How much more grievous are the consequences of anger than the causes of it?

Here you can see the view westwards from the very bottom of Argyle Street this morning.

It appears that discourtesy, deafness and poor motor skills are all pre-requisites of a Metro bus driver here in Hobart.

Other desirable attributes include morbid obesity, limited mathematical skills, an inability to read the time accurately and a vocabulary that does not extend beyond the range of grunts and guffaws one might expect of a troop or gorillas in the highlands of Rwanda.

Now, far be it from me to cast aspersions on the good folk at Metro Tasmania (can you see how carefully I am choosing my words?), but between you and me – and judging by the sweat stains under the armpits – maybe the gorillas slightly trump them in the hygiene department.

After all, I am not sure who might be willing to pick the nits off an unkempt bus driver...

Bitter, moi?

Comments

Sue said…

Wow, Kris, it sounds like your dealings with a so-called driver of buses may have been akin to my experience this morning with the simple minded, moronic imbeciles I had to speak with at Telstra, concerning a problem that was created six months ago by them. I am ashamed to say that I did lose my cool at one point, but I was quickly made to see the error of my ways when I was then continually made to wait on hold listening to their goddamn awful muzak.

22 January 2009 at 11:55

Kris McCracken said…

Sue, I do believe that these things are sent to try us.

I just try to be polite as possible, or, failing that, not smack the in the mouth.

23 January 2009 at 18:48

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...

Search This Blog