All I say cancels out, I’ll have said nothing.

Here is the view of Mount Wellington looking west from Hunter Street, across the fish punts and ~~overpriced~~ ~~over-rated~~ boutique fish and chip joints that can be found down along the waterfront...

Hang on...

Hang on...

I've just got to interupt today's post to cross to my LA correspondent who is waiting outside Michael Jackson's Neverland ~~compound~~ ranch.

Me in Hobart: "Dave, Dave can you hear me?"

Dave in LA: [Silence as Dave scratches his nose and looks bored]

Me in Hobart: "Dave, are you with me now?"

Dave in LA: "Yes Kris. The media have thronged to Michael Jackson's Neverland Ranch here 200 miles out of LA."

Me in Hobart: "So Dave, do you have an update for us?"

Dave in LA: "Well, there is a lot of people about. And a lot of media vans."

Me in Hobart: "Can you confirm that former king of pop, Michael Jackson - responsible for such hits as Thriller, Bad and Say, Say, Say - remains dead?"

Dave in LA: "The Californian authorities are able to confirm that yes, one week after Michael Jackson died, Michael Jackson remains dead."

Me in Hobart: "Dave, do you have anything else new to report?"

Dave in LA: "Kris, as you can see from the pictures, the media are thronging to Neverland Ranch. So are many ~~sad loons~~ keen fans."

Me in Hobart: "Thank you Dave. Please keep us updated with all the vital breaking news."

Now, where was I?

Oh, Hobart. It's still cold. It's still raining. I'm still sick.

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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