A few days off

Dear Diary,

Bligh permitted me two days off. I should have been more productive, but I am a little under the weather. Love-sick, actually. I miss Sue so much it hurts. I shouldn't. It's ridiculous, crazy, stupid, daft, yet I sit or lie and stare at the wall for hours, or cuddle little Ronulus for comfort (he's a good boy, best dog in the world). I have gotten nothing done except watch House of Cards and the 1975 movie Jaws (yet again). It's not even the fact that I am extremely poor (that is perfectly normal: being hard working and well educated means enduring extreme poverty in this country: this is not Elizabethan England or the Italian Renaissance, evidently. It's Dark Age Britain). I'm from England, therefore I am accustomed to always being poor.

I have the best laid plans, several books, translations, but find myself driven to distraction. I should do more with my day off. I could learn some more ancient Greek, translate some more Latin, do some editing work, write a book, compose some poetry, play a little guitar, but I do not. I sit and postpone, and procrastinate, because I am depressed - if I am honest.

On a lighter note, the Lilliputian has been granted a week's shore leave from the Bounty recently. This is because she turns 18 soon. We were all so proud of her when she reached double figures, and now she'll be a proper adult, so can stay for closing the shop (previously for insurance purposes she could not stay late). This is my boss. This is England. Age. Experience. Talent. Education. These things mean nothing here.

Yesterday, for example, a customer complained that their meal was a mess. It was already a mess even before it had been put in the boxes. This is because, as Adam Smith said in his Enquiry into the Wealth of Nations, if a bar is bent, bending it back too far the other way does not make it straight again. One customer, about a year ago, said there was not enough sauce on their meal. As a result, Bligh and the crew of the Bounty (my 'superiors': the cast of William Golding's Lord of the Flies) always put too much sauce on this particular meal, ruining it, each time. There is no listening to the well educated, the intelligent, the learned, the wise, the experienced, the older man (yours truly). They do not have the ability to reason, these uneducated brutes, these... people. Therefore, every meal of this type is always smothered in too much sauce. Likewise, the air con' still makes half the food go out cold. I have tried explaining this to Bligh, but all I get in return is his usual self, "You want a slap?".

ζηλοῦσ᾽ ἄταν διὰ παν-
τὸς δυσδαίμον᾽: ἐν γὰρ ἀνάγ-
καις οὐ κάμνεις σύντροφος ὤν.
μεταβάλλει δυσδαιμονία:
τὸ δὲ μετ᾽ εὐτυχίας κακοῦ-
σθαι θνατοῖς βαρὺς αἰών.

Happy are those who never knew
gladness, whose birth embraced misfortune,
steeling their souls to endure adversity -
my still-remembering heart envies stubborn will!
From joy to tears - this cruel exchange
weighs down the mortal spirit with long despair.

Euripides, Iphigenia in Tauris 1117-1123 (trans. Philip Vellacott).

A surprise evening, a promotion and Bligh on shore-leave

Dear Diary,

It seems that I must endure the injurious Captain Bligh, the crew of the Bounty: the cast of William Golding’s Lord of the Flies. This evening’s duty will be a long one, and I shall not leave until the last pan is washed, the final bin taken out and the last sections of the sable soaked floor well swept and mopped. It shall likely be the Witching Hour before I am relieved of my ‘illustrious’ duties as an unskilled labourer: twelve years of university studying Latin and ancient Greek well spent! (£15,000 worth of debt incurred well spent: let the State foot the bill, as it is absolutely certain I will never amount to anything more than the lowest most basest slave that ever subsisted in this once great nation).

I have been reading about the (current) War. It is evident that the Russian Premiere has read his Homer (shown by the Oliver Stone interview). I too, am revisiting Homer's Iliad (trans. Stephen Mitchell). I suspect that the Premiere has also read Machiavelli’s The Prince, looking at the areas which have been attacked.

