Screen Shot 2019-07-14 at 16.00.18.png but herein we shan’t go into that—suffice it to say that a person (we have to be gender neutral these days, no? So you’ll just have to hazard a guess at whether it was a male or not … ) was apparently rabbiting about in its (ugh!) drawers when they (ugh!) found a junk which they took along to Sotheby’s.

It’s a happy story and if you click there the link will take you to the BBC and from there you can carry on if your heart desires (by then I’ll have done my bit.)

So:  CLICK HERE  (or not, your call …)

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AND AS ugly (quite disgustipating, actually) as the wee thing appears it sold for 735 thousand pounds (some sources say) or more like a million (some other sources say).


when rabbiting about in the ancestral drawers … you never know:

One man’s (oops) one per’s trash

is another per’s treasure …

Screen Shot 2019-07-14 at 16.04.32.pngHey! Who YOU callin’ ugly—?




with an up-to-date


giphyor printed whirly ball on a stick that we call a ‘globe’?

All it can give you is a brief glimpse of the current situations—physical and political—and they are transient anyway. (Any religion claiming that there is no permanence has it spot on, no?)

So in brief here’s a wee thought for you:

“It’s among more than a dozen other dated cave paintings on Sulawesi that now rival the earliest cave art in Spain and France, long believed to be the oldest on earth.

The findings made headlines around the world when Aubert and his colleagues announced them in late 2014, and the implications are revolutionary. They smash our most common ideas about the origins of art and force us to embrace a far richer picture of how and where our species first awoke.”

Read more:

ARGUSAnd now let your mind drift back through the millennia, to a time when sea levels were some four hundred feet lower

… and ponder what we may be missing?* .

And for those of a religious bent—as in ‘Bible’ based—did God sneak down there (on his day off from creating the Creation six thousand years ago) and daub the walls with His very own technique of pre-aged daubing, to test our wavering faiths?


* Given that folks seem to prefer living on, around, or close by the coastlines—you know, fish, surfy beaches, nautical trade (and easier access to Viking diplomacy if so inclined).



Fly Pig, left bigI was brought up (it means raised) to respect and admire the female of our species—you know, all soft and fluffy with big batty eyelashes, swirly hair and flowing movements. Delicate, even … graceful … gentle … and almost the same as people.


under the never ceasing hammer blows of Women’s Lip movements. But one sin of which I have never been guilty is underestimating the ‘gentler gender’. Brrrr. Never have, never shall.


as a whole has done exactly that on and off down through the ages, and more the fool it. Us. Wotever …

… as one by one the skittles tumble, illusions shatter, and the ideas inculcated and nurtured for their own nefarious benefit by the ‘gentler sex’ over generations and millennia are invoked. ‘Twas ever thus—

Read more:  CLICK HERE

—go there if you wish. Or not, it’s still a dog’s world after all*.

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* Some of it. (If ever it really was, that is …)


they tell me.

selfieI wouldn’t know, too young to die. But I help maintain alacrity with coffee. The latte in our very most favouritest coffee joint in town is to die for, but let’s digress:

I recently (months ago now—but fits the bill) bought a gadget that looks like a plastic bike-pump gone different. (I also have french presses, percolators, a coffee maker machine, stove top things that originate in Italy, and when all else fails: instant) (brrrrr).


Now where were we? Oh yes … some history—on a car trip to the continent (early sixties) I was introduced to a huge bowl of milky coffee by a French sea captain who delighted in showing  his signed letter-of-thanks from Winston Churchill (for seamanship during D-Day and after.)(Letter was lovingly crinkled but the coffee to die for) …


Oh … yes, that gadget. Try this on for size—

—and try not to freak out in delight and nostalgia when she says—


“… take your plunger and insert it …”


—then get thee hence (and I think I can guess why comments were disabled for that video) (brrrrrrr~!). She demonstrates the ‘inverted’ method, it can also be done the other way …

BT smiling teethy grin

Anyone for Latte?



skull & bonesYOU HAVE TO BE


for these toobes:

One of the most powerful observations on the human condition ever put into words (Willie Spokeshave) and spoken by experts to make a trap for observers of said condition:

Didn’t like it?

