Les Aventures de Tintin et Plus d'Art?

You've seen people attempting to hold up the leaning Tower of Pisa in their holiday snaps. And no doubt you remember that 'planking' fad. I've recently come across photos of Tintin around the world; that is, a similar photo-shoot craze seems to exist where people photograph their little plastic Tintin figurines in various locations. The idea, it seems, is that he should look rather realistic, almost like a real person admiring the view. Clever, really, and many of them look pretty good. Sometimes he's looking out across the Grand Place in Brussels, or perhaps at the long lines of gridlocked traffic on the Champs-Élysées.

The trick to making him look all the more real is to use a decent camera, preferably with a manual focus, and wait for good lighting. Phone cameras aren't quite the ideal, although Sony's Xperia Arc doesn't do too bad. More importantly, try to invest in a good quality Tintin figurine which doesn't have the factory numbers nor that "Made in China" label moulded into his back like some great, dirty tattoo!

Vous avez vu les mecs qui essaient pousser la Tour de Pise dans toutes leurs images de vacances en Italie. Et aussi vous vous-souvenez l'engouement s'appelle «planking». Alors j'ai découvert récemment plusieurs images en ligne de Tintin autour le monde entier. C'est à dire, il y a un sort d'engouement de photographie pour que des personnes prennent un photo de leurs petites figurines de Tintin plastiques  dans des scènes de voyage. L'idée est que Tintin devrait ressembler une personne réelle, peut-être comme un homme qui admire la vue. Très chic, non? Il regarde quelquefois la Grand Place à Bruxelles ou les embouteillages dont bloquent l'avenue des Champs-Élysées, ou encore la Musée d'Hergé.

Cependant, pour prendre la meilleure image, il faut que vous avez un bon caméra, préférablement avec une mise au point manuelle, et aussi de bon éclairage. Sans doute, le caméra d'un smartphone n'est pas exactement la meilleur appareil, mais à nos jours il y a un nombre des modèles bien équipé, comme, par exemple, mon Xperia Arc de Sony. Plus importante, il faut investir dans une figurine de qualité, et pas un Tintin avec le texte «fabrique en Chine» ou les numéros d'usine moulés dans son dos, comme un grand tatouage débraillé.

Peut-être une idée amusante pour vos vacances prochaines? Visitez la boutique en ligne et achetez votre «mascotte des vacances d'été» maintenant! Voila une petite sélection des photos (l'auteur inconnu) de la page officielle de Tintin sur Facebook:

Melbourne's World Stamp Expo 2013

It's autumn in Melbourne. The rustic, golden leaves fell gently to the ground as I strolled across Carlton Gardens, my tummy content with a rather late breakfast of fried eggs, bacon, sausages, fried tomato and a hash brown. Ahead I could just make out, between the ent-like trees, that white mythical fountain complete with Hochgurtel and all his squirting Neptunes. And, looming high into the cloudy sky above everything that doth move beneath, was the Royal Melbourne Exhibition building.

The gardens were alive this past week with the buzz of philately, as I marched determinedly through the vast open doorway and bought my daily ticket. $10 seems a fair price to pay to behold such treasures, to spend such money, to meet such people, to munch such chocolate, to arrive home with such newly made purchases, to attent such meetings and dinners, to...

Enough with the Emersonian lingo; on Sunday I went to my first ever philatelic exhibition, namely: The World Stamp Expo 2013. Apparently, so they say, we may never have another one quite like it. Boasting over 50,000 display frames, some of which included a number of exhibits by Stampboarders and Her Majesty the Queen herself, this was no mere backyard Anglican church fete. The range of Prinz and Lighthouse albums and stock books, for example, were pretty eye-catching, the piles of which were somewhat akin to the Pyramids of Giza.

