The big move

Dear Diary,

Shrinks say that moving is the most stressful time of your life. Being a former hobo of over a dozen years I have become quite accustomed to moving, more so than most people. After throwing in the towel at the pizzeria (my leaving statement was written in Latin, and in calligraphy) and after feeling dead inside after being exploited by the Commie cafe for the umpteenth time I have decided to make a big change in my life. Several thousand miles in-fact.

"When you've got nothing, you've got nothing to lose." wrote the great poet and pop-song composer Bob Dylan. I cannot afford the rent, nor to study towards a Master's degree. So, against my late grandmother Diana-Mary's wishes, I have decided to go back to France, so I can make a decent living.

My neighbour and former girlfriend has some inheritance money and is buying a place in France with her father. I will be a musician there, and also work, hard. I am fed up with zero-hour contracts, no breaks, no perks, abysmal wages and slave-labour exploitation down at the cafe. I have had enough. So, that's it. Goodbye.

Changes and hope

Dear Diary,

Well well well. Life's rich tapestry just keeps on getting more colourful. Without wanting to go over the details, for one reason or another, mainly because I made one single teensie-weensie mistake taking orders last night and was scolded for it by my knucklehead idiot boss, that I threw in the towel at Domino's pizzeria. He promoted some young spotty thief to assistant manager, and I cannot accept being ordered around by an arrogant, lazy and incongruously sinister looking youth.

On the other hand: I have an interview with a local Academy as a Latin teacher. This means I will not have to clean the floors, toilets and wash up for a living - if I get the job. Kick ass! Okay, it's not Roman history, which is my specialism, but I don't like Latin, I love Latin. It is a sacred language. It would not hurt to brush up. Things are looking up for Maxy for once. Bye diary, see you soon-ish.

Long time no blog

Ever Dearest Diary,

It has been quite some time since I last wrote to you, dearest Diary. Life has been... quite challenging since last we spoke, and much has happened. I have passed my degree (unfortunately, I did not score as well as my identical twin brother, which means I must now study towards a Master's degree, lest he out-do me, academically). I have a new job, an "illustrious" career working for Domino's pizzeria, which I detest as much as I do busting my ass for the Commies down at the café. I am severely depressed. So much so, that after last week's gig there, I bought some booze and did not even drink it. That is not like me at all. I normally enjoy a nice pint of Belgian ale. Anyhow. If matters are to turn around, it is up to me, and me alone to make it happen.

Father sent me a "letter" yesterday. I say "letter", as in epistle, but it was not a letter. It was an envelope, containing another envelope and some blank paper. There was I, under the mistaken impression that correspondence was a two-way matter. One can see just how "close" I am to either side of my family. This does not help my ever spiralling depression. About the only two good things that have happened is that last night a nineteen year old girl hit on me (yes, I am still Brad Pitt style attractive, even at 38) and this morning, when I went for breakfast and she was sober, she still chatted me up. This does wonders for my ego. The other good thing that has happened is that little Ronulus is doing well, as ever. He is as faithful as Achates (fides sicut Achates) and is studying towards his Master's in Barkaeology.

I went to see Petra yesterday. She is living in Rainbowland. Big-time. Seemingly, the reason the migrant camp at Calais is there is because (and I quote) "long shadows are cast in the desert, weather phenomena in the Mediterranean sea and the 'fact' that nomads such as they have a tendancy to migrate northwards". So, according to Petra war and benefits in the UK have nothing to do with immigration. It is all because of the shadows and the weather. *rolls eyes*. "Come hither landlord, another but of sac for myself and these... learnéd colleagues of mine."

I am debating whether or not to return to work this evening. I missed my shift on Saturday night, which is going to piss the boss right off. Oh well. Not to worry. I will tell the truth: that I was so unwell, I could not even drink or eat anything.

I, fortunately, have the possibility of being a Latin teacher at a local academy. Seemingly they have found no-one else with that skill-set. It would appear that not many Darzet bumpkins understand Latin. Well well well. It looks like things might be looking up for little Maximus and Ronulus, God willing.

