This will hurt me...

Is that Roger Ramjet is a Myra Hindley wig?

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!

Obviously the boys will need to be well acquainted with a vast array of nautical equipment to successfully row to the Antarctic before they attempt to reach the pole barefoot . Therefore, I've had Ezra put his mind to memorising over twenty-seven thousand specific knots and a sound knowledge of splices. Here, he is lining up rows of buoys and applying various buntline hitchs, bowlines, Spanish bowlines, verstackles and a whole line of variations of reef knots.

Frequent blog pest stalker commentator Roddy's leathery old arm blocks an even better view of Ezra. This one is an old one, early April if I'm not mistaken.

Emerging from the shadows, trees, flowers and long discarded gravestones, Ezra makes for an imposing sight.

Cranky Hanky turns his back on the camera to check out the play equipment in the notorious derelict park in North Hobart. Be careful Henry, there's hungry homeless about!

Slide Ezra, slide like you've never slided slode slidden slid before!

To the swings, boy's! To the swings! Here is Henry enjoying the swings down in Lindisfarne. He's in the process of trying to get the swing to go all the way over the top of the frame. One day, Henry. One day.

I am not sure that I knew what I'd find looking up this tree. We don't have squirrels or chipmunks here in Australia. There aren't any koalas in Tasmania. A possum would be in bed by now (and probably pee in you face anyway), and there aren't a lot of leaves about at the moment. Maybe I knew that I'd see the sky. How long do you think that it takes for someone who proposes to talk about thinking about talking about thinking about something to generate a sufficient vacuum of inanity to literally - and of course I mean that in a figurative sense - suck their own head into their own backside? The other day I saw a fellow do this, and it took approximately seven seconds .

Here's a close up of a knot on a tree in the park. It was right at the top of the tree, but I had no need to climb it. Such is the power of the zoom! Here are five unimportant facts about me: I am 193 centimetres tall. I am considerably younger than my old dear wife. It is something like THREE months. I like lists. I hate Katherine Hepburn. I find her a ye olde version of Nicole Kidman, and I rank Nicole Kidman right up there with spinal meningitis. I am going to the beach right now.

So we made our way up to Mount Field National Park yesterday, primarilly to get a look at the oft photogaphed Russell Falls. More of that to come, but first I present to you one intrepid young explorer under the canopy, dear little Ezra.

Here is Henry doing his best impression of a French train driver. I really must say that his impression was spot on. We spent 45 minutes sitting on a stationary train and he didn't do an ounce of work, just sat there looking smug. Actually, that's not completely correct. True to form , he was not working. Rather, if you look very closely, you should be able to see that he is eating a tasty-looking scroll (he didn't share), from Jean Pascal's Patisserie in Newtown. What you can't see is the croissont that he snatched from me and gobbled up. Again, in a fine impersonation of a French rail worker, face stuffed full, he then proceeded to shout (mumble) "plus! plus!! PLUS!!! " ("more! more!! MORE!!! ") In the end, we called it quits and decided to walk home. Henry did make one last offer, he would think about starting up the engine for an immediate thirty percent increase in his sultana allowance, a funded pension indexed at three times the nationa...

Here is a tree in St Davids Park, not far from my office. I had a nice stroll through the park to and from a meeting. I saw the tree and experimented with perspective. The meeting went well, for those of you concerned about such things.