Tut and khamun will come running

You know how people say that school is the best time of your life? Well we all know that’s mostly bullshit brought on by nostalgia and the realisation that you are running out of time, however I can say that my primary school years were the most fun I ever had in school, and that includes my college years.

I have tried and mostly succeeded in repressing 9/10ths of my high school years, and can only remember a couple of fun times and a handful of really embarrassing moments (of course). But primary school is very different, I have vivid memories of a couple of incidents in kindergarten, my teacher Mrs B. had a very piercing voice and she used to yell a lot, but she did teach me how to tie my shoelaces, and was almost as pleased as I was, and she used to let me read at my own pace, which was good, because I could already read.

I don’t remember with any clarity grades one and two, no teachers names have stuck in my mind, same with most of grade three, though one incident has stayed with me all this time, my first kiss, I was eight and sitting outside in the reading area in the corridor, when out of the blue Neville K. kissed me, in front of the two Amandas and a TEACHER.

Well of course it didn’t take long for THAT bit of gossip to spread around the entire school and I remember being really really embarrassed and a little bit thrilled at the same time, though I had a crush on someone else at that time, (hi Tim, Tim is on FB) from that day forward our names were linked in the eyes of our peers and to my extreme embarrassment, the teachers all thought it was cute.

Neville of course was dreadfully unfaithful and vacillated between several girls over the course of our remaining years in primary school, a whole group of us hung out together and the place where we reigned supreme was the two large concrete pipes at the bottom of the big playground. Neville, Tim, Amanda C (who was my bestest friend in the whole world) Amanda F, Andrew and Sean.

We spent all recess and lunchtime there and even after school for a while, it was great fun and definitely something I look back on fondly, grade four I liked bits and pieces of, I liked my teacher Mr Mac, didn’t like sharing a class with my eldest sister (hi Chris) because she was a bully and liked to either hurt or humiliate me ūüėĀ. I do remember one time I was about to sit down at the table and she pulled the chair out from under me, I hit the floor with a thud and it hurt so I started to cry, and she just laughed until she realised that Mr Mac had seen the whole thing, and he was quite angry, told her that she could have hurt me quite badly, and then he went and got Mum (who was a cleaner at the school) and Mum was angry too, I think Chris had to spend time in the withdrawal room as punishment. Incidentally grade four was the last time until grade 7 that I had a proper math lesson (yay for open plan learning, not).

Grade 5 was my absolutely most favourite grade of all, and that was definitely due to the teachers Mrs H and Miss Mc, Mrs H had absolutely brilliant ideas about things to study and do. We went to the museum lots, we learnt what passed for Tasmanian history at that point in time, which included a very whitewashed retelling of what happened to the Indigenous population, which basically amounted to the story that they all ran to Flinders Island very happily, and absolutely loved it. Learnt a lot about Abel Tasman, Matthew Flinders, Sir Richard Dry and Battery Point and Kelly’s Steps. We went on a very memorable school camp to Maria Island, where the boys tried to scare the girls by banging on the windows of the hall late at night, after we’d listened to ghost stories.

The absolute pinnacle of grade five in my eyes was when Mrs H announced that were going to be studying Ancient Egypt, and in particular the life and times of Tutankhamen, armed with a glorious full colour Life book about the treasures that were found in Tutankhamen’s tomb, with a most spectacular picture of the death mask, it was decided that the main attraction was going to be a full body papier mache and plaster of Paris recreation of Tutankhamen’s death mask and mummy.

Mr Pross and my Mum partitioned off a big section of the classroom with folding screens, making corridors which we transformed into the tunnels and tomb of Tutankhamen using copious quantities of crêpe and tissue paper as well as hessian and big sheets of butchers paper, upon which the more artistically inclined painted stones and hieroglyphics, we had the tomb of Tutankhamen looking really really good, all that remained was the mummy.