As someone who lies between the complete newbie and the fusspot specialist, and as someone who collects worldwide postage stamp issues (not to mention the odd cover or three), big stamp shows like these could be somewhat hard on my financial pocket. But I have survived to tell the tale, and here I am. Indeed, there was something here for everyone, from a new pair of $4 tweezers (or tongs, whatever your will) to the Greenlandic postal stand; from the free show bags courtesy of Turkey to a full, postoffice-fresh sheet of £2 kangaroos.

If you've got this far and still don't know what a 'Stamp Expo' actually is, then think of your dear grandfather who collects stamps and duplicate him several hundred times, before placing the whole lot of 'em into a great big exhibition building, the walls inside of which are lined with frames and frames of displayed stamp album pages. Or, in other words, see HERE and HERE.

At least, that's what you'd probably think. Many claim that stamp collecting (or, philately, for the professional tongue) is a dying fad. Yet, would you believe me if I told you that I really am only twenty one years of age?

Indeed, I was not alone. There are many others older than me, 'tis true, fair to say, but I spied numerous kids and other young adults. One member from Stampboards, around my own age, is so dedicated to his hobby that he flew up from Hobart for the weekend. Other members also flew in from all over the place - as far afield as New York, Belgium, Scotland and South Korea. To quote the signature of one member, "it's good to shoot the breeze with like-minded folk".

Yet we don't just go along simply to stare at a bunch of pricey glad-wrapped collections behind glass, even if the Royal Collection was a sight for sore eyes. Aside from post offices representing different countries of the world (yes, Azerbaijan included), a flock of stamp dealers were present each day, buying and selling and valuing and discussing stamps. Rather than going square-eyed after scrolling through pages of cheap Ebay lots, one can casually browse through boxes and albums bulging with fascinating covers, stamps and postcards ready to be bought. You can come and go whenever you want - and it's all there, everything at your right hand, to explore as you will. After something special? Or simply the first day cover of Australia's recent Black Caviar issue? You could even get it signed by the stamp designer; makes me wonder how many signed covers are out there...

Now the weather has turned, the clouds shield the sun, and I am left with a cold. Yet as I sit before the screen, sniffling and wibing my nod, I remember the fun weekend had by all. 'twas indeed a jolly good show; once again Melbourne is on the maps - we did it, and we did it good. And now I vacate; another assignment remains due tomorrow.

Wifi in the Land Down Under

National broadband network, they said? It'll be great, they said?

Australia is still a young country, so you'd think it would be up there, like the youth of today and all our snazzy, whizzbang gadgets.

But such is not always the case, even if Brian Johnson still does a concert every once in a while. Australia is a great nation (just ask a Croatian), but as to the general state of our cordless wifi, if one takes into consideration the recent advances in automation... the facts of the matter remain rather plain. This is one area in which we could greatly improve.

Throughout Western Europe, for example - yes; here we go again, another comparison to Europe, I do apologise - you'll find free public wifi connectivity on many trains and buses or at numerous train stations and airports. Even if one is required to pay, the first fifteen or thirty minutes are often available for free to the user, as is, I believe, the case at the airport in Lisbon.

How fandangled yet handy! While an internet connection is no bare necessity for life, and we ought to be quite content to wait until either we return home or for that lunch break at work, the ability to check one's emails or look something up on the spur of the moment is appealing to many. Another Italian nation-wide transport strike, or perhaps it's the French unions who've struck again? Pas problème, whip out your smartphone and download that little snake game to keep those thumbs occupied.

There are times, of course (it goes without saying), when it's simply wonderful to be able to cut oneself off from modern gadgets and return to the natural wilderness. Or you could turn on the telly and tune in to another episode of Man vs. Wild.

Life in the city, however, provides a stark contrast to the wild life out in the paddock. We're modern people these days, living in the midst of the hustle and bustle of a fast-paced environment. Always on the move - here we go again! - our minds hardly cease to rest. And yet, here I sit spinning a few words into Notepad, only to upload at a later time, instead of navigating direct to Google's online Blogger. And the Hungry Jacks fast-food outlet at Melbourne's Southern Cross station still only allows twenty customers at any one time to utilise their wifi. Fascinating, really...