Goodbye for a while ever dearest Diary. I will miss you, sincerely.

D-day looms

Dear Diary,

Due to several technical hitches and glitches I am on the back foot with regards to handing my assignment in. Taking strength in adversity I am just about able to get it done thanks to the kindness of my ex-girlfriend (not fair Amanda, sadly). Speaking of which, I passed her and she barely acknowledged my existence, throwing me a look of disdain from her peripheral vision. Fortunately I was reading Polybius in the pub last night after work and was surrounded by several fair-maidens, and so I know at least I can still attract a woman, if I so desire. In any case, it's eyes down, and back to "Operation Kick-Bottom".

The "Torah"

Dear Diary,

The Holy Trinity of sacred tomes have finally arrived. I had the "Bible", and the "Al'Quran" and now I have the "Torah". (That is to say, Blocks 1-6 A340). I am nearly all set for "Operation Lick Bottom" (to paraphrase what is inside the Holy Books in the interest of improvement to the module - and of course to prove that I have understood the material, id est: that I can tow the line). The only difficulty is that the 'puter I borrowed is f- boned. One student has already lost her eyesight as a result of the amount of on-line material on this module (we do not even receive a calendar, nor assignment booklet and sources are certainly out of the question). The University truly is a pale shadow of its former self, but it is not their fault. It is of course as a result of the government's funding cuts in Higher Education, so called "austerity" (which is a bunch of bull-shit). Anyway. I am enjoying the "Torah" because it is superbly well-written and just my cup of tea.

valet.

Stele controversy

Dear Diary,

Between the 3rd and 5th of February this year Charles-Phillip Clarke of Arrowhead Archaeology (along with myself) unearthed five pieces of an inscription from an excavation in 5 High East Street, in Dorchester. Everyone who was involved acted completely unprofessionally. Steve Wallace of the Council stated outright that no funds were available to continue the excavation beyond a short window of three days which we had been allotted. (Interestingly he has enough public funds available to renovate his house). Phil was not paid by the site owner, and I excavated on an empty stomach the entire time. Alas, when Kirsty from the Portable Antiquities Scheme arrived she told me that "I have been trying to get into Britannia for years". Sure enough, today I hear that she has tried to bypass Phil (who is the only person with a proper plan and report from the archaeological site) and get herself into Britannia. I expected this to happen and so emailed them as soon as possible after the excavation was completed (I have not heard back from them). Furthermore, Kirsty told Jackie Triana (the site owner) that "the inscription is worth a lot of money." Jackie is a spitting image of Josiah Bounderby from Dicken's Hard Times. She owns several properties but had the gaul to say to us, "you see these clothes I am in?" (filthy work rags) "they are the best clothes I own." As a result of this wrong appraisal (because the good Doctor assures me that the inscription is worth very little in monetary terms - its true value is in historical worth) that before we could even make a rubbing or draw it properly the pieces were whisked away as if by magic.

It gets worse. When the people from the museum arrived they told me "we will take this off her, and if she squeals we will charge her £500 for the curation." This is tantamount to the mafia. In any case, the most precious jewel of all, as a result of this malpractise, ended up in the right hands. The hands of one more deserving than the selfishness, corruption and sheer egoist unprofessionalism of those involved in the project.

Just how much I miss her

Dear Diary,

I miss her so much, so very much.

It is as though the sun shone on me from both sides at once, then suddenly, dark grey ominous clouds cover all in a stillness borne only of loneliness and a barren forlorn lovelorn wilderness, devoid of comfort.

I miss her smile. When midst the tender throes of love, when her ankles were about my ears and we danced to a silent rhythm that only the soul can hear, all cares and worries faded away. That we shared the most intimate moments together. I held before me her two pure white breasts that were as to me two orbs of radiance that could bestow the greatest pleasure yet cast a man's spirit down to the furthest depths of Hades in sorrow, hopelessness and despair.

