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Showing posts from November 8, 2009

The country was in peril; he was jeopardising his traditional rights of freedom and independence by daring to exercise them.

What? Have I got something on my face or something?

He wondered, as he had many times wondered before, whether he himself was a lunatic. Perhaps a lunatic was simply a minority of one.

Here is the bag lady that lives on top of one of the museum buildings. Well, actually, I don't think that she's a bag lady. She's probably Athena , the Greek Goddess of Wisdom. I know that she isn't Diana Princess of Idiots Roman Goddess of Hunters, as she isn't carrying a weapon. It looks like she's carrying a load of very large grapes. Maybe she's Gefjon , the Scandinavian Goddess of Ploughing? It could be Princess Mary, I guess...

Being a woman is a terribly difficult task since it consists principally in dealing with men.

Henry is the champions! No time for LOSERS 'cos Henry is the champions ... of the world. Here is Henry doing his best impersonation of an Italian soccer player.

Das Ei will klüger sein als die Henne.

While we were recovering from our spot of Great White Shark wrestling down at Seven Mile Beach, Ez alerted us to the impressive sight of an aeroplane coming in to land. Of course, I had the camera ready at hand and snapped the 9 am QANTAS flight from Brisbane as it came down to land at Hobart International Airport [no international flight since 2001], which is conveniently located just by the beach. If you squint, you can just about spot crooked NSW cop - is their any other kind? - Roger Rogerson headed south for his holidays. Careful with the massage parlours down here Roger, the bikie gangs run 'em, and they don't like the fuzz!

An intelligent person is not necessarily one who knows the answers but rather knows where to find them.

Here is Ez stalking seagulls in the park at Bellerive. I've decided against showing the moment where he bit the one of the left's head off...

How can I believe in God when just last week I got my tongue caught in the roller of an electric typewriter?

Even the splendid Mount Wellington is blighted by the curse of the phallus. No, it's not a nuclear ICBM primed and ready to put New Zealand back into the stone age. Nor is it a TELEPHONE tower enabling spotty teens to cyber bully the delicate little flowers quivering in front of their tiny keypads. No, it's dedicated to the wonders of television and radio ! Without this baby, the good folk of Hobart would have no idea about Falcon the balloon boy, and we wouldn't know that Michael Jackson is dead (or is he...?) But it is Theme Thursday , and I am not here to talk about television, as the theme is TELEPHONE. It might not surprise you, but I hate the TELEPHONE [it's number thirty seven on my list]. I hate answering the phone (I generally don't unless I'm getting paid). I hate the way that they ring, buzz, beep and rattle. I hate people that go on about their phones. I hate telemarketers, teleprinters, telegeography. Man, I even hate Telly from Sesame Street

If you want to tell people the truth, make them laugh, otherwise they'll kill you.

You might be fooled into thinking that the top of Mount Wellington is a peak of some kind, with Henry, Ezra, Jennifer and I all precariously balanced on tip toes while endeavouring to take photographs and spit on the people below us. Alas, you'd be wrong! The top of Mount Wellington is in fact a Mars-like landscape. In February 1836, Charles Darwin himself visited Hobart and climbed the vicious beast. In The Voyage of the Beagle , Darwin described the mountain thus: "... The summit of the mountain is broad and flat, and is composed of huge angular masses of naked greenstone. Its elevation is 3,100 feet (940 m) above the level of the sea. The day was splendidly clear, and we enjoyed a most extensive view; to the north, the country appeared a mass of wooded mountains, of about the same height with that on which we were standing, and with an equally tame outline: to the south the broken land and water, forming many intricate bays, was mapped with clearness before us. ...&quo

The real doubt is the doubt that doubts that it doubts.

Here is the castle mentioned last Thursday (or at the very least, the light towers that allow the castle to host day/night cricket matches). Yes, it is Light Tower One (or Two or Three or Four) at Bellerive Oval! I know that many visitors will find the notion of getting excited about light towers at sporting arenas quaint, but here in Tasmania they are – for the moment – a new fangled novelty. Remember, we didn’t get television here until 1963!

The mind is not a vessel to be filled, but a fire to be kindled.

Whenever Ez goes to the local museum, he indulges one of his real enthusiasms: that for decapod crustaceans of all shapes and sizes. He loves crabs. Adores them. Cyclograpsus granulosus , Paragrapsus quadridentatus , Dittosa laevis , Mictyris platycheles , Pilumnus fissifrons and his absolutely , completely , utterly , UNQUESTIONABLY favourite of all, the good ol' Ovalipes australiensis !

Even the upper end of the river believes in the ocean.

On Sunday we climbed a mountain. You know that already. The previous Friday, we hit the beach to collect shells (and wrestle sharks). Here's the view of Seven Mile Beach as we relaxed after a marathon Greco-Roman tussle with a Great White with bad breath. It's hard work being Tasmanian. On a side note, it should be no surprise that the troops are rallying the Save the Grand Old Dame . Regular readers know of my obsession love and commitment to that princess of Brutalist architecture, 10 Murray Street [click the link to see my treasure trove of photos]. Well, it appears that the groundswell has become a tsunami! Eagle eyed blog commenter Ms Havershom has alerted me to some attempts to avoid catastrophe and save the day (no doubt to atone for breaking Pip's heart, for you Dickens fans out there). So, wherever you are in the world, you can rally to the cause and send the message that buildings of historical worth did not stop being built in 1890. You can sign the petiti

Memory itself is an internal rumour.

There's nothing that Henry enjoyed doing more than climbing to the top of the play equipment, and belt out a version of Detroit Rock City .

Hope is a waking dream.

Henry, Ezra, Jennifer and I all spent yesterday climbing Mount Wellington. It was a hard slog in the 26 degree Celsius heat, but paid dividends! On the right there you can see Tasman Bridge, and two bays to the left of that, you can see Geilston Bay. If you squint (while standing on your head), you can just about see our house just past that green patch of parkland.

Mad, adj. Affected with a high degree of intellectual independence.

Tora! Tora! Tora! Beware Henry, your prawns are under attack! Ezra favours the aggressive style favoured by the Latvian greats of the early twentieth century, most notably Kārlis Bētiņš. High risk and high reward is the toddler's favourite.

There is no accomplishment so easy to acquire as politeness, and none more profitable.

This gull is wondering why my post is so late today... Thus, today's Sunday Top Five is the Top Five Reasons Why My Post Is So Late Today! 1: Dirty nappies need soaking, and soaked nappies need washing, and washed nappies need hanging out. Toddlers refuse to help in such matters. 2: Pancakes don't cook themselves! 3: Ezra isn't allowed to play in the toilet water and someone has to guard the toilet. 4: I've been up to the top of the mountain and come back down again (photos to come). 5: I have a wife to tickle. Don't even get me started on mowing the lawn...