I never was quite sure what they meant by a 'national broadband network', but it probably was never meant to involve complimentary wifi for the texting-commuter or the random stranded tourist.

Then again, one could suggest that I upgrade to a higher Optus bill. But we could go back and forth about that one all night too...

Musings on Historical Lingo in Revolutionary Russia

Language is all around us; everyday we use it, we write it, we speak it. Yet, have you ever stopped to think just what it is in the first place? How does it work? Is it a method of human communication, or is it perhaps something even more?

Louis Markos, in his book A Student's Guide to Literature suggests that the study of literature is essentially fundamental to society. Without language, we wouldn't have literature. And without literature, I now ask, would we have history? For history is, dare we say, made up of the language of literature. Gombrich's A Little History of the World is just one beautiful example of how language relates to history; a story of the past. It is only academics in the last century or so who seem, unfortunately, so determined to jargonize and postmodernise historical theory.

Yet can such 'new', overly-academic research essays be considered literature? Perhaps not, some might well argue; for sure, professors and students and doctors are in a constant hotseated debate over the exact definition of the term 'literature'. Is it only the likes of Wordsworth and Shakespeare who can be considered fine examples of the literary canon? What about stuff that's purely enjoyable entertainment, like the works of Hammond Innes or J.K. Rowling? Do they count at literature also? Or Thomas Aquinas' Summa Theologica?

Ah, but I wander off like a lonely cloud and leave thee in a state of utmost confusion. Where is this meaningless ramble leading and what the heck am I attempting to get at?

'twas near the end of last semester, when I had to find a primary source documenting some aspect of the Russian Revolution, or there abouts, and present it to the class. I googled, I searched and I came across this pro-Bolshevik poster from the year 1920.

Take a look: we have Lenin on top, sweeping away the folks he doesn't like (who symbolise capitalism, the Tsarist regime and so on). The very fact that he is on top of the globe implies his want of dominating power and a spread of total Communism. The workman's cap is suggestive of the working class (or, 'proletariat' in revolutionary terms), who, along with the peasants, he sought to manipulate and hence gain popular political support. But for the lack of a historian's knowledge, and indeed that of an artist, I hereby say no more on the artistic symbolism depicted in this poster.

Somehow I ended up on Wikipedia, before later arriving at Google's translator, and thus decided to have a go at deciphering all those funny Russian words. Suddenly there emerged far more to this propaganda than what first meets the eye, especially for one ignoramus who really knows nothing about the local language aside from the fact that straight vodka perhaps isn't the greatest drink of all, unless you live in the depths of a far-flung, wintery Siberia.

What do you first notice about that text beneath the picture? The letters 'ОЧИЩАЕТ' are larger than the others, or, more likely, are written in the Russian equivalent of capital letters. Having thought this must be Lenin's name in Russian - since he is the focus of the poster - you can imagine my surprise upon discovering that this word actually means 'clears' or 'cleanses'. 'Ленин' is Lenin's name in Russian. How strange it at first seemed. Any previous notions now became squashed by this mischievous Bolshevik artist (Viktor Deni, if you'd like to know). It is not Lenin who is the most important aspect of this poster, but the word or, rather, the action of cleaning.

Then there's that final word which could be translated as, quite literally, 'evil'. And now we have a far deeper connotation, for Deni is not only portraying a cartoonish 'comrade' Lenin, casually sweeping away elements of a society which don't appeal to him. Instead, Lenin is attempting here to do away with and completely disinfect not just the Soviet state but the whole world of what the Bolsheviks believed to be a sort of parasitic evil. A Google search for the term 'нечисти' will bring up a variety of images depicting demons and monsters.