Feeling her silken soft smooth thighs was as heavenly as John Donne's poesy. She was as in love with me as I was with her, sparing each and every moment to be together. A kiss as intimate as any French maid, and as relished as any man may feel with the tender touch of tongues, exploring one another's being in the most cherished and loving way possible, between one human being and another.

I miss her silvery cascading laugh as we imparted the most improper words between one another whilst making love. I miss her body so close to mine, around, in each and every way. Feeling. Touching. Grasping for a yearning that is ever fulfilled with the tenderest joy that can exist. I miss the way she danced in the bar. I miss her aplomb. Her knowledge of archaeology. I miss her naughty sensuous way about her as she undressed and I caressed each and every part of her body. I miss her hands running through my hair as we kissed. I miss all of her.

Most of all I miss snugly wrapping one another's arms about each other afterwards, safe in the knowledge that someone adores you as much as you do them. That all problems melted as does ice beneath the morning sun. I miss that sense of security, feeling her chest rise and fall, feeling her breath upon mine, and when the dawn arose, so did we both in the glory of morning love. I miss her, more than anyone else can possibly know.

Not so super Tuesday

Dear Diary,

Alarmingly I read today in the newspaper that voting in the Houses of Parliament will now be done electronically instead of using good old fashioned pen and paper. This is the very moribund of Parliamentary democracy in Great Britain. We now live in a "mal-technocracy". It is not MPs who will now decide on the results of elections but it is now in the hands of computer programmers, who can re-shuffle the outcome of any votes at their whim. Yet why is this so?

I once met a member of the Irish Republican Army (an Irishman, naturally) who held a degree in politics, and he explained to me the history of electronic voting. He told me (from a very well informed perspective) that every single attempt and experiment of electronic voting had failed, systematically, from one thing: tampering. Even the most recent experiment (at that time) was using a sealed black-box (supposedly "tamper proof") that had very simple hard-wired functionality: Yes, No or Abstain. Participants were breaking them open and re-wiring them to swing votes, and the experiment failed miserably. Alas, how much easier is this to do with software? Very easy.

The history of democracy is not traced to pirates (as is written on wikipedia) but harks back to ancient Greece. The term demokratia meaning "rule" (kratos) of the "people" (demos) can be traced to circa 470 Before the Christian Era, possibly to Cleisthenes. The first voting machine to stop corruption was known as the kleroterion. Cicero tells us that the Romans voted standing up while the Greeks voted whilst seated.

The Houses of Parliament were first built circa 1025 of the Christian Era for King Cnut. The ascendancy of the House of Commons came about during the sixteenth century and eventually superseded the House of Lords with the Parliament Acts of 1911 and 1949. More recent amendments of the Lower House have further bypassed the supremacy of the Lords, on technicalities and loopholes.

The House as it stands was completed in 1860, designed by Charles Barry and Augustus Pugin in the Victorian perpendicular Gothic style following the fire that destroyed Westminster in 1834.

Today we witness a thousand years of Parliamentary democracy dealt a fatal blow and consigned to the annuls of history, to be replaced by a new "High Priesthood" - computer experts. He who controls the flow of information (thus the outcome of any vote) will now control the power in Great Britain. This is the end of democracy in Britain, and a sad day for our once mighty nation.

opus magnus

Dear Diary,

It has taken me a little while (four years) to work on a pet-project of mine. It is a play called "Zenobia: Queen of the East" and I have nearly finished writing it. Recently I got in touch with an illustrator who has drawn up a contract, and we are going into business together: 50/50 on all profits. I have decided to unilaterally bypass the publishers completely, and fund the project myself. This is because other authors I have heard of have received very little in the way of returns for getting books into print, mainly because Amazon do not pay royalties, much as Spotify does not. Alas, there will be no digital copies published anywhere on the internet (so nobody can simply print out the work and have it bound themselves). As a result, each copy will be unique. They will be illuminated manuscripts (I will have to write out every single book individually of course, with only the flowers, ivy and vines, letterheads and cherubs being mass produced). Each of the sentences will be written out (in my beautiful handwriting) in a variety of dark colours, greens, violets, dark blue, etc. Each manuscript will have a starting bidding price of around a thousand pounds, and the illustrator has agreed to go halves on all the costs for binding the works. I have found a local book binder and even have a book on how to bind books myself, so as to reduce costs. I shall watch her very carefully as she binds the fist copy, and learn how to do it myself. The first book is actually my translation of Tacitus' Agricola, and the second will be Zenobia. After that I am looking at translating Virgil's Aeneid and also (my favourite) Ovid's Metamorphoses. I will lift myself out of poverty, through hard work and self-reliance.

