Nooget exploration and conquest

   

Michael makes the most adorably chubby maps of the world. On this one he has finally located for us his homeland he is always talking about, Noogetswan (the whale-shape in Siberia). Unfortunately the lines Michael has drawn show "Noogetswan conquering Tasmania, Iceland and part of Greenland". I asked him what the Noogets would do with these territories once they were in their thrall. Would they be kind to the Tasmanians, Icelanders and Inuit? "No".

School Quiz Night

Some weeks back when it was announced we would be having a fund-raising quiz night, we were immediately snaffled by our friend The Fewst to be on her team. She even paid for us, as a gesture to say thanks to Elf for shuttling her son from school to her work once a week. We suspect she also thought we would shore up the team in some vital knowledge areas.

Mum and Dad were roped in to look after Marcus, Michael, Miah and Karri, as Imp and Ed were also quiz-bound, although in a different team. The kids were fed, pyjama'd and toothbrushed before we left. As Elf, Imp and Ed went out the door Michael said "Where are they going?" I said "We're going to the quiz night". Michael said "Great!" and scooted out the door. I put him straight quick smart, pointing out that he was wearing pyjamas for a reason.

We arrived at the school gym, and split off into our teams. I was expecting to be cold but there were about 170 people crammed in, and we were soon peeling off layers. We had to name our team, which task fell to me. Fewst's Flamingos. Harmless enough. By the time The Fewst heard the name it was in the hands of the scorers. "Oh NO, how embarrassing!!!" she wailed.

Off we went. We had a variety of people in the team, no-one that we knew very well. Everyone was very pleasant and mostly played nice. But we had to do that swap-answers-for-marking thing, and The Fewst seemed determined to mark hard. We had to keep chivvying her to be fair. Not only that, the very first tough question saw her fish out her iPhone. "Fewst, you can't do that!!!" "Why not?"

An early question was "How would you cut a circular cake into 8 equal pieces with 3 straight cuts?" I have heard this before, so I explained you cut down the middle, then right angles to that (4 pieces) then horizontally through the whole cake parallel to the table (8 pieces). Our captain tried to draw this, and didn't quite get it. Her 2nd attempt was going down the same track, so I offered to draw it. No big deal, took a few seconds, and the other less artistically inclined team members all said "ooh, look at that, lovely". The Fewst sulked for quite some time about me "criticising her drawing". When the time came to swap answers with the next table, she proposed marking theirs wrong when they had drawn something exactly the same as hers. Sheesh.

Anyway. The whole thing was terrifically well organised. Parents from the school had donated an amazing array of things, including this beautiful framed print by Maddy Goodwolf, worth over $1000. There was a silent auction for a wide range of stuff, and a proper auctioneer (hup 400 400 400 400 hup 450 450 do I have 5, do I have 5 thankyousir 500 hup etc) taking live bids (and even phone bids) for the big ticket items like the print (shown below). The whole thing appeared to be a roaring success in terms of raising funds for the school.

We were in front in the scoring about threequarters of the way through. We were getting good answers from all quarters, The Fewst coming through very nicely with the correct term for the white bumpy bits on southern right whales (callosities).

We were asked: what was the name of the actual dog who first played Lassie? I happened to have looked it up 3 days ago, and stunned the team by getting it right (Pal). All going well.

Then came the Trash and Treasure round. A list of things had to be found and presented to the scorers, including a bra, a tampon, a condom, a high-heeled shoe, a band-aid, lip balm, etc etc. We did very badly here, and we all agreed that it lowered the tone somewhat. Then again, we had already been given a list of place-names and had to find the one that was fake. The list included Middelfart, Fucking*, Anus, Bollocksberg, Crapstone, Wetwang and Penistone. So, yeah, the tone was low already. *It's real, and can be found in Austria.

In the end we came second, and won a motley swag of musk sticks, tiny Easter eggs, and bizarrely a large jar of satay sauce. As I was stressing about how late up we were keeping Mum and Dad, Imp approached with a large man she wanted me to meet. Turns out he is a more-or-less professional quizzer, who wants to add me to his roster of reliable team members. He even carries around a spreadsheet with his recent results to show prospective draftees.

I said he could give me a call - but I am starting to go off the idea a bit. The idea of a grim team of hand-picked specialists going around cleaning up at the expense of teams of actual fun-loving friends - it's not really cricket is it?

Important List! #10 - Fictional Hares and Rabbits

I have picked this list of favourites from a longer list in Wikipedia.

