Trish's Boring Stories

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Some of these posts were edited down from longer posts made to RCTN.

There are more stories available at Trish's Boring Stories 2 and Trish's Boring Stories 3.

From: Kim Brown <c9403228@alinga.newcastle.edu.au>
Subject: Re: OT: Spiders Boring Story was Is this true?
Date: 02 Aug 1998 00:00:00 GMT
Newsgroups: rec.crafts.textiles.needlework

Hee hee! Here in Oz the summer footwear 'uniform' for many of us is a thing called 'thongs'. I believe my US friends call 'em flipflops and NZers call 'em jandals. Anyway, I taught DH my preferred way of dealing with spiders. I'm willing to share it with my good friends here at rctn.

This only works for the Spiders-as-Big-as-Walnuts that knit-one-purl-two across on opening, OK.

My Mum used to *cultivate* spiders, thinking they kept burglars away! I had to give at least lip service to this idea, because they certainly nearly kept *me* away! There was one variety whose name I never learned that knitted (or tatted) *incredibly* strong nets across the pergola over Mum's driveway. So when I came home late at night, I developed a sort of Heil Hitler vertical salute, designed to catch the cobweb and, hopefully, avoid the ginormo-spider. Some of these cobwebs were anointed with epoxy resin glue and composed of some impermeable sort of cable, because one would frequently bounce off the web after impact! I felt they were the work of Horse-Eating Spiders which were in the process of learning to enjoy human flesh!

Next morning, I would secretly creep out and put Patricia's Spider Relocation Method into practice.

You take off your right thong, step back from the spider (lurking and smirking in the centre of his nylon ripstop web). Adopting an eastern forehand grip on the thong, you line up the spider and take a single step forward with a relaxed, waltzing motion. You begin with a fairly strong forehand volley, taking care to smite the spider in the centre of the thong. Use a strong wrist action and DO NOT dream of putting english on the 'ball'. Follow through with the same relaxed, graceful swing, finally releasing the thong. Drop it and run like h*ll! Return at your leisure, taking care not to step on the possibly-still-there spider with your unclad foot.

The denouement is seeking out the spider carcass and holding a little ritual reminiscence over the body. Feel no guilt at what you have done. Remember all the times you gaily marched into his Trap of Death, all unaware, and got wads of sticky cobweb in your hair and over your clothes. Remember doing the Dance of Horror as you brushed ineffectively at the cobweb and desperately screeched at anyone within a kilometre's radius 'Where's the spider? Where's the spider?'. And best of all, remember the sweet pleasure of knowing the last thing that went through the monster's mind was his bottom!

Trish {|:O}

From: Trish Lavis <plavis@ozemail.com.au>
Subject: Re: OT: Schoolisms
Date: 12 Jun 1997 00:00:00 GMT
Newsgroups: rec.crafts.textiles.needlework

When I taught fourth class, I had a particular boy called Ben who was my little bete noir. Gorgeous kid, he just couldn't keep out of strife. At first, I used to reprimand him in his seat, but he would then take MUCH pleasure in pulling faces at me behind my back etc and generally clowning around. I solved this by standing him behind the blackboard, without an audience. You guessed it: reeeeeekkkk reeeeeekkk reeeekkkk!

One day I gave up! I stormed round behind the black board, seized his hands and bellowed "RIGHT! THAT DOES IT! NOW I HAVE TO BITE YOUR FINGERS OFF!" Kid nearly died of fright! He never did it again. <smirk>

I must add, we were having lessons about the Passion of Jesus (Catholic school), including the Scourging at the Pillar. Ben insisted on calling it the Scorching of the Pillow. At a school function following this lesson, I was required to read a passage that included a reference to the Scourging etc. You guessed it again! I SPAT all over the prayerbook as an image of blackened pillows crept into my mind. I got the most awful fit of the giggles and was Very Grateful when my mate, Martin, wordlessly stepped up and took over the reading for me. We frequently did this for each other as we were a pair of inveterate jokers.

Last boring story: I taught in an open plan classroom. Three classes in one big room, separated only by office partitions. Martin's class was famous for being rather noisy and tending to disturb the rest of us. One day, I suggested to my class that we might get our own back.

We made up the old button-twisted-on-a-rubber-band-on-a-bent-hairpin-inside-an-envelope and I sent a kid across the room to deliver it to Martin. He opened the envelope (all my kids were hanging over the partitions like Foo or Kilroy). BBBZZZZZTTTTT! Poor old Martin threw up his hands and fell senseless on the desk. He'd actually fainted! His class erupted, and they were all screaming "Mr Vaughan is dead!" When he came round he looked over at us: we were all busily doing spelling with our noses buried in our books.

At recess, he cornered me and said "It was you, wasn't it? I'll do you a deal: I won't get you back for it, as long as you don't let the guys in the cricket club know ANYTHING about it!"

I miss my classroom....

Trish {|:-}

From: Trish Lavis <plavis@ozemail.com.au>
Subject: Re: OT - Old enough to remember?????
Date: 17 May 1997 00:00:00 GMT
Newsgroups: rec.crafts.textiles.needlework

I had to laugh when I read a similar thread on the Australian Genealogy NG I subscribe to. Everyone's been remembering the days pre- "Dismal Guernsey" (that's Strine for Decimal Currency). People are writing their fond memories of threepences (thripny bits), sixpences (zacks) and two shillings (two bob). One lady fondly remembered outdoor toilets...

THERE IS NOTHING FOND ABOUT OUTDOOR TOILETS AND I SHOULD KNOW!!! I'VE JUST BEEN TO MINE AND ITS PIDDLING DOWN RAIN!!! (NO PUN INTENDED, OK?)

Sorry for shouting... But I've been sick all week and being forced into the dark and chilly night, just to go to the loo is simply too much. My outdoor Dunny (as we call them Down Here) is a typical one: it has more wildlife than the Dubbo Zoo (Black Widow spiders and centipedes included); it leans slightly, so that it's hard to close the door and it has wall to wall air conditioning (gaps between the boards) so that every icy blast positively *howls* over one's poor, quivering behind.

Last week I put my hand on the doorknob in the dark and recoiled in horror as I felt something cold and slimy and dangerous! It was the Great Granny of all slugs, cosily wrapped around the doorknob and just fillin' in time until I came to grasp her.

I truly believe there is a God in Heaven who will, one day, provide me with an indoor Dunny. Until then, sisters and brothers in stitching, please don't anyone 'remember outdoor toilets with affection'.

Trish {|:-}

From: Trish Lavis <plavis@ozemail.com.au>
Subject: Re: OT: Language Soap Box (long) plus boring school story
Date: 18 Jun 1997 00:00:00 GMT
Newsgroups: rec.crafts.textiles.needlework

Hey Aramanth, ol' buddy!

You bet I do! I MUST tell you another one of my boring stories. In my career, I never had the chance to teach Infants (age 5 - 8). Except once... I was absolutely woeful at keeping my fifth graders in order for Sport (remember, I'm a stitcher and a sewist and a reader, NOT a sportswoman). So our Kindergarten teacher sidled up to me one day and made me a proposition. "You take my Kinders for Music and I'll take yours for Sport."

"Oho!" I thought, "Happy Day!" So I polished up me trusty old guitar and set off for Kindergarten. I had the kids warbling away in minutes. In fact we raised the roof! Everyone who passed by Kindergarten Room looked in and smiled benignly (just like in the scene from "Flying High"). There was one little boy who kept putting up his hand and saying (through missing front teeth) "Ith pith, ith pith, ith pith!" and pointing to a little Botticelli angel who was seated in the class beanbag and singing her blessed little lungs out. I told him to sit down and if he was quiet, he could have a turn in the bean bag later. He blanched and sat straight down, not to murmur again. All the kids bellowed laughing, but caught up in my great performing success, I paid no attention.

A couple of hours later, when Joan (the foul, wicked schemer) returned, beaming, with my class in breathless tow, I greeted her happily: "Hello Mrs Woods! Kindergarten has been singing beautifully today". Waiting modestly for congratulations, I was a bit non-plussed when she looked past me at the serenely beatific little girl in the bean bag. "Jennifer!!! Oh no!!!" she croaked.

Lifting the child, she revealed an enormous puddle gathering in the bean bag. Apparently, the boy who stood up had the permanent engagement of telling when Jennifer approached the bean bag. She had a penchant for relieving herself in it and did so at every opportunity. She had in fact been doing so for the whole afternoon as we sang our merry way through two hours of singing and p**ing. That was the day I decided I would prefer to teach the older, toilet trained kids and leave the Jennifers to the more hardy types.

Sorry for going on and on - I could keep going, but I'll stop now.

Trish {|:-}

From: Trish Lavis <plavis@ozemail.com.au>
Subject: Re: OT: What bad grammar sets your neck hairs up?
Date: 25 Jun 1997 00:00:00 GMT
Newsgroups: rec.crafts.textiles.needlework

Gina, Gina

You've just stimulated another one of my boring stories! A pair of Spurwing Plovers nested in our Back Paddock when I was a teenager and I well remember watching for the chicks to hatch: it was IMPOSSIBLE to tell where the nest was as it had been so very well-camouflaged.

On the happy day when I saw little baby puffballs scooting around, I called my Mum and told her "I'm going to hold one, just for a minute". Against her excellent advice, I waited till Mr and Mrs Plover were off shopping and I ran to the nest and picked up two gorgeous striped babies. I was admiring them, oblivious to everything, when I heard my Mum screaming at me "Patricia, MOVE, you stupid child!" I looked up and straight into the fiery eyes of an enraged Plover, whose sole intent was to do me in. I dropped the babies into the nest and fled!

Mum reckons I grew Fred Flintstone legs (the ones like propellers) and covered the ground at a prodigious rate. The Plover actually parted my hair for me , but I managed to avoid having him actually scalp me by virtue of my ultra-thick hair. I'll never forget the expression on that bird's face: he had murder on his mind, I'm telling you.

Of course, I've since become a Zoologist and know much better than to interfere with birds' eggs NOW.

Trish {|:-}

From: Trish Lavis <plavis@ozemail.com.au>
Subject: Re: OT: Frozen Heads??
Date: 26 Jul 1997 00:00:00 GMT
Newsgroups: rec.crafts.textiles.needlework

Sorry! I thought all you people in the Americas would know of Axolotls. They're Mexican Walking Fish (immature salamanders) and they have big frilly gills around their necks like a ruff. They look sort of like dinosaurs.

When I had mine, they were oh-so-exotic, but they have become very popular here in Australia. You can see them at just about any pet shop now. They come in black, white, green, gold and apricot colours, so of course I had one of each. They were named after the heroes/heroines of my favourite operas (YES - I have come out - I *love* Grand Opera, but pleeze don't hold it against me!).

If you get the chance, buy one for your kids. And if you'd like tips about their care and feeding, email me.

Trish {|:-}

Who had a VERY indulgent Mother.

Oh, PS. I *have* to tell you just a teensy one of my Boring Stories. I was cleaning out the Axolotl tank one night (they are rather dirty fellows). Mum was cranky as she was trying to get dinner ready. She served my Dad and he took up his knife and fork with Great Relish as he leaned toward a large Rump Steak.

At that very moment, the Axie I was holding leapt out of my hand and landed fair in the middle of Dad's Steak! He *bellowed* at me: "Get that d***** fish off my tea!!!" When I murmured that "It's not a fish, Dad, it's an amphibian..." he erupted from his chair and tipped his plate, steak,'fish' and all into the garbage.

I was terribly upset as I was afraid of skin damage to my poor Cavaradossi. But he came through the ordeal very well. And Dad apologised the next day: I caught him giving Cav an ultra-fat earthworm!

From: plavis@ozemail.com.au (Trish Lavis)
Subject: Re: OT: Music (long Boring Story)
Date: 16 Oct 1997 00:00:00 GMT
Newsgroups: rec.crafts.textiles.needlework

To my *enormous* sorrow, the one thing DH and I don't share is our taste in music. He's a heavy metaller (Aerosmith, AC/DC, Alice Cooper) and I'm strictly classical (Beethoven, Rachmaninov, Bach). But one really terrific thing has come out of it: DH puts on his old Led Zepp albums and drums on my shoulders while I stitch. At the risk of offending anyone <G> it looks a bit kinky to onlookers (spousal abuse?), ' cause DH drums *hard*. But I love it and it realeases that awful knot you get in the back of your neck when you stitch for too long.

Boring Story:

DBIL bought tickets to see Live (loud!!! rock band) for DH's birthday. BUT - he bought four tickets so we could *all* go! I was horrified! While I had listened to some of their stuff with DH and thought it pretty good, I had Major Doubts about my ability to sit through a full concert. Anyway, we went. Approaching the Entertainment Centre (an enormous, cavernous building set in the middle of Newcastle Showground - the livestock was going ballistic!), I said to DH "Ewww! That's loud, isn't it? I hope I don't get a headache."

Poor DH responded with "Oh, hon, that's just the radio. They play it to fill in time before the concert. It gets *heaps* louder than that when Live kicks in . Should you take another headache pill now?"

"No," I responded with a noble air of martyrdom, "I'll manage..."

We entered. I had to submit to a BODY SEARCH (yes, shouting!) at the door. This was in case I had secreted any botttles of beer or even water to hurl at the stage while moshing. (I should insert here that I am No Fairy. There is no conceivable way I could achieve even the tiniest mosh.) We sat in our 'excellent seats', not twenty feet from the Biggest Mother Speakers you ever imagined. The radio played on and I began to turn green with air-motion sickness.

DH turned to me so sweetly and said "Now, if you have to be sick go down to the left and do it over the railing. That way, you'll hit the least number of people. I'll be right behind you, so don't stop to apologise to anyone. I'll take care of that."