I am not to sure how we decided who was going to be the sucker who got plastered, as I can’t imagine that the boys were lining up begging to stripped to their undies, slathered in vaseline, including their face and then covered with papier mache and plaster. However it was decided our Tutankhamen was going to be Shaun W, Shaun was a grade 6 boy, his younger brother Campbell was in our grade. At that point in time just about all the girls in both grades had the biggest crush on Shaun, he was tallish, with blue eyes and startlingly blonde almost white hair, so there was no shortage of girls who were willing to cut up hundreds of strips of newspaper and slather vaseline all over his bare skin.

That sort of stuff would not fly today, in fact I’m not sure how it managed to fly then, not just for near nakedness, but for the whole covering him in papier mache and plaster, I mean Shaun’s parents signed the permission slip, and the Principal signed off on it too, but I was sure glad it was him and not me, I suspect I would have found out I was claustrophobic the moment they started covering my face with papier mache, which would not have boded well for King Tut.

So we laid Shaun out on the big art table on a big plastic sheet and a whole bunch of us including the teachers covered every single inch of Shaun in a very thick layer of vaseline, the idea being that it would make it easy to lift the plaster cast off his body, then we started covering him in a thin layer of papier mache, enough to make a shell, he had a straw in his mouth and his nose was blocked off as we covered his face with the papier mache. He then had to lay there long enough for that to dry, then Mr Pross put the wooden frame around him so the plaster wouldn’t leak out.

Then we mixed up the plaster and poured it over him by the bucketful, making sure it was as bubble free as possible, if I’d been Shaun I would have been screaming in horror the whole time, it only took about three hours, including about 30 minutes of heater and hair dryer treatment to speed up drying out, then came the bit where we found out if we used enough vaseline, i.e was the papier mache going to stick to his skin and break, thus ruining the whole mummy effect.

I’m pretty sure that Shaun would not have volunteered for a second go round of mummy modelling, so it was great that apart from a little bit of edge crumbling of the plaster, it lifted off his body quite easily except for his face, in particular his eyebrows, there obviously hadn’t been enough vaseline on his eyebrows, when we got it off his face poor Shaun was missing more than half of his eyebrows, but we had a magnificent Tutankhamen mummy.

Our Ancient Egyptian display was a great success, all the other teachers brought around their classes to see what we’d done, and Shaun became quite proud of his missing eyebrows, though I have often wondered that if in the night sometimes Shaun wakes up in a cold sweat, feeling like he’s being smothered and can’t breathe properly, or if he has what seems to be an irrational dislike of all things Ancient Egyptian.

The one in which i feel like a heel, whilst being angry, upset and miserable.

On Monday Paul went and adopted a 10 month old kitten, which we have named Opal, she’s very cute and if she belonged to anyone else I’d think she was a gorgeous pudding of a kitten. But, there’s always a but… I know why he did it, I understand his reasons, he knows I’m lonely and miserable and cry myself to sleep at night, every single night since Callista went away from me. But he didn’t ask me if I was ready for another cat on that day, the answer would have been a big loud NO.

I’m not, I’m no where near ready for another cat and I find myself not wanting to have anything to do with her, not that she seems to care for my company, she’s glommed onto Paul, but that’s neither here nor there. I wasn’t asked if I wanted another cat, she was presented as a done deal. There of course is no way I’m sending her back to the cat home, she’s already had a topsy turvy kitten hood, it’s not her fault Paul was absolutely tone deaf and insensitive to how I was feeling, I told him after Callista died that it would take me ages to be ready for another cat, but that when I was Callista would point one in the right direction at me.

He knew this and he just assumed he knew better.

And perhaps what is even worse is that he took MY choice of MY next kitty away from me. We can’t have more than three cats, Opal is cute, but she’s a tabby, not a grey tabby, but still a tabby. My next kitty was going to be a little soot sprite maybe, or a handsome all over grey gentleman like Sterling, with an interesting moustache, or perhaps a big white snowball. It was not going to be any flavour of tabby, mainly because I catch glimpses of Opal out the corner of my eye and I see tabby ear, or tabby tail and my heart soars and then breaks in two all over again. Multiple times a day. I can’t do that to myself.

So I’m angry and still lonely, but I feel guilty because I know Paul didn’t mean to hurt me this badly, but I can’t help myself. I want Callista back and if can’t have her, I’d really rather not have a replacement cat at all until I wanted one, and that’s been taken from me.

