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.