Live appeared. The swell of sound that gathered from the thousands of teenage throats was indescribable! You could *feel* it through your shoes! And *then* the real sound began! Oh! Words cannot explain the way the columns of moving air hit me in the solar plexus! I could feel my stomach heaving and began to chart my course outdoors, glad that I hadn't eaten much for dinner. For the sakes of those in my path, you understand.

Then they played Lightning Crash and everything was OK.

I forgot about feeling ill and began to listen. DH observed that I was groovin' right along there, so he began to drum on my back. We had the *best * time since our DD was born three years ago and ate pasta at a late night restaurant afterwards.

Two concerts I've enjoyed better: poor John Denver's and Chris de Burgh's in Sydney.

So there. Sorry about the length. Maybe some of you can identify with our dilemma? I f only I could get DH to attend a classical concert with me...

Trish {|:-}

From: plavis@ozemail.com.au (Trish Lavis)
Subject: Re: OT: Scary Snake Story - Very Long
Date: 17 Nov 1997 00:00:00 GMT
Newsgroups: rec.crafts.textiles.needlework

This thread reminds of the exceedingly silly thing I nearly did to my son one day. We were hanging around waiting for the farrier to shoe his horse. (It's really boring, waiting for the farrier).

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a cat screech across the grass and sieze something. Quick as a whip, I hurled a big wad of horse manure at it and ran to save the poor little lizard that I *thought* was the victim. Not so! It was a *dear* little snake, about 12" long with the most attractive lemon-yellow lips.

'Aha!' said I, and pounced upon him, holding him up for everyone to see. 'Look what I've got!' The Ugly Sister and her husband are phobic about snakes, so I had the requisite fun time chasing them around with it. Once all the horses had been shod, DS and I put our new pet in a bucket and set off home (driving). DS had the snake and I told him to keep his hand in the bucket in order to prevent the little fellow from damaging his scales. On arriving home, I set about finding my old fish tank. DS kept calling 'Mum! He's rising up out of the bucket!'

'Stupid boy!' I hollered, 'Can't you just hang on to him while I find this thing?'

'But he's angry, Mum!'

'Just shuddup and hold him!'

Eventually, we installed the little lad into the tank and went to look him up in my snake book. 'Egad!' I thought. 'It appears to be a Pale Lipped Snake. They appear to be Very Dangerous...' So I rang up the local Wetlands Centre and checked. The powdery-voiced guy on the phone assured me that the snake wouldn't actually *kill* me or mine, but that it could do nasty things to one's heart rate which might indirectly do so.

I immediately put the phone book on top of the fish tank and stuck it there with duct tape(!) We sped to the Wetlands Centre and they gratefully transferred our PLSnake to a live exhibit of 'Dangerous Snakes of the Marshlands'. And I took my boy home, swearing that I would not take such an active interest in reptiles ever again!

But I *did* have a tank full of Three Toed Skinks for ages. They were a real pain, 'cause you have to feed them on ants' eggs. These do not come in packages from a battery ant house, they are entirely free-range and *you* are the dill who gets to collect them.

Trish {|:-}

From: plavis@ozemail.com.au (Trish Lavis)
Subject: Re: OT: restraining kids (long Boring Story)
Date: 06 Dec 1997 00:00:00 GMT
Newsgroups: rec.crafts.textiles.needlework

Years before I met my DH, I had a perfectly *gorgeous* DBF who came from Papua New Guinea. Mape told me many wonderful stories of life in his village, but my favourites were the ones about his Granny.

As Granny, it was *her* responsibility to take care of her eldest son's youngest child (Mape). She knitted a string bag for him, blessed it and promptly inserted him into it! He lived the vast majority of his life for his first two years inside the string bag. Granny carried him on her back and when she stopped to fish or dig yams, she would hang him in a tree. From there, Mape could see Granny and - ah - relieve himself, with no need for any attention at all. Thus, Granny was free to work, yet the child was secure and safe. An interesting aside is that Granny lactated and actually breastfed Mape!

Granny was considered a Great Beauty by her people. She had followed the old tradition and filed all her teeth to sharp points. In addition, she had tattoed herself from head to toe with wood ash. Her entire body was thickly covered in raised, purple cicatrices!

When Granny's husband died, she went into the bush for two weeks in order to properly mourn his passing. During this time, she systematically cut off the first joints of four of her fingers. This was considered by the village to be a Very Great Love Indeed, as only one joint was required from a single pinky.

Mape loves his family very deeply, however he told me that a very big part of himself departed when his Granny died. He still visits her grave every month to put flowers and fruit there for her.

Trish {|:-}

PS I *must* add this bit! Mape was fishing one day with five of his brothers (10 kids in the family). The second eldest, Verere, disappeared under the net. When they dove for him, they found he had been wrapped in the tentacles of a box jellyfish (whose sting is very quickly fatal - people die of this sting in Australia!). The boys seized their brother and hurtled in the canoe back to Granny's place. On receipt of the comatose Verere, Granny worked her healing magic with part of his *placenta* (her job to keep those for all the family!!!) and he woke up about an hour later asking for food! The stings received by Mape and his other brothers were serious enough by our standards, but somehow the magical Granny had better powers than medical science and applied creams that made the pain go away. No-one died..

From: plavis@ozemail.com.au (Trish Lavis)
Subject: Re: O.T.-Attention any Australians! And Boring Story.
Date: 21 Feb 1998 00:00:00 GMT
Newsgroups: rec.crafts.textiles.needlework

Omigoodness, Anne, *listen to Pauline*! Don't miss out on the bliss of Chocolate Crackles just because you don't like coconut! I'm a *loather* of all things coconut, but there are some times when you can manage not to notice it in things. Lammos (lamingtons) and C. Crackles are two of those times. Copha has no taste at all: it's perfectly bland. Its only function in C. Crackles is to bind the stuff together (as Pauline pointed out). You could probably omit the des. coconut from the recipe, but I think it would deteriorate in texture. Part of the appeal of C. Crackles is the sensation of biting into Essence of Chocolate and then crunching away on a variety of textures. DO MAKE THEM AT LEAST ONCE!!! (shouting). Share them around and you'll be very popular.

Which brings me to another point...

Any other Aussies remember little girls' birthday parties where most of these Oz recipes might be featured? (ie. pavlova, lamingtons, chocolate crackles... and fairy bread!)

I *hate* fairy bread and no child of mine will ever be fed it! I wonder whether they have it in other countries? It's just buttered bread sprinkled with hundreds and thousands. (erm... do we all know what 100s and 1000s are??? Those teensy coloured balls that you sprinkle on cakes, toffee/taffy and fairy bread).

Oh and a Boring Story comes to mind a propos of 100s and 1000s!

It was DD's third birthday and I made my incredibly rich boiled chocolate (which is rich enough to eat plain without icing/frosting). However, I also made my incredibly rich whipped chocolate icing as well. DH had discovered a dyspeptic-looking plastic fairy to sit atop the cake and was about to plonk it down when I said "Hang on! I have to put the green coconut on for grass!"

Guess what? No coconut in cupboard! Party about to start and I went into a perfectly understandable 'Oh B****y H**l' session! DH *superciliously*suggested sprinkling on some coloured cachous (shiny balls made of compressed sugar in rainbow colours - about 1/8" in diameter). So we did this, thinking it would look magical and lovely for the apple of our collective eyes.

When presented with her cake, the rotten little toad *shrieked* like a banshee and said "Ellie can't eat that cake! The fairy has done a poo all over it!' In spite of threatening, cajoling and assuring her that it wasn't fairy-poo, but little packets of magic, DH tweezed each forsaken cachou off the cake and we plopped on icing sugar instead (confectioner's sugar).

Trish {|:-}

From: plavis@ozemail.com.au (Trish Lavis)
Subject: Re: Iguanas and Boring Story
Date: 28 Feb 1998 00:00:00 GMT
Newsgroups: rec.crafts.textiles.needlework

Oooer! More info on your bearded dragon, please? Is it a native one or imported from somewhere? I don' s'pose it's an Oz one? They make a *won*derful pet and can become quite tame and loving. I used to care for them in the Animal House at the University I attended.

Boring Story: When I was a second year Zoology student, my Mum used to escort me about the countryside as I did the fieldwork component of my course ('No daughter of *mine* is going traipsing about the country alone!') One day, I saw a large male bearded dragon reclining on a fencepost. "Aha!" I thought. "What a coup it will be to hand up a complete lizard skeleton for my project!"

"Sto-o-oop, Mum", I squawked! Thinking the animal was dead, I marched right up and seized him. Imagine my acute chagrin as I realised that not only was he quite alive, but he was also quite p***** off! All I could do was hang on to the beast, because I believed he would *eat* me if I set him down again. There was nothing for it but to carry the thing home and hope for a solution there.

With Great Misgiving, Mum let me ride home in the car with an irascible reptile clutched in my hands! (NB These guys aren't so very big, about two feet long, but they can give you a really septic bite: they feed on carrion and carry unspeakable bacteria in their mouths).

Once home, I gratefully put the animal into the pink bathtub while I rang some sources who might help me with his repatriation. It was very interesting to note that he quickly changed colour from chocolate brown to beige in an attempt to match his environment. This worked very well for him. Not so well for others...

Hours later, Dad came home from work. Tired and messy (he was a butcher), Dad headed straight for the bathroom and a restorative soak in the tub. As usual, he stood under the shower nozzle to wash off the grime before drawing a bath. *Not* quite as usual, an enraged lizard ran up his leg, eyeballed him angrily and hurtled off again to hiss indignantly at my father's retreating bottom.

This was the first (and only) time in my life I ever saw my father naked. It was not a pretty sight, mostly owing to the purple hue of his face as he *squealed* at me: "Why, Patricia? WHY IS THERE A BLOODY CROCODILE IN MY BATHTUB? A man can't turn round in this house any more! You've got me in fear of my life!" and he went off muttering something about Other Men's Daughters and dolls...

A nice man from a local wildlife refuge came and took the lizard, warning me that it's not a good idea to pick up Bearded Dragons you find in the road. He didn't seem to be listening as I tried to say 'But I didn't *mean...*'

Trish {|:-}

PS DH just reminded me of another Bearded Dragon story where I nearly *lost my life*, but that's another Boring Story...

From: plavis@ozemail.com.au (Trish Lavis)
Subject: Re: Iguanas and Boring Story (long)
Date: 01 Mar 1998 00:00:00 GMT
Newsgroups: rec.crafts.textiles.needlework

>PS DH just reminded me of another Bearded Dragon story where I nearly *lost my
>life*, but that's another Boring Story...

Well, I guess *nineteen* email messages asking for the second Boring Story means I ought to tell it. Trying to be brief (snort!):

One day, my DBIL was trying to repair our 100 year old front door, he heard a commotion in the street and saw that a gaggle of kids was poking at something in the gutter with sticks. He called me and I sailed out like the proverbial galleon to see a poor Bearded Dragon hissing piteously at the little monsters. Quickly dispersing them with 'Look out! It's got rabies!' (A lie: we don't *get* rabies in Oz!) I wondered how to catch and relocate the poor thing.

Reluctant to attempt picking it up, (see previous Boring Story about earlier Dragon) I called to DS. We took about half an hour to convince the lizard into a feed sack with a broom, but having caught him, I happily asked DH to take me round the corner to the paddock so I could release him into Bearded Dragon Heaven. (Our paddock is a *hotbed* of Bearded Dragons, and yes! They will run up your leg if you frighten them!)

I left DH dozing in the car while I plodded all the way down to the creek to release the lizard.

Not realising the significance of the FEED BAG, I began to wonder why all the forty three horses were gravitating toward me... the lizard was being a hole of the a** and wouldn't let go the bag, so I killed two birds with one stone and swung him round my head a couple of times. He had the ride of his life and landed on the opposite creek bank (which suited me fine owing to a healthy respect for leg-climbin' lizards). The horses dispersed and I turned to walk back up to the car.

The first thing I heard was a loud nicker (whooffly sound a horse makes). Turning, I noted that I was playing the leader to *forty three horses in single file*. Laughing uproariously, I began waving at DH to make him see this funny phenomenon.

'Zzzzzzzzzzz!' said DH. The sod was asleep!

Marching on, I turned periodically to see my followers faithfully bringing up my rear. Still giggling, I happened to notice Fred and his wives approaching along the fence line.

Digression: Fred is a Red Devon Bull. He is a giant of his race, proud progenitor of many potential beefsteaks and Lord of All in our paddock. He also has a deep and abiding hatred of all things human and once besieged my DBIL in the truck by humping his back under the tailgate and *rocking the truck* in order to shake Warren out and, presumably, eat him! When he was just a calf, Fred lined up Warren's stooping behind with unnerring accuracy and *butted him through a five-strand barbed wire fence* just for kix! Anyway, believe me when I say that Fred's reputation for danger to humankind was not unfounded!

And here was I, headed on a collision course for The Beast Himself and one of his sycophantic wives for good measure! As if to corroborate my fear, the Wife fluttered her long eyelashes at me seductively and went 'Moo!' in a noncommittal sort of way. I nearly died!

And the gate was open! As I sadly wondered about the future of my poor, orphaned children or perhaps the prospect of life in a permanent plaster cast, I began waving at DH again. Screaming like a mad thing, I simply couldn't wake up Old Dozo, and here I was, not a hundred yards away from safety. I quicked my pace. So did Fred! His dewlap began to swing faster as he broke into a laid-back trot. As if to support the Ferocious Fred, all forty three horses behind me sped up in sympathy!

Trying to gauge the distance, the (slow) speed at which I thought I could run, the prevailing wind and estimate Fred's state of mind at the same time, it suddenly came to me!

