Just chilling (except I've got tonnes of work on - same old: coping admirably)

Dear Diary,

After much ado, I have finally managed to make at least a little headway, not just with my course (the law degree), but, more importantly: work. That commission. No not the 12th century Armenian liturgical work by Narses of Kla the Fourth (the Gracious), but the mid sixteenth century legal document from Elizabethan England. It is rather interesting, but work heavy, intense. To be honest I'm not even sure I can be bothered with it all, but I have given my word that I will translate it, and so that I will jolly well do. Period. It's a pain, but no pain: no gain.

There is more to it than the strange laws, impositions and exchanges they had here 500 or so years ago. Here, in ancient Albion, old England, that green and pleasant land, filled with dappled trees and well ploughed fields, closely cropped hedgerows and a people happier than any other nation on God's fair Earth. A demi-paradise, a second Eden. Imagine, if you will, the most opulent city in all of northern England when Elizabeth the First sat atop the throne. Cast your mind back. There, by an arched stone window flanked with rich tapesty stands an Arabian princess, weeping at the loss of her Precious husband, lately passed over to the other side, in Hades or Elysium.

That's where I'm at, essentially. I have scribal abbreviation reference charts (which look like something out of Lord of the Rings, straight up) plastered all over my previously ornate French wine-crates (which, before yesterday had attractive patterns and writing on them). I must have these essential reference charts in order to recognise letters on the fly, that is, alongside the 483 page long Elements of Scribal Abbreviation in medieval Latin palaeography by Adriano Cappelli, printed and bound, at my fingertips. Yet still this is not enough. I've had to drag everything from my first edition of Historical Interpretation by Bagley (thank you Cambridge) to Reading Medieval Latin by Keith Sidwell (Cambridge University Press), and any number of other books. The whole thing is really rather a lot of trouble.

One thing I have learnt, is this scribe's particular handwriting. It's like getting to know a person and a style, but 500 years later, which is exactly what it is.

Work, at that... place (Hades) does not even bear thinking about. Bligh is still off on shore-leave (again searching for breadfruit) with the oompa-loompa. Needless to say things are as usual: animal noises being made, base bawdy 'jokes' suitable for a cheap cider-shed or drunken barn dance being cracked, and strings of expletives that would make Jane Austen rise above these people and put them in their place, in calm, well-reasoned, polite and considerate terms. Yet that is only something I wish to say in my mind, for I stay silent (for the most part) and work. It is the Infernal Region, Tartarus, Orcus.

My book publishing thang is coming along. Well, it's not. I'm going over the same plan I have done for the past twelve months, and always come out with the same results. Aside wasting a whole lot of time, the upshot is that little things are added or removed each time, refining the plan. I never used to believe in plans. Then I grew up (id est attended university). Planning's important. Even so, I should move things forward. It should be good, might be alright.

Then we have the law degree. This is... quite heavy (its reading list). I'll manage it, and am managing it, just about, but for now, my commission takes priority. It's business. Study can wait (and still gets done, because whenever I'm fed up of translating this very difficult text, I always turn to study Dicey or the set book: Public Law Oxford University Press (2022: Stanton and Presscot [not Two Jags]).

The first two hurdles (2 assignments at university)

Dear Diary,

During the long course of twelve years studying Latin, my cursus honorum (which, incidentally has led me absolutely nowhere: but this is Dark Age Britain, not Renaissance Italy. Education here is meaningless, except for being marginalised and resented by the foreign brutes and ignorant juvenile clodhoppers that lord it over me at my workplace) the rubrics which I have had to answer have all been straightforward. If one asks a simple question, it is (more or less) straightforward to answer that question. Today we were given our first glimpse at the first two assignments. These are not historians, classicists or archaeologists: these are lawyers. Therefore nothing is ever simple. Although I am able to grasp the nuances of Latin, and am becoming ever more accustomed to the rules of ancient Greek, the law, however, is not quite so straightforward. I admit, I am unable to grasp even the most rudimentary meaning of either of the two assignments. This is because they are set in the future, only being able to be attempted until the student has worked his or her way through the units and blocks.

Why is this important? Because any reading one does (and there are a stack of books which are taller than my little Cantab' terrier standing on his hind legs) one is unable to take any notes. If a man (or woman) does not know which port he (or she) is sailing to, no wind is favourable. I admit, the weight of reading is bearing down on me like the empyreal firmament and starry heavens, held aloft by Atlas himself. I will do well, of course, because I am a keen scholar. Yet how I am to go about doing well remains to be seen. I have an Achilles heel: books. As Emmanuelle Seigner said in Roman Polanski's The Ninth Gate "I like books.". Yet I must adapt if I am to survive. I may be a gnarly old scholar, but I am not quite so old as to not be able to adapt.

Moreover, it does not help that this bloody Latin commission is a right pain in the backside (because of the scribal abbreviation), and as though that were not enough: because Bligh and his oompa loompa are off searching for breadfruit, I am to work all hours God sends this week, leaving me little time to read, research and translate.

On the up side, I discovered Breaking Bad yesterday, which I found was absolutely hilarious in places and also quite touching. I remember reading in Katherine Williams' book Criminology that popular culture tends to foster a liking for crime, and I always have this thought in the back of my mind as I watch shows or films about criminals. One ought to keep one's feet on the ground, and remember that drugs, particularly crystal meth, have a detrimental effect on society and have broken many otherwise well-kept homes. To paraphrase Aristotle (in his Politics), statecraft, the maintenance of a good state, is not much different to good housekeeping. This is much like Clauswitz's analogy (outlined at the start of his book The Art of War), that war is nothing but a duel on a larger scale.

Let's see how we get on, eh?

The law degree - too much, or not enough?