Binky from Life in Hell
Bunnicula
Captain Carrot
Crusader Rabbit
Hazel from Watership Down
Jive Bunny and the Mastermixers
Glenda, the Plan 9 Bunny
Greg the Bunny
Ricochet Rabbit & Droop-a-Long
Schnuffel

Why not comment below with your own favourite imaginary lagomorphs?

Culture in your DNA

“Dad, when people change cultures, does that affect their DNA? Like when the aborigines moved to NZ and became Maoris?” - Michael.

We were on our way home from an appointment with the visiting cardiologist at the Royal Hobart. (All good as far as they can tell). I said “That's a great question, but the aborigines didn't go to New Zealand”. Michael claimed he had read it in a book. I said as far as I knew the Maoris came from the Pacific to New Zealand in around 1000AD, and they called their home island Hawaiki. This (although a bit shaky) had enough detail to convince him I knew what I was talking about.

I told him that the aborigines did have a big cultural change when white people came this country with guns, smallpox and sheep. Very few aboriginals still live a traditional life, mostly they have embraced or been forced into a western way of life. But no, it would have no effect on their DNA as far I know.

Michael was very patient while we waited for the doctor - we had a 2.20 appointment and went in at about 3.30, which always happens. He was unfazed by the chest ultrasound and spoke to the doctor very confidently about a few odd pains he's had - which we think are just normal stitch from running and so on. I was very proud of him.

And then on the way home he came out with his super question. What a kid.

Letting her swimming do the talking, eh?

Another scene

For some reason I found myself in another emotional scene today. Well, I was emotional. My friend that I was kicking out of the house took it pretty well.

I have a friend with kids at the school, who likes to drop in with them on their way home on Wednesdays. Wednesday is my only pick-up-from-school day, when I finish early at work, stride up to there as fast as I can, and bring the boys home in the car I cunningly leave there in the morning. An afternoon at home is a great opportunity to get things done around the house, spend some time with the boys, walk the dog, or even just let the kids do their thing while I have a coffee and sit in the sun doing nothing. None of which will happen if we have visitors.

My friend's little girl who is Michael's age loves to see Winston. They don't have much space or sunlight at their small place up the valley from us. My friend doesn't work, and doesn't get to spend all that much time with other adults. I understand all that, and I have only twice knocked back requests to visit (with the reason that Marcus has important homework to concentrate on).

Once, they had just arrived, when my friend asked would it be OK to leave the kids with me while he went downtown on the bus to do something (doesn't drive). I think I was open-mouthed for a while but then said yes. Today he asked at school if I would take them up to our place while he walked in the other direction to return some DVDs. I said yes, but decided on the way home (driving slowly so I wouldn't have a collision causing the airbag to decapitate Marcus) that this would be the last time.

After a while he turned up. Usually I make coffee but today I was determined to hold him to his suggestion that they wouldn't stay long. I did the dishes while he hung around. Outside, Michael and the visiting kids were stabbing a cardboard box with pencils. I was just working up to saying "no more Wednesday visits" when the boy, who is Grade 6 and should know better, pretended to stab Michael in the head with his sharp pencil.

I went ballistic. I have got quite used to parenting my friend's kids in front of him, as he doesn't seem to care how they cross a road, or eat a piece of drippy fruit. In this case I gave his son a dressing down while both father and son looked at me blankly.

With my dander up, I told my friend that we needed a break from visits, that daylight time at home is precious in winter and there's no way I can do anything that needs doing etc and so forth. He said that was fine, and didn't seem to take offence, but continued to hang around for another fifteen minutes.

I don't know. Was I being unfair?

Roy of the Rovers

I used to get Shoot magazine when I was a teenage soccer fanatic. It came from the UK, featured things like player profiles (favourite pre-match meal was always "steak and chips") and a few comic strips. One of them was Hot-Shot Hamish, about a ridiculously strong Scotsman who was forever bursting nets with his mighty thunderbolts. The other was a meant-to-be serious one called Roy of the Rovers. Our hero Roy Race started out as a young lad with Melchester Rovers, and played for the next forty or so years. Quite often we would see Melchester playing against various racially stereotyped European teams (robotic Germans, sneaky Italians, craven French etc).

STOP PRESS: I am starting to think Roy and Hamish were actually in a different paper called Scorcher and Score. Earlier, I tried looking up Score magazine but I would not advise anyone under 18 to do that.

In any case, Wikipedia has this to say about Roy:

To keep the strip exciting, Melchester was almost every year either competing for major honours or struggling against relegation to a lower division. The strip followed the structure of the football season, thus there were several months each year when there was no football. By far the most common summer storyline saw Melchester touring a fictional country in an exotic part of the world, often South America, where they would invariably be kidnapped and held to ransom. The average reader probably stayed with the comic for only three or four years, therefore storylines were recycled; during the first ten years of his playing career, Roy was kidnapped at least five times.

