Symphony under the stars and a few gatecrashing planets

Most people know that some of the brightest stars are, in fact, planets. This is something I am always forgetting. About a week ago I was marvelling at a bright star that was snuggled right up to the dark side of the moon. I later found out that was Jupiter.

Last night we took the boys to Symphony Under the Stars, and again, as the first "stars" came out I was completely oblivious that they were Venus, Mars and the Big J. It was at lovely Tolosa Park where we have been to various daytime events. People bring picnics and rugs etc. Many bought folding chairs, but unless you are early enough to score a patch on the terraces, I don't think they work that well on a steep slope. We went for simple couch cushions.

The Tasmanian Symphony Orchestra were in good form on some popular chunes. They played Jupiter from Holst's Planets, which was followed by some discussion of the planets visible, the chief of which was in fact the Jupester.

We haven't been to this gig before so I don't know if there is always a featured vocalist, but we thought the music was most enjoyable when she was out the back changing her frock. The boys were mugging about with cushions over their ears when she sang, and there was certainly a touch of the Madame Castafiore* about her. You could imagine glasses exploding.
*Tintin reference.

One of the less-immediately-lovable bloke-in-a-suit characters is RACT Cube Man. He came out to wave a bit. Christopher Lawrence who was MC-ing asked Cube Man a few questions but he is a very private cube and not much was forthcoming.

We enjoyed it despite the chanteuse, and our distance from the action. Next year get there early, and take the binoculars and the star map.

Break point, out by the biohazard bins

Cam and I had a game of tennis yesterday morning - my first in a few years. We went down to the uni where we last played, but they are only admitting members on the courts now. Pretty crummy. Even if you are prepared to buy a membership you have to do a 20 minute orientation tour, and then still pay by the hour for the court.

We left in a huff, and tried our luck at the old court behind St Johns Hospital in South Hobart. I've seen people playing there - I've always assumed they must be staff. But we went in to reception and asked.Well, actually the ladies were too busy to ask, so we just stood there in our sports gear with our racquets and assumed they would twig what we were after. When the phone stopped ringing for a few seconds someone found us a key - and asked for $3! Surely it costs the hospital more than that just to have their reception staff interrupted.

With a bit of exaggeration I can see a comedy bit in this. Pompous over-serious tennis player jogging on the spot while he waits for someone to notice him, stretching and then eventually opening a can and practising his ball-toss. Meanwhile medical emergencies of ever-increasing seriousness play out behind him.

The hospital is pretty old, and it has grown in fits and starts, so it's a rabbit warren. It was founded as a homeopathic hospital in 1899. Out the back behind the coach-house (which now contains specialists rooms) are some sheds, the biohazard bins, piles of rusting rubbish and a neglected tennis court.We enquired in one of the worksheds and borrowed a spade and broom, and dealt with the tufts of grass growing down the tramlines.

Eventually we were up and running. Cam is a much better player than I - I hardly made a first serve all day. Yet he made more errors than me and ended up losing his usual steely focus. I won the first set and was up 3-1 in the second when we abandoned the match. It was just too hot and we had to play indoor soccer later in the day so we were saving our legs. (We lost soccer 5-4 so we should have quit tennis sooner).

Qwerty!

Again, I am writing merely to announce that I have a new laptop. How thrilling, I hear you exclaim.In fact, it is (again) a borrowed laptop with a teeny tiny keyboard. And its not a Mac. So, expect quite a few blog posts with a vaguely peeved undertone.

Ha ha.only kidding.Although my mouse button seems to have two distinct personalities and that will take a little bit of getting used to.

AFL 2103 - scrying the entrails

Premiers: West Coast
Runners Up: Collingwood
Rest of the top 8: Sydney, Adelaide, Hawthorn, Geelong, Fremantle, Richmond
Wooden Spoon: Melbourne
Brownlow Medal: Scott Pendlebury, Collingwood
Coleman Medal: Jack Darling, West Coast (67)
Richmond Outlook: In the mix with Freo, Essendon, North and Carlton for unwinnable 7th and 8th spots. To just see them in a final would be amazing for Marcus who was born after their great finals run of 2001.

Reality-challenged hatters

Well - what’s the euphemism for mad nowadays? Socially-excluded troubled-behaviours hatters?

It matters not. We had a theme, we had some kids, we had some parents, we had a lot of food (including 3 or 4 pints of not-quite right icing) and we partied-down. To celebrate Michael's 9th birthday of some 3 weeks ago. 

