Anthony Malloy

One thing Rae and I glossed over in the recounting of recent trip to Hobart was just how much of a monster Phee was. If we had have flown over and spent three days in the motel room watching television she may have been happy then.

Well she has done her dash, and not just with us. We SMS’d her grandmother last night to see if she wanted to have Phee on Thursday and it seems that Nana’s limit has been reached too ’cause Phee ain’t welcome there any more.

Phee was already being kept home tonight from Great Grand Mother’s because she refused to clean her room and ‘forgot’ her homework for the second week running. Tonight she ‘forgot’ the homework again, as well as a new project , so as Rae went to Yoga she was told to clean her room.

An hour later and she was still playing in the pig sty, not one thing cleaned.

Dinner was almost ready so I told her that she had had ample time to clean her room, I was going to put her dinner on the table and she was to come and eat it only when she had finished.

“No I will come when it’s ready.” she said, instantly losing her allowance for the week in the process.

Twenty minutes later and the room is spotless, the food is still lukewarm and I’m hoping a lesson may been learnt.

Hoping against hope, yet hoping just the same.

Out evil spirits of the Olympics!

Out of my television! Release my favourite show!

Out of my radio! Release my favourite stations!

The power of Christ compels you! The power of Christ compels you!
(Repeat until the Olympics are banished or I throw myself out of a window conveniently placed over a long set of stairs).

This holiday in Hobart has made me realise one thing.

Melbourne is as flat as a pancake. Sometimes you think walking up Collins St between Swanson and Russell St is a bit rough. HA!! I shall never complain again.

The last day in Hobart started easy enough, a fantastic breakfast at Mummies in Battery Point (although what cafe these days doesn’t accept cards?). A quick trip to fill up the car and we were ready to check out.

We dropped off the car to Avis back in the city and then the walking began. For the next four hours we walked. And walked. And walked. Next holiday we may not choose a city that’s built clinging to the side of a mountain, although my doctor will be happy with the amount of exercise I had.

Most of the walking was around the Salamanca Market, a fantastic market on the city fringe and close to where we’d stowed our bags. We wandered around for a couple of hours, and Phee finally found something interesting – of all things she was captivated by a blacksmith. We stood for twenty minutes and she didn’t shift her eyes once as he banged, bellowed, forged, bent and sizzled molten metal in to two hooks.

We walked over to Constitution Dock for fresh fish and chips at Mures. After a quick stop to pick up a new chopping board and it was time to head back to collect our bags and we were only steps away from the motel when disaster struck. Phee stepped in dog poo. Lucky we’d packed the emergency sneakers for Phee along with my emergency jeans so we managed to avoid a potentially smelly flight home, although the stinky taxi driver unnaturally obsessed with his welsh plugs made for an aromatic, and bizarre, journey to Hobart Airport.

Now we’re home, it’s as wet here today as it was in Hobart yesterday. The cats have forgiven us, the television has forgiven us, our own bed is waiting and there are two bottles of Special Stout tucked away in the fridge for when we are awake enough to enjoy them.

We woke to the alarm and pouring rain. We drove to Cadbury, in the rain. After the tour where we were force fed chocolate every 10 metres I managed to pour a large coffee over myself so we had to head back to the motel to breakout the emergency jeans. And it rained.

We drove to Richmond (first time I’ve ever used that word without a link!) in the rain. We searched for a cafe in the rain and finally found one, where ate and watched the rain. It was here we also saw another stunning example of the Tassie mo. We looked at the oldest bridge in Australia, from the car, in the rain.

Driving back through the city allowed us to see more of the rain and as we drove up Mt Wellington we passed through the low lying clouds. And rain. At times the cloud was so think on the winding road to the summit we could only see 10 metres of rain in front of us.

At the top of the mountain the rain had stopped. Because it was snowing. Lots and lots of snow. Phee had her first snowball thrown at her so of course she stood there and cried. Maybe she was missing the rain. Of course it didn’t stop Rae from lobbing another at the shrieking child before a quick frolic in the wonderful white stuff.

