An old friend and a curious legend

Dear Diary,

I met up with an old friend and his folks yesterday. They are lovely people. After the "olds" went shopping, I cut loose with my friend and went to the pub (likely against the wishes of the much more sensible parents).

My friend has been living out in the east and recounted a curious legend about a settlement of some Druze people. Seemingly they believe that when one is three years old they regain memories of how they died in a past life, the moment a birth-mark appears. One boy had a birth-mark on his forehead and had a vision when he was three years old. He told the village elders what he saw. They went to another village nearby and the boy said to the elders as he pointed at a man, "That's him, that was the man who murdered me."

The man went white as a sheet, but denied any wrong-doing. They went to a house where the child led them to, and to a particular spot. Indeed, after a little digging, they exhumed the corpse of a twenty year old man with a mark on his forehead, where he had been struck with an axe. The accused man confessed to having murdered the boy in his past life.

Much more happened during our conversation to do with other esoteric matters, but I thought I would share just one example.

Not so mighty empires

Dear Diary,

Today I felt about eight years old again. Rob and I had arranged a game of Mighty Empires. Oddly enough, I have wanted to play this board-game since I was eight years old. I must admit, when a female friend of his landlord and his came around I did feel rather sheepish and immature, but it was a spot of good clean fun I suppose. I won (naturally), but 't was a hollow victory as I won only on points, it was not a "K.O." so to speak, but I did manage to get near his capital, and even besiege it on the final turn. Unfortunately, a division of my campaign army Legio Maximus was halted by some impassable mountains and failed to meet the objective, but the other division Legio Ronulus attempted a valiant assault on his capital city. Sadly, after two attempts at storming the breach, they died of scurvy on the return journey. I think my plan (a daylight charge across the minefield) did not work as well as I had hoped.

I couldn't help thinking how I should be studying the entire time, as in-between reading sections of The Prince by Machiavelli, I pondered whether it was the economy, military or urbanization which was the most important factor in maintaining an empire.

I fear Robert is most triste as his girlfriend had just split-up with him, again. I say "girl"-friend, I mean lady-friend, for she is really quite senior to him, and he is nearly forty. I suppose some of the most venerable fiddles play the sweetest tunes.

The Staff Party at the Commie Café

Dear Diary,

It was a quiet party this year compared to last year. Where I was expecting violins and other musicians, it was much the same as usual. It was nice enough I suppose. The highlight for me was being able to speak at length with Simon the historian. The place was devoid of intellect save for one other academic, a Geographer. I was much ridiculed for reading Cassius Dio, this is to only be expected. Joy showed me a video on her phone which had her brother singing a poppadom song to which she then said, "While you are reading that book, we are singing the silly poppadom song." Mmmmnnnnnyeeeessss. Quite.

It was all so very dull. I really cannot stand living here. They even slated Bo' Jo' and Gilbert and Sullivan (of whose cause I championed, naturally: the former on account of him being a magnificent Latin scholar, the latter because it is excellent music).

About half-way through this really strange couple turned up. He looks like a stereotypical slack-jawed yokel (he would make a perfect extra in a movie where peasants are needed or banjo playing in-breds from the deep south). I gave him a wide-berth initially, but as the place thinned out I ended up going back to their place.

Then began an interesting discussion on the nature of education (in between me ripping out some mean slide guitar or singing compositions). I was unaware of such a thing as the lady said was "un-learning". To me this just means getting wasted and forgetting everything: it essentially means uneducated, not knowledgeable, a person who does not know (or cannot be bothered to find out).

Another night out

Dear Diary,

Well well well. The minute I landed home I had a call from the yummiest mummy on the estate: fair Charlotte. A both beautiful and buxom burd on the estate (the "Red-Brick reservation"). Although Charlotte thinks that monogamy is some kind of tree, I still love her, dearly, despite her flagrant infidelity. She is most definitely the most sought after lady on the rather dilapidated Council estate upon which I have the unfortunate "pleasure" in which to live. I love her, she is beautiful. Alas, when she asked me to grace her house with my presence, I did so, willingly, because I love her, dearly. She is the fairest flower that ever blossomed on this most undeserving piece of real-estate. Sincerely.

Alas, she had (and I cannot fathom why except for reasons of sexual intercourse) invited the psycho "Jamie Hall" around. He has previous (kidnapping and torture) which he seemed almost proud of in this night of a living hell.

This evening at Won's Weston we had wall-to-wall dickheads come in. It was like a chimps tea-party. They were loud, uncouth, most unrefined (certainly non-Romans, and did not speak a word of ancient Greek among them - therefore to me they are but barbarians, savages, sociologists). I had to do my duty (that is to say attend to their every need) with young Thomas doing as little as possible and ordering me to go and fetch the ice-blocks from the freezer with my bare hands (my least favourite job in the whole place). In any case, I miss being able to talk about classical studies with Didier, and much as I like serenading fair Charlotte with her ... "friend" in tow (a thug, a brute, another barbarian) I feel like I could be perhaps of more service than simply entertaining this rabble. Sure, Charlotte is a lovely lady, but she cannot compare to Cassius Dio nor Jesus Christ. She is a Muse, a mere distraction from what I should seriously be getting on with: Roman history (A340). I have invited her to the staff bash tomorrow (because I wish to be seen with the prettiest lady hereabouts). I am not sure about young Jamie, who seems like "a completely unhinged anti and psychopath" (essentially a would-be sociologist, and not a historian).

In any case, I am seriously drunk at the moment, so I am afraid I must leave you all.

Do take care, God bless you and keep you, all of you.

A night out

Dear Diary,

I was in wont of some company last night to I dragged myself around Wolfae's, she wasn't in so I went to see my ex instead. She was on her way out going dancing and we tried to encourage the Carthaginian to accompany us but all he ever does is complain bitterly. It was nice to see her stand up for herself once, I am not sure what he was saying as he was out of earshot but from the bottom of the stairs in French I heard her say, "You must not talk to me like that in my own home, this is my house." He still thinks that Carthaginian proto-neo-ultra macho misogynist culture applies here in more liberal Britain.

Alas. We went there and at first it seemed as though we didn't know many people (as lots of people have moved here) but sure enough there were lots of old faces: Cliff the smack-head, Scott the stoner, Danny "Xerox" Broom (so-called because he used to copy others' source-code in college), Nathaniel Baker with his partner (Gemina, another ex - mind you, who hasn't slept with her?...) Marlon, Jason, some jazz-guitarist that I vaguely know, Gideon, Gabby, John the human-rights and patent lawyer, all in all it was nice to socialize a little bit - even if I was still wearing my "vacation togs" (the jumper I was bought for Christmas last year by my sister Elizabeth).

The "music" (if it can be termed that) was just some guy playing records, it was all smoke and lights and much as I enjoyed dancing it was sort of tragic thinking that this is the our culture nowadays. I remember playing music with some very talented people and hearing the cello or the harp or the violin cannot compare with what is effectively just some overpaid bloke who plays CD's and makes it look like he's doing some kind of "work" by drinking every so often. I dread to think what kind of cultural mess we have ended up in.

Still, it was fun, I suppose, in a banal and rather mediocre way.

I am really enjoying reading books 50-56 of Cassius Dio's Roman History: The Reign of Augustus, which is, to me, much more fun than going dancing. Why? Because it is stimulating intellectually.

Three to go

Dear Diary,

Umpteen down, three TMAs to go (and one examination, but I'm trying not to worry about that).

For the past couple of days I have been fascinated and immersed in books on Pompeii. I particularly like Mary Beard's Poempeii and long to own her Senatus Populusque Romanus but it's like £25 which I don't have.

I am suprised to see a number of primary sources that relate directly to the large-town, the "snap-shot" or "time-capsule" of roughly November, in 79 of the Christian Era. Strabo, Cicero, Tacitus. I am still puzzling over a line in one of Cicero's letters where he mentions Pompeii, the translation I have is ambiguous and so I will of course have to translate it, gladly. It is a shame not much of his poetry is extant.

I have penciled in the case studies of Pompeii (the house of Julia Felix, particularly the frescoes) and Palmyra (I may choose the now blown up Temple of Bel thanks to an act of absurd iconoclasm).

Despite the proto-neo-ultra feminist syllabus of the OU, I am actually really enjoying this module. It kicks serious ass and the TMA rubrics are very profound indeed, touching upon key points of significance throughout the Roman Empire, which was from 27 B.C.E. to 410 C.E.

Righty ho, back to the exercises.

somnium vatei

abhinc ante diem duos Idibos Novembriis in terrae Gallum, quattuor alteri videbam: Vrsumque Serpentem, Aquiliamque Stellam (liberorum Abraham).

Serpens velim amicitiorum occidente sed Vrsum numquam quod Serpenti ament nostrum bonae artes et Vrso semper odii ad Aquiliam videretur.

Won's Westwon yet again

Dear Diary,

Today has been the usual battle of wills against my spirit, which has been on a low ebb. Like Michael Crawford, "I godda bidda trouble", nothing major - yet - but I should go to see the quack (not that I can afford to).

So, Tom never turned up, again, nor did he call, so I was called in at the last moment. My shift ended just before the tips were in, so I'm brassick again. Not only that but seemingly I only typed in two meals and not four on their antiquated computer system (it works via steam power and punch cards) so I have had my wages halved for this evening. It looks like another young colleague might not turn up so I'm in again tomorrow, and working Christmas Eve night and New Year's Eve night, and every Friday and Saturday night.

"Social life" means me talking to the walls. Jesse McCormick said, "If you can't be happy on your own: you'll never be happy." I think she's right. I wish I could be more positive or optimistic but I am not. Life is not life, it is subsistence.

Rob did me a very kind turn today, he brought some food around. I was just about to cook it when the tiger-lady called. So, it's a cup of tea (no milk nor sugar) with a stale-bread sandwich in stone-cold sobriety, yet again. Life is... what it is.