Jingle jangle bitcoin

Some years ago when I was still doing counselling, I had a number of clients who were shall we say very financially challenged. Being poor is a bitch, being poor and needing some mental health help is a double bitch. I had some students, some very underpaid apprentices, some people who probably could have paid full price, but were so overwhelmed that they couldn’t have organised a piss up in a brewery, so instead of money from a lot of them I got other things, the ones who were artistically inclined paid with gorgeous artwork, crafty ones made me little toys.

It worked out quite well for the most part, I was doing what I loved to do, I was staying in the draconian government guidelines of how much extra money I earned, and I was helping people. One of the people I helped at that time didn’t have real money to pay me, but he did have something he called Bitcoins, at that time I was only vaguely aware of what crypto-currency was, so I just shrugged my shoulders and said “yeah, why not”

He paid me around $60 worth of bitcoins for a two hour session, I was pretty damn sure I wasn’t going to go through all the palaver of doing whatever it was you had to do to exchange them for real money, so I put them in the folder in the files containing all my notes, transcripts, receipts and everything else that I am supposed to keep for ten years per the recommendation of the ACA.

Or so I thought.

With all the news surrounding bitcoins and finding out just HOW much my $60 would be worth, I got Paul to haul out my laptop, dig through the boxes and find the external harddrive that I keep all my old shit on.

I spent about 10 hours going through every single file on that HD, which was no mean feat. I had frikking nested rar files locked in zip files. I un-rared and unzipped literally thousands of files. I found things I’d carried over from my first Windows machine in 1996, text files, ASCII files for my BBS. A zipped copy of Spot, which I’m still side eyeing myself for. Why keep a copy of an Amiga program on your Win95 computer, especially when you’d sold your beloved Amiga because you HAD to have a Windows machine for Uni.

I found all my old Poser files, all my textures, models and poses. All totally useless now. I found so many photos of people I’d forgotten who were very important to me, back then. I found photos of people who are still very important to me, and are still in my life. I found some photos of my Mum that made me cry, some of my Nan, also cried. My darling daughters, so very young and cute and also naked, so we won’t be posting those as a means to embarrass them, like a good Mum should.

I found every single story I have ever written, the bad erotica, the good erotica and the bloody amazing erotica. All the funny stuff that was of its time, all the LTUAE stories, all the AVTECH stories. Even some from the dim distant days of AFD on DalNet on IRC. So much stuff it was very overwhelming.

But no bitcoin wallet.

I concluded that at some point I just must have deleted it because I thought it was worthless.

For all I know it’s still in there, because I may have missed something, there were so many nested zip and rar files, some locked files and quite honestly I felt very sad. I have lived most of my life online in some way, starting from 1982 with my TRS 80 and my acoustic coupler, getting online to BBS’ and with my C-64 onto Viatel. All the way up to now with my tablet and smartphone, and that’s all I have to show for it, aside from my two amazing children, and even they came about from being online, an external harddrive filled with memories and shit.

I’m not sure I want to keep on looking.

Oh no you just didn’t!

Because I have shocking insomnia which is a wonderful side effect, one of many, of all the medication I am on, I spend a lot of time awake, trapped in my bed, one of the redeeming features of this existence is Netflix, I have caught up on so much good quality stuff, stuff I missed first time around.


The other thing I do at night is play games on my tablet, I have quite a number I play, hidden object games, puzzles, RPGs, match threes and a couple of slot games. I quite like the slot games, they’re pretty and flashy and I don’t have to think much about what I am doing. I don’t ever buy any chips, and just rely on all the bonus/extra ways to get chips when I’m low, which is hardly ever, because slot machines love me, I win enormous jackpots all the time, which makes me happy, because when I’m playing a slot with a million dollar lowest roll, my heart still goes in my mouth, even if it’s not real money there is still that frisson.