*He wanted the feed bag*!!! The stupid great lummox thought there was tucker in the bag I was carrying and he was out to get a piece of it for himself. With this realisation came the most awful noise I've ever heard (no, not what you're thinking, you rude people!) Fred lowed! Ever heard a bull low?It's an almost subsonic roar that travels across land at an amazing rate: you can barely hear it, but you feel it through every bone in your body. He used it to call in his wives and children at dusk. I've also heard him use it as he paced along the fenceline, looking at DBIL with bloodlust in his piggy little eyes. And now he was making it at me!

I dropped the feed bag and belted across the paddock with Fred Flintstone legs. Having reached the gate, I didn't stop to open it, but rather dove between the bars, sucking in my breath as I flew! Nearly strained meself!

Dusting off and looking back toward Fred, I was relieved to see the Great Bull killing the feed bag to death as Sycophantic Wife looked on benignly. He had it in his teeth and was ripping it to bits with his hooves: uttering a Hail Mary of Gratitude, I briefly imagined myself where that feed bag was and turned to have An Important Word to DH about the error of Sleeping While Our Wife is in Peril...

Trish {|:-}

PS The lizard was fine - ran happily up a tree!

PPS Fred became a beefsteak himself in the fullness of time. Headbutted DBIL once too often and sent him headfirst into a fencepost. Quick trip to the Saleyards and a ticket to Ronald McDonald's for Fred! His firstborn, Gary, is now Lord of All, but somehow Gary lacks the authority his Father once had...

From: plavis@ozemail.com.au (Trish Lavis)
Subject: Re: OT: Children in Public Places and Boring Story
Date: 06 Mar 1998 00:00:00 GMT
Newsgroups: rec.crafts.textiles.needlework

My DD aged three has similar colouring, Elaine, and I'd never thought to prevent people from touching her as you describe! Thanks for the alert! It's *not* nice to be manhandled by strangers and they certainly do like to fondle Ellie's red hair.

Reminds me of another Boring Story: I too had auburn hair when I was younger (it's darkened to deep red brown now) and it was long enough to sit on. When I lived at the University College, we had six visiting Public Servants from Lagos, Nigeria, living at the end of our corridor. They were marvellous people and I became close friends with the only woman in the group. The men liked to join in some of the more social occasions in College, but seemed quite shy.

Until one day I was hanging over the balcony drying my hair. As I stood up, the tallest, largest, deepest-voiced Nigerian gentleman came upon me from behind and buried his face in my hair, seizing a double handful and saying "Oh! This is so beautiful! I have never seen anything like it. You must marry me and give me many beautiful daughters with hair like this!" (NB DS lived in College with me and also has flaming red hair - the genetic component must be obvious).

I nearly shot off the balcony into the ether, I can tell you! However there were two hands, each the size of a leg of ham, tangled in my hair. Can you picture a gibbering zany-woman skittering along a corridor with a very large (and extremely handsome) black man grafted to her head calling 'Ajaja! Ajaja! Ajaja!' - the Nigerian lady's name. Once we sorted all this out, everyone laughed and the gentleman (Chima, by name) and I became firm friends too. I found he already had two wives safely installed in two households outside Lagos and approximately seven children already.

During this time, the Olympic Games were being televised on the local TV station. Each night a knot of us would congregate in the common room to watch TV in the dark and eat bucketsful of popcorn with lashings of butter. One night, Chima stuck his head into the darkened room and said "Omo, you idiot! I *know* you're in there! Open your eyes so I can see you!" Omo was particularly dark and he made his presence known with his flashing white teeth and the whites of his eyes reflected in the light from the TV set! This little incident brought the house down!

My friend, Ajaja, was very fond of needlework and was happy to learn needlepoint from me. She taught me a bit about beading and we spent many happy hours together chatting about our hopes for our children and so on. The day we took our leave of each other, I found she was not, in fact, twenty-fiveish as was I. Ajaja was fifty five and turning fifty six the following week!!! She is one of the most truly beautiful women I've ever met. Soon after she returned to Nigeria, there was a long period of civil unrest and we lost touch. I often wonder what happened to all my dear friends and whether they remained safe.

Trish {|:-}

From: Kim Brown <c9403228@alinga.newcastle.edu.au>
Subject: Re: UFO week (Now gone 'way OT with Boring snippet)
Date: 24 Mar 1998 00:00:00 GMT
Newsgroups: rec.crafts.textiles.needlework

Re the doorstep evangelists: I don't have any worries about 'em. They're just people: sometimes I have a chat with them, other times not. Sometimes they can be tiresomely insistent and then I giggle and tell them they remind me of myself in my early day as a salesperson. I recommend they read Tom Hopkins and politely close my door.

Re Witches Bitches: In the Days of My Youth, there was an Essential Feminine Fashion Accessory called Witches Britches. Anyone remember these? Showing my age here, I am. They were essentially ladies longish knickers that came to just above the knee. Made of some evilly anaerobic fabric, they were festooned with rows and rows of ruched lace and usually came in LOUD colours like Fuschia or Chartreuse.

I wore mine to school one day (on top of me regulation black stockings and -shudder- navy cottontails). In fact, this reminds me that the purpose of Witches Britches was to cover up that disgustingly bluish-white expanse of the female thigh which extended from the Stockingtop to the Suspender Belt (sorry, Gord, but you got me started on a roll...) All together now:God Bless the woman who invented pantyhose!

But I digress... Stupidly bending over at the bubbler to get a drink, I was unaware of the beady and implacable gaze of one, Sister Irenaeus, noticing my Scarlet Witches Britches like mad! As I stood up, I subconsciously hoicked at my school tunic to cover the W/Bs: too late! I had been detected!

'Miss Patricia!' came the dry and crackly voice. 'I expect your Lady Mother is unaware of your - ah - attire today? I expect she would be saddened and shocked to find her little daughter (I was a strapping fourteen year old with legs like Pinon Pines!) wearing such *trampish* undergarments?' And I was frog-marched off to the Convent, so they could be removed and confiscated by the good Sister. I never got them back, no doubt due to some oversight.

But I still have an image of Sister Irenaeus in my mind: she minces soberly along the cool corridors of St Aloysius' School for Girls and beneath her black habit is one very red, very de rigeur pair of sexy Witches Britches!

Trish {|:-}

Actually, this isn't as OT as it might seem, as Sr Irenaeus was a Gun Tatter (cf Gun Shearer: one who can shear more than 300 sheep in a day) and Lazy Daisy Stitcher extraordinaire.

From: Kim Brown <c9403228@alinga.newcastle.edu.au>
Subject: Re: beading & waste canvas & boring story
Date: 21 Apr 1998 00:00:00 GMT
Newsgroups: rec.crafts.textiles.needlework

However, I must tell a boring story on myself! You've reminded me of a day when I was in Kindergarten...

Y'see, an old family friend had taught me to read well before school. The results of this were legion but two major ones stood out: i) I was always happy to read anything - even the tomato sauce label and ii) I spent a lot of time being bored in the classroom.

On this particular day, the saintly Sister Mary Charles had us sitting in a little circle around her as she played phonics games with us. I was royally bored, but no matter: I had two (2) glass marbles in my pocket and I was fiddling with them like Ben Wa balls (have seen these in a 'rude' shop and am not sure what they do, but the simile seemed good, OK?). As I got rather boreder, I idly poked one into my left nostril. It felt great! Stretchy big nostrils seemed like a wonderful idea, so I went for broke and stuck the other marble right on in the other side.

Have you ever experienced the unfortunate phenomenon that happens with a snorkel? You know: you'll be swimmin' along, breathin' away like Darth Vader, when suddenly you inhale that bit too exuberantly. GGLONKKKK! The little ping pong ball thingy seizes up at the top of your snorkel and you are suddenly at risk of Extreme Oxygen Embarrassment.

Well, this happened to me in the middle of my Kindergarten class with Michael O'Brien looking on (He was so cool! He had a haircut that showed his head-skin and could pick his nose with the end of his tongue!) The Ping Pong Ball Seizure went into effect and I *bellowed* to the poor nun: "There's barbles id be dose!"

Since my nostrils were dainty enough to preclude the admission of even the slimmest prising device, I gouged and probed and squeezed, all to no avail. The Nun sat there glowering at me, saying "The d***l makes work for idle hands, doesn't he Patricia?" There I stood, slowly turning a wondrous shade of magenta (it hadn'occurred to breathe through my mouth at that point) and wishing the d***l would stick his pitchfork into this woman's bottom and make her HELP ME!!!

Calmly, Sister fumbled deep in her endless pocket (one of the Nun's Phenomena: they had pockets that could hold an armoured personnel carrier!) and brought out her hanky. (Not, I should add, the lovely Irish linen crocheted one I had given for her Feast Day, but a walloping great thing that looked like portion of a bedsheet). "Here!" she commanded, "Blow hard." I did and a marble shot across the floor, scattering hysterical kids everywhere ("Yuck! Boogie juice!"). 'twas but a simple matter to snort out the other marble, which obediently followed its fellow under the paper press. I believe they may still be there....

Anyway, this whole event had a happy ending: Michael O'Brien approached me and asked me to be his girlfriend. He reckoned that anyone who could pull *that* off in Sister Charles' class deserved recognition!

On a sad note, poor Sister Charles eventually made her way to the highlands of New Guinea, where she worked for twenty three years as a missionary. One day, she was accosted outside a village by members of an odd warrior cult. They stole her religious paraphernalia, her mirror and her life! I think she's up in Heaven right now having a giggle at the awful little girl who wrecked her phonics lesson all those years ago...

Trish {|:-}

PS I don't generally frequent 'rude shops' however did manage to have a fairly good look in the window of one in King's Cross (the 'rude' section of Sydney).

From: Kim Brown <c9403228@alinga.newcastle.edu.au>
Subject: Re: MLI-chart replacement and boring story
Date: 09 Jun 1998 00:00:00 GMT
Newsgroups: rec.crafts.textiles.needlework

I am in stitches! This reminds me of the time I shared a house with my Ugly Sister and her three kids. We were living very close to the bone and did a magnificent job of feeding all six of us on only $80 a week. One Friday, we splurged and bought a frozen cheesecake for dessert. All the kids were agog, as we *never* had desserts and this was going to be a real treat.

Dinner was over and all the rosy little faces were upturned and expectant: the saucers with cheesecake were passed out with Great Ceremony and they all waited (as was our custom) for Mum and Aunt to be seated. Just at the penultimate moment, Matt (my DS) announced in his very old-fashioned, stilted way of speaking "I'm terribly sorry, one and all. I find I must go and pee! Won't be a tick!" and off he went. A general groan went up at having to wait for our cheesecake, so Jacquie, my younger niece, whipped out to the other bathroom as well, putting her saucerful of cheesecake down on her seat as she left.

Finally, both errant kids came back and we took up our spoons with mouths watering. Suddenly, Matt (who had to sit with Jacquie on the sofa due to No Room at the table) announced "I'm aawfully sorry, Aunt, but I appear to have sat on Jacqueline's cheesecake! She must have put it here when she went to the loo."

He stood up and there was a saucer stuck very effectively to his jeans with cheesecake grout! Everyone howled (Jacquie not the least) with affronted cheesecake loss, but the situation was saved when Matt offered to swap with Jacquie and eat that which was stuck to his bum.

There are a million boring stories attached to that year with my sister. The most important one is: don't share a house with your sibling under any circumstances! It's a health hazard!

Trish {|:-}

From: Kim Brown <c9403228@alinga.newcastle.edu.au>
Subject: Re: OT: Nasty buggies and boring story!
Date: 12 Jun 1998 00:00:00 GMT
Newsgroups: rec.crafts.textiles.needlework

> > Alicia, ... HUGE fan of bats, toads, spiders, frogs, and all other mosquito-eating creatures...

Hah! On re-reading my other batpost, I noticed Alicia's reference to 'mosquito-eating' and remembered a trick I once played on my Mum which eventually backfired on me.

One day, I was entertaining my bio Dad (was adopted, had reunion, was bad, don't see him any more) on the deck at the back of Mum's house. We sat chatting and idly looking into the bilious green water of the overwintering swimming pool and watching the mosquito larvae rising and falling in the water. He commented drily "You want to put a few fish in there and keep the mozzies down..."

I thought about this for a while and a picture arrived in my mind of Mum pottering about hanging her washing and suddenly seeing a goldfish jump in the pool. 'Yee-ee-es,' I thought, 'This has possibilities...'

So off to the pet shop I went and purchased a dozen little (2") comets in various shades of gold, white and black. As I emptied them into the pool, I christened them with names from the Great Operas (eg. Tosca and Cavaradossi, Mimi and Rodolfo etc etc). For a few days I dropped in some fish food, but none of the fish seemed to come for it. They were certainly invisible in the deep green slurry of Mum's cesspit of a pool! So I forgot about them! For two years or more! Never once did I see hide nor scale of a single fishy!

Until one day, Mum announced 'Patricia, I want you to take down the swimming pool! No-one swims in it any more and it's a health hazard.' I nearly died! I built that pool when I was fourteen and it was a monument to what two women can do when a man's in a foul temper: Dad never did approve of our having an above-ground swimming pool - he had Tropical Ear Disease and couldn't use it. So he grizzled and grumbled the whole time we were building it and screwed in precisely one (1) screw. The rest was done by Mum'n'me! I would be Very Sad to see it go!

So! With Mum's announcement came the sudden realisation that I'd been responsible for the deaths of twelve little fish! Bowing under my guilt, I began to siphon the green water away, skim out the dead leaves and avoid the various menacing insect larvae that lived there, thinking all the while of the happy times we'd had in The Pool. The times when I'd almost succeeded in drowning my Ugly Sister; the times when I'd jumped off the roof on top of her and the time I'd dropped a small frog down her snorkel when she was using it. Ahhh... happy memories!

