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.