caldrail

It depends on your viewpoint. Since he was the first emperor to target christians (He blamed them for the Great Fire of Rome ad64, rightly or wrongly, and had them used as torches to light the streets), he's sometimes described as an antichrist. Personally I think that's a little operatic, but clearly he was spiteful, insecure, ambitious, very unrestrained, and a desperate attention seeker.

Living where I do one has to expect a certain amount of late night noise. It is after all a main route for people going from Old Town pubs on the hill to the town centre and the myriad theme bars that compete for business, never mind the nightclubs at the extremities of both areas. Last night was, however, exceptional. A veritable parade of late night revellers strolled, ambled, and fell over outside my home, in a series of favourite sing-alongs and comedy routines. I'm sure our civic authorities would prefer that festivities were more culturally based and officially sponsored, but last night the Swindon Midnight Carnival was in full swing. Business As Usual One of my neighbours has taken to playing their stereo at some volume just lately. The problem is that for some reason the sound travels directly into my bedroom and it isn't a welcome feature of living here. Yesterday I kind of lost my temper over it. I dragged a speaker cab into the hallway, plugged in a rythmn machine, and pressed play. A suitably loud (and distorted) soundtrack echoed away to my hearts content. it worked too. The neighbour went quiet after fifteen minutes of mind-numbing 4/4 beat. That is, of course, until they'd realised I'd stopped. Business as usual. Our Turn Next The problem with our special relationship with America is that eventually everything gets imported to us. Coca-Cola, burger bars, hurricanes, guns, sex, drugs, and rock 'n roll. Sadly it now appears that the oil slick from Louisiana is also coming our way. With petrol being the price it is, and the usual south-western prediliction for scavenging off beaches and ship wrecks, one wonders if the more opportunistic members of the british public won't be down on the beach with jerry cans. Okay, it's crude oil, not nice perfect petrol, but since when did a small problem like that stop the british scrounger? They might even help the clean up too.

That's hardly the case. A late empire writer moans that there are no more wild beasts to be had for the arena. "No more lions in Thessalay" for instance. He admires them, he's fascinated by them, but the empires psychological need to demonstrate mastery over nature means that their only real value is slaughter for public entertainment. In fact, the decline of arena combat can be partially linked to the ever increasing costs of putting on spectaculars. With smaller displays (and the gladiator fights had long ceased to be displays of skill) the public were losing interest. The demand for animals had been a huge enterprise in the centuries leading up to this shortage and somelegions even boasted professional hunters who earned income on the side by trapping beasts. One legion in Germania was especially proud of its 'ursarii, or bear hunters. Marginal areas recovered to some degree because animals spread into the depopulated areas afterward, but in most places, the levels of animal population had suffered.

Look, he still puts my mail in the correct slot for me. I'm not going to upset him

There's been a trend in recent years toward 're-enactment' documentaries. It isn't enough to simply tell us what went on, and show us maps, film clips, music, sounds, and the odd talking head, but now you have to get people doing these things to see what it's like. My own feeling is that you're going to fail, because the only people who know what it's like are the ones who went through the experience for the cameras, and then we only see the edited highlights. There was one where a bunch of pilots were trained to fly a spitfire. The chief flying instructor at the club where I used to fly once met a spitfire owner when he dropped in to refuel. "Why not take her up?" He was told. Some people have all the luck. That said, modern regulations would prohibit me from flying an old warbird until I'd been suitably trained. Flying is none too cheap in Britain and these sixty or seventy year old warbirds are very expensive toys, never mind the purchase costs. You might expect to fork out two to three thousand pounds an hour. That's around twenty times what it cost me to fly. I must admit to a certain envy there, but the whole attitude was very modern day, with none of the 1940's demeanour from the officers. Everything was done in a sort of chummy, personal manner, without any air of authority at all. As living history it just didn't convince. Last night they did World War One, getting two expert pilots to fly old wood and canvas planes to 'see how it was'. Having a young woman as a talking head was very politically correct, and at least she'd read up on the subject, but she seemed a bit incongruous talking about what was an all-male arena in a chivalrous but chauvanistic era. You couldn't help but feel that she wasn't as worldly wise as the program needed her to be. Standing beside the memorial of Albert Ball in the middle of a french field was a very touching gesture yet one she didn't have the gravitas to carry off. Noticeably the expert pilots were flying these old aeroplanes in a very sedate manner. It isn't that they can't fly - they were once members of the Red Arrows aerobatic team and still fly formation displays - but hearing about Werner Voss avoiding six british fighters and very nearly getting away from them, clearly they were being very restrained. I've flown Cessna's more ethusiastically than that. Okay, they had good reason. These were valuable airframes that were other peoples property. But does that mean you got a feel for how it was? As documentaries go, it wasn't a success. Meanwhile, Back At The Library I knew something odd was going on the moment I entered the library this morning. Where did all these people come from? There's some sort of society meet going on and crowds of pensioners are milling around in conversation with each other. Keep the noise down, please!

