(My) Photo of the day

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 national rate (which he will begin receiving at age seven), and a reduction of his working week to 4.5 hours. "C'est le mieux que je peux faire" he said, "les temps sont durs!"

I told him that we would have to think about it. As I have indicated previously, I see a bright future for this young man...

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...

Search This Blog