Discoveries

Dear Diary,

They called me in again last night at Won's Westwon because young Thomas did not turn up for work three days running. Speaking of which, seeing as he lives next door to the Tiger-lady's place I actually saw him run past the shop front during my shift. I immediately informed "our glorious leader" because I felt bad that had expected to not have to work that evening (I thought I would be free to study - my favourite past-time). The Tiger-lady fired Nyah recently for less offenses than this so I think she is going to let Tom go: which means more shifts for me! Excellent.

Wolfae and I fell out again over study. She kept saying that she studies so hard whilst simultaneously giving excuses why she does not study. She is completely deluded. I kept telling her that she is not on level 3, whereas she thinks she is (she is studying at the very first rung: level 1) and she did not take my advice that the learning curve is very very steep. I fear she will not make the grade, because she cannot handle stress and has not the wearwithal, nor the enthusiasm for serious scholarship. I saw her in the supermarket yesterday, she at least waved as I said hello to her, but threw me a dagger-like stare.

I miss my ex girlfriend with each heartbeat, from the moment I awake to the moment I sleep. It as if a gigantic hole has been blown through the centre of my heart. I have been reduced to tears numerous times since the break up and I am very sad indeed. The only good thing is that I have invested these feelings into my poetry, which is a good form of catharsis.

I neglected to mention that I have been involved in an archaeological excavation recently. A stele was unearthed in Durnonovaria and I was called in to try and figure out what it meant. I was unable to (although I had a jolly good try) and instead the good Doctor (my tutor - who is most excellent) was able to decipher the meaning of the inscription. While Charles-Phillip Clarke (the archaeologist) told me to dig in the corner, I kept nagging him to dig near where we found the inscription. Then I unearthed two big pieces of Portland stone. He said, "That's just a bit of rock, there is nothing there". Lo and behold, the moment I unearthed them, more writing was found which meant - with the help of the good Doctor - we were able to read the complete meaning of the piece, which was badly damaged. A few other bits and bobs were found there. I was utterly excluded by all the people involved (people from the Council, and the museum) and as they all stood around talking and taking photographs I had my hands and knees in the dirty (with an empty belly and no pay) doing the real stuff. Luckily I found what is likely a piece of glass (it is some sort of transparent stone) and as a result of my exclusion I am very happy.

A life less ordinary

Ever Dearest Diary,

Today was tutorial day, my favourite day of the month. The good Doctor was most helpful indeed in steering his flock towards greater understanding and better grades. It was a delight to attend tutorials, even if I did miss my new-found friend Brian, another excellent classicist and scholar.

In other news, life has been significantly more than just a little bit topsy-turvy of late. I had a near-miss eviction, made plans to emigrate, but most of all, I fell in love. The fair maiden in question is something of a wild-flower, just beginning to wilt, and has both a fine pair of breasts, and a lovely bottom (she also holds a degree in archaeology, which I find most becoming). Alas, it did not end well at all. This was mainly because she still wanted to be with her boyfriend and me at the same time. Neither the other suitor, nor myself wished this to be so, but the fair lady wanted to "have her cake and eat it". Both cakes. It did not help that when he arrived home from work was precisely the same time I had to go to work. Although worn out, I was sure she would get "back on her knees in no time". It must have been exhausting for her.

A genuine shade of the departed - the suicide soul stealer

This evening I explained my prior experiences to the Tiger-lady and my new colleague at work put his oar in. She was none too impressed with his undoubtedly spurious accounts of so-called "ghosts". He confessed to being both paranoid and under the influence which makes his accounts both implausible and merely delusional. However, when the Tiger-lady asked me earnestly to describe the figure I saw when I was a child she replied, "This, I can believe because I have seen something similar myself when I was only young."