Bligh supports the Russian Premiere, and indeed the Chinese (his home nation is closer to the Kremlin than most EU countries: ruled by a dictator, whom Bligh also supports). I find it curious that Bligh believes that the Russian Premiere’s invasion (or ‘special military operation’ depending on your perspective) was successful after only a few days. Bligh believes that the news is fake. Others near here, too (both further to the right than the most dyed in the wool Conservative) also believe that Russia’s action is somehow justified. It is crazy. The whole thing: madness. Famine. War. Poverty. A world turned upside down. According to one ardent spiritual seeker, even the very heads of the Earth Zone were appalled at how mankind could be so cruel to itself during the Trojan War.

I must away to man the Bounty, returning to my duties as a galley slave under the command of the uneducated simpleton from the village. This, this, is Dark Age Britain, 2022. Not empty rhetoric from spinning politicians, nor sensationalism from the media, but the actual reality of what is going on, here, now, for those hard working, well educated, talented, honest, compassionate and kind souls that subsist in this once proud and glorious nation: now reduced to a country of slaves and criminals.

Well, that went well (sincerely). Bligh is off on shore-leave with his Tahitian concubine, there is a meeting of the village elders, with flower necklaces, dancing, drums, and of course, negotiating for bread-fruit. As a result, a somewhat calmer and more even minded member of staff was in charge (naturally, half my age, of course, and also from the same country, of course - in Eastern Europe). There is also a young Romanian lady that has recently joined. Her English isn’t great (but that’s a positive advantage here in Dark Age Britain). She has risen the ranks quickly (again, half my age), and credit where credit’s due: she is good at her job. Efficient. Utterly humourless. Works hard. I guess that the Lilliputian and the simpleton from the village are on a par with her, in terms of the pecking order (id est: above myself, the basest most worthless slave in this whole wretched country. Naturally, I am a native born Englishman, hard working, honest, well educated, well spoken, polite, courteous, kind, mindful: therefore I am the lowest in status. This is, after all, not Elizabethan England or the Italian Renaissance: it’s Dark Age Britain. Education and polite accomplishments mean nothing here, most of all being honest and kindhearted: those traits are to your detriment here, in this country).

The simpleton from the village spent much of this evening making the sound of a duck. Ahh, yes, my "learned" colleague, and my well-heeled "superiors" (though in truth, they are superior to me, in every respect: despite the fact that they are mean, base, uneducated, uncouth and really very stupid: this is not, after all, Elizabethan England...).

Yet now, I am permitted a few hours respite, a glass of fine red wine (for I’ve started drinking again: I just don’t care any more - live? For what? Why? There’s nothing to live for, so why not drink?). After a mellow glass of ruby-red plum and rum 19 crimes, morale is high, even if productivity is low. After all, there is always House of Cards to watch, of which, I am into season 5 already.

Hades (the Infernal Regions)

Dear Diary,

The simpleton from the village was made up the other day. His brown-nosing, tyrannical seventeen year old self was so very chuffed and self-satisfied that he'd already got the job at his local supermarket. It turned out they didn't want him, so he tried to sully my character by attacking me today. His nickname, among the less educated and eastern European branch of the service - those in charge: those uneducated, brutish-thugs that are immigrants is '"Speedy" Gonzalez', because he's idle, slow, and doesn't measure up. He came down on me like a tonne of bricks today over nothing, dragging my life into the mix. I thought to myself, "My life?" Mister been in the same little provincial backwater all his life is only scarcely seventeen, thinks he knows everything and was home "educated". No no no no no. This is Hades, Tartarus. It is as far from the Earth as Heaven is from our own patch of the universe (Homer, Iliad 8.16) "as far below Hades as heaven is above earth" (trans. Mitchell, 2012, p.123 [Weidenfeld and Nicolson]). This is my learned, experienced, well-read, well-bred, so very well educated "superior". It occured to me how this may be the "order" in Hades. In Hades, the realm of Pluto and Persephone, the least competant, the least well educated, the least kind, the least mindful, the least benevolent, the least capable, are all appointed positions of authority. It is exactly like Dark Age Britain. Choose the most crossed in-bred gypsies, the most brown-nosers, with no moral worth, whatsoever, and put them in positions of authority. There is no thought for patriotism, honesty, virtue, education, experience, kindess, piety, good-will, good character: none of those traits mean anything here, in this country. I am 44. I hold two degrees, including a master's in classical Latin. I have a daughter of 21. My boss is seventeen. Is this right? No, of course not: it's Dark Age Britain. It is Hades, chaos, out of order. The chimps' tea party.

