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.