Is this total destruction typical of anti-Bolshevism, then, a conquest of the world, as the artist may have us believe? Indeed, it seems an easy 'sweep' of victory for Lenin and does not even vaguely hint at the "utter misery of everyday life" experienced by those who fell under his broom. In fact, it almost reflects the words of one 1917 propaganda pamphlet which defined socialism as "the work of Christ", which established a "terrestrial kingdom of fraternity, equality and freedom." (...Good grief) Or was the destruction inflicted in order to enforce Lenin’s dominating power within Russia? The Cheka, an organisation aimed at crushing so-called counterrevolutionary activities, carried out extreme punishments during the reign of Red Terror, not long after the 1917 Revolution. As historian Hugh Jebson notes, most of those executed were not killed for actual crimes, but for who they were and who they represented.

It is easy to slip into Marxist terminology or to go bounding off up another garden path. But in brief, the Russian text below the main image sheds new light on what we first perceive. Language, one might say, is intrinsic to the telling of history and other fields of study as it is to literature.

The Drover Man in a Sonnet

       Up rose the sun, so early in the morn;

       Heatwaves shimmering, drying up the dew.
       Up leapt the drover, with a stretch and yawn;
       His eyes to the sky, vast, endless and blue.
       His wife pours the coffee and fries some eggs;
       For six long months she'll be without her kin.
       She wipes off a tear as the toast she spreads,
       Barks at the dogs to quit their whining din.
       They've all been through it many times before,
       But even so the bush-life cuts her cruel.
       For harsh are the forces, daunting Nature's law,
       Alone she must battle the elemental rule.

       Breakfast now over, he takes to his ride;
       She waves farewell, fearful, but full of pride.

Discovering the Isle of Barra

The hum of the twin-otter descended gradually, lower and lower out of the sky. Previously, all that could be seen through the little windows was an expanse of nothingness; that deathly pale sheet of cloud which enveloped the plane as rain lashed out against the perspex glass. Now, however, there lay down below us a few scattered houses on a handful of grassy, windswept islands; only to disappear again as they slid past the propellor blades. And then suddenly the ocean swept away from view, giving way to a damp expanse of sand, dwarfed by rolling green hills in the distance.

With a bump and a dull thud the twin-otter touched down and bounced along the beach, sending specks of sand and dregs of saltwater flying up behind the wheels onto my window just above. The Isle of Barra - we had landed. A supposedly meaningless place positioned in the outer Hebrides, off the West coast of Scotland, it lies fully exposed to the raging Atlantic waters.

Apparently, so they say, this is the only officially scheduled beach-landing in the world. Which perhaps explains why what seems like half the island's population stands around, leaning on the fence as they watch the procedures of Barra's tiny tin-pot airport. The other half would be found inside the terminal, huddled together for warmth, no doubt watching through the windows and eating their Hebridean scones with jam and clotted cream.

I placed my bag in the back of the minivan and jumped in. It was a tighter squeeze even than aboard the plane, and the small seats seemed to reflect the small and rather isolated nature of this funny island. I had been here for no less than fifteen minutes and yet, without knowing it, the magic of Barra was already working it's way through me.

For the party dude who travels simply to try out Ibiza's latest night clubs, there is nothing here. Barely a kipper. Indeed, in what sort of fantastical land is a bunch of no more than, say, a dozen trees nestled closely together considered large enough to earn the name 'the woods' (as one local called them). It seems, in fact, that beyond Scottish borders there are far more people who know about Malta than there are those who are familiar with the term 'Barra' and its usage for something other than, simply, a prized fish.

It's when you start thinking about dinner that the rather petit nature of the place really dawns on you. Of course, there are options for those with larger bank accounts or numerous plastic credit cards, where a mains can be had for around £25 at several of the more major hotels in Castlebay. But if you prefer to pay closer attention to your budget, then Café Kisimul (so named after the castle in the bay) is not only within easier financial reach, but is also the only eatable joint around; edible, that is, you can eat there. The only one restaurant choice, you cry, on the whole jolly island! What is this world coming to?