Acting like a mug

Last Sunday our old pals Simon and Mary and daughter Miranda came over for lunch, and an afternoon of board games. They love a board game, whereas we do have some board games but only get them out in desperate situations. Anyway, we all had fun (although Michael refused to participate), and one of the games we played was a charades card game, suitable for all ages. You pick up a card, with four different words on it, and then throw a dice to tell you which one you have to try to silently convey.

Elf was so impressed that she bought us a copy of the game. We had Mum and Dad staying with us again this week, so one evening we got it out and played a game with them, plus Marcus - Michael again refused to participate.

The funniest part of it was my Dad, deciding that no matter what the word was, the best way to get it across was to try to personify the thing. To begin with, he crouched down, crossed his arms over his head, and stayed still for about 20 seconds, while we all shouted squat! lump! crouch! dwarf! rock! shrub! etc. Then he stood up and tried plan B - which looked a little like what the late James Brown called "mashing potatoes". Time ran out. It was bin.

Next word - Dad crouched down, crossed his arms over his head, and stayed still for about 15 seconds, while we all shouted Squat! Squeeze! Crouch! Bin! Hide! To help, Dad started indicating with some sort of curving motion that he had a tail, or possibly an electrical cord. Mouse! Squirrel! Toaster! This one was mug.

My best effort was when I conveyed, simply through two wafts of my hands and a very vacant expression, the concept of jellyfish.

I would like to keep writing a blog

OK, I went into my shell there for a while. Sorry if anyone was offended by my little rant, it was precious and self-pitying and not the way I prefer to be.

My clownsome workmate has been changing his Facebook profile’s date-of-birth every day, then loudly mocking the innocent souls who send him cheerful birthday wishes. After the third or fourth day I was getting sick of this, so in his absence one Friday afternoon I sat down at his laptop and simply wrote “Thanks for all the birthday wishes everyone. Drinks on me tonight!”

Unknown to me over the weekend several people got irate calls from him accusing them of doing it. I had forgotten about it when I got to work on Monday morning, where people were laughing about it. He wasn't. I said “Oh, I did that.” We were all surprised that he was so upset - he is known as a person who knows no embarrassment and loves to provoke it in others. He will impersonate someone else if it gets a laugh. But he was deeply offended, and I felt bad that I had done it. It’s technically illegal, and not something I would ever do to anyone else.

He effectively would not accept my apology and went on about it daily for two weeks, in front of all our colleagues. I said, “Well, I have apologised and that’s the end of it as far as I am concerned”. I shut down my Facebook, starting feeling quite depressed and guilty, and in that frame of mind decided to cease writing online.

This last week I have realised that this stupid business actually affected me quite deeply. I was shutting down in all facets of my life, and more or less scrunching up in a ball. I have just had a week of indigestion and mounting social anxiety. On my way to work on Thursday I felt that I would be able to get through the day if I could just hunker down with my headphones on and mind my own business.

The only problem would be if it was someone's birthday, in which case we would all be expected to stand around while clownsome workmate made one of his speeches. His life is a continuous cabaret stand-up routine, and I have decided I do not want to be part of his audience any more. As it happened it was someones birthday, and so things came to a head when I continued to work, with my headphones on, while he made his speech.

I don't really like to announce to people “I have social anxiety” but neither do I like to be rude. So I emailed the clownsome one to explain - I have a form of agoraphobia, and sometimes I just cannot stand to be part of a group. I just want to be invisible. What I need to say to him, but haven’t yet, is that although it is my problem not his, it is manageable unless there is someone performing constantly, who at any moment is going to involve you and pull you into his spotlight.

So - I was wrong to start shutting things down, as it can spiral inwards to the point where I am a mean, shrivelled, gibbering mess. As far as writing the blog is concerned, I have missed it, I think I need to keep doing it, and if would you would continue to read it I would be very much obliged.

Clear and frosty morning

Manifestly excessive jowls

This is why he is sometimes called "the hovercraft".

Quiz champs

Marcus, Michael, Arianne and Lana took out the Tasmanian Grade 4 Trivia championship yesterday, in Launceston - organised by Epilepsy Australia. Michael was asked to fill in when someone couldn't make it, and performed admirably. Apologies for photo quality - it was held in a large dim basketball centre.

However...

 I will continue to put stuff up at here that is more scrapbooky, arty and general internetty. Which is how this blog has started going anyway. See ya over there!

Sorry Fiji, I was just on my way out...

