When the people are being beaten with a stick, they are not much happier if it is called "the People's Stick."

I thought that I'd do Mount Wellington a favour and show you how she looked at lunch today. No snow, but they are apparently predicting cooler temperatures on Thursday, so there is always a chance. There must be a cruise ship on its way!

The odds for a decent night's sleep tonight?

Slightly less now that I've managed to pick up a nice old burn on my wrist via the oven this evening.

Good times.

Comments

yournotalone said…

People's Stick:D:D:D

I keep wondering - why or rather how often do you have snow in the summer?

6 January 2009 at 19:58

Jim Klenke said…

Your day looked very clear. You should let someone else cook, or stay away from things that can hurt you.

6 January 2009 at 23:40

USelaine said…

Oven mitts.

7 January 2009 at 17:14

Kris McCracken said…

Aigars, a) we are close to Antarctica, and the winds off the Southern Ocean are pretty fierce; b) it generally only snows on the mountain, so the altitude influences it.

In my lifetime, it has only snowed at sea level here in Hobart twice (both in winter).

Jim, there is no-one left to cook. Unless I let Henry!

Elaine, I have never used them. They detract from my artist-like dexterity in the kitchen.

9 January 2009 at 15:36

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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