But enough of that, yada yada I play online slots, one of the slots I play has recently had a major overhaul, it’s gone all very hi tech and extra flash, it has clubs and competitions‚Äč and other things to get you more involved, one of the new things they are meant to be bringing in is the ability to privately chat to other players, at the moment there is just two chat modes, whole table and club chat. Club chat is fine if you want to line up people to play in one of the competitions, whole table chat is mostly people just whinging about never winning, or if you’re playing a scatter slot, saying thanks for the shared wins.


It’s not private, it never has been, so there I was in the wee sma’s of the night, in a room with one other person, both of us minding our own business, playing our game, being polite and saying thanks for the infrequent shared wins ( it was being a ūüźĖ that night). When in bounced this couple, they’d obviously agreed to meet up to play, because he/she/they greeted each other affectionately and exchanged small talk, all fine, no biggy, I tend to ignore the message lines unless I’m saying thanks for a shared wins.

Next time I look at the text space she’s complaining that she’s‚Äč had a real bad run of luck and is just about out of chips, the guy she’s playing with responds kinda like “I got plenty of chips, how desperate are ya” they go back and forth, I look at my own stuff ignoring them, then I get a pretty good win, with a good share and my original person says thanks, and I look up at the screen just in time to see Ms REALLY desperate go to town on Mr I got plenty of chips.

I’m not a prude, I’ve done things that I’m pretty damned glad my kids have never found out about, because NO ONE wants to have THAT conversation, do they daughters!¬† As far as rp sex went it was pretty average, not very descriptive and you would have to have been pretty horny.


But yes anyway my original partner just went !!! and left, I just typed “thanks for ruining my game” and left, then I reported both their gamer IDs because I’m petty like that, and because, dude, dudette, I don’t frickin care how horny you are, time and place dudes, TIME and PLACE!



Tact and compassion are so words in the dictionary, look them up.

I recently posted a pic of M’lady Callista, Callista is the eldest of my three elderly (in cat years) felines of my heart. An acquaintance of an acquaintance posited a comment on the picture of my old cranky lady which I shall quote verbatim. 

“Your cat looks very old and very scruffy, I hadn’t seen a picture of her in a while, I assumed she had died. Then I realised that if she’d died everyone would have certainly known. You’re not exactly known as sane when it comes to that cat. Perhaps it’s time to think about who you are really keeping her alive for, your benefit or hers.

Once I had metaphorically picked myself up off the floor and closed my jaw which developed this habit of dropping open in sheer anger every time I so much as thought of the nasty, spiteful little post, I managed to pull myself together enough to post what I thought was a quite reasonable and reasoned reply. According to my friends in that place I failed dismally.

Now I know how Tom Cox felt each time he posted pictures of his beloved The Bear who was 21, and right up until the very last month was a happy, loved and supremely spoiled beastie. Without fail and usually from a poster in another part of the world (Tom is from the UK) Tom would be greeted with comments about how sad it must be that The Bear would be dying soon and was Tom ready for the sorrow and pain. 

Believe you me, every owner of a kitty of advanced years is acutely aware that this day could be the one where it all starts to spiral out of control, that this could be the day you say goodbye. If love could have kept any cat alive it would have been The Bear and his army of lovers.

But that is not how any of this works, and I do not believe that anyone who loves their furry ones would deliberately prolong the suffering of their beloved, simply to save themselves grief.

I reach out in the middle of the night to check if Callista is still breathing, I have been known to poke her quite vigorously when she has those moments of very quiet stillness, I know very well that our time together is now short, and the mere thought of that rends my heart into a million little pieces, but it would never stop me from doing what is right, what she deserves.

Callista stole my heart over 18 years ago, with her teeny pointed face and ridiculously silly ears that she never really grew into, when and if the time comes that I have to make that decision, I will, but I hope Callista will do me the honour of taking her last breath in my arms, held tightly by her person, the person who owes her so much and loves her more than words could ever say.

It’s all so very very subjective¬†

I was listening to my music this morning whilst playing my latest addiction, a nifty time consuming game called Egg, Inc, a cross between time management, farming (with all different sorts of eggs) and resources allocation. It is like nothing I’ve ever played before and it’s been a great surprise finding out how much fun it is.
Well anyway as I said I was playing my game and listening to music when on came a song, this song –

Marshalls Portable Music Machine – Robin Jolley
According to Glenn A.Baker this is the worst Australian song of all time, oh Glenn, Glenn I beg to differ most stridently, for your delectation at least THREE songs that are so demonstrably worse than poor old Robin.