You may have noticed the blog has not quite been itself of late. Lots of pictures, not so much news. I've been finding I just don't want to sit down and type all about myself any more. And by extension, my family. They are going along, doing the things they do. I enjoy these things mostly - but you can kill the enjoyment by writing about it endlessly. And we all know that just finding stuff on the internet and blogging that isn't what life is actually about.

In many ways blogging is a mystery. Who are all you people reading this, for heavens sake? Apparently there are 200-400 of you a week, from just about every country. Most recently Fiji and the Åland Islands (an autonomous region of Finland). Why do you come here? Why does my average blog post get 0 comments? What’s with the relentless search for netball team names?

So anyway, I am hanging up the blog for a while. I have really appreciated all the regular readers and commenters, I can’t begin to tell you how much.

Royal Hobart Hospital

The Royal Hobart Hospital - once was quite a beautiful art deco ocean-liner style building. Love the car out front too.

Update: Here is how it looks in 2011.

Marriage Ref

There is a show on NBC in the United States called The Marriage Ref. The executive producer is Jerry Seinfeld. Madonna tells Larry David "I hate you". Ricky Gervais giggles like a girl. I can only really watch about 2 minutes of it.

What I wanted to mention is that it is syndicated in the Arab world, and the Arabic version (قاضي الغـرام) is hosted by Moustafa Shaban. That's all.

One question quiz

OK - fingers on buzzers. Who am I? I was Queen of Pakistan, from 1952 until 1956, Queen of Nigeria from 1960 until 1963, and Queen of Malta from 1964 until 1974. I am currently the Queen of Barbados and also Duke of Lancaster. I own 89% of Canada, and like dumpy hats.

Wish I'd known

Our windows at work look out over Salamanca Place to Sullivans Cove. I have been meaning to mention how lovely the view is on sunny winter mornings. A line of large plane trees (or something similar) block the water view for most of the year, but once the leaves fall you get that low-angle sunlight glittering off the swell, cut by the wakes of the boats.

When I am having a quiet moment in the far kitchen corner waiting for the kettle, I have noticed I can see the top windows of the Art School, on the far side of the cove. [As an aside, I am not happy calling it a cove as it the most fakey-fake tymes of olde word that is bandied about by real estate and marketing types to give any small patch of oil-scummed water a touch of picturesque - sadly that is actually it’s name]. Just in time for my first year, the Art School moved into a refurbished former jam factory on the docks.

It’s a very long time ago now. I worked much harder then (well, at least in my final year) than I do now. While I waited for the kettle to boil I thought about all the 1970s and 80s technology that was still hanging around then, and requiring to be mastered by graphic design students.

In those days "cut" meant cut and "paste"meant paste. We had scalpels and x-acto knives, and hot wax, heat-set gelatin stuff, rubber cement (and the piece of crepe shoe sole everyone had for getting rid of the excess) and worst of all, aerosol spray glue. Letraset, rapidograph pens, the process camera and copyproof bromides, the golfball typewriter with 4 fonts! Those bendy blue plastic strips and french curves. The Pantone colour markers. Man. And I was so bad at it all. If the Macintosh had not come along when it did I would now be a librarian or something.

Pic pinched from Graphic Leftovers blog

I was sometimes pretty miserable when I was a 20-something, and looking over at the art school it occurred to me that 1988 me would have really had something to look forward to if he could have seen 2011 me. A beautiful, lovely, patient wife who is also all the things I am not, which is handy. Two amazing kids. And no spray glue at all, ever.

Dawn breaks

Dawn breaks over Hobart

Clapping and groaning

My friend Wendy wrote a great blog post the other day about watching her eldest son play sport, and seeing him grow up before her eyes. I am about to write something similar, as our boys are similar ages and we are probably getting similar insights at this point in our parenting careers, 9 or 10 years in. [But if you are after a really top piece of writing you'd be better served by reading Wendy's].

Marcus's team had a fantastic win against their toughest ever opposition last week. Yesterday they had another tough game, and again came out on top, but it was in the balance until near the end. A couple of times Marcus did things that just thrilled me, and neither of them involved the ball.

There is a lad in our team who Marcus has known since they were babies. They have never been great pals, but recently they have been really rubbing each other the wrong way. There have been stroppy outbursts at practice and even during games - pointing fingers and blame being dished around.

Yesterday this lad was goalkeeper in the first half, and Marcus was playing a loose "boss of the defence" role. We were up 1-0 when a shot came the keeper's way, went straight between his legs and into the net. I groaned and clapped (as I clap all the goals either team scores because I am a modern parent). Then I waited for the recriminations.