Dear Diary,

I remember being daunted by the sheer amount of vocab' and memorising of declensions and conjugations, when I first started studying Latin. (Back then, universities in Britain used to actually write books - not nowadays, despite the fact that the course fees are several hundred times what they were. One module, for example, used to cost about £200-400 and you would receive a bunch of books, most often written by the university. Nowadays you pay £1,614 and if you're lucky you receive one book only, which is not written by the university. These are the Dark Ages, for certain). Anyway. I was daunted at the task which lay ahead, but an old friend once visited me at home. As I explained to him that I was feeling overawed by it all he replied, "If anyone in this town can master Latin Max, it's you." This gave me two things, for which I am extremely grateful: one, a glimmer of hope in an otherwise jar of evil demons (as Hesiod wrote of Pandora), and two, courage. The courage to carry on and get it bloody well done. I failed, more than once, but although I failed the basic Latin exam, I (eventually) passed the advanced - and much more difficult - Latin exam. Go figure. At our uni' we call this 'bouncebackability'.

In any case, as I read Albert Venn Dicey, also the wide gamut of British history (we only get a brief overview on our current module, but I have read a lot of history - it being my absolute favourite subject), I was, just a moment ago, daunted by the sheer voluminous length of his work, not to mention not yet having gotten into reading Charlie Montesquieu. However, I was reminded of my dear friend, and what he said in my moment of waning. I am also reminded of my commanding officer in the ACF. Major Bennyworth (formerly of the Somerset Light Infantry, then the Devonshire and Dorsetshire Regiment) is a hero of mine. He explained to me, as I was rising the ranks, that the battle is not actually physical. The real battle is of the spirit. Morale is very important indeed (one only needs to look at what's happened in Ukraine and Russia to see evidence of this). Major Bennyworth once said to me, then a young sergeant, "If you think you're beat, then you are beat." One must maintain good morale, have a sense of urgency, switch on, stay on side. It's a state of mind which never leaves you.

Even as a homeless person of fifteen years (a wandering minstrel) there have been many times when my training has saved me. Out there, in the wild, if you are not able to keep your spirits up, you may not even survive, what with sub-zero temperatures in winter or being set upon by dangerous animals (especially wild rams, or abroad: lynxes). Face front. Switch on. Stay on side. Like I said, the attitude never leaves you.

Today I was also daunted by my current commission. This is even trickier than studying law (which is, after all, in English). It took me like a whole hour to translate two measley words, and I am still most uncertain whether I translated them correctly. Even so, one tries one's best.

That... place (Hades, the Infernal Regions) is bareable at the moment, because Bligh is still off searching for breadfruit and the oompa-loompa with the huge gob that cracks under the slightest amount of pressure, throwing things, slamming things down and yelling the entire time is not there. Thank God.

The long arm of the law (suitable reading material for a student wishing to understand public law)

Dear Diary,

Much of what one reads regarding public law, law and administration, and indeed constitutional law is often only really hearsay, anecdotal. Scholars like to use buzz words, especially the word nuanced or context to prop up their hearsay. Yet, for me, as a scholar of the old school (so old, that it harks back to the time of Plato) I was absolutely delighted to have a seminal work by Albert Venn Dicey arrive. I am enjoying it more than one can imagine. After a hard day's work at that... place (Hades, the Infernal Regions, a cruel and unforgiving world presided over by foreign juvenile brutes lacking any kind of reason, untutored, unschooled and tyrannical) I was so very relieved to begin reading such an excellent work as this. I speak of Dicey's Introduction to the Study of the Law of the Constitution.

It became really rather clear to me, from my first acquaintance with this man's work, that this is only one of many great works, not just by the great Dicey himself, but also his forebears. I was astonished to discover that his tutor was none other than the illustrious Benjamin Jowett. People pretend to have read Plato, and if one has read Plato in the vernacular, the chances are that one has read Benjamin Jowett's translation (though there are many fine translations of Plato, if truth be told).

No less than his renowned tutor, Dicey's mother was also, seemingly, an excellent influence upon his learning: teaching him Latin, ancient Greek, French and German. Equal to this was the influence of his father, a Cambridge man, though Dicey himself would become an Oxford man.

As I wander through this arduous, fretful and meaningless subsistence of a "life", here, now, in Dark Age Britain (for surely were I in any other country in the world, I would most certainly not be slaving away beneath brutish unlettered juveniles, the meanest most basest slave that ever walked this once great nation's green fields and tranquil pastures - holding a master's degree in classical Latin I would be a teacher, or at the very least, a resident piano player, guitarist and singer) I take much solace in the fact that this is a nation of paupers, slaves, beggars, and that Latin - where once it was an illustrious, profound and intellectual language, is now the common currency of the basest most servile members of society.

Dicey was, I believe, at heart a classicist. This is evidenced by the fact that he chose classical studies for his academic specialism in his first two degrees (precisely as I did). Yet, instead of embarking on a "career" of working in McDonald's, Dicey had the fortunate grace of being in a better place - an England that was once great, not an England which is fit only for the beggar, the pauper, the slave (unless one happens to be a crook, most especially a crook in the City of London). Yet for all the necessary hardships a classical scholar must endure in this, most basest and servile of all states in the world, I am glad, that this says more about this once great nation, than it does about me.

Problems? Solutions.

Dear Diary,

I have been anticipating the arrival of the printer ink (seemingly most printers now cannot print black and white without having a colour cartridge, because this is the technological Dark Age - it's all about making money, not something which works well). I thought of perhaps ordering it from Amazon, but the store said they could deliver it a day earlier. Then, the store (which shall remain nameless), in all their infinite wisdom, delivered it - not to my address, but to a local shop which is quite far away (I live in the middle of nowhere). So, instead of having it arrive tomorrow, as it would have done via Amazon (at half the delivery cost...) I have to take little Ronulus walkies to go and get it. This has set back my translation by yet another day (it is already one day past the deadline already). Great.

