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.

Best gig of the year (£20)

Dear Diary,

Well, I finally made it to the gig. It was awesome. After much faffing around trying to find the place, I heard a really great fiddler. She was unbelievable. The band had eletrickery and were way too loud. (The "guitarist" was down to the usual standard - very average). Naturally I stormed the stage. An old boy sat in on violin, another on the flute. After that I met some guy with a banjo (the flutists son). That was pretty cool. I met a few fair ladies, all well spoken, well educated, and extremely attractive. After that some chap played the banjo, he was really very talented, almost as much as me in-fact. I left with £20, the usual. Much as I enjoyed it, I am still departing on December 4th should I flunk. All the gig did was made me realize is that I can make more money elsewhere.

vita misera (M.Latham)

concidam igitur sicut Sappham misserrimam fuero
        iacior saxam ero pudore Leucadiam heu!
perpetuum certamen itaque atque interum miserum
        quod vita una est? hoc: solum, heu!

Close to the edge

Dear Diary,

Okay, so Olly finally bailed out of the gig this evening, therefore I cannot very well ask for a fee. I am still going but will work for Chairlady Mao at Won's Westwon with prozac Julie and the nutty young know it all. I am still under the weather, and am not looking forward to two gigs, one unpaid, and the other the usual 5% of the musician's union minimum (£20 for three hours skilled work).

I am still on tender-hooks about my examination result. It is tearing me apart, but I am trying to be philosophical about it. If I fail, I will *not* accept the "wooden spoon prize", without honour. My rent arrears are mounting up and I owe tax. As ever the threat of eviction hangs over me, and the seizure of all my worldly goods (as though I even have enough money to even eat!). All I can see is the road before me. On the one hand, I have learned a great deal and I will apply that knowledge to my art, as a lyric poet and bard. On the other hand, if, by some miracle, the gods smile on me, and I am deemed sufficiently worthy of a grade IV pass instead of a fail, then I shall rest easy in the comfort that Christopher Marlowe was 199th out of 231 in his class.

I have no real links to my family here, and even fewer friends, in-fact, I have more friends abroad than I do here. As a result, I have little to lose and much to gain by going back to France. Good food, great wine, excellent historians, superb musicians, and a life where one is treated with a fair wage, a reasonable cost of living and made to feel a part of a family. Not a "spud bitch" as I was called back at Hades (the Bridport Arms). I can see nothing but two outcomes: success, or failure, respectively: to live or to live elsewhere.

Robus arn! (iterumque iterum interum)

Dear Diary,

Okay so Virgil the bard got waxed by a blast from a Blue Dragon whilst polymorphed as a little robin red-breast, in a blast of nasty dragon flames. In his dying throes, as the last grasp of breath passed Virgil's lips was, "Tell my wife I love her, that my ghost be with the old philosophers". I thanked God, praised, and went to sleep. Luckily a mage (Chris' character) healed me, to which Virgilius Pubilius Maro said, "You can heal?" (He's not healed many people, usually casting offensive spells, anyway), so just like that, Virgil was back on his feet, so he cast Cure Mass Wounds and several Magic missiles then sang the song of rest, but alas, it was too late. Kythry (Matt's Warlock character) boom! He was toast, gone, outta there, bought the farm, waxed, boned, a gonner, may as well have been in Davey Jones' locker. My bard composed a lamentable song, chronicling his companion's life, an ode to his heroic deeds along our many adventures. The cleric healed him eventually, but not after quite a harsh encounter.

Finally Virgil now has Level 14 on both bardic "Unseen Universities" (the college, and the uni) and (get this) secret spell school which gives me Regenerate and some offensive spell. (I would have liked to have taken Teleport, just in case, well, you know, anyway) the Dungeon Master advised me to take offensive spells, so I think I will have to do for Odin's Magic Lance or Disintegrate or perhaps Prismatic Spray or Fire Storm or something. In any case, I am sticking with Regenerate. Kick ass man. Last adventure next week. They want to play Vampire, I am not going to play that, at least not for a long time (and even then it is set in Transylvania in 1198, which would be awesome, but it's too gorey) I much prefer Ars Magica set in the thirteenth century. Scholars of ancient arts.

The Shermans

Dear Diary,

"America is not the land of the free, Australia is." - Eddie "Spaghetti" Meir (from Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania in the United States of America).

I like the Shermans (the yanks), I always have done, ever since I was a kid. Maybe it's because I grew up in North America, maybe it's because they make such great guitars, or maybe it's because they play them better than anyone else in the world. Who knows? Whatever it is, I like them. They are not perfect (who is?) but they are better masters than the Russians or Chinese.

When I was on the border of France and Germany a German gentleman asked me, "Is it true? Are they like brothers in arms?" (We were talking about the Americans and British soldiers). I had to say, "Yes." It is true.

Some American scholars are first rate, one only has to read Jstor to see that they are as good as the German scholars (in classical studies anyway, I do not know about the other fields of study).

They are coming, with the power, and the money and are going to take us over, fiscally. The missile defence programme was just the start. I'm okay with it. Why? Because for a start they speak English. Secondly I once heard a US airman say of the British soldiery "Their artillery is on time, and on target."

The relationship is a difficult one, far from perfect, but ever since I was a little boy, I was aware that if anything happens across the pond, in terms of business models, innovations in technology and all manner of culture, Britain follows. I once heard a French student of political science in the north of France say to me once, "Britain follows America, and Europe follows Britain." (This was before it all "kicked off").