Bugger … try again—

—and if English accents make the words incomprehensible to some, here they are for you to read … (actually, I’ve just removed ’em). (Hard luck …)



leads to mollycoddled

giphyno? And seeing that we aren’t allowed to differentiate these days (boys and girls are now fully interchangeable) (brrrrr) shouldn’t the lingo be modernised to keep up? So for no more blatant ‘sexism’ we replace mollycoddled with kiddie-coddled, girls become boys and vice-versa?


in the kiddy-centres the trees in the grounds were fitted with little pretty ribbons—beyond which the wee delicates were not (r) NOT allowed to ‘climb’. And you may guess for yourself how high (think leg-joints in grasshoppers).

I forgot to score the source as well but scored these images off u-toobe, look upon these works ye mighty and shriek in outraged horror—


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—but not all was sweetness and light and ‘Child Friendly’—

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Okinawa, huh? Did their Moms and Dads and the nice folks in City Hall tie pretty ribbons around certain stalagmites “No going beyond this point”? (Don’t ask moi—I’m just the duty cynic here.)


bleat the obvious:

I was noisy for ‘Women’s Rights’ long before most wimmin were. But for Heaven’s sake, let kids be kids—let girls be girls and boys be girl (oops) boys, they’ll work it out.

And take those silly ribbons down from the blasted trees! (Or if you’re really worried take down the blasted trees and give ’em all little Day-Glo jackets to wear when going out to ‘play’ in recess, and make ’em all wear little Day-Glo hat—

“Mr argus! Sir?”

(Oops … I think I’ve transgressed or otherwise trodden upon a delicate wee foot—)

“Yes, Little Ollivia?”

“They already do that in Winton, Sir.”

(Bugger … that’s me, always a bridesmaid and never a—  )

“Mr Argus! Sexismist’s language again, Sir— that should be ‘Wedding Attendant Female’, Sir, not bridesmaid!”


Again I’m a retrospective prophet. A dinosaur, a





as observated by moi this afternoon. Spouse was doing the ‘over the teacups’ bit with a friend, which made husbands redundant so I slung my hook (and camera bag) and toddled out into the world, come what may …

First target of opportunity when I got to Winton was this bird, nesting on a fence—

Screen Shot 2019-04-23 at 20.53.16.png

—I was unsure whether it was a shearwater or a scissorbill, but he looked happy enough now that the chicks had flown.

Further along was a house that so matched the sky above I was smitten. The colour shot did it no justice so I tried shooting with blue as the only colour in a temporarily B & W world and scored this—

Screen Shot 2019-04-23 at 20.54.32.png

—which hopefully makes my point (and they say we dogs are colour blind) (sheesh).

On to the end of the road where for weeks the council guys have been updating the stormwater systems; crossed the road and was reminded that the day after tomorrow is ANZAC Day—

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—and in this small sheddie thing where every December the guy has his Christmas Crib scene (Joseph, Mary, couple of shepherds and a wee infant in a cradle)(no more donkey, sadly, but that’s progress for you) I noticed his tribute to the WW1 ANZACs. Tomorrow is ANZAC Day (and I’m sure their cannon being fired at the Dawn Parade*  every year is responsible for the summer surge in births in Winton).

Moving along I couldn’t help but notice the avian demography at the Winton oxidation ponds (water treatment plant) has changed—

Screen Shot 2019-04-23 at 20.55.48.png

—normally it’s standing room only for seagulls, the wall-to-wall ducks is different. Then it clicked: the first of May is Duck Day!

Duck Day Dawn here is like listening to a replay of the opening of the Battle of the Somme, or (lacking only engine noises) Kursk. Open Season on ducks lasts for a full couple of months but the heroes only get dolled up in full camo gear (complete with face-paint, mottled suits and netted ‘hides’) for the first morning. The decay in attendance afterwards is a perfect exponential until a week later there’s only an occasional distant pop as some late arrival gets potted.

So of course the pond is temporarily crowded with ducks and the resident gulls get hardly a look-in—

—them ducks may be bird-brains but they sure ain’t stupid …

dodododododododododo                           dodo

* Too early to get up, too late to go back to sleep …