Elf organised everything and made the sensational cake. Sally made a rainbow cake for Arthur a few months back, and I connected the dots thinking Elf copied that. In fact she didn’t even see that cake, this was simply great cake minds thinking alike. 

The shindig went well! Thanks to Imp for the lend of the chocolate fountain and to the weather for being stonking. Childers repaired to the pool to shout and douse each other, adults hung around the shady deck and stretched the party into a practically all-day event, and in so doing mopped up the excess food. 

We are tired but happy, as another year’s party season honks to a close.

Thinning on top

Got my standard haircut today - Nº2 back and sides, Nº3 across the scone. After that, the hairdresser asked, in all seriousness, “Do want me to thin it out on top?”

I did 2 or 3 doubletakes, and ended up saying “Er, if you think it needs it?” She did.

Hands up how many people;

1. remember Gerald Ford as US President and
2. have the hairdresser thinning them out on top?

Anyone? No. Just me. So thanks to my dad's side of the family for the tenacious hair genes. Good one, Reeses and Stubbingses!

Dogs and cats agree

Everyone loves the little blue pool.

Zero Dark Thirty

Tuesday was the first day of the school year, and also my dear wife returned to work. So, as a person who works from home, you would imagine I just revelled in the peace and quiet and/or called a No Pants Day. In fact I decided that I, - free of the need to include, involve, listen to or supervise others - would walk to North Hobart, see a very long movie, then walk home again. And that would be my day.

So, I had a very nice walk. I get anxious about being late for things, and that has spoiled my enjoyment of many a walk - the thought that if I don’t speed up I’m going to miss something. I walked to school with Elf and the kids thinking after that I would walk home, and then at some stage head off to the cinema for the 10.45 showing. At some point I abandoned that plan, and after seeing the kids to their new classrooms, I just kept on walking, and gave myself a very, very leisurely stroll.

Now to the movie. I had seen that it had very positive reviews, and the chap in the local paper said that it dealt with the very violent real events (torture, terrorist attacks and the raid to kill Osama Bin Laden) in a restrained way - which convinced me to see it, as I am not interested in gore & splatter.

The first two minutes are sound only - over a black screen you hear very affecting audio from September 11. At the start of the film we meet Maya, the young, slim, redhead CIA officer who becomes obsessed with finding Bin Laden. This is all supposedly based on the facts, but I don’t know if this is a montage of more than one person or a completely invented character.

She is newly arrived in-country at one of the CIA’s secret bases. I forget if this was in Pakistan or Afghanistan. Her new boss Dan is waterboarding a prisoner, and we get to see plenty of that. It’s monstrous. Some such as Waleed Aly have called this a pro-torture film. Maya goes from being very uncomfortable witnessing waterboardings, to ordering them to be carried out. As she is the “hero” of the film and is ultimately successful in getting intelligence that leads them to OBL, it leaves itself open to this accusation.

But I disagree. The film does not show any prisoner giving up intelligence while being waterboarded or immediately after. Maya’s stroke of genius was  POSSIBLE SPOILER ALERT  to convince a disoriented and sleep-deprived man that he had already told them what they wanted to know. From there, he let his guard down. Yes - waterboarding, 24-hour death metal music and other abuses of human rights got him to that point.

I am an Amnesty member and anti-torture. The reality is that there is a wide grey area between what is illegal and what I am comfortable with. Do I have the right to urge the banning of things that are a) effective and b) not illegal? 

One of the planks of Amnesty’s anti-torture platform is actually expressed by a sceptical character in the film, and it’s not about human rights at all. It is that “intelligence gained through torture is low quality intelligence - in these circumstances people just say anything”. This is an amoral argument against torture, but a good one, which is why Amnesty uses it.

I think what the film does show is that the treatment the US defines as being short of torture is (as depicted) torture. The US military says that waterboarding is OK as it is not “specifically intended to inflict severe physical or mental pain or suffering.” Dan says repeatedly to the prisoner - “You lie to me, I hurt you” and then does. Whether it’s severe - well, Maya didn’t want to watch when she was first confronted with it.

I got caught up in the spy thriller aspect, but a bit confused by some of the helicopters-over-Abbotabad stuff.  PSA  One chopper is damaged on landing and can’t take off. Some of the SEALs on the ground blow it up, as it is a top-secret weapon, but we see that from within the other chopper that has taken off. So guys were left behind? No - it looks like everyone makes it back OK. Odd.

