Now that's a rock garden.

Albany, ALLbany, Derby, DArby

Haze and I have just returned from an overnighter in Western Australia's oldest town, Albany. With ANZAC day fast looming, it's poignant to note Albany was the marshalling point for the Australian ANZACs, and the last place many of the poor buggers set foot on Australian soil.

Movie buffs may recall Albany as the port from which a fresh-faced Mel Gibson set sail for international fame and fortune via Gallipoli.

A former Southern Ocean whaling town, Albany has much in common, scenery and whaling wise with the Tasmanian capital of Hobart. It also reminds me of Punta Arenas in Chilean Patagonia, but now I just sound like a travel wanker.

It also has lots of granite - some of which once tethered the Australian mainland to Antarctica. As this was way back in the days of Gondwanaland, only the very oldest ANZACS could remember it.

The Albanians honour their granite almost as much as their ANZACs. So here's a picture of Albany's Dog Rock for you.

Not cross, hun'.

Gosh it's good to have a few days off.

Thank you, Jesus. Thank you, Judas.

Is it a curd? Is it a whey? No. It's SuperFreo!

Gatzooks if that marvellous SOB, SuperFreo!, hasn't snapped one from leftfield and started up his own blog.

Check it, and catch up with all the personalities that hang around the back of South Fremantle Football Club at superfreo.blogspot.com.

It's a kind of, now how would I describe it?, stabbing pain.

There was a stabbing on the main road up from our house this afternoon. So I stopped by, you know, just to interfere.

The acting detective sergeant patrolling the police-taped scene told me: "He's down in Freo hospital in a stable condition. He'll be alright. Unless he dies."

They all have hills to fly them on, except for Lee Hou Fook

Long term visitors to this site will recall how our next door neighbour, The Cattleman, is a born again Peter Gabriel fan.

After a month or so of peace, old PG is droning through The Cattleman's paper thin walls again, and straight in the window of our study. Thank God we never do any actual work in here.

I can't get behind a student driver.

Dunno if you've heard the grumpy old men style song by William Shatner and Henry Rollins called, "I can't get behind that".

At one point in the song, The Shat bemoans, "Six to eight weeks delivery - I can't get behind that!"

Well, as it turns out, two nights ago Haze and I bought a Subaru (not a WRX like K&D's, which is lifting the value of our driveway as I tap), but a shiny new silver Outback. I'm sure you can see where this is heading.

Yesterday I got the call. "You still want silver? That six, eight week."

Turps about the house

It's so very quiet around here this arvy. All that's keeping me company are the purring of Pounce!, the carping of crows, and the blippings of Spud Mack's comments as they lob one by one into my intray.

But all that is set to change with the weekend arrival of Hazel, who'll no doubt notice the shopping's not done, the dishes are still in the washer and corn chip crumbs are wedged behind the keyboard.

Who said chivalry is dead?

Cop that.