When you win the toss – bat. If you are in doubt, think about it, then bat. If you have very big doubts, consult a colleague

When you win the toss – bat. If you are in doubt, think about it, then bat. If you have very big doubts, consult a colleague – then bat.

It's springtime in Tasmania and that means football season is over (with Henry triumphant in our tipping competition, beating me out by a solitary point) and the air is filled with the sound of leather on willow, and the gentle sounds of one team attempting to mentally disintegrate the babyfaced opening batsman debuting for the opposition.

Ahhh, the glorious contrasts of cricket! At once full of a confident history of gentleman and sportsmanship, yet a very same history full of hatred, violence, greed and corruption!

Ahhh cricket, this is why we love you so.

Getting into the spirit of the game, Henry spent a bit of time after playgroup chipping in his thoughts. He chastised the fat bloke at silly mid on because he was fat and his creams were whites and congratulated the deep backward square for his innovative incorporation of Alicia Keys lyrics into his sledging routine.

It's the beauty of cricket you see, often it's what happens when nothing is happening that really entertains. Think of lunch times in the schoolyard, the politics of the workplace or the anarchical society that can be found in international relations; each has nothing of the depth and mettle that cricket demands (at least in its pure form, the long stuff).

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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