The absence of humanity and (also) an offer of work

Dear Diary,

It was very busy at that... place tonight. Naturally, I am reduced to doing only the most menial, slavish tasks imaginable, because, well, that's what happens in Dark Age Britain when you hold a master's degree in classical Latin. My boss (the one banging Captain Bligh) was very stressed out, as per usual (the girl does not handle pressure well, at all) and amidst all the yelling, the barking of orders, slamming things down, throwing things around (which the customers noticed, naturally) there was one rather tragic little case. A young boy had called up and ordered to a place without an address. In my haste I made a mistake (the system is not discerning enough to differentiate between someone ordering for collection and for delivery). I had tapped the wrong button, so put in the 'address' (which was a field in a village) but had accidentally flagged it for collection, not delivery. About an hour or so later we received a call from the boy's mother, asking where the food was. I assured her it would be there soon (not noticing that I had incidentally pressed 'collection'). Later on the boy's mother called again, and the mistake was noticed. I assured her that it was my mistake and that the store would refund the boy his money. The angry girl sharply barked at me that there would be no refund, and that I was to call the customer, explain my mistake and insist that they collect the food instead. I tried to explain that it was a child that had ordered, and that the boy lives some two hours walk away (it was pouring with rain). The little tyrant insisted, so, I called the boy, explained myself, and offered a sincere apology, but had to explain that there would be no refund. The little boy was almost in tears. I then had to say that he has to come to the store to pick up the food. Some five minutes or so later the phone rang again. This time the tyrant answered it, immediately backed down, and offered a full refund.

There were other problems too. I noticed when the two were in the chiller, Bligh said to the little tyrant, "Why you throwing things?" (As I said, she does not handle pressure well, at all). I was then asked, later, once I had changed the bins and done the washing up, to make food. The poisoned dwarf ("the merciless" as she's known), the sister of the little tyrant, and the little tyrant herself were sharp with me, uncouth, impolite. (They then laughed at me, lording it over me). I said to the tyrant, "You need to calm down. The pair of you." She didn't like that at all. I heard her out back, complaining to Bligh and the older brute, that I had been impolite. I defended myself, saying that I had not been impolite at all, but all I said was that she needed to calm down. At this point the little tyrant had a full blown hysterical fit, and was ultimately reduced to tears (Bligh himself could see that she was being most unreasonable). I was forced to apologise, which I did. I can't stand that bloody place.

Moreover, I have just received my first offer of a commissioned Latin translation. It is a sacred text. It is, however, a short term goal (being only a lump sum payment, when I could earn more, potentially, by releasing a book of it - it not being available to those that do not understand Latin). I shall do both - take the commission, and also release it as a book (except my version will have an in depth scholarly commentary, being well versed in Latin, having read many of the church fathers, and coming from an excellent scholarly background). This gives me a ray of hope in an otherwise hopeless situation. Why? Because, well, that's what you do with a master's degree in classical Latin in Dark Age Britain: slavery.

My day off - the gig - and a book (or two...)

Dear Diary,

I limited myself to just over two hundred quid on books this month. There are so many more volumes I wish I could buy, but one particular tome merits special attention. It is A.E. Douglas' critical edition of Cicero's Brutus. Long since out of print, this gorgeous little Oxford 'Red' weighed in at a £100 (and even that's a bargain). Which means there are comparatively few Oxford Critical editions that I do not yet own. Of all the books I own, these take pride of place upon my shelf (with the exception of Cambridge University's Greek and Latin Classics - again critical editions and commentaries). None of these books are less than an arm's reach upon my not inconsiderable shelves. Each book is placed in order of its importance to my current workload. So, at the moment, I have (almost) everything on law within reach. There are some books which are a shelf or two away, but most of the important ones are to hand (namely Cicero, Demosthenes, Lysias, Isocrates, and as from today: Isaeus - not forgetting the frivolous modern law books, which are, in truth, more important). However, I am firmly a classicist, not a lawyer. I am still in two minds about 'investing' (throwing money down the drain?) in my education.