Ah! but this little place, when all else is closed and the weather starts to turn, is pretty darn good - really - and they dish up mains from an affordable £10 or £12. Turning thus my back on the seemingly classier hotels, I strolled down the street and stepped through the door of Café Kisimul, my jacket steadily dripping water upon the floor. Squeezing in at a table in the corner, I ordered the Hebridean lamb Korma, complete with a mango lassie, I think it was, just in case. Outside, the cold rain was slicing through the mist over the bay. Inside, little beads of sweat formed on my forehead as I spooned up another mouthful. It was hot, but tasted good and dulled the hunger of a young lad for another hour or three. They say this is not only one of the best curry places in Scotland but in the whole of Great Britain, as read in a number of local newspaper articles pinned up on the wall.  Some folk have declared the service to be a bit of a hit or a miss at times, but for the price it's a great meal.

I later paid my bill, wiped my brow, and walked outside into the dusk with a contented stomach. It was a good three mile hike back to the Brevig Bay bed and breakfast, through the mist, and although the rain had cleared up somewhat, my socks presently became quite soggy. Upon arrival back at the warm and cosy B&B, after shedding my jacket and removing my socks, I clasped my hands around a steaming mug of hot coffee and, demolishing the homemade tea-cake left me by Jeanne, sat back to watch John Cleese and his antics in Clockwise.

The Isle of Barra might be somewhat more isolated and the life style slower than the likes of touristy Edinburgh. Yet, it is exactly the rugged landscape, the often harsh climate, the serene atmosphere and the warm Scottish hospitality which make it such a hit in my books. This is country Scotland in its truest form. Where the cold and the rain pierce through your skin as you attempt an afternoon stroll along the uninhabited beach, akin to the likes of a Hammond Innes protagonist. Where you pay only £30 for a real bedroom, and awake to the most marvellous Scottish breakfast you've ever enjoyed in the whole country, with potato scones and sausages still spitting on your plate, fresh out of the pan. Where you can have a fascinating conversation with the cheerful local bus driver, who seems altogether relaxed about his scheduled timetable. Indeed, any conversation engaged with a local inhabitant of Barra left me wondering if perhaps we had already been best of friends for years in some previous life; the Royal Mail man, the bus driver, the bank lady, the toffee-maker girl, the airport-café lady, the B&B owners David and Jeanne, the cat....

Another world, another magic, another iconic part of Scotland; a delightful little place, just perfect as you find it.

Another Leap For Qantas: The Cash Card

For numerous reasons, Qantas, one of the two major airlines in Australia, has been the target of certain complaints in recent years. The quantity of in-flight food has decreased steadily, for example, to the extent that breakfast on an international red-eye flight to Melbourne from Singapore consists of little more than a miniature cinnamon scroll, 150ml of orange juice and an apple for good measure. Come to think of it, whatever happened to that delicious Carman's museli they had going? And to be true, furthermore, the economy seats on India's Jet Airways are far more comfortable than the highly advertised Qantas A380 configuration.

Nevertheless, despite certain restrictions or limitations, Qantas has at the same time, almost paradoxically, taken a step forward. In a recent advertising campaign - "You're the reason we fly" - they focused their attention on some of the finer details and wants of passengers. They have, after all, been flying folks around for over ninety years, so they ought to know something about their paying customers, and, even more importantly, how to lure in more frequent flyers. That deal through Woolworth's influenced many more to sign up, myself included. Even the warm welcome one receives from the cabin crew is, one might say, 'infused' with that friendly touch of Aussie spirit, implying their notion that Qantas really is "the spirit of Australians". More flyers means, to them, more money in the head honcho's pockets.

It is their latest little invention, however, that could just be one of the most innovative: the Qantas Cash card. Your little bronze frequent flyer card will soon become more than just another frequent flyer card, with the ability to load it up with cash and spend more again, just like a debit card of sorts. And it seems purchases made with this new prepaid card, due to replace the old pieces of plastic later this year, could credit frequent flyer points to your name.