In my reverie, I was stunned to see a flash of gold as a *fish* leaped in the sunshine! A *large* fish! A big-enough-to-eat fish! I whacked my hand over the siphon and bellowed 'Mum! C'mere!' (Follows the uninteresting bit where I made my confession to Mum and she had a few well-chosen things to say regarding my idiocy and how were we going to empty the pool *now*, with all those fish in it?) All works became halt as we considered what to do...

The first thing that happened was that my birthday arrived. I was thirty three. I received a new camera and some oil pastels among other things. I was sitting that afternoon at the back door, sketching the big gum tree in Mum's yard when a Pacific Heron dropped from the sky, took a long scoop across The Pool, tossed poor Tosca in the air and swallowed her whole! (Left a lump in the bird's neck, it did!) Then, Mr Heron turned around and came back! Can you imagine me, crazed and frenzied batting at a protected species of bird with a tennis racquet? Now, I have a pretty good forehand volley, but the damned thing wouldn't be put off! We had to put shadecloth across the pool to protect the poor fish from Mr Heron.

The next day, with an all-out effort, I siphoned off all but a foot of water and we got about six people into the green slime to trawl for fish. (Crowning moment was the bit where I managed to trip the Ugly Sister on the hose and she measured her length in the slime). Eventually we caught them all and *they were monsters*! About 12" long and really *angry*! I sold ten of them back to the pet shop at Great Profit and kept Blanche and Stanley (OK, so 'On the Waterfront' isn't an opera, so sue me!). Stanley passed on fairly soon after that, but Blanche lived a long and fruitful life until the night DD was born (about four years later). DH had completely forgotten to feed Blanche and she passed away to our great sorrow.

The Pool was dismantled and now Mum has a lovely shadehouse in the spot where my fish farming accident came to pass. I often speculated that if I'd kept The Pool intact, I might have made a fortune as a producer of Large Goldfish... but then... Herons come and go... you never can be sure of these things...

Trish {|:-}

From: Kim Brown <c9403228@alinga.newcastle.edu.au>
Subject: Re: OT: Hand vs machine sewing (boring story)
Date: 27 Jun 1998 00:00:00 GMT
Newsgroups: rec.crafts.textiles.needlework

When I first went to University (400 miles north of home in a very hot/cold place called Armidale), I didn't take my sewing machine with me. (Thinking, mistakenly, that I'd be Far Too Busy Studying to sew things).

All during the stinking hot summer, I never minded not having my machine. But then, The Cold came and Fell Winter arrived without adequate warning!

I only had T Shirts to sleep in and didn't want to worry Mum by asking her to send warm winter nighties (she was ill at the time). So I marched to the Draper's in town and purchased a pattern, several acres of pale mint green flanellette and three reels of sewing cotton. I marched home again and thought about my nightie, then set to work.

In honour of the acute cold, I felt that it would be good to completely double the fabric, so I did. I stitched the garment together with teensy tiny backstitches (Sister Mary de Pazzi would have felt *entirely* vindicated), added a casing at the cuffs, applied lace at the neck and around the yoke, embroidered my initial in pink chain stitch on the upper left yoke and held it up to admire it.

What a massive garment I had constructed!!!! I believe there were fifteen yards of fabric in all (mind you, the flanellette was only 2'6" wide and had to be cut in panels) and it was Very Heavily Gathered about the square yoke. It looked pretty good, though, and being that this was the early seventies I felt quite Earth Motherish in weearing something of my own fashioning.

When I put my creation *on*, all my female friends began to hoot with laughter. I looked like a Korean lady with one of those wide, wide gowns gathered onto a tiny yoke. When I turned about to test the swish, I knocked people over. I had trouble sitting down in an average chair. Yet, my nightie was as warm as toast and wasn't that the whole idea?

The custom in our college in those days was that we all hung around in our 'jammies of an evening, to watch TV or drink coffee and talk, so it didn't take long for my nightie to be christened The Passion Killer. Of course, it didn't take long for me to start wearing it in public, either. (We did that sort of thing in those days). It had its great debut at a Rocky Horror party, where I went as Magenta with calomine lotion make-up and black lipstick. (I had good hair for Magenta: it was Big Red Hair!).

The only drawback with my nightie was that it weighed several Imperial tons when wet and required several strong women to lift it *across* the clothesline (if I'd tried to dry it by hanging, it would have either weighed down to the ground or sailed away in the wind!

And I have my nightie to this day! I made a companion to it from DMC 995 blue flanny (but the blue is less BIG than the original green) and they are both as warm as warm. The original is nearly threadbare, but it's so voluminous, the warmth remains.

I'd recommend the construction-of-nighties-by-hand to *anyone*!

Trish {|:-}

A couple of years later, I made a dressing gown for my DS from a thick cotton blanket, all by hand. It was a white blanket, striped with blue and blanket-stitched around the neck, hem and cuffs. This would be a lovely gift idea for toddlers.

From: Kim Brown <c9403228@alinga.newcastle.edu.au>
Subject: 'Frustration' - boring story
Date: 29 Jun 1998 00:00:00 GMT
Newsgroups: rec.crafts.textiles.needlework

DH had planned a day away, leaving me alone and free to stitch for hours. I got out all the supplies to start a new SB (Yay, Tama!) and realised I had two balls of #8 perle ecru and no balls of #12 perle ecru!

'Never mind,' I thought: 'I'll get some while we're out this weekend'. We went into town and Spotlight had none! We went south for a drive: too late! The shop shuts early on Saturdays! We race east: too late! Traffic blocks from last week's hurricane kept us from getting there by 5pm! Sunday dawned and we shared a picnic with my friend's family: great! 'Absolutely Quilts and Crafts' is on the way! DD vomited in the car! (~ Whew! {|:O# ~) and DH wanted to get straight home so he could wash his precious upholstery! For 60 hours I was unable to start my SB!

Day dawned (well - not really - it was still dark!) and I blearily waved off my DH under the stars. Aengus the Incontinent came strutting home from a night on the tiles, meowed once for his brekky and did a wee on my foot! 'This day's not shaping up well', I thought. I cleaned up the mess, fed the kids and headed for my purse and and keys, ready for the trip to my LNS...

As I rummaged for the car keys, I found DH had forgotten to take them out of his pocket and has them with him. I rummaged for my bus ticket and find *I* forgot to take it out of *my* pocket and it's had a trip through the wash (unreadable by man or machine). My purse is empty and there's only the Precious Card... I have the means to shop, but not to GET THERE!!! I rang up my trusty old Mum and found she's gone out! I rang up my Ugly Sister and found she's got a cold and ain't goin' nowhere for no-one!

So - I said a Very Rude Word, poured a cuppa coffee and sat down to pore over the SB chart so I'll have it memorised by the time some #12 ecru comes my way...

Dontcha *hate* that!

Trish {|:-}

PS Like all my boring stories, this one is utterly true and writing it has served very well to vent my need to say Very Rude Words at Very Short Intervals (bad for DD's language development, dontcha know?)

From: Kim Brown <c9403228@alinga.newcastle.edu.au>
Subject: Re: OPND@EL KHMR (NRUND[ UKNOJ@) and quick Boring Story
Date: 03 Jul 1998 00:00:00 GMT
Newsgroups: rec.crafts.textiles.marketplace,rec.crafts.textiles.misc,rec.crafts.textiles.needlework,rec.crafts.textiles.quilting,rec.crafts.textiles.sewing,rec.crafts.textiles.yarn

Now *this* reminds me of the time the sainted Sister de Pazzi was giving us a Major Talking-To in fourth class. Someone had been guilty of teasing a kid about his buck teeth, so Sister told us a story about St Cyril.

One day, the young (and prematurely bald) St Cyril was walking in the woods, reciting his daily prayers. He came upon a group of his classmates, all rich young noblemen like himself, however they differed in that they were each blessed with a full compliment of head-hair. On seeing St Cyril, they came jeering at him, saying "Go up, thou baldhead!" (dunno what that expression means, but I trust Sister's recollection of her 'Lives of the Saints'). St Cyril sadly turned away and headed toward home, embarrassed, his prayers cut short for the day.

The next day, the same thing happened, only *this* time, when the young larrikins screeched 'Go up, thou baldhead!', St Cyril *did*! God turned him into a massive bear in order to avenge the despite on him by the sacreligious young men. St Cyril-the-Bear killed them all and ate them for his dinner. Then he became himself again, trotted off home and spent the rest of his life doing Major Penance for their deaths.

Now, in my adulthood, I see many gaping holes in the plot of this story. However, in my childhood, I could see from Sister's tale that teasers never prosper and are likely to end up in the alimentary canals of large beasts if they don't stop it. So I did. Never have teased anyone in my life since that day. Except my Ugly Sister, but she deserves it!

Trish {|:O}

PS Anyone else heard this story or a variation thereof?

From: Kim Brown <c9403228@alinga.newcastle.edu.au>
Subject: Re: natural history charts? Boring story (grisly) beware!
Date: 07 Jul 1998 00:00:00 GMT
Newsgroups: rec.crafts.textiles.needlework

You did it, Monique! You reminded me of yet another boring story!

Years ago, when I was living at home and doing my Uni course by correspondence, I enrolled in Zoology 200-20. The course was based on the evolution of the vertebrates, their structure and function. So one of our assignments was to prepare 'some skeletal material to museum exhibition standard' (said the handbook).

The term began with a summer school at the Uni in February. Forty of us converged on the Zoo. department, all eager to dissect things and get our hands bloody. The first great thing we did was to dissect some native reptiles: I had a Tiger snake (venomous even in death), my friend had a Southern Snake-Necked Tortoise and others had various lizards and things. Fascinating!

The next great thing we did was your basic rat-dissection. Except that, having all made friends with the museum curator, we took after-hours classes in the Removal and Preservation of the Rat Skin for Decorative Purposes! Yep! Every member of that class had a custom made ratskin hat-band, hand tanned and carefully stitched together with heads and tails intact! (In case you're wondering, the dog got mine years ago and it is no more!)

But the Really Neat Thing Extraordinaire was the distribution of our 'Skeletal Material'! Each class member was given the freshly severed head of a sheep or goat to macerate in water and mount as a specimen!!!

Now, in our class there were some well-heeled ladies with round vowels and angora twin-sets. You know the sort I mean? Well, one of them fainted on being presented with her grinning specimen and the other promptly withdrew from the course! What a hoot!

One woman had her head deep-frozen for the flight back to Tasmania and was forced to check it in to a hotel kitchen when her flight was delayed. Another had hers fall out of her luggage on the train to Brisbane and roll down the carriage, leaving its wrapping behind it!

Me, I had No Trouble at all! I gave mine to Mum with instructions on how to water macerate a skull, then promptly left for a holiday on Lord Howe Island! My darling Mum had the privilege of dealing with the noisome Gert The Goat each day, changing the water and gagging over the singular aroma. By the time I returned two weeks later, I had only to degrease it and draw nice pictures of it. I got a Distinction, but I did give credit to Mum at the bottom of my write-up. She was pleased to take part in my Scientific Reasearch. (She's reading over my shoulder right now and laughing her head off at the memory. One of many we shared when we did my Uni course together!)

Trish {|:O}

From: Kim Brown <c9403228@alinga.newcastle.edu.au>
Subject: Re: caressing parental uvulae (Boring Story)
Date: 29 Jul 1998 00:00:00 GMT
Newsgroups: rec.crafts.textiles.needlework

Hee hee! My darling Dad *always* came home from a thirteen hour day in his Butcher's Shop and fell into his chair to watch TV. Of course, he fell immediately asleep and generally snored Very Loudly - usually with his mouth wide open.

Needless to say, my Ugly Sister suggested, then dared that I put something in Dad's mouth. Of course I *had* to, so chose some chips of crushed ice. Dropped it right on in there! 'And what's the first thing one does when wakened suddenly?' I hear you wonder: Inhale!

Poor Dad nearly drowned on ice! He went all colours of the rainbow! then he reached for his Butcher's steel (long metal thing you sharpen knives with) and the chase was on! Round and round the house we went until I was able to get enough lead to dive through (and I do mean through) the screen door. Mum thought Dad had finally gone off his rocker. The Ugly Sister nearly convulsed herself with malignant laughter and the dog got in through the hole I'd made and sent Dad base over apex. He broke a small bone in his foot, so he never did catch up with me.

However, nothing ventured, I *did* try the same trick some years later with a teaspoon of sugar. The nett result of this comparative experiment is that it is a truly life-threatening activity to insert *anything* in the throat of a sleeping person. The morbidity rate increases hyperbolically if the subject is one's parent!

Trish {|:O}

From: Kim Brown <c9403228@alinga.newcastle.edu.au>
Newsgroups: rec.crafts.textiles.needlework
Subject: Re: OT response to Nan's Mac Lack and Quick boring story
Date: Mon, 10 Aug 1998 16:26:42 +1000
Organization: The University of Newcastle

Na-aa-an! There's no such thing as an 'old, dead Mac'! I've still got three antique Macs and use them all the time. They're a bit slower than DH's Pustular PC, but they do everything I want and the System is so *easy* compared to Windows! I've really and truly got an SE in the kitchen for my recipes and I really and truly use it all the time!

And remember! Macs have been doing sound and voice recognition and CAD and Multimedia and all sorts of super things for *years*, while the Pustular PCs are only just catching up!

Quick Boring Story

A hundred years ago, when I was selling Apples to schools, we had in our dealership an insufferably pompous salesman who truly believed his clients bought from him because he belonged to the 'uppah clahsses'. Hnnph! Well, one day we set out to wreak havoc!

This man had a Big Deal in the works: worth a lot of money and would represent Big Kudos for him if he swung it. We received word via other connections that the business had already been assigned to a different dealership, but this guy didn't know and wouldn't be told. He had arranged a big, fancy demonstration for the client and spent the whole morning being intolerably rude and officious to all of us, warning us to stay out of his way and not embarrass him.