It was a very good film, but one that filled me with dread and paranoia. If I was backpacking near the Pakistan border now (rather than 15 years ago) this is NOT a film I would like see. It is not going to win any friends in the Pakistan Tourism Board, that’s for sure. 

Washday

Sure, I made them co-operate. But still - they’re cooperating.

A study in tong size polarisation

I need some MEDIUM tongs. MEDIUM!!! STAT!!!

Lincoln

I am very keen to see the new Abe Lincoln film. I just went to my first movie on my own for about 20 years (Zero Dark Thirty - review to follow), and the trailer for Lincoln was pretty compelling. I love the idea of Tommy Lee Jones as Steven A. Douglas.

Anyway. I was just trawling through some Lincoln stuff and I came across this quote from a letter to a newspaper editor. During the civil war Lincoln was under tremendous pressure to do this, that or the other for the slaves. He had very strong personal view that the slavery should end, but as he explains, his personal view came second to his official duty.

My paramount object in this struggle is to save the Union, and is not either to save or to destroy slavery. If I could save the Union without freeing any slave I would do it, and if I could save it by freeing all the slaves I would do it; and if I could save it by freeing some and leaving others alone I would also do that. What I do about slavery, and the colored race, I do because I believe it helps to save the Union; and what I forbear, I forbear because I do not believe it would help to save the Union ...  I have here stated my purpose according to my view of official duty; and I intend no modification of my oft-expressed personal wish that all men everywhere could be free.

It's striking how clear to Lincoln was the distinction between his personal view and his duty as President. Although we in Australia wish our politicians now had more deep convictions and would act on them more often*, Abraham Lincoln’s statesmanship here rests on putting his aside. Interesting.

*This is written in the early stage of a 7-month election campaign where the Labor government has pinched most of its policies from the previous Liberal government, and the Liberal opposition's policies are merely bumper sticker slogans, most beginning with the words No or Stop.

Footscray via 52 Suburbs

52 Suburbs has made its way to Melbourne, and this week

visited Footscray. Delightful photography.

Cadet herald

This is Michael’s most recent coat of arms. I am hoping we can get him a cadetship at the Royal College of Arms as some sort of Heraldic Intern.

Today we went to Richmond, the well-known colonial village and Devonshire Tea Hub. There are antique shops, and kind-of-antique shops that mostly stock those huge flat clockfaces printed with an olde world graphic, and cushions with PARIS on them. Wrought iron. Lifesize brass dogs. Lots of stuff with crowns, fleurs-de-lis and rampant lions.

One of the wall hangings had what I recognised as something like the royal arms of the UK, with swirling behind it the flags of St George and St Andrew.

“What’s that coat of arms Michael?”
“Erm, that’s the Stuart royal arms from between 1604 and 1689 - then William married Mary and put his, erm, thing on it and it changed.”

He knows his stuff.

Lord Headley and I

The parallels between the late Lord Headley and I are uncanny. Much like he, I too was educated at Trinity College, Cambridge, and entered Middle Temple, before commencing studies at King’s College London, subsequently becoming a civil engineer, a builder of roads in India, and an authority on the protection of intertidal zones. I too am an enthusiastic practitioner of boxing as well as other arts of self defence and am a widely traveled man. Like Headley I also inherited my peerage from my cousin, married an Australian author, and then became bankrupt. In a spooky case of history repeating, I too was offered the throne of Albania but refused it.

The main difference between us is that he converted to Islam and founded the British Muslim Society, whereas I, inspired by my deep interest in loosely-woven cotton fabrics, founded the British Muslin Society.

Truth* sometimes really is stranger than fiction**.

*Which this isn’t.
**Which this is.

Tweets

Some blog customers look askance at my involvement with Twitter and Facebook, and feel that they might be missing out. So here is my last month of Twitter comments, with most of the cricket taken out.

30 Dec Watching the 2005 Ashes for a lark. Australia's uniform included blonde tips - Pup, Lee, even McGrath and of course, classic (fat) Warne.

30 Dec But they all looked pretty regular compared with Kevin Pietersen, sporting a kind of a seagull-shat look that signally failed to catch on

3 Jan When a batsman asks for a review ump should say "Well, I wanted to like it, but that wafty off-drive was so predictable. 2 stars"#AUSvSL

3 Jan Soviet Hobbit http://www.http://t.co/A9rvf7Dh

4 Jan The BOM has described today's record hot day in Hobart (42°) as "unusual". Geez, settle down you guys #tasmania #hot #bom

RT@MKupperman

6 Jan Don't just try to get rid rid of your old toilet by flushing it down the new toilet. That won't work.

7 Jan Education version of our convict history interactive needs warnings about sex, violence and of course CLAY PIPES.

8 Jan The thing about the War on Sudoku is - how will we know when we've won it? When will these commuters and pensioners be able to REST???