Wandering minstrel

Dear Diary,

I'm very nearly almost back on the horse, back in the saddle again with the whole study thang. I think I should have been a poet, I was good at that, showed some aptitude for it, indeed was a wandering minstrel for many years. Anyhow, at the mo' I'm just trawling the dregs of A251 (now sadly consigned to Davey Jones' locker, along with Atlantis) for any Roman related thangs to do with a metropolis. I'm still pretty hoonered after last night at Wolfae's.

God, it was so banal. He set up the camera when I played guitar and Wolfae's singing was as loud as it was awful, and I mean terrible, some screeching din, just "noise", for it could scarcely be termed "music". Alas, after I played a few riffs, matey (one of her boyfriends) got on the gee-tar. Let's just say, his playing was as mediocre as her screaming out of tune. I really have to find some new peace of mind with just the Ronster and I.

Anyway, gotta run, study.

L.P. Wilkinson's translation

Dear Diary,

Well, I managed to eventually pull my socks up and get the bloody essay done. I'm not about to quit after five long years of a tough slog. Diana-Mary would never have quit (my late grandmother, God bless her soul) and so I would never quit. Never. She used to say of us Phillips' "We have a will of iron!" and she was right, too.

Amidst all the turbulence and turmoil of life, I have found one simple joy that makes life seem okay, worthwhile. That is: the letters of Cicero translated by L.P. Wilkinson. It is a sheer delight to read and I will treasure this book greatly. I am still woefully behind on my studies and it will not be that way for long, I intend to catch up quickly, and "hit the ground running" by ploughing though the blocks.

Well, I suppose I had better get back to the grind. Bugger.

Tiger Lady

Dear Diary,I met an old man in my dreams last night, a grey-haired biker from up north, bit of a hippy. He reminded me of my old music master Dr. Richard Hall, in his mannerisms, except for his accent. I explained my quandary, and his only response was, "It's up to you." We had discovered two pieces of old vinyl under the earth, and a secreted testimony of a man on trial. Later on I met Mike Taylor, whom showed me two paintings he said were of a local rival of his but I could tell they were by his hand.

I awake in a maudlin mood with little or no will to continue studying. Being the one and only student on the course who is not permitted to participate in intellectual discourse is a clear-cut case of discrimination, pure and simple. I cannot justify my feelings, and as I weigh up my options, based upon a chequered and coloured sequence of events. Good times, bad times. The birthday greeting from a most important literary aficiando, a great artist gracing my concert with his presence, and an important classicist visiting the Bridport Arms, juxtaposed with these current hurdles I am trying to clear as best I can.

Today I will be exploited, yet again, at the Red café. Then I will work. I am okay with this, yet like nothing does (save a kind soul), they will not last perpetually.

I know I should study: the axe is coming down, Saturn waits for no man and devours time's offspring. I need to force myself into a positive mindset, for it is a battle of wills with the self. Let's see what else the day holds in store.

Well, I did the gig and was paid less than the usual amount, which disgusted me. I went to work and Tom has been making excuses about his shifts: so I get the pleasure of working on Christmas Eve and New Year's Eve night-time, for no over-time and less than minimum wage.

The computer I borrowed has "mysteriously" been playing up: like my iPhone whenever I attempt to make a call it cuts out all of the time. It doesn't matter whether I am smack-bang in the centre of town or in my own home (I live in an urban area) it just cuts out all the time. The web doesn't work half the time. All I am trying to do is study, and I am not permitted that luxury. So, I have given up. My deadline is very soon and I just don't care any more. It is extremely bad form that I am the only student not permitted to participate in fruitful intellectual debate. It is most certainly not cricket.

About the only good thing that's happened recently is that I wrote a poem for my bosses birthday.

Tiger Lady, by M.Latham.

To walk away only when work's done: all,
Is the only way: the way of heaven,
There may be gold enough to fill a hall,
But post life there is none who can keep them,
Humility is most necessary,
For those born in high or low position,*
To serve, dutiful, conscientiously,
To never speak, but only to listen,
The stars that reigned at your nativity,
Sagittarius, a tiger lady,
I wish you a most fortunate birthday,
In the utmost sincerity, dear May.

* From the Tao Te Ching.

Tired after work

Dear Diary,

Man it was busy in Won's Westwon tonight. Besides the takeaway being its usual steady flow of customers, we had some interesting characters in the Westwon part. For starters, two very pleasant ladies were in, which was fine, no problem (except one left her hat, which is still there awaiting her return). Then, three farm-girls came in. They work up where I used to work at the orchard and their conversation was... banal. About the most interesting thing they had to say was regarding good husbandry (that is, equines, not their partners).

Everything was going smoothly up until the table of eight walked in. They are sort of regulars and this group of people I can only describe as being somewhere between the Munsters and the Addams Family. Man. I'm telling you. One of them has what is locally known as "wowzie eyes" (where one eye looks one way, and another the other way). Another has two left feet and either eyeballs you menacingly or smiles graciously, which is most off-putting (however, she was the kindest and left the biggest tip). Another of these characters has a compulsion to cover her mouth with a black handkerchief the entire time she is not eating.

Then we were in for a real treat: four young lads in their late teens. Crickey. Man. I mean, apart from annoyingly running their fingers around the wine glasses to make that awful high-pitched whine which drowns out the stereo (I am inured to the same 1980s synth pseudo-Chinese retro "music" by now). Then they started to get loud. About the highlight of my evening was one of these guys was talking at length about some lass which had seduced him when drunk (which is likely spurious, it was perhaps the other way around), who then proceeded to tell everybody an amusing if somewhat triste anecdote about his uncle having an abnormally sized manhood, and didn't mind "whipping it out" into an empty pint glass to show that he could reach the bottom of it. Yes, quite.

At least I managed to say hello to Charlie Bell (no pun intended) whom is an exceptionally gifted drummer.

Right now I am, as the Geordies say "reet fookin knyackad man". I have an assignment to write. Bye for now.

somniorum iterum

de somniorum heri, fui cum anum nigerem in Caledoniam. illa dixit natus in Glasgua sed erat bene erudiebatur nunc vivit Edinburgo. illa erat valdissime antiquus. fuimus in silvamque montem quem plene praeruptum fuit. rus pulcherissimum erat.

nonnihil bellum vexabat, itaque cum anum ibat. solus quando fui. parvus grex veniet mihi. disceptabamus belli, sed erat de pro tempum in historiam antiquam contram Romanorum simulque in hoc somnium. fugeremur conabamur et unam sagittam volabat per aere propinquo nobis in bracchiam mortum.

Romanorum tardiorum quod armas multi portaverunt. et perveniemus in locum cum umbram, saepe candidum sed sicut nubem. ceterum difficilis explicare.

A330 review

Dear Diary,

Little ground has been made today on my now late essay. I am still somewhat put out by my exclusion by the University (of... Milton Keynes). It transpires that another review has been edited by the University. Not only does the former contravene national teaching guidelines but the latter infringes the Data Protection Act. In any case, it would seem that the University do not champion difference blind liberalism and are in-fact unlawful.

This is my review I posted, and they kept only one paragraph.

(Posted 74 days ago)

[They kept only the opening sentence and a precious few others, unlawfully, I might add].

"This is the best course ever. It is superbly well constructed, sincerely. Myth in the Greek and Roman worlds will take you on a sort of magical journey in philosophy, art and literature appeciation. Many of the elements herein are drawn together seamlessly, and the pieces fall into place towards the end of othe module, so what you learned at the start fits together like a jigsaw puzzle. If you are considering taking this course, don't think: just do it.

A myth has the shell of falseness but contains a kernel of truth. Myths are not necessarily to be taken at face value, but have a vast array of hidden meanings. Many of the ancient mythical poets reworked these myths, creating new forms, variations upon themes. A knowledge of Latin and ancient Greek would be a distinct advantage in taking this module, but thankfully the OU Library has subscribed to the excellent Loeb Classical Library, so the best translations are available.

The classical culture is the high water mark of civilisation, globally. Myths studied on this module calcify an understanding and appreciation of these ancient legends, full of wonder and mystery, and are expressed in poetry, art and sculpture which is so very sublime. The student studying A330 will gain a broader understanding of these myths which form the bedrock of western complex society. It is a course which brings refinement to the individual, and I can honestly say that I did not consider myself well educated before I studied A330. Whatever your background: media, psychology, science, art, history, whatever your specialism, all spheres of learning have something to take from, and more importantly, something worthwhile to contribute to the rich diversity of the study of Graeco-Roman mythology. If you wish to take a course that is not only challenging, intellectually, but also filled with drama, wonderment and exciting dynamic themes that intertwine in a rich tapesty... just do it: you won't regret it. Of that, I guarantee you."

by Max Latham, 74 days ago.

It could be considered that the opening of this post is defamatory against the University, but it is the truth, which is sacred. Besides, I am not subject to the University's rules here (as I am banned from their FB, blogging, even the forum for my module I am barred from, and of course the classical studies society). In what way was my review defamatory or merited being edited so much?

desertus sim.

Dear Diary,

Yesterday started off reasonably well. The weather was overcast but bright and I found such simply scholarly joy in reading the Cambridge Companion to Ancient Rome. It is a staggeringly marvellous work of literature and is just my cup of tea.

I finally made it to the bloody job centre, they had lost my details (which I had furnished them with already for the umpteenth time) so I had to go through it all over again. Fortunately the lady who dealt with me remembered me from several years ago, was affable and efficient at her job, most helpful indeed.

As I trudged around Weymouth something awful dawned on me. I had seen the signs coming for quite some time, from having studied eight modules previously, but I could not be certain. Then it hit home, *bam*, like a cricket ball to the solar plexus. I was more than "a little bit put out" and walked forlornly along the shore, with the realisation that something terrible had happened.

Distance learning is not easy. One rarely sees another student, and certainly the only discourse one has is on the academic fora. Alas, I am outcast, and enshrined the occasion in a poem. Every single other student on A340 is permitted to participate (or at least read) what is written on the forum, except me. This is not cricket, and is grossly unfair. If anyone asks me "Where were you educated?" in future, I will be obliged to reply, "At one of the three great Universities in Britain: Oxford, Cambridge... Milton Keynes."

