The past is never dead. It's not even past.

Pebbles. Water. Sunlight. I think that's all you need to have something halfway interesting. I took this one down in Salamanca, it's part of the statue/fountain combination dedicated to Abel Tasman and the ~~Mighty Dutch Empire~~ plucky little Koninkrijk der Nederlanden.

Time for Sunday Top Five!

Five Things Better Than The English Cricket Team
Henry's toilet nous: we had another poo this morning.

Ezra's standing abilities: not much falling over these days.

Studly North West Coast swing bowlers: Hilfenhaus is the pick of the bowlers. How the poms wish that they could call up some Tasmanians! (Given that the past two English captains are South African, you wonder why they don't.)

West Indian Scab Cricketers: the motley crew of strikebreakers are trouncing Bangladesh, and would no doubt wallop the pride of England (and Wales).

Turnips: turnips are better than the English cricket team. Trust me.

Comments

Roddy said…

Where is the past if it isn't gone? Same place as the pommie cricket team I guess.

12 July 2009 at 13:19

Kris McCracken said…

Roddy, I myself like this photograph. The world does not agree.

13 July 2009 at 14:42

Roddy said…

The picture bodes of wealth. I too am taken by it

13 July 2009 at 16:48

KL said…

Ahem!ahem...australian cricket team has lost all its lustures and glories...so you can't say exactly such things about English team :-D

17 July 2009 at 07:06

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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