This will hurt me...

I'm continuing to use up my stockpiled winter photographs, a foggy morning down by the waterfront can be seen above. That said, the morning THIS fine September morning is bright and clear, with the sound of the washing machine doing its magic as the line steadily fills up today. Indeed, I expect it to be filled with handkerchiefs alone, judging by the past week around these parts! Time for the Sunday Top Five . I thought I'd go a little educational today, and list the Top Five Moneyspinners For The Tasmanian Economy ! Tasmania has a reasonably diverse economy with lots of different exporters. In the main, we export to Asia, and Japan being easily our largest single receiver of goods and services. 1. Processed metals : here it is all about zinc and aluminium. 2. Tourism : and growing. As soon as Henry and Ezra hit H B ollywood, it will only grow more. 3. Manufacturing : a broad brush, I know, but we're talking here about textiles, marine machinery, automotive components, hea...

I thought it only fair with you that I share this image snapped during my lunchtime stroll along the sunny Derwent. How about this for a lovely summer sky? The sun is obviously feeling a little like me today: struggling .

Here is a boat. I wish that it was a better shot, but the camera can do only so much. If Santa has worked his calculations out correctly, and is on top of correspondence, I may well be in possession of a slightly better piece of equipment the other side of this retched holiday season. On other matters, the other day I was perusing the annual NME top whateveritis albums of the year and was reminded yet again of the cruel march of time. There was a time that I attempted to remain abreast of the comings and goings of the music world. I'd keep an eye (ear?) on the hot young acts, and was generally hip - if somewhat dismissive - to the critically acclaimed artists . Browsing this year's top whateveritis , it quickly became apparent that I hadn't actually heard of , let alone heard the majority of the acts. Despondant, I click back to 2007, and find much the same thing. '06, '05, '03, on and on it goes. Yes, it appears that 1997 was the last year that I could with ...

There are so many alternatives. There is blue, there is black. There is walking, there is running. There is fish, there is door. There seems to be nothing left to the imagination. Occasionally, even though I am so very tired, I find it difficult to sleep at night. Sometimes it is because it is too quiet. Sometimes. Sometimes it is too loud, but sometimes it is too quiet. Sometimes boys (and sometimes girls) ride their skateboards past my house. I have two pairs of trousers that seem somewhat confused; they cannot seem to decide if they would rather be trousers or shorts, so somewhere about the middle they stop. Frankly, this causes me no end of worry. I forget things all the time. Big hats. Big hats don't mean anything to me these days. I remember... blue. Sometimes socks never come back. I have never pretended to understand women. I think that I'll sleep tonight.

Launceston and back today. Throw in a baby screaming all evening, a stroppy, whining toddler and we're talkin' good times ! Maybe the marathon yelling session will mean an equally long sleep. One can dream, can't I?

I figure that today I got the most authentic Father's Day gift possible. Real life, of course, is not generally the stuff of toilet paper commercials or Hallmark cards; thus it is only appropriate that this Father's day has entailed being kept up for much of the night by an alternating yelling/snoring baby, who eventually wakes up the toddler at half past five in the morning. That means the great weight of lethargy on the shoulders (with concomitant short fuse), still screaming baby, and a grizzling, whiny toddler demanding to be picked up every five seconds. I did get a book, however, which was nice. I have a nice Henry photo lined up for later on.

I cringe whenever I hear war employed as analogous to sport, so I apologise in advance for this post. You see, I appreciate very clearly the temptation to employ what we think we know of war (understanding that thinking that we know something about something is very different to knowing about something). So, please forgive me for clutching at the metaphor. In my defence I offer my own well worn tale of child-induced weariness. The cumulative effects of a new baby with still-confused patterns of sleep, and an older prime physical specimen who has appeared to have prematurely entered that phase famously called the “terrible twos”, have wrought a grave toll on my nerves. I feel for my health. Even without concerns about the security of my manhole , it is safe to say that both mind and body are struggling at the moment. I have endeavoured to keep the intake of fresh fruit and veg up, and the reliance on caffeine down, yet the constant interrupted sleep is inevitably taking its toll. Whi...

Even though he has pretty much kept Jen and I up all night (and slept though most of the days for the past week), we still reckon that he is rather lovely. I am starting to get the feeling that all babies have dictatorial leanings. Alternatively – at the very least – all of my babies have dictatorial leanings. All that I can pray for is a benevolent dictatorship.

Number two in today's 'tired' series, here we can see four feet. I wear size fourteen shoes, and struggle for choice in footwear. I would wager that both Henry and Ezra will wear size sixteen or above, and will probably be stuck with cardboard boxes stuffed with rags for shoes. It shall be a hard life. [In a quick reader response, I can announce that Ezra is up to 3.9 kilograms, up from 2.9 birth weight. That would be down to the non-stop feeding.]

I didn't get more than half hour straight sleep last night, so forgive the lack of narrative. I'll let the pictures do the talking instead. Look at this face. It is the face on an angel. How could an angel sound like the devil ALL NIGHT LONG is what I want to know. I shall endevour to post more throughout the day, or at least I shall order the robot to do it.

By golly, you know there must be a degree of emotional termult when you delve in Johann Gottfried Herder for your title! I have previously expressed an interest in the whole Sturm und Drang movement. But enough inner turmoil, I have a photograph to explain! And isn't it action packed? But why was I outside of a wine bar when I was supposed to be at work? Well, you would be forgiven for thinking that. After work yesterday, I had to nip back into the maternity ward of the hospital to get a stamp on a form. This stamp would once and for all establish Ezra's existence in the eyes of the omnipotent bureaucratic apparatus that sits over all of us here in Australia. I am relived to now know that the little bloke is now real because I was starting to think that the shrieking little thing keeping me up all night was some sort of malevolent apparition. But he has been just a dear little baby boy all along! If that wasn't overwhelming enough, my journey to the hospital was made...

At 3/139 chasing Tassie's total of 340, I'm a bit worried. Hopefully we can get the next load of wickets for just a few runs. Riddled with the flu here, and with work all Thursday it's looking increasingly unlikely that I'll get to the game. My only hope is for rain, and the snot and fever to clear up on Friday!. C'MON THE TIGERS! C'MON THE STUD!

Back at work today and already I'm sooooooooooooooooooo tired.