Rare books and two essays on serpents in the ancient world

Dear Diary,

I was going to write a little essay for the new-start up Academy, and instead of writing a couple of thousand words, its developed into a whole dissertation-style paper.

The first thing which struck me was that there is just simply too much material to handle in one short essay, so I thought I'd trim it down by breaking the essay up into two roughly distinct time periods: archaic Greek/Greece and later Latin/Rome (specifically later imperial Rome). This has proved problematic, because many of the sources (such as Horapollo, Eusebius, Plutarch and Macrobius) are much later, but relate directly to the subject matter at hand. It's a pain in the backside, but I read other classicists' works, often, and many notable classicists tend to be selective in their sources, trying their best to draw only from sources which are from a similar point in time. My former tutor (the last one I studied under) emphasised this point, and it's an important point. Although it tends to constrain and shackle the classicist, it also makes good sense.

So, I've decided to revisit the great authors of ancient Athens during its heyday, the immortal three tragedians: Euripides, Sophocles and Aeschylus. There is a lot of good material here to dredge up for the essay. One lead leads to another lead. I no longer have access to the University's database, but, I do, however, have shed loads of primary sources, quite often commentaries and critical editions. In fact, I went out of my way to prioritise buying Oxford 'Reds', only because they are out of print. (I also like the Cambridge Greek and Latin Classics - but they are still in print). So, I'm reading one play (Aeschylus, Choephori). I only have Aeschylus' Agamemnon in the Oxford 'Reds', but I did notice while reading Aeschylus that Orestes features prominently in Choephori, so I decided to read Euripides' Orestes. In it, I noticed a mention of the serpent I was researching, so I immediately reached across to read what it said in my Oxford 'Red' of Orestes, this led me to other Oxford 'Reds', all of which I own, and therein were some important observations, directly relevant to my little essay. It even mentioned a fragment of Sestichorus (which I happen to also own a copy of, albeit only in translation this time).

I was beginning to regret prioritising buying seemingly irrelevant books while still an undergraduate. Indeed, after later buying an Oxford 'Blue' (only a translation: Harrison, Hilton and Hunink, Apuleius' Rhetorical works) and deeply regretting not having read this edition before writing my final dissertation, I take comfort in the fact that I whipped these out of print Oxford Reds up. The M.A. was just two semesters, but these out of print critical editions are for life. In print books, yes yes yes, one can always buy and replace them, but not out of print university level commentaries for serious classicists, hard core. I have so many books now, that it is almost like Frank Langella's character in Roman Polanski's movie The Ninth Gate:

"You'll never see as many books on the subject anywhere else in the world. They're the rarest, the choicest editions in existence. It's taken me a lifetime to assemble them."

Several of the books mentioned above weigh in at a £100 starting price. Yes, there are many more rarer and more expensive books, antiques, and certainly I'm no hot-shot movie-star or lawyer, but £100-200 a book is a hefty price tag for a guy that sweeps up, does dishes and takes out the trash every night for minimum wage. Because, well, that's what you do with a master's degree in classical Latin and ancient Greek in Dark Age Britain. This is not Elizabethan England or the Italian Renaissance, evidently.

Down the demeaning rabbit hole (once more)

Dear Diary,

Bligh was his usual chipper self, threatening the crew with slaps, the lash and humilitation, the uneducated brute that he is. It is half in jest, much like Tommy DeVito (Joe Pesci's character) in Martin Scorses's 1990 movie Goodfellas - which is one of his favourite scenes.

As presaged by the immortal gods, particularly the foresighted Apollo, this evening was full of animal noises, juvenile dictators and chimps in charge of their own tea party. In this country, the lunatics most certainly run the asylum, you can be absolutely sure about that. Education. Intellect. Talent. Good character. None of those things mean anything here, in this country (though Britain is certainly very good at pretending that it is some kind of "meritocracy", most especially through the propaganda of the BBC!).