8 Jan "Fly Away Home" reboot. Paquin -> Beiber. Daniels -> @robdelaney24 Baby geese -> 2000 Baby Giant Octopus #$$$

8 Jan Nothing can match the smug satisfaction of hearing your ten-year-old whistle something by XTC or Miles Davis.

8 Jan Friday. God: "Have a record hot day, Hobart!" Sizzle. Burn. Fry. Tuesday. God: "Too hot, little buddy? How about some snow tomorrow?"

8 Jan Yes. Hobart Wednesday: Partly cloudy. Scattered showers, falling as snow above 900 metres in the morning and afternoon.

8 Jan Shame those kids on the peninsula can't go tobogganning tomorrow cos their sled got BURNT UP IN A BUSHFIRE FOUR DAYS AGO. Geez.

8 Jan You misunderstand me sir. I was not doubting your courage, it just looked to me for a moment like you actually WERE a chicken.

9 Jan I love Ralph and Donald. "Do you do a lot of reading?" "Yeah - dirty novels" http://bit.ly/st0ryc0rps 

14 Jan Passionate Rainbow Dwarf #plants

14 Jan Just been to a recital played on an enormous Romantic organ.#fnarr

15 Jan Shout out to my Photoshop homies. #scrubbyZoom

16 Jan What I love most about Aussie House & Garden mag is it's my one-stop-shop for great ideas about goat curd AND dubstep.

RT@barneyronay

18 Jan He [Lance Armstrong] seems to be saying now: you can't trust people with cancer. Possibly a bit unfair on, you know, others

21 Jan Strong Crotch Angles #treeCatalogue

21 Jan Semi-Weeping Habit #treeCatalogue

23 Jan ♫ Saw a ray, a flappy little ray / it wasn't today, it was the other day ♫

24 Jan Happy birthday michael rees. You are totally nine, dude.

Tomato time

I've got four different types of tomatoes going - hopefully they will ripen at different times. These little grape size romas are going first.

Bicheno needs a hug

We just spent 2 and a half days in and around Bicheno, and the place is pretty grim. We stayed at Silver Sands again, and the shabby charm we enjoyed the first time had worn off by the 2nd night. The place is frankly a dump and it’s a real shame.

The sign at the front of the establishment fell down a long time ago. There is a blackboard on the front of the old bar (now closed) and one of the staff said she used to write SILVER SANDS on it as big as she could, but it gets washed off by the rain and she doesn’t bother now. The old dining room is now the Dog’s Breakfast Trading Company, a strange bazaar of tat. The old bar is now used for storage. The swimming pool which was the centre of the whole complex has been decked over and now has two windswept picnic tables on it.

Our room this time was smaller. When we arrived there was a bottle cap on the floor, the shower was dripping/running, one bedside lamp didn’t work, and one of those low-watt bulbs went flick flickety-flick and buzzed even when turned off. The bathroom was horrid - the shower ran into a strangely shaped bath which was seemingly designed to be impossible to clean. If you want to cheer yourself up with a cup of tea, the only way to fill the kettle was to bale water into it with a mug. The whole thing had a sort of East German Youth Camp feeling about it.

What’s most alarming is that the staff are shambling around grimly, going through the motions but as guests you feel like you are not really part of the picture. The place is staying open for some reason but hospitality certainly isn’t it.

We had breakfast on the first morning in Silver Sands’ White Dog Cafe. We were the only customers, but the lone staff member didn’t seem glad to see us. I ordered from the menu the “muesli with yoghurt and banana”. She came back to dolefully inform me that “We haven’t got a banana - we’ve had so few people in, that I got sick of having to put them in the freezer”.

The next morning we walked up the road and had breakfast at Pork’s Place. Mr Pork was a lot like Alf from Home and Away - a breezy how-you-goin’-fella type with a grin and a chuckle. But when we asked him about Silver Sands he was pretty dark on the place and on the owner, Jan Cameron. He thinks she’s choking the life out of the town. She has bought upwards of 30 properties and not done anything with them. In his view she is “doing it for the Capital Gains Tax” - maybe trying to make a loss to offset profits somewhere else. But her main investment that I’m aware of is the Chickenfeed chain and that's going south rapidly. None of it makes much sense.

