I picked up some 3D printed Middle Eastern style Sci-Fi from “the other Rob” at an Axes and Ales “bring and buy” earlier this year. This is the first of ten to receive some paint.
I will get some more done over the Christmas break.
Just a quick post today as I have been busy cat wrangling, gardening, preparing “toys” for sale, and getting a book launched on Amazon
The book is currently available on kindle and shortly in both paperback and hard cover. This is the publishers blurb, but don’t believe a word of it!
Threads of Liberty — The Women Who Stitched TogetherAustralian Democracy rewrites the story of the Eureka Stockade from the ground up, revealing a chapter of Australian history that traditional accounts have overlooked. Although the Eureka Flag has become one of the nation’s most powerful symbols of justice and resistance, its creators — three remarkable women — slipped from the historical record for more than 150 years.
Drawing on archival evidence, textile analysis, oral testimony and recent scholarship, this book shows how Anastasia Withers, Anne Duke and Anastasia Hayes transformed domestic skill into political action. Stitch by stitch, they produced the banner under which miners swore their legendary oath — not in safety, but in danger, exhaustion and secrecy. The rebellion that followed has long been understood as a male turning point in the democratic movement; this book proves it was a communal one.
Threads of Liberty offers a groundbreaking interpretation of Eureka as a story not just of armed resistance, but of families, households and women whose labour made democracy possible. It reclaims their courage, restores their legacy and expands our understanding of what — and who — forged Australian identity.
The book has been a labor of love over a long period of time and the Authors note sums up my thoughts:
This volume gathers together a collection of essays written over many years, each shaped by its own moment, its own concerns, and my own evolving understanding of Eureka. I have chosen—deliberately—to present each essay in its complete form, preserving its original voice, perspective, and scholarly apparatus. Each stands alone, with its own footnotes and bibliography, because each represents a distinct stage in my engagement with this history. You may notice certain themes, arguments, or insights recur across chapters; this has been left intentionally. These recurrences mark the development of my thinking and serve to reinforce the central motifs that have drawn me repeatedly back to Eureka and to the people who lived it.
The essay titles have been adjusted to create a more coherent chapter structure, yet the substance of each piece remains unchanged. This approach allows the collection to function simultaneously as a unified work and as a record of sustained reflection—a chronicle of my long-standing, and at times deeply personal, devotion to understanding the rebellion and its legacy. My hope is that this format offers readers not only historical insight but also an authentic sense of an intellectual journey, one shaped by genuine passion, gradual discovery, and a persistent desire to confront the gaps and silences in the traditional narrative.
Part of that passion stems from a strong family connection to Eureka—intriguingly, from both inside and outside the stockade. On one side of the family stands Anne Duke, a figure of whom we are immensely proud. Her story is not myth or embellishment; it is documented, verifiable, and deeply moving. Anne Duke was heavily pregnant at the time of the uprising, yet she remained within the stockade as the attack unfolded. She was not a passive observer of events but an active participant, providing vital care, comfort, and solidarity amidst the smoke, chaos, and violence. Her presence on the frontline challenges the simplistic notion of Eureka as an exclusively masculine act of rebellion. Her courage exemplifies the often-unacknowledged female labour that sustained the miners at their most desperate hour. She is a cornerstone of my family’s story and a living testament to the essential, feminist re-reading of Eureka that has long been overdue.
On another branch of the family tree lies a far more shadowed and uncertain tale—a piece of folklore that whispers of a police constable who may have served with the government forces during the assault. The story claims that he was so ashamed by the brutality of the attack on the miners that he resigned from the Victoria Police shortly after Eureka and moved to South Australia, where he reportedly joined the police force there. Historical records confirm the existence of a constable in the South Australian Police with the same second and third initials, serving in Port Adelaide and North Adelaide. Yet nothing definitively connects these two men, and the gaps in the archival record are too wide to bridge with certainty.
It is entirely possible that this tale is a family reimagining, created to soften or redeem an uncomfortable truth. Like many family stories, it may contain a kernel of truth wrapped in layers of hopeful embellishment. The circumstantial details align suggestively, but the evidence remains elusive—insufficient to prove, yet equally insufficient to dismiss. The story sits in a liminal space between historical possibility and inherited mythology.