Marcus put his hand on the keeper's shoulder and said something to him gently. The keeper put his hand up to the whole team, in the international sign for "I made a mistake and I'm sorry". Marcus plays with such intense passion (and has since he was 6) that these are the moments when I hold my breath waiting to see which way it goes. I think both boys passed the test with flying colours.

One of the visiting team was a kid named Riley who Marcus knows from athletics, as well as playing soccer against him for years. They always get on pretty well, but I think Riley is the kind that gets on with everyone. Marcus and Riley went for the same ball at one stage. Marcus won it and in the process knocked Riley flat. Marcus kept going, passed the ball off and ran into attack. Riley was still flat on his face but I could see he was smiling, so I wasn't concerned. The ball went out, he hopped up and trotted off, and as they passed I heard Marcus say blithely "Sorry about that Riles, ya right?"

And that in a nutshell is exactly how I want Marcus to play sport.

More lions in sidecars

Yesterday I mucked up the link to the source of these amazing pics, a website called The Selvedge Yard.

This time I have triple-tested it, and to make up for my mistake I am throwing in two more pictures of people with lions in sidecars. I have assumed that these are daredevil acts but maybe these are actually just lion taxis.

Model T

This picture of the Apollo moon landing is such an obvious fake.

Yes that's right - that's a lion in a sidecar

I think The Selvedge Yard has claims to be the world's finest website. I will make the case.

1. It contains this photo of a wall-of-death stunt that has taken things up a notch, viz. there is a lion in the sidecar. A lion.

2. It contains another photo which I will not reproduce here, but which has the caption Tornado Smith posts a letter while riding penny farthing bicycle.

3.  It has the above photo above a heading JACK NICHOLSON | REBEL ROUSERS which I read very clearly as REBEL TROUSERS. My mistake - and yes that does dent my case slightly but pressing on to

4. Gobsmacking pic of Schwarzenegger, Hefner and basketball legend Wilt Chamberlain. Just hangin'. Hef has the all-denim suit. Wilt has the 18 inch thongs.

Alright, yes it is mostly motorbike-related and there is some cheesy 70s pinup stuff but - you know the lion is pretty awesome.

Breakfast argument

This discussion happened at the breakfast table, with no reference works to hand, apropos of nothing.

Michael: Dad, the Coptic capital letter hori looks just like a backwards S. And so does the little hori. Actually, they don't have capitals.
Marcus: [scathingly] None of the hieroglyphics have capitals.
Michael: Coptic isn't heiroglyphics. There is, uh, ... demodit ...
Me: Demotic?
Michael: Yeah, demotic and hieratic.
Marcus: Demotic was the one that everyone had to know.
Michael: No - it was just scribes and stuff.
[After a break to get dressed and argue a bit about other things]
Michael: Look - it says here that demotic was used for legal texts and mummy inscriptions.
Marcus: Yeah, but you smell.

Say it with lawn bowls

I don't have much to say lately, hence the many photos.

I think lawn bowls are very beautiful objects. They are so black and heavy, and feature a very idiosyncratic range of logos and devices engraved on them. As far as I can tell the Henselite factory did them to order, and you could have pretty much whatever design you wanted.

My new set (from Ben's dad) - featuring the old His Master's Voice logo.

My original set (from my dad) featuring the double-barred Cross of Lorraine.

Squawky visitors

These guys have become regulars. It's clear they have a plan to take apart the rainbow spinny thing.

Moons of Jupiter by Michael

Ganymede was murder, but he got it eventually.

Chicken gun

I was watching one of those Richard Hammond engineering shows last night, and they tested some aircraft materials with a chicken gun. Unlike the elephant gun, goose gun and fowling piece, the chicken gun is named for its ammunition rather than its target. It is a large tube that takes whole dead chickens, and fires them, at aircraft flight velocity, to simulate bird collisions.

Advancing years 3, joints 0

We had a strange game of indoor soccer last night. No goals at all in the first half (the average would be about 10). In the second half we got out to 3-0 and felt like we might be safe, then they rattled on 3 of their own in no time at all. A draw.

Last time we were in the top division we lost every week. This time we have had 3 draws and one precious win. Despite the good results, I have never felt so old out on the court. (I have never been so old, let's face it), but I really feel I am not running out the games so well these days.

As a testament to my advancing years, the other day at work I found I had to move my lawn bowls to reach my hot water bottle. My work colleague Ben gave me a beautiful set of lawn bowls (my second) I had plonked them by desk. My feet have been persistently frozen of late so I bought a hot water bottle to rest them on - it works like a charm. It was when I was shifting the bowls to reach the hottie that I realised I am now "that old guy" to my workmates.