One of the other salesmen snuck in and installed new software called (I think) 'Timbuktu' on the demo machine. This allowed him to take total control of the Big Demo Mac from his own machine in the back office. We had only to turn on the intercom and hear the Big Demo in progress and then we began!

'It's just a simple matter to create a new directory' said our friend, in his supercilious voice. 'I just have to go...' and suddenly his new directory ended up in the trash can! 'Er, well,' he said, 'I can create a new document by ... ' and the program quit! 'There's no problem with productivity,' came the voice. 'You can log your online time by ...' and a fun game of Tetris started up!

We laughed so much, we nearly died! The pompous dill *still* hasn't worked out what sabotaged his Big Demo, even though he *knew* we were at the bottom of it! The software turned out to be Really Useful for schools, as it meant teachers could take over student Macs in laboratories and do corrections and stuff really easily. I don't think I ever sold that software without a very broad grin!

Trish {|:OI}

From: Kim Brown <c9403228@alinga.newcastle.edu.au>
Newsgroups: rec.crafts.textiles.needlework
Subject: Re: Sushi needlework boring story (long)
Date: Thu, 20 Aug 1998 11:18:23 +1000
Organization: The University of Newcastle

Heehee! Marjorie's post has reminded me of yet another boring story that happened when I was at University with DS (long, different boring story). It has to do with couterfeit food.

Background:
I was studying Zoology at the time and a certain Gentleman-to-Die-For who lived in my Residential College was working toward his PhD in Genetics. We had struck up a bit of a friendship over our love of playing classical guitar and singing together, and I was quietly working away behind the scenes, plotting to snare him in my web of feminine wiles. I worked in the College kitchen (sweatbox) to pay my way and he worked as a Caretaker (janitor) to pay his. Owing to our shared interest in Biology, I did some work for him as a research assistant...

One day, Peter came down to breakfast as happy as a lark. A busload of schoolgirls was due to arrive for a three-day stay in our building as they did an orientation course at our University. Peter was assigned to take care of their needs (ie. providing toilet paper, tea and coffee, door keys and general assistance) during their residence.

'Oh! said Peter, 'Just imagine the fun *I'm* going to be having, ogling at all these girlies for three days!' My friends and I were very cross at him to say the least (in my case, it went past cross!)

Other background:
I had been shopping at Darrell Lea (chocolate shop) one day and DS had reached for a handful of chocs from the window display. Did you know those display chocolates are rubber? The shop lady kindly allowed us to keep a few for Matt to play with, saying 'Don't let anyone know I gave them to you: they're *very* expensive, far more so than the real thing.' We went home and I put them on a plate at the end of my desk, forgetting about them until...

Story:
Mr Peter Cooke (who was six foot four, slim-yet-wiry with gunmetal glossy hair, enormous green eyes and the voice of an angel) came sashaying down our corridor with approximately fifty (50) nubile schoolgirls simpering behind him. They were all a-twitter with excitement at being in a real College where Real Men lived, especially considering a fairly excellent example thereof was squiring them about and showing them the bathrooms etc. Peter stuck his head into my room and said in a perfectly unnatural voice: 'Oh, Trish! Glad you're here! These are the lovely (and I do mean *lovely* -in an undertone -with-a-wink) ladies I was telling you about. I brought them over to see how we live in College and I was telling them about how you've made a home here for yourself and Matt.'

All this was said in a condescending tone, obviously designed to impress the bevy of young ladies. He went on to say he was going to install the ladies in D Block and would I make sure there were enough 'requisites' in the ladies' bathroom. He turned to sweep away when he spied my little plate of choccies on the desk. 'Oh! Lovely! Chocs!' he exclaimed, as he reached out a long, slim, sensitive, guitar-playing hand to snatch a pretend-praline and pop it into his mouth.

Aghast, I could only *look*! But it seemed OK, as Peter realised immediately what was in his mouth and strove to conceal his embarrassment by saying 'Ooble-ooble. Must away! Ooble-ooble'. He looked momentarily like a strangulated turkey, but he shifted the rubber chocolate into his cheek, swallowed convulsively just once and marched off, leading his flock away down the corridor. I wondered idly how this chocolate was going to affect him in the scheme of things. But I needn't have!

The end of the story: *Someone* used his master key to enter and place a rubber chocolate on my desk while I was at class. The chocolate had the distinct impression of adult molars in it...

This incident was never ever mentioned between Peter and me. And for those of you who might be wondering, yes, I did get him in the end! But only for six months, as his stipend ran out and I had to take Matt home for a normal life.

From: Kim Brown <c9403228@alinga.newcastle.edu.au>
Newsgroups: rec.crafts.textiles.needlework
Subject: Re: OT: Goat Milk boring story
Date: Sun, 23 Aug 1998 09:37:13 +1000
Organization: The University of Newcastle

Jedi wrote: >
> I've tried goat milk and it is very good. It tastes like it is loades with
> fat, but I was told by someone that it was very healthy -- low in fat.
> cwiley

Oh, cwiley! I've tried goat's milk too and it's *evil*! We (houseful of hippie students in the seventies) had a British Alpine Goat called Gladys and it was my job to milk her every day. Gladdy had a foul temper and enjoyed nothing better than kicking over the bucket or dropping little - ah - deposits in it. One day, I took her for a walk on a lead in order to 'bond' with her: we visited the lucerne paddock and she ate her fill while I decorated her horns with purple flowers and sang her some Cat Stevens songs.

My friend, Elaine, called out 'Dinnertime, Gladdy!' from the house and Gladdy's head flew up, nearly slicing off me nose with her left horn! Then she bolted for home, dragging me behind her: since my hand was wrapped in her chain, I had no choice but to gallop along on those dreadful wooden platform sandals we used to wear.

The hard part was when we reached the paddock gate: it was your standard two inch pipe gate with five strands of eight gauge wire. Gladdy leaped through and failed: she got her horns dreadfully tangled in the wire. I didn't leap through, but got carried by my own momentum - nearly strained meself!

It took half an hour, trying to untangle Glad's horns in the midst of her kicking and butting and bleating. Elaine didn't come to help: she was splitting her sides with cruel laughter!

Gladdy and I never did bond... she went on to have a son called Archie and he was mercifully different from his Mum (used to hop on my bed and curl up, just like a kitten).

NB. The point of this story is to humbly indicate that my aversion to goat milk may have something to do with my early experience of it's purveyor.

PS. I've tasted mare's milk as well and it's pretty awful too: tastes like hay!

--
Trish {|:OI}

From: Kim Brown <c9403228@alinga.newcastle.edu.au>
Newsgroups: rec.crafts.textiles.needlework
Subject: Re: OT: Institutional Food (was: food you hated as a kid)
Date: Wed, 26 Aug 1998 09:24:16 +1000
Organization: The University of Newcastle

Greg Hutchens wrote:
> Why do I have the feeling that you asked for all these tricks? Oh,
> no--not our Trish! <grin> That's kind of like our minister's wife
> telling about the stunts pulled on her. The better question is what
> stunts did you pull. Her best was loading the shower head with red
> jello. Evidently, it stains human skin.
>
> Martha

Well, (modestly) there was the time I stole a bloke's bed and parked it on top of High Table at Valedictory Dinner. It contained an effigy of him and - er - well... it contained a couple of effigies, OK? And a big sign saying 'Tony Rydon for President of the Junior Common Room?'.

The Formal Procession commenced and we all trooped in, garbed in our academic regalia (caps and gowns etc). The Vice Chancellor and his wife had a marvellous time trying to look stern while the College President organised someone to remove the bed and restore the table settings (which I had considerately hidden in a bucket under the table).

This sort of backfired on me, as the bloke in question laid siege to my room and I was trapped in there for three days! Friends brought me scraps from the Dining Hall and fed them to me through my window. Finally, Tony (the bloke) got his revenge by parking *my* bed on the University bus shelter. From there, the Works Department spied it and took it back to the supply depot. I came home from lectures to find my bed missing. Not a great problem, you may think..? Just apply for another one..?

TEDDY WAS IN MY BED!!!!!

It took me ages to find him again. One of the Works blokes had taken him home for his little daughter. I was very lucky to get my Teddy back again. Will never play that sort of trick on anyone again...

Trish {|:OI}

From: Kim Brown <c9403228@alinga.newcastle.edu.au>
Newsgroups: rec.crafts.textiles.needlework
Subject: Re: OT: Turnips and Swedes--botanical trivia
Date: Tue, 25 Aug 1998 20:34:14 +1000
Organization: The University of Newcastle

Oh, fiendish one! I *knew* you'd have the answer to this Very Important Question. How bitter it is to have an old, dusty degree... and No Knowledge of Brassicas worth spittin' on ;->

Monique Reed wrote:
<snip>
> ... but rutabagas are
> usually yellow inside while turnips are white. I think rutabagas, on the
> average, get a little larger than turnips and have a milder flavor.

Thankyou thankyou thankyou Monique! Now I can go back to the man at Franklin's and tell him he can stick his swedes in his *nose*!!!! I was right and he was wrong! Hahahahaha!

>
> As a side note, B. rapa is also the rapeseed that produces the oil that is so
> healthy for you.

Ooer! I went to visit my (long ago) DBF at his parent's farm in Victoria. His mother was *not* impressed by 'some jumped-up girl from the city trying to elbow her way into a decent country family', so she made no effort at all to cover her dislike of me. This dislike was somewaht returned when she picked me up from the railway station and drove me the fifty miles to their place in Utter Silence!

As we approached the property, she tightly pointed her bony, bitter finger at a gloriously golden paddock full of flowers:
'That's our place' she squeezed out with a dry, crackly voice.
'Oh how lovely!' I enthused, trying to be interested. 'And what's that crop? I don't believe I've ever seen it before.'
'We sowed Rape and Panic last year..' she started to say
'Pbbbbbbffffffflttttttttt' I said quietly into my chest.
'... and this year we'll reap - '
'THE WRATH OF THE LORD' I spluttered. I couldn't help it, honest I couldn't! *Something* made me say it! It just popped out!

And oh boy, was this lady severely p*ssed off with me! I don't think she uttered another word to me for a fortnight!

I should add that Panic (ie. Panicum ssp) is a kind of grass, designed to improve the rather hard, rank native pastureland in Oz. Rape is described by my *dear* friend, Monique, in her post.

> Monique
> (who will try to convince you next that broccoli, cabbage, kale,
> cauliflower, and brussels sprouts are all the same thing... It's true!)

Yes, they are all, without exception, disgusting!

Thanks for the info, Monique.

--
Trish {|:OI}

From: Kim Brown <c9403228@alinga.newcastle.edu.au>
Newsgroups: rec.crafts.textiles.needlework
Subject: Re: Peacocks boring story
Date: Sat, 05 Sep 1998 08:59:39 +1000
Organization: The University of Newcastle

Heehee! Lu, you've reminded me of a boring story that happened to the Ugly Sister when she was eight and I was sixteen. It's about an emu (a flightless bird that doesn't perch on anything, but which nearly perched on my Ugly Sister one day).

We were on one of the three family holidays that ever happened to us. We had a caravan to sleep in (erm - trailer? mobile home? you know - the thing you pull along behind your car and park in a caravan park... trailer park? mobile home park?) And we were going from Newcastle to Sydney to Canberra to Melbourne to Adelaide to visit my unspeakable Aunt and her three unspeakable daughters.

We reached Canberra, the nation's capital. It's based on a circular plan with roads that go in ever-decreasing spirals and off of which you cannot get, in spite of your father's impending coronary!

Mum was navigating and kept saying: 'Quick! Turn left!' Dad: 'Where?' Mum: 'Back there!' This almost amounted to bloodshed, but in a brilliant stroke, calculated to prevent our swiftly becoming orphans, the Ugly Sister vomited down Dad's back and stopped the carnage. Hmmm... she's not *that* stupid, really...

Anyway, it was late afternoon when we arrived and we wanted to see some of the sights of Canberra. Having done the ring-road thing and been sorely disillusioned, we found a dear little nature reserve not too far out of town. There was water for Dad to freshen up and a municipal dunny. Relief!

No-one was there when we arrived, but there were many kangaroos mooching about in the late afternoon sun and three or four emus. Emus are our national bird: they are smaller than an ostrich, but taller than a rhea. In fact, when they draw themselves up to their full height, they're quite tall indeed: well over six foot!

The Ugly Sister did a terminally gormless thing and approached a female emu with a blade of grass. 'Here emu!' she said, 'come and have a nice piece of grass'. The emu gorbled (emu noise - sort of like a turkey with a heavy cold) away in blissful ignorance, poking its head to left and right, looking for grubs in the ground. 'Come on, emu', said the imminently dead Ugly Sister with rising inflection 'eat my grass!'

It was then that the 'little' emu's mate, a large and evil-looking male decided enough was enough. He drew himself up to about fifteen feet in height (exaggerating here, but that's what it seemed like) and began goose-stepping toward the Ugly Sister. He was booming away madly (inimitable noise that emu's make down in their throats - usually means they're infuriated). Now, the dangerous thing about an emu is that it has long, powerful claws like scimitars. It can disembowel a person with these, and since they're it's only weapon, it 'leads with its feet', so to speak, in a confrontation. He had smoke coming out of his nose and his eyes were flaming with unsatiated desire and fury at the Ugly Sister's disruption of his plan for seduction.

The Ugly Sister couldn't see her impending doom, and kept poking the blessed blade of grass at Mrs Emu (who was *still* ignoring her like mad). But Mum had seen Mr Emu rise up in defence of his beloved, so she picked up a stick and went after him.

Righteously aware of the conservation status of the Emu and it's importance in terms of the Australian Coat of Arms, (and, if I'm honest, highly aware that my own status as an elder child might change if the bird won), I ran after Mum in an effort to stop her from damaging a national icon. Ugly Sister was, by now, hurtling along on Fred Flintstone legs with Mr Emu in hot pursuit. Mum was screeching at the emu and I was screeching at Mum. Dad reckons this whole vignette was highly amusing as he watched it in silhouette against the setting sun.