From a personal perspective, I find myself strangely drawn to the idea that members of my family may have stood on both sides of that rough timber barricade in the early dawn of 3 December 1854. There is something profoundly human in the possibility: the complexity of loyalty, the clash of ideals, the ambiguity that history rarely acknowledges. Whether or not the constable truly belongs to my lineage, the idea enriches my sense of connection to Eureka. It places my family within the full moral spectrum of the event—courage and compassion on one side, duty and remorse on the other. It also reminds me that history is rarely neat, rarely easy, and never entirely free of personal longing.
I cannot confirm the story, but I cannot relinquish it either. It speaks to a deeper truth about why Eureka has always mattered so much to me: it is not simply an episode of political dissent, but a profoundly human drama in which ordinary people—miners, mothers, troopers, workers, families—confronted fear, injustice, hope, and consequence. In exploring their stories, I am in some way also exploring my own.
It is in this spirit that I offer the pages that follow. I hope they illuminate not only the history of Eureka, but the enduring, personal ways in which that history continues to shape identity, memory, and meaning.
Finally so “real” hobby stuff started! These are a combination of sprues and blister packs on the painting table I thought would not be too taxing.
Two German WW2 offices I will use for 0200 hrs,
4 (a sprue) of Wargames Atlantic Partisans.
Some German Konflict Heavy troopers with LMG’s. I needed to get these done as Warlord Games had increased the minimum squad size from 5 to 6 between version 1 and version 2. Codex creep. Where have I seen that before!
I have already started painting the K47 Germans.
With the recent changes to Zeo Genesis I thought it was about the right time to do a comparative review.
Critical Review: Zeo Genesis — Strengths, Limitations, and How It Compares
Zeo Genesis remains one of the more compelling-mecha skirmish games in recent years — but it is not without flaws. Below is a more balanced account of where it excels, where it struggles, and how it stacks up against similar offerings.
1. Fluidity and Engagement Through Alternate Activations:
The game’s single-turn, alternate-activation system ensures both players remain involved continuously — a marked departure from the typical “Player A goes, then Player B” turn rhythm. This design keeps downtime minimal, encourages rapid decision-making, and creates a true sense of tactical tension. For players weary of traditional skirmishes that stall while one side moves all units, Zeo Genesis delivers refreshing pacing and momentum.
2. Cinematic Action Through Reactions:
The Action/Reaction engine — especially mechanics like Surge — gives the game a kinetic, anime-mecha feel. Units rarely feel like static tokens; instead, they move, dodge, counter, and respond. This dynamic makes even small engagements feel alive, and helps generate memorable, cinematic combat sequences.
3. Scalability and Accessibility:
Zeo Genesis works both as a quick 1-on-1 duel or a larger, slightly more complex engagement with support teams. Its low model count, smaller table footprint (≈ 3’×3’), and relatively short play time (30–45 min) lower the barrier to entry. That makes it ideal for people who like mecha, but don’t always have the time, space, or budget for large-scale war games.
4. Tactical Depth in a Lightweight Package:
Despite its streamlined mechanics, the game retains meaningful tactical decisions — especially around when to push a Zeoform’s AP to the limit, or when to Regroup and concede tempo. Combined arms (mecha + support) adds subtle strategic layers without sliding into unwieldy complexity.
1. Limited Long-Term Variety:
Because the rules focus heavily on mecha vs. mecha plus light support, Zeo Genesis can start to feel repetitive after several games. Where a system like Heavy Gear Blitz! supports many factions, unit types, and narrative campaigns, Zeo Genesis’s strength lies in quick skirmishes. That’s great for pick-up games — but less so if you crave a meta-campaign or long-term force development.
2. Fragility of Support Roles & Reliance on Zeoforms:
Support teams (engineers, drones, hackers) have a relatively minimal rules load and limited impact compared to Zeoforms. In practice, many games may revolve almost entirely around the heavy mecha duels; the promised “combined-arms” feel can fade if players focus on survivable, high-impact Zeoforms. For those expecting robust balance between big mecha and light support infantry, the disparity can be disappointing.
3. Potential for Tactical Staleness:
The Regroup mechanic — while ingenious — can create repeated “stop-and-go” pacing, especially when both players are cautious or want to avoid getting caught out-of-activation. Games may become a series of cautious pushes and resets rather than bold, fluid combats. For players who prefer constant forward momentum, this can feel like hesitation rather than strategy.
