Quick Biff Update

As many of you will know, after putting down running imaginary countries, I took up a piece of rattan so that I could learn to fight and, er, run imaginary countries again.

So far I'm having more good bits to this plan than bad bits.

To get the bad bits out of the way first: my helmet is too big. Just generally too big. It has been designed for someone whose head is big man sized, I am little woman sized. Because I had it made for me many years ago before taxi crunching and the Curse of Fabian* intervened in the 'I will be authorised!' plan, it never occurred to me that it might be hopelessly wrong, but it is. These things happen. If any of you know someone who has a nice helmet that is too small for them and would like to trade it for my simple but pleasant salet, let me know. It's been beautifully polished by one of Lochac's nicest Pelicans.

The only other bad bit is that J is a fiend as a teacher and has me out practising passes at midnight half the time. Still, I'm learning.

The good bits are that my muscles are adapting to the weird positions and J's methods of fighting involve very little positioning that takes your body off-line and causes overstrain. In fact, if I can just remember everything, there should be no overstrain at all. Which is good. And apparently I hit nice and hard and have an unholy glee about hitting people, so no girly reticence there. Everyone is so surprised.

J got into armour last week and had me try and hit him while he tried to avoid me hitting him. Since I do not have a lot of armour (see helm saga above) he was not trying to hit me, so things were much easier than in real life, but by crikey there's no comparison between a human and a pell. All that pell time was helpful in reminding me to keep my lines of movement smooth and across the body, but I learned that my standard ballet and running front-foot motion was utterly useless for fighting and I need to relearn back-of-foot movement. Which I tend not to do because it isn't natural for me and puts more impact on the joints that I have mangled. So I should make myself some comfy fighting boots that help with that. There are advantages to this Laurel businesss ...

I did get a few shots in, and I had a few epiphanies. The first and most useful is that I don't need to look at my sword as I throw a shot. Either it will hit or it will be blocked and observing makes no difference once it's thrown.

The second is that J finds it a little hard to see what I am doing because I am such a shortarse, so every now and then he will pop his head above his shield like a meercat and I can whack him if I'm quick. Probably shouldn't have blogged that one ...

Last night he was showing me some thrusting tip techniques and combinations, but using his steel sword. When he had me do them, he flinched like a flinchy thing and so we switched to rattan. Where is the faith? I held my terror inside! Although when he was standing in stance waving the tip of a steel sword at me, I could see how the famous J hypnotise the chickens move works.

So far the best two moments have been last week when he was in armour. He had me practice throwing shots while he stood still for a bit, then he said, "Okay, we'll move onto leg shots now. I'm going to take stance and I want you to just hit me." And he stood there with his round shield by his thigh.

"Just hit you?" I asked, expecting him to add 'in the leg'.

"Just hit me," he said, a little impatiently.

"Okay," I said and whacked him in the head. Yes, I think I am hilarious.

So then he said "In the leg, monkey girl."

So I took a step and landed a lovely shot square into the back of his thigh. On top of the bruises that he was wearing from the Innilgard visit. Which made him make squeakie noises. I apologised profusely, although I have to admit I was both amused and proud of myself at the same time. "You told me to!" I said in my own defence. "I didn't expect you to be competent!" he replied. I laid my little skill at the feet of my excellent if burgundy-tinted teacher.

Later that night he made me rub bruise cream in, and assured me that I was the only one of his students to be granted this extra-special privilege. I remembered hearing that bruise cream contains mashed leeches, and felt very special.

*Curse of Fabian: 1995: meet Duke Fabian at Festival. Come home. Go to fighter practise. Say "yeah, baby! biff is what I want to do in the SCA!" Go to Canberra. Order armour. Come home. Go and see friend's band play. Ride bike home. Get wiped out by taxi, break bones, do not return to fighter training.
1998: Catch up with Duke Fabian at Festival. "How have you been since I saw you last?" "Good, except I nearly died in a horrible taxi squashing cyclist incident." "Bloody hell!" Go home. Decide, let's give biff another go. Dig out stick. Begin backyard thwacking. Don't even make it to fighter practise this time. Ride bike down THE SAME STREET I WAS WIPED OUT ON THE CORNER OF LAST TIME and hit the world's deepest concealed pothole while indicating a right-hand turn. Fly through air. Twist mightily so as not to land on head. land on foot, shatter navicular. Have surgery and wear plaster for nearly six months, do not return to fighter training.
1999/2000: J wins Coronet. Halfway through reign, Fabian wins West Crown. Must swear fealty. Very nervous about "Till death take me" bit. Likelihood of literal fulfilment seems eerily high. Send bell, book, candle and nice request asking that a monk lift the curse along with fealty scroll. Receive message from Fabian that curse lifted by monk, wearing bell as favour for extra Viscountess protection. Nice King. He comes to Festival. J and I arrive at Festival late in the day with J in snappish mood. I insist we should flag guy ropes before anything else, since it is dark and they are dangerous. J demands we unload car first. I grumblingly pick up load of luggage and stomp over towards tent, trip over guy rope and give myself a black eye on the next tent peg. J declares I have done this on purpose. I go off to find ice. Instead I find Kurgan. Kurgan says "Fuck!" a lot and takes me to find ice. We go to tavern and find Patri and ice. Patri is calm and useful, Kurgan disappears. A few minutes later I hear voices behind me, a hand grabs my chin and tilts my bruised face upwards. "Look what you did!" Kurgan proclaims. Fabian looks appalled. "I broke the bell while packing to come here! It's in my luggage waiting to be repaired!" I burst out laughing and point out that, comparatively, I'm unhurt. Fabian stays up till 3am repairing bell and wears it for rest of Festival, I break no bones.
2006: Begin fighter training again. No Fabian at Festival. Not riding bike. Especially not riding bike down Campbell St, Surry Hills. So far, so good. Might send over new bell, just in case.

Flametree at last!

I should begin by warning everyone that I am not at my charming best this week. We are in the middle of an 'issue' with two members of the Kingdom who have made some very serious allegations about a third person and then accused us of aiding and abetting that person while Crown.

We went to some lengths to investigate their allegations and found them to be without substance, now new allegations have been made. Either, the third person is much, much smarter than I had given him credit for, or the first two are really misled. Given that I had previously considered these two as friends, and I am still convinced that they feel they are doing the right thing, this is all mentally exhausting.

And, of course, the curse of rumour is coming into play. So even if I stand up in public and say "This is, in detail, the investigation that we did that put our minds to rest." there will always be some people who say "Oh, well, they would say that to protect their arses." And then if person three does turn out to be an evil genius, won't we look stupid. Still, he just doesn't look that smart …

Obviously what I really want to do is to bang people's heads together, but that is neither realistic nor productive. Yet every now and then, I think, bugger being tactful and politic, what's needed here is a cast-iron frypan ...

Which means that I must apologise to the good people of Colles Adorum for beginning the tale of their joyful ball with a tale of woe. The good news is that I did what peers always tell you to do in these circumstances, I spoke to another peer, and that helped a great deal. She was very wise and talked me down from the bit where I started making feral ferret noises.

The Flametree Ball is one of the nicest balls of the year. It's relaxed, there's fabulous live music from the Happy Happy Dance Band (I know they have a real name now, but that's how I'll always think of them), there's good food, it's in an easy-to-get-to hall and it's a friendly, fun event after the stresses of Festival and May Crown.

This year was no exception, even though things have been a little more kooky in Colles Adorum than usual. And, because it's me, I'm going to tell you about the kooky from my perspective. I expect that several friends and readers will have different perspectives, I am not saying that mine is the only one nor that it invalidates any of yours. It's just what I think.

CA's newish Seneschal, Adam, is very household-oriented. This can be a bit of a problem when it is felt that the needs of the group and of the household pull in different directions. To his credit, when people have spoken with him about it, he has worked to be as impartial as he can be. But he feels a great sense of responsibility towards the household and so can't step away from it during his time as Seneschal, despite this being the best option.

I quite like Adam, even though he drives me nuts now and then. He has a good heart and he really believes that he is doing things for the best possible reasons. What he doesn't have is a sense of proportion on email. So if you walk up to him and have a straightforward chat about how you think that something should be done a little differently to the way that he is doing it, then he is fine and reasonable. Write something similar on email and it's the Hatfields and McCoys, the Orange and the Green, Tony Abbott and 21st century science (range of metaphors provided for cultural breadth).

I have to admit to a personal failing here, despite knowing this and making sure that whenever I have had an issue I talk to him face-to-face, I have never sat down with him and said "Email: not the tool of anti-Adam Satanism." I probably should, being one of a handful of pointy hats that he talks to. It's just, who died and made me the arbiter of how everyone should behave? While I'm as entitled to my opinions as the next person, I also believe that the next person is entitled to have one of my opinions be "I'm not involved in this, so I'll not tell you what to do."