Fortunately, Martyn at the Classics Bookshop is a lot more prompt. My copies of Plato's Statesman, Aristotle's Politics (only in translation - both for my law degree), and Thompsons' Handbook of Greek and Latin Palaeography (for work) all arrived promptly this morning. So that's something which is good. (I actually own digital copies of these works, but I just prefer real books).

They've been pushing me at work to move into a flat with another member of staff. I refused, because this person moves a lot (seemingly), and once he leaves, I will be made homeless again, without the means of being able to afford a deposit somewhere. Besides, a double whack increase in rent is the last thing I need, now I have to fork out £300 a month for the 'privilege' of being put through arduous tests, assignments and exams at university studying law - for the next four years: as though 12 years studying were not enough already! (The State could make up the difference, but my philosophy has always been to take as little as possible from the State: I contribute to the country. I am not a parasite). Souhir, does need somewhere. I offered it to her, but I doubt she's going to stick around here for long. She is moving back to Italy in six months. Why? Because instead of subsisting in Dark Age Britain, wiping old people's backsides, in Italy she can actually use her master's degree (unlike here, where she is just a slave). Here, what do you do with your master's degree? Work in McDonald's or a care home. These are the Dark Ages, whichever way you cut it.

The long arm of the law (and an impending deadline)

Dear Diary,

I was supposed to be translating Latin, today, yesterday, and several days before that. I did, however, hit a snag: id est a technical hitch. We ran out of printer ink. There is no point in relying on Stalin (who keeps a fork in the sugar bowl) to replace the colour ink (which he uses very much more than I do), so I had to order some, on top of the two black cartridges I have already bought. This assignment is proving a lot more hassle than it's worth, but as I mentioned before: no pain, no gain. Nothing worth doing is ever easy, and I will learn much from this particular assignment, and therefore - money or no money - it will be worthwhile, if only in terms of acquiring more knowledge and wisdom. With this, I am most content.

The company wants this translation quick. I don't do 'quick'. I take my time. From ever since I had it beaten into me as a little boy (as did all my brothers growing up), I firmly adhere to the principle that, "If you're going to do a job, do it properly." There are no half measures. I will either do the work to the very best of my ability, or I will not do it at all. The company has, however, had to accept my time-horizon (who the hell else are they going to find to translate this? No one is who. For anyone capable of undertaking such an arduous task already has a good job - most often beyond the borders of Dark Age Britain).

It's my one day off from that... place (Hades, the Infernal Regions, the Acheron, the Styx, Cocytus and the flaming Phlegathon), therefore I spent most of it in the pub. I am fortunate in that my local happens to sell my very favourite Belgian beer - the most expensive one in the pub: yet reasonably priced - and indeed it is well worth it. I was not idle, but reading law. I happened to cross paths with my dear philosopher friend, which was itself a blessing (him being a fellow man of God, if only a mere Catholic and Peripatetic philosopher: not a true Anglican and Platonist, like myself) and once he had departed, I was able to read the set book for my new module, at university. I must say, that although the authors of this book seem to revere Aristotle as some kind of Saint, being a firm Platonist, I have ordered a copy of Plato's Statesman (only in translation) if only to reacquaint myself with the other, better side of the coin. (Though I have ordered Aristotle's Politics as well - one must know one's enemy). I do not hark unto the student (Aristotle), but only the master (Plato). Much like I do not listen much to Beethoven, but often listen to his master: Haydn. (Mozart sits somewhere in between, for me at least).

I am actually learning to love the law, believe it or not. It's not classics, it's not my passion, it's not even very challenging compared to learning ancient Greek, but it is a necessary stepping-stone on my way out of the most servile, base, least rewarding 'living' (subsistence) and a move towards something more rewarding (if only in terms of skilled work, and not actual pay, for junior criminal barristers in this country earn less than minimum wage: this being Dark Age Britain). You must excuse me dear diary, for I have much reading to do. uale.

Happenings, D-day (deadline looming): stay focused

Dear Diary,

Notwithstanding the usual rigmarole at that... place (Hades, Tartarus, the Infernal Regions, beyond the woeful Acheron, the Styx that the gods swear by and the flaming Phelegathon) I have had some little hurdles which life throws up. I could, and indeed should have been more philosophical about the whole bloody thing, but there we are. What happened was, it very soon dawned on me that without the appendix to Adriano Capelli's Elements of Abbreviation in Medieval Latin Palaeography, I would most certainly be unable to translate this text accurately. A miss is as good as a mile. Indeed, there are many more books I should be reading, researching, finding out and discovering how to read this really rather difficult text. (See image).

Nevertheless, it can be done. And yet, this itself was my undoing. I much prefer books, old fashioned books, physical, tactile, flicked through easily. With the screen on I have umpteen tabs open and cannot seem to focus, but a book has a cosy, homely feel to it. An impartial judge, a bestower of light and knowledge, a book takes nothing, but gives everything. It's simple, straight forward and does what it says on the tin (even without internet or electricity or whatever). I didn't have time (and still don't have the time, as shrouded Saturn with his cruel scythe hews down, reaps and consumes his children: each second or passing moment) to order Capelli's book online. The deadline's too tight. So, I decided to print one, but I ordered the cartridge online, and should have bought it from a store. (Around here? Yeah, are you kidding me? It's like Borat here: "Is there a telephone in this village?"). We're talking deepest darkest country, backwoods, the wild valleys and paths of ancient Britain.

Anyway. I tried printing it out. The printer ran out of ink (beause it's like 400 odd pages long). I printed it out of order (because I'd not used this printer before), but have ended up with approximately half the book, on one side only (apart from the first 50 pages, which I have complete). Today I find myself glueing wrongly printed out sides of paper (my only hard copy of these precious sections I might add) on to the correct page number, in proper numerical order. Then I tie some elastic I have through the holes (four, one at the top and bottom, two in the middle, all bound individually, several times, with quite a few binds of elastic - as many as I can fit). Then, after putting some felt or nice material around two pieces of A4 cardboard, I shall tie each of the threads of elastic to a chopstick on each side.