4. Lack of Factional or Structural Diversity:
By design, Zeo Genesis emphasizes a small, unified force composition. That means fewer opportunities for asymmetric playstyles, dramatically different unit archetypes, or faction flavour. Compared to games like Battletech: Alpha Strike — which features multiple houses, mercenary bands, varied mecha types — Zeo Genesis risks being perceived as “all mecha, same mecha.” Enthusiasts who love variation and customisation may find it limiting.
5. Light on Narrative / Campaign Mechanics:
Zeo Genesis is built for skirmish-style action; it lacks built-in campaign systems, persistent progression, or deep resource management. As a result, players seeking role-playing elements, long-term mech-development arcs, or evolving narratives around their forces may find the game limiting. Games like Heavy Gear Blitz! or even other story-driven miniatures systems offer greater scope for campaign-style play.
| Game | Strengths Relative to Zeo Genesis | Where It Outshines / Lags |
|---|---|---|
| Battletech: Alpha Strike | Broad mech roster; faction variety; heavier-scale combat; strong role-play and campaign support | Outshines ZG in depth, variety; lags in speed, cinematic action, and skirmish accessibility |
| Heavy Gear Blitz! | Evolutionary setting; infantry + mecha balance; story/campaign mechanics; varied unit types | Outclasses ZG in diversity, infantry/mecha interplay, and long-haul campaigns; sometimes slower or rules-heavy |
| Full Metal Planète (skirmish-adjacent) | Tactical small-squad manoeuvre; emphasis on infantry and economy rather than heavy mecha | Different genre — ZG remains superior for mecha-dramatic duels; FMP better if you prefer stealth, sabotage, and light-unit tactics |
Ideal for:
Less ideal for:
Zeo Genesis delivers exactly what it promises: a fast, kinetic, cinematic mecha skirmish experience built around alternate activations, reactive combat, and lean force compositions. Its strengths lie in simplicity, speed, and the thrill of tactical back-and-forth — it feels less like a tabletop war-game and more like a stylized mech anime brought to life in miniature.
However, that very focus imposes limitations. The lack of unit variety, heavier emphasis on mecha over mixed arms, limited narrative or campaign support, and potential for tactical repetition mean that it is ultimately a specialized tool, not a comprehensive system. It excels at what it aims to do — but if you come seeking deep progression, variety, or long-term narrative, you may find it wanting.
In short: Zeo Genesis is a refined, polished skirmish game for players who love the immediacy and drama of mecha combat, and who care more about each tactical exchange than about building an empire. For those willing to embrace those constraints, it offers some of the most dynamic, engaging mecha duels on the tabletop today.
I like it despite its failings
I have been looking out for a good set of WW2 alternative relaity/cyberpunk set of rules for a while. Konflict 47 is just a rehash of Bolt Action and while I am sure it will give a good game it has all of the inherent problems of its parent game. The other I really enjoy is “Secrets of the Third Reich but no one I know plays it. Marcher: Empires at War may be the answer. I downloaded all of the pdf’s and here are my initial thoughts.
Marcher: Empires at War is a tabletop miniatures wargame published by Golden Dragon Games that transports players to an engrossing, technology-fueled alternate history. Far from being a simple WWII clone, Marcher places players in the year 1938, where a global war has just begun, but the course of history and technology—particularly the industrial revolution—has taken a decidedly diesel-fueled, “Weird War” turn.
The primary draw of Marcher is its fascinating setting. It’s a true dieselpunk world where older empires have survived alongside burgeoning technological innovation. This creates a visually stunning and narrative-rich backdrop, pitting the forces of Monarchy (such as the heavily armored, knight-themed Holy Roman Empire or HRE), Autocracy (the Neo-Byzantine state), and the Will of the People (like the US Alaskan Assault Force with its towering mechs) against each other.
The lore is ambitious, blending historical military units with fantastical, diesel-powered vehicles, early-generation powered armor, and even elements of sci-fi like steam-powered spaceships or crystalline dragons. This unique blend is often cited as the game’s greatest asset, providing a distinctive aesthetic that stands apart from standard historical or sci-fi games.