I caught up with a program about Atlantis the other night. Finding this program on television was a suprise and something of a coincidence. I'd recently spotted a book on our library shelves that was on the same subject. The book, unsuprisingly, delved into every myth and urban legend ever associated with our famous lost city. Some people actually believe all this stuff. A while back I noticed a chap looking at a book on the secrets of the pyramids and since he had all the appearances of studious intelligence, I made an unwelcome comment about whether reading books like that was really the right thing to do. He of course did believe what was written in it, and we had a long debate about various myths and realities. It all got a bit metaphysical and I'm not sure who won the argument. I think the problem was that neither of us had any pictures of landscape, dramatic re-enactments, or detailed graphics to prove our point. Which brings us neatly to the television program I saw, which included all these things as the female presenter trotted around various places pointing out all the connections that everyone else has been pointing out for the last hundred years, except she's prettier than most Atlantis seekers and had access to a film crew, not to mention some restricted areas. Despite my misgivings I was pleased to see that she more or less said the same things I've been bleating on about for years, if not quite a century. Great minds think alike, as they say. Hang on a minute.... Flies Another blistering hot day to come. It's mid morning and already the air is getting sweaty in the library, the air conditioning intruding upon orur silent internet browsing with an insistent rush, something like a well behaved vacuum cleaner. My thoughts are less on my job search, which I'm pleased to say I've added to today, having sent one application for an impossibly restricted vacancy, receipt of a rejection email, and finally having my forgotten password details forwarded by a company that tells everyone how it believes in customer service. No, instead my mind is wandering and considering what to do with this wonderful weather. I can see the hazy sunshine out of the window. It's very appealing. As always seems to happen in summer, an open window at home attracts a small swarm of flies. They congregate in the living room and re-enact the aerial battles over the trenches of WW1 in miniature. Luckily my carpet isn't covered with mud, barbed wire, and dead bodies. Funny thing is though - When I close the window, the flies vanish. Disappear completely. I sense an episode of Doctor Who coming on. Of course the relentless media machine behind the new series continues. Recently I saw that actress Karen Gillan, who plays red head assistant Amy Pond, is voted the best Dr Who assistant of all time, by the program advertisers naturally. Would it be possible to make up my own mind, please? Well, she can act I suppose, but somehow she just doesn't engage my attention. But, as the saying goes, she got the part, so no flies on her. Lost City Atlantis is a funny thing. Plato wrote a story and everyone since has believed the whole thing was real. Certainly it was based on real world events in centuruies gone by, but adapted, enlarged, and grossly exaggerated. Rather like our new series Doctor Who. I wonder if in future archaeologists will be coaming through ancient records of the twenty first century trying to find real evidence of Swindon? Perhaps holo-books will be created on the subject, telling that space aliens founded a colony here. Children sat open mouthed in front of their virtual teacher as the imagery of a powerful railway civilisation conquering the known South West is created by artists. Swindon has long had ambitions to become an offical city. Civic pride I imagine, no doubt fuelled by under-the-table deals. A part of me thinks, like Atlantis, that finding the real city will never satisfy those who want the status. I think Swindon should be allowed to remain a legend. A myth, a forgotten place of unfashionable mediocrity and rainy streets. Why? Because I don't think anyone will take the place seriously, no matter what you call it.