In Guin Lin province in China, near the Lin Hua Doung river about forty years ago this is what happened.

A storm passed over the place and Mrs. Duong was with her two siblings (a niece and and a nephew). She was the oldest and they tried to reach their family home, but the river had flooded. It was midnight and they had to got around to find a place to cross, through the fields away from the small town where they lived. Suddenly she shone the torch and saw something, an apparition, a very well dressed lady, ethereal, in pure white, with no face. When she tried to find the ghostly figure again, she could not. They continued, and there she appeared again, floating along the raging river with her right hand moving in a motion almost as if to catch the white foamy waters. Again and again she kept catching sight of the ghostly lady, but each time Mei tried to focus on her, she disappeared. Alas, they made it home safely.

Later on an elderly lady from the village told them the story of what had happened. The young lady had fallen in love with a local boy whom had broken her heart. She committed suicide in the river. A week later the nephew went to find the ghost and died instantly. "She had taken my nephew's soul" said Mrs. Duong to me, with a sincere intensity in her eyes. Sure enough, after many years had passed and Mei had been living in England, she returned to her family home. Upon her arrival a neighbour said he had seen her nephew. She could not understand this because he had been dead for years. The report was that he was by a glade near the riverside crying with his head in his hands, ethereal as the lady, again with no face and they only recognised him him through his form and gait. The shade had waited for someone to come, claimed his soul, so that she could be released from a state of limbo and eventually pass over to the other side, the afterlife.

Events and happenings

Ever Dearest Diary,

Much has happened since last I wrote to you Diary. The archaeologist is headed for the dry house again. A lady I know gave me permission to excavate on her land - which is thrilling news seeing as a bronze axe head was found nearby.

I went out on the lash the other night and bumped into most of the members of Slabbi and the Storks, a.k.a. "Clam". We ended up in the pub from my novel (Cut Cornerstone) where I was slung out forcefully last Christmas for singing carols there. I told my friends that I am barred from "The Hole" and they said that if they refused to let me in then they would all boycott the place, even though no other pubs were open at that time. I was greatly honoured by this and felt so privileged that my old friends would do that for me. We went inside, I had a quiet word with the landlord, and all was well. I am still never drinking there again as it is "The Hole".

In other news I read in last week's Times (which I only buy for the Latin crossword) that George Lucas did not approve of what Disney had done to his creation (which he was paid four million dollars for). His charge was that he always tried to make new ships, new monsters and come up with new ideas. I decided to go and see for myself, as I am an avid Star Wars fan (not so much as to convert to the popular "Jedi" religion, I might add). I felt George Lucas' accusation was most unfair indeed. I spotted a myriad of new ships and creatures. I love what Disney have done with it, especially the more prominent role that women now play in the story. There were many great British actors and some excellent American ones. The set, costumes, art direction, it was all just fantastic. I have never seen a movie in 3D before and I must say I was mightily impressed as X-wings and TIE-fighters screamed past my face (I got there early to get a front row seat, right in the middle). I was awesome. I intend to ask for a sub at work this evening or perhaps busk up the cash to go and see it again tomorrow afternoon. (It is only running for the next two days here, in 3D, and seeing it in 2D would undoubtedly be a bitter disappointment).

My web connection has been off for the past day which is driving me up the wall. I must learn to chill the flex out about that but it is most frustrating indeed when all I wish to do is study and read the Vulgate. In any case, I must meet the Tiger-Lady and do my duty this evening. A pub down the road is also hiring people so I will pop in there to see if I can find a fourth job (besides being a waiter, resident musician and apprentice archaeologist). Toodle-pip!

Ghost Stories

Dear Diary,

Another classicist mentioned Pliny the Younger as a paranormal investigator it put me in mind of experiences of brushing shoulders with the shades of the departed.

In enumerating such experiences it is difficult to separate fact from fiction, truth from hyperbole, between what is real and what is either delusion or a money-making scheme by the media to gain ratings on television channels.