This is arguably THE worst song to ever come from Australia, I give you – 

Shudduppa Your Face – Joe Dolce
I am forever apologising to my UK friends for Australia inflicting that one on them.

However Joe is not alone in the horrors he perpetuated, I give you – 

Baked Beans – Mother Goose
To be fair Mother Goose originated in New Zealand, but like most bands had to come to Australia to make a decent living, however unlike the very talented bands that came across the ditch and struck it big, like Split Enz, Mi-Sex, Dragon etc, Mother Goose lacked one thing, proper talent, unless you’re Weird Al, humourous novelty songs can only take you so far.

And then we have these two songs –

It’s not the way that you do it – Pussyfoot
She was a very very scary woman, not surprising though she was a big hit with both teenage boys and men of a certain age.


I can’t stop myself from loving you – William Shakespeare
William Shakespeare was a toss up between that one, and his other bile inducing god awful song My Little Angel.

And that’s just off the top of my head, I’m sure if I thought about it some more, I could probably find 100 songs more worthy of the worst song to ever come from Australia, so leave poor old Robin alone.

Catching up

I rarely use my laptop these days, mainly because I have great difficulty in seeing the screen and the keyboard unless it’s inches from my face, I only got new glasses last year and already they are not strong enough, my opthalmologist told me back when I was 13 that my eyesight would start to get really bad in my 40s, well it held off until my 50s, I was kinda hoping he was wrong, but every subsequent eye exam has said the same thing. 
Anyway, so I can’t use my laptop, means I have to use my tablet, I have a funky new one and so I have just installed every single app known to womankind, including the one for WordPress, and I feel like writing again, so you’ll see more from me on here, cos you know you can never have too many platforms.
     xTeddyx ūüėė

meaningfulness: or why i like fancy soda

i have been a bit… i’ve been struggling to know where to start with lately, not even remembering where i left off. it was my birthday. i broke out of hospital when i was anaemic because…

Source: meaningfulness: or why i like fancy soda

Casually racist, homophobic.

The instant you preface ANY comment with,

“I’m not racist but…(insert derogatory statement about a group with a different skin colour or ethnicity” and then follow it up with “some of my best friends are…(Black, Indian, Mexican, Indigenous etc etc)” so you can’t possibly be racist or bigoted.


You’re probably not a full blown frothing at the mouth KKK card carrying racist or bigot, what you are is casually racist and that is even worse than being an openly racist/bigoted individual, because you can spot the dyed in the wool racists, they are not backward in coming forward with their opinions.

It’s the casual racism that’s the hardest to avoid, the institutionalized racism, the different attitudes when a POC or someone from a Minority goes shopping, or applies for a job, or tries to find a house to rent, the subtle and not so subtle roadblocks that exist, that most people probably don’t realise that they pay into.

The empty seat on the bus next to a dark skinned man, surrounded by white people all standing, because no one will sit next to him, how can that not be casual racism, no matter what spin you put on it, yet I’m sure if you asked these people they would be horrified to be called racist, because it seems that calling someone on their racist/bigoted behaviour is worse than the racism/bigotry itself.

The same applies to “I’m not homophobic but…” statements, followed by the assertion that some of your best friends/sister/mother/aunt etc are gay, so you can’t possibly be homophobic.

Wrong again, casually racist, casually homophobic, and all probably without you even thinking twice about it or the impact it has on people.

Hunter S. Thomcat is a traitor. An adorable, fluffy traitor.

The look on Rollys’ face is priceless

The Bloggess

Rolly is the kind of cat who will sometimes let you pet her but then will unexpectedly bite you in the eye because it’s Wednesday, and if you try to pick her up SHE WILL FUCKING DESTROY YOU.  Hunter S. Thomcat takes a slightly different approach…

HST is a bit of a traitor

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