Ugly Sister saved her own bacon by leaping into a tree. Mum saved herself by pulling up short of the enraged bird. I was cast down by the failure of the whole thing. Mr Emu herded his Missus off to the far end of the reserve.

Dad laughed...
--
Trish {|:OI}

From: Kim Brown <c9403228@alinga.newcastle.edu.au>
Newsgroups: rec.crafts.textiles.needlework
Subject: Re: OT Memories was Humor etc
Date: Mon, 07 Sep 1998 08:25:39 +1000
Organization: The University of Newcastle

Ooohh! Can I join in? We had a bread man with a *horse drawn* van (and the horse knew where to stop and start and would plod along to the next customer while the bread man went into the last one with his basket). The Bread Horses (enormous Clydesdales) lived in our back paddock and they *would not* eat bread (while other horses will kill for it!).

My Nanna had an ice man, who brought blocks of ice in great big pincer things to put in her ice box. His name was Terry Stair and he was miraculously able to blow big pink bubbles out of his mouth (I'd never seen bubble gum before).

I remember double decker buses that threated to overturn on every corner. I caught one to school every day of my life for thirteen years and I sorely miss them!

I remember my Dad's Butcher's shop with sawdust on the floor and the great big butchers' block on which he whacked at chops and cutlets. And he made sausages with real pigs' intestines instead of the disgusting plastic things they use now. And the clean smell of fresh beef mixed with the aroma of the pine sawdust... yummm! My favourite memory of my Dad's shop is my Big Strong Daddy himself, hefting a side of beef on his shoulder and hoicking it onto a pothook in the cold room. And his massive hands slicing meat with razor knives, so surely he never had to even look! And how he'd give me a raw sausage to munch on while he talked with customers... Oh boy... getting all misty now...

We had a radio and after tea each night we'd all gather round (just like on the Waltons) and listen to corny comedy programs. S'pose they weren't really corny back *then*... I remember hearing about the death of JFK on that same radio, although we had TV by then... I cried, and I was only six!

I can remember when you went into a shop (department store) and the saleslady would come rushing with a chair to seat you! (Well, for your Mum. *You* were supposed to be seen and not heard!) And I remember wearing pretty little dresses that had frou frou (ie swished when you twirled around, due to multiple scratchy tulle petticoats). And they had sashes that tied at the back and Naughty Boys would pull them undone at birthday parties, and you were perpetually asking someone's Mum to 'please tie me up'.

I remember when shops had Haberdashery counters at which you could buy all manner of buttons and cottons and trims. I remember how sewing cotton came on fabulous wooden reels (spools) and the reels were packed in excellently natty little boxes. You could use those for pencil cases or to make double beds for your little dollies. Geez, I wish I had a couple for DD! And embroidery cottons often had a counter of their very own and they looked like so many gorgeous jewels hanging there enticingly - some things don't change!

Trish {|:OI}

From: Kim Brown <c9403228@alinga.newcastle.edu.au>
Newsgroups: rec.crafts.textiles.needlework
Subject: Re: OT: Washing horses boring story, was Orvus
Date: Fri, 02 Oct 1998 09:25:11 +1000
Organization: The University of Newcastle

Matt & Kathy Hoover wrote:
> <snip>
> This size jar should last for years as it requires so little to wash
> needlework...of course in tack shops they sell it in much larger jars
> as it takes MUCH more to wash a horse! LOL!
>
> Kathy

Our horses must be disadvantaged! Since we can't get Orvus, we use flagons of the cheapest hair shampoo from the discount store. This has reminded me of a boring story from 'way back...

The Ugly Sister and I went halves in a Really Nice Horse, an Anglo Arabian called Tristan. The idea was that we would 'get back into riding' again after having had our families. It turned out I couldn't ride because of a back problem, but I pitched in with a will to help The Ugly Sister and before long we were ready for our first Big Show.

Having listened avidly to all the advice of those around us, we prepared Tris to the very best of our ability. We washed him in Ashes of Roses shampoo (half a gallon for just a dollar!) and he smelt like a spring bouquet. His tail was plaited (by me) about thirty times before it looked just right and had no wispy bits sticking out. His mane was very thin, but I persevered and made sixteen almost-visible plaits out of it. (Convention says that horses' manes must be divided evenly into at least thirteen sections, each section plaited and then wound into a neat little nubbin. This nubbin is *stitched* into place (not to the horse, but to itself) and when it's finally unpicked, the horse looks exactly as though it's had a very Bad Perm).

'What about make-up?' asked the Ugly Sister.

'Nah, you look fine!' I said untruthfully as I replaited an almost-visible skinny plait.

'Not me, you berk! The horse! What will we put on him?'

(Other conventions say that dark horses' looks may be 'enhanced' by darkening around their eyes and at the ends of their noses with boot polish. White horses are usually washed with special ultra violet wash that makes them appear purple in strong sunlight.)

So we carefully applied black boot polish to Trissy's dark bits and wiped him over with baby oil to make his blood-red coat gleam in the sun. We trimmed his whiskers and the edges of his ears. I lay on my tummy on the ground to paint his hooves with tyre black and I lifted his foot-hairs up to paint underneath them. He looked *gorgeous*, just like a film star! Ugly Sister had all her fancy duds on (riding coat, white stock (cravat), hair net etc) and I legged her up into the saddle.

The first trauma happened when Tris turned around to look at her and half his plaits popped out! I mean, they literally popped out of his head! The strain of turning his neck caused all the hairs to break and his plaits flew off to land in the straw on the floor!

'Can you stick 'em back on?' Sometimes the Ugly Sister has a touchingly child-like faith in my abilities, but reattaching horsehair and a cure for baldness do not fall within my repertoire!

Ohmigoodness, what to do? We had no choice: with only fifteen minutes before the first class, I had to cut the entire mane off! With nail scissors! By the time I finished, Tris looked like a hedgehog. 'Never mind,' we comforted each other, 'he'll behave brilliantly and no-one will notice his hairdo'.

The next thing was that all that baby oil attracted every single one of those little dust motes that you see in shafts of sunlight. Tris looked as though he'd been rolling in flour! As the Ugly Sister rode him out to the ring, I scurried along behind, trying to polish off the 'flour' with a towel. I failed...

The last thing that happened before they entered the ring was that Tris turned again and rubbed his face on the leg of Ugly Sister's white jodhpurs. She had a hairy great black stain all up one leg... Pulling the brim of her hard hat down over her eyes, she clapped her heels to Trissy's sides and rode Meaningfully forward.

Tristan farted! (I'm really sorry, there's no nice way to say this!) He farted again. Then he reared up onto his hindlegs and catapulted forward into the melee of trim, workmanlike pairs of Young Ladies and Show Ponies. Bucking and farting, he nearly managed to unload the Ugly Sister in the very centre of all this. But Good Taste prevailed and he stopped short and trotted up to the Judge (a kindly lady who took hold of his bridle while the Ugly Sister composed herself). Snorting green froth all over the Judge, Trissy good-naturedly rubbed his face on her white linen blouse. She didn't notice the boot polish... but the Ugly Sister did and began to laugh.

Have you ever tried to ride a horse while stifling a fit of the giggles? Poor Ugly Sister! For a brief moment I felt sorry for her! Tristan continued to fart uncontrollably as he carted US around at the perimeter of the tight, serious knot of Lady Riders on their clockwork ponies. Gaily tossing his head, he whinneyed raucously and bucked just once more with gay abandon! The Ugly Sister flew off his back, describing a parabolic trajectory and landing right at the Judge's feet. The nice lady grimly assisted US to her feet (she'd noticed the boot polish by now) and said 'Why don't you just take him back to his stable, dear? He's really not ready for competition, now is he?'

So we left! We went on to do very well with Tristan, both at Dressage and at Pony Club. But that first time was a shocker!
--
Trish {|:OI}
Newcastle, NSW, Australia

From: Kim Brown <c9403228@alinga.newcastle.edu.au>
Newsgroups: rec.crafts.textiles.needlework
Subject: Re: OT: Automobile boring horror story
Date: Wed, 28 Oct 1998 16:57:31 +1100
Organization: The University of Newcastle
Lines: 35

Yesterday, Mum and I and the Ugly Sister drove all the way to Sydney to visit my darling Aunt in the Old Folks' Home. For two hours, we negotiated a Freeway, a Highway, incredibly congested Capital City traffic and afternoon rush hour in North Sydney.

We drove all the way back to Newcastle (100 miles) and dropped off the Ugly Sister at her place.

Setting out to drop *me* off, my Own Mother turned a corner onto the wrong side of the road and into the path of an oncoming vehicle!!!! It honked at us and the driver did a thing called (locally) as 'dating us up' or 'giving us the forx'. I'm a well-bred woman, so I don't think I need to elaborate on that...

But she *continued* on the wrong side of the road, screeching at me 'Patricia, Patricia, what's going on? Are they all on drugs or something?'. The butcher, a blood courier and the local scoutmaster all flew past, gesticulating wildly at us!!! I reached and grabbed the wheel from Mum, turning us off to the grass verge at the side of the road. We sat for a moment while poor Mum uttered a quiet Hail Mary (she does that in moments of crisis, like when the Ugly Sister shaved her eyebrows). Mum said 'We've been in four-lane traffic all day and I thought I was turning into the proper lane for us to turn right at the next intersection.'

'Yes,' I said. And thought to myself with chilling humility: 'If I'd been driving, I think I'd have done the same thing.' I'd never even *noticed* we were on the wrong side of the road until the first bloke dated us up!

Coming from four-lane to single-lane traffic does something to your consciousness!
--
Trish {|:OI}
Newcastle, NSW, Australia

From: Kim Brown <c9403228@alinga.newcastle.edu.au>
Newsgroups: rec.crafts.textiles.needlework
Subject: Re: Worst Drivers in the WORLD (Right, Trish?)
Date: Thu, 29 Oct 1998 07:41:55 +1100
Organization: The University of Newcastle

Monique Reed wrote:
> Nope. Worst drivers are dedicated field botanists in the spring... Our eyes
> are on what's growing in the ditch, not on the traffic. We only realize we've
> slowed to 30 mph on the highway after the long line of cars behind us starts
> to honk...
>
> March to June, DH does the driving!!!
>
> Monique

Hnyahahahaha! I *have* to disagree with this one, Monique! While I'm a sometime Botanist too, I have to say that a birdwatcher who suddenly spots a rare specimen hovering over the highway is most likely to steer in sympathy with the object at hand!

Once upon a time I spied a *Brahminy Kite* (looks not unlike a Bald Eagle, but smaller) hanging over the highway near home. After a couple of minutes watching him, I realised I was weaving slightly back and forth across the road in time with his movements!

Another time, I nearly garrotted myself in the sunshine roof as I went 'Up Periscope' in an effort to watch a flock of bats (fortunately, DH was driving at the time). I managed to hit the 'close' button and was more or less suspended by my stupid neck!

Then again... for *consistent* distraction, it *is* hard to drive properly in the spring when everything's in flower... or in the summer when the fruit are appearing... or in autumn when the leaves change... or even in winter in a vain effort to find something (anything) of interest...

And dontcha *hate* it when the person who's driving can't/won't stop for you to rush back and collect a specimen? How many times have you seen some rare and beautiful plant on the roadside verge, just at the end of flowering and covered in fruit - but your SO wouldn't be bothered to stop for you? So you drive on, positively *fuming* and they simply don't get it that you just *needed* to stop and have a look?
--
Trish {|:OI}
Newcastle, NSW, Australia

From: Kim Brown <c9403228@alinga.newcastle.edu.au>
Newsgroups: rec.crafts.textiles.needlework
Subject: OT: What happened to me yesterday...
Date: Mon, 09 Nov 1998 18:36:55 +1100
Organization: The University of Newcastle

Whew! Glad to be back! Something appeared to be wrong with my server and I didn't *hear* from you guys ('cept Beth: Hi Beth!)...

Yesterday, DH and I were shopping madly. As we meandered aimlessly down the Shampoo and Hair Care aisle, I piped up and said 'Oh, Hon! Grab me a bottle of Conditioner, will you? I'm all out.'

True to form, Big Hon paused and began to assume the Holy Attitude of Price Comparison, wherein he cweases his widdle bwow and fwowns as he does Sums in Order to Determine the Cheapest Price per Millilitre of Shampoo. Finally he pronounced: 'Here's a new one. It's the cheapest, but do you like the smell?'

I sniffed and noted no discernible aroma. Then I did a Really Stupid Thing. I squidged the bottle in order to puffte a snort of the smell up me nose! What a bad idea that was! I succeeded in squirting about a pint of pale green hair conditioner right up me right nostril! DH was speechless! He laughed so hard no sound came out! He turned a beauteous shade of magenta! He held onto me for support!

I, in my turn, was also overcome with laughter. But stop to think for a moment of my predicament. I was leaning over with pale green stuff dripping out of my nose as a group of young teenagers passed us by. They turned and looked at DH, then they looked at me. Then they *hurried* away from us! I was appalled! My status as a dignified Pillar of Society had been compromised!

Still gurgling with laughter and trying Very Hard not to inhale the green stuff, I managed to get a tissue and finally blow my nose. By now, *I* was just as magenta as DH! And I had a Very Sore Nose as a result of the incursion of corrosive liquid! To top it off, I had to buy the wretched stuff because I'd spilled it! And it will *never* smell sweet in by dostrils after *that*!
--
Trish {|:OI}
Newcastle, NSW, Australia

From: Kim Brown <c9403228@alinga.newcastle.edu.au>
Newsgroups: rec.crafts.textiles.needlework
Subject: Re: Cross Stitch in labour?
Date: Tue, 10 Nov 1998 09:02:38 +1100
Organization: The University of Newcastle

Heehee! Anne, this reminds me of when I had DS (nearly 23 years ago - where did all those years escape to???).