The ruleset itself is designed to occupy a “middle ground” between highly simulationist historical wargames and more fast-paced, skirmish-style games.
Marcher uses D10 dice as its primary randomizer. Crucially, the game employs an alternating activation system. This prevents the large-scale “I Go, You Go” turns common in many wargames, ensuring that players are constantly engaged and reacting to their opponent’s moves.
Despite aiming for relatively quick games, the rules incorporate enough “crunch” to satisfy players who enjoy tactical detail:
A typical game of Marcher involves a sizable force, often ranging between 12 and 20 units per side. While it can be played on a standard dining table, the scope of the battles feels larger than a pure skirmish, favoring small, focused army lists rather than just a handful of models.
The miniatures produced by Golden Dragon Games are a huge component of the game’s appeal, showcasing the bizarre and wonderful dieselpunk elements perfectly. From the gothic mechs of the HRE to the heavily armed infantry of the US, the visual appeal is very high.
Perhaps the most significant aspect of the game’s commercial model is that the core rules are available for free. Golden Dragon Games has committed to making its revenue from the miniatures (which are often released as STL files for 3D printing and later as plastic kits). This approach lowers the barrier to entry significantly and allows the developer to maintain balance more easily through digital updates.
Marcher: Empires at War is a rigid and competitive ruleset that strongly rewards tactical thinking, unit positioning, and list building.
| Pros | Cons |
|---|---|
| Unique Dieselpunk Lore: Truly stands out with its alternate history setting. | Competitive Focus: The ruleset is designed for competitive play, which may alienate purely casual or narrative players. |
| Free Core Rules: Extremely low barrier to entry for trying the game. | Lore Specifics: The historical liberties taken with certain nations’ survival might irk some hardcore history enthusiasts. |
| Engaging Activation System: Alternating activations keep both players involved throughout the turn. | Sizable Army: The game requires a non-trivial number of miniatures, which can be an investment in time and money (even with 3D printing). |
Who is this game for?
If you are a wargamer looking for a tactical, competitive experience with mechanics that reward precision, and you are captivated by a truly unique dieselpunk aesthetic that blends historical themes with sci-fi weirdness, Marcher: Empires at War is an excellent choice. The free rulebook means there’s no excuse not to dive into the alternate-1938 chaos and see if the Will of the People can triumph over the might of the Monarchy.
I am always mindful of the problems of giving rules a rating when I haven’t played them, but these look OK.
All images downloaded from the Golden Dragon Games website. I suggest you take a look.
In Australia everyone remembers the sacrifice that Australian service men and women have made to keep Australia the country it is today. Remembrance Day, Anzac Day and even Australia Day have become symbols of sacrifice, bravery and nationhood. Not many people would even know that at dawn today in 1854 the infamy at the Eureka Stockade occurred.
When the weather-worn fragment of dark blue fabric was brought out of storage in Ballarat in the late nineteenth century, no one present could have predicted that it would become one of the most emotionally charged icons in Australian history. At the time, it was simply a relic of the gold rush era—frayed, dirty, and riddled with bullet holes. It was an object associated primarily with the masculine narrative of armed rebellion and the dramatic climax of the 1854 uprising. Yet, nearly 170 years later, the Southern Cross on that cloth has come to symbolise justice, rebellion, unity, and the enduring Australian longing for a fair go. It is a banner claimed and repurposed by movements across the political spectrum: hoisted by workers fighting for better conditions, adopted by republicans arguing for sovereignty, celebrated by civic reformers demanding accountability, and even, at times, hijacked by movements far removed from the idealism of those who first stitched it. This widespread appropriation speaks volumes about its enduring symbolic power. Yet beneath every interpretation lies a simple but powerful truth: the Eureka Flag is the fabric of ordinary people standing up for their rights. It is the distillation of a profound moment when the arbitrary rule of colonial authority was successfully challenged by the united demands of the common population.
