In football everything is complicated by the presence of the opposite team

The end of winter is always a sad time for those of us who follow poorly performing football teams. I am not a huge fan of Mr Jean-Paul Sartre, the man responsible for the above quote, but fans of the Essendon Football Club can only but agree. So, Henry and I bade farewell to the Bombers, and paid homage to another wasted season by visiting the Henry Fitzgerald McCracken Football and Cricket Arena over the road. Ezra did not accompany us, as he needed a lie down after all of the eating, sleeping and globetrotting he has been doing of late. Henry and I did manage to expand on out plans for the Ezra Leo Fitzgerald McCracken Grandstand and Indoor Aquatic Centre that we are lobbying our local member to help fund.

Our vision is to eventually to put Geilston Bay into the position to host the Commonwealth Games, or, failing that, the Gay Games. It very much be the ticket to put our neck of the woods on the map!

While meandering around the oval, I did manage to prod Henry in the direction of a decent Father’s Day present for Sunday. I figure that with two kiddies now, I should get double the presents. I am thinking about a flash camera, a trip to Pilisvörösvár, or a whizz bang new computer. To be honest though, I will be happy with anything more than another kick in the head.

Maybe Ezra will have some ideas…

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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