You can go a long way with a smile. You can go a lot farther with a smile and a gun.

I am continuing my ‘urban grit’ theme today, with another image of the out-of-control wild streets of Hobart. Yes, today we have a photograph of barbed wire.

For reasons obviously beyond my feeble comprehension, there is a bundle of haphazardly arranged barbed wire on the side of the fire escape to keep reprobates off of the roof of this building.

The logic behind this placement intrigues me. You see, the barbed wire only extends perhaps 1.5 metres across the ledge adjacent to the roof top, but the fire escape itself extends at least 2.5 metres, but more likely 3. This would allow enough space for all but the most corpulent of miscreants to freely access the roof and commit all sorts of heinous acts with the pigeons nestled on top.

This oversight leads me to think that I can safely rule out roof access as the reason behind the inexplicable placement of the barbed wire. However, the wire does not sit in front of anything but a bare brick ledge. It protects no skylight, vent, power box or air conditioning unit. It most certainly does not protect a trench on the Western Front of France (which it faintly resembles). It just sits there on a 1.5 metre bare patch of a join between the fire escape and the building.

I have contemplated whether or not it is possibly an art display, as the fire escape overlooks an ‘art space’. This I have ruled out though, as I think it is far too creative and oblique for the standard of art usually observed around these parts.

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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