My regular readers might remember that I made an attempt to become Mayor of Swindon. It was of course folly, a dream doomed to be broken, and as it turned out the local borough ignored my desperate plea for attention completely.

So I decided to take revenge. If I can't achieve social status and civic responsibility by the democratic process, then I'll fall back on that aspect of British civilisation that has sustained the British Empire for centuries. I am of course talking about the class system. No, not another socialist revolution (or Prescottian fist-shaking and scapegoating), but a real and very vaild capitulation to the inevitable as I assume what should have been my status but for an accident of birth.

From the 1st of January, I am Lord Caldrail.

Bad News

As I sat down for Sunday Lunch earlier I heard the television news in the front room. Airports closed due to bad weather, motorways closed due to bad weather, schools closed due to bad weather, in fact, Britain has pretty much shut down because, yes, you guessed it, we've had some snow.

Snow is of course the great British bugbear. We are uttely flummoxed by it, an annual disaster that brings Britain to a grinding halt.

Of course I'm affected not at all. Out of the window I see clear blue skies and not a flake anywhere. Swindon is peculiarly blessed by a lack of snowflakes at the best of times, and as I mentioned before, one local bar has even provided a snow making machine on their roof to remind us that winter is here.

Okay, that's not entirely true. This morning produced a sharp frost in which everything is slightly slippery. So far however I have managed to stay on my feet.

Just Making Sure You Got The Message

No, really, from next year I am Lord Caldrail, legally, properly, and able to put that title on my driving license and passport should I be so inclined.

Praise For Librarians

Once again the senior librarian sidled up to me and said "We're still looking for that book you know"

It gladdens the heart. Actually it turns out they've got a storeroom filled with old books. I saw one not so long ago, a victorian treatise on some subject or other printed in 1840, stamped by the Great Western Railway for their now long-defunct library in the Mechanics Institute, now itself defunct, abandoned, and a controversial restoration scheme.

It isn't that significant I guess, but at times like that you can reach out and touch history. It's quite a feeling.

No, Really, I'm Serious

Look, this Lord thing. I'm not joking. I really have attained a title in this realm of England. It may not be hereditary, I might not qualify for a seat in the House of Lords (for foreigners, that's the bedroom in the British governmental system), but I have a legal right to present myself as a Lord. Bow down before me plebs.

I did want to be called Lord of Rushey Platt, but that isn't actually allowed. So I'll have to settle for Lord of Eascott Ward. Can't wait to try it on the locals. Can you imagine the scorn, outrage and mockery I'm about to face? Doesn't matter. I'm inherently superior from January. Officially, I'm finally a fully fledged nob.