To truly understand the flag, one must first deeply examine the ground from which the rebellion sprang. The 1850s Victorian gold rush transformed the colony with incredible speed, generating immense wealth but simultaneously creating immense social friction and administrative chaos. The goldfields of Ballarat became a vibrant, volatile, and polyglot community, attracting hopeful diggers from all corners of the globe: England, Ireland, Scotland, the United States, China, Germany, and Italy. This community was unified by the shared hardship of digging and the shared resentment toward the increasingly autocratic and inefficient Victorian colonial administration. The primary source of this friction was the infamous Miner’s Licence. This was not a tax on profits; it was a steep, non-negotiable monthly fee of 30 shillings (a vast sum for the time) that had to be paid regardless of whether a miner struck gold or faced financial ruin. For a successful digger, it was an irritation; for the vast majority of men struggling to feed their families, it was a crippling, inescapable burden that pushed them toward destitution.
Worse than the fee itself was the brutal and humiliating method of its enforcement: the notorious ‘digger hunts.’ Armed, mounted police, often former convicts or newly arrived military officers with little sympathy for the diggers, would sweep through the goldfields, demanding to see licences. Those who failed to produce the document immediately were chained, often publicly humiliated, and marched off to jail. The system was designed to fund the colony but became a breeding ground for corruption and violence, as police were incentivised to arrest men to collect rewards, leading to arbitrary arrests and flagrant abuse of power. The diggers were treated as subjects to be taxed, not as citizens with rights. Their fundamental demands coalesced around the principle of ‘No taxation without representation.’ They sought the abolition of the licence, the right to vote for the colonial legislature, the right to own the land they worked, and a guaranteed framework of justice and accountability. The Eureka movement was, in its essence, a profound struggle for foundational democratic rights and civil liberties.
The decision to create a flag was born out of the necessity for a singular, unifying identity that could transcend the dozens of old-world loyalties that divided the diggers. Irishmen had their green, Englishmen their St. George’s cross, Americans their stars and stripes—but what symbol could unify this new, multinational community born on Australian soil? The flag had to be a statement, a clear declaration that the community was united and demanded dignity and democratic representation. The selection of the Southern Cross was not merely a symbol of geographical location, but a conscious, potent metaphor for guidance, destiny, and mutual commitment. Navigation by the stars required trust, cooperation, and shared purpose among all on the journey. To rally beneath the constellation Crux was to declare dependence only on one another and on the universal principles of fairness, not on the unjust power of the British Crown or its local representatives.
The design itself—a blue field representing the clear Australian sky and their allegiance to the land, with five white stars and a white cross connecting them—was a deliberate and unmistakable rejection of the Union Jack. No crown, no empire, no aristocracy governed its meaning. It was, in its very structure and symbolism, a republican standard, a physical manifestation of a new political identity forged in the hardship of the goldfields. The oath sworn beneath it at Bakery Hill on November 29, 1854, was solemn, political, and defining: “We swear by the Southern Cross to stand truly by each other, and fight to defend our rights and liberties.” This moment elevated the flag from a mere banner to a sacred symbol of a collective covenant.
Much historical energy has been spent detailing the contributions of the men who raised the flag and defended it inside the rough timber barricades of the Eureka Stockade. Names such as Peter Lalor, the charismatic, one-armed leader; Samuel Plymin, the flag bearer; Timothy Hayes; and Henry Charles Ross are justly etched into Australia’s political mythology. The traditional narrative focuses on the confrontation: the political speeches, the erection of the stockade, the police spy activities, and the sudden, violent storming of the barricade by colonial troops in the early morning darkness of December 3, 1854. This focus on male political action and armed conflict has long dominated the official record.
But until recently, one crucial truth remained largely invisible: the flag that became the soul of a nation was meticulously crafted and stitched by women. Their names—Anastasia Withers, Anne Duke, and Anastasia Hayes—surfaced only fleetingly in the scattered testimony of descendants, local museum archives, and enduring family memory. They were not recorded in the court proceedings that followed the massacre, were barely mentioned in the contemporary newspaper accounts, and certainly held no place in the formal government reports. Victorian colonial society was eager to chronicle rebellion, provided it fit the expected paradigm of masculine political unrest; it was far less eager to acknowledge that women had helped thread the very banner under which the miners swore their oath of resistance.