Today Marcus had his first soccer match for 3 weeks, against the Ken Morton Soccer Academy. Our boys were expecting a very tough test, and it was too. They did a great job though, worked hard for each other and were level 2-2 at half time. In the second half, Felix in goals was peppered with shots and kept them all out. Marcus was defending marvellously, holding up the very quick and skillful academy kids, and generating moves forward for his team. At one point he was caught with the ball deep in defence, and I thought their resistance was about to crumble. He just worked so hard, got it back, fed it to David up front, and David went on an incredible run that ended with him and the KMSA keeper charging at a 50/50 ball. The keeper kicked it into David and it rebounded off some part of his head/face area, into the net. Amazing. A few minutes later it was all over and our lads were delirious. It was probably their best game of the year and certainly the most outstanding result.

I missed about 10 minutes of the game giving Michael a dressing down. I had seen him whipping a long willow branch around, whacking poles and fences. Next thing I knew he was flailing at another boy with it, and hit him across the face. The boy was not happy and went to tell his Dad. I seized the willow off Michael and sent him over to say sorry. He seems to me to be incapable of sincerely saying sorry, but the Dad seemed satisfied. Michael and I then spent another little while yelling at each other.

The 4 Georges

George I: "I was the sad one" "
George II: "And I was the bad one."
George III: "I was the mad one" "
George IV: "And I was the fat one."

I saw this on telly yesterday with the kids - thought it was pretty funny. I suggest you skip the first 21 seconds. Pedantic correction: George III was George II's grandson, actually.

Ash cloud descends on the blog

Sorry to those of you who are regular blog readers - it's been pretty quiet lately. No good excuse comes to mind - just some weeks are more bloggy than others. Blame that guy Ash McLeod - he seems to be responsible for everything else going wrong in the southern hemisphere lately.

Let's just say all my interesting blog content is buried under this somewhere.

Gumnuts

Some gumnuts from my imagination.

Glass skeleton

This is the skeleton of a venus' flower basket sponge (Euplectella aspergillum), that I bought in Stanley on our recent trip up north. These are amazing creatures, in various ways. Wikipedia says:

... the sponge symbiotically houses two small shrimp, a male and a female, who live out their lives inside the sponge. They breed, and when their offspring are tiny, the offspring escape to find a Venus Flower Basket of their own. The shrimp inside of the basket clean it, and in return, the basket provides food for the shrimp by trapping it in its fiberglass-like strands, and then releasing it into the body of the sponge for the shrimp. It is also speculated that the bioluminescent light of bacteria harnessed by the sponge may attract other small organisms which the shrimp eat.

I first heard of these things on Theodore Gray's fabulous website the Wooden Periodic Table Table. Among his roughly 150 samples representing silicon, is one of these. He has a simply beautiful QTVR of it - if you give it a little while to load, you can rotate it with the mouse. Go on - I'll wait here while you give it a try.

Gray writes of the skeletal structure;

This is a sea creature, a sponge of sorts, that grows a glass skeleton. That's right, the skeleton is made of what amounts to fiberglass. Isn't that the most amazing thing you've ever heard of? I suppose it shouldn't be any more amazing than us growing a calcium phosphate (actually calcium phosphate foam) skeleton, but it is to me. Not only is the skeleton glass, the fibers it's made of are said to be superior in some ways to man-made fiber optics, and of course they are grown at low temperatures, something people, as of this writing, have no idea how to do.

If that isn't enough amazement for you, consider the engineering properties of the skeleton. According to these boffins at Bell Labs,

Each of the structural levels corresponds to a fundamental construction principle commonly used in civil engineering and sometimes product design, but on a scale 1,000 times smaller than a building. For example, the fibers that comprise the sponge’s skeleton are arranged in a lattice, or open criss-cross pattern, reinforced by fibers that run diagonally in both directions inside alternate squares in the lattice. This construction technique is often found in high-rise buildings and free-standing bookshelves to counteract shear stress, which can easily collapse a non-reinforced square structure. The team also discovered that when the diameter of the sponge’s skeleton increases beyond a certain point the outer structure is reinforced by ridges in a spiral pattern. The ridges counteract an effect known as “ovalization,” which makes cylindrical structures more prone to collapse, as demonstrated by the fact that it’s fairly easy to twist or flatten an empty aluminum can. By stabilizing its skeleton with external ridges, the sponge makes itself difficult to crush. Other hierarchical levels include highly stable laminated glass beams, fiber-reinforced cements, and bundled structural elements, to name a few.