The great author (a resident of Bridport, and one of my all-time favourite heroes) Jason Webster once said, "God will tighten the noose, but he will not strangle you." As I walked dispondent, dispossessed along the sea shore, there in front of me was an artefact, newly washed up. It could be several hundred years old, it might only be fifty, but it is certainly man-made. It is now a part of my private collection.

Upon arrival back in town, everything was in full swing at the Christmas late night shopping. cRaZy Paul was in the pub (which was of course the first place I went, being so forlorn and disillusioned). He insisted I sit with him, so I sat elsewhere, naturally. (1) Because he's completely crazy, and (2) because he's Paul. Soon enough a gentle giant friendly face came to see me. It was Larry, the old cuckold. He bade me join him and crazy Paul, so I did. It was nice to have some company. Seemingly cRaZy Paul had just been shouting nonsense, vulgarities, and was nearly slung out.

Then Wolfae arrived (more on that later).

Larry and I departed for a beer and a smoke, which was nice.

I ended up at Wolfae's with no will to do any studying whatsoever. Seemingly Wolfae had shouted loudly in the pub as well, she is cut of the same cloth as Paul. Neurotic (typical psychologist), all sixes and sevens, two stops up from Westham (Barking). I contented myself with playing the guitar, did not breath a word about my ostracization by the University of Milton Keynes, and instead recited some John Skelton and selected poems from The Oxford Book of Sixteenth Century Verse. In any case, this is how I felt once I discovered firm evidence that I am the only student unable to participate in academic discourse this year.

"Cast Out of the Fold", by M.Latham.

The more intellectual a scholar is
The more marginalized they are, you'd say,
This is true, for I discerned today,
They hid the Forum from me, Didier.
Every other student is permitted,
All except for me, all, except for me,
The loneliest furrow: isolated,
Cast out of the classics society,
Even before its formal conception,
Another Odin: out-cast every-time,
No matter my translations: perfection,
Whether heavenly verse or prose sublime;
What's a man's worth when he's not included?
How many years must he study alone?
Why're the best of men often excluded?
Can I truly call this country my home?
No more will I wear their colours with pride!
No more shall I sing her praises each day!
No more fora: hidden deceit so snide!
pas encore, je souis marganilisé!
What began as a worthwhile endeavour,
Is now rotten, perfidious, sour,
So, I study here, alone: utterly,
Hour, after hour, after hour;
No more conference nor ceremony,
I've had it: upto the nape of my neck!
Didier, you were, as always: correct.

Wasted journey, wasted evening

Dear Diary,

So I went to the bloody job centre today, which turned out to be a complete waste of time, excepting to confirm that I must return there tomorrow, making yet another fifty-mile round trip. I did however meet an extremely beautiful fair maiden, sadly but unsurprisingly already spoken for. Cecilia is just my kind of woman. The moment she finishe reading a mammoth sized volume, she immediately began reading another. *swoon* Alas, we talked a short while and it transpires that she is very erudite and a keen historian (albeit in terms of midwiffery), and has anthropologist friends. It is likely her boyfriend has biceps the size of Bournemouth and is the jealous type, although this is probably just my imagination running wild. In any case the fair lady is spoken for so it would not be cricket to attempt to woo her.

I am at Wolfae's and this evening is mostly traumatic. Drama. Boyfriends. Tears. All in all it's pretty standard.

I had a strange experience en route to the shops: a couple were... pretty hammered. ("Crewkerne" as it's known here). They staggered hand in hand along the road then the woman waved her arms about the air saying, "I'm just shooing away the ghosts." I saw them on the way back. They had not moved far but had double-backed on themselves. I just said, "Watch out for the ghosts." Well I suppose I had better get back to study.

An unexpected party

Dear Diary,

Despite seeing a solitary magpie flitter past right outside of the house first thing this morning, after weird dreams and a full day of study, I went to see the old cuckold, villain, knave, sot, Larry. He called, I was hungry, it seems the days work I did was not in vien. A roast dinner, a couple of beers, a few laughs, it was alright actually.

I honestly do believe old Laurence has little or no knowledge nor interest in the reign of the emperor Titus Fluvius Domitianus (circa 81-96 C.E.) nor has he any inclination towards interest in the writings of Pubilius Cornelius Tacitus (circa 57-117). I am pretty wasted now, we got pretty hooned and watched a couple of movies, two of my favourites: Bruce Almighty and Django Unchained.

Man, I gotta straighten up with a cup of tea and a cigarette, just to kind of level out, you know? Anyway. I'll see y'all later. Gotta get back to Tacitus. Vale.

Sci-fi dreram

Dear Diary,

I was in some sort of urban space in the future. It was all very stylized and very high up. It was a corporate meeting for manufacturers of military hardware, avionics. The company had designed a very advanced one-seater fighter jet, very small, very fast, with a reasonably large payload (all energy weapons). It was so cool man. There was this lady secretary who I knew there, extremely pretty, very well dressed (futuristic power-suit) and very smart. She was not however loyal to the company and was working for another firm as a spy. Half way through the board meeting another executive smelt a rat and was about to admonish her but she seemed to anticipate this man's move before the CEO finished talking. The chair she was sitting on had a sort of jet-propelled ejector-seat thingymajig which meant she took off and crashed through the window. Immediately she was followed by two small fighter jets. My seat took off as well and we were in a kind of evasive maneouver. The two tailing us were quick and took several shots at us which were near-misses. Even if they were heavily armed and fast, our seats (which had turned yellow upon take off for some reason) were much faster and could turn a lot quicker. Although unarmed we managed to escape the jets and landed at one of her colleagues' apartments. He was another executive from the rival company. We had to figure out a way to escape the city without being noticed, and also to defend against being shot by any more energy weapons. The lady managed to rig up a defensive jacket, metal, almost chain-mail, the properties of which were able to deflect or absorb a potential hit. We also had to disguise ourselves. It was really weird. Everywhere we went we were under an obligation to neither give ourselves away (our identities) nor panic, despite an extreme amount of pressure.

Other things happened, and I won't tell you how it ended but needless to say it was really exciting.

It's up to you to make it happen

Dear Diary,

That was a tough gig. Okay, so I arrive and the usual kerfuffle ensues, namely nowhere to sit no space to play. I manage to make it through all the usual rigmarole (let's face it, I am inured to the lack of space, the high frequency of background noise and miserable pay by now). So. I play, and sing, like the wind howling at 75 mph. I mean I really went for it, like never before, as though my house, possessions and life depended upon it (which in this case, it actually did). The boss asked, "Would you like some cider?" (I already had some). Then followed up with, "You're not getting paid for this." What on earth? You mean, you gave me a weeks notice, we have a table of fifteen booked at Won's Westwon, and I take the night off to work for what, a glass of mulled cider which you had been given anyway? Are you out of your mind? Man, I was so pissed off, like you wouldn't believe. I played a great set: among which was the number "Keep on swinging" by Rival Sons. I felt gutted. All that effort for nothing, nothing whatsoever. I was fuming. Livid. A short prayer and I was undecided between "playing hardball" with the boss (id est: saying to her, "Look. I took the night off. I fulfilled my half of the bargain, now you make good on yours, or I never play this establishment again." and just walking out). She could see I was pissed off, as I sat sullenly brooding. The next thing you know, I was paid, as if by magic. I didn't say anything, she just did it. I surmise that my boss has such a thing as a conscience.

It was nice to see Mark Rainbow (from the set of Far From the Madding Crowd) who told me all sorts of really great stories about him and the cast from Who's Line Is It Anyway. I perhaps should have not spent quite so long talking to his wife, but it was amicable. All in all it was a tough gig. Man, I'm beat, but I must get back to the grind. TMA time. We're burning daylight. Saturn's wheel waits for no man.

Hurricane Desmond and a chance meeting

Dear Diary,

Well, Hushabye Mountain went down like a lead-balloon (all except for my boss whom enjoyed it), I fear it's triste melancholic melody is not well suited to daytime playing in bistro. I don't think the Nick Drake number I played was suited either, but I played it anyway.

It seems that the "Rugby club" is actually the under thirteen local boys. I was expecting a much more challenging gig, as it seems all expects to run smoothly, save for the fact that I'll be playing during a hurricane in 75 miles-per-hour winds, outside, in the middle of December. Luckily some home-made cider will be there, so I doubt we'll feel the cold.

Today I met the most magnificent person. It is not often I meet another academic or great artist (Peggy and Rhys being notable exceptions of late) but today I made the acquaintance of an exceptional individual. Corolla is a superb individual, a Master of sciences (geology, biology and chemistry) from the Open University. Well spoken, refined, keenly intellectual and who is the proud owner of dog of a similar breed to Ronulus Litterator Augustus Caesar Britannicus Maximus Fleximus Magister Artium (Barkaeology) Rons. We had a chat that lasted for about twenty minutes or so and discussed many things of importance: the human condition, state of society, mass-observation, the misogynous attitude in the field of medicine and a great many more things. Notably how people who speak properly (enunciate with effort in clear received pronunciation without trace of a regional accent) are marginalised nowadays. It is such a shame. I consoled her by affirming that many fine academics still speak well, clearly and that at least in some circles to speak well is an asset, even if it is not a la mode for the townie milling masses.

I guess I should get back to Tacitus. Good bye for now ever dearest diary.

The morning

Dear Diary,

I had the unenviable task of learning "Hushabye mountain" from the movie Chitty-Chitty Bang Bang this morning. Now I have to go and bend over for the reds. My dreams last night were... interesting.

It's blowin' a gale outside and little Ronulus is more enthused about going Oh-You-Tee (I can't say it, even in Latin, or he gets all excited). Oh well, I suppose I had better get going to the commie cafe and entertain the throng. Bugger.

Life? Friday night, Saturday morning.

Dear Diary,

Well, despite the apparent air of suspicion from the seed of discord planted some weeks ago amidst the team at Won's Westwon, everything went relatively smoothly tonight. The novelty of being a waiter at a Chinese restaurant has worn off. Much as I like the fact that I enjoy doing good service, politely, and have sufficient time to read when it's quiet, it is still all, "Sweet and sour chicken, prawn crackers and a can of coke." Blah blah blah. It's all so very banal.