Can one justify spending so much on yet another degree, when the first two have led me absolutely nowhere but in debt? I remember the words of Albert Pike (quoted by Manly Hall), when he refused an honourary degree from a University. "When I came in need of an education, you could not provide one. Now I am no longer in need of an education, I respectfully decline."

Today, I had fully intended to rant about my workplace, how the brutes from foreign climes keep the food in bags, going cold for half an hour, more, then the customer rings up complaining it's cold. (This is due to impatience, and wanting to save an extra 30 seconds on delivery time, Captain Bligh loses the customer because the food is already cold before it's been sent out - such is Dark Age Britain, when uneducated thugs, scarcely out of the trees, rule the roost, where education, intellect, compassion mean nothing). Instead, I thought I would talk about books (my favourite subject).

Oh, and there was the frivolous and trifling matter of my day off. As surely as Helios traversed his nadir, led by the chariot which orbits Nerthus, the World, we were bang on it, ready to rock. I could have perhaps been more moderate, and have maybe should have been, but it was my day off: I intended to have a jolly good time. The luthier was there, and I appreciated him defending me when some unkempt fellow railed against me (who is not necessarily a bad man, just a tad to harsh). Then came the whisky and the rum and the Belgian ale (and the rest...). Before long I had trouble getting to the gig. The luthier even refused me entrance into his house, because I was so inebriated. Still I staggered on, like Leonardo di Caprio's character in The Wolf of Wall Street, "Yes, I can crawl, like Skyler". In any case, I was sufficiently cognisant to make it to the gig (just), motor functions notwithstanding. Fortunately, I had enough sense to only order halfs at the bar, and only light ale. It was a good night. I met some interesting musicians, some of whom I had met earlier in the day. Just before I went into work today I happened to pass another guy that was there. He really liked the music I played. It's a good feeling.

A new member in the Big Brother household

Dear Diary,

Tomorrow brings some good news. For one, it's my day off, and it's the local music get together. This means getting inebriated and having a good time, which is surely a good thing. I should be working on learning how to program, put some books up there, and work towards becoming more than a mere slave to Captain Bligh and the adolescent Lilliputians. Yet what for? I have lost all motivation to be anything other than a slave. Why? Because after a dozen years of trying to better myself, I have ended up right back where I was when I was only 14 years old. I have nothing to live for, so why try at all?

It says more about this country than it does about me.

Tomorrow, instead of working, I shall play piano, get pretty tight (as Sea Sick Steve terms it), and then go play some guitar.

I heard today that a former lodger is returning to the Big Brother household. He describes himself as 'a Christian hermeticist', which is alright by me. (At the very least, he is cognisant of the laws of God). Stalin is content because at least game-night will have a third player.

In other news, I have been typing up my hand written notes to my translation of the Corpus Hermeticum. These are important because should I lose this particular book then I lose years of work and research. It also has the makings of a new book, a commentary on the Corpus.

Having been remunerated for my servile labour recently, I ordered a couple of hundred bucks worth of books today. One book was priced at £100 (an Oxford University critical edition of Cicero's Brutus). It's pretty cool. I perhaps shouldn't spend so much on books, but there is no price on knowledge and divine wisdom (even if such things are deemed to be worthless, much like education is, in this country at least). We never stop learning. Life (and indeed future lives) is a great school. We are part of a vast pattern, a design which is not ordinarily discernible, except through glimpses, visions, like shadows cast from moonlight.