Back down the rainy mountain we went and decided this rain would make the drive to Huonville for a Devonshire tea all the more challenging. We found a great tea at Doran’s Jam Factory where we sat and listened to the rain on the roof, debating the merits of Strawberry vs Raspberry jam and the merits of holidays with or without whining children. (The winners were Strawberry and no kids). We then headed back to Hobart in the, sorry pun alert, driving rain.

Listening to the radio we heard that the Canberra Mint was in town, selling special Tasmanian Bicentenary $5 coins (pdf pamphlet) so we headed off in the rain to find the Tasmanian Museum and Art Gallery. The bonus of getting them from the museum this weekend was you had the opportunity to make the mintmark, a tiny H, on your own coin. Two coins later we headed outside.

And that’s when it really began to rain.

Undaunted we braved the torrents to head down to Salamanca Place. We dove through the first restauranty looking door we saw and drip dried while we ate Vietnamese and watched other idiots run by the window.

Now we’re back at the motel, listening to gale outside, about to be lulled to sleep by our day’s companion.

Here’s to Hobart rain.

The most alarming thing about Tasmania is the moustaches. They’re good old old 70’s porn star moustaches. Thankfully they weren’t on the sex-kitten hosties on the Virgin flight but from the Premier down to the weather man on local television they seem to be every where.

Of course they may not be the signs of virility they once were, they could be just to help ward off the cold; and it is cold. Freezing winds blow straight off the snow capped Mt Wellington through your polar jacket and in to the marrow of your bones. And then the rain starts.

The only thing to do to stay warm is to drink or walk and thankfully the tour of the Cascade Brewery incorporates good lashings of both. It may be a tad cruel to force people on an hour long tour, no matter how fascinating, before getting to the tastings but it’s well worth the slog. And if you’ve ever wanted to know what 50,000 litres of beer looks like then this is the tour for you.

If you prefer fudge, or traumatic parts of Australian history, then the Female Factory is just down the hill. Standing reading about the horrors the unfolded as the wind roars around you realise in a tiny way the trauma these women and children must have faced. I wonder what they’d think of selling fudge to help restore and re-discover their hell?

Now it’s time for bed after a couple of hours walking around the city and waterfront. We’ve been to Battery Point for food., but the one place we wanted to go was booked out. We may not have found the food we were looking for but I found something even better. A fellow Tiger supporter. Hiking up a hill to ‘home’ there came a familiar sound from the other side of the street. A Nokia ringing out the Tiger them. Rae and I started singing before I yelled ‘Go Tigers’ and the distinguished looking owner of the phone waved his yellow and black flag in solidarity.

Tomorrow the plan is for chocolate, more history and more walking.

And hopefully some more Special Stout to get caught on my almost Tasmanian mo.

We’re back.

As I had no wi-fi connection for the Ipaq I tried something new while I was away, it’s called ‘retro blogging’. It involves ‘pens’ and ‘paper’. The uploading to digital form may take a little while but hopefully before too long the tale of our holiday will be online.

Almost three days without email or the net.

I may or may not survive, tune in on Saturday to see if I make it. In the mean time feel free to chat amongst yourselves.

With our little trip to Tasmania coming up soon I’m hoping that the months worth of dreams I’ve had about watching jets and helicopters crash doesn’t mean anything.

You know you’re out of touch musically when it takes half a song to figure out if it’s Elvis Costello or Prince singing.

I think I need to take a few weeks off and do nothing but listen to 6 Music. I wonder if I can get a doctor to say as much to use up the pile of sick leave I have sitting there.

I’ve always thanked my grandfather for anointing me a Tigers supporter before my mum or dad had a chance to drag me in but I’m beginning to have a little re-think in the thanks department.

This weekend I get to watch the bottom three teams run around the paddock, and my team plays one of the best. Stupid idiot that I am I’m still going ’cause I know as soon as the season ends I’ll be waiting for 2005 to begin.

There’s one born every minute I suppose.