Tomorrow is going to be even worse. Taking that red brick poker up the bottom twice in one day, once in the afternoon prostituting my art, then again at night, out in the December weather playing for some lads from the Rugby club. Yeah, a real hoot. Lavishly paid of course (5% of musician's union minimum) with plenty of drink (two cups of tea, if I'm lucky) and a meal (I say a "meal" it is very average what I receive, usually dried chicken and mush, which almost always makes me feel sick afterwards). It's not the chefs fault, a meal is only as good as its ingredients, therefore seeing as we import over 90% of all our food, coupled with the fact that producing countries always keep the best for themselves, means food will never, ever, be nice here (despite the phoney illusions put out on television to subdue the milling masses).

Now I have to sit alone on emergency electrickery (therefore no heating, gas is a thing of the past) slogging my guts out for this assignment. Bugger. Despite the fact that it bears little if no relevance to anything written in the module materials (as has been the case with most all level three assignments I have been given) it is actually an incredibly well thought out essay question. It is able to be approached from many angles, and the issue at hand is crucial to understanding not only Tacitus' Agricola but also his Germania. Hats off to whomever came up with it. Sincerely.

This evening, the most enjoyable part was this guy I know (with pink nose piercings, a long beard and hippy clothes on) talked to me about archaeology. It was so funny. Hahahaha! His conception of what he called "history" is from beyond 6,000 years ago (naturally, this is not history, but pre-history) and what his burd likes reading about is what he termed "modern history" from a couple of thousand years ago. This made me laugh so much, naturally that is ancient history. The guy reads a few secondary sources and is all of a sudden an "expert" historian, without ever having studied. He is most confounded indeed, and I did not correct him. (The fact that his eyes were like two saucers of oil means he was in Rainbowland - likely on MDMA - but this doesn't let him off the hook, he's like that when sober).

Tonight our resident historian was in. A young PhD student who likes to talk, a lot (more than me, and believe me, that is a lot - hell, I've even begun to mellow with age a little, but she is something else). Crickey. Even so, about two hours into her monologue, she mentioned two most excellent anecdotes, one about local correspondence between sources from the nineteenth century (she is not a classicist, and does not know either Latin or ancient Greek, but "knows it all already" sort of thing) and another about what she described as "oh, you know, those pointy things, what are they called? Oh yes, obelisks." What she said was actually of great interest (despite her ambiguous definition of an obelisks) and she was actually a keen historian, even if she is not truly learned.

Well, I suppose I had better get on with my assignment. Bugger.

Friday night (Won's Westwon)

Dear Diary,

It has been an agonizingly slow and arduously painful task translating Tactius, he is a right pain in the backside to translate. So many annoying little clauses and nuances that make his Sallustian style tricky to translate. I am weeks behind on my module and after reading some of the comments on the "Forum" (FB group) like "I have worked through the exercises and have a pile of notes of which none of the material relates to the TMA" I am glad I went with my gut instincts and delved straight into primary source analysis (as always). I will still do the exercises, I will need to, for the exam, but I am more enthused about reading Tacitus and Frontinus in Latin than wading through demoralising exercises that grind one's spirit down to the point of being near crushed. It is a soulless thankless task.

In the entire course material (that is to say "the Torah" as I call it: the OU blocks 1&2) there is less than a half a dozen pages which relate directly to the TMA. As per usual, the standard "window dressing" will have to be done (that is to say, write the essay, re-draft it a couple of times, then commence with "Operation Lick-Bottom").

A little bird told me that Sad Sack is on the brink. I hope they find him before it's too late.

I have just been to the bloody dole-office and tried to claim some benefit for the first time in years (against my will, at the behest of my landlady). "Computer says no", because I have chosen to study, I am not eligible to have even the minimum the law states one is supposed to live on (even if I did receive that I would have to hand it all over to the landlady and the tax man, lest I have the house seized along with all my worldly goods). I am at a loss as to what to do.

Now I must go into work and face the air of suspicion, not only under the watchful eye of Chairlady Mao, but the seed of discontent that has been sown throughout the work-force.

Things, are not looking good.

Thursday (D-day in one week)

Dear Diary,

Thursday is my favourite day of the week (besides Sunday) because quite often In Our Time is on BBC Radio 4. This weeks episode was on Captain Cook, which was excellent. It doesn't matter what the subject is (although naturally I prefer anything to do with classical studies, philosophy or most especially Roman history) because I find each episode as fascinating as it is informative. I still think the Beeb should do an In Our Time on Marcus Tullius Cicero, as there is not one already as he was a great statesman and an excellent orator.

I saw Wolfae briefly last night. Naturally she is engrossed in FB and spotify, showing me her latest playlist. I fear she may not pass her degree until the next decade, by which time I should hope to have relinquished my time in the provinces.

I am utterly absorbed by reading Cassius Dio's History of Rome and it is a shame that Waterstones have not yet sent the book I ordered two weeks ago, for I much prefer reading a tangible hard-copy rather than squinting at the slow-turning virtual edition. In any case, I have to get on with my assignment. Toodle-pip!

History is not boring

Dear Diary,

Well, today has been more or less uneventful. I should have gone to the bloody dole-office to sign on (at the behest of my landlady) but I just can't face it. It's so dour. I know I shall have to some time soon, that much is imperative.

In any case, I have been thinking about history, particularly Roman history. It is often the opinion of the ill-informed milling masses (that is to say most all uneducated corners of society, and sociologists) that history is boring. I heard that much just the other day. In any case, anybody who holds such a view has never given the study of history any serious consideration, or is a psychologist. Alas, in this one work alone from translating it, I have unearthed heaps of juicy anecdotes from buggery in a army-tent to poisonings, ambushes, false parades, glorious victories and miserable losses. It is awfully exciting stuff, jolly exciting indeed. Sure, to the casual observer, a scholar simply reading a book might look anti-social (when he could be playing the guitar and getting wasted, for example) but inside the Latin scholars mind he may hark back to an ancient time when the gods were real, mythical legends held tales of fabulous beasts and the uneasy blurring between what is historical fact and what are spurious fairy-tales.

Even little Ronulus enjoys it (he gets 100% for every assignment, and he has not scored less than 86% on any of his examinations so far, he has never deferred a module nor returned an essay to be remarked). Anyway, I must re-immerse myself in this wondrous subject which delights the imagination of a poet like a spreading wild-fire.

More time wasted

Dear Diary,

I confess, I am somewhat wistful about being so solitary, so when Michael called yesterday I gladly took my last sorry pennies to get sloshed on Happy Island. The entire time I was there I wished to read the CAH or the Penguin Tacitus' (I took all three [Vita Agricolaeque Germania, Annales et Historiae] naturally, I only wish I had two copies of dialogus so I could study on the move, it's bad enough not having Suetonius, Josephus and Dio not with me, I really must find a large kobo from somewhere with a light sensitive panel, anyway). Newton supposedly said that time spent away from study is time wasted. We sure were that yesterday, headed up on the hill with the neurotic psychologist and her old/new boyfriend. It was nice to have some company, but these people talk such dross. Mike's conversation was semi-alright, had it not been ill-informed and steeped in this kind of paranoid conspiracy nonsense, and Wolfae's guitar "playing" was down to its usual low standard, complete with husky wailing and the gnashing of teeth, Mike playing the bloody drum, God, it was awful.

I don't know why on earth I bother with these people, oh yes I do, my circle of friends is somewhat diminished momentarily, and if the truth be told, it's lonely just myself, Ronulus and a solemn prayer.

It is sin, I should have been studying, or finding more work, or doing menial chores, but I just thought: to hell with it. Let's have a jam.

It wasn't the best move, but I am back studying now, as is little Ronulus Litterator Maximus Fleximus Augustus Caesar Magister Artium (Barkaeology) Rons.

Dear Diary,

Just as I was leaving Won's Westwon, the tiger's eyes were upon me each second as I went to get a fork, put on my jumpers and coat, as though looking at the computer screen she obliquely regarded me with suspicion using her peripheral vision each minutiae of a second, every millisecond from me taking a plastic fork, putting my jacket on, and walking out. No-one it seems, is above suspicion. Not people from Bridders anyway.

Word on the street is that an interlocutor about ancient things may no longer be at the funny farm, but seems like he is surviving.

Another Sad Sack

Dear Diary,

Well well well. It was most unexpected that nothing happened at work bad at all. I think Chairlady Mao's Sasha Baron Cohen style Dictatorship works. I think "Our glorious leader" (as I call her at work, she does not "get" my sense of humour, but they have a right giggle in the kitchen, in won's westwon, anyway), I think my bosses style works. It was quite busy or just quiet, for the most part dreamy, reading Marcus Aurelius' Mediations.

Apart from a brief look at ancient Mayan glyphs, I have no experience reading pictographic languages, but that evening I noticed the rice invoice and was able to at least (through a process of elimination) the Chinese word (I am unsure if it is Mandarin or Cantonese) for "rice" or "sauce". I do not know how the ordering of the symbols (sequentially) has any bearing on the syntax or grammar, but I managed to at least get a brief taste of Chui Yum chicken, Chairlady Wong. Anyhow.

The weather has been really blowy, like a gale or a hurricane or something, and this morning something really interesting happened to me.

I spoke to a little bird, a robin red-breast, whom told me that a certain "speaker of ancient matters" could be in the either the slammer, on the run, or still in the loony bin, who knows? It's a disparate matter.

Facing the fire

Dear Diary,

Well, I am about to go back into the lion's den and face the fiery indignation of my... learned colleagues. Young Thomas will be there this evening I expect, as will the young waitress. Both of them have been under the watchful eye of the tiger (Chairlady Mao) for over a month since the till has been consistently down each evening. I am really not looking forward to what shall undoubtedly an eventful evening in Won's Westwon working for Jackie Chan and co.

Today the gig went as mediocre as always. I mean, I played and sang well enough, but being shut up in that close confined space with the miserable rate of pay (chicken feed, peanuts) really irritates, just slightly.