The staff are all ladies of a certain age, (the type Kaz Cooke calls Lorraines) and they seem weary and morose. There was one bloke gardening, he seemed a little brighter. When we were packing up to go, Marcus and I were poking around a strange hexagonal shed in the grounds. It had broken windows, and inside you could see all sorts of gear, and really large cauldron in the centre. The shed roof was just an awning running around the edge - in the middle it was open to the sky. One of the Lorraines called over to us “that used to be the craybake - we’d get 40 or 50 people in there for an evening and cook up the crays in the pot”. Someone flicked a ciggie into the sawdust bin that was the fuel for the fire, and the whole thing went up.

I asked the lady if she had five minutes for a chat. She said had worked there for 36 years, and it used to be the premier beach resort in Tasmania. She didn’t know what the future of the place was, or why the owner was doing what she was doing. No wonder everyone’s so grim. Apart from one of the four staff at the IGA supermarket, and Mr Pork, everyone else we met in Bicheno looked like they had just run over their own cat. Mrs Pork looked like having four hungry customers for breakfast at her establishment was just the last thing she needed. We tried very hard all over town to be friendly and got very little back.

After the recent fires around Bicheno, on the Tasman Peninsula and in the Upper Derwent Valley, Tasmanians were told to get out to these areas and spend money, come and stay, we are open for business etc. We were keen to do this, and arrived ready to spend, which for a renowned tight-arse like me is pushing the boat out somewhat. I don’t know enough about it to just blame Jan Cameron, but something in Bicheno is really not right.

Bicheno area beach blog

We just spent 3 days in and around Bicheno, returning to the site of our Spontaneous Spring Jaunt. It was Michael's birthday on Thursday, and we spent it at beautiful Lagoons Beach. The weather was not great, cool and windy, vut we had a good time anyway. The birthday boy likes nothing better than simply hopping around rocks and poking rockpools with a stick, so we did a lot of that. Also a bit of paddling in the lagoon, and the boys thrilled themselves by frolicking at the edge of the incredibly powerful surf.

Now he is nine! But still not sure how to put on a jumper.

This one is still ten, for now.

A couple of pickles.

Michael at 45°, 41°52′S 148°17′E, and 22°C - Bicheno Blowhole.

Fraud

I like to think I'm an open-minded groover who's down with the latest. But - I have realised I am a crusty, fusty old fraud. I don't even like new kinds of cricket let alone art/music/activated almonds/wearable nano-computers. Just give me a painting, a test match, a bit of Midnight Oil, a salted cashew and a desktop Mac, thanks.

Massive organ

We just attended half an organ recital, at the urging of Elf's mother Felicity. She has returned to Canberra, but urged us in her absence to take the boys to a couple of free concerts.

Tonight's was at Scots Church in town, home of a massive Romantic organ. That is, constructed expressly for playing the music of the great Romantic composers, such as Bach. I did not recognise any of the pieces except Mr Bach’s Toccata and Fugue, and as usual when I hear it, I thought how much more I would enjoy listening to Sky do it.

So here it is. When we got home I played it the family and everyone loved it.

(Sky were a classical/rock fusion experiment who were around from 1979 to the nineties. I used to have  this on tape, it was on Sky2 which came out in 1980. They are the sitting-downest rock band I have ever seen. The drummer is having a whale of a time and appears to be well-known deranged millionaire John Hodgman.

The arms

Michael, inspired by his grandmother Felicity, put together this beautiful coat of arms. He asked us for a motto this morning. I suggested "Do Your Best" but we went for the more motto-ey "Dare to Strive", and Michael Google Translate-d it. The supporters are our noble mammal associates Winston and Hattie.

Top left are the Jackson arms, three blue eagle heads, and a chevron with three golden clover. Top right are the Fullagar coat of arms, a bend rouge with three plates on a field of ermine fur.

Bottom left are the arms of Ware - two blue lions on gold, with a border of gold scallops on blue.

And bottom right are the Rees arms, a black chevron with three black choughs (pronounced chuffs I think) on a silver field.

Anthem recognition test

Driving home the other day I flicked on the radio.
*Subcontinental-vocal stylings and drums for about 0.7 seconds*
*Radio off*
ME: Hmm. I thought the cricket would be on by now.
MARCUS: Dad! That was the Sri Lankan national anthem. The cricket is on.