I have not been myself lately. I have been mooning over this woman. I don't even know why. Sure, she's bright, adventurous, well educated, well mannered, from good family, and she is well endowed with womanly virtues: both of them. I have been staring at the wall for hours on end, lost, forlorn, like some stray puppy, baying for his master. She is my closest confidant, and also my best friend. Today, according to her testimony, one of her house-"mates" stole all three of her degree certificates. They will cost her £150 to replace. If true (and I cannot substantiate the allegation - one way or another), then this is a low, spiteful, petty thing to do. The chances are they may just be packed up with all her belongings. (She's being turfed out because she helped a friend, a compatriot from Carthage, when he was about to become homeless, by letting him stay at her place). On the other hand, her testimony may well be true. This woman is very organised. If even one single item is out of place in her home, she goes ballistic. (I hear, much like American women: they want everything in their proper place and become neurotic or hysterical if things are not just as they want them to be). In spite of her foibles, and our rocky "relationship", I still miss her so much it hurts. I can get nothing done.

In other news, the house here just got Netflix so I am watching all of House of Cards again. It's the only show I watch (apart from Britannia). I would get on with work or study or translation. But, for what? For nothing, is the answer. Just like 12 years of studying Latin and ancient Greek: for nothing. Would that I lived in a civilised country, and not one populated by beggars, paupers and slaves, where education, talent, being honest, a decent human being, actually meant something. But I don't. I subsist in Dark Age Britain.

Back to work (Hades)

Dear Diary,

Needless to say that once enraptured by the Elysian plains, an inversion of the opening line of Seneca's Thyestes, "Who pulls me down from Elysian plains?", down on holiday to Cornwall with a fair maiden (mid thirties, well travelled, well educated and really quite belle). After the venture, I was cast down into the infernal regions, like bright Lucifer before his Fall of Man. It was his pride: the unmaker or undoer of the Light-Bringer. Alas, there did I dwell, among the shades of the departed in that... place. Tartarus. Hades. (The fast food joint I work at). There, my seventeen year old boss, remarking on how I was one minute late, the simpleton from the village, or as the French say: le vilain petit canard. His speech impediment and lack of even the most rudimentary formal education made for a kind of Dickensian Sleary.

Bligh was his usual 'cordial' self, threatning to sometimes thrash the crew (and sometimes doing it). Bligh's "magic trick" today comprised of grabbing another member of staff (a subordinate) and saying, "Hey Max! You want to see magic trick, Yes? [Something in Russian]" then doing a kind of Karate style nerve pinch to completely paralyse the poor young girl (this is "the Merciless", the Lilliputian, the little oompa loompa dictator, another only seventeen year old so-called "superior" [manager - above me in the pecking order in the store]. Her name is otherwise known as "the Butcher" (aka The Baker, aka The Candlestick-Maker). Anyway.

Then there's the biggest loud-mouth of all, Bligh's burd. To be fair, she's not yelled at anyone recently. She just threw things and banged pans really hard against the counter when the pressure was on (because she's young, and flips out all the time). It's an attention seeking thing, another diminutive Pol Pot, a tin pot dictator.

I find it conspicious that after I had returned from holidaying in Cornwall "The Wild One" is no longer there. To my way of thinking, she may have just overstepped the mark (either by saying something inappropriate or offensive or rude - which, to be fair would be something she would do quite often normally), or, more likely, because she may have been somewhat light fingered (which they have turned a blind eye to, up until perhaps recently). Anyway. We'll have to see, and suspend judgement until all the facts are in.

Since getting Netflix in the house, I haven't got anything done. I've taken two days off, and perhaps jotted down a few notes on Tibetan Buddhist texts and also an Vedic primary source, from ancient India. Anyhow. I'm watching House of Cards (from Season Two - the American version, which is just as good as the excellent British version starring Ian Richardson as "F.U."). It is my favourite show (and besides Britannia the only show I watch). Mini-series', small time productions I don't usually watch, only big-budget movies mainly.

