I awoke to the sound of an alarm going off, then the sound of sirens. My neighbour opposite, their house was on fire. There were people standing out in the street as the Fire Brigade came and put it out. I even got Stalin up (he usually gets up first thing, and I mean first thing in the afternoon). Seemingly, from the evidence it seems as though the cause of the conflagration was a faulty refidgerator. The back of it was all scorched. Had it not been the 'fridge, surely the front or sides would have had scorch marks on them. The man that lives there works at a recycling plant. One supposes that it may be the case that the 'fridge was reclaimed, maybe, though this is merely hearsay, and there is no substantive evidence of this. The two may not be connected.
I also received a message from an old friend. This man is an absolute liability. He is rarely found with his clothes on. He is larger than life (in personality, not... that). A very charismatic man, the life and soul of the party, great fun. However, he does drink too much, and is not careful about how he goes about his life. Ever since I have known him he has always kept it together enough to have a full time job and an apartment. Since then he has been living in a van with a Canadian girlfriend. Now, she's left him, and he has no vehicle to live in any more. (He also steals from shops sometimes, which is a most unbecoming and ungentlemanly trait which I cannot abide, at all). He is, however, a most gifted percussionist. As it happens, he's now begging for pennies with his electric guitar (the man is a very average guitar player, and not a great singer). I am awaiting a call from him. I should imagine that life is not easy for him, out in the mountains. It's freezing there. The one bar that did used to book us regularly recently closed, so I should imagine that it will be difficult for him to get any gigs (hence why he's busking). I cannot help but pity him. I confided in him, that I loathe my 'life' which I do, and how I only stayed here, and not in France, because the British offered me skilled work (which they did not make good on their offer). I did not tell him the other reason, which is that when my grandmother Diana passed over to the other side (not France, to the Afterlife), she came to me as a spirit, when I was working in Didier's loft, doing carpentry. Her spirit said, "What are you doing working for the bloody Frogs! You should be back in England!" I called home, and sure enough heard the news that my grandmother had just passed away that day.
I am still persevering with this not-so secret translation. It's not an easy text to translate. It appears to be from late antiquity or early medieval Latin, from the style of Latin it is written in. I cannot date it with any precision, and available literature on the topic is thin on the ground. I have translated many works now. The most difficult (besides Tacitus) include: philosophical works (which can seem to make no sense sometimes), a dream diary (Aelius Aristides) and other bizarre works. This one is really weird. It is all about symbols, spirits of the stars, strange concordances in the heavens. I actually love it, but it is not... the easiest work to translate, and not just because the vocabulary is rare in places, but because of its content. Right, it's my one day off work, so I must get back to work.
Max.
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