“For alarmingly large chunks of an average day, I am a moron.”

Ezra and Henry hanging about, Binalong Bay, Bay of Fires, Tasmania.

Fever Pitch by Nick Hornby

It is always interesting to read a memoir that reflects on the changes and passing of a very different time, written in the immediate afterwards. Much has changed in English, and world football culture since Fever Pitch was published.

I wonder what Hornby makes of the consequences of enforced seating, the formation of the Premier League and the fracturing of the working class and subsequent dominance of money and middle-class casual fans. Perhaps in the same way, as the book ends in his own settling down and tempering of his fandom, he welcomed the gentrification of the game (but I doubt it).

Anyway, it was a fine diversion from far heavier works.

Born Into This by Adam Thompson

Published stories from a Tasmanian palawa (Aboriginal) perspective are sadly few and far between, but Adam Thompson's debut collection, I hope, will start something of a correction to that. Startingly authentic and brutally honest - I grew up and continue to know people who are very much these characters - I can't wait to see what will come next.

⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐

Comments

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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