Second hand experiences are often the most difficult to discern what is reality. I know of a few local legends here that are in our little town. To name but a few their is the ghost of Saint Hilda, just down the road from us, where a young lonely lady topped herself a couple of hundred years ago and is still said to haunt the rafters of the oldest building on Victoria Grove. Symondsbury is also home to ghosts. A friend of mine said he once felt a person touching him in bed, he reached over to reciprocate to what he thought was his girlfriend (who was absent at the time) and felt a shade.

In the very same place, I was once there with my girlfriend at the time. She went to reach for a mug in the sink and we both saw the tap turn on of its own accord. When she withdrew her hand it turned itself off. When she reached for it a second time, it did the same thing. Again, when she recoiled her hand, it switched itself off.

The family connection is also a strong one. I know of a man who when he was given clothes as a hand-me-down from his grandfather, he was instantly transported in his mind to the trenches during the war. It was not a nice experience he said, and now he only wears clothes that are bought brand new as he does not want to experience the sensation of mustard gas any more. Didier said he hardly ever thinks of his grandmother. He was asleep then suddenly awoke with the thought of his grandmother at that precise time. He called her, only to discover that she had died at that very moment. A Columbian guy I met had several experiences like this. When his grandfather died crockery started flying off the shelf, the washing machine turned itself on, all at the same point he had died. My late step-grandma Silvia said she had a similar experience with her husband when he was out motorcross racing in the Dales up north. She sensed something was wrong with him, as he felt him calling out to her for help. She called the race course to see if he was alright. They could find no trace of him. After a search was undergone, it transpired that he had fallen down a ravine and had the medics not reached him at that point, he may well have died. Luckily they managed to get him to hospital and he survived.

As for my own experiences, I have had precious few, but the few I have had have been startling. When I was a boy in the army cadets, I was out in Wales, at Nescliff training camp. During the evening I could not sleep for some reason and just lay there staring at the door. An ethereal lady strolled past very slowly, she was almost transparent, old, light blue in colour. It terrified me. Another time, in Wiltshire I was with a friend and something entered the room. He said to me, "Did you see that?" "See what?" I replied. As I turned my head I saw a small wispy cloud that headed straight for me and went right through me. I was paralysed (temporarily) down one side and felt a ice-cold sensation. It left at that moment.

These are but a few experiences, that I know of, but are the most noteworthy, and deserve to be recorded for posterity.

somnio ignisque volato

in meum somnium de Iessicam rogavero sed illum dicet non amabimus. itaque respondebat sententiarum pro illam pucherissimam feminam habeo mutent in meae poeticaeque fabulae.

proximae rei eram ad litus qui saepe visitabam in somnio meo ibam. in meda nox sine lunam fuit. dui homines alteri cum me, uni inimici magni mali et unus amicus auxilium quod bonum ad me. homo magnus intrabat igniculi tripo videbamus. quando certui incipiebat. statim conor celo propter magnas armas. proximus sol oriens et de caelum machinam volaticam veniebat. in machina duos scelestos et unus gubernator fuerant. conscendebam et volebamus. gubernator mittebatque accipit nuntios ad bonum hominem in terram, sed scelestos gubernator obses capiebatur. post ibamus ad terram firmam ille trucidabat. post multi tumulti duos scelestos et iimus omnes aedificium ruinosum intrabamus. haec multa insectia. dui scelesti alterni necabant

Daughter of the Tiger Lady

Dear Diary,

This evening the Tiger Lady taught me how to make flowers out of radishes. They are as pretty as her fruit of her womb, namely, fair Jessica. I perhaps overstepped the mark this evening, I confess. I wrote her a poem and had a blank Stoic response, namely neither good nor bad. No news is good news I suppose.