I hate the internet. It all looks colourful, quick, and easy. But no matter how much I try, there's never a version of the interesting looking pages in english, the downloads get filtered out by web security, the online application system sends you round in circles, and the company that requires you to log on doesn't send you the password reminder. That about sums up the day so far. I've wasted tons of time trying to get this to work. Now I've got ten minutes to write todays blog entry. Okay. I'm up for a challenge. Bump In The Night I think my neighbour is getting fed up with my long nights over a hot PC. It isn't that I deliberately make noise but it just isn't possible to be completely quiet, and the edwardian floorboards are creaking like an old galleon every time I move. So early this morning he was banging draws and doors. Okay, okay, I get the hint. Maybe if I put a spot of oil on the floorboards they'll stop creaking? A part of me so wants to try that. Annoying People There's a guy in the next cubicle who keeps making heavy breathing noises, rather like someone who's personal life is entirely devoted to photographs of naked women in anatomically impossible poses. Glancing across the website he's browsing seems inoccuous. There he goes again. Wheeze. Now on the other side is a guy who fidgets. He just can't keep still. Always coughing, gesturing, clearing his throat, and now he's testing the contours of his balding head. Sorry mate, but the brain isn't getting any bigger. More Rubbish More rubbish has filled the alleyway beside the houses where I live. Where is all this stuff coming from? Mattresses, clothing, bottles, all sorts of stuff. I notice some of the clothes look vaguely asian in style. So let me take this opportunity to point out to our immigrants that we have bins in this country to put rubbish in. I know the council and their recycling is a pain in the butt, and that you have to sort your own rubbish into fifteen different plastic bins these days, but please try. Gun Law I was reading on another forum about one chaps uncle, who apparently owns live .50cal machine guns. It all sounds dubious to me. Automatic weapons have been banned from public ownership in Britain since 1937. If you look at the legislation, it's been rising exponentially ever since, and these days toy guns are illegal to sell if they're anything other than cheap lurid yellow plastic. Following yesterdays alarming and tragic shooting incidents in Cumbria, clearly the next step is to ban shotguns too. I suppose there's a case for that. If you don't have a gun, you can't shoot someone. And it would prevent those idiots I passed in the countryside last year from posing and looking macho with shotguns draped all over them. But then - if all these pistols and rifles are illegal - How come people still own them? More Gun Law Israel has done it again. After my comments about Al Q'aedas recent loss I've no doubt serious islamic revolutionaries are howling for my blood and demanding to know why I'm not speaking out against Israel for its heavy handed approach to national security. Well... Perhaps if you didn't keep threatening them, they wouldn't be so bullish. other than that I just don't care, because if I don't get a job soon, the government will shoot me for being a drain on their financial resources. On the Bright Side The weather is nice. And I still Have... Woah! Two mintes left. Just enough time to press submit. Job well done.

play water organs

Mankind is a clever species. These days we can talk to someone on the other side of the globe. We can, in theory, arrive at any point of the worlds surface within 48 hours comfortably. Some human beings have been to the dark and crushing depths of the oceans. Others have skipped across the dusty surface of the moon. With all these wondrous inventions and achievements, why is it we cannot design doors that work? My love/hate relationship with doors is nothing new. Time and again I've pulled instead of pushed, pushed instead of pulled, and on at least two occaisions pulled the darn thing off its hinges by accident. But automatic doors are even worse. I truly believe that autiomatic doors are designed to frustrate the general public. So when it's time to leave the library and go home, what happens? The door sulks. It just stays immobile. No... Hang on... yes, it is moving, ever so slowly. With my recent post about the nature of time, I start to wonder if I haven't encountered a space-time anomaly. Where's Captain Picard when you need him? He never had trouble with doors. And if he did, he had only to ask his engineers to sort it. Wait... Wait... A gap slowly forms and I try to exit by stepping sideways through it. You might think I was tempting fate. You are correct. The door suddenly stuck solid and I bumped into it looking like the helpless victim of mechanical gremlins that I am. This is one door, above all others, that deserves to be pulled off its hinges. But the security guard is watching me struggle with the door. I wonder if he knows what I'm thinking? How did he know I was going to collide with the only architectural feature in the building with a bad attitude? No, that's it, I'm going to make a complaint. Sorry, Librarian, but that door is rubbish. I want it fixed. "Oh. I see. If you have a complaint Sir, please fill in this form" She said. Okeedokee. I'll just sit here and... "Sorry Sir, but that seat is for new library members." Needless to say, there weren't any. Perhaps she can tell the future? More Proof Of Psychic Powers? Now here's a strange thing. Walking along the front of the old college site I pass a number of bushes growing between the delapidated brick wall and the white-painted plywood fence put up behind it to keep out beggars and druggies. With all the good weather, you can imagine how well these bushes and young trees have grown over the last two years. One small branch in particular is so virile that that it droops under its own weight and makes an annoying obstruction on the footpath. No, that's it, the next time I pass it, that branch is being broken off. Too late. Someone has sensed my annoyance and done it for me. Earlier today. How about that? All I have to do is think about things and it happens. Now let's see if I can negotiate that door safely by the power of my mind...