Anyway, over the years I have had a few occasions to gently nudge Adam down from a high horse and, more often, reassure others that they didn't really do the equivalent of shooting his cousin (or creating stem cells if you're going with the Abbott reference) when they had a divergent view. The most common divergent view is over peers. Adam thinks that peers are basically evil and is on record as saying that he will refuse all awards (although, once again, I should check that is up to date, as the last time he said it to me it was last century. See, I don't care as much as I should. I gloss over people who aren't immediately important to me in favour of making frocks. This is not Right.) While I can see his point about evil peers (being one), there is a useful place for them and they are a part of the system. You can't be SCA without them, it doesn't work. And most peers are nice peers, who shouldn't be ignored, nor should they be snubbed nor vilified simply because they are good at what they do.

It's like hating the pretty people at school for being pretty. Exactly like that, in fact. And at some point you just have to say "We're not in the education system anymore, Toto."

So, Colles Adorum. Great group, wonderful people on both sides of the political divide, secretly competent and energetic Seneschal who has a few Major Issues, secretly unified populace who think that they have big schisms but watch them all snap back together when you threaten the group.

And a ball, and drink, and group A and group B taking positions in separate parts of the hall and not mingling. Can you guess what happened?

Absolute concord. Peace and respect for each side of the group. Applause at awards for the 'enemy'. And do you know why? Because Colles Adorum is really Lochac's Casablanca. They've looked at the serious issues facing the world, they've seen the real stoushes and the bloodfueds and the banishments, and they've realised that the problems of three little people don't amount to a hill of beans in this world. And at some point soon, it will all be the start of a beautiful friendship. You watch, introduce a Nazi Colonel they'll all have each other's backs in a second-flat.

Back to the ball itself. We do not dance. We are famous for not dancing. We actually do know about six dances after years of Del's brave demands, but James has a bung ankle and I have a manky foot and so we rarely take to the dance floor, unless we're particularly keen to make Del smile. Which has happened and will happen again, but not often. So we watched.

And it was beautiful. There was a lovely lass in really well made Eastern garb, there was a graceful young thing in a pretty Venetian, there were the nice Sockpuppets being gentlemanly , there were Wulfkin newbies in ENORMOUS pants, there were little Malachites being adorable (one of Lochac's two best-looking Colleges) and there were old-school CAers having a good old time. Killian whose new name I have completely forgotten because I am vague cooked a delicious repast, despite the fact that she was headed OS very shortly after (bless!) and she and Mayela were the kitchen angels of much cordial and snackery.

The whole evening was excellently coordinated by Alessandra, despite the fact that it had been a week of chaos in her personal life. She was surprisingly calm and held everything together most admirably. And I still have her Queen's Cypher to get to her, but I haven't seen her since then! Argh! Anyway, good job!

We handed out several awards, and we felt really dodgy because they were all to members of our household or associates thereof. But when I mentioned this to Adam (his wife, the wonderful Zenobia, had made a stack of the recommendations) he said, "Actually, I only twigged to that when you mentioned it. And while it's true, it also doesn't matter. These guys really deserved it." Which made me feel that I was not in Pollyanna-land when I realised that they were secretly Casablanca, and that while the French police and the locals may be having regular run-ins, they were all on the same side underneath.

They did all really deserve it, especially Mayela's Golden Tear (Lochac Service Award) and Blayney's Promethean Flame (Teaching) which had both been recommended by multiple people from multiple groups. Those two have no idea how much use they are to the Kingdom as a whole. We were privileged to give AoAs to Edie and Freiderik, who have both made a huge difference to the group in different ways since they joined (Edie usually smelling better) and, while it might be considered just vanity to give your apprentice a Lily (A&S), Art has done pretty much everything with no useful input from me, so I can't claim credit. I do yell at her to make things occasionally, but I do that to everyone, so bad Laurel, no biscuit.

The very best thing about the event was the A&S. there were two competitions, one on poetry and one on masks. The former was fairly easy to judge since most of the entries came from Paddy. He won with the one that was legible to others, luckily it was also entertaining and had some passages that were particularly well written. And he was still fairly sober when he read it out so that the jokes were comprehensible to the masses.

The latter was a right bugger to judge. There was one mask that was not technically very exciting, but which was conceptually very cool. It was a felted sheep mask based on a Norse find. the doco was great and fascinating, but unfortunately the artisan didn't have time to do their own felt and the shop felt did not lend itself easily to the task at hand. In fact, it worked against what the artisan had been trying to do, despite her best efforts. Damn shop felt. So the winner was, I think, one of the leather masks, which were all very nicely made and some technically better than others, but which weren't as basically 'cool' as the sheep mask. So much so that I can't quite recall which one it was. Perhaps Edie's spiral mask? She provided a little doco, but needed more! I think that I will try and grab the felt artisan for the next felt workshop that Tyg is doing, since I MUST go to that or she will give me A Look.

Despite several people complaining beforehand that it was inappropriate for Adam to miss court now that he was Seneschal, he was front and centre and laughed indulgently at all our bad jokes. I simply asked him to come and he said he would, ta da! I know that things are not so simply solved when you are part of a dispute and not some outsider with the power of pointy hatness, but there is good will there among most of the people involved. And the few areas where there is genuine craziness could probably all be sorted by getting drunk and tearful together, if only we could be 100% sure that that wouldn't be as a result of getting drunk and punchy or bitchy. Perhaps some investigations could be made into the best alcohol for quick maudlin "I love you, man"-ness. Hints? Suggestions?

Of course, from J's perspective there is one reason only to attend events in Bulli: the drive there. Down highways and freeways almost the whole way, with the steep windy descent of Bulli Pass on the way down and the long rolling curves in evening fog on the way back. There are giant illuminated signs suspended over the road that suddenly flash through the fog huge yellow letters that say "Beware FOG", although since they do this so suddenly and alarmingly, I have always thought that one should have another sign that says "Beware scary fog sign" a little bit beforehand. The same signs are used to say "Legal speed limit: 110" They used to follow this up with "Your speed: XXX" where the Xs represented your actual speed. They stopped doing this when it became obvious that people were using the signs as testament to their speedracerishness, some even going so far as to take photos.

When we arrived home that night, we were probably the most relaxed of any post-event homecoming. I say again: Colles Adorum may have problems that cause them the odd headache, but the rest of us just keep seeing the fact that all sides of the dispute are wonderful people with passion, commitment and ability. They just need to step away from the crazy and embrace their own usefulness. And perhaps read every email three times before replying.

More Secret Blows of Reigning

But first, some housekeeping.

Thank you very much to everyone who has read the blog and said nice things. As you all know I am a pathetic wee beastie who thrives on people laughing at my gags. And I feel much better knowing that all that typing isn't just wasted hand actions. Because we have a word for that.

Thank you, too, to Bron and Gareth for taking such good care of us at Claire and Eric's wedding. I will upload the photos and do an entry on the wedding itself for everyone who knows them. It was a great event (admittedly we were only at the reception, we had to work through the wedding on Friday) and we had much more fun than we were expecting to, mostly thanks to Bron and Gareth, but also thanks to Holly who is lovely and hilarious. And Miles, get in touch with Anne. She's gorgeous.

I know that I said this was going to be Flametree, but I had some ideas for more secret blows of reigning. If you missed the first set, look below or in the archive. Sorry about the misdirection. It's a blog. Just be grateful that I don't fill it with everything I hate or blow-by-blow descriptions of every shag. Baron Bartholomew is to blame for that last comment and he knows why. Bad man! He's starting to remind me of Kurgan, which is just wrong. Anyway, onto the topic.

More Secret Blows of Reigning
8 Learn to step back
When you have the pointy hats on, everyone treats you as though you are the most important person in the Kingdom. Which is fair enough, because for once you actually are. But you are not the only important person in the Kingdom. When people are talking in Court, especially when Barons are coming up with Cunning Plans, stand back and listen rather than grabbing the opportunity for a good punch line or Dramatic Monologue.

Sometimes they want you to provide a dramatic monologue. You can tell those times because they turn to the Crown with a question and an expectant look. At other times, listen all the way through and then, after they have declared war on each other, proscribe their limits and remind them that their war is a diversion to try the troops of the Kingdom in a time of peace and prosperity. Because if you let them get too serious about it, it all goes rapidly downhill.

At other times they just want to be centre stage for a bit. It's not just Barons, it's some peers and some courtiers, too. When it is right and proper, give them the stage for a reasonable time and then lead the response, whether that be laughter, applause or chagrined headshaking. The one thing that sets apart good court crowns is a sense of timing. I think that this is probably the only genuine skill I brought to the role of Queen, and I found it very handy. Anyone else who spent half their childhood in dance and drama will have the same skill; remember to use it.

Lochac had two very famous Courts From Hell in the last five years where the Crowns had no sense of timing and never once stepped back from the spotlight. On the upside, they weren't Lochac Crowns. But if you do not want to have your Royal Peers doing Mexican Waves from the choir stalls during Court, this is the one piece of advice that I really recommend following.