Even so, I have been offered another gig for a pig-roast and auction for the Rugby club next week. The patroness that evening is the lady with the wonky eye ("wowzie eyes" colloquially) whom is actually the kinder and more benevolent of the "three hesperides" I work for. I will of course have to take the evening off work, which Chairlady Mao is just going to love at such short notice, especially seeing as their is every chance that some staff may be made redundant presently. Life is like a s- sandwich, the more dough you have, the less s- you have to eat.

Well, deep breath, all smiles. Time to wait tables and face the flames of my... learned colleagues.

Honesty: the best policy

Dear Diary,

So tonight it all went down at Won's Westwon with Chairlady Mao and my colleagues. Sure enough some young lads came in, and I said to my colleague (a young girl of only 15) whom is currently under suspicion of embezzling funds, "You take this one." Sure enough, as I suspected they were friends of hers and she (most likely) thought she could get away with giving them free food (as if Chairlady Mao didn't keep tenacious track of every single cent that comes in and out of her family business!) in order to impress some boys. Alas, I did not keep a good enough eye on her from the security camera view-screen, for I was concentrating on the task at hand, namely washing up all the dirty glasses from the evening's dining. So anyway, the moment she had left, I dutifully informed my employer of a potentially suspect "transaction", but stipulated in the clearest terms that I had no concrete evidence to suspect my colleague (for she actually works well, and is good at her job). Chairlady Mao's response was "Done worree, I have enough evidence already." Seemingly she had already indicted Tom (who is a very slack employee, doing the absolute minimum work possible, merely delegating all the work to other employees as though he was in charge) and I was actually glad to admonish a crook, despite the fact that they are Team Members and moreover, fellow countrymen. The truth will out.

More wasted time (second helping)

Dear Diary,

It was somewhat frustrating not having any mobile telephone signal neither in mine own home, nor in the centre of town, as per usual. Even so, it did not stop me from studying and I am thoroughly enjoying Birley's superior (to mine own) translation - I admit - of Tacitus' Agricola and Germania.

In any case, I seemed to have been wounded by two tiny parasites, ticks, and have developed what is likely the first tell-tale symptoms of Lymes disease. Fortunately it might just be a hangover, for I decided to drop in on Phil the archaeologist to see how he was doing yesterday. (Going for that fire up on the hill was a big mistake, these little bugs hurt like hell).

Anyway, Phil was better I suppose, he has booked himself in for a weekend at the Pilsdon community so that is great. When I say "booked himself in for a weekend" I do not mean like a health spa with cocktails after a jacussi, it is more sobriety and recover in the wayfarers cottage on a farm. It is a good move, and he seems to have found a flat nearby, so it will be better if he moves out of Wolfae's place, because of her neuroses, which seem to have diminished somewhat, if only slightly.

I have fallen utterly in love with Pliny the Younger. Having nearly finished the book, I stumbled across my favourite letter of them all. He has written so many nice letters, so many, but for me, this one stands out among them all. (Pliny vii.5)

To Calpurnia

"You cannot believe how much I miss you. I love you so much and we are not used to separations. So I stay awake most of the night thinking of you and by day I find my feet carrying me (a true word, carrying) to your room at the times I usually visit you; then finding it empty I depart, as sick and sorrowful as a lover locked out. The only time I am free from this misery is when I am in court and wearing myself out with my friends' lawsuits. You can judge then what a life I am leading, when I find my rest in work and distraction in troubles and anxiety."

trans. Radice, B.

Wasted time

Dear Diary,

I should not have responded to Mike Taylor's call yesterday. He wished to have a fire up on the hill, which I admit was actually quite nice, seeing the sunset in the distance, the view of the town, rolling hills and the sea, then the waxing of a near full-moon. It was rather picturesque. Even so, I was foolish to have done so. All I could think about was getting stuck in to working on my current assignment, and all Mike could say was vulgarities in a rather banal accent without pronouncing his 't's properly, which merely served to irritate me. Yet, I kept it together, and was good company. I found it amusing that wherever Mike went, the smoke from the fire followed him around the entire time, and each time he switched places, the fumes ever drifted in his direction.

I then went to see Wolfae. What a bloody disaster that was! Good grief! I am now completely certain that she is not only neurotic but has serious stress issues. Hell, I get out of joint when I am verging on examination results or fretting about having insufficient work, but blimey! This lady is most certainly not a nice person. She laid in to poor Phil the archaeologist (as though he was not depressed enough already!) in a scathing attack on his person for no good reason whatsoever. I said to Phil that if he wishes to stay at mine, that is no problem. I fear the piss poor state of my house as a bachelor put him off, so instead of having to endure a little untidiness, he must suffer being yelled at constantly by an unhinged hellcat instead. She is two stops up from West Ham (Barking), mad as a box of frogs, as cRaZy as the cat lady from around the corner. Good heavens, I do not wish to visit her again and have little will to go out and shoot the breeze with Mike.

Dave Latham (no relation)

Dear Diary,

Today I found myself wondering about old Dave. The man had an effect on many people's lives. At his funeral there was a score of wailing women whom all missed him dearly. He was one of the world's greatest artists and was something of a maverick character.

I learned many things from Dave. Just for posterity I thought I'd write a potted biography of the life I knew with him, and some of the good times we shared.

Dave was the son of an American air-force pilot whom had an affair with a nurse after he was shot down and wounded in W.W.II. An orphan who grew up in a good old fashioned British public school as a ward for a member of the local aristocracy. His master (and owner) was having an affair with the vicar, whom was gay.

Dave didn't excel academically, but he was a good draftsman, an excellent painter. His paintings are some of the finest I have ever seen. He was also an advertising executive for twenty seven years. He had a great working relationship with an Irishman, a writer, and they used to make commercials together.

Dave was formed by many experiences in his life, most of all a string of broken relationships. His taste in music was superb and he introduced me to some of the greatest artists I have ever heard. He used to dress up smart, and his character was that of a hard-working man, a good man. He played mean harmonica and knew many of the other artists in Exeter, during "the naughties". Grant once said to him that he had seen Van Gogh's museum in Holland, the Netherlands, and recounted an anecdote about how in one of Vincent's paintings Grant could actually see the corn in the field moving. Two days later there was another canvass in his flat which matched the Van Gogh, and was distinct in style to Vincent's own. One could almost see the corn moving amidst the daubs of thick yellow paint set in front of a clear blue sky.

"It's all about the light." Dave used to say. Different directions of light and shadow would create various effects in art. For instance, in the portrait he did of Grant, while chalking his cue in the Horse and Dray, the top light from the glass roof gave the impression of being lifted up to heaven. Equally, light from below confers the impression of being drawn down to the underworld. Not only that, but also the size and shape of the frames create different effects in art. For example, a frame which raises the painting makes it seem to sort of "pop out" at you, but most frames are concave, which give the impression of drawing one into the artwork.

Dave like fast cars, loose women and booze. He was a great guy. He used to read a lot, but stopped when he realised having fun was much more to his liking. Dave wasn't exactly what you might call a spiritual guy, he was a realist, very much a rationalist, with no theological outlook. However, he did recount one story to me that changed his life, when he was in London working. He had his son under his arm, a brolly in the other hand, and a block of stone accidentally fell from a building site thirty stories up. It fell right on the top of his brolly and had he been just a few inches before or after him, both he and his son would have been killed for certain.

Their was a stigma attached to being painted by Dave. It was almost mystical. Each time he would paint a portrait of someone, shortly after they would attempt to commit suicide. He painted old Frank next door, and sure as eggs is eggs, two days later the authorities were called out as he had had a falling out with his girlfriend and was rescued from stabbing himself. He almost painted me, but wanted to paint me in the style of Lucian Freud, which I was not in accordance with. I wished he had of done, because he was so skilled, despite the near mystical stigma attached to being portrayed by such an artist.

Dave was one of the best. A real character. Shortly after he died Grant saw him in a dream. They were both in Brighton, Dave was drunk, carrying an easel and several paintbrushes, canvasses and paraphernalia. Grant asked him if he would like to go for a drink. Dave looked him up and down, flatly refused and walked on. As he was leaving Grant said, "Remember McCormick."

Dave was the only person who sent me a letter when I was living in France. He was a great guy and used to say, "They're Gauls mate!" (About the French). I miss him so much.

somnium heri iterum

Dear [Dream] Diary,

I had a strange dream last night. I was back in Rome at the time of the Antonine period in history. My place was that of a slave, serving in the emperor's entourage. With me were many other slaves, and we each performed our respective duties diligently. Rome was then a magnificent place, although squalid in the slum quarters, around the palace it was really nice looking. My task was to keep things clean so I would go around cleaning objects and things. Anyway. The emperor (whom does not fit the description of any known emperor from that period - I have checked) decided to convene a council of the aristocracy to some Greek island somewhere.

We set off on a long voyage and encountered many mythological beasts along the way: the leviathan, hippocampi, nereids, mermen, mermaids, you name it. (It was very exciting). Anyway, we arrived on the opposite shore and the emperor (who was English, for some reason) sent the ship back to Rome and we were told to swim to the island with him (it was only about a mile out, and the sun was shining really nicely - there did not seem to be any more sea-monsters on the way). Myself and two other male slaves (both much bigger than me) swam out with the emperor to the island. I am unsure where we were, but it was beautiful. Columns, steps, beautiful belly dancers, musicians, everyone wore very nice stolae or togae with ornamental fibulae and jewelry, except for us slaves, who were for the most part butt-naked. Anyway. It was a nice day and really hot so I didn't mind walking around starkers so much (besides, I lived in France for years - standard). Anyhow.

In any case, some kind of Machiavellian plot was hatched by the emperor to do away with all the aristocrats whom he had summoned to the island, and many of his praetorian guard were dressed up as slaves or pretended to be servants of one sort or another before it all "went down". I just kept serving drinks and staying out of the way of the "firing line" before it all kicked off. Luckily I awoke before it all happened. Phew!

Society and the virtual dark ages

Dear Diary,

On the whole sociologists tend to pick holes in society and historians usually venerate our rich cultural heritage. Historians are generally more endorsing of our great national character. Equally, as historian, I cannot rationalise the headline of The Times today. Seemingly our national censorship has decided to ban a Christmas advert where children are encouraged to say the Lord's prayer, yet endorse cigarette and tobacco advertisements. It is my belief that we live in the worst period of history, in living memory.