I'd had a very long labour and a large episiotomy to sit on. So they gave me an inflatable rubber doughnut! What a good idea! Piece o' cake! Could sit without wincing!

DS was born on a Wednesday night (at 11.30am), so on the following Sunday morning I girded up me loins, donned a fresh nightie and dressing gown, took up Old Faithful (the inflatable doughnut) and set off to Mass with the girl in the next bed (equipped with identical doughnut). She was a nice girl.... name of Margaret.... wonder where she is now...?

But, I digress...

We arrived at the chapel and arrayed ourselves comfortably on our doughnuts. Father entered solemnly and Mass began. We stood and lustily sang the entrance hymn (after all, we had a lot to be pleased about!). We sat for the opening prayers... nothing amiss...

Then we stood for the Creed. At the end, we sat again. But *this* time, disaster struck! Simultaneously, (ie. together, at the same time) our doughnuts gave up their spirits and farted long and loud into the silent church!

'Ppppbbbbllpphttttttt!!!!!' they said!

Utterly mortified, Margaret and I looked at each other sideways and immediately got The Giggles. 'Pbbbbblllpphhhhhhtttttt!' we said to each other, nodding sagely and pointing first at our doughnuts and then at our bottoms. Father looked at us and we shuddup immediately, just like two chastened schoolgirls. We stood, we sat, we farted, all the way through Mass! By the end of it we were a Nervous Wreck!

As we left the chapel, all the sick, injured and infirm folk who'd been sitting behind us, smiled broadly! We were Stars! Father simply shook our hands and congratulated us on our new children.
--
Trish {|:OI}
Newcastle, NSW, Australia

From: Kim Brown <c9403228@alinga.newcastle.edu.au>
Newsgroups: rec.crafts.textiles.needlework
Subject: Re: OT: Collections
Date: Fri, 13 Nov 1998 19:45:03 +1100
Organization: The University of Newcastle

Oh! Monique! I'd give *anything* to be a Botany undergrad. again! I well remember climbing up on (then) DBF's shoulders to collect some intriguing red flowers that were growing on a gum tree. He staggered drunkenly back, forth and sideways while I grabbed and grasped at the specimen. I finally got hold of a chunk of it and he *dropped* me! I swang clumsily to the ground (sort of landed on top of 'im - ROTFLMAO!!) and we danced about in joy, having collected our final required specimen.

Little did we notice that none of the *other* gum trees was in flower... Little did we notice that a large clump of mistletoe was growing in our tree... Little marks did we get for failing to recognise the family Loranthaceae (Mistletoe) and calling it Myrtaceae (Eucalyptus), in spite of having found it alive and well and growing up a gum tree!

What are your undergrad. requirements? We had to collect 100 specimens, of which 20 were to be Eucalyptus and 20 grasses or pasture weeds. I had a beautiful collection, but had to burn it a few years ago when Mum found ants nesting in it! (Had been stored for many years).

Another collection we had to make was of invertebrates (animals without backbones). DBF (same bloke) had a large scorpion on the end of a stick and was trying to drop it into a bottle of formalin. The scorpion was not disposed to perform the Leap of Death, so it raised its tail and began running menacingly up the stick at DBF.

I tried to assist by reaching to grab the other end of the stick. I only succeeded in splashing formalin into DBF's only functioning eye! He threw the stick, the bottle and the formalin into the air screaming (loosely interpreted) 'AAAaaaarrrrrrhhhggggghh!!!! You've blinded me!!!' The scorpion landed on his shoulder, so I began beating at it with my clipboard. Since DBF had his eye shut, he thought I was mad at him and began balling up his fists in self-defence. It all ended happily when the scorpion was accidentally trodden upon and died of Depression! It took just a little cottonwool filling and some fuse wire inserted in his tail to make a really nice specimen of him. He didn't die in vain! (Er, the scorpion, not the DBF...)

Not long after this, we had an interesting car accident where we rounded a bend in the highway, to look right into the late afternoon sun. DBF was blinded again (moral: don't go out with one-eyed guys - it's life-threatening!), so he drove our Volkswagen right over a mountainside! We were thrown out, along with our entire collections and all our clothes. Imagine my chagrin, waking up from unconsciousness to see all my undies being inspected by a crowd of people standing on the roadside verge and looking down saying 'Are you all right?'

Why do people *ask* that? We were thrown, unconscious, out of our car and were both bruised, bleeding and battered. We were singularly *not* all right! But the people looked at us very strangely as they helped pick up all our pickled wildlife spread across the slope. I think they thought we were either going to smoke them or use them for some strange religious ritual!
--
Trish {|:OI}
Newcastle, NSW, Australia

From: Kim Brown <c9403228@alinga.newcastle.edu.au>
Newsgroups: rec.crafts.textiles.needlework
Subject: Re: Meat Ant Boring Story
Date: Thu, 03 Dec 1998 16:48:22 +1100
Organization: The University of Newcastle

Heehee! Ruth, this reminds me of a little boring story about Meat Ants! (For everyone outside Oz, Meat Ants are about an inch and a half long with massive jaws about a quarter of an inch and really *stingy* venom! They nest in the ground, but the workers exit each day to forage in the treetops till dusk. Step on their trail, and you'll be Very Sorry Indeed!

Once, when I was on a Third Year Biology field trip, we were doing a mark and recapture exercise on a colony of Meat Ants. In this, you capture a heap of ants by holding a glass container in front of their single file as they exit their nest. The stupid creatures have a brain the size of an ant and don't try to escape! Then, you anaesthetise them with ether and paint them with some Barbidol pink nail polish to mark the ones you'd caught. You release them next day and recapture the same number of ants on the third day. If half of this sample has a pink blob on it, you can work out from that proportion how many ants there are in the entire colony (in theory, at least). This exercise was incredibly boring for us until...

Our professor was an unspeakably horrible, arrogant man called Dave. He spoke at us with a very nasty, condescending attitude. One of Dave's ultra-nasty habits was looking with Great Interest down the necklines of his female student's shirts. Dave thought he was Quite a Catch and told us so at every opportunity!

We were nearly finished recapturing our second sample of Meat Ants on this occasion, when Dave leapt up, clutching his bosom.

'Omig*d!' he bellowed! 'A b****y ant has bitten me on the tit!' (Sorry for the profanity, but I am actually quoting).

In spite of his wide-brimmed Gucci hat, a large, angry Meat Ant had fallen down the neckline of *Dave's* shirt and bitten him fair on his left nipple! (Do I hear a chorus of many voices reverberating around the world, saying 'Ooooooohhhhhhh' in low, empathetic tones on hearing this?) Dave danced and shouted and carried on for about fifteen minutes before we could get him to lose the shirt and inspect the damage.

It wasn't pretty! Dave was *really* flabby and we noted the hair on his chest was a lot whiter than that on his head! And his left -er - breast was about as big as that head: swollen, purple and hard! Poor Dave! He spent about three days in bed with ice packs before he got any real relief! We just laughed and laughed. Can you imagine the jokes Dave came back to?

'Dave! Mate! Let me just catch that ant I see on your boob!'
or
'Dave, weren't you wearing a bra that day?'
or
'Dave, look on the bright side! He might've gone down your *pants*!'
or
'Dave, you're really lookin' a bit lop-sided mate! You want to get an ant to bite the other side as well!'

--
Trish {|:OI}
Newcastle, NSW, Australia

From: Kim Brown <c9403228@alinga.newcastle.edu.au>
Newsgroups: rec.crafts.textiles.needlework
Subject: Re: OT: Humane Traps, was Migrating Spiders
Date: Wed, 02 Dec 1998 22:44:06 +1100
Organization: The University of Newcastle

Oh me too! I just *live* for ultra clever things! I'm currently seeking a cheese grater that will grate cheese finely but without the sticky, fatty mess to clean up afterward. (Can you imagine what my kitchen drawers contain???)

On the subject of humane traps: I favour the old tumbler and piece of cardboard for Large Spiders of Indeterminate Parentage and Venomousness. However... once, we had a mouse plague...

I was asleep. Dreaming about an oven timer going off. I eventually woke to see DS in my doorway asking 'What's that noise?'. We turned on the light to find a *poor* little field mouse trapped by it's little pink tail in a mousetrap! And he was screaming! Matt quickly released the poor little mouse into a bucket and I let him go in the Back Paddock next day (ie. the mouse, not Matt!).

But we still had lots of mice! You could *hear* them frolicking and gambolling about in the night. Once, I even sat up in my bed and watched them playing. Now, that was fun! The dear little things: they chased each other and squeaked when they got caught! Just like any little animal would. So, reluctant to kill them by foul means, I devised a cunning plan to trap them humanely and let them go again. (NB. Mum nearly had a stroke when she heard about this! She was in Sydney for an extended time and we were house-sitting *her* house!)

I got a large (two litre) milk bottle and laid in on its side on the ground. I crumbled up some biscuits (cookies) into the mouth of the bottle. Then I tied a string to the bottle's handle, threaded it through a hook in the ceiling and sat down to wait. Sure enough, along came victim number one! Ploop! This was a snap! One mousie hopping about in my anti-death mousetrap! Ploop! Another! And (ploop!) another! I caught seventeen mice that night! Went to sleep at 2am, feeling *so* clever! All seventeen of my subjects were carefully sealed in a tall bucket with ventilation and water. Next day, I went for a Nice Walk and let them all go. I really can't say how many mice I caught ultimately: Mum would be so embarrassed! But it was *a lot*! And I didn't have to do anything horrible to the poor little creatures. Perfect!

Have I ever mentioned the time I caught my Ugly Sister's horse with a rat trap?
--
Trish {|:OI}
Newcastle, NSW, Australia

From: Kim Brown <c9403228@alinga.newcastle.edu.au>
Subject: Re: OT: Comments regarding polo/crosse
Date: 21 Dec 1998 00:00:00 GMT
Organization: The University of Newcastle

Some trivia for ya, Kath: that horse was a gift to Her Majesty from the people of Canada: she was a trained and experienced member of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police Force and her name is Burmese. The 'firecracker' was actually some berk *firing* into the ceremony and the horse was actually grazed (from memory) by the projectile.

Now, how the Queen managed to keep the horse in check while riding side saddle is a mystery to both of us! But after the incident, Burmese was placed in the stables among Her Majesty's riding horses and retired from public life. The Queen was not willing to risk such a valued gift and now attends the Trooping the Colour ceremony in a carriage. Burmese can still be seen on occasions when Her Majesty rides her for pleasure and I *believe* she is also used occasionally in certain official capacities, but I don't know what those might be. I seem to recall her being used in one of the more recent funerals (Lady Diana's perhaps?) as the 'riderless horse'.

And if we're talking horses, *what* about Prince Charles' seat!!??? If I could ride like that, they'd call me Centaur! I reckon he runs rings round Princess Anne (whom I admire enormously, but I don't like the way she rides). Next time they show footage of him playing polo, just watch how sensitive his hands are!

(Short boring story)
Our Pony Club fielded a team at the State polocrosse championships a few years ago. We also fielded a team in campdrafting, but that's a different boring story.

Now, to field a State level team, you have to have kids with bums of steel and guts to match. Racing along with a ridiculously tiny ball in a teensy net at the end of a six foot stick is not easy. But doing it while someone else is pounding down at you on a gigantic brick-s**thouse of an animal is not for the faint of heart! So our girls (none of whom had ever played polo or polocrosse before) thought they might need some coaching. We asked one of our National Champions to come and give the team a few pointers and he did. For nothing, G*d bless 'im!

The first lesson (five hours long) was spent teaching the team to carry the sticks without knocking their ponies senseless or tripping them over. Also, some of the ponies had become assailed with a Great Desire to run away from the sticks - I think they thought they were instruments of bondage and discipline! So it took a while to teach each pony to go forward while a girlie was sitting atop him, brandishing a lump of timber and doing drum majorette exercises with it about his ears. This was absolutely hilarious to watch! Some of our very best riders (my baby niece included) were reduced to fits of hysterics as they systematically garrotted themselves on their polocrosse sticks. You know how it's not 'nice' to strike your opponent with a hockey stick? Well it's almost *fatal* to do it with a polocrosse one!

After about six lessons, it was time to load up the truckful of girlies and ponies and set out across the state to Orange (far western New South Wales - about five/six hours drive). We watched some wondrous polocrosse that day! Some kids were as young as twelve and thirteen and they rode like little apprentice Prince Charleses!

When it came time for our team to ride, they came over all bashful... none of them wanted to play. To cut a long story short, they were actually laughed off the field. Our team captain nearly beheaded the line umpire and our goalie was red carded off for trying to impale her opponent's pony on the blunt end of her stick! My baby niece scored our only goal and she did that by actually running away from her opposite number in sheer terror. She neglected to notice she had the ball in her net and threw the net, ball and all, into the goal. For that performance, she won our club's Ttrophy for Polocrosse that year! However, at the State Championship, we won a joke award for 'Team With the Most Audacity'.
--
Trish {|:OI}
Newcastle, NSW, Australia

From: Kim Brown <c9403228@alinga.newcastle.edu.au>
Newsgroups: rec.crafts.textiles.needlework
Subject: OT: Christmas boring story
Date: Thu, 24 Dec 1998 08:28:18 +1100
Organization: The University of Newcastle

Oh dear! Where has the year gone? I thought I'd tell this short boring story about DD, who embarrassed me rather awfully at last year's Midnight Mass. We're taking her again this year, but how I hope she's that bit more restrained, having reached the advanced age of four!