In short, dearest diary, I have had to write out 200 pages of this book, manually, by hand, using a calligraphy pen and a pencil. My handwriting is really rather fine. However, I don't have that kinda time. D-day looms.

Anyhow, I returned from work with the cartridge, but the printer didn't take it. I'll have to think about what I want to do, but I believe I can make the deadine (without copying it all out), just by having to make do with what I have. This means reading the pdfs (on the odd pages I don't have printed out). Must dash. Father Time's grains drop slowly but constantly in his celestial hourglass.

My latest Latin commission (the battle is won, but the war is far from over)

Dear Diary,

Victory! The Firm finally bent to my will and accepted my over-inflated quote (some ten to fifteen times what they pay their usual translators...). Naturally, they billed the extra dollars to the client, so take their usual $1,000 fee (or $25-50 dollars an hour for their services). It doesn't bother me, well, not too much anyway. What does it matter where the money comes from? It is, hands down, the most difficult translation I have ever attempted. This is a good thing. I am getting more exposure to reading actual manuscripts, and by the end of this little exercise I will have learnt much. Fortunately, I have a nice little book (Latin for Local and Family Historians) which covers some of the basics, but the scribal abbreviations are a pain in the backside. Yet nothing worth doing is ever easy. It's is a mental 'work out': no pain, no gain.

I met with the doctor of philosophy today, which was pleasant. Work wasn't too taxing either. My only regret is that when I return home I normally log straight into social media. Tonight I didn't. I signed the paperwork (two contracts and a declaration of identity) then got stuck into transliterating the hand written text, several hundred years old, into clear, legible Latin. It's an agonising and arduous process. Anyway. The point it I missed a call from my dear daughter. I've been eagerly anticipating a chance to speak to the young lady for quite some time, and I missed my chance. Still, what's done is done, and there's always tomorrow.

I'm pretty tired so I have to hit the hay. I would have liked to have finished my translation of To Herennius (techniques for litigation, old-school Latin-Roman style). The current section discusses a penalty for parricide, which held a particularly nasty penalty. The culprit had his face stuffed with the skin of a wolf, had clogs put on his feet, took a beating, was sewn up in a leather sack along with a live snake, dog, rooster and a monkey, while he was naked, then thrown into a cold river. This is first century (Before the Christian Era) justice, old-time Roman justice, not the more humane and decent treatment of convicts we have now in a modern western constitutional monarchy. It also has deeply religious undercurrents. Fascinating stuff. However, my professional commission takes priority: putting food on the table. In truth, it is not actually important when compared to my dear daughter. She ought to be my no.1 priority. Yet it's up to her when she wishes to speak to her father. Fortunately, my own father is a model of what not to do (id est be fretful, dictatorial and smothering), so I learn from his own failings as a father. Even so, the business side of things is not unimportant. Moreover, I have a lot of studying to do.

Even though I actually am a die hard classicist (I love it, more than any other subject), I am actually learning to love the law and everything about it. It is in itself a very interesting subject. Compared to translating medieval charters written in almost illegible scribal abbreviation it's a walk in the park. I have a tight deadline, but when it's all getting to much, I will be able to 'relax' by studying law. At the very least, law is written in the King's English (nowadays at least). Did you know that it was not until 1731 that official church records were (mainly) kept in English? English law has a smattering of Latin, and even a little French, but most of it is in English. I remember when our last female Prime Minister (Theresa May) effaced all of the Latin out of official government records. Reading English is easy, hence why my 'down time' will be spent reading law, as a kind of quaint little hobby side-line. My real business is translating Latin, for which I am well paid. I have a sense of purpose again, an aim, an objective. I'm not merely subsisting in a daily drudge, but have a goal to word towards (even if junior criminal barristers are paid less than minimum wage here, now, in Dark Age Britain - hence why they are on strike at the moment). This is not America, it's Dark Age Britain. Here, the more you learn, the less you earn, and these latest bout of strikes are clear proof of this most evident fact of 'life' (subsistence). Britain is a nation of slaves.

Challenges: there are no problems, only solutions

Dear Diary,

There is a guy at work that is a grouch. He's cocksure and often grumpy, thinks an awful lot of himself, but is not necessarily a bad person. He is, like (almost) everyone else there, not university educated. He's no Ammonius Saccas or Jesus Christ either (id est someone with knowledge and wisdom received by psychic visions, by revelation). In any case, he gave me a ride home this evening and we had a talk. Interestingly enough, he is in a (sort of) similar situation to myself. He was promised a good job by someone (relatively) important, told to get a qualification (in flying drones), then, when he had earned his qualification, was told there was no work for him, but that he would have to pay more, and more, and more, and get further qualifications before he is able to do any job beyond minimum wage. This is not dissimilar to myself. I was promised gainful employment on the proviso that I became qualified. I did so, worked hard towards earning my first degree. Nothing happened. So, I took out a ten thousand pound loan to earn a second degree (in a copy of Lucan (trans. Robert Graves) I bought, the page always falls open and reads, "You need a master's degree." [or words to that effect]). This is perhaps coincidence, but probably not, considering where I bought it (the provenance is suspect). Alas, I earned my master's degree, and still nothing. That's okay, this is Britain, not France. We do not expect academics or businessmen here, in this country to be as good as their word (and a man is only as good as his word). Everyone in the world knows Britain does not honour its obligations (it is only the British that fondly imagine they do). In France, this is not so. On the merest offer of work there, even just a passing comment made in a bar, if you re-locate yourself and all your belongings several hundred miles to a strange place you've never been before, you can be damn sure that the French honour their word. They are fit for business, and cultivate and appreciate talent, showing that appreciation with very real returns (in that thirty miles of ocean which separates the two nations, there is a world of difference). The only reason I know this, is because I have been there, and done it.

