Necessity makes even the timid brave.

In part two of our reconstruction of the rise and fall of Italian Fascism [set against the backdrop of a wet and wild Seven Mile Beach], here Henry, Ezra and Jen discuss the failures of the Italian army in North Africa.

Ezra blames the poor quality of the pasta.

Jen blames the poor quality of the vino.

Henry blames Ezra and Jen.

I, as Victor Emmanual III, blamed ill health.

As usual.

Comments

Roddy said…

Who do you think is sicker? The people who fought against fascism or those that try to explain it!
You also have to remember the times, pasta was in short supply and vino home made.

20 September 2010 at 20:05

ratatouille's archives said…

Hi! Kris...
Unfortunately, I'am totally in the dark when it comes to the history of war, but the photograph is beautiful.

Even with a grey sky "looming"
overhead...or rather over Jen, Henry, and Ezra heads.
The quote...So true! So very true!
Thanks, for sharing!
DeeDee ;-D

21 September 2010 at 04:39

Kris McCracken said…

Roddy, I'm not sure fighting against Fascism is 'sick'. The notion of Fascism is an interesting one, a different kind of social unity. Of course exploring it is difficult as both the word and concept have some very unsavoury assumptions.

DeeDee, most are. The good thing is that the Italians lost!

22 September 2010 at 13:25

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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