Canberra: Why wait for death?

This title was taken from the Bill Bryson book, Down Under. Yes, there is quite a tradition to slagging Canberra! Before I get back to Canberra, I better acknowledge the fact that the photo is not from that fine town, but an action shot of Henry in motion. I figured that even reading about Canberra is dull enough to kill elephants, so I'd best give you folks something interesting to look at.

So I did finally make it to Canberra! As you can see in the photograph below, the whole plane is absolutely over the moon at the prospect of a day in such an exciting place.

Some people reckon that the name "Canberra" means 'meeting place' in the Ngunnawal language, with reference to the various transcriptions of Kambera (alternatively spelt Kamberra, Nganbra or Nganbirra). However, my sources - high up in the indigenous community - reckons that this is a mistranslation. They claim that the actual meaning of the name is "cake eating" (at a meeting). They attribute this mistranslation to the fact that "a guy was sick that day".

I can believe that.

So that wraps up my discourse on Canberra. I did consider taking a few snaps of the city itself, but didn't.

The circumstances and reasoning behind that decision are multifaceted and complex. In order to keep things interesting - and again, we're talking Canberra here - I have given you the choice of the most palatable option for yourself. Pick the one that most satisfies you, and we'll be right!

a) I ran out of film.
b) I couldn't be arsed.
c) Work, work, work...
d) It's Canberra! Why on Earth would I take photographs of Canberra?!? I don't want to lose readers!

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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