9. Learn to jump in
This is number eight's evil twin. Sometimes you'll be sitting in the middle of a perfectly nice court and someone will come up to make an announcement. And then it will go on. And on. And on a bit more. And maybe there will be attempts at humour that make everyone pull that face that is half pity and half a pleading for a swift and merciful death.

These are bad times. You can learn to spot the culprits in advance and warn your heralds to say "Oh, I'm sorry, court time is very limited, can I add that in to my announcements so that we can get through them all in one hit? I'm afraid that the K&Q aren't accepting any other kind of announcement. I'm told she has ADD."

But sometimes it just happens there in front of you and something that you thought would take two minutes starts taking 25. A few tips. If it's an announcement, pretend that a large section of the crowd can't hear properly because it's windy, or else they're all getting sunburnt. Step up next to the announcer and say "So we should all be taking our used cans where? To the recycling area behind the showers. Right. Everyone got that? Lovely. Thanks! Great job! You have our leave to depart." The same technique works well for events where you find out the date, cost, location and bookings person that everyone can speak to later.

It's harder when people are being recognised for something. ibn Jelal will kill me for this, but Lochac's fencers have heard the word brevity and, on the whole, believe that it relates to underwear. So when they have fencing awards to give out, it often drags on and on. Ask all the awardees to stay at the front of court so that the cheers can be made for everyone at the end of the announcements. Once the dragging out has begun, subtly stand up and shake the hands of the awardees then position yourself next to the speaker and mutter "If we could just speed things along, we do have 11 other court items and people are starting to go into comas ..." This is not to say that fencers and other long-winded people shouldn't have the same court time as everyone else. They should. Just not tenfold that time.

Aside from their sesquipedalian loquaciousness, they're very nice chaps, those Lochac fencers. And Angus and Alwyn are concise.

You should also be willing to throw yourself bodily in front of a situation that is turning ugly, especially if you're the Queen. Because SCAers will posture (wank on) and subtleties of meaning can be lost (they do their nanas), and situations can escalate (come to blows) if there is no-one being the voice of reason. You can be the biggest bitch in the Kingdom (hey! that's me!) or else as tough-minded as Mathilde, as coolly cutting as Morwynna with a migraine or as physically able to break their nose as Asa and yet all SCAdians will look at you with the Queen hat on and see a sweet, loving, kind person who is like a Princess Diana without all the shagging and whining. And you should use that power for good.

10. For some people, you will never lose your King or Queen hat
And this is not a wholly bad thing, some of those people are very very sweet about it all. J and I went to a wedding that was mostly SCA on the weekend and one lovely woman was sat next to us and described her terror at realising she would be sitting beside the King and Queen. "But," I said, "That's Draco and Asa now, we're just J&D. We're normal!"

We had a great time hanging out with her and chatting and developed a real sense that she was a PLU*. At the end of the night, she turned to another friend and said "And the King and Queen were so friendly!"

I have been thinking about a card with a photo of Queen Elizabeth II on one side that says QUEEN, and me on the other side that says LUNATIC. Or possibly Not Queen. But despite the fact that I find such situations very odd, they make sense in that the person has learned to read us within the context of the SCA at a specific time. Until we replace the court image with a new and updated image, that's all they have. And I must say that I still think of my friend Steve with a whole lot of King of the West attached to him. And that's only partly because he was filling that role so often in the first years of me getting to know him. That persona is a large part of who he is in the SCA, and explains elements of his behaviour such as nearly killing himself training newbies at the list field when he was developing pneumonia. Well, that and he's a bit thick (I say that with love!)

Of course, it can be a bad thing for you. Once having reigned, you will always be in the loop for crises. You will always be frowned at by the people who think you done them wrong and you will always have to live with the guilt of too much credit for things that went well but which others had a large involvement in. The only alternative is to reign so badly that people avoid you forever after. If you choose to take this path, might I beg that you do it with style and class? Go completely berko, not just a bit wacky. Although you should definitely draw the line at Royal Porn tapes, it's been done to death.

* Person Like Us

11. Craft can be frightening
People will make you things. Some of them will be wonderful and amazing. I have a beautiful piece of reticella, a photo album, a poem and an illumination among other gifts that I would risk burnt arms to rescue if the house was on fire. These are great things.

Some of them will be a bit … odd … Like the drawings that you look at for a bit and realise are meant to be you. Or the subtlety that you look at long and hard and finally twig what it is (when one of the locals takes pity on you and whispers it under a cough). Or the jewellery made of something that smells like Perkins Paste.

Do not show your fear! Most of these people will never come to your house and will never know that their treasure is buried deep in a box or was possibly sent to a local school fete for the kiddies. Those who are regular visitors can be treated in the same way as in-laws: stash it somewhere accessible and pop it on the mantel when they ring to say they're on their way over.

Remember the kindness of the thought and the generosity of time that went into the effort. And pray that none of the people you visit are as bitchy as certain people who have horrid gifts that they keep for those who have behaved appallingly, knowing that they will feel obliged to wear the world's ugliest brooch because I, er, those people gave it to them. Because if they are that bitchy and they're giving you crap gifts, you've done something awful.

A quick word here, think through your gift comments. When we were at the Polit Baronial for Edmund and Leta, we were accompanied by Alaric and Nerissa, our gorgeous and brilliant predecessors in our first K&Q reign. The Worshipful Company of Broiderers gave Alaric a gift, a magnificent shirt with a blackworked sleeve.

J looked at it admiringly, and said to the representatives "This tradition of giving gifts was instigated to encourage your members to develop their skills, was it not?" oh yes, they replied. "So," he went on, "Our gift will be better."

Into the horrified silence that followed, I injected the essential word that his brain had supplied but his mouth had omitted: "He means, our gift will be even better? One can scarcely credit it, this is so good."

J, appalled, realised what he had done. He pointed at me. "Yes! That! That's what I meant to say! Oh god …"

I am so grateful that all my verbal faux pas involve accidental smut, which people take so much better than accidental snubs.

Anyway, make sure you practice your "Oh! How lovely!" facial expressions for the times that you need them. It's Lochac, those times should be very infrequent, we're talented bastards.

12. Organisation is your saviour
My darling Apprentice Number One came to me a year or so ago laughing like a hyena. When I could finally get some sense out of her, she told me that she had been chatting with a friend of hers who had said "You are so lucky that Dame Y is your Laurel, she's so organised!"

While Art is a cruel, cruel woman, she's also very accurate. I can be the organisational goddess who controls 57 things at once and they are all done in a perfecly timely manner. But I mostly save that skill for the real world where it is one of my editorial superpowers. At home, I'm a bit of a sloth. In the SCA, I'm in between. Because if you are perfect all the time, your brain never has any time off and you turn into a crazy person.

But you do need rigorous organisation to run a reign. Or else you turn up in Aneala when you are meant to be in Ynys Fawr. Which would be great from the perspective of catching up with Bec and Carlie, but very very bad from the perspective of Arnfinr will kill you.

We outsourced our organisation. Dame Joan was the Court Dragon from God. And I'm talking a big Judeo-Christian-type god here. Or maybe Zeus. She plotted, she planned, she started up a second courtiers email list so that she could give lots of orders without us being the loonie hippies that we are (Guys, chill, court will happen, it will all just come together …) and while she may have had some of the court hiding from her at various times, she made this the easiest reign ever by a huge factor.

To give you an idea of the difference Joan made, last reign when we stepped down I caught every single disease going around for about five months afterwards, had no energy to start anything new, didn't travel for about six months afterwards and still didn't get all the paperwork up to date.

This time, despite having caught bird flu in the last weeks of the reign, I was almost wholly up to date with the paperwork when we stepped down, had enough energy to stay on in New Zealand for a little break and then come back and start a many-thousand word blog, not only got over the bad case of flu reasonably swiftly but have not come down with any of the other viruses going around, such as Alfar disease, and was in Adelaide last weekend and should be travelling two out of the next three.

So, despite the fact that Joan was 'demanding and scary' for some of the court with her timetables and lists of duties, she was a saviour for us. And she spread the work around as evenly as she could, so no-one had to suffer too much. And when people grinched at her, she just adopted the same look of saintly patience that she pulls out when the girls are grizzly, or made those quiet but hilarious comments that you have to remember to keep an ear out for lest you miss her sotto voce. Which is why she will always be able to count on us for babysitting and chocolate provisions.

Our other regular angels were Marie and Manfred, who, every week, would ring and say: "Have you done all the things you were meant to do?" They also fed us a lot, which was a pleasant excuse to sit around the table being nutters. The level of comedy at their house is rather high, and very welcome.

