Imagination was given to man to compensate him for what he is not; a sense of humour to console him for what he is.

Achene. Front yard, Marieville Esplanade, Sandy Bay. September 2012.

Three books this week, well, two plays and one Regency romance (written in 1944) to be precise...

The Caretaker, Harold Pinter: A play in three acts, largely a psychological study of lonliness, power, allegiance, innocence and corruption. Set in a dingy room with a cast no larger than two brothers and a tramp, this is quite a claustrophobic treat. B+.

An Inspector Calls, J.B. Priestley: Another three-act drama, this time set in 1912. A wealthy middle-class family receives a visit by a mysterious fellow calling himself Inspector Goole, who interrogates the family about the suicide of a young working-class woman. Essentially a scathing critique of the hypocrisies of Edwardian society and a premonition of the inevitable Socialist future. Striking. B+.

Friday's Child, Georgette Heyer: Incredibly silly romance featuring a cast of oddball characters and improbable set pieces. Although some of the tone jars a bit - think He Hit Me (It Felt Like a Kiss) - if you're after some escapist fare and enjoy bounders and cads 'getting theirs', you could do worse. C.

Comments

Carola said…

Outstanding photo!
Great focus, perfect light, what a front garden scenery.

2 November 2012 at 21:17

Kris McCracken said…

The lady whose house it is was wondering what I was doing though...

3 November 2012 at 09:24

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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