The holiday

Venus and Mars go on holiday...

Dear Diary,

Bligh wasn't in tonight, but the somewhat more benevolent, if just as equally ignorant (academically speaking) older brute was in charge of the Bounty this evening. Naturally, the poisoned dwarf and her older sister (the 'bit') were in attendance, fault finding, working against me at every possible turn. That's okay. One does one's best, letting the work speak for itself (done to the best of one's ability, as I have been raised) and attempting to establish harmony and foster good-will wherever possible (not that any such efforts are appreciated in Dark Age Britain...).

In (another) rare instance of humanity and kindness, the older thug granted me four days' shore leave from the Bounty, manned by the protagonists from William Golding's Lord of the Flies. Therefore, away from all the naysayers, the fault-finders, the subductisupercilicarptores (as Laevius once wrote as recorded by Aulus Gellius) both my good self and my best friend (the most beautiful woman in the whole wide world) will soon be departing for fairer shores. The Romans (according to Pomponius Mela, Strabo and other ancient authorities) once called this blessed corner of fair England Belarion. Words cannot express just how much euphoria it is to break away from the servile and demeaning duties of a slave, at the behest of village idiots, simpletons, heartless juveniles (my 'learned' superiors) to enjoy a precious day or two's respite.

I am supposed to be getting packed and ready, but in truth, I have done little except gather what needs to be gathered. The fair lady is due to arrive in six hours time, and I shall be ready. This is going to be a magnificent little adventure: she is as another Venus, aphros, born of the foamy main (according to Ovid), and I, like the First Man written of in the Good Book (and indeed the hermetic texts). If I am truly honest with myself, this is simply another test, but one of our enduring friendship. I ought to be great company: gallant, accomodating, in good humour, proper, and always (always) put her needs above my own petty wants. She is a lady, and moreover, an intellectual. More than that, she is a great friend, my best friend. I always remember how it was when I was thousands of miles away from my native soil (fair England: greatest country on the planet, for all its [glaring] faults) and be compassionate, understanding, and indeed most considerate of what it might be like to be her. She is a fragile flower that has been through the mill and bounced back with the heart of a lioness. Even so, one ought not to take her friendship for granted, for she is a lady, a hard worker, and intellectual, a scholar, and most of all: a decent human being, honest, kind hearted, considerate, a person of good character.

I cannot say that I do not have feelings for her, but moderation and restraint are best, I feel. One ought to treat her with the kindness, politeness, and courtesy that her (or indeed most any lady) deserves. I respect her, and though I would do most anything for her (for she is the most beautiful woman in the entire world: and not just a pretty face, but a bright spark) I would do well to treat her with the dignity and respect which she deserves, as a lady, and a dear friend.

Dear Diary, I shall let you know how it went, but for now, I must depart for fairer climes, far from the juvenile tyrants, the obstinate dictators, the gossips, the snakes that inhabit my workplace (hell on earth). Let us give thanks to the Lord for this great opportunity to spend time with the fairest flower that ever deigned to grace fair England's shores with her heavenly presence. Max.

The trip's cancelled (so we've decided to go anyway)

Dear Diary,

My well-read and 'learned' superior, the Lilliputian (a.k.a. the poisoned dwarf, a.k.a. the Butcher, a.k.a. the Baker, a.k.a. the Candlestick Maker) was a source of surprising wisdom yesterday. Normally, the rotten little oopma loompa hasn't a good word to say about anybody, but yesterday my seventeen year old boss came out with a surprising gem of wisdom. She said to my other - teenaged - superior (the simpleton from the village) "In a world where you could be anything, be kind." The village idiot replied, "What [did you say]?" The little oompa loompa replied with the same phrase. It doesn't matter that she's seen it on a mug from Etsy or perhaps on a T-shirt, it was important that the young tyrant seems to be developing a conscience. It wasn't long before Captain Bligh and his crew from Lord of the Flies went back to their usual riot of throwing things, yelling and making farmyard animal noises like some chimps' tea-party. The Lilliputian is gradually breaking away from her nickname: "the Merciless". This is the young lady who when asked who [Mahatma] Ghandi was, replied, "The President of Africa" (her academic specialism in the 6th form is geography [travel and tourism], by the way).