And then there were the transient angels of organisation: Hagen's magical breakfasts; Isabeal's C&I; Katie with her boiling water at tea time; Laetitia and Lilith with tissues handy as the dust hit the eyeballs; Andre, Christian, Rioghan and Dragen who were always appearing just as things needed to be lugged; Maeve with her jokes and cheeriness when all was grim; Spyd with her ability to put things into perspective (consciousness organisation!); Deense and Finn with their appearing at the right momentness ... it's a long list.

If your find yourself running an imaginary Kingdom and don't have the world's best peer group to turn to, then turn to your actual Peers. Royal Peers, Pels, Laurels, even Knights are all damned useful people and will be there for you. Just ask. I know that it can be very hard to ask, but you will be thankful you did.

13. Things are not always as they seem
Now this is a bit of a Miss D axiom. I'm reminded of a faux pas I once made when I mentioned to a girlfriend that I was sharing my bed with Daz the World's Loveliest Musician. This was about a year after I started seeing J. She looked at me in a rather appalled way. What I meant was that I was time-sharing for a few weeks. Daz was in Sydney through the week to work on his latest album, I was in Newcastle with J. On the weekends J and I would be in Sydney and Daz would be off touring or up in the mountains with his girlfriend.

We'd leave each other notes on how things were going and the sheets would be washed, bed made, and usually a nice pressie of some flowers or chocolate lurking on top of the reading stack. Sometimes I'd leave Daz a book that I thought he'd like, he left me music suggestions. After a fortnight of this, one of the other people living in my co-op congratulated me on having organised to be seeing two of the cutest and nicest men in the world at the same time, because she hadn't noticed that, at most, Daz and I would have a half-hour crossover when we were both there at once. And while I love Daz dearly, he's not J.

Last weekend Bron and Gareth were telling us how funny some of their pre-conceptions of us had been. For instance, they thought that J was a drinker and a scientist. He's quite sober and an accountant. We could see how they jumped to each of these conclusions (and J would make an excellent mad scientist!), but were amused at them nonetheless.

This is a pretty regular part of life and, in examples like those above, the truth comes out eventually and there's no harm done. But in the SCA, where there thousands of people, some of whom you might see once a year, you need to be more careful.

A few years ago we had real issues with one of the Royalty. I talked with this person over the course of a year and, in the end, we made a very tough call on the situation. It was a call where we sought to limit the amount of damage done to that person, and the amount they could do to themselves. We told the individual concerned that we would not publicise the sanction and that we would limit ourselves to answering people honestly when they came up and asked us what was going on.

Several people did this, and we gave them answers to the best of our ability. We were not always calm through this period, but we tried to restrict our "Oh for fuck's sake if you want to be treated like a grown-up then act like a grown-up!" comments to senior peers who were close to the situation and in this, at least, we succeeded.

However, the story was put about, or at least a few interesting versions of the story were put about, and we had some people coming up to us and saying "Yay! You nailed that bastard!" And we said "Whoa! Stop right there." Because the truth of the matter was that the individual was not a bastard, literally or metaphorically. We thought (and still do) that the person had made grave and significant errors of judgement on a number of occasions. But those did not annul the many other brilliant things that this person had done before and has done since. In fact, we ended up spending most of the next six months telling people about the really really good things that this person had done to remind them that the actions that had led to the sanction were out of character.

The problem, of course, is that the people who met this person during the days of acting like a twonk are convinced that the twonk is the actual person.

And, on the other hand, we also received a fair deal of hate mail from people who had only ever seen this person in their usual inspirational and good mode and who couldn't comprehend that they were capable of evil.

The fact is that we're all capable of evil. We're all able to be utter bastards who make newbies cry and screw over groups because we feel like it and who stand there and expect everything to be done for us because we're the centre of the goddamn universe, thank you very much. We were all five once.

But we put a lid on the ego, we reign in the campaigns of terror and we sit back and see how we can work with the group as a whole, because we're all older now.

It's just that every now and then, a bit of our inner five year old comes creeping out and says "That person voted against me at the meeting, so I won't be their friend anymore." And unless we're vigilant about why we think things, kindergarten reasoning can start to come into play.

So when you go to a group and you hear how there are terrible factions and person A is evil and person B is insufferable, listen carefully and hand out the cups of tea, but be well aware that it's never that easy. Person A usually believes that they are doing the right thing, and person B honestly feels that they need to act that way in order to preserve their dignity. They are rarely bad people.

Of course, if they are genuinely bad people, they've usually done something genuinely bad, in which case it's easy. Call the police and banish them. Problem sorted.

14. You can't screw it up in six months
This is the reassuring thing you learn about reigning. You cannot screw up the whole Kingdom in six months. You can piss of all the fencers or the archers or the Pelicans or Ynys Fawr or Southron Gaard or Rowany or all the non-Vikings or all the Norse, but they'll get over it immediately you're gone. Because it's six months. That's less time than I had my foot in plaster after I shattered it. Less time than a baby. Less time than it takes Miles to call a girl who's charming and interested in him.

And in some kingdoms it's only four months.

Even if you go utterly mad, or indeed start from the point of being a raving loon, you cannot destroy your kingdom in the course of one reign.

So, knowing that you cannot do it, it's probably best not to try. In my nearly 12 years every single Disaster Reign has come about through impositions of will rather than listening to people. This never really works, even when you think it does. Ask a Lochac Fencer.

Dodgy Crowns can certainly impact on a Kingdom, sometimes for good. They can piss people off so much that they get organised and fix problems, whether those be low membership numbers or a need for fencing rules. They can bond together people who previously did not like each other, but who are willing to unite in their greater hatred of the Crown. They can provide an excellent example of what not to do in any given circumstance.

But to impact for significant bad, they usually have to be repeat offenders. My friends in the West only start to grumble after a few too many turn and turn-about reigns from the SuperDukes. Over here we are still too new to have that problem. And there is a simple solution. Train a lot and kill the buggers. Goodness knows that I have picked up a sword so that I can one day work out my issues on the Chiv who irritate me by hitting them in the head. Or the bum if I can't reach.

But even if you have two bad Kings in a row, they cannot be everywhere screwing up everything at once. You will still have sane Officers, sane B&Bs and some sane Peers. Support them when they need to be supported. Develop a very private comedy routine about the dumb royalty that never ever leaves the room but which keeps your local Seneschal sustained when they have to deal with the 47th piece of crap that week. Mark the date of step-down in your diary. And, above all, go to Crown and cheer for the people who you know will be less deranged next reign. Because no matter how painful, crazed, self-centred or delusional your royalty may be, they just don't matter all that much in the grand scheme of things.

In 20 years, bad Crowns will have entered the mythology as 'that painful git', while good Crowns will still be bought beers at the tavern. Remember, you want to be the sort of person who has youngish people clap their hands together and say: "You're William the Lucky*! Oh I'm so happy to meet you and talk to you!" And at that moment, the not giving way to all those daft selfish interests will seem wholly worth it.

* Or John Theophilus, or Radnor, or those legends from other Kingdoms including Caid's Ivan.

May Crown part 2

So, we resume our tale at Draco's victory and wreaths all round. By now it was late afternoon and the sun was getting lower and lower. Marie and Manfred had buggered off back to the motel to have showers and get dressed in something warmer. I had to drag Hrothgar off the pick-up field and hurry J up so that we would have enough time to be back by the scheduled start of the feast at 6.30.

While I was in the process of bossing people about effectively, Count Stephen asked for a moment of my time. He took two strapping lads with him to his vehicle and they returned fighting for control of a black horse. A black hobby horse. He had heard about my thwarted wishes to go riding at some point through the reign (we just don't have enough equestrian activities in Lochac!) and had decided to rectify things.

What could I do except mount up and put Dobbin through a few paces, figures and jumps? I proclaimed him a nice tidy ride and everyone applauded Stephen's terrible sense of humour, which is right and proper as it is a form of genius in its own twisted way. Later that weekend Dobbin was sent for agistment with Eleanor's daughter, which I think is also right and proper as she was having a darn good time making him neigh from the voicebox hidden cunningly in his ear.

The lads were finally sorted and we drove swiftly down the road to Holbrook, once again, all very scenic. I threw myself through the first shower so that I could slap on a face mask while the lads had their showers, and thus look a little as though I sleep occasionally. Luckily the bathroom was big enough to get dressed in, even with Big Frocks. Hrothgar laughed himself silly at the sight of me wearing said face mask, J was no help in the defending stakes. From a strictly accurate sense of things, fair enough. SKII masks are like paper burns masks covered in hydrating goop. But for $25, you get the benefit of a $100 facial and are able to give the impression that you may not be a total stranger to the phrase eight-hours' sleep. And, apparently, cause the shrieking giggles in your good mates.