There is one more thing which is noteworthy, Dear Diary. I come to realise, finally, that my addiction to education and book learning must be curtailed. I cannot justify spending £3,500 a year on education when it has led me absolutely nowhere thus far. Therefore I have decided (perhaps against my better judgement) to not study a degree in law. I already hold two degrees, so what's the point in paying shed-loads of cash I don't have only to end up in precisely the same place I was when I was 14 years old? (As I said: education has no meaning here, it has no significance, no application: this is not Renaissance Italy, when classical education actually meant something, nor is this the heyday of ancient Rome, when an educated slave was worth more than an uneducated one). This is Dark Age Britain. Educated. Uneducated. Talented. Talentless. Honest. Dishonest. None of these things make any difference here. These, are the Dark Ages (and anyone that thinks otherwise is merely deluding themselves, and instead of accepting reality for how it is, makes it up as they go along).

An unexpected surprise

Dear Diary,

Something unusual happened today. For a long time now I had assumed that the old upright piano at the market was lost, gone, never to be played again. Seemingly, against my supposition, the old upright had been for repair. When I graced the little shambles with my presence today (little Ronulus Latrator in tow, for he had an appointment with the vetinary surgeons) it was in a much better state of repair. The key which always went out (a middle 'G') had been repaired and it seemed as though the piano was in tune. I had gone into town to get a haircut and a shave (as well as my top priority of making sure little Ronnie Barker was healed at the vets) but soon enough I was lost in a whirlwind of sound, a melodious and most sonorous tinkle of the ivories. God bless the custodian of the market, for he had ensured that this upright was in good working order.

I used to have a piano, for a time, and it was my pride and joy, more so than any mere floosie, and just as much as my faithful Cantab' terrier. Now, I have no piano. Like a knight without his sword, I have only Saint Lilian, my classical guitar, and Gertrude, my slide guitar (as well as one or two other instruments, none of which are in working order). So, I sat at the entrance of the market and played and sung my heart out. Many onlookers were impressed, filming me as I was rusty on the keys (for I have no working piano at home to practise on). Some (including the luthier...) poked their heads around the corner in wonder and awe, but upon seeing whom it was that was making such a harmonious sound, rapidly dismissed it, with a "it's only him.". This is of no consequence. The luthier, while talented, is merely a drummer (therefore of limited use, though useful he be).

Then came the work shift at that... place, with those... people. My immediate boss was in her usual humour, calling people 'pooh face', and 'grandma's ****' and 'sugar tits' (to a male member of staff, somewhere between Viz's Farmer Palmer and Jethro). This is the young lady that when asked, "Who was Ghandi" replied, "He's the President of Africa." She is supposed to be a student of leisure and tourism, yet could not differentiate between Africa as a continent and a country, much less identify India as a nation. These are my 'learned' colleagues. Then there was Bligh himself, hard on me, but at the same time amicable at times. It is nothing short of hell on earth, but that's okay. Holding a master's degree in classical Latin and being enslaved (doing unskilled labour for minimum wage) says more about this so-called country, than it does about me. This is not, after all, the heyday of Cosimo de' Medici. It's Dark Age Britain. That's what happens when you spend a dozen years studying Latin in Dark Age Britain: nothing. Nothing, that is, except fifteen grand worth of debt, not to mention being extremely marginalised for taking an interest in reading books.

Won't Get Fooled Again (Old boss: same as the new boss)

Dear Diary,

As I arrived at that... place, the little Lilliputian turned up. I offered her a sincere compliment - that she tans well. I had fallen asleep in the blazing hot sun, and was all pink. Her, being of Malay extraction, has good skin, she tans well. The moment I went inside the Lilliputian complained to her sister (the one that is banging Captain Bligh) that I had commented on her skin colour. Excuse me? This is the very same person that concocted a false story that I was a racist, when my daughter is Jewish and my best friend is from Tunisia. (Incidentally, that very same night, I was burned by two hot pans. I now have a permanent mark as a reminder of that night. The Lilliputian was revealed for what she is: a liar and a stirrer. The truth came out.). As a result I now have what one friend calls "a badge of office" - two burn marks, forever on my arm. I was thinking to myself tonight, like in that movie with Colin Farrell and Sam Rockwell, "She's a f-ing bitch." "She's not a f-ing bitch. She's just got issues." "Yeah she's got issues, called being a f-ing bitch issues!".