Ken Rosewall

A tiny factoid about Australian tennis player Ken Rosewall. He won 8 Grand Slams, but he played four Wimbledon finals and lost them all. The amazing thing I found out this morning was that the first one was in 1954 (age 19) and the last one was was 1974 (age 49)! Forty bloody nine and he played a Wimbledon final (where he was clobbered by Jimmy Connors, unsurprisingly). Still - hats off to him I say.

ERRATUM: THERE IS A GLARING MATHS ERROR IN THE ABOVE DETAILS. THERE WERE 20 YEARS BETWEEN THOSE WIMBLEDON FINALS HENCE HE PLAYED THE LAST ONE AT AGE 39, NOT 49. NEVERTHELESS, MY HAT REMAINS OFF TO KEN ‘MUSCLES’ ROSEWALL.

Airborne leaf

Yesterday Michael picked up something black in the backyard and said ‘Look - a burnt leaf!’ It was black, and it was a leaf, but it looked to me like maybe it was from something with naturally dark foliage, so I said to him no, I don't think it’s from the bushfire. On Friday the wind was blowing from the further fires inland, and they are 70km away, so I didn’t really believe it could be from there.

Then last night I went for a run around the soccer ground, and in that big open area with short grass, it was easy to see that in fact there were scorched leaves and bits of bark everywhere, that must have travelled from the Lake Repulse fire on Friday.

So I apologised to Michael and we agreed we should keep these leaves in a little jar and label them 4 Jan 2013, Hottest Day in Hobart Ever.

As of Jan 8 this is our collection. Amazingly, tomorrow is going to be 16° max with snow above 700m!

Fires

Just a quick post about the bushfires in Southeast Tasmania. We are fine and everyone we know in the affected areas are OK. Hobart had a record high temperature of 42°C on Friday, high winds and inevitably when fires started they were impossible to control. So far about 100 homes have been destroyed and thousands of people have been evacuated.

Some people are yet to be located but so far there are no confirmed fatalities, and I have not heard of any serious injuries. That's a testament to an amazing effort from the fire service, other emergency services and a huge flotilla of volunteer boats who ferried people away from the stricken areas when the roads were impassable.

On a world scale I know this is a very minor natural disaster, but if anyone felt they wanted to help out, there is an online appeal for donations here - scroll down to South Eastern Tasmania Bushfire Appeal.

Some assembly required

The end of year assembly at school is always a big gig - its taken me several weeks to recover to the point where I can write about it. This was also the new principal's first EoYA, so we all waited to see how she would go. Past editions have been long and windy with unnecessary amounts of Scottish country dancing.

We had been asked to attend which usually means Someone Is Getting Something. I knew I would be presenting the inter-house chess trophy, so I was going anyway.

 [A quick digression on the chess - Rodney and I agreed that we needed a trophy but that modern trophies are yuk. I was casting around for something simple, inexpensive but ingenious to serve as a perpetual trophy, when Mum suggested a sandblasted-glass chess board she found cheap at a jumble sale. I bought a plate stand for it and bingo, we had a trophy good for the next 32 years of winter and summer competitions. Then, just two days before the EoYA, Elf and I were standing in the hallway at school by the trophy cabinet when she said "Look - there is already a chess trophy!" It was inaugurated in 2008, and only awarded once before being forgotten. It's a standard modern trophy ie ugly, but it exists, and so we gave back the glass chessboard and went with it. Derwent made a stirring comeback on the final day to beat Wellington. In all about 52 kids took part, which was huge.] 

Elf was called to the front for a thank you for running the Saturday Sausage Stall for 4 years, and awarded a fine box of chocolates. Rodney and I presented the ugly chess trophy to "a representative from Derwent" who turned out to be Tully, who had in fact been tricked into playing for Wellington. Then it was time for medals. Here's where it starts to get braggy.

The school does very well in the various academic competitions. This year both our boys got High Distinction certificates in the UNSW Competitions for Maths and Science. Last year Marcus got a medal at the end of the year for being in the top 0.3% (or smidgen) nationally in the Grade 3/4 Maths competition. This year Michael was called up and given a medal for being in the top smidgen in Grade 3/4 Science - and he's not yet 9! Then Marcus was called up for a repeat of last years' effort - another Maths medal, this time for being in the top smidgen in Grade 5/6/7, and he's not yet 11!