I have on my bookshelf a reference work which shows the evolution of civilisations throughout time. The categories are as follows:

History and politics
Literature and the theatre
Philosophy, religion and learning
The visual arts
Music
Science and technology
Daily life.

Now, let us examine our great nation, today, in comparison with say twenty years ago, and the changes that have come about in recent times. Firstly, let us consider the law. Since the abolition of habeus corpus we have arbitrary "terrorism" and "patriot" so-called "legislation" which does away with the need for due process and the finding of evidence beyond reasonable doubt to prove a successful conviction. We have more war, more disaffected elements in our society and more threats from terrorists than at any time since the 1970s.
Literature. Well, the Booker Prize goes on "how many books will sell" rather than actual literary merit. The country loves fifty shades of lay over Shakespeare or Marlowe. The English Opera company have had their budget cut, so it can be argued that we live in a literary dark age.
Religion: if today's headline is anything to go on, or indeed the attendance at an all time low when I was in Church yesterday, we can safely discern that we are in an age where science, materialism and amorality are riding high, and good old fashioned Old Time religion is at rock bottom. What need have we for ethics when we have cars, fashionable cookery programmes and gold-plated fantasies, computer games and social networking sites?
What about learning? Well, with the 84% cut in tertiary education we can safely say that we live in an educational dark age.
The visual arts. This is a tricky one. On the one hand many modern "art" is a pile of rubbish. I recall one exhibition in Scandinavia a while ago that lost one of its "sculptures" before the grand opening. The "art work" was a clear plastic bag filled with refuse. But it's okay! They were able to re-create the "masterpiece" within minutes. On the other hand, I live in Bridders, and we have many fine artists here. Even so, they are nothing compared to the Renaissance masters, and sculpture doesn't get much better than Roman sarcophagi from two millennia ago.
What about music? Does the sound of squeeches and squelks beat Haydn, Mozart, Bach and company? No. We live in a "musical" (for it is not "music" it is merely noise that works well with drug ingestion) dark ages.
Science. Last year a lady scientist discovered a means of a protein strip that tells you when food is out of date, accurately. This has not been rolled out because too much money is already made by the antiquated systems we already have in place. Therefore science is not making any progress. The internet is more screened now than it ever has been. We live in a virtual dark age.
Daily life. What about the economy? The cost of subsistence (for it is not "living") and all the food banks.

This is where we live in history.

A marvellous day

Dear Diary,

I awoke in soft morning hush, then birdsong's chorus on ice on my way to Church. Larry called me after holy communion, transubstantiation. I let him hear a little John Bunyon's He Who Would Valiant Be. I shouldn't have even had my cell switched on during the service, I'd contemplated turning it off. Anyhow, Larry called (you know the guy who had an affair with the lady I was courting at the time) and as per usual he was skint. I did some work with him, felling a silver birch tree in between two tree houses. I learned a great deal actually.

Anyway, we had a couple of beers and watched a flick I had brought round (The Campaign, Will Ferrell) then Mike the artist called. We hung out, spoke about Chairlady Won and the rice niggers, Jackie Chan, Bruce Lee, my superiors. "Oh great Leader" as I like to call her, at work. I think I address her as "Our Glorious Leader" usually. I am unsure if she gets my sense of humour, and not either Jackie Chan or Bruce Lee speak so much as a word of English other than "Harrow" and "Goodbye". Anyhow, the day wore on.

After spinning out, going to see the archaeology guy, who could be better. He's like Acid-Head Anthony the abstract artist or Sad Sack from the raggy dolls. I hope he'll be okay. He's on a low ebb, as ever. Right, I should drink this coffee and straighten up. Do some studying. TMA02 A340. valet.

An Angel and a devil.

Dear Diary,

Today I made the acquaintance of a most excellent person. The lady in question had sapphire-like orbs that seemed to see into your very soul and beyond. Most learned in the best of disciplines: mathematics, geo-sciences, art history, archaeology, classical studies, you name it, she's done it. A friendly person, amicable as amicable can be. Would that I was as venerable as she, I would have most certainly attempted to woo her with my cithara. It is not often one meets a scholar of such high quality, that can answer most any question like a precision. Her eyes mesmerize, unlike any others. It is no exaggeration that the most resplendent Peggy was indeed a great honour to meet. She is a paragon of excellence. Her face could launch a thousand ships and her mind is even more keen than that of Didier himself. I hold her in the highest esteem, in the best regard, as a lady and a scholar of the utmost attainment. Peggy truly is a diamond in amidst a sea of lesser-precious zircons. Her voice is akin to that of an Angel, cascading in perfect received pronunciation, more English than the English themselves. I could not place her accent (for she masked it very well indeed) but I suspect the fair lady is either Irish, or perhaps Scottish. She is of a calbire unmatched by any man or woman save Minerva Cantabrigae herself. Peggy, to me, is a goddess. A fragment of the empyreal heaven, truly a ruby in the dust. It was an honour to study with her, for all but an hour or two. I hold her is such high regard as Dr. Noy himself, a most excellent and learned tutor.

I was ashamed today. At work I found evidence of another Team Member defrauding the company. Despite my national allegiance, it was not correct for corruption and dishonesty to go unnoticed. I immediately informed my superior (Chairlady Mao) because despite the slender evidence to go on, the till has been down several weeks running, and it is our responsibility to root out the double dealing, and get to the heart of the matter. I felt like Al'hadeen, "That is very disrespectful to our leader." The truth will always out, and despite the hard work put in by my colleagues, one must never bite the hand that feeds it. Principles, honesty, good old fashioned tradition is the way. No other way exists, lest our very souls be thrown into the hazard.

The merits of wikipedia and my maiden voyage into the ocean of HE

Dear Diary,

I have often wondered about the merits and flaws of wikipedia and surmise that its drawbacks outweigh its merits, if only by a hair's breadth. For example, in the entry of the Battle of Aegospotami in 405 Before the Christian Era some of the language used by the (presumably unqualified) author is in blanket statements and lacks the naturally cautious register adopted by more learned historians. On the other hand, it has many merits. Flying in the face of convention, one magnificent historian, Professor Paul Freedman endorses wikipedia. His argument is sound in that wikipedia is miles ahead of what it was a decade ago. Furthermore, it holds much more information than any reference work. I know of one scholar whom passed his degree by using the citations of wikipedia, thus bypassing the scholastic stigma attached to it by the learned and experienced academic establishment. In any case, wikipedia does have other gaping flaws. Its main advantage over more reputable reference works with much more authority (such as the most worthy Encylopaedia Britannica or the excellent Oxford Reference Library) is that it is more up to date. However, due to infringement of copyright, wikipedia can only lawfully hold information nearly a century old, thus rendering it feckless compared with reference works with more clout. However, it does indeed still retain a good deal of information.

Even if the information displayed on wikipedia is deemed far less sound than a "proper" reference work, it still holds much more than many other sites. This is why (and call me old fashioned) I still think that my complete set of Encyclopaedia Britannica (published in 1985) is the "best of a bad bunch". Why? The Encyclopaedia Britannica on-line, although much more up to date than the leather bound volumes I picked up, has entries which are much more concise and far more slimmed down than the fifty or so volumes I have sat on my stair case. My books are more up to date than the fatally flawed 70 year old outmoded wikipedia information and far more thorough than many other websites "with authority" as it simply contains more quality information in its pages, even if the information therein is some thirty years old. For a classicist, a philosopher and an antiquarian such as I, the fact that it is so old does not hamper me anywhere near as much as if I was for example a scientist, that would be reliant on only the lastest information available. Although I acknowledge that only the latest information is the most worthy, in any discipline, for a historian primary source analysis is the very essence of classical studies (something I learned from the most magnificent Doctor Hall). The older the better! This is obviously not so with archaeological evidence. I absolutely adore the fact that on one module in particular (A330 Myth in the Greek and Roman World) that the University has begun to incorporate material culture studies into its syllabus, which has always been dominated by purely the literary evidence.

I came into tertiary education late, having spent years as a loafing wayfarer and wandering minstrel, yet finding the sheer joy and utter intellectual nourishment enriched by tenacious study is as though I have discovered that whopping great diamond they found today. The gem of enlightenment, sparkling in the sunshine so pure and precious. I really don't know what on earth I was thinking tramping around looking for gigs, wooing fair ladies and getting drunk: what I should have been doing is studying hard and working even harder.

Nothing worth doing is ever easy and I am so glad I did not take French language, creative writing and music: as I would have learned comparitively little. Instead of expanding on the strengths I already had, I decided instead to fulfill that which was lacking. I still wish I could have studied the Welsh and Scottish history modules once available, or the art history or heritage studies module, but one cannot do everything. I felt I made the right choice. Many students feel they were fed up of doing introductory modules, but I felt that they were an essential stepping stone for what is an excellent institution of learning. Without having such a broad base on the syllabus, I would not have been able to decide what was right for me. The arts and humanities faculty at the Open University have such a sublime syllabus. Even this evening one of my colleagues has to sit a mock history examination on medicine through time, and although I would have loved to study that module, having a "taster" unit to delve into gave me enough information to smile quietly to myself and say, "I know a little bit about it". The whole trip has been just great. I mean, a really rough roller-coaster ride into the depths and heights of tertiary education. Righty ho, I feel like reading Polybius. Toodle pip!

My perfect partner

Dear Diary,

This morning I mused about my perfect partner: Maise Dobbs. The lady in question is merely a figment of the imagination, the protagonist character from Jacqueline Winspear's novels. I imagine her to have a lovely bottom, unsullied by the passing of child-birth, neither too big nor too small, made up of lemon drizzle cake and a spot of tea. Maise is learned in Latin, well read in philosophy and has an excellent classical education. I imagine her breasts are also neither too ample to be a hindrance, nor too small to be ashamed of, but just right. Well spoken, mild mannered with impeccable taste in automobiles (an MG) I think Maise Dobbs is my perfect partner, though she is merely a figment of an author's imagination.