The goldfields were conceptually understood and documented as a male world, an environment of rough adventure and rougher justice. Women who dared to act—whether politically, economically, or, worse, by materially assisting an armed rebellion—upset the fragile comfort of the official colonial narrative. It was safer, politically and socially, for the establishment and its historians to erase their contributions. The official record preferred the neat, contained story of masculine defiance; the inclusion of women complicated the picture, suggesting a collective, domestic, and widespread commitment to the cause that permeated every tent and household on the diggings. The deliberate omission of the seamstresses’ names was the mechanism by which the colonial establishment sought to both contain and simplify the narrative of dissent, limiting the perceived scope of the threat.
The rediscovery and recognition of their contributions is not about diminishing the sacrifices of the men who fought and fell at Eureka; rather, it completes the story, restoring its integrity and depth. Without the collective presence and support of these women, the Eureka movement might still have happened, but it would have lacked a crucial symbolic anchor. Without their skilled hands and courageous resolve, the miners might never have had a symbol to unite them—a visible, powerful reminder that their struggle was not merely for political or economic reasons, but for the basic survival of their families and the security of their future.
The making of the flag was not a casual act; it was an act of profound and quiet defiance. It required resources—fine blue woollen cloth for the field and white cotton or linen for the cross and stars—materials often scarce, costly, and difficult to acquire on the sprawling, isolated diggings. It demanded immense secrecy, with the stitching likely done late at night or under the pretence of domestic work, executed under the constant threat of police surveillance and raids. These were women willing to risk their homes, their freedom, and their safety in the name of justice.
These women were not abstract political theorists. They were wives, mothers, laundresses, and workers on the goldfields—living in makeshift dwellings of canvas and mud, often enduring hunger, constant fear of police harassment, and the economic insecurity of the licence system, yet remaining resolute. They grasped the existential stakes better than many of the politicians discussing abstract rights in Melbourne. The licence fee threatened their children’s food supply; the police raids shattered the fragile domestic sphere they had struggled so hard to create. When they threaded needle through cloth, they were not just performing an act of craft; they were threading resistance through history itself. They did not merely sew a flag; they were, in their determined and clandestine labour, weaving Australia’s first truly democratic ideal—an ideal rooted not just in lofty political philosophy, but in the most fundamental human need for safety, sustenance, and dignity.
The rebellion itself was short-lived, overwhelmed by the superior forces of the military and police in a brief but bloody engagement. The flag was physically torn down; some accounts suggest it was rescued from the ground by a trooper and later became the preserved relic we know today. In the immediate aftermath, twenty-two diggers and six soldiers lay dead, and thirteen men were arrested and charged with high treason. The subsequent trials in Melbourne became the next crucial battleground. Due to widespread public sympathy across the colony and brilliant legal defence, all thirteen arrested men were ultimately acquitted. This act of jury defiance—ordinary citizens refusing to condemn those who fought for their rights—is rightly considered by many historians to be the true, non-violent democratic victory of the Eureka uprising, forcing the government’s hand toward meaningful reform.
Yet, in the official accounts of the trials, the subsequent Commissions of Inquiry, and the early histories of the rebellion, the role of the women remained largely unacknowledged. The political lens of the era was too narrow to encompass their agency. For nearly a century after Eureka, the story of the seamstresses survived only as rumour and family testimony—whispered truths, passed down through generations, never recorded by the official pens that dictated the national narrative. The history of Eureka was written by the victors of the subsequent political struggle (who adopted the reforms the diggers died for), but its authorship was strictly constrained by the prevailing social mores, which simply could not tolerate the idea of female political agency or active involvement in armed resistance.
The challenge facing historians today is not only to document what happened in 1854, but to aggressively recover what was deliberately forgotten or systematically suppressed. History does not belong solely to those powerful enough to write it down at the time. It belongs also to those who fundamentally shaped events, whether they were celebrated or, as in the case of the seamstresses, ignored. The restoration of the names of Anastasia Withers, Anne Duke, and Anastasia Hayes is not merely an academic correction; it profoundly re-characterises the Eureka rebellion. It affirms that the fight for “a fair go” was not a spontaneous outburst of male frustration, but a unified, deliberate community struggle that encompassed the domestic sphere, the political platform, and the battlefield.
The legacy of the stockade is undeniable. It included the immediate abolition of the hated licence fee, the granting of the right to vote to male diggers, and a massive, rapid shift towards a more democratic system of land tenure and governance in Victoria. These legislative victories, secured by the blood shed beneath the blue field and white stars, fundamentally altered the trajectory of Australian democracy. The enduring physical fragment of the flag—now carefully preserved and occasionally displayed—is not just an old piece of cloth; it is a tangible, emotional link to the moment when the inhabitants of a fledgling colony collectively decided they would no longer accept being treated as subjects, but demanded to be treated as equal, rights-bearing citizens.