The loot

The boys are undoubtedly gifted in Maths and Science, and it's worth remembering what gifted literally means. They are lucky kids to be able to achieve on this level without any visible effort. But it's to their credit that they love learning and long may it continue. I refer to them for now as The Medallists, eg "Have you brushed you teeth yet, Medallists?"

Eleanor in Grade 6 also won a medal in spelling, and that was it - Reeses provided 2 of the 3. I was probably puffed up like a bullfrog, I was feeling so proud. Karri won the Grade 6 Principal's Award, for her excellence in ALL AREAS. All three grandparents were there, which was even better. Bill would also have been very proud, but fortunately he had plenty of opportunity to see the boys and Karri and Miah succeeding in music, sport, and academically before he died in mid-2012.

The golden glow of the boys' success was enough to carry us through the Valley of Darkness that was the senior brass ensemble's performance. Parp. Wah wah waaaaaaaaaaaaah.

This year the Grade Sixers had written a song with 2 lines for each leaver, to the tune of Gangnam Style (of course), and after that they marched out of the life of the school to (strangely) Aussie Jingle Bells. And, another school year was over.

Quiet day at the cricket

Marcus and I went along to the last day of the Sri Lanka test match last week. As the Lankans battled to last out the day, the Australians put every single fielder around the bat. I've never seen anything like it. At one point there were four Australians fielding in helmets, including Matt Wade the keeper (seen above in this pic from The Age). The Aussies ended up skittling the visitors with about 8 overs of the Test left to play - it was great to be there in the moment of victory. With about 200 other genuine spectators and at least 250 ground staff, police, TCA and CA people, security, media and catering people.

Christmas 2012

Arthur and Winston found a comfortable quiet moment on the floor

Marcus and Arthur find the way in

WARNING: WIDESPREAD NERF DESTRUCTION IMMINENT

Eric in Switzerland and Michael in Hobart compare their pillowcases from Aunty Imp

A bike! A bike! A bike! A bike! A bike! Giver and givee confer.

He's off!

Winston received a squeaky bone, which he carried around gently for an hour. 

We have replaced the exploded trampoline!

Nelson Mandela makes a cup of tea

I have a lot of respect for Nelson Mandela, of course. He is pretty much the No.1 respect-worthy person on earth. I also have a lot of respect for Phillip Adams, although he has regularly annoyed me since I started reading his column in The Bulletin in about 1980.

Yesterday on Radio National he was interviewing John Carlin, who I think had written a biography of Mandela. Phillip begged him to recount a story from the book wherein Mandela had invited a delegation of sinister Afrikaaner generals to his house. It wasn’t clear when this was, but I guess during the F. W. de Klerk era when democratic elections were not far away.

Mandela asked the senior and most sinister general for a short private chat, and asked him if he would like a cup of tea. Mandela made the tea, then enquired if the general would like milk. Finally he offered sugar - the general is quoted as saying afterwards "All I had to do was stir it!"

I must be missing something. Had no-one ever made the general a cup of tea before? Had he been repressing minorities all this time just because he was a little thirsty? Phillip and John were all misty eyed about Mandela's charisma and tactical genius. Their devotion was religious in its intensity, and I felt like they had just gone a tiny bit over the top.

Catharsis on hold

I have done some work for a local ad agency in the last couple of weeks. Someone that they rely on went on holiday unexpectedly, and they needed someone else to very quickly whip up animated banner ads for an online bottle shop, using Christmas as an excuse to flog beer, wine and spirits over the net. Luckily I have been doing a lot of volunteer work lately so I am in karma kredit.

I was on the phone to them at one stage, when the lady I was speaking to had to put me on hold for about two minutes. It seems they use national youth radio station Triple J for their hold music, so I got a quick window into what’s hot for the 18-25 demographic right now. For about 90 seconds I got this;

RADIO: “RRRRRRAAAAAAAAAAAAARRRRGHHHHHHHH! RAAAAAAAAAAGH! AAAAAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRRGH!!!!!! AAAARRRRRRRRGH!!!!!!  AAARRRGH!!! ARGH!!!” (accompanied by standard metal-ish superfuzz guitar abuse).
DJ: “Wow! Wow. I’ve got chills. That’s so raw, such real pain. Cathartic. Oooh. I’m in tears right here, it’s all so real. Phew. Wow.”

Then “Are you there? Sorry, I'll have to get him to call you - bye!”

Ho Ho Ho!