As usual, the boys took longer to get ready than I did, which given that I have two-and-a-half feet more hair to dress than either of them seems hardly fair or reasonable, but I suppose that it takes a lot of effort to be so very manly. Finally we were all ready to depart at 6.03. The phone rang just as we were driving out of the hotel. Where were we? Would we be long? (I think it was out beloved Joan, or perhaps our equally beloved Mathilde.) Apparently the cooks were going great guns and most other people were hanging out in the feasting hall ready to get going. I said that we were on our way and would be 20 minutes (or less, I believe J may have been driving) and they replied that it was all no problem.

Of COURSE everyone else was ready early. They were all staying on site where there was nothing else to do except get ready for dinner and go and hang out in the feasting hall. I kicked myself for not thinking of the possibility, nor checking with the cooks about timing. I did suggest to the caller that they start putting food out without us, but they said there was enough snackage. I hoped this was the case, as the one thing that all right-thinking royalty hate most is being the cause of food delays. People will forgive you practically everything else.

We arrived at 6.25 (which is why I think J was driving, because he is a hoon) and found that people had decided on some entertainments to fill the gap. Terrifyingly, the entertainment that was happening when we arrived was Duke Cornelius singing the Goblin Song – indeed, teaching it to the populace as a round. Several peers ran out to greet us with cries of 'thank God you're here!'

We sauntered into the hall. His little Ducal face fell. He could not sing the Goblin Song in front of Their Majesties. We took pity, and decreed that we would not be there for a few minutes. His smile returned. Several other people gave us looks that were silent glare for "We'll get you for this, you bastards."

So we skipped outside and played with the Shetland collie puppies that were tied up in the cold. Joan waited with us, out of sympathy to our goblin aversion. Some locals scurried out and rushed us in after the first sing-though: "Quickly, Your Majesties, before he makes us do it again!" And we were in for the feast.

High Table was easily enough sorted, Draco and Serena were trapped with us and we dragged up Art and Blaeney and filled out the vacant Hugh and Therasa seats with lovely people, if only I could remember who. Hugh and Therasa had come up to us just before we left looking as though they were about to ask a big favour. "Hey ..." said Therasa, "Given that we didn't win and tomorrow is Mother's Day and my mother will kill me if we aren't there on time for lunch and we'll have to leave at 6 to drive home in time if we stay at the motel, would you hate us forever if we buggered off now?"

I had to laugh, because I have met those mothers and they are very real. Say what you like about growing up with mad hippies, but they do have their upsides. We wished them a safe journey and promised to make their excuses.

Hugh and Therasa heading off lowered some of the Crazy Southern Tensions that had been swimming around through the course of the day, which was a relief. I've met lovely Hugh and I've met crazy Hugh, and I do get that they both exist and both have a long history in the SCA. However, crazy Hugh at his cranky-pants craziest is as nothing compared to the zealotry of those who follow him and those who hate him.

Some of his followers will happily tar and feather anyone who points out that there are other ways of doing things, or anyone who talks to those on The Other Side. Some of his enemies would be quite happy to see him ridden out of town backwards on an ass.

And to all those people I say, "Seriously, give it up. You are wasting a huge amount of energy that could be spent on something you actually enjoy." Because when all is said and done, it matters very very little. You can guess from this little rant break that I had to deal with some of the zealotry and some of the repercussions of said zealotry over the course of the weekend.

I liked Thanatos very much when he said "I had no idea that I was meant to choose a side, and when I wanted to just talk to X [pro-Hugh zealot] and get some things sorted, he went off at me for talking to Y [anti-Hugh zealot] and I just sat there thinking, guys, he's not the Messiah!"

Between Thanatos and the wonderful Mistress Cairistiona's mantra of "Screw the politics, let's have a good event", I was quite convinced that Borderscross had a huge amount of potential and would survive any bullshit.

Did Cairistiona succeed in making it a good event? Bloody oath. It was an absolute cracker of a feast with loads of delicious food coming out at well-timed intervals all nice and hot and early. And there were vegetables! Yummy plates of vegetables! It was all very well presented, too; not so fussy that it was likely to put off the lads, but taste-filled and exciting. I know that this will sound patronising, and I don't mean it to, but I was surprised at how good the kitchen was given that it had no Maries, Spyders, Eslas or the like. What it did have was organised people who had sat down and done good plans and come up with a menu that really worked, and everyone seemed as well fed as the High Table, so that was a big plus.

We skipped out on the event briefly to hold a Knights' Council. It was very positive and very fast and I wish that all Knights' Councils were as sensible as that one was. Clearly you need to be keeping everyone from going back to eating and drinking in order to stop the waffle. We had a brief pause to play with the Crown Princess's wig, since Asa had shaved her hair off a few weeks earlier to raise money for cancer reseach. She rocks. She also managed to be the only member of the royalty to be sitting down to watch the dance performance, so gets all the gold stars for the weekend and we other three are very bad. I'm told that it was a quite good performance, so she doesn't get that many gold stars. It's not like when you take one for the team that you know will involve wailing sharp sopranos (no, J, I never will forgive you for leaving me there.)

The evening featured a series of good awards including a GoA for Lowry and well-deserved Golden Tears for Rauf le Brewere and William FitzSymon, plus some AoAs that were very hard -won for several of the younger and newer people. Everyone looked speccy and practically no-one was smashed. Cornelius did not sing again in the hall all through the course of the evening, and there was much happiness in the land.

We invested the Crown P&P properly with the shiny hats, and we were very happy that it was them, because they're really good to hand over to. Aside from them being better looking and nicer people than us, they're practically perfect. And they can't help not being old and decrepit. Although that bloody niceness is a bit much.

Throughout the course of the evening we were aware of a mutter of kicky commentary behind the High Table. It was Adele, Marie and Manfred. They formed an unholy cabal of Manfred in his butler mode and two women with sharp minds and witty tongues. Butler Manfred is a demon with a sharp blade, but it is almost impossible to keep a straight face while he is commenting on the day's events. Which is a bloody pain because while his back is to the populace, yours is not. Add to that the Canadian killer comments from a certain Southron Gaarder and the arch eyebrow acting provided by Marie and it was very very hard to keep our faces straight all night. I suspect we did not succeed.

The next morning we trotted out to site again for a catch-up with the Crown P&P. Marie and Manfred abandoned us in their pursuit of tasty comestibles, but the rest of the gang were there to greet us over hot chocolates and snackage. We pottered about at the stalls, annoyed the children, realised that there was bugger all that would be left as a worry for the Crown P&P, so just chatted, thanked Cairistiona and her gang for such a kicking event, sent Dobbin of for agistment and then sodded off.

It was such a relaxed event that it was hard to imagine that it had been the Crown Tournament, especially when you compare it to the angst-filled drama of our previous reign. Which J entirely missed and I had to point out all the various 'political' posturings to him about six months later when I realised that he had no idea what I was talking about in my stories of that event. This made me laugh rather a lot.

The road back to Sydney was filled with nice little side trips such as the sweetie shop in Holbrook, seeing the dog on the tuckerbox at Gundagai and finding very clean roadhouse loos. Unexpectedly we spoke with Katje and co who informed us that Miles had just driven into a parked car. Having once ridden into a parked van on my bike, it could happen to anyone. Admittedly I was doing about 3kph and looking at my chain to see where it was sticking, but Miles assures me he was going very slowly and the car was very low compared to his high 4WD. As long as it's not a cyclist or pedestrian ...

I was going to write about Flametree, but I am too knackered and have too much on over the next few days, so I'll post this now and worry about that later. And for those who are saddened at the lack of Top Gear posts recently, here's a genius segment where Jeremy (in a Ferrari) races James and Richard (in a plane plus public transport) from Guildford, UK to Verbier, Switzerland. You will not believe the ending, but it's worth the huge download. Part one is here, part two is here, and part three is here.

Off to Adelaide for Claire and Eric's wedding on the weekend, yippee! We'll post photos and a round-up on Tuesday with a bit of luck.

May Crown, part one, the tournament

There comes a time in every reign when the thoughts of all Rational Royalty turn to one thing: successors. For us, that time was May Crown Tournament. Accompanied by the intrepid Baron of Rowany, we travelled deep into the beautiful countryside of Borderscross one Friday night, to a warm motel in Holbrook where we were met by the indefatigable (and stylish) Marie and Manfred who not only had tea and coffee, they also had a spare bed for Hrothers so that he didn't need to drive another 20 minutes and put up a tent after midnight. They are marvellous!

Early the next day we all climbed into our vehicles and covered the remaining 20 minutes of the journey. It was a wonderful little trip through rolling dales of nearly green with horses and cows snorting into the morning fog and kites wheeling under the warming sun. Also, really windy road – so J was able to pretend he was Michael Schumacher, which is always a good thing. For him.

The first few hours were taken up with meetings for the Laurels and the Pelicans. This was unusual, but given that most people had to leave early on Sunday for the big drives back to Sydney or Melbourne (or Brisbane), it was extremely sensible planning on the part of the organisers. The meetings were very thoughtful and without ego, which was a pleasant change after some of the Festival tossery.