I almost picked up another book of hers (Jacqueline Winspears') yesterday in a charity shop in Dorchester, but thought it wise to confine myself to the classics. Tacitus and Marcus Aurelius shall have to do.

Righty ho, I am having to get back to my assignment nursing something of a hangover. Ahh, Maise, would you were here to dress me down and tell me to stop drinking.

Fourth time's the charm

Dear Diary,

OMG OMG OMG Oh, my giddy aunt! Here marks the turning point, the greatest day in my miserable and unkempt life/subsistence in poverty. Oh! This is better than sleeping with Elise or going to wild parties with Naked Boy Maxime! This is better than that jacuzzi party! This is an even greater feeling than ending Iggy Pop's "I wanna be your dog" only to see the drum-kit explode and a drunk Maxime writhing around on the floor clad only in his very long hair at the Drum and Bar for Janick a couple of years back! Wow! You will never guess what happened. Oh my goodness oh! I can barely even bring myself to mention it. The entire time I have been contemplating shame, sorrow, grief, pain, work, study, lovelorn poetry, Latin philosophers, everything, it all accumulated to this point here. A victory not unlike Domitian's (without the bribery). Oh! Oh! Oh my goodness grief!

I PASSED MY ADVANCED CLASSICAL LATIN MODULE!

*jumps for sky* Oh! Oh! Oh! This is unbelievable! In your face evil twin brother! Have that Nicholas! Ha ha!

A closer look at the Maiden of Keinton Mandeville

Dear Diary,

Now that the archaeologist is staying at Wolfae's I went and spoke to him this evening, and he has at least conceded to the argument regarding the Maiden of Keinton Mandeville's authenticity as an ancient arrowhead that there "is a remote possibility of this being a failed bank for a leaf-shaped arrowhead." We looked at some other photographs of arrowheads including the sketch of the one he found and this revealed that a usual tailed or barbed point with which to head an arrow is apparent on some. Mine could just be an arrowhead in the making. It does look like struck flint. In any case, seemingly there are archaeological remains indicating that man inhabited Britain 11,000 B.C.E. and in some cases as far back as 35,000 B.C.E. I still think that we discovered an arrowhead and perhaps a gaming chip. Anyway.

The Maid of Keinton Mandeville

Dear Diary,

Well well well. I discovered an astonishing artefact yesterday. In theory it could date to as early as the early aceramic phase A (circa 6,900 - 6000 Before the Christian Era) but is more likely to be at most only around 6,000 years old with my most conservative estimate being to around 3,000 years old. It is fascinating I walked into a bakery last night "on autopilot" gazing at it (I was supposed to be heading back to the adjacent pub). Perhaps only one in a thousand finds will be an arrowhead and this is what I found. As the other members of the team used diggers and cameras, I was down on my hands and knees in the mud scraping the trench through and with my mucky hands looking through the spoil heaps.

I gave all prior finds to the site proprietor and it was only by sheer fortune that towards the end of the day's work I happened upon this marvellous artefact which now takes pride of place in my emerging collection.

Evidence for the piece being estimated in its chronology to a somewhat earlier date is a second interesting find of what appears to be a gaming piece for an unknown board game played by early man, discovered not far from the arrowhead. The two pieces are precisely the same size (which I believe to be coincidence, as they are unrelated except in context) with the former fitting snugly on to the diamond shaped rock. Several pieces of what upon first glance seemed to be tiles of some sort were found in two separate places near to the second trench (both trenches were 6 feet wide, roughly three yards long and around half a foot deep). It is my opinion that these are merely compressed sections of natural rock which happened to have become fragmented by chance into rectangular shapes, one of which being a diamond. This is based on another find at the site of a larger chunk of stone bearing a step-like example of several layers of the clay making an evenly spaced stratigraphic unit, with regularity and uniform. So it is unlikely to have been fragments of a tessellated building of some kind, what appeared at first to be a mosaic, are all in-fact completely natural. However, my colleague errs more to see the diamond as a gaming piece and the flint I found he assesses with more caution, believing it not to be an arrowhead.

In any case, we were both able to identify a piece of pottery I discovered upon my first searching to the spoil heap after being instructed to by my boss. It was a great feeling actually. Thirty seconds or so in this perfectly white object, excepting with tiny blue transferred on crosses with four little dots in-between the spokes on its pattern. With hardly a trace of the surrounding soil, exhuming that upon the first search (one most often finds nothing without having a survey or prior research literature duly noted) seeing it glimmer in the morning sunshine, holding it aloft then being told: likely only late seventeenth century to perhaps the eighteenth. I don't know if any of you reading this have ever put your hand in to a load of moist soil and pull out a piece of pottery some centuries old, but it's a really nice feeling, despite mud being everywhere. The arrowhead blew my mind.

I was going to call the piece the "Keinton Mandeville arrowhead" but I have decided to name it "The Maiden of Keinton Mandeville" after the poem by Thomas Hardy. This will make it harder to search for on the web, but I don't care.

It is almost tempting to conjure an image in one's mind of an ancient cave-woman wielding it, her husband having been trampled by a woolly mammoth in ancient Somerset somewhere around 4,500 B.C.E. The Maiden of Keinton Mandeville.

Oh la la.

Dear Diary,

Well, blimey, having no television and only occasionally hearing news from nuntii Latini radiophonica generalis means I am very much out of the loop. Yet today, as I took my regular Red hot poker up the jacksie by the commie café, all thereabouts were talking about this shootout in Paris last night.

Simon, wearing his beret, a qualified historian and hence professional kitchen porter had this to say about it:

"Hollande will probably put boots on the ground, not just special forces but a lot of troops."

As for me, I was worried that my daughter might be into awful death metal music and now be mown down. I expect she's not, but one never knows. In any case, this, coupled with my own feelings of helplessness and generally being on a low ebb has given me the impetus I need to finally finish Zenobia (not that I can afford to publish it except locally). These past couple of days, where I have been despairing about starving, losing everything, including any sort of career that does not involve unskilled labour in a Chinese laundry or getting a right royal roasting up the backside by commies, week in week out, I realise I can use these negative feelings as a sort of catharsis, and complete my first play. I intend to write the suicide scene first then fill in the gaps.

nos societas

Dear Diary,

The day before yesterday Robin, one of our roleplaying group (which I have now left) dropped by with some money for food for me, he could see that I was hard up and out of work. Indeed, if it had not been for kind hearted souls such as he or Robert, I would not have eaten this week. As I strolled into town I saw Mr. Carpenter. He has not been in Church for the past month or so, he is unwell. We sat and talked. Just then, a man whom comes into Won's Westwon walked past. He is a local gangster and his face was splattered with blood. Evidently whomever had hit him was right handed judging by the shape of the sanguine streaks running down his visage. Moments later a heroin addict was on his phone looking about suspiciously, on his cellphone, trying to hide himself whilst simultaneously looking out for someone, likely the gangster in question.

This is home, sweet home. Where I live.

This morning I must go and prostitute my art, for the usual fee (£20 for three hours) and then this evening I will work in Won's Westwon for less than minimum wage. This is my existence, but it is not an existence, it is a subsistence. With the tax man pounding at the door, the threat of eviction hanging over me, the constant hunger, the fact that if I fail I will be unable to re-sit my degree, the shame of meeting my family having failed where my brothers had succeeded, the abolition of overtime, the end to perks of the trade, the deconstruction of the Health Service, the moribund of support for hard working families all culminate in my feeling utterly alone. Yet I am not alone, I am, as we all are, under the ever watchful eye, of Big Brother. Every move I make, anything I say is recorded (as is anything any of us say). It is not so much comforting as intrusive.

If I decide to leave (id est should I fail A397) I will likely be stopped from doing so, despite the fact I am a good man, an honest man, a man whom wishes only to find honest labour, a fair standard of living and acquire an education which I am denied in these once fair shores.

Life is solitude. Only in my dreams have I any freedom whatsoever. It is not life, it is living death.

An ancient philosophy

This is my message and testimony from one wayward soul, whose experience is not inconsiderable and whose life has not been entirely uneventful.

To the High-Priests of Continuity - the historians, chroniclers of time - those of us whom wish to preserve a venerable tradition of truth, justice and mercy, to be imparted on future generations so that they may be drawn to the continuation of morality.

It is my wish that whomsoever reads this page, keep an open-mind when it comes to philosophy, the arts and spirituality. Our spirit is our true shield, for when hope is lost, so is the day.

There is some grain of truth to be found in all manner of phenomena found throughout the esoteric writings, and, on the other side, in the light of parables.

Most intellectuals nowadays are cynical and close-minded, without even the faintest idea of the unseen truth.

To overcome rational reasoning and transcend to a higher, deeper and clearer perception, where one may sense matters more clearly, not blinkered by what can see or hear or taste, but to stretch the mind to a leap of faith, to understand that there is an unseen force guiding our every move. A benevolent force of creation, beyond simple science, but unified between art and science, in harmony with one another.

Maxwell Lewis Latham, 22nd of March, 2014.

All set

Dear Diary,

With mounting legal pressure to seize all my worldly goods I perhaps did something a little unwise this morning. The nice lady whom answered the phone, a humble civil servant, well spoken, polite, had to endure me very calmly and collected saying, "I am afraid I cannot meet the demands made of me as I live on less than the dole even though I work, so in response to your letter over my dead body!" This will undoubtedly make matters worse and perhaps even hasten the process of "the siege of Orchard Avenue". I spent this morning cutting all my oil paintings out of the frames, collecting all my late bronze age flints and cut gemstones, in preparation for departure: homeless in England if I have a favourable result on my A397 examination, and straight to the Continent if I fail. I will have to leave my books with my sister (the last time I left all my books with my mother and step father: they sold them all) in the hope that they are not coined into gold. I am most anxious about the Liddell and Scott, also the Lewis and Short, as they are not available to buy on the web, and are far too heavy to carry.