I got to be part of the magic of Christmas this week. I am a bit of a humbug most years, but nevertheless I was approached to play Santa for the local playgroup’s Christmas party. I know a couple of the parents, but only one of the kids knows me, and we were pretty sure he wouldn't recognise me. (Last year one of the kids freaked out because Santa was his dad, but not his dad, and his dad was Santa, and ... waaaaaah. Hence the need to contract out the the gig.)

I am not a thespian type, and generally avoid being the centre of attention. But I actually loved being Santa! The punters were all 3 or under, in fact Isla (on the left of the pic with her mum Sally) might have been the oldest. They were so sweet, innocent and straightforward (compared to the groups of kids I usually have to wrangle, aged 8-12). I realised afterwards, that for me and all the adults there I was the guy who was playing Santa, but for the kids I really was Santa. Quite a responsibility.

Sally, who is the playgroup coordinator, dropped off the suit to me, a really good quality suit it is too. The beard took some working out, but it actually has a bit that goes over your head to minimise the dangers of beard-tugging toddlers. I put it all on at home, classical pillow-up-the-jumper and all. I felt a responsibility, shared with all Santas (and any other grown-ups called upon to be Mickey Mouse, a Banana In Pyjama etc) to not be seen getting in or out of costume. So I waddled down to the car as Santa, drove as Santa, got out of the car as Santa, changed my dainty driving shoes for serious Santa Boots as Santa, and set off across the soccer field to the appointed spot in the Darcy Street playground, ringing my bell and trying out a few Ho Ho Ho's. Or the old 3H as we call it in the caper.

Sally did a fantastic job planning it all, and making it very easy for me. I sat in the shade of a marquee, next to a small decorated tree that fell over regularly. The parents had all smuggled in gifts for me to hand out, and that went smoothly. Although one or two were very shy they all came and took their gift from me in the end, one or two shook hands and Santa scored a kiss and a couple of hugs. Once the gifts were sorted, it was time for the traditional sit on Santa's lap session. The parents seemed keen to get photos to remember it all by, so I took that as a sign it was going well. Weird to think that I am going to printed and stuck on grandparents fridges all around Australia.

Once everyone had all the photos they wanted, it was time for Santa to move on to his next port of call. Fortunately my initial line of retreat was around a corner, as I had serious pants-sag issues. Santa exited backwards, ringing his bell, ho-ing.

Recent work by Michael

The space shuttle may have retired but Michael has a few ideas for a reboot. 

Mr Birley introduced the class to perspective and Michael embraced it.

Paddlin'

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I have been getting the wave ski out a bit. I am in a pre-christmas fallow period with freelance work, and I feel that on a warm day I might as well be out on the water if there's nothing to do at my desk. (In fact there is always something to do at my desk, but if there is not going to be an invoice at the end of it my motivation is somewhat lower).

The other day I did my first fairly serious Derwent River paddle - from this spot at Marieville Esplanade, right around Battery Point to the CSIRO corner. I went out far enough into Sullivans Cove to see the GPO clock in town. Then I got a bit nervous about being on the water equivalent of a major road, piloting the water equivalent of one roller skate.

On the way back I hugged the coast and had a good and envious look at the homes of the Hobart super-rich that back onto the water, with starfish at the bottom of the garden. Private jetties, boathouses and so on. Saw an actual watergate. I had a little rest in the sun on a boat ramp on the way back, and ate a banana. I'm no Sir Francis Chichester, but it was good exercise and very good fun.

A couple of days later I set off from the same spot and went the other way, heading for the little beach beyond Wrest Point Casino. But it was pretty choppy and quite hard work, so I satisfied myself with getting to within sight of it, then turned around and had an easy ride back with the swell. (Note how I am talking all boaty now.)

I had an excuse to go down towards Dodges Ferry on Thursday, as Marcus was at a school camp there and parents were invited to a midday beach frolic. So I took the wave ski, and on the way found a lovely little ramp just where Lewisham peters out into the start of Dodges Ferry. Across the channel there is a long sandspit with big sandhills on it, which is the "back" of Seven Mile Beach. I paddled across and back very easily. I had the sandspit to myself for a time and went through the usual desert island fantasies, spoiled somewhat by people coming over the hill and saying "how are you going?" and the like.

I have been going barefoot, but have found that a lot of places where I would like to make landfall are not so foot-friendly. So today I snapped up some boat-bootees for fifteen bucks.(I did continue on down to the surf beach and see my first-born son but that's not what this blog is about now. Me. Me and my bootees.)