This web stuff is tiring. The last time I really poked around with the back-end of the internet (NASTY) was about 2003, and it turns out a LOT has changed since then. Who knew? Anyway, the blog has moved to WordPress (oh god let the blog have moved to WordPress) and hopefully you can see it and continue to ruminate on my words of wisdom. Or, you know, just ruminate. I’m not too concerned either way.

The one thing I’m really concerned about is the site feed. I THINK I have migrated it to the new blog (I guess I’ll find out when I publish this) but if I haven’t, the new feed is http://www.siximpossiblethings.net/feed. Although how will you know, because you won’t see this? Halp! Stuck in endless feedback loop! I don’t think I’m cut out for this anymore. Here, have a cat picture.

Doing new stuff makes our brains hurt too. Our tiny, tiny brains.

time wasting – i has it

Oh hai! I didn’t mean to leave the blog hanging on a Post of Doom; but it often happens it seems. Either that or a Post of Drunkenness. (What do you mean you don’t notice those? Are you implying they blend right in with the normal state of affairs? I am HURT.) Anyway, I have been ignoring the blog because I have been getting comment spam, which is very annoying and my current comments system is not coping well. Mainly because I can’t log in as an admin which means I can’t delete spam comments easily. Well, OK, technically that’s a problem with ME and not with the comment system, which really can’t be blamed if I can’t remember my own login, but GOD, you are so PICKY today. Also I can’t lock old posts against getting comments which is where the spam was coming from. So, in effect, I have had to enable Blogger comments; and I am really not too confident on the outcome. Especially since this then required a new template, which I don’t love and am not convinced is working. CAN YOU SEE ME? If so I guess that’s Step One. Success! Let’s break for a beer.

You can’t see me. I am hiding.

Incidentally, do you think I can sell my barkcloth curtains on eBay?

… And OK, um, you’re not seeing a new template. I wrote that last night. I uploaded at least two templates in quick succession, only one of which worked, neither of which I liked, and turns out I also don’t like the new Blogger comments. Since I never actually comment on my OWN blog this really shouldn’t matter to me; but turns out it does. So I have put back the original system and template and solemnly swear never to waste four hours on a Thursday night doing this sort of crap again. Especially when I reverse it all in twenty minutes on a Friday. I still can’t disable comments on old posts when I want to but I’ll live with it. FOR NOW. She says threateningly. To no one in particular, it turns out.

Mr. T would like to make a joke here about what’s in his pants, but ignore him. Look at my pretty ottoman! I finally got it recovered and now it’s a Marimekko print. Only took me, um, a year. The scratching post in front of it is a very necessary precaution.

All is going well here; the kittens are pretty much cats and they are idiots. I always suspected as much and now it is true. The Grey Cat loves the toilet – in fact I need to emphasise that he loooOOOOooOOVES the toilet, with a dedicated and all-encompassing love. If you go into the bathroom he will patter in after you on his little white feet within seconds. With me, he sits on my lap and purrs with great satisfaction and vigour; with Mr. T, he stands on his hind legs and puts his feet on the toilet seat and peers between Mr. T’s legs, putting himself in great danger of being weed on. He also enjoys the flushing part of the proceedings, watching in great fascination as the water swirls and stops. I haven’t yet actually found him IN the toilet bowl, but he is so clumsy I’m sure it’s only a matter of time. As for the Ginger Cat, he could take or leave the toilet; however he loooOOOOooOOVES being picked up and held on your shoulder. It must always be your right shoulder though; he contorts himself greatly if you try to hold him on the left. He is also the talker, with a wide array of murps, squeaks, chirps and yowls. Both of them are lovely cats. You can’t have them.

Speaking of the toilet, the cats pull down the towel in the bathroom all the time. I walked in there the other night, turned the light on and saw this. I went to pick up the fallen towel and IT BIT ME. Apparently I had disturbed someone’s Lair. Not a bad lair, as lairs go, I imagine.

(And yes this is our unrenovated bathroom. Although I have replaced all the white & gold plastic hardware with silver, it remains resolutely mint green and the lino is a horror and I don’t know if I’ve ever told you about the shub. I haven’t? Oh, are you in for a TREAT.)


As was predicted, Saturday was insanely hot. Mr. T kept checking the temperature map, which reached 47.3 degrees in the middle of Melbourne. I didn’t even step outside of the house until about 2pm, when I realised the vege garden was flat to the ground – you couldn’t even call it wilting. The wind was fiercely hot and stinging and huge eddies of leaves and dust and sticks were gusting around our street and our house. We left at around 4pm to visit friends, driving towards the east. We were detoured off a major freeway due to a spot fire burning and smoke shrouding the road. When we finally reached them, we found them in their pool – “wear shoes!” they yelled at us, because their glass-topped outdoor table had shattered in the heat earlier in the day. We spent the night in the pool or watching movies, after the cool change came through. We drove home. It rained, lightly, in the night.

It wasn’t until the next morning that I realised that further east, the state was burning fiercely and is still burning now. The death toll keeps rising and is now over 100. The animals in the thousands of hectares of burnt forest will remain uncounted. What can you do? We will donate money and we will donate blood, but what can you do, really?

The Grey Cat on our drought-stricken lawn, far away from danger.

zombies! run!

Aiee! The rapture! The rapture!

COLLINSVILLE, Illinois – Pranksters in at least three states are messing with electronic road signs meant to warn motorists of possible traffic problems by putting drivers on notice about Nazi zombies and raptors.

Full story at 10.


It’s hot. It’s been really hot. And it’s going to get hot again. Oh hai! Welcome to summer in Melbourne! And/or Adelaide, which has also had it’s own 1-in-100-year heatwave. Or so they say. I think they’re just jealous. Anyway, I think I have mentioned on here before that I don’t do well over 30 degrees, and I shut down over 35. Imagine the joyous bundle of fun I was when the temperature went over 40 for a week, and the copious amounts of patience I displayed on the 44 degree days. Yes, days. Plural. (44C = 111F, FEEL MY PAIN IN BOTH HEMISPHERES.) (That’s what SHE said.) There’s another 44 degree day coming on Saturday, apparently. Suck. I mean, oh yay! Hey, you know when you open a fan-forced oven, and a massive gust of hot air hits you in the face and body and engulfs you relentlessly in a steady stream of dry heat? That is what awaits me on Saturday. The wind! The hot wind! The beating of his hideous heart! Wait, where was I? Oh yes, being driven insane by weather. Carry on.

Having said that, it hasn’t been THAT bad – my sister has been visiting, and although she was stuck in Melbourne’s hottest week in 100 years, she did fine. They were over to watch the tennis at the Australian Open, and to buy everything in the state. Status: success! We also did a lot of swimming at the beach (not sitting on the beach, which is for mad dogs and Englishmen). Our method is to walk down, loll in the water for an hour, including the dog, then head straight back to the aircon. That pretty much kept us sane… look how normal and rational we look!

Oh hai. I’m in the back, with my head doubling over itself.
Yeah, it does that sometimes.