Ellie was all decked out in her new Christmas dress (courtesy of Mama's Boutique) and she was very proud to be going to Mass, along with Granny and Aunt (the Ugly Sister) and the rest of the family. She was utterly quiet and pensive throughout the service (except for asking who the man in the dress was, but I handled that easily enough).

Came the Offertory procession and a stirring hymn was sung. I was projecting away, 'cause I love singing, especially at Christmas. When the hymn ended, there was that deep quiet which always follows such moments. And dear little DD chose exactly that moment to strike!

'Mum!' she stage-whispered so that Sister Philomena, up in the loft, could hear her, 'I gotta do a wee!'

'Can't you hang on?' I replied, while desperately shushing (people in the row behind were smiling broadly).

'No, Mum! I'm bustin' like mad! I can't get wee all over me new dress!'

At that, half the church erupted in suppressed laughter. So I took the little fiend by the hand and we raced out into the night. Now, I can't say I'm intimately acquainted with Our Lady of Victories' parish... and if they have a Ladies' Loo, I'm completely unaware of it. The night was dark, there were strange shadows everywhere and Ellie kept hopping up and down saying 'Wee is gonna come soon, Mum!'

So I seized her and helped her to relieve herself at the edge of the carpark, in deep shadow under a gum tree. Breathing a sigh of relief, I led my darling girl back into the church, just in time for the Eucharistic Prayer (another occasion for devout and complete silence).

Happily making her way back to her seat, she announced to her Granny in that inimitable stage-whisper: 'I done a great big wee, Gran, in the car park. Mum said it was OK. An' wee never went on me new dress an' it never went on the cars, either. Do *you* want to do a wee? I'll take you, if you'd like!'

The entire Church yodelled with laughter at that and I could feel my face blazing. I felt like a beacon, and everyone knew who I was! You'd be surprised how many people came and commented what a sweet little girl I had - I was harbouring doubts at the time, but she *is* kinda gorgeous...
--
Trish {|:OI}
Newcastle, NSW, Australia

From: Kim Brown <c9403228@alinga.newcastle.edu.au>
Newsgroups: rec.crafts.textiles.needlework
Subject: Re: OT: another Christmas boring story
Date: Fri, 25 Dec 1998 09:46:32 +1100
Organization: The University of Newcastle

Oh Cheryl! How did you know!? The Ugly Sister and I share a precious memory of our Mum meeting us at the Church after a fourteen hour shift at work. She sat down, and almost immediately her head flopped. We smiled at each other over her head and let her be. Until.... 'BBbbbZZzzzttttttttttt!' The old girl was snoring like a buzz saw! And we couldn't wake her up! 'BbbbZZzzzzzzttttttt!' she went! In the end, it took a co-ordinated assault from elbows on both sides. We jabbed her in the ribs simultaneously and she shot out of her seat, just as everyone else sat down!

So of course, we keep reminding her of our bitter disappointment at having such an irreverent Mum. Really gets her dander up ;->

We took Miss Ellie to Mass last night and as a special treat, I gave her the Skipper doll I'd dressed in an identical dress to hers. Skipper has moveable joints, so good old Ell spent most of the sermon making Skipper 'fly'.

Sadly, we'd been forced to sit right up in the choir stall, 'cause the Church was overcrowded. Even sadlier, poor Skipper's engines cut out and she plummeted down onto Mrs Rooney's head from the heights! The embarrassment! It took about ten minutes to persuade my not-too-chivalrous nephew to pop down and retrieve Skipper (Ellie was fixing to 'chuck a wobbly' by then). But we all got a good giggle out of it, especially when Mum kept hissing at us to shut up and say our prayers!

Something *always* happens when our mob gets together!
--
Trish {|:OI}
Newcastle, NSW, Australia

From: Kim Brown <c9403228@alinga.newcastle.edu.au>
Newsgroups: rec.crafts.textiles.needlework
Subject: OT: Wedding Day boring story
Date: Sat, 16 Jan 1999 20:55:24 +1100
Organization: The University of Newcastle

I arose fresh and jolly and had about three slices of hot buttered toast for breakfast. A great start!

Mum and the Ugly Sister went off to get their respective hairs done while I went to the beauticians for a full wedding make-up, paid for by the Girls at Work. After that, I was to collect the flowers from the florists' fridge. DS had done all my flowers, as he was studying with the florist at the time.

Loretta (the beautician) was very chirpy and chatted on and on as she made up my face. She kept running 'out the back' and I did wonder at the shade of lolly pink (think Barbidol) lipstick! I told her I was wearing emerald green. But she said not to mind and that it was a wonderful colour for a bride. (Now, I was an Old Boiler, even then, but I let it pass, thinking no-one could muck a bride up! I was wrong!)

I thanked Loretta profusely as she wished me well and took a swig from a large flask in her pocket. I hopped in the car and motored off to the florists' place. Half way there, I had occasion to look in the rear vision mirror. I smiled at my reflection, in that vacuous way one does and reeled back in horror!

Loretta had lipsticked my mouth without getting me to stretch my lips. So there were white zebra stripes running down my smile! She had outlined my lips so that they looked deformed!

In addition, now that I looked closely, my eyelids were two distinctly different shades of blue, one cobalt and one turquoise. Neither was going to look great on my GREEN dress! *Then*, I saw that the eyeliners were decidedly off skew as well: on eye looked quite small and beady, while the other was large and staring. Loretta had applied the eyeliners to the inside of one lash and the outside of the other! She had also blushered one cheekbone and not its mate! I realised incredulously what must have been in her flask!

Oh dear! What to do!? I took my flowers from the florist, who looked at me very oddly, and fled to the hairdresser's, where Mum and Ugly Sister were reclining and waiting for their hairs to set.

'Patricia!' Mum shrieked, 'What on earth have you done to yourself?' (Mum is heavily into Blame and always assumes it was my fault first, but I have dealt with this and accept it on most occasions). The Ugly Sister laughed silently, so that no sound came out. But I could see her fat shoulders shaking and knew all was not well with me...

''Twasn't me, Mum!' I whined. 'It was Loretta! What am I going to do?'

Everything turned out OK and the hairdresser redid me beautifully. I looked fine that afternoon, as DH and I were married amidst our immediate families on board an antique paddlewheel ferry called the South Steyne. Anyone who comes to the Olympics in 2000 can see it on Sydney Harbour, where it's functioning as the Headquarters for SOCOG.

After our reception and lashings of Chocolate Liqueur cake, we kidnapped my best friend, Muso, and took him around the sights of Newcastle until about 4am. Then, after delivering Muso to his hotel, we wandered to our honeymoon suite, overlooking the gorgeous Newcastle Beach and sat eating strawberries and exotic cheeses until the sun rose. Then we had a spa. Then we slept until lunchtime. Then we went to a book sale in the main street of Newcastle. Then we went home to Mum's and had dinner. Then we set out for a week in Sydney, going to bookshops and the Zoo.

There was not a single cross word or bad thought (in my vicinity at least) for that whole day. Best of all, my darling Dad was able to give me away, which we'd thought he might not be able to do, owing to recent cancer surgery. Best day of me life, that was!
--
Trish {|:OI}
Newcastle, NSW, Australia

From: Kim Brown <kim.brown@studentmail.newcastle.edu.au>
Newsgroups: rec.crafts.textiles.needlework
Subject: OT: Re: Pet Fairies, was An Idea for MLI
Date: Sun, 21 Mar 1999 08:46:29 +1100
Organization: The University of Newcastle

> <jajdsimp@erols.com> wrote:
<snip>
> >All of a sudden the cat clearly sees something you don't, they stare at it
> >intently, their head pivots as they watch it dip and dart and fly around
> >the room, sometimes they take off in hot pusuit or leap straight into
> >the air trying to catch something that you can not see. We have decided
> >that it's the cat fairy and only cats can see them.
> >
> >Alda

> hgreintges@fastransit.net.uk wrote:
> LOL! This reminds me of one of my cats, who is now waiting at the
> rainbow bridge, that used to stare at a spot, usually on the
> ceiling. I would notice her staring for quite a long time and would
> look to see what she was staring at. I would look very hard to see
> what she saw and there was nothing there. When I glanced back at
> her, she would be staring at me. I could just hear her say,
> "Gotcha!" She used to do this a lot. I sure do miss Colette.
> Anne/NC

Well, I had a horse who saw fairies in exactly this manner. We'd be mooching along, usually on the roadside verge as I've always lived in the suburbs, when suddenly, some fearsome fairy would poke this mare in the bum with a Large Bodkin, Dagger or Scimitar. The horse (whose name, unfortunately, was Ellie*), would then rise up onto her hindlegs, emit a bloodcurdling whinny and flee for fairy-free fields!

On other occasions, I'd be pointing the mare at a jump: just a small pole or fallen log, you understand. We'd canter up to the log jauntily, *expecting* to leap over it with gay abandon, when *I* would become the abandoned one, as Ellie pulled off to one side, leaving me to leap the log alone!!! Apparently, the Fairies of the Forest have a Nasty Habit of sitting atop logs-just-begging-to-be-jumped and wagging their fingers at ponies, blowing raspberries and generally giving them the forx! The pony, of course, is mortified at this behaviour, seeks immediately to avoid a confrontation and nicks off (cf.'p*sses off).

There are other fairies that carry long feathers. They tickle horses in their most ticklish bits, causing those weird flutters of the skin that horses do just to unnerve you. They also stick their feathers up horses' noses in order to make them sneeze loudly, greenly and copiously, all over your best white shirt and white breeches.

Finally, there are those *wicked* little fairies that lead white horses to the freshest, steamiest, slimiest heap of manure in the paddock and exhort them to lie down and *roll* in it! They do this about eight hours before a show, so that a Large, Green, Obviously Excretory Stain appears down one side of the horse. The owner has utterly no choice but to wash, scrub, bathe and scrape the horse for approximately two hours in an effort to remove the stain. (For those of you who face this problem on a regular basis, can I recommend enzyme laundry detergent, *very* diluted chlorine bleach and a large puffte of baby powder to finish?)

Yes, I can *just* imagine our dear MLI designing a gorgeously coloured XS of these naughty little fairies! She could use lots of beads and metallics to represent the stars observed by people like me as they hit the ground in the wake of a decamping horse...
--
Trish {|:OI}
Newcastle, NSW, Australia

PS. It was only *after* the birth and christening of my VDD, Eleanor, that I realised I'd actually named her after my *horse*! DH was a bit piqued when I told him that, as we'd had Major Discussions about naming our child for anyone except herself. I'm a traditionalist and wanted to name her for my aunt, DH wanted a unique name. He won.

From: Kim Brown <kim.brown@studentmail.newcastle.edu.au>
Newsgroups: rec.crafts.textiles.needlework
Subject: Re: Favorite stitching music
Date: Sat, 27 Mar 1999 08:19:56 +1100
Organization: The University of Newcastle

When I lived at the University, our College made some money on the side by functioning as a Conference Centre during the holidays. I earned extra money by working as a janitor-sort-of-person for the Conference Delegates (Connie Dellies) who attended.

*Early* one Sunday morning, I was awakened to the stirring strains of 'Scotland the Brave' (my favourite), played on a Very Loud Bagpipes: the music was resounding around the central courtyard and sounded like the Massed Pipes and Drums of the Heavenly Throng!

I blearily made my way out onto the balcony to find half the College and all the Connie Dellies transfixed!

A lone piper was marching along the flat roof of the building, piping his very lungs out. He was naked as the day he was born and (I had it on good authority) still drunk from the night before. However, his ability to play his pipes was not affected, so no-one stopped him. We had about a half hour concert before he ran out of puff and played 'The Black Bear' by way of ending. You *should* have heard the applause! No-one minded having been woken so abruptly in this special way and everyone was grinning!
--
Trish {|:OI}
Newcastle, NSW, Australia

From: Kim Brown <kim.brown@studentmail.newcastle.edu.au>
Newsgroups: rec.crafts.textiles.needlework
Subject: OT: Boring story of fires and floors
Date: Wed, 07 Apr 1999 08:36:05 +1000
Organization: The University of Newcastle

Last night, my friend Muso and I were discussing the nice effect of romantic candlelight dinners with our spice (spouses)... and our discussion reminded me of this boring story that began with candles. We had a good laugh, so I thought I'd share it with rctn:

Once, some Poor, Simple Fool gave my younger niece an Advent Wreath (you know, those little green wreathy do-dads with four candles on them). Clearly, the PSF had no idea of my niece's pyromaniacal tendencies, nor of her proclivity for Setting Fire to Things with Matches...

Anyway, one afternoon, Jacquie was 'showing Timmy the pretty candles' and had lit them with the Ugly Sister's cigarette lighter. They were burning cheerily on her dressing table and Timmy (the two year old baby brother) was suitably impressed. Wholly unaware of this little vignette, the Ugly Sister came marching into Jaquie's room and hauled both kids out to help feed the horses. Everyone piled into the car and off they all went to the paddock, only three blocks away. Feeding only took half an hour, but the Advent candles continued to burn cheerily all the while. They burned through the top of the dressing table and into Jacquie's undies drawer. They burned through that and into her school uniform in the next drawer. Finally, they burned entirely through her brand new jodhpurs she had just received for her birthday. They were in the bottom drawer and the last barrier between the Advent candles and the floor!

When Ugly Sister, DBIL and the three kids returned home, Jacquie cried 'Mum! There's smoke coming out of me window!' DBIL did the only 'sensible' thing and *opened* the window. You guessed it! Tongues of flame came licking out at his head, rendering him entirely bald in one fell swoop! (We-e-ell... maybe he wasn't *entirely* bald, but he certainly went without eyebrows for a good while!) He leaped through the window, seizing the blazing dressing table and hurling it through the open casement and onto the front lawn. Later, it took three of us just to lift the charred remains!

Neighbours from several blocks around began to gather at