So this guy - like myself - has sat his exams, passed, studied hard, landed himself in debt, and has nothing to show for it, precisely the same as what has happened to me (except he only paid £699 over a single month, whereas I have accumulated £15,000 worth of debt spanning a dozen years and have sat several exams - Latin, not easy - it 'ain't like flyin' a kite [or drone]). So what do we do? We make the best of what we have. Like Richard Harris' character said in Man in the Wilderness, "Complaining never helped anybody." I understand and know well that Britain has no honour whatsoever, that much is plain for anyone to see, evidently. I'm on my own, and if I wish to be successful, I must use what (very little) I've got to make things work for me, rather than me working for thugs and juveniles. There is a problem: I can't bloody stand programming, but I have to get over this until I am able to reap what I have sown. There is a line from the Corpus Hermeticum which is particularly relevant here (it is a prophecy):

How much more is worked out by God, who is present, and the power of everything? For anything done in a leisurely way, left unfinished, is said to be imperfect and is contrary to God’s divine law. Therefore God makes everything complete. Now my time runs short, O Maximus Mercurius, I hand it over to you, so have your wits about you. You will quickly understand the whole work of God. The inevitable work was to be here, so that they could be there, what is, or what was and what will be in the future. However, O my most delightful Maximus Mercurius, life is it. It’s truly beautiful yet it’s good, finally it’s God. If however you should aim at this, so it’s through the examples of your works I would place an example before your eyes. You must turn to face what might strike at you, not wanting something similar to this of your opponent. If indeed that man has no job satisfaction as an assistant they don’t spread out. Nature itself, working, is often turned by a particular energy, him always existing in work, wherever he could, having always done something for a living.

Corpus Hermeticum 11.12-13. Trans. Max Latham (2020, pp.56-57).

This is the situation I am in. This is not the Abbasid Calpihate in 11th century Baghdad where translators were paid £30,000 a month: it's Dark Age Britain. One is only paid after the work is finished, and even then only dribs and drabs.

As for the law degree, well, we'll cross that bridge when we come to it.

A new/old job (Latin translation)

Dear Diary,

As you may recall, dearest diary, a week or so ago a multi-national translation company approached me to translate a very tricky little text. Check it out.

It's not actually that tricky, for someone that knows what they're doing. I am aware of at least one professor in Budapest that can read this like he's reading a copy of The Telegraph. Yet I'm no professor, nor am I a doctor of philosophy, nor even a high-school teacher. I'm a nobody, no one, nothing, the basest most servile slave that ever subsisted in this once glorious nation. I get ordered around by little boys and girls at work.

I do, however, hold a master's degree in classical Latin (not that that counts for anything in this country). It does, however, put me in a unique position to be able to translate such a manuscript as you see above. Anyone else that can do it is already employed in a good job, but this isn't Elizabethan England or Renaissance Italy: it's Dark Age Britain. Latin here is the language of beggars and slaves. It is not by any stretch of the imagination the language of the intelligentsia (even if it once was, in a far more enlightened and better time).

Internationally, however (beyond Britain's borders), it is still held in high esteem. What I predicted came true. It is not a mantic prophecy, but merely logic. Who the hell else are they going find to be able to translate this manuscript? No one, is who. Why? Because all of the people in the world with the highly specialised skill set required to undertake this onerous task is already employed in a good job. I've spent the past twelve years studying this precise skill. So. They approached me. I stated my price (one week's wages of working mopping floors, cleaning surfaces, washing the gunk out of dishes, taking out the trash and serving fast food). They told me to jog on. Then, lo and behold, after scouring the internet for a week or so, suprise suprise, they couldn't find anyone to be able to do it. So they came back to me. I may be too expensive for them: these people charge their clients either $1,000 or between $25-50 an hour... but cost translations at between 5-7 cents a word... Their customer service is based in India (or Pakistan) and their head-hunters are based in the Philippines (which tells me they like to do things on the cheap). I don't live in India, Pakistan or the Philippines. I live in Britain, so my overheads are higher than they would be in those places.

The contract is also very binding and constraining. The time horizon is also very tight. I would have to be able to deliver, and on a tight deadline. Fortunately, I am able to do this. It's actually pretty cool, because say, for example, I took up this challenge, and was able to do a great job of it (for whatever price), it is highly likely that this same company would come to me if they needed anything else like this translating. Why? Because no-one else can do it, or, if they can do it, they already have good jobs. (Even if Latin is the language of beggars and slaves in Britain, it is not elsewhere in the world, evidently).

It's pretty cool actually. I feel useful. There is only one problem: the price. I'll pitch high. Because I know that the will is there, as is the money. The client obviously wants this done, and they're willing to pay a lot for it. I will not see much of that money unless I play hard ball. This is worth something. It 'ain't squeezin' oranges. The only real question is can I be bothered to do this? Yes, but it will cost. Let's see what happens.

I grew up with a step-father that was extremely good at his job. He is a brick-layer, but not just any old brick-layer. A guy that used to live next door to my parents (a fellow tradesman) once asked my step-father to repair a broken wall, but the materials they had were really bad: bits of broken brick and stone. The guy said, "I'll just go and get some more bricks." By the time the guy got back, my step-father had completely renovated the wall so skilfully that it looked exactly like it was before it had been rendered. For all our fall outs over the years, he's a great tradesman. He also taught me how to negotiate, and negotiate well. He doesn't negotiate like other people. He drives a hard bargain. I remember him haggling for a bicycle. They wanted £15 for it, so my step-father offered him £12. The guy shook his head. So my step-father said, "Okay, £11." The bloke said, "I think the sun's got to your head." So, my step-father said, "£10, final offer." The guy shook his head again, and we began to walk away. The guy called him back and we bought it for a tenner. They needed him more than he needed them, and my step-father knew that. It is a gamble, but it's worth it.

