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.