In any case, at that... place (Orcus, Hades, the bower of Persephone and Pluto) the "Olympian gods" (Captain Bligh, the older Brute and other Eastern European gangsters - the management) decided to cancel the trip to the festival, thus throwing everyone's plans in disarray and crushing any hope of escaping the Bounty, if only for a brief while. So, seeing as I had already made plans to go to the festival (with the most beautiful woman in the world), I decided to go anyway, being granted permission in a rare instance of humanity and grace by our otherwise cruel and bully of a Captain. It is only 24 hours of shore leave, but enough to get away from the Bounty (Tartarus - the furthest corner of the Infernal Regions). I cannot afford it (because I work for minimum wage doing unskilled labour - as does the person I am going with, because, well, that's what you do with a master's degree in Dark Age Britain - this is not a civilised country, even if it pretends - and pretends very well - to be, to the outside world).

In the meantime I am still finalising my essay on ancient symbolism (research for which I am paid nothing, naturally, because, well, that's what you do with your master's degree in Dark Age Britain - more work for less money: slavery, however you dress it up and pretend it's something its not). Yesterday I translated part of a (Latin) text which has never before been translated into English. Again, this is worthless, but that's okay too. This is not Renaissance Italy, evidently: it's Dark Age Britain, land of beggars, paupers and slaves.

101 things to do on my day off (and only 1 half done)

Dear Diary,

It is so on. We have this work 'do' (I say 'do' whereas it is actually just more work, shed loads of it). However, some of us feel that any change of scene would be good. I must add, that not one employee that has attended this particular event has ever wished to go back there. This does not bode well. However, just to get away from Bligh and the f- b**ch ('she's not a f- b**ch, she's just got issues' 'yeah she's got issues: called 'being a f- b**ch' issues') is enough of a 'holiday' even if it means doing much more work. Just a few days respite away from the Lilliputian dictators, the little tyrants, the naysayers, the fault-finders, the subductisupercilicarptores is peace enough.

I will, of course, be attended by the most beautiful woman in the world. She may end up in the same hotel, another hotel, or perhaps lodging with me. I'm staying with another artist, a bit of a hippie, which is pretty cool. With any luck he won't be arriving until the following day, so I may yet get to spend some time with the most beautiful woman in the world. (I am permitted one day and evening off, so this should be good). There is much to see and do (it is a festival). I should like to talk business with the fair lady (for she holds a master's degree in business administration) but there is plenty of time for that on another occasion: no shop talk. It's a holiday, if only for a fleeting moment before having to get back to the grind.

Today I should have been working on building my publishing company, perhaps working on the translation I have been commissioned to do, but I am instead researching and writing an academic essay on ancient symbolism, which is pretty cool. I want this puppy put to bed before we leave this coming week. Must dash: lots to do.

A visit to the County Museum (the Wessex exhibition)

Dear Diary,

Oh my giddy aunt. I have just been to one of the most magnificient displays of artefacts that I have ever seen in my life! These are just a few of the objects on display (and these are just the gold and amber selection - there were many more: pottery, flint nodules, axe-heads, arrowheads, necklaces, pieces of old chariots, tools, musical instruments, you name it!).

Unfortunately my camera ran out of battery just before I got to the Roman section (my favourite part). Even so, the pre-Roman and Anglo-Saxon selections were absolutely unbelievable! Out of this world, truly.