In any case, as hungover Alice and feckless Tom fecked around on their phones, doing as little work as possible I did all I could to keep the place running ship-shape and Bristol fashion. I did the work of three. As a result the Tiger-Lady has me covering Tom's shifts. I was most amused when she shouted him from the kitchen as I waited to take out another order, only to have him return empty handed, she then looked me straight in the eye and smiled. She even called him an alcoholic and unreliable. I swear, the boy spent two out of three hours of a shift either on his phone or outside smoking. It is no wonder I have been offered his shifts.

I still should not have written the poem for Jessica. I confess that I find her most attractive indeed. She is twice the woman any of her sisters are, although she doesn't see it. She has an inferiority complex about her older siblings, and I see parts of her in me.

This is the poem I wrote for her, for my sins.

Fair Jessica

She's as honest as the day is long,
Dutiful, conscientious, hard-working,
Whatever she does, she does it well,
So favoured by the gods themselves,
Humble, she shall flourish on any ground,
Intellect: keen as Molossian hounds,
As pretty as a lotus flower,
She could have any man in her power,
So well spoken with a smile like the sun,
In the prime of her life that's just begun,
The world is her oyster, fair Jessica.

M.Latham, 1st of January, 2016.

Apprentice to the Tiger Lady

Dear Diary,

This evening something amazing happened.

The Tiger-Lady agreed to train me how to make lotus flowers and daffodils out of carrots. Tomorrow I will learn how to carve a pink and white rose from a radish. It is uncertain how long this craft has been in China, but it is likely quite an ancient practice. The Tiger-Lady learned it from her husband, and other employees have asked to be able to sculpt these pieces and have been refused. I am indeed most fortunate as these little babies sell for a fiver a go, and if I managed to sell 60 a week to various restaurants, I could make as much as I would in forty hours working as an unskilled labourer.

I consider this a major turning-point in my life and I am extremely grateful for the Tiger-Lady taking me on as her apprentice. I intend to master it (she makes it look so easy, and it is in-fact very difficult to do). Like anything worth doing, it is no cake-walk. This week I shall be ploughing through several bags of carrots in an attempt to get up to her standard. There, at the restaurant, is much to learn. Next I should like her to teach me how to make fishes. I prefer the daffodil to the lotus, it is slightly harder to sculpt but looks much more pretty. Besides, it is my mothers favourite flower. Beyond mere material benefits and making a decent living out of such a skill, it has another benefit as beautiful as the flowers themselves. Say I was at a dinner, much like I was at Christmas this year. I offered to help mother peel the spuds and carrots and did so at break-neck speed, because it has been my living for such a long time now. I could quite easily just chop off a chunk of carrot and carve a beautiful daffodil for my mother. That means so much to me. It is something so simple: to make something really quite beautiful out of something banal and ugly looking.

In all my life I have only seen one other work of art similar. In Switzerland they make musical instruments made out of carrots, recorders and piccolos. They play well, and of course, after the session they eat them.

Of all the things I have done in my life, I am most proud of being her apprentice, more so than passing A397, more so than mastering the pianoforte or the guitar. Honest labour teaches us all things. I am beaming with pride today.

Auld Lang Syne?

Dear Diary,

It was busy in the restaurant yesterday, we were rushed off our feet. It was like another chimps' tea-party again, the milling masses queuing up to take their turn at the trough, reminding me that there were not enough ribs, or satay chicken or pancakes. I really must upgrade in the job department, it's almost depressing.

Afterwards I went to the battery farm drinkers, as per usual. Bridport is wild at New Year. I was one of the few people not dressed up and was collared by a couple of stray cats, Becky and Jenny, who I had never met before. They were brunettes in their mid-thirties, it was nice actually, being asked to go to another bar, one that I have not stepped in since I was in a slight... altercation some years ago. I finally grew a pair of bollocks, and acted as a Roman. Plenty of people knew me there, the owner (who I used to work for as a resident musician), lots of familiar faces. It was nice actually. Again many people were dressed up.

This guy I know wanted to strip off butt-naked at new year, he ended up getting arrested of course. Nutter. I got so drunk it is hazy what happened next, I remember meeting some more women in fancy dress. It was a nice new year. It's just a shame nobody sang Auld Lang Syne. That used to be traditional, and now seems to have faded from memory.