This will hurt me...

Leaving on a jet sea plane. In front of Mount Wellington, Hobart. December 2012. Theme Thursday today and it's all about the IMAGINATION. You know, IMAGINATION. Flying pigs. Alien abductions. Reward for merit. That kind of thing. Like this plane. Chartered by an "Ashok Kumar" out of the city of Kanpur in Uttar Pradesh, the plane was loaded with a collection cheap plaster statutes of the oft-overlook Saint Chrysogonus. Naturally, people viewed Kumar's actions with suspicion. After all, what would the son of an impoverished street poori-sabji seller be doing shipping religious knick knacks at the arse end of the world? Despite what you might think, Ashok's motives were pure. Well, pure in the sense that love, lust and the desire to disrobe in front of the extraordinarily beautiful and nubile young seamstress from next door is an entirely reasonable motivating force in the life of any young man. Obviously, you need to shift an awful lot of curried treat...

Coming in to land. Seven Mile Beach. October 2011. All I can muster is, "What would Robbie Burns say?" To which all I can reply is, "Mah god! that is indeed a body enormoos metal spyug up thaur in th' lift!" To a Mouse, On Turning her up in her Nest with the Plough , Robert Burns Wee, sleekit, cow'rin', tim'rous beastie, O what a panic's in thy breastie! Thou need na start awa sae hasty, Wi' bickering brattle! I wad be laith to rin an' chase thee Wi' murd'ring pattle! I'm truly sorry man's dominion Has broken nature's social union, An' justifies that ill opinion Which makes thee startle At me, thy poor earth-born companion, An' fellow-mortal! I doubt na, whiles, but thou may thieve; What then? poor beastie, thou maun live! A daimen-icker in a thrave 'S a sma' request: I'll get a blessin' wi' the lave, And never miss't! Thy wee bit housie, too, in ruin! Its silly wa's the win's ar...

It's a waiting game: Jen and Henry, Tullamarine Airport, Melbourne. April 2011. There really is a limited amount of opportunities to take photographs in an airport, especially when you are on toddler-guarding duties. Henry can be entrusted with the trusty Sony PSP (and cross your fingers that the battery holds out), but Ez is like that 1980s pop combo Wa Wa Nee ; he needs stimulation . It's a waiting game: pilot fiddling, Tullamarine Airport, Melbourne. April 2011. We tried to arrange for a little jaunt up in a 737, but there were just too many forms to fill out (and people to bribe), so we stuck to a knock off Dorcas the Explorer [no relation] merry go round instead. It's a waiting game: planes await, Tullamarine Airport, Melbourne. April 2011. Oh we can laugh about it now, but at the time it was terrible ...

Coming in to land at Hobart International Airport (as seen from Seven Mile Beach). February, 2010. By the time that this post appears, I shall have already been up in a plane - very much like this one - and stalking the mean streets of Melbourne. I'm hoping that I manage to escape the hotbed of gangland mayhem and murder without a hit being taken out on me. Thankfully, three things rest in my favour: i) it's a fly in and out all in the one day; ii) I'm not sure that the drug king pins are too fussed by me; iii) there is an ever increasing shortage of drug king pins to be fussed.

An aeroplane comes in to land at Hobart International Airport as seen from Seven Mile Beach, February 2010. If I could catch a plane to anywhere in the world, where would you go? Moreover, what would you do with your kids? Is their much to do in Oulu for toddlers?

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!