This will hurt me...

Don’t give up little man. Battle on! Royal Botanical Gardens, Hobart. March 2012. What more could one ask for this lovely Theme Thursday than a little bit oh HOPE? “What are we if we are without HOPE?”, one might ask. The answer is of course Tasmanian , but at the moment, it’s neither here nor there! No, HOPE springs eternal, noted short literary bloke Alexander Pope used to say. He has a point, but that doesn’t mean that the confidence in an assured outcome will ever be repaid. Unfortunately, the cynical among us sometimes can’t help but feel that HOPE is the eternal purchasing of a TattsLotto ticket to a draw that will never happen. Of course if HOPE translates itself into something more than the passive expectation of a result, it might have some use. HOPE transformed into action might instill a determination that otherwise could dissipate. This is the HOPE I like. This is the HOPE that seems very un-Tasmanian. Can you tell that I’m having a good past couple of weeks? Bring on the ...

When climbing on stuff, particularly metal stuff on hard rock stuff, it is best to show caution. Our meat stuff, blood stuff and bone stuff doesn't bounce as much as some of us might like or need.

Someone must be paying attention. The stairwell in the Curruthers Building, St Johns Park, New Town. February 2011. Crikey, Sunday already and I need another Top Five. With inspiration rapidly dwindling, how about Five Mr Men Books That I Think Would Totally Be Worth Reading ? Mr Seedy : I’ve always thought that Charles Bukowski would have made a decent Mr Men book. Mr Seedy could teach Mr Fussy a thing or two about having fun. Mr Moral : There’s a lot of potential for this one. Think of a superior and condescending Mr Man learning true moral worth. Mr Happy can take the charge, but there’s scope for many Mr Men joining in. Mr Resentment : Think Victor Meldrew, only more bitter. Mr Obsession : Mr Man as creepy stalker. Little Miss Splendid can be the target. Mr Lebensmüde : not only would this make for an interesting picture book, we could try and leverage off a Bergman-esque four hour film as well…

Stairs to the stars. Fire escape from the Theatre Royal, Hobart. November 2010. This one is a (slightly different) look at the Theatre Royal, right at the heart of Hobart. It is a versatile location, staging all kinds of events including ballet, opera, drama and musicals. When the theatre opened in 1837, it was located among the pubs, brothels, gambling dens, factories and tiny workers’ cottages of Wapping. As such, it is the oldest continually operating theatre in Australia. This nearly wasn’t the case though! No less a figure than Sir Laurence Olivier himself spoke passionately to Tasmanians, urging them to resist the urge to demolish it an start again in the 1940s, telling us to "never let it go"! Obviously, someone was listening. Countless lesbians [ahem] thespians have trod the boards of the Royal. Indeed, reading through a simple list is like gazing up at the sky in the dead of night! Laurence Olivier! Noël Coward! Vivien Leigh! Lillian Gish! Peter Ustinov! Hell, we’...

Bottom of the stairs looking up. Carruthers Building, St Johns Park, New Town. July 2010. Last Friday I was on the [second] bus on the way to work – the Glenorchy via New Town Road – when I found myself rapidly approaching the emotional climax of the book I was reading. For those that don’t know (and you would be forgiven for not knowing of it), The Middle Parts of Fortune by the little known and long dead Australian expat Frederic Manning. Men and war, war and men. That’s the plot. While this book is a record of experience on the Somme and Ancre fronts of World War One, there is far more waiting around than actual battle. Just like a real war. That said; if you know anything about the Somme, you know that there will be blood. Perhaps the most striking thing about the book is the voices. Manning served in the ranks, a gentleman amongst men. The dialogue strikes one as ‘true’, and it is as if in recording the conversations of ‘the ordinary soldier’, it seems at times as if one is heari...