 So - pretty great eh? A bit better than a blurry photo of Winston's nose, anyway.

I try some macro nature photography

Ladies and gentlemen: I give you, the soft rubbery nose of a large dog (Canis lupus familiaris).

Awkward

It's school holidays at the moment, but I am working through them, as I have no leave left. If I was easily distracted I would now start talking about Nick Drake's lovely album Five Leaves Left, but I have an iron-willed determination to stick to the subject which is: unisex toilets.

As I have mentioned often, I work in a rambling complex of old stone warehouses joined together with ramps, metal stairs and mysterious fire doors. We have been there nearly a year now. Last week a sliding fire door opened behind me in the wall - a door that has been closed all that time, and we treat as if it was a bit of wall. A man no-one had seen before (looked a bit like John Hodgman) said "Hell-o!" and strolled into our office to check the fire extinguishers.

But – the toilets. There are two, and in a sane workplace there would be one for boys and one for girls. Instead they are both unisex. The nearest one also has the baby change table. There is a chair as well as the change table in the disabled cubicle, and that can only be for feeding, I guess. On occasions I have made the long trudge down from our office to the nearest toilet, turned the corner, and realised someone is on their way in for a nappy change and maybe a spot of breastfeeding. So I have backtracked and gone upstairs so we can both have some privacy.

On Tuesdays every week, a group of lovely older ladies convenes in the Arts Centre meeting room, all day. I'm not sure what they are there for, but of course they are another obstacle to quiet enjoyment of uncomplicated ablutions. Regularly on Tuesdays a workmate will come back into the office with that look of shame and anger on his face that says "I just unavoidably disgusted an old lady".

At least the Tuesday Ladies know what they are dealing with. As the centre is open to the public, arguably half the people using the toilets are visitors. Based on observations, I would say that of those, 90% have done a lot of tentative searching for some kind of "mens" or "womens" indicators, and then have seen someone coming out, and either thought "ah - unisex" or just "ah - there is a person of my gender - I am going in there no questions asked before I burst".

In some hair-raising cases, ladies have only been acquainted with the unisex aspect when they have opened the outer sliding door suddenly, just as I have been about to open it from the other side. Or they are applying some lippy in the mirror when I flush and step out behind them. (I want to stress that I have been just as surprised as they.) No-one has screamed, yet.

The acme of awkward situations crops up in the school holidays. The Faerie Shop Pty Ltd runs Faerie School for little girls, aged about 5 - 8, in the same meeting room. They are all gussied up with lacy dresses in pink, mauve and purple, and wings of course. They do Faerie Crafts and watch Faerie Films and god knows what else all day, guided by adult Faeries with bigger wings.


Sometimes the adult Faeries take groups of girls to the toilet. Do they mention in advance that, through no fault of his own, they might meet a large unshaven man in there? It seems not. Do they suggest that if this happens to not stare at him in horror, as though he is a repugnant troll? It seems not.

Do they mention the possibility that the large man might say "hello girls!" to them brightly, in an attempt to defuse the situation? And that maybe the best thing would be for everyone to just act normal and say "hello" back, including the grown-up Faerie?

It seems not.

Collective freak-out in Christchurch

My heart goes out to everyone in Christchurch, after the new aftershocks inflicted more damage on their lovely city. Another landmark that I recall from my visits has fallen down - the Timeball Station tower in Lyttleton.

In the reports on Stuff.co.nz, people interviewed commented as one that the shocks were "freaky".

One Pak 'n Save Wainoni worker said items had been thrown from the shelves and the floor was littered with food and broken glass. "It was pretty freaky. It felt like it was right under the supermarket," she said.

Christchurch east MP Aaron Gilmore said he was just getting out of his car when the quake hit and couldn't work out what was going on. "I could see the ground rise on the road, it was a bit freaky."

Greymouth pair Matt Adams and Crystal Graham-Hayes were shopping in Amazon when the magnitude-5.5 quake hit at 1pm. ''All the lights started shaking to the ground. I freaked out a little bit,'' Adams said.

Fire Service spokesman Dan Coward said there had been countless callouts to burst pipes, especially in the Sumner area where many locals were "freaked out".

So I would rate that at about 8.5 on the freak scale.

Dance, Turkish Dads, Dance!

Never in human history have there been so many funny videos kicking around. And yet, there is something in this one that puts it right up there in the top 5. I even like the crazy flute-musik.

Cousins waltzing

Cousin Marcus and Cousin Arthur, at Mum and Dad's new house. Photo by Sally.

