No hedgehogs thank you.

Dear Diary,

Yesterday I noticed yet another hedgehog in my rather feral and unkempt garden. There is this, shall we say, rather simple yet well meaning woman, whom passes nearby my house each day. I once caught her putting hedgehogs in my garden. I did mention to her once, as I passed her, that my dog (Ronulus Latrator Maximus Fleximus Augustus Caesar Dip. H.E. (Barkaeology) with Natural Canine Sciences specialism) tends to attempt to eat the hedgehogs (because they are not Romans, Greeks or Romano-British). The simple minded crone just ignored me, but as I amicably explained to her, that Ronulus Latrator Augustus Caesar becomes quite injured when he tries to bite or paw the barbaric invaders into our Romano-British sanctuary. Since then, I have not had any hedgehog trouble, until yesterday. Even the cats on the block (again, non-Romans), have tried to eat them. I calmly picked up the barbarian invader with a shovel, and placed it in the dustbin (it seemed to be dead). Alas, upon my return, it was moving again, and so I picked up the barbaric wild and savage animal, and placed it in the centre of the road. (It is a side street, hardly any cars go down it).

I think the barbarian got the message, as since it was mauled by umpteen cats (non-Romans), and one Romano-British Emperor (Ronulus the First), they have not dared enter the citadel since. In any case, we are ever watchful in-case any more barbarians are at the gates, likely placed there by some barbaric crone.

Yet another rubbish day

Dear Diary,

Well, the bin-men came and I managed to get out early enough to take out the trash can. I am all out of everything, as I couldn't bring myself to go begging (busking) last market day. Even if I did, some foreigner (well, Scotch) banjoist has claimed the spot, so I must get up extra early, just for the privilege of being able to beg on damp cement. The other guy plays very loud and slightly out of tune. To be fair, he can actually carry a tune, but with no finesse or any ornamentation. I asked him last week if we could please share the space, if only for an hour, just so I could get some food. He said no. So, I played very loudly right next to him (he doesn't sing). Bastard. Like most "musicians", I could play along with the tunes he played, but he could not adapt to mine. Such is life.

I should resign myself to eating out of the dustbin again (id est: going back to the kitchen) but I would rather perish from malnutrition than face that hell-hole again. Serious. Don't get me wrong, I don't mind the graft, it's just that I don't like being spoken down to vulgarly by bumpkins with large moles, webbed feet and eyes too close together. (Carnies, circus folk, small hands: you know).

So, I am in debt, I have rent to pay, I am unable to make a living, the only job I have is exploitative (the wishy-washy Red left bunny-hugger sociologist cafe) where they pay me near FA. I just don't know what the hell to do. I mean, I think the best option is to quit smoking, take up jogging, and pretend it's all not happening.

In other news, I heard another student has been permitted to enter the Alec Kassmann prize for best essay for Classical Studies. I was hesitant to pillage parts of that essay for my re-submission EMA, but seeing as how it is unlikely that I will even be able to be permitted to write an essay for no purpose other than a love of the subject, it seems that I am able to pillage and self-plagiarize to my hearts content (from that essay, which is not submitted). Avienus is on the cards.

"We're all doomed" (Dad's Army)

Dear Diary,

Some conspiracy theorist has been ranting about a supposed asteroid colliding with earth, and that an extra-terrestrial species will be on board it and transform everybody in some way. It is more likely that if some massive object hit us as 38,000,000 MPH, that the "transformation" would be from going to being alive, to being dead: like Roddy McDowell said about Richard Burton's Marc Anthony. "Anthony is alive. Anthony is dead. Is that how one says it?"

Even in a worst-case scenario, even if "we're all doomed", so what?! Hyping everybody up about it is not going to help at all, as we can't do much about it: so it is far better to go about one's business as usual, and prepare one's soul for the next life by being a good person. In my case, that means getting my EMA re-submission in and taking my dog (Ronulus Latrator Maximus Fleximus Augustus Caesar Dip. H.E. (Barkaeology) with Natural Canine Sciences specialism) for a walk.

The Trials of Life

Dear Diary,

Well, I went to see Wolfae the other night, and another "yummy mummy" from the estate was there. I have seen this lady about since I began Uni', and like most all women I've met, to her monogamy is a species of tree. Anyway, I played some music to her, and told her how I felt about her (after several glasses of wine), stopping just short of reciting poetry I had written about her. Wolfae had a three week extension on her assignment (studying only a single level one module). I have never asked for a three week extension (I usually only ask for three days). She didn't get it in today, and hasn't done any studying, as she is "too busy" (I noticed that she's not "too busy" to use FB though). That's a typical sociologist for you though.

Anyhow, I am just about calming down about getting marked "Fail" on my end of module assessment. It is a blessing in disguise. Reading philosophy helps (not for study, just to increase in wisdom). I read today that Marcus Aurelius was not a fan of blogging, and advised against writing a diary. He reminds me of the late Dave Latham's take on Grant McCormick, imagining that his old man would say in a braw Scotch accent, "Keep yer own council!". I think he needs a hug and a nice cup of tea.

