(My) Photo of the day, Or Yesterday, and days before, sun is cold and rain is hard, I know; been that way for all my time

The seemed to be a fair bit of rain last night and this morning, but it appeared to clear in time for my walk to the bus stop, and then from the other bus stop into work.

Naturally, the wet weather did nothing to persuade the many fools in high performance motor vehicles who (in an endeavour to demonstrate their own joie de vivre) routinely accelerate to preposterous degrees in the attempt to claim victory in that oh-so-meaningful feat of reaching the next red light first!

Might I add that, despite the impression one would get from the esteemed Tasmanian press, the aforementioned hoons are not always young men draped in gold jewellery and featuring ghastly haircuts. Just as often one can spot the middle aged female – similarly draped in gold jewellery and with ghastly haircut – looking to drop young Cassandra off at the elite ladies college up the road ("ten thousand dollars a year, but worth every cent!") Then, she will proceed to a big grey building where she, and many like her, will pick disdainfully at expensively catered delicacies funded by the taxpayer during her weekly strategic planning meeting and no doubt complain forcefully and with great indignation about the offensiveness of government waste and how these uncivilised young men who terrorise the road should be locked up and the key thrown away for good.

Bitter? Why, of course!

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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