One of my favourite places in the world

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This is in the grounds of Marist College, about a 1 minute walk from the house I lived in from 0-17. I spent quite a bit of time roaming the grounds, either kicking a soccer ball, riding a bike, chipping golf balls around (and losing them by the dozen), or just walking. This was a favourite place to sit, look out to sea, and mope, in that classic teenage-boy way.

Scrapbook of 2010-11 bits

Nooget, Dog, Human - by Michael

Comic by Marcus, starring Stickman.

An unfinished directory of dragons, by Marcus

Design for a circular house, by Marcus

The Great Period of Joy, a happy time in the history of Michael's imaginary country, Noogetswan

Michael's class tried out a website called Storybird Collaborative.
He was moved to copy the name down in Greek and Arabic.

New numerals invented by Michael. Things got crazy around 9.

Some kind of alien skull.

A steamship called the Neptune by Michael

A proud freighter being loaded with goods and services(!) Also by Michael.

Michael's drawing of himself and Winston

By Marcus

Monsters by Marcus

Michael takes up a collection for his imaginary country.

Another Michael boat.

Guts

This one is self-explanatory

Bill

Marcus was having one of those mornings that makes you fear for the rest of his day - swinging from unhinged hilarity to doomy gloom. One minute he would be singing into Winston's face and the next, stomping down the stairs.

In the middle of all this he remarked to us that the phone bill he'd seen sitting on the computer desk was due today. That one bit of sensible, helpful and organised clarity made up for all the other stuff. After we said "thanks, well spotted" - he seemed to be generally more balanced for the rest of the morning.

Flat drinks with His Excellency

So just as I was falling sick on Tuesday evening, I was obliged to attend a reception at Government House in honour of the 50th birthday of Amnesty International. I changed into my suit at work, and went over to the taxi rank. The first vehicle was a van. I went and hopped into the normal cab behind, which wasn't easy as the metal railing along the rank seems designed to prevent this. I asked the cabbie if it was OK - I felt it would be weird to hire a van for just myself. I didn't even have a bag I could consider as "freight". He indicated that I should get in the van. So, I arrived at Government House looking like I had come to clean the pool.

Nevertheless, I joined a knot of shivering strangers outside the castellated clock tower, assuming they must be other Amnesty members. The word had gone around that at six o'clock we would be admitted to the tower, where a Braided Functionary would tell us what was required of us. On the Governor's turf, it's Governor's Rules. You queue up holding your invitation upside down so Braided Functionary 2 can read it and announce you, as you step in and shake hands with His Excellency and the Mrs.

A few years ago when we needed a new governor, the premier appointed Richard Butler, the international diplomat, who had spent hardly any time in Tasmania. He was an unmitigated disaster who offended everyone, and was essentially paid $650,000 to resign. He was replaced by the then Chief Justice, William Cox (shout out to his niece Anna!) When he retired the next Chief Justice, Peter Underwood, was bumped along to be Governor. You get the feeling that since the Butler Fiasco, only eminent local wiggy types are to be trusted with the keys to the big house.

So we filed in and shook hands with the gubernatorial couple, and filed into a large reception room. There were probably 100 Amnesty people there - lots of rank and file people like myself. The consensus was that they had just invited everybody. There were drinks - OJ, G&T or small glasses of flat-looking beer. For some reason I took the beer. The nibbles were just OK. His Excellency made a nice speech about human rights. At seven, a clock went 'bong', the fresh drinks were whisked away, and the food platters quietly disappeared. After a while functionaries began circulating, just quietly mentioning to selected influential groups that it was time to go, and let His Excellency and Mrs Underwood have dinner and watch Winners and Losers.

The rest of us got the message and joined the tide of human-rights-loving volunteers, who flowed out into the night, debating what to have for dinner and negotiating lifts home.

Sick, 2011

I am not often sick, so when I am, I consider it news. I had yesterday off work, and after noodling around getting things done, I just zonked out for 4 hours. Not having the car, I then walked down to school and back to pick up the boys. I managed to sit upright and listen to their merry crashes and bangs for four hours, then as soon as dinner was over I just went back to bed and zonked out once more.

Today I have stayed home again but at least felt well enough to sit in the sun and read. I have no science to back this up, but I feel like if you have the sun on your face it helps clear up your sinuses. I would rather not be sick, but I'm telling you now - there's nothing wrong with sitting on your front deck in the sun reading an undemanding book.

I've had a few pretty bad night's sleeps, with all sorts of feverish delusions. I would like to apologise to anyone who's following me on Twitter, as I have tweeted a few times when I should best have not. Just because a Clown Car Wash seems like a good idea to me, in a fever, at 4am, doesn't mean I need to share that.