I spend most of my spare time poring over literary sources in Latin and ancient Greek, trying to fathom or coax out their meaning(s) through close reading and translation. On the face of it, reading the Roman literary sources (in either language: Latin or ancient Greek), one comes away with the impression that - in the words of Amy Richlin, an expert on Plautus and the steamier side of the ancient world - "the Romans liked to dump on their enemies". There is certainly a telling poem in Ausonius (Epigram 107 in trans. Evelyn-White, 1921, pp.214-217 [Loeb ed. Ausionuis vol.2]) about Roman feelings towards the Britons. Furthermore, the Vindolanda tablets give us an insight into the pejorative term Brittunculi "pesky little Brits" or "wretched little Britons" and one tablet even that implied that it was perfectly okay for a Roman to simply beat up a British trader and requisition all his worldly goods. Anyway, let us assume that there were no such sources or inscriptions, and that all that survived was the (hundreds of) artefacts on display at this exhibition today. The contemporary viewer may well come away with the impression that the Romans were some semi-civilised bunch of savage brutes, and that the Britons had an extremely refined culture, a rich culture, a very highly skilled culture, elegant, sophisticated, civilised. Outstanding, absolutely outstanding.

A festival happening soon, what I've been working on (academically) and my relationship status

Dear Diary,

It's difficult to maintain a positive mental attitude at work (something which I should be doing the entire time). Almost everything I do is criticised by these two little nay-sayers, or as is said in Latin, subductisupercilicarptores, which is not actually the longest word in Latin, as B.J. points out in his video, "In classical Latin, at least." I have encountered one slightly longer word in medieval Latin. Anyway. Besides these... people, that I must put up with on a daily basis, some things have happened recently which are cause for celebration. However, I have given up celebrating recently (I'm on the wagon). Why? Because when I get inebriated I get little to yet nothing done. I've been working on this essay for the Academy (ancient serpent symbolism). It is a vast subject, and even if I pretend to myself that I have expert knowledge in this area (holding a master's degree in this particular subject), I know full well that I can always go deeper still, especially in terms of the archaeological evidence, numismatic evidence, epigraphic evidence, and indeed scholia and fragments. Even so, being well grounded in the primary (literary) sources gives a classicist more than enough material to work with. I am currently surrounded by a mountain of books, piled high, dragged off the shelves.

Outside of staying stone cold sober for days, weeks on end, there is something else afoot. At work they've persuaded a number of us to work at a festival. Like another young-at-heart bohemian employee (an artist, a painter) that works there (whom I will be sharing a room with at the hotel - complete with swimming pool no less, by all accounts) I jumped at the chance to get away from Captain Bligh and the Lilliputian et al. Even just one day away from these... people is like dwelling in the Isles of the Blest or the Elysian Fields compared to the daily drudge which recalls Hades as described by Lucretius in his De Rerum Natura (3.978-1094): Hell on earth. One can almost see Sisyphus rolling his boulder (like Sean Connery in The Hill), or Tityos having his liver gnawed out by snakes or eagles only to grow back again when Diana's crescent bow waxes full, or Ixion on his flaming wheel, eternally kept alive through the agency of a magical potion.

So, a festival is just what the doctor ordered. Naturally, I intend to get completely and utterly paralytic, making up for lost time, having been on the wagon for so long. Moreover, I intend to get some surfing (well, bodyboarding, done). There is also the question of meeting up with Sue. I had not realised up until about an hour ago that I would be sharing a room with someone. Even so, she may well be in attendance. I should probably stay clear headed (sober) while around her (because in our exchanges I mentioned being on the wagon, and I feel that she does not believe me). Besides, there are other things to do. I will, of course, be taking what I need to continue working on my translation (old school, pen and paper). I don't have a physical copy of my current commission, so I will (probably) be taking my much cherished Biblia Sacra: Vulgata to translate some Psalms on the move (the Psalms in my current commission are quite often identical to the Weber-Gryson critical edition that I own).

We're away for nearly a week, so there should be plenty of down time (only working between 6-8 hours a day). It remains to be seen whether Sue will want to stay long, but we have been... quite close over the past couple of days. She's stressed out because she is in the middle of moving place. Like always, she is studying and working hard. There are not many women I have met that are as studious or as industrious as she is. It is a shame that she works in a menial job doing unskilled labour for minimum wage (despite the fact that she holds a master's degree), but like me, she has to, because this is not Elizabethan England or the days of Cosimo de' Medici in Florence 1463: it's Dark Age Britain, and well, that's what you do with a master's degree in this place, in this day and age.