What have I to loose by not taking this job? Well, not a lot seeing as they pay their translators between 5-7 cents a word (which is a fair price for a clean text in some modern language, but not for Latin palaeography). Yet, what do I have to lose if I pitch low? Time and money. It's a lot of work. If I pitch high, and don't get it, I've not lost anything at all (because I have no wish to work for 5-7 cents a word). Yet if I pitch high and get it, I have everything to gain. They need me more than I need them. Not just anybody can translate this. You would have to be a specialist that has studied and practised for years to be able to do this task. It's like playing music for a living. It's not just the 250 bucks for two hours playing music, what they're paying for is years and years and years of practise, learning scales, theory, arppegios, not to mention a good amount of natural talent to be able to do it in the first place.

The third degree (university)

Dear Diary,

The semester starts soon, and against my better judgement I have decided to study towards a third university degree, the "LLB" (Bachelor in Law), or rather, a post-graduate equivalent. Without 'bleating' or ranting about the cost (which is not the university's fault, but the government's, since they slashed 84% of all Higher Education funding back in 2016, which naturally does not affect the already avariciously rich nobs, but only the ordinary hard working God fearing honest people of this once great nation), I have been looking at how much I am going to have to fork out. It's a lot of money (over one and a half grand per course ['module'], meaning it will probably cost me somewhere in the region of eight thousand pounds, and then some). The university have been very kind in approving my application for further study and I am looking forward to having a purpose again.

I have, however, been rather ill this morning. Someone at work was ill all day yesterday, and I perhaps caught it from them. It was bloody awful, the whole morning. Were it not for little Ronulus Latrator I would surely have felt much worse. It is said that dogs can sense people's emotions and read people's faces much better than many other species of animal. I even read recently that a study in Japan proved that dogs actually cry when they see their owners after being separated from them for some time. Little Ronulus Latrator is the best dog in the world, a weight of support in trying times, a thoroughly good chap.

Back to law. Naturally, instead of reading about modern law, I have instead been reading (translating) Cicero's De Legibus. I dimly recall that somewhere in the writings of Ammianus Marcellinus there was a brief paragraph explaining the different approaches ancient lawyers took to tackling cases, which again may be instrumental. I also recently bought a copy of Isaeus' works. This was an Attic orator that specialised in inheritance law. His speeches are excellent, because many of them are brief.

The first course ('module') is about Public Law, with a focus on the Constitution. I have only three books which are relevant to that particular subject (two of them are merely pdfs downloaded from the university's library when I was still a student). One is really quite excellent, a hard copy, and all three are from Cambridge University. Law in Context: The British Government and the Constitution by Turpin and Tomkins. It is the only one I have yet read, and I am still only two thirds of the way through it. The other two will no doubt be just as good. They are both Cambridge Companions. One focuses on Comparative Constitutional Law and the other Public Law. These are the 'break you in gently' law books. The study of the law is really quite involved, and unless one enjoys evidence based analysis and quibbling over miniscule minutiae, one would have no aptitude for such a subject.

I will, of course, tow the line. This is not the first time I have studied... Therefore, the best thing to do is simply regurgitate what the university shove down your throat. As Noam Chomsky said, education is all about jumping through hoops. There is no independent thought, no original research, nothing. It's much like the Malvina Reynolds' song Little Boxes. You do as your told, like a soldier. There are some things which I will have that perhaps not many other of my colleagues will when I begin studying in 3 weeks time: a classical education. It is curious, but just about any branch of study is also applicable to law. If one has studied psychology or psychiatry, both these disciplines are relevant. Moreover, forensic evidence is also very important, so if one were a biologist then that is also relevant. Therefore, I know enough to know that my educational background only extends so far. There is one thing which a classical studies specialist has which neither psychologists, psychiatrists or biologists don't have: the actual business of constructing, orating and winning cases. If anyone thinks that lawyers today are more eloquent, charismatic and shrewd than the lawyers of ancient Greece and Rome, they had best think again. Besides doctors and soldiers, they were all law men, all of them. Even Ovid studied law (before he decided to become a poet). I am looking forward to having some kind of purpose again in my life. Besides, even if I cannot (finally) scrape a decent living here with three degrees, one of which in law, I certainly will be able to elsewhere in the world. Fortunately, having worked under Bligh, I don't flinch as I once did at someone approaching me in a violent manner, being utterly fearless now, indomitable. Armed with a solid work ethic, being very industrious indeed, I can move myself, and all my books, elsewhere in the world, should I wish to, somewhere that there is more opportunity than the lowest most basest slave, being ordered about by ill-mannered and brutish foreigners.

Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth Regina Alexandra the Second of Great Britain, Northern Ireland and the British Empire

Dear Diary,

For the historical record, on the 8th of September 2022 Queen Elizabeth the Second of Great Britain died. I have read touching encomia by friends, holding dear in their hearts the memory of such a monarch as this. It is well known fact that Her Majesty had two official birthdays. her Majesty's real one, according to the astrologer, psychologist and writer on esoteric subjects Liz Green (not to be confounded with the archaeologist and classicist from Canada) wrote that Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth was a Taurus (in her Astrology and Fate). In one medieval manuscript, a Book of Hours, I saw all twelve signs depicted, and all the people in the boxish frames were commoners, all, except one: Taurus. Taurus is a noble sign. It is the mark of strength (in the Nordic tradition, I speak of runelore) and indeed many cultures, from the Persian Mithraic culture, through to Europa, and indeed the Norsemen revered the bull as a sacred symbol.