And from hereon in, a very big thank you to House Woodrose for taking many more photos of the event than I had taken on my camera and sending us a disk, from which several shots are shamelessly stolen below. And also a very big thank you with hugs to the talented and attractive Adele for taking much better shots than I could have with my own camera.

Soon it was time for the actual business of the day, the tournament. Our Court Dragon, Joan, had arranged for everything, even down to there being rosemary wreaths sorted. She is an angel and we are not worthy.

As King, J was running the tournament and we had one small problem. There were only nine combatants. So J had a brainwave and decided that they should fight a round robin. Here he is having a lovely chat with Everard. That's what Kings do at Tournaments. He alleges he was also checking armour. Sure.

Why were there only nine? My best guess is that it was because the winners would have to go to three Baronial Changeovers on top of their three mandatory events and some fighters thought this would be unusually expensive. Which just goes to show that they are on drugs. In fact it is the easiest reign EVER because every little group who wanted a visit has said "Oh, but the poor old royals have three Baronial Invests, we'll wait till next reign." We did Canty Faire, Festival, one Baronial Invest, three mandatories PLUS visited loads of other people. They're weak, weak I tell you!

(Except Philipe who was very good and didn't fight because he'd promised Polit he wouldn't despite being not very likely to win the Baronial election.)

So, having dissed half the top fighters in the Kingdom, back to the day's events.

Before the Tournament, the combatants are introduced to the Royalty. J decided that it was very important that he spend this time chatting with people, and so left me to take all the introductions. And don't for a moment think that I won't do the same to him if I'm ever Queen by right of arms.

The chats are never easy, because you see every couple come up with all this hope and promise, and you know that all but one of them will fail. They follow a basic model, I'll paraphrase what was said between me and the attractive young couple in this photo.

Thaddeus Blayney: Greetings, Your Majesty, I fight today for the honour of my consort The Honourable Lady Artemisia del Quieto d'Arzenta.
Me: You are both well known to Us. We know that you have studied the laws of the Kingdom and that you are familiar with the responsibilities of the Crown, will you be able to travel to the events that have been specified for this reign?
TB: Yes, yes we will.
Me: Are you able to commit the time and resources that the reign will need?
AQA: Yes, we have a cunning plan!
Me: We know very well that the two of you are well versed in many aspects of the Kingdom and have a good understanding of the difficulties and joys of reigning from helping on so many Royal Households. We would be confident in handing the Kingdom on to the two of you, and proud to see you stand up as our successors. We wish you joy of the day, and have fun.

This is the basic model for all such introductions. There were nine combatants, so there were some little modifications.

For Inigo, Gwynfor Llwyd and Nathan Blacktower we said something along the lines of "You have reigned well over a Barony and have an understanding of many of the skills needed to reign over a Kingdom. All the Royal Peers will help you to make that transition should you be granted victory on the day."

For the younger and less-experienced fighters – Miles, Eoghann and Conan – "Your consorts are all very sensible women who will keep you from going mad, and all of the previous Crowns will help you with everything. Don't panic if you find yourself in the finals, you can do it."

Draco and Asa had a special speech, "We loved your work last time, so do that again and it will be perfect. Hurrah! Easy!"

Hugh and Therasa's chat was mostly along the lines of Inigo etc.'s, but with some additional bits: "You're going to be giving birth three weeks before November Crown. Will you go crazy trying to reign at the same time?" to which the answer was a confident no. And, "If you don't make it to the Tourney, you won't get your County, would you be okay with that?" to which the answer was a confident "Yes, we know what we're getting into." So, while I personally think that they were being very optimistic about the easiness of late pregnancy and new babies, I've seen women ploughing fields in the week before and after giving birth and reigning is a lot easier. They were in!

The introductions were done. The nine combatants and seven consorts (two stuck at home, poor things!) were all getting ready, we were nearly there ... Then J noticed that we only had six banners flying. One of his conditions of entry was that each fighter must supply a banner. Now you may ask, 'What's the point of having conditions of entry to a tournament?' And I'll try to keep the answer short. They demonstrate commitment to the seriousness of the day. If the current K&Q can't trust you to read and obey the conditions for the tournament, how can they trust you with their Kingdom? And if they can't trust you, how can they exchange the oaths they need to at Coronation?

So, we approached the Melburnians and it transpired that when they repacked the car to fit five people plus gear, one of the things that did not get put back in that should have been was the banner bag. It was an honest mistake. J looked at them and two were wearing torse and mantles and one was wearing a really flash surcoat over a good set of armour. He suggested that they use the mantles and the surcoat as banners, since their on-field appearance without them was still sufficiently high. Which was a relief, because six combatants would have made the day very short, even with a round robin.

Invocation court happened, the challenges were given, and the fiighting got underway. Round one began with Miles versus Inigo (brave choice, Miles!). We held our breath. Miles was an outside chance in this field, but since he is such a nice guy we wanted him to do well anyway. Inigo is a very resourceful and accomplished fighter who suffers from continually training lower-ranked fighters and not having enough time with people who stretch his skills. It was a good fight to start with; they both took each other's measure, made a few fast passes and ... double kill! On the replay, Inigo was victorious.

The second fight was also suspenseful. Would the dapper and limber Nathan Blacktower fall for the craftiness of Gwynfor Llywd? Yes, he would. Then Thaddeus defeated Eoghann and Draco beat Conan just by being that bit better than each of them.

Round two began with the physical mis-match of Draco and Inigo, Draco being the second tallest person on the field and Inigo being the shortest. Still, what advantage Draco has in reach, Inigo nearly countered in speed and adaptability. Nearly, but not quite.

Miles had been paying attention the round before and so was victorious when Gwynfor tried to recycle a trick. Then Thaddeus strode out, killed Conan and strode back all in short order. That left Hugh and Nathan, and there were parts of that bout where Nathan seemed to forget about nervousness and to really take the fight up to Hugh. But Hugh has more experience as well as more reach, and he was able to ensure the victory. Meanwhile Hrothgar and Philippe were fighting the byes through the course of the Tournament. J describes this as preferring to let others showcase their talents rather than prove once again that he could have defeated the entire field. It has nothing at all to do with the fact that he likes sitting around watching other people do all the work while he has a good goss.

Round three saw a very good bout where Blayney defeated Inigo. Already Blayney was showing himself to be the stand-out fighter on the day. Draco and Hugh were both fighting at the high level we expected of them, but Blayney had the same commanding presence when he took the field that they did. Part of his victory against Inigo was to do with spotting a cunning gap, but a lot was to do with walking into the bout knowing that he would be winning it. We shortened the odds on him. While it is Not Done to have favourites, we secretly wanted Blayney, Inigo, Nathan or Draco to win (so sue us. It would be cool to have an NZ or WA King, Draco is a fabbo successor and we just love Blayney and Art), and thought that Blayney, Draco or Hugh actually would. In the rest of this round, Hugh beat Miles, Draco beat Gwynfor and Conan beat Eoghann.

Round four became a little interesting. Inigo beat Eoghann, Nathan beat Miles and then Draco took the field against Hugh. These two are physically fairly similar. Draco is a bit slighter and shorter, but is more flexible and quite fast. Hugh is not so big as to be boofy and has a fantastic reach and swift reactions. The best thing about Draco's fighting is that you can see him always watching what is happening and processing it in his mind very quickly, so he is usually on top of any situation, and he has the physique to work with his understanding. The best thing about Hugh's fighting is that he is able to get past everything, so that every moment is the moment of opportunity. Some fighters completely lose focus when they are legged or defeated in a bout. Hugh just puts it behind him and is trying to kill his opponent just as much the second after a setback as he was the second before, and if he's killed, he loses nothing going into the next bout. It was close and long and hard, but Hugh gained the upper hand and won.

Then Blayney had a relatively easy bout against Gwynfor, who seemed to be going off at this stage, which is quite likely the case as he had a badly damaged finger on his sword hand. On to round five.

The first three bouts of round five were straightforward. Inigo defeated Conan, Draco beat Nathan and then Gwynfor beat Eoghann. Hugh sauntered out onto the field, and then looked a little less cocky when Blayney did the same. Reading Hugh's body language, he seemed wary but confident. As did Blaeney. They went in purposefully. Blayney took Hugh's legs, then finished him off. Hugh was giving it everything up to the minute that he lost and, while being annoyed with himself for losing, took a moment to admire Blayney's handiwork. As did we all.

The sixth round was not very exciting. Draco beat Miles, Conan beat Gwynfor, Blayney beat Nathan and Hugh beat Eoghann. Conan on his best days is not quite up to Nathan , who has a stronger group of opponents locally, but is still coming back from serious injury. Conan is a better fighter than his brother, though they're equally nice guys, and Miles is up and down depending on the day. He has a good technical understanding of the process but is not one of nature's most physical people, so sometimes his body forgets to follow his brain. Gwynfor has a series of good, tricky plays, but his skill set is not as extensive as it could be. That's not particularly his fault, he comes from an area where he is doing most of the teaching so there is no opportunity for him to learn new stuff. The old cunning sees him through quite a bit.

