Second day off in a row. That's when I usually sink into a drunken funk (Drunken Funk would be an awesome name for a rock band) and mindlessly play old computer games, so I went for a solo picnic at Bogan Bay instead. Low tide.

Watched some kids fail to catch yabbies. A couple taking their dog for a swim: let it of the leash whereupon it gaily splashed off with no apparent intention of ever returning. The man followed up to waist deep, while his wife waded up and down the periphery like a football coach with a bunch of skirt in one hand.

Some things are looking up, though:

I don't think I even know fifty people, much less a hundred. Certainly not in #, and not well enough to invite to a picnic. I've never been moved to incite a mass picnic, but in these uncertain times it's nice to know the spare capacity is there, should I need it.
Ruben friendica
Looks nice to be out and about. I've been stuck on the couch since Monday with a sore back. Today (in my skull-cinema) I am with John Rogers on a stroll through my favourite streets
Oh dear. There goes my evening.
Luke mastodon (AP)
sounds like a lovely day. What’s a yabby?
As it happens, I'm far too middle class to be able to answer that. (Consults Internet).

Right, now then: So it seems that as soon as his offspring are ambulatory, the Australian male will typically lead them out onto a creek bed at low tide with a bucket and a device that looks like a tyre pump.

This yabby pump will be applied to the creek bed, and the handle drawn up to extract a quantity of estuarine silt (loved their eponymous first album, but felt that "Silted Up" suffered from second album syndrome, and subsequently lost interest). This is then coughed up onto the ground and scrutinised by all present and anything judged interesting is put into the bucket.

Now watching this process, in my innocence, I assumed that the contents of a successful expedition's bucket was triumphantly taken home, possibly cooked, and consumed with lashings of tomato sauce, spongy white bread and canary-yellow margarine as the family bonded over a bit of light racist banter.

The truth, it turns out, is far worse. What you catch with a yabby pump is the young of the species ("nippers"), which you then use as (preferably live) bait on the end of a fishing line.

I don't get it. Whole industries exist to keep our carnivorous hands lily-white and untainted by blood and guts. Why take your kids out a full day of vertical-food-chain death and sunburn?

Oh, it's all too awful. I'm going to have a Morrissey moment. La da-di, da-dum, la-deedle-eedle dum. Sigh. That's better.

This is priceless. My wife Ashley's pumping and ready to pop, so get out there and give it a go: