Nobody climbs mountains for scientific reasons. Science is used to raise money for the expeditions, but you really climb for the hell of it.

So one computer is feeling better again, and the other is on its way back to health. The LOL sharks have been as disappointing as the latest hot young things forecast as the future of music. If that's the future of music, set the dial back to 1969 please!

But I don't want to talk about it right now. I want to talk about today. I want to talk about the adventurous start to 2009 for the motley crew that constitutes my family.

After a rough New Year's Eve that involved no alcohol, fisticuffs, or young lovelies in tube tops with ill intent; but rather more teeth, lots of screaming and very little sleeping; this morning we decided to take advantage of the cool but clear day and that a quick jaunt would be just the tonic.

Our intention was to perhaps stop of at a little French patisserie, pick up ourselves a few little tarts and croissants, some café au lait and chocolat chaud to go around and then off to a playground for a bit of kick to kick, a spot on the slide, maybe a backflip or two off the monkey bars.

But no. The scene: in the car, jumpers of, the mountain looms into view. Henry says, in a firm, cold voice: "Mountain mummy; mountain daddy". It was clear, the lad wanted (no, needed), to conquer the mountain again!

To be continued...

Comments

Anonymous said…

I think this is an interesting photograph of a mountain that looks like a stack of blocks ready to fall down.

Happy New Year to you and your family from Patty and Abe.

1 January 2009 at 21:56

Neva said…

The scenery is stunning....

2 January 2009 at 08:55

Kris McCracken said…

Abe and Neva, it is an interesting collection up around the mountain.

5 January 2009 at 12:16

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