I look forward to smashing up the piano and guitars, and I will only be taking Saint Lillian (a grands' worth of Spanish classical guitar), Arion (ten grands' worth of 19th century ornamental parlour classical guitar), Dirty Gurty (a Japanese 1960s bottleneck acoustic) and Sweaty Betty my banjuitar. I might have to leave Betty at my sisters because it is mainly made of metal and is just for show really, it doesn't play well. I might even do the same with Dirty Gurty, simply because if I stuck the tailpiece on Arion, it would mean that I just have to carry the one little half-sized travelling guitar and a light classical, not a very heavy bottleneck guitar. In any case, the paintings, gems and artefacts are coming with me, wherever I go. I am not about to let the State get their grubby mitts on that little lot, not when I have sweated worked and carried them across mountains, through swamps, icy rivers, being shot at, through hedges, thorns, barbed wire fences, wildness filled with wild rams, bulls, you name it. They will have to pry them from my cold dead fingers before I let go of that little lot. I just don't care any more.

D&D dorks

Dear Diary,

Okay, so I am actually sat, in a roleplaying session at the moment and it's geeky as hell. I must say that although quantified interactive storytelling pales in comparison to being a scholar (big-time), it's still pretty cool, in a kind of frivolous fantastical deluded way. I wish I was elsewhere, but I did manage to slip in half a stanza of Tamburlaine the Great, act I, scene 2.

My character kicks ass, he can now attack and cast a spell in the same round. Unfortunately most everyone else has already expended all their higher level spells and Tiamat the unique ancient Dragon has just been summoned. I'm alright Jack, but I think the others are all for it. Let's see what happens.

somnium heri (de utcumque)

incipit meum somnium heri. magnus aedificium novus in erat cum senem Australiensem. extra pluvialis fuit. senex ille dixit mihi: hoc nos cum senibus in togarum grisarum pro negotioque cultum artem neque illam sed procul est. huc qui eris invenies illuc.

tum duobus adulscentias inveniebant tenebant nostrum cithararum. 

intro modulabantur vobis, cum medium ingenium.

dixi puero. ille explicavit fuit discipulum musicum.

et omnes metamorphoses.

unus comicus erat in actum habitus in loricam segmentatam sicut audientium. in saturam ridebor ceteram meam vitam. 

D-Day

Dear Diary,

Ahh, life's little hurdles. I am very much topsy-turvy at the moment, most especially for numerous reasons: the constant impoverished circumstance does little to help, though I know it is up to me to pull myself out of it (getting a job at this time of year in a small town with no transport is highly unlikely, but I can always go begging of course). I am seriously pissed off about my computer "dying" and the shop refusing to repair it despite the fact that they were obliged to do so. I can't stand these old crap second hand machines, the 60Hz frequency and low resolution hurts my eyes; but as the very least, the fact I can't run any programs (from a lack of permissions) is not a problem, I just read anyway. I cannot afford to replace the only nippy machine I have ever owned, which pisses me right off.

The spectre of me very possibly failing my degree haunts me so much, that I am going to have to have bad news for the family this Christmas (on average I am invited to Christmas dinner only once every half-decade on my mum's side - Dan, a builder and neighbour didn't believe I was Fiona and Chris' son because he used to live next door to them and spent Christmas every year with them and never saw me there). Both my brothers have degrees and as per usual I will be the resident family failure.

Much as I enjoy digging holes in the rain for $5/hour, busting my ass for Chairlady Mao and Jackie Chan down at Won's Westwon and being exploited week in week out for the Commie café, it can't last.

To make matters worse I have a ringing in my ears which has steadily increased over the past couple of weeks. This morning I hear a high-pitched sound in my left ear which is a constant irritation. I fear the only way to drown it out is by playing musical instruments constantly, which of course means going back to France once I fail my degree, if I fail, which looks increasingly likely.

The fact that Nat West charged ten times the amount for my old account with them (unlawfully) means I had to default on an account so couldn't take out a loan, thus re-take my Latin. The fact that the powers that be decided to slash all the funding for tertiary education means I will not be able to afford to re-take my examination if and when I fail. The only net result of this is that I am definitely going to "do one" once I flunk. This will be the last Christmas I spend in Blightey. I am fed up with the only "friends" I have are insane. Wolfae is completely deluded. The geeks at the roleplaying group are all real dorks. I have no-one to talk to about classical studies, which annoys the hell out of me. It doesn't matter. The road ahead looks good. Much as I will miss working for less than minimum wage, begging in a dusty alleyway and being shafted by Commies, it will be nice to do gigs for more than a score again, perhaps even enjoy a round of applause once in awhile. France has many benefits. For a start the minimum wage is half again what it is here. The wine is nice (we don't have wine here) as is the food (the food here is very average). The women have looser morals (thank God) and you don't need to own a Mercedes just to get laid.

I miss Didier. A great deal. Just being able to wake up, hug another man, then talk about history in between making and repairing musical instruments is something I miss a great deal.

In short, life is a living hell, a monotonous grind, with only little Ronulus (whose name I have changed again). He is now "Mr. Ronulus Litterator Maximus Fleximus Augustus Caesar Magister Artium (Barkaeology) Esquire". Because the little Terrier bit me, I am going to have to re-home him when I leave, because I refuse to have a microchip put in his head, for a pet passport. It is unethical.

All in all one day blends in to the next in a dull monotonous silent drudgery of pain, sorrow and solitude. Life sucks. What with the rights to our nukes being sold to the Chinese, the cuts in H.M.'s Constabulary, the Forces, Education, Health Care, not to mention the low rates of pay, high cost of living and constant pressure from an increase in crime, makes me want to leave. I have had enough. They'll probably try and fish me out of the channel once I start rowing. I'm thinking of taking a chain and millstone to place about my neck in-case they do, so I can go overboard and finally get to heaven. I hate my life. I hate it.

I know it is up to me to turn it around. Yet, I cannot escape the shame of both my brothers having passed their degrees straight out of college, then there is me, Mr. Failure. I know I can do better, much better.

Writing is no avenue to employment, unless you want only Amazon and Random House to profit. As predicted, I will likely die of poverty and malnutrition. Thank God. Let's get it over with. I can't stand just waiting around, waiting to buy the farm.

Who on earth wants to read Shakespearean verse replete with classical allusions? Virtually no-one, for virtually no-one understands it. I wrote this the other day.

Heaven-sent ram saved Phrixus and Helle,
Or the man-eating mares from Hercules,
Virtues, collective conscience embodied,
Jason, Aeëtes, the fleece of Aries,
An Oedipal battle in families:
A pattern traced, the god of war, is he.

Europa’s alabaster bull of Zeus,
Bovine Io traced her name in the dust,
Poseidon’s milk-white Mithraic Minos,
The Redeemer, stains fertile soil with drops,
Aphroditë born of foamy aphros,
Or old eastern tales: taming of the ox.

Klotho spins Kappa, Theta, Lambada,
Gentle hawthorn’s grace: dead, banished, scattered,
Hercules kills Kheiron, Lerna’s hydra,
From sev’n to nine, Ogmyos forced afar,
The Part of Fortune: The Charioteer,
Lewis’ Callanish: rising Capella.

The second half of life, Saturn’s time, twins,
Shepherd Zethus and music, Amphion,
Another Arion, Polydeuces
And Castor, appearing both one side on
The earth’s face, from rising high falling low,
Each as Icarus’ wax, melting as snow.

Max.

Digging Archaeology

Dear Diary,

Amidst all the hardships, strife and life's little hurdles that the good Lord seems to throw in one's way their is one solace that gives pride, joy and a sense of self-hood: the privilege of labour. Now, most people would find digging holes in the rain to be an arduous task. For an archaeologist, it's his or her idea of a good time. Only archaeologists put the work in to exhume the artefacts which adorn all our museums and private collections the entire world over. They get their hands dirty, they put the work in, they do not simply sit around reading reports and researching (even though that forms a large part of scholarship) they do the business. They are the real heroes and heroines, they are the men and women with the guts to actually get out there and make it happen.

I have the utmost respect for all historians, I see them as peers, contemporaries, colleagues. People who have heard the call, followed the very same discipline as myself. Even so, many simply read (I like reading, for the record) and don't actually get down and dirty, with hands in the muck, putting the spade and trowel into the earth and doing the real business. History in the making.

This evening I have been hired for my second (and quite possibly third) day as a professional archaeologists assistant. This is great! It is as though my dreams as a little boy are coming true. I am overjoyed by the fact that I have managed to find something (which I consider) sacred: a profession which I adore.

"It is the application of the learning which is important, more-so than the learning itself" (Dr. Didier Deman). Archaeology alone can dispel mythology (Greg Woolf).

I don't know where we are going to be (Durnovaria iterum spero), we could be in Bridders, we could be anywhere in Dorsetshire, but it doesn't matter. Just to be involved in such a project, however small, however seemingly insignificant, is a great honour. Only study and then experience can make one an archaeologist. I love Dorset, and I love archaeology. This evening I am elated to be called to do something more meaningful than playing music, reading or working for the Chairlady Mao at Won's Westwon. Doing good service is most laudable (an honest day's labour) but to do something you love, is infinitely more rewarding.

The Healer (Raymond)

Dear Diary,

One of the strangest people I have ever had the fortune to meet is Raymond the healer. He lives in a small town in the Vosges. Raymond finds water for villages in Africa through dowsing via the telephone. His first talent however is healing.

I was skeptical to say the least upon first meeting him, but the lady whom brought me there was adamant that this man had some sort of special gift. So. I am at his house and we talked around a table until his healing process began. It was extraordinary. He lay his hands around mine then began to draw a picture of me. A second line of colours were around the basic form of what looked like me as an embryo or fetus. I have a gammy leg, from my bunion and a few other ailments about my body. It defies explanation but Raymond was able to identify each of the problems with my body and drew clusters where they were most prominent. Each colour symbolised a different aspect of the human body and he told me to keep the image under my bed as I slept. (At the time I didn't have a bed and wherever I lay my head was my home).

Since I had a lodger the image has long since disappeared (when I was away in the Vosges and he threw out lots of things, including the Van Gogh because he thought the art was "shit" - he did not know Van Gogh and did not understand what was drawn on the image of my person by Raymond). In any case, it was a unique experience and I have not forgotten it.