I am utterly down in the dumps about the abysmal rate of pay I get for gigging at the wishy-washy Red café. We had one good gig this year (for £250), and it was cancelled. So, I'm back on £20/week to live on, again. Soon I will be in rent arrears again, and if I don't go back to port l'calvert (do honest labour), then I will be out on the bare bones of my bottom again presently. I am in two minds about what to do. On the one hand, I do not relish the prospect of eating out of a dustbin again (id est: going back to work in a kitchen, where nobody is permitted to eat anything), and am more enthused about becoming a wandering minstrel again: no more tmas, no more mopping floors, just gig after gig, where I can talk about philosophy and Classical Studies with Didier again (he is the reason I began University in the first place). I know in my heart of hearts I should just accept my station as a ... mopper, and should not be toying with notions of being a musician, or a writer, or a translator, or a poet, or anything that does not involve washing up and scrubbing pots. In any case, I have everything I need to complete my application for financial support for my next couple of modules (Latin, yet again - fifth time lucky!) and The Roman Empire, but have not done so, as I expect to be in France again soon, with the way things are going.

Failure to achieve, and no hope.

Dear Diary,

So, it all reached "critical mass" in the kitchen the other day, since then I have been on vacation. I was really enthused about "getting back on the horse", so to speak, competing in this years' Kassmann prize competition for best essay along the theme of Classical antiquity. Then it happened. I had my result through, and I failed my Greek and Roman Mythology module. On the one hand, the "feedback" (a series of very short sentences) highlighted some positive, constructive "feedback", but on the other hand I did not deserve to fail, especially by such a wide margin. The essay must be in continuous prose, in English (as I beg and grovel for a grade three pass), so I have decided to translate one of my recent plays, satirizing the Team Members at the OU (it is a myth, set in ancient Italy) in to Latin, and send it to them. I refuse to beg for a grade three pass. This re-submission will fail (because it is not in English), and I will move away (to a city) and get a job like Good Will Hunting. If asked if I ever went to University (by anybody of importance I mean, not just by some "learned" colleague kitchen dweller), I will say yes, and that I failed. If they asked why, I would furnish them with my essay (in lingua Latina). I will look as I always do, and the University? They will look, well however it is they look.

Savage Kitchen (Don't Give Up Your Day Job)

Dear Diary,

It finally happened, the inevitable, it had to. Last market day I asked for a pay rise from minimum wage for playing music at the lefty café, the boss said I would not be paid any more, so I accepted this, then played the gig, and walked out without accepting the money owed to me. Yesterday things reached fever pitch in the Savage Kitchen (Hades) and Collin the chef kept shouting at me, all day. Dolor too. I threw in the towel at about eight Post-Meridian.

I must work so as to not dishonour my parents, so the place opposite has been hiring (another café) so I am going to toddle down there this afternoon with Mr. Barker, my passport, C.V. with the application form filled out (along with my Certificate in H.E.) and try and get a gig there. In any case, all is well, and I feel, liberated.

Wolfae threatened to leave all day, then stayed. Kudos to her, but after nine-months of hell on earth (as it is known around here) for me at least, this is the very moribund of Savage Kitchen.

Essentially, Collin's missus once blurted out that she hadn't had an orgasm in over three years, when they were bickering, when she used to work there. A few weeks later, he discovered she is cheating on him. About three days ago it seems that he admitted rowing with her a lot, when drunk. (He, shall we say, like my evil twin brother, "does not give women the proper respect they deserve"). The man is a bully, a boy, and a coward. Dolor is no better. He mock punched me in the kitchen, after I had offended him, the other day (he didn't speak to me for a couple of days after that). They are both beer-lad bruisers, barbarians, short-fused hard-wired chef types whom enjoy brawling, especially with burds.

Anyway, I wanted to ask the big boss (Jenny) if I could get a P60 for my OU module finance applications, two days ago. Her response was, "You don't want f- money again do you?" (I work extremely hard for my wages, nine hours a day). When I said to her calmly yesterday, "May I have a word?". "Make it quick." "They are shouting at me continuously, being really very nasty. I am tendering my resignation, immediately." She replied, "I'll talk to you about it later!" (She wasn't even listening). About ten minutes later, after more being shouted at by the in-bred wife-beater and the brawler, I simply said, "Goodbye", and left.

The times are a changing (better pay, shorter hours)

Dear Diary,

I play at the "red" café each week, where, they used to pay me a fiver. Yes, that's right, I did three hours skilled work, for five quid (I usually get £250). Since I have worked there for three years, it has gradually gone up to twenty quid, where it has stopped. The other musician (Matt) who plays there gets £30. I called up the boss this morning and explained that I have a wedding to play next month for £250, and that I cannot justify doing skilled labour, and getting paid the same amount as doing unskilled labour (as in my other job, as a kitchen porter). So, the boss was not happy about this at all, but I put my foot down and asked for "half of the musician's union minimum" (£30, which is the same as the cellist earns).

This is not unreasonable, for I have done good service for these people, for three years, knowing full well that I have played over 500 gigs for hundreds of pounds every time, throughout the course of my life. Like my father before me, I am a musician, that is my business, it's what I do.

Hell on earth

Dear Diary,

A couple of days ago, as I studied in my usual spot after working the first half of my day (I do nine hours worth of split-shifts each day, without a single break, and although I work in a kitchen, I am not entitled to eat any food there), I met a nice venerable north-country lady. I explained that I was on a split-shift, she asked, "What's it like?", and I replied, "It's like hell on earth." The lady immediately replied, "You must work at the Bridport Arms." This is not the first time that folks around here have mentioned this manner of working environment for this particular establishment.

Yesterday was tough, really tough, and today will be no different. Each day is a living hell, and much as I would like to say humbly doing good service is laudable (because it is), getting dermatitis and repetitive strain injury, a bad back and being ordered around by this little pathetic juvenile boy (one of my "learned" colleagues) makes my daily routine a hellish existence. Still, it will not last, cannot last, one way or the other. Either I move to Cambridge soon, or back to France. In any case, something has to give.