I am aware that there is a kind of Faustian dichotomy with the élite. One friend I have managed to find captured video footage from Bohemian Grove, the Bildebergers, and the music and film which was being played was Richard Burton's Dr. Faustus by Christopher Marlowe. Without profaning such a sacred subject, needless to say, that my own eulogy for the passing of such a mighty and well-respected monarch was not prosaic as all the others are. It was written several months ago, in anticipation of this event. Prose is the language of mere mortals, whereas verse is the language of the immortal gods. See if you can spot any Marlowe in this, my ode to so mighty a monarch that ever graced this corner of the world with her divine presence:

As often as we may ponder this
most blessēd and bright lady, we’d be seen
to cherish those that were there, as well as
the unfading memory of our queen.
Illustrious Rome, an object of wonder,
whose empire is envied by its neighbours,
heaven had blest with fortune, more power
than those that had rebelled against its might.
Cut was the branch that could have arched out right,
and burnt is Persephone’s golden bough.
All that remain, are memories of her,
our queen, that overreached her place. She’s gone,
like Icarus soared high, near to the sun,
only to be born again in this way,
that her memory lives on, age to age,
ever renewing herself as the yew,
to die with honour is to live anew.
When men of future generations
speak well of our illustrious queen,
let them speak of Britannia,
and that mighty branch from Boadicea,
whose roots run deep as Albion’s oak tree,
and all the world knows her as our great queen.

Boadicea: Queen of the Iceni an epic play by Maxwell Lewis Latham (2022) - the final stanza.

Marco Polo (revisiting an old friend)

Dear Diary,

In a dusty old second hand book shop on Mill Road in Cambridge, one little ruby among the many glistening gems of wisdom, shone brightly enough for me to buy it. I am not a medievalist, but the translator's name caught my eye (Ronald E. Latham). Since then, here in the backwaters of this once great nation, I spied another copy, a different translation, which, although very readable, pales in comparison to Ron Latham's translation. (Many sections are lacking in William Marsden's translation - which is perfectly understandable given the disparate nature of the Italian, French and Latin manuscripts).

I delved a little into Franceso Pipino's Latin translation (1302) today, but for the most part I have been reading trans. Latham (the Penguin copy), simply because it is portable. I enter an exotic world in the far east, filled with spices, wild animals, even a mention of unicorns (!!). There are 'dragons' (crocodiles), armies of elephants, strange customs, bizarre marriage (and extra-marital) customs, curious peoples, and all kinds of ghosts, magicians, miracles and wonders. I read about ancient China, mulberries fed to silk worms, the first paper money, the earliest block-printing, spirits, conjurors, Christians and Saracens, pagans and (what may have been) Buddhists. I read about the jungle, the Great Wall, huge cities, fleets of ships, astrologers, predictions coming true, the cruelty of war, the cunning of the Great Khan, the joy and suffering of many peoples in the Far East. Everywhere from India to China, through Mesopotamia is discussed. There is magic, wonder and all kinds of things, the half of which was not even included in Marco Polo's account.

Then I look up, through the raindrops falling on my book outside the gloom of the fast food joint. (My five minute break spent reading in the rain). There, is the brush, the bin, the washing up. There is the brutish boss, "You want a slap?". There is slavery (dressed up as something else). This, is reality, not rhetoric, political spin or media propaganda, of 'life' in Britain 2022. Whether you studied history, classics, chemistry, law, oil rig engineering, business administration at university: this is what you do here, in Dark Age Britain (unskilled labour for minimum wage). There is no opportunity here, no future, no hope. Much as one attempts to maintain a positive mental attitude, the gunk from the pans, the stench of the trash, the explitives and animal noises made by my 'learned superiors' beating each other up, or most often: being beaten up by Bligh, this is the grim reality of 'life' in Dark Age (2022) Britain. Be very wary if any British academic approaches you to offer you a 'job'. It is certain that there is a catch (usually, no pension, sometimes - as in my case - expecting people to work for nothing, that is, if you're "lucky" enough to get a volunteer position).

Move on up (onwards and upwards) P.M.A. Positive... Mental... Attitude.

Dear Diary,

It's been a tough month, but hey, the final furlong is ahead, only one more week until the bountiful harvest (or slim pickins - depending on one's perspective) arrives, and a brief respite from the world may be granted. Anyway. Besides listening to (and learning) Bonnie Raitt's Angel from Montgomery, I've been thinking a lot about everything that's happened (or rather: not happened) in terms of the so-called 'job offers' the British academic community supposedly give. Much like Britain's trade deals, they are with places like Narnia, Rainbowland and the Fairy Forest. They are what the French call, lutin ou farfadet, little elves or sprites.

It's actually pretty cool, by the way. I always imagine I am back in a band situation, on the road, playing music, professionally, with one outstand guitarist (Steve Pearson). Instead of having been offered gigs, we have to make our own way, little Ronulus and I (when I was on the road, not so long ago, little Ronulus earned the title Aureolus meaning in Latin 'glittering, shining with gold' or 'little gold mine' as I like to call him. My Cantab' terrier is so unbelievably cute, he earned more money than I did). Anyhow.

So I got to thinking what would it be like to be put in a drop zone (id est far away on the Continent: Spain, France, Italy, wherever) and not have pre-arranged any gigs (work, in my way of looking at things nowadays, post having become educated to a considerable degree - two, in fact, I hold a Magister Artium in classical Latin now). This is the way it always was in bands, for me at least, on the streets in far off lands where you have to pick up the language, quickly, think on your feet, adapt, keep your wits about you at all times. We always used to piss up all our spare cash from gigs or whatever on the ferry or plane. You always land with nothing, then by suppertime the following day, several bars will have booked you (without fail). But why? Because Steve Pearson was a goddamn demon on the gee-tar, that's why. It was like having Jimmy Hendrix in the band for heaven's sake. I'm serious. And as for me, well, I'm an all singing, all dancing walking radio (Steve couldn't sing for toffee, but the good Lord saw to it that I could, thankfully).