Because he had talent to begin with. Some people do. That's one reason why the Romans considered his sentence a very apt way to pay for his crimes. There's no record of any appearances made in the arena at all, and at the time, gladiators were treated very harshly. His escape was one major reason for changes made in gladiatorial combat leading to the classic genre. I doubt many people people volunteered back then, and in any case, the 'famous celebrity' gladiator was a thing of the future. Trained as a 'thracian'? He was a thracian, by birth, and that's where the confusion starts. I don't think the stories describe him as a specialist in any style although it's entirely possible his owner decided that was a suitable class for him. Going back to the point of the thread, what about Anicetus? He was a freed slave who rose to command the fleet of Pontus when that kingdom became a Roman province. He remained in charge of the fleet under Roman command. When Nero died, Anicetus sided with Vitellus, and so became a pirate until local tribesmen handed him over to the Romans and executed.

There is a sort of innocence about that piece, isn't there? Like we're all shy teenagers agonising over silly details like fashion, pimples, and whether our dream partner will actually respond to our timid approaches. Funny thing is, at my age I long since ceased being worried about it. Hello pretty young woman. Doing anything today? No? What about sex at my place?... Oh, I see. Oh well, at least I tried

That's just it. The cosmos contains no record of what happens. The quantum state of the universe exists for only that single individua frame and then it's gone, changed, another quantum state. It literally is impossible to travel in time because there isn't any. Nobody is certain how many dimensions exist, just that attempts to reconcile physics into one unified law strongly suggest that there are. We can only perceive three. We are aware of the change in the universes quantum state, which we describe as 'time'. Some believe the other dimensions were split off from ours by the Big Bang, others that the unseen dimensions are curled up tight and too small to be perceived. Perhaps the only 'real' and empirical evidence for multiple dimensions, or indeed, parallel universes, is gravity, which is weaker than the other forces in physics by a huge order of magnitude and shows every sign of leaking through from outside our own continuum. It is fortuitous, because if gravity were any stronger, we wouldn't be here.

I have now finished my six months with New Deal, which means I get a new claims advisor, so at last I don't have to suffer that loathsome woman. She tried today to put a vacancy under my nose that I'd already discussed and decided was untenable. When I mentioned we'd already discussed that one, there was a flash of anger across her face. She very nearly went into another display of bovine outrage. Another thing is that recently I applied for a job being handled by a recruitment agency. I really do dislike agencies. Quite apart from the fact they operate as slave-traders to all intents and purposes, they also come across as untrustworthy and very definitely partisan about how they go about their business. That said, nothing ventured, nothing gained, so I answered the phone message left by one of their team this morning. No matter how much I tried, all I got was a 'diverted call' message. Doesn't he want to talk to me, then? Oh well, their office isn't far away, I'll drop in and sort something out. I should mention at this point that the weather today is wet. It's been a while since we've had more than light drizzle, and a uniformly sombre grey sky is delivering its load of rain without interruption. Looking out the window I see the usual collection of umbrellas and soaked hoodies. The reason I mention this is that I didn't turn up dressed neat and tidy. There were two people in the office, both of afro-carribbean extraction. Near the front was a sharp dressed man, shaven haired, spotlessly clean, and clearly not noticing my presence at all. I see. You will hear it said that we judge by first appearances. There are those who judge entirely on appearances. Because I wasn't dressed in a similar manner to him, I was, in his eyes, worthless and fit to be ignored. For an employment agency that relies on people coming through the door for business, you have to wonder at his attitude, but then it's a sign of the times. With so many people unemployed or seeking better jobs, they really can pick and choose. Eventually the pretty and charming young lady sat right at the back of the office could stand the strain no longer. She bounded to the front and asked if she could help. Thank you. However, it seems the phone call I received was dubious. She told me that no-one of that name worked there. "We're mostly women here." She added. Well, I said, glancing at Sharp Dressed Man, it seems he's been put in his place. Bang, You're Dead According to the news, a CIA pilotless drone has killed a senior member of Al Q'aeda. Third in command no less. As the saying goes, you live by the sword, you die by the sword. Back in the days of the Cold War, it was common urban legend that the CIA went around assassinating people, a story no doubt fuelled by paranoia, anti-americanism, and no shortage of spy thrillers in print or the big screen. For once, I'm glad they have. Sadly it probably doesn't make the world a safer place. The job will soon go to another zealot. But at least you can't help feeling that justice has been done in some way.