The three Knights all fought well, and Blayney was up at their level, too. It was good to see him taking the field without any of the apparent nervousness that had sometimes plagued him in previous Crowns. Because Inigo had started the day badly, and would lose the opening bout of the seventh round to Gwynfor, it was obvious by this point that the sharp end of the day would be fought out among Blayney, Draco and Hugh.

In bout two of round seven, Blayney beat Miles, then Hugh beat Conan and Nathan beat Eoghann. Round eight started off predictably. Hugh beat Inigo and Miles beat Eoghann.

Then Draco took the field against Blayney. J asked me at this point how the stats were going, I had the rounds all written down in my notebook. "Blayney is the only one who hasn't lost a life. If he gets through this, he has the bye next round and is guaranteed a finals spot."

"And if he loses?" J asked. I frowned: "Possible three tied at the top of the list depending on the shakeout next round." J frowned too and said, "I hope he wins, or my brilliant plan will look really silly."


Now look carefully at the photo. Can you see us in the background looking concerned and intent and hoping that Blayney can pull it off? You can? It didn't help, he lost. And Nathan beat Conan. The ninth round was over quickly. Inigo beat Nathan, Miles beat Conan, Draco beat Eoghann and Hugh beat Gwynfor. At the end of the day Hugh, Blayney and Draco all had seven wins.

While Muley and Breanna chatted sweetly about the joys of young love and could Breanna have a birthday sometime soon, please, oh god don't let your father hear me say that and kill me, the Royalty looked long and hard at each other. "It's a three-way tie," said the Queen. "Bugger," said the King. "This was my nightmare."

"Yes," the very sensible Queen replied. "I don't imagine the fighters are comprehensively thrilled, either."

So it was decided that another round robin would be held among the remaining three, and if they went one each they could just keep going until someone fell out or died.


Blayney went out to fight Hugh. He set his shoulders square and strode out boldly. And Hugh didn't fall for any of the things that other people had been falling for all day and he killed young Blayney. Hugh was relieved. His consort Theresa was more relieved. Artemisia said "That's all right, just win the next one."



So Blayney went out against Draco. And Draco kept his focus (which had fallen away very briefly in the rounds after his loss to Hugh) and he won.
So there we were. Two finalists. Blayney and Art were saddened that they would not be reigning, but were justifiably proud of Blayney's work over the course of the day. In the words of Roy and HG, sport was the winner on the day.




So the finalists and their consorts formed up into retinues. By this stage the winner's favour was finished (I had been sewing it during the breaks between bouts) and the wreaths were all perfect, because Dame Joan is a goddess. Two sets of tall attractive people with a bunch of supporters came out and took the field. The Chivalry was assembled to watch. I took the consorts to one side, and the lads got geared up and ready to fight.


We ladies took one corner of the field. You will notice that I am fulfilling my function of making Theresa and Asa look even taller, slimmer and younger than they actually are. Sirs Stephen and Philipe kindly guarded us from wayward finalists and Manfred and Joan came over because the comedy was best in our corner. I believe the conversation was all very much along the "So here we all are again ..." lines. It was the same final as two years before, and I suspected that I knew what would happen. Because for all that Hugh and Draco are very evenly matched, Draco had won one before. And that helps a great deal.

Sadly I have no photos from the finals, so I have stolen a few from Castle Subarac, Hugh and Therasa's household. You can see their website and really very good shots here. I haven't emailed them to check if this is okay because I am EVIL!! And this is theoretically a secret blog, even if every third person seems to be readng it at the moment (WHY? There's Dickens in the world! It's a distraction from the Lebanon conflict, isn't it? I'm okay with that..) so let's just pretend they're the links that I know my nearest and dearest are too lazy to click.

So, the finals. You'll need to ask J about the technical details, because everything was a bit of a blur to me. Hugh joked with Draco as he stepped out onto the field saying, "This is just like last time!" Argh! Jinx! Draco replied, "I certainly hope so!" and Hugh had a momentary look of "Dude, do not do straight lines!" I stood there thinking, "You know, I know that Draco and Asa do this job brilliantly, but I'll be okay with Hugh and Therasa, too, because all the things that caused them to not succeed in Stormhold won't be an issue here and all the things that they did well, like presence and courtliness and big frocks, will work well. Yup, it's all fine."

And Draco won the first of the final three bouts. And I wondered if Therasa was really as confident as she seemed that it wouldn't be a stress to reign and reproduce at the same time (but seriously, QEII managed it twice and it's still less stress than ploughing) and I also reflected that it would be cool to have three Duchesses rather than two so that we could have the nice one, the evil one and the dignified one (in reverse order) and I thought that I would still be okay with whatever way it turned out.

And Hugh won the second final. And at this point I started to pay more attention because it was really serious now and the two consorts were gripping my hands firmly but not so painfully as they had two years before and the two knights were stalking each other gracefully across the field and a flurry of shots were exchanged and "Good!" cried Draco.

And we all took a breath in.

"Flat!" cried Hugh before we could get halfway through the breath.

And we all breathed out. Which left us all a little hypoxic due to the not having breathed in properly yet.

And I thought very quickly: "You know, Therasa, I know for a fact that you're as proud as punch of Hugh at the moment because I can see the look on your face and that makes me like you quite a bit more, even though I simply don't 'get' you, and I can't tell you this because you'd think I was being patronising, which is fair enough, I'm pretty horrid." and I also thought, really really quickly: "Yay Hugh! That's what we're talking about when we say Lochac Knight!"

And then Draco won. And Asa was very happy and Therasa was also happy, because hell, they're having a baby! and I said "Go to them!" and pushed them out onto the field and they went and hugged their husbands.


And as you can see from this photo, Asa is faster than Therasa, and Hugh is slow at taking his helmet off. A word to all finalists in Crown Tournaments: Take Your Helmet Off Once It's Done. Otherwise you will try and hug your consort while wearing it, which hurts. Also, don't have your sword on your shoulder and then swing around from hugging your consoort to talk with your opponent because even with a combination of extreme shortness and good reflexes, she will feel it graze the top of her head and she will Be Annoyed.

So, while Hugh was disappointed that he did not win, he was justifiably proud of his performance on the field and he was suitably impressed that Draco had got past him again. He also took a moment to praise Blayney's fighting, and to thank the marshalls.

Now I'd be the first person to say that Hugh and I don't agree on everything. In fact, I'd probably be the second, after Hugh. But I was a bit outraged on his behalf when some people, who admittedly have very good reason not to like him, did a big dance of happiness about his defeat in full sight of the list field.

There are many people who do not like me. There are a few that I do not like. There would be more if I could bother to remember them. I would like to think that they know it's okay to not like me, just as I know it's okay to not like them. We observe all the forms, we obey the niceties, we acknowledge that each other can do good things and will applaud politely when good things are done. It's just manners. And it's also politics. Your enemies may hate you with the burning passion of a thousand fiery suns going nova, but so long as they never make a point of displaying that hatred in public, they will always have a strong public position to criticise you from.

So, the dancing made me like Hugh more. Not that I disliked him, I just disagree with him a lot

And I should pop a quick little thank you in here to Adele, Joan and Manfred who kept J and I hydrated and in touch with reality through the course of the day. You chaps are ace! Also, very funny and we must never, ever do a soundtrack to a Crown Tournament or we will have people doing dances whenever we fall over.

After the Tournament came the wreaths. We followed in Cornelius and Morwynna's footsteps and did a field investiture of the Crown Prince and Princess with wreaths, to be followed up that night at the feast with the Coronets. I actually think that most K&Qs have done this, but I am having a complete mental blank on every other Tournament. Which is ridiculous, because we were at all of them and have been active participants in a quarter of all such ceremonies. Anyway ... our predecessors did this for us and it was really cool, we did it too, it rocked. Yeah! (NB talking like a teenager willl distract readers from a Senior's Moment!)

Then we awarded the wreaths of Chivalry. Typically the Queen chats with her ladies and other royal peers and the King and they see whose name is prominent in people's minds for this wreath. J and I began to chat about it and Adele and Manfred said "I think handing away the final by calling a flat is pretty fucking chivalric." And J said, "Yeah, that's what I was thinking." and I said "Oh thank god I don't have to convince anyone it's the best decision. Yay!"

So Hugh deservedly received the wreath that I always think of as being the one that you really want. And there was a huge cheer, because it was the right call. Also, take one look at that photo and tell me there's not a little bit of an 'Awww' for the look he's giving Therasa?

And the final wreath, valour, went to Blayney and Artemisia. Because he fought better than I have ever seen him fight before, and he did it all for her. And the crowd went absolutely wild, because he had captured all of their imaginations in the course of the day and Draco and Hugh could be heard loud in the cheers because he had pushed them hard. And, as you can see, we were just a teeny bit proud of our friends.