The Eureka Flag remains powerful because the values it represents—equality, accountability, and justice—cannot be owned or monopolised by any single faction or political movement. It is a banner of ordinary people seeking a more equitable and just society. This book is not just an account of rebellion and its political fallout. It is a restoration. It brings back into focus the women whose quiet, courageous contributions helped build democracy in Australia—women who stood beside the men who fought, who nursed the wounded after the gunfire ceased, who fled with children through the smoke of the stockade, who buried their dead, and who carried on to raise the next generation in the wake of the political victory. The Eureka Flag is a banner of fairness. And behind its blue woollen field and white stars was a circle of women—tired, determined, and long unrecognised—who stitched the first essential threads of Australian liberty.
This extract is from a soon to be published book of mine titled “Threads of Liberty – The women that stitched together Australian Democracy.“
I am proud to be able to call one of those seamstresses my ancestor. Thank you Anne Duke for sewing what has become an iconic symbol of Australian democracy and freedom from suppression.
After sleeping in and then unpacking the car and putting Mega “stuff” back where it should be Sunday was gone. So I didn’t get a chance until today to get to the holiday home to do the mowing and gardening. However, so sad, the mower wouldn’t start and then it rained. Cannot help bad luck can you!
This allowed me to get a tool peg board and some shelves up in the garage and some hobbies done. As I said…. so sad!
The shelves are for the miniatures painting area for when on holidays!
Finally had some time left over to start the Universal Carrier for my 1/35th scale WW2 army.
Only did a little but at least its a start on some “real” hobby stuff
Also some US Rangers started…….just because they were there.
Maybe some more tomorrow before I go home.
Phew! Normally I just run a participation game, but this year I was running two (not at the same time), as well as trying to man a trade stand. To say I was officially “buggered” when I arrived home last night was an understatement.
The stand looked great and the participation games were well attended with both the participants and myself having a great time. I even sold some “stuff” which was an added bonus.
The trade stand component.
The “Scurvy Dogs” display game complete with give away pirate balloons and chocolate doubloons as victory points. great fun!
The “munch munch” and “chomp chomp” of Dinosaurs was the great hit it always is, especially when dads were encouraged by the kids to purchase the rules – complete with a small bag of dinosaurs.
I was chuffed to win second prize for best stand for the second year running. The prize was $300.00 of trade stand vouchers (six $50.00 vouchers). an awesome reward for the hours of preparation
I promptly assisted the generous traders to lighten the load they had to carry home. This was from Oz wargaming. I was eyeing this one off and almost bought it earlier in the day. The voucher allowed me to get the starter army for half price. The only voucher I had to add any “hard earned” to.
Some water effects which I have never tried before and some static grass from “Kookaburra model Kits”.
A $50.00 voucher from Battlefield Accessories who had packed up before I went home. I regularly purchase from them so will catch up with them soon.
A couple of vouchers from 3D Mat allowed me to add some “cool stuff” to my Fallschirmjaeger army.
Lastly to the stand next door to mine Pluto Minis. A fire giant and Basilisk as you can never have too many of either.
I didn’t get much time to walk around and have a look but here are some pics that I was able to quickly take on the long way to the “little boys” room!
I have already signed up for a participation and trader stand for next year. It is a great place to catch up with friends meet some new gamers and hopefully introduce even more to the hobby. Had a great time. Thanks guys and gals!
Hopefully posting about some of my own work soon!
Last night set up my stand for Mega 25 at Flemington Town Hall.
Sales area
Dinosaur display game
Pirate Game – Scurvy Dogs. Alas without the unfinished pirate ship
I am pleased with the overall look and feel. I will be busy today with the selling (I hope) and running the two display games. A report in the next few days,
If you are planning to attend seek me out for a chat “me hearties”! A good pirate joke may even earn ye a chocolate doubloon!
I seem to have had some glitches with some posts over the last few days being delayed a considerable time before appearing. I have been assured that this is now sorted out and these will appear soon.