It has been suggested, on forums or by significant others, that credit card companies may not like the sound of such a thing. Won't they loose customers? Well, not quite. You see, it's not really a credit card per se and earning abilities might well be a good deal less appetising than that American Express card for which the rich guy in the office pays $500 each year, just to carry it around in his wallet in the first place. For those like me, on the other hand, this looks to be the start of a free flight to dream destinations like New Caledonia, since I don't even earn the minimum income to be able to have a points-earning credit card. Nor do I fly often enough to accumulate many points, so the opportunity to watch my account slowly begin to grow simply as a result of all that regular, necessary and every-day spending both overseas and within Australia - like the often-delayed V/Line commutes to university - sounds like a pretty neat idea; another gimmick which convinces me to stay with Qantas. In any case, at least the male flight attendants are actually men.

My only question is: will they charge a premium fee to swap over to this new card? We'll have to stay tuned for more information, other than the little that's already out there.

A Touch of Class: Sydney's Shangri-La

There's a certain vibe you get when staying in fancy hotels or going out somewhere extra special for dinner. That is, for those of us who cannot afford such luxuries of the Rich Man's world. Perhaps it makes us feel rich, swish and 'cool' just for a moment, like James Bond and his Omega watches. Is it because, deep down, one really prefers to don his Giorgio Armani shirt and splash a little eau de cologne about instead of hitching up his boxers at every step and loitering around down at the bus stop in Adidas snap-pants like some miserable chav?

Whatever the answer, the idea of waltzing down the stairs in a morning suit to a beautiful breakfast laid out in the observatory - with a separate spoon for the jam and everything perfectly aligned in a sort of Poirot-like manner - certainly sounds appealing.

Not that I don't like living in Lara; it's neatly situated between Melbourne and the Great Ocean Road. And a Saab 900 Aero (turbo, too) is a pretty good alternative to a sleek Mercedes. To be honest, I'd never own a Mont Blanc pen.

Yet it remains that I still get that certain little feeling of pleasure when something special is involved. And so it was that one day I found myself in the bathroom of Sydney's Shangri-la Hotel, my eyes wandering as those of a magpie, taking in all the sparkling, silver and gold fixtures. The bathtub, for once, was adequately large enough for one to have a decent bath, let alone in which to drown a mouse. The huge glass doors of the shower swung open without a creak and, sitting on the soap holder by the sink in front of the vast mirror (without a single toothpaste splodge), was a variety of complimentary shampoos, conditioners, toothbrushes, bath gels and shower caps.

Then there was the view from the bedroom window. The King-sized bed was so delightfully large and comfortable that I almost forgot where the exit was and I lost track of how many TV channels there were on offer. But the view - oh! how marvellous! We stayed in the Pensione during World Youth Day, and their window looked out at an ugly cement wall. Apparently that lot claim they run a 'boutique' hotel.

Sitting on the leather window seats, we stared out across Sydney Harbour from the twentieth-something floor, taking in every moving ferry and rooftop-potplant. The Harbour bridge and the opera house, both of which almost seem to have taken over from Uluru as the true-blue icons of our nation, stuck out in the bay as the morning rain splattered down and the sun tried its best to burst through the dark clouds. A giant cruise ship - Princess of the Seas, or something to that effect - was moored in Circular Quay, looming tall and proud over 'the Rocks' and the International passenger ferry terminal.

I've been blessed to travel somewhat, and have stayed in many hotels over the recent years, but this was one room with a view I will not forget for years to come. We could see a whole one hundred and eighty degrees, or more; from Darling Harbour all the way across to the slightly Wonka-ishly-named Woolloomooloo Bay. It is, therefore, very easy not to become lost in the hustle and bustle of Sydney's local streets when staying here. Aside from the relatively central location, the tall Shangri-la building can be seen for miles around and is easily recognisable with it's bright, yellow, neon sign shining forth as you round the bend on the last Manly ferry, late at night.

