Ninety percent of the politicians give the other ten percent a bad name.

So I hear around the traps that there has been an election of some kind, somewhere, featuring some voting, some parties and some dudes. Great to hear. On that note, I wish Helen Clark and company the best, and support New Zealanders in whatever they decide, it's an important time for that great country.

What better way to kick back after a hard few weeks on the huskings than stripping down to the undies, hopping on the banana lounge with a fine malt whiskey in one hand, and a Paddle Pop in the other?

I'm not sure about the Paddle Pop actually, but Lark Distillery, pictured above, is a great place for whiskey. So come on, what are you waiting for? Cast your vote, hop on the plane, loosen the strides and I'll bring the Paddle Pops!

Comments

yournotalone said…

I am not from NZ but I wish I could do that, well, may be in 20-30 years if politicians will not stifle the development of technologies we will be able to travel from Europe to Tasmania in 2h with superfast trains, who knows:)

6 November 2008 at 06:32

Kris McCracken said…

Aigars, we don't have passenger trains here in Tasmania, much to my frustration. It seems that your politicians are much like ours, stifling new ideas!

12 November 2008 at 09:05

If you want to be loved, be lovable.

Henry admires the view.

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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