Anyway. Steve's all washed up, and instead of gee-tars, free booze, bands and broads, we've now books, learning, knowledge, perhaps even a little wisdom, if not as much prudence and discretion as I would like to yet have.

So, as the late savant and dear friend of mine Didier Deman once said, "It's not the learning which is important, but the application of that learning to something practical and useful." This is the boat I'm in. No job offers. Nothing. All I have is my wits, my industrious work ethic, and the will to make it all happen. It's up to you, because no-one else is going to do it for you. Believe in the power of positive thinking (or at least, that's what I keep telling myself, and it seems to be working).

(P.M.A.) Positive mental attitude

Dear Diary,

I've been trying to think positively recently (and failing abysmally at doing so at work today) - anyway. Without work getting to me, putting all that aside, just for a moment, it's nice to imagine the little hurdles as the pieces fall into place. Little bits and bobs, things one has been working on now for a very long time (essays, translations etc.) being drawn together, one piece at a time, towards the goal. There are many hurdles, and this is a Marathon not a sprint, but challenges can be met, overcome, bumps in the road.

Today I f-ed up, big-time (not just at work). I was offered a short term contract to translate this piece of Latin. Here, I'll show it to you:

As you can see, not easy, especially not for someone straight out of college or whatever (id est just after being conferred with the honours of their first degree). It took me a while to read Latin palaeography. I had to start learning scribal abbreviation when I did my translation of Marsilio Ficino's De Potestate et Sapientia Dei written somewhere around 1461 to 1463 of the Christian Era, in Florence, Italia. (Before I earned my Magister Artium). I also encountered it while translating a grimoire from the 14th century, probably written in Paris. (We are talking Harry Potter, Star Wars, real magic swords, whatever you want. I am actually living in James Oliver Rigney's Wheel of Time now, not just watching the show or reading the book).

Anyhow, besides this ancient mystical tome, I have not had that much exposure to having to read palaeography (because all of my Oxford Reds, Blues and Cambridge Greek and Latin texts are in a clear, legible form). So, I have to look things up sometimes. It's like anything, like learning ancient Greek, which I'm doing and that's good.

So anyways, you gotta think positively, I figure. Try and look at the road ahead, not the puddles below on the pavement, or you won't see the rainbows when they appear.

Anyhow, the image above. Look at that s-. Are you serious?

Yes. Absolutely. I can read that s-, and I told the company which very kindly approached me so. (Not in those words). I received an email, and the company asked, "Is this text even legible." I replied with one word. Yes.

Then came too-ing and fro-ing, amicably, them pushing me on my rate. Instead of just taking the money (whatever they said, waiting, or pitching low), I pitched high. That's always a gamble. But you've got to be realistic. I would need a month to really transcribe, then translate, and translate again, and again, until it's right. It has to be done right. It's like that old gnarly curator in Toy Story 2: "You can't... rush... art."

These guys, these people, they wanted it boom, right then and there. On the spot. I was given one week.

A week? Did you just say that? One week?

They didn't want to pay top dollar. I was like Robert Shaw's character in the original 1975 Jaws movie (in my mind at least):

"You all know me, what I do [Latin translator]... I'll catch this fish for you but it 'ain't gonna be easy. We've got to do it quick... You want to play it cheap? Or ante-up? Be on welfare the whole winter..."

Needless to say in the board room at the meeting of the executives, they didn't find my Robert Shaw impression funny at all. (I was the only one dressed as a shark-fisherman: the execs all wore suits). I thought it was quite an accurate portrayal.

An offer of gainful employment (editing a fantasy novel) and a lesson learnt

Dear Diary,

So this person reached out, after finding me online, asking for a quote for editing a fantasy novel. I prefer to negotiate in person (or at least, virtually). Email, messaging or texts do not make well for conducive business practices. Anyway, I replied that we should hash a deal out, amicably, reasonably. I did, however, make a mistake. I laid out my credentials (these were already on the editing website). It turns out that this particular author is already a bona fides author, holds two degrees (in genetics...) and has been a professional editor and book formatter (among other things, usually bio-tech) for several years. In retrospect I shouldn't have given it the large one, but instead conducted a background check on the person in question, then answered, from a more well-informed perspective.

When you do business face to face, you get a sense of people, what they're like. When you've lived on the streets for 15 years you get to know people. There was a time when I met more people in one single day than most people meet in a week, a month, a lifetime. Up at the crack of dawn, out in the city sprawl (making music), then socialising at night, doing it all again the next day. There was a time when I could (correctly) guess someone's Sun sign (astrology) every time. Now it's hit or miss. I can still, however, acurately discern someone's age within a year or two up first meeting (Although I always take a half a dozen years off an women I happen to meet, should the question of age arise). As an aside, living without a phone or a watch, and living outside for many years meant I could acurately determine the time of day - or night - within just a few seconds, no more than a minute or two: the perks of being a hobo. Anyway: I prefer to do business face to face. Yet this is not France in the 90's. It's Dark Age Britain during the Neo-Plague on the eve of a new Cold War. The new "Normal". One has to adapt. A smile and a handshake just doesn't cut it in this day and age. Those days are gone. It's now more digital than ever.

Yet even digitally, there are things one does and doesn't do. I really made some whopping mistakes at university and could have and very much should have been more used to Netiquette than I have been. One learns from one's mistakes (I'm not like Bligh and cast of the Lord of the Flies). In any case, it's a learning experience.

Right now I'm wading through my translation and really enjoying it. It's nice to do something you love for a living, even if during the Abbasid Caliphate a translator would earn several thousand times (500 gold dinars a month) more than a bona fides scholar earns today translating a Latin manuscript. This is not the heyday of the Umayyad Emirate in Al Andalus: it's Dark Age Britain. A native born well-educated slave in England 2022 is worth less than a brute, crooked blow-in or the simpleton from the village.