Needless to say, such hotels come with their premium price. At around $300 for a standard room on an average night, I'd rather move permanently to Port Moresby before dropping such precious earnings into the hands of the receptionist. Perhaps the likes of George Clooney might open their wallets without so much as blushing, but I'd be inclined to first blush and then think rather a little more before summoning my bankcard into action. Since, however, 'twas not I but certain other folk who so very kindly covered the bill, and who hailed from Malta, we strolled right on in.

Talk about pure luxury, guv! My father's shoes, for example, which were very nicely shined and polished were returned wrapped in white tissue paper and sealed with a neat Shangri-la sticker. The hotel lobby is rather majestic, and throughout your stay you get a feeling of pampered 'bienvenue' which not only reflects their notion that everyone deserves a 5-star experience but, more importantly, reveals, as they say, that: "There's no greater act of hospitality than to embrace a stranger as one's own."

It could be said that the toilet-roll rack ought to be positioned somewhat higher on the wall, as my left knee continuously bumped against it. And breakfast for close on forty dollars does seem a little farfetched wherever one stays.

If you desire to treat yourself to such luxuries, Warsaw, the Polish capital, has a number of equally fine yet more affordable five-star hotels. The Marriott, for example, is conveniently situated opposite the central station and boasts an exquisite lobby, comfortable rooms and lovely decor. Prices can be had from under AUD$80 for one room; a sweet deal considering the Marriott chain in Australian cities ranges upwards in price from around $200 a night! But then there's the airfare to Poland in the first place. Sydney might be a closer option.

And then, on that note, someone out there should suggest that camping can be just as fun when you're lying all warm and cosy inside a sleeping bag, listening to the gentle pitter-patter of raindrops on the tent roof. And that really is for free.

Ballads in the Alps

Monsieur, she said to me one day,

Convinced that I had best not go.

C'est impossible, tu le sais !

Yet I, so stubborn, refused her No.

She claimed it took at least eight hours.

That might perhaps in winter be,

With snow so thick and no such flowers

As those that month in the valley.

The sun gave birth to golden glow,

For it was summer after all.

Just me without a friend or foe,

Save for the ibex on the col.

High on Lac Blanc on eagle flew,

Majestic in all his royalty.

Further I trod; God's roof so blue,

The air so sweet as potpourri.

A Canadian Breakfast

It may seem strangely… strange, shall we say, to have an English breakfast on Canadian pancakes, doused in quality maple syrup. It is, however, something you must first try before it's really believable, in much the same way that frogs' legs are actually rather nice, panfried in garlic.

Think of that huge hunk of honey-roasted ham you eat on special occasions, perhaps at Christmas. Is good, no? Freshly fried bacon doused in maple syrup is pretty much the same thing. Accompanied with an egg - fried of course, preferably sunny-side up - and you actually have a tasty alternative to lemon and sugar on your pancakes. I am not a fan of savoury crêpes, but the sweetness of the maple syrup compliments nicely with the salty bacon. As for the egg - well there's always an egg or two in a good pancake mix anyway.

The above is a photograph of a $13 breakfast had last year at the Toros Tapas and Bar by Darling Harbour in Sydney. I love the way you get to pour on your own additional maple syrup, of which they have provided a generous little cupful. The serving itself could have been somewhat larger, and yet at the time I remember feeling most content as I strolled away past the beautiful yachts. The price includes a drink and is, for a rather touristy part of Sydney, what I would therefore consider pretty good.

What is worth commenting on is the rich colour of the yolk, despite the risk of sounding a little too much like a spoilt Matt Preston (the caricature of whom, as drawn on Hey Hey It's Saturday, was entirely accurate). It gives the impression that the egg is good, fresh and organic; one that popped out of a 'normal' chicken and not of a boxed-up, steroid-eating, ugly, mass-marketed beast. 

I wonder if this sort of thing reflects the intermingling of French and British colonial societies in early Canadian life. Interestingly, according to Wikipedia, the Norwegians do something similar. Perhaps this explains the rival Swedish invention of the Saab, although that could be somewhat far-fetched.

Perhaps the real question to ask, however, is whether it actually beats the French toast at the White House in Hanhdorf....