Now, I discover, it is not the simpleton from the village that is to be promoted, but the Lilliputian, the poisoned dwarf, aka 'The Butcher', aka 'The Baker' aka 'The Candle-stick maker'. She's a f-ing bitch, whichever way you cut it. Her name at school (remember, she is only 17) is "Ming the Merciless" Why? Because, (1) she's butt ugly, and (2) she is devoid of any feelings of compassion.

Mark my words well. If you study Latin and ancient Greek at university, especially to master's level, in Dark Age Britain, this is what happens to you. The British are nothing like the French. When the French say they'll offer you a job, they actually mean it.

A "holiday"

Dear Diary,

After the draft of oompa loompas and Lilliputians at that... place, I was sent away for a week, on "holiday" (even though I'm skint). I return to that... place today. During this week I could have accomplished more. I learnt a little ancient Greek (translated a little Aristotle). Did some reading (classics, naturally). Wrote a little. Did a little editing. I have accomplished none of the objectives I set out to finish. Namely, actually publishing a book - which means firing up the older computer and coding. There is also a book I should have edited, but much of it is missing, so that can wait until I have the full text.

Being poor is okay. This is, after all, Dark Age Britain. It is not a country where education actually means anything. It is a place for poor people, beggars, slaves. It will take much not to simply walk out this evening at that... place. I dislike my boss very much. Home "educated" (id est: completely uneducated). Seventeen years old. Fat. Slow. A brown noser. Until I can get over this psychological block I've got for programming, I am stuck here. So, I guess I'll just have to suck it up. Would that I lived in ancient Rome! (Where an educated slave was worth more than an uneducated slave: whereas here, in Dark Age Britain, the opposite is true).

A ruby amid the dust (a beautiful woman).

Dear Diary,

There was some sort of gathering today, laid on by the township. It was also the luthier's birthday so I felt it was my duty to attend. I met a most magnificent woman, my age, a fellow dog lover, and she is in any and all respects much like myself: deeply lonely, eccentric, a great dancer, a lover of fine wine, a parent (with children about the age of mine own) and more importantly, a broad minded person, spiritually. It would be no great exaggeration to say that I have fallen in love with her, and perhaps - God willing - her with I.

Another, younger, yet not leastways unattractive young lady approached me and came between us during the festivities. I ignored her, completely, and offered the lady mine own age a drink. (When one courts a woman, there can be not even the slightest hint of another woman present: one must make her feel like she is the only woman in the world, which she is, to all intents and purposes). The lady in question is a furniture restorer, so much so that she now teaches other furniture restorers their craft. I love her, very much. She has hair as dappled with grey as mine own, peppered with a like, venerable touch. She is deeply lonely, and yearns for a man's touch. From her own testimony, I would do my best to reassure her, and make advances on less than honourable motives. Likewise, she reciprocated, and our touches were not unlike a young couple courting for the first time. Alas, it is not like this. She is confident, my age, having had relationships with many a man. Even so, I shall persue her as best I can (so long as she does not spurn my attentions, like Actaeon before Diana). When things reached fever pitch (the very summa or height of drunkeness, I told her as much). I said, "You are the most magnificent woman in the world. I love you." In truth, this is actually how I felt about her, and indeed feel about her. Her haunches are round. Her breasts: fine, well formed, a magnet for any many with a pulse. She dances well, is well spoken, hard working, and thus has all the qualities in a woman that I look for. Who would spurn a young mid-twenties blond in exchange for such a lady? Myself. I would sooner court her, as a gentleman, than have some meaningless fling with some blond bimbo.

Jo likes dogs and horses (exactly as I do). She is hard working, well spoken, bright, familial. I feel we may make a good match, maybe, God willing.