An artist is like a woman who can do nothing but love, and who succumbs to every stray male jackass.

Polite. East Derwent Highway, Lindisfarne. August 2013.

The Gardener from Ochakov, Andrey Kurkov: I had been anxiously awaiting the latest from my favourite Ukrainian author, and it didn't disappoint. A time-travel adventure (a theme this week) with a light touch, I'm not sure whether Kurkov is satirising or indulging in a bit of post-Soviet nostalgia. As we often see in Kurkov's books, there is a clash of the mundane - tracksuits, minibuses, homemade vodka - and the surreal - knife-wielding gangsters from 1950s Soviet Union. I really enjoyed it. B+.

The Time Machine, H.G. Wells: The classic of the genre, it's a surprise to see just how much the story is interwoven with Darwinian and Marxist theory. The 19th Century was one hell of a trip! I reckon that it stands up. Well worth your time. B+.

Me Talk Pretty One Day, David Sedaris: A collection of essays by Jerri Blank's brother (that's who David Sedaris will always remain in my heart). Some of the essays have been featured This American Life, and they are each very funny reminiscences of a fish out of water. My favourites? It's hard to top the "The Learning Curve", in which Sedaris recalls his job teaching a writing workshop or "Me Talk Pretty One Day", a hilarious recounting of the trials and tribulations of foreigners learning French class in Paris. B+.

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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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