To try or not to try, that is the question

The Swans insist that it is all much ado about nothing; the AFL is keen to protect the integrity of the competition; Roos thinks that he is being unfairly persecuted and that the AFL have a vendetta against him; Andy Demetriou says that it's "nothing personal", he's even in the Telegraph counselling restraint. Aker (being Aker) just can't keep out of any argument and reckons the pre-season comp should be scrapped. The people of Sydney are in uproar! In The Age, Carro reckons that it is a farce and is holding the fort for her good mate Snooze; in the Hun noted hack Mark Robinson thinks that it's all the fault of the league; yet also in the Hun chief footy scribe Mike Sheehan disagrees and thinks that Roos has come out looking soiled, and that the AFL's point is valid.

It should shock no-one that I agree with Sheehan. The competitive spirit within me cannot accept that football can tolerate actively trying to lose a game. As I said in an earlier post and feel strongly enough to reiterate, it's all very well to pick a reserves outfit, have your best players on the bench or dawdle over interchanges, but it is surely a far graver action to send out instructions to cease trying.

Nonetheless, it could all be far worse; all I've heard from the weird and whacky world of thugby league is bullets, brothels, booze and brawls through Sydney's red light district. So maybe Roosy's indiscretions are minor in comparison.

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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