Liberty is a word which, according as it is used, comprehends the most good and the most evil of any in the world.

The statue of Abel Tasman stoically looks upon the Dutch flag on a sunny Hobart day. Of course, this morning it is raining yet again, and Abel is enjoying the chance to have the bird poo washed off his lovely Lutjegasti head.
Abel seemed like a good bloke, even if he was a bit of a suck. Upon being the first European to stumble upon this fine island, he promptly named it Van Diemen's Land, in honour of his boss – Anthony van Diemen – head honcho of the Dutch East Indies, a bloke with big dreams and deep pockets who had visions of a grand Dutch empire that would extend into the “Great Southern Land”.

So he sent Abel down here in 1642, a good year for most not named Charles I. Despite its obvious charms, the Dutch didn’t think much of the joint. Lazy buggers, the Dutch East India Company reckoned Tasman's explorations were a letdown: he had neither found a promising area for trade nor a useful new shipping route.

With no existing thriving communities to leach upon – the Dutch (and Portuguese and Spanish and French) way – they said “bugger it”, and for over a century, until the poms were looking for a place a long long way away to dump their human refuse, Tasmania and New Zealand were not visited by Europeans.

But that is another story...

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