Next post: The feast! And Sunday! And Flametree! And Cornelius sings! No, really.

Utter blather, but with pix!

What I really wanted to blog about today was how cranky I am made by some of the peers in the SCA. But that's a boring, whiney topic. So I thought that I'd intersperse that with little recent adventures and educational images.

So let's instead start off with my visit to the AGNSW. This is one of my favourite art galleries. Not because its collection is great, it's actually a little bit rubbish aside from the Pacific Rim pieces, but because it is such a kooky building and people act so weirdly in it. On Wednesday, I scampered up the Neo-Classical steps in through the impressive sandstone facade with its mis-spelt famous artist (can never remember which one, though, and forgot to check), through the marble Georgian foyer and into the 1970s brutal Modernist concrete and glass interior.

There I found loads of schoolkids who had all been dragged in to see the Biennale. Some were looking intently at a piece made up of thousands of small canvas squares each containing a random word or phrase. Some were fixated on the plasma screens that were attached to cameras and showed shots of people walking through the exhibit. Still others were stretched out on the settees watching the ceiling until it was time to go home. My favourite was the little boy who was playing under the cameras and watching himself on the screens and, when his mum told him to stop, protested "It's ART!"

My mission was to take a photo of the Laela painting. This is a very dodgy late Pre-Raphaelite painting that has a woman in a 'German' frock coming out of a cathedral, and the model looks exactly like Laela. I mentioned this to her in NZ and she replied "Yeah, but the other chick in the painting is YOU." Clearly, I needed evidence of such a kooky coincidence. I swanned into the gallery where the image was hung. Was being the operative word. It had all changed, changed utterly.

"Bugger," I said. And went to see if the nice woman at the information desk could help me. Since I could remember neither the work's name nor artist, we didn't get far, but she suggested the library. She warned me that most of the 19th century paintings had been on loan from John Schaeffer and that he had taken them back and sold them to fund his divorce. I also learned that the AGNSW library is open till 8.15pm on Wednesdays, which is good to know. The chap there produced a full catalogue of the gallery from the 80s and we found that the painting was Frank Cadogan Cowper's 'Faust's First Sight of Marguerite', and that it belonged to the AGNSW, not Schaeffer, so it would be back at some point.

Now in an ideal world, I would have come home and found a fabbo image for you all so that you could say "Oh my goodness! It really does look like the two of them!" But the only one on the net is rubbish. So instead, I found two other Cowper shots.
This first one is also from his Faust series, after Marguerite learns of the death of her brother. Sadly she is being so wracked with guilt that you can't tell she is secretly Laela. I think the woman from the other painting is also here wearing the dark frock and black hat.

Cowper was often called the last of the Pre-Raphaelites, as he was a big part of that whole faux-medievalism scene even though he only started painting around the turn of the 20th century. Like many of his contemporaries, he invested a great deal of time studying medieval and renaissance dress and architecture. The architecture he got mostly right, but he was a little bit on drugs when it came to the dress part.

This next painting, also by Cowper, is called 'Vanity', and it has exactly the same sleeves as one of the famous Italian portraits. Which I'd look up if I cared, but it's cold in the sewing room where the books are.

I do love the way that the Pre-Raphaelites pick and choose what aspects of old paintings they want to use. "Yeah, I like the sleeves, and the smock is okay, and I like the big head-dress, except it should be a bit different. And if she wears her hair like that she'll look a bit rough, so let's leave it loose. And I like my girls on the consumptive side, not the porky. And can we have just a touch more flesh? Yeah? Perfect. Fuck me, that's medieval."

They would have loved the SCA.

And yes, Laela and Deense, I AM expecting photos of the dodgiest bits of Pennsic. Although no need for obese people wearing teatowels as lap-laps, thanks. I can imagine it too much from Aunty Spyd's Tales for Terrible Tots.


Of course, the best SCA moment in the whole AGNSW is the Ford Maddox Brown painting 'Chaucer at the Court of Edward III' If you look carefully at it, you will find every available SCA stereotype, from haughty Laurels to screaming Blue Feathers and lecherous young lads. And aren't the clothes just spiffy? I'm sure I've been to that event.

So. Annoying Peers. I think we'll all agree that I'm a very forgiving person. But one thing I can't stand is peers who think that the game should be all about them. So a lot of the Westies used to drive me to distraction with their Courts that were all to do with how Mighty they were. That's what a mirror and a box of tissues is for, lads. Not Court. Court is for telling groups and individuals how good they are, or, at a pinch, for reminding people about the needs of the Kingdom or the local group when they are starting to lose a bit of focus.

But even worse than wanky Kings are peers on councils who feel that their voice is the only one that matters. "What are they doing on the list? I said they should be dropped." is a genuine quote. And I've just had a quick read-through of my leaks policy to confirm that that is not a leak, because it identifies neither candidate nor peer, but rather is to do with the meta-conduct of councils, which we're allowed to talk about. God being ethical is annoying ...

Back to being whiney. The smallest Lochac Council has over 40 members. If you think that you, one single person, are more important than all the others, then I should be allowed to smack you upside the head. I realise that this will not solve anyone's egocentricity, but it will make me feel a whole lot better. And I'm not selfish, anyone else who wants to come in on the slapping is welcome to. We could have a roster.

I think I'd cope better if it was ever the really smart and involved people who took this stance, but it is always the insular tossers who don't look beyond their own little circles. As you can tell, I find it very annoying.

But whingeing is dull, so let's have a quick cat update, since I haven't spent much time talking about the cat as yet.

This is Minnie. She also answers to Mooky, Moodle, Slugface, Fat Kitty, Evil and Moomoo. You can tell that J and I have no children, can't you? She is sitting in one of the wool storage boxes here, which is one of her favourite winter haunts.

Min was once a poor wee feral scrap when she was lured inside by a well-meaning but inept gay couple. They fed her enough to keep her alive, but their other cats would beat her up and when Tony and Jan found her she was a psychotic mess.

Tony and Jan, who live around the back street from us, stole her with permission and took her home to live with their three very elderly cats. Two of whom promptly died. But we're assured it was just coincidence.

Not long after this, we moved in. She would often spring over the back fence and watch us doing the gardening or hanging out in the yard. She would stand close to us and was interested in what we were doing, but would shy away if we went to touch her.

Then, one day, she came and sat on my lap as I was gardening. Before long she was regularly walking inside and watching evening TV with us or 'helping' with the sewing and knitting. This shot shows one of her other favourite locations, beside her food bowl.

For about a year, she lived a happy life of hanging out with us in the afternoons, then trotting off home at about 9pm. Then she started to not go home, so we would walk her around the block and leave her outside Tony and Jan's. She turned up with gashes and bites and lost weight. Finally we met up with Tony and Jan one afternoon and asked what was happening. They hadn't seen her in months. She was living on rats alone. They had a new cat, who hated Minnie. Minnie, despite being very little (even in her current pudding phase of life) would stand up to the beatings from the new big tomcat and attempt to disembowel him. I should point out that she did quite well. Her vet bills totalled about $160, while she inflicted over $1000-worth of damage on the evil Benny.

Jan was at a loss for what to do, so we decided that she should just live here full-time and that we would start feeding her regularly instead of just ignoring her when she stole Thai takeaway (carrots and chillies. Strange.)

So that's how we ended up with Minnie, here seen nestled against the very best winter friend of all, the oil heater. She quickly gained weight on a diet of kibble from us and wet food from Tony and Jan (they pay access visits to her on the front porch every afternoon). She still hunts the occasional rat and mouse to keep her paw in, but mostly just slugs around during winter and defends the garden from all other cats in the warm months. She's battered and scarred, but she has character, dammit.

To finish up, some photos from last weekend. I had a last-minute call from Bethan saying "Come round for barbecue!" So we did, because we like her and we like charred meats. It was a lovely evening. George did some acrobatics on the swinging seat, you can see Laela wondering if now would be a good time to move. He also told J that he thought of him as a father figure, which made J feel old, and astonished at how much alcohol one slender young man could hold.

George, Annabel and Bethan played DIY Bailey's, with some success, then tried to find a good way of drinking Creme de Menthe, with less.

Hrothers distinguished himself by poking fun at J for being really old, so I poked him for being really mean to old women and he was suitably apologetic. He was very funny all night.

Miss Krin was intellectually funny, and then had to change the level of her delivery part way through the night as the audience divided into those who had been playing DIY cocktail and those who had not.

It was a very good evening of laughter and charred meat, yay for Katie's barbecue! We need one so that we can invite people around here. Although we need to deal with the mozzies of doom before we let our friends be feasted upon.

Let's end with a nice shot of Bethan and Hunnydd. Are they looking suspiciously at a J comment? Why yes, yes they are. And rightly so.

Next post: May Crown and Flametree, the biff and the ball!