems flat, and I suspect that we won’t snap out of it until the leave shift to a raging red and golden yellow and start committing suicide.

Comments

Mrsupole said…

I think you have one of the best cameras out there. I love all the pictures you take. This picture is a toss up between being in the shade and having the sun shine on you. Really cool.

I dread to have the summer heat come each year since I started menopause. I used to love the heat and hated the cold, now it is the reverse. But Spring and Autumn were always my favorite seasons. SoCal has some of the best weather during those seasons. Sunny during the day, not too hot, but then it cools down in the evenings and is oh so nice. The plants also love it here, which I guess explains why California grows so much of the US produce. Maybe I will try to grow a garden this year. Tomatoes are just not enough.

And you know that ice cream always helps end the cantankerousness.

God bless.

15 March 2012 at 21:45

Janice said…

What a gorgeous photo. I love the way the rays of light are peeking through the foliage.

16 March 2012 at 05:41

Irene said…

Great photo! And I agree all seasonal changes should be accompanied by ice cream.

16 March 2012 at 08:24

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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