Even so, it is no bed of roses. Over there they pay through the nose for a quality tertiary education and health-care. Look what has happened here: we now pay for tertiary education and health-care.

When I helped my friends sister do her homework once, when I first began University, I could not help but notice her time-table. One of the classes was "cheerleading". What on earth is that? That, in-fact, is the most dangerous "sport" in the world, statistically, moreso than the Grand Prix, because of the human pyramid. I am just glad that our American cousins adore Shakespeare as much as we Britons do, that is a relief. (So that our native plays are not supplanted with awful trashy nonsense). Marlowe and Shakespeare have lasting appeal, much like Ovid or Virgil.

I prefer cricket to baseball. Cricket is a gentleman's sport, as there are many ways in which to return the ball. However, as a boy I much preferred baseball: either batting or fielding. We kids in the village used to play it, and when everybody was working together to out field the batsman it was a great sense of teamwork. The way in which one returns the ball is natural (even if it is effectively revised softball, which, like all sports, except lawn tennis, is British in origin).

George Orwell said, "The big countries always act like gangsters, and the small ones: like prostitutes." It is true.

Study experience reflection of University

Dear Diary,

The University “experience” (if one can call it that studying in virtual isolation, digital solitude and ploughing a most lonely furrow indeed) has been bitter-sweet thus far. Upon reflection their are many things I would have done differently.

1) Had I known that nothing at level one counted for anything whatsoever, I would not have wasted my only free choice on an introductory module.

2) Had I known that Latin is not officially a part of history, then I would have specialised in the classics from the offset, and would have learned ancient Greek which would have been infinitely more useful than "an introduction to material culture".

3) Had I been made more aware of just how tricky linguistics are in comparison to the other subjects I would have began working on it a lot earlier.

4) Had the lectures not been 250 miles away, I might have stood a chance of passing my Latin, therefore not being a failure, destined to live in France for the rest of my days: and instead been of service to my country.

Crazy Cat Lady (Loopy Luna)

Dear Diary,

Well well well. Loopy Luna the cRaZy cat lady just called me up. She has apparently taken out a restraining order against me. I am unsure what for. I have done nothing but be nice to her, do her shopping for her, help her out where I can. Seemingly Mike putting his feet up at her house "damaged her table" and that my leaving comment of "maybe go to the shops for once?" upset her a great deal.

Now, Luna gets £200 a week for doing bugger all. Their is nothing wrong with her. All her rent and tax is paid for. I have to scrounge around just to get something to eat, living with the fear of eviction and having all my worldly good seized every day, and she what? She takes out a restraining order against me? What on earth? I mean come on. I know she must work real hard pressing those television remote buttons, and going to the beach party, getting a taxi to cross the street. I know she has a degree (although no-one has actually seen her certificate) and that her harp playing is exquisite (she has not yet begun to tune the instrument).

It is of no account. If I wish to live among such people, whose catch-phrase is "the Romans weren't pagans Max" (she thinks all Romans were Christians) then I will stay here. Likely. Yeah. Sure.

Best gig of the year (50/50)

Dear Diary,

Well, Mike called, he can't give us a lift to the show, so I called my ex "bunny boiler" burd and she said she would give us a lift. Alas, Olly bailed out at the last minute due to nerves. Therefore I am going to bust my ass for Chairlady Mao doing unskilled labour for less than minimum wage, then play the commie café with Olly in the morning, as things stand. I might be able to coax him around, but it is not going to be easy.

In any case, I told him the truth, that if I fail my Uni degree, rather than be given the "wooden spoon prize" without honour, I will leave the country, and never return. I am fed up of begging, busting my ass for bugger all, and playing gigs for $20 for three hours. I have had enough. I just don't care any more.

Best gig of the year upcoming

Dear Diary,

So we have the best gig of the year coming up. I can tell what is going to happen: just like last time we will have to play right next to a very large engine ticking over (which makes a change from the sawmill or metal and hammer sound I usually have to compete with outside the commie café) barely being able to hear myself think. Lots of other musicians will be there, with amplifiers, like last time. Mike will be rude (like last time) and insist on much food and drink (even though he's technically not part of the band) and we will play at about 2 AM when finally the other musicians have finished and we only have the sound of a loud engine to compete with. It will be cold, damp, and I will have to leave little Ronulus at home, in-case I see his former owner (again, just like last time) whom used to beat Ronnie Barker.

I hate my life. Not a day passes where I am not cold, hungry, with the threat of eviction and bailiffs hanging over me like an ice-cold spectral wraith, ready to appear before snatching my very life away.

The Uni result I am still on tender-hooks about and have resolved that if I fail, I will leave the country immediately. The reason being is because I am sick (physically, and have been for the past week, from malnutrition). The best paid gig here pays not even half of the worst paid gig in France. Of course, one can always go begging here, which does wonders for one's self esteem.

Dis Manibus

cum primum manibus celebrabrantur erat quando unus parvus puer habui. in nos pagum habebat illa una fabula antiqui equitis fuit. sed liberi numquam illum animam videbamus.

deinde alterem fabulam nostri magisterem ludi fuerat. iterum pueri numquam videbamus

ita deinceps videbam in verum. in Cambriam fuit, ad antiquam castram. itaque ex quo tempore, quando dormiuit. magnam dominam ambulatur porta lente. valdissime timor habueram. caesiusque paene perlucere fuit.

sicut multi pati habueram.