So was Spartacus, if the story is correct. He joined the auxillaries and deserted to become a bandit and thus condemned to the gladiator school when captured. I should point oput that Spartacus is famous for being a rebel, not a gladiator. He was never trained for professional fights (being a condemned criminal) but was due to take part in a spectacular in or near Capua shortly before he and his fellow conspirators organised their breakout.

It's no good. I'm going to have to wash myself. I cannot tell you how much I'm dreading this experience. Please don't misunderstand. I have absolutely no desire to go about smelling of body odour whatsoever, but without hot water, all I have is a bucket of cold water in the bath which I very cleverly allowed to stand for a few hours in order for it to achieve room temperature. When I was young, I remember the fun I had washing mysef in such a manner during my camping expeditions. With all of us going through our own communal hell, it was a jolly wheeze. Now that I'm dangerously close to being a wheezing old gent, this isn't jolly in any way whatsoever. It comes as a shock to discover exactly how uncomfortable room temperature really is. Rub myself down with a damp sponge... Whip up a lather with soap... So far this is just about bearable... Right, now to sponge off the soap and dirt I've accumulated since giving up my life of luxury... As I rub the sponge on the back of my neck and shoulders the water runs down my back in cold rivulets... Ah.. Ah.. Ah.. Not nice. Don't like that. You know, I think this is what it's like being poor. I so want to be rich and famous right now. Covered in Oil "BP have failed" Announced my father. As he's a relatively uncommunicative person, such a statement was beyond my experience and it took a while for the sound to register on my perceptions. Such a long while that he repeated his observation. Usually I would make some clever or erudite reply and bring the conversation to an end before it becomes a socially awkward monent, but considering the scale of the impending disaster facing Louisiana, I was lost for words. I know Louisiana is a place far far away, a corner of the world I've never been to and if my gas bill continues to rise, never will, but there's a sense of grim resignation about it all. You know there's going to birds struggling to stand up, coated in thick sludge on a blackened sandy beach, no matter how hard they work to prevent this fate. I do actually hope those working to contain this disaster achieve something here. It would be tragic if attempts to avert the damage were abandoned or failed. Good luck chaps (and chapettes). Do yer best. All in all, I think my own cleaniness isn't such a big problem.

What shall I do? I've finished my daily business at the library, had my lunch, and there's nothing worth watching on television for the next couple of hours. Aww what the heck, I'll take a walk around Lawns, a local 'open space', for a bit of fresh air. For a while I sat on the ornamental steps that mark the end of the formal grounds and overlook the low lying suburbs beyond the grassy meadow that sloped away from me. Maybe it isn't the most stiring view to be had in the area, but on a pleasant day it's good enough. So I sat there with my mind wandering, watching the trees bend in the light breeze that carried the scattered clouds on their way. My reverie was disturbed by the sound of an aero-engine. Way off in the distance, somewhere just beyond the southeastern edge of Swindon, a light aeroplane was performing aerobatics. I could hear the engine rising in tone as the plane gathered speed in a shallow dive. There he goes, up and over in a loop. It's been a long time since I've sat in an aeroplane doing that. My thoughts drifted away to thiose heady and fearful days of 1940. I know, but it's something that strikes very deep in the heart of the English psyche. For a while I imagined squadrons of fighters and bombers crossing the sky in front of me, a collective rumble of pistons and propellors on their way to do battle with an implacable enemy. There was actually plenty of activity in the area duringt WW2. Vickers had a factory way off to my left. There was an operational maintenance unit way off to my right, turning newly built aircraft into military weapons. An operational airfield to the north, and a training airfield to the south. None retain their former purpose, most having been returned to agricultural land. There he goes again, gaining speed in a shallow dive, his engine rising in tone enthusiastically. Think I'll sit here a while and enjoy the show. We're Here To Help The gas company guy answering the telephone went from disinterested boredom to a sudden fright. At the threat of my demand to curtail the service, he went to some length to persuade me not to do that. "We're here to help" He assured me. Oh? Really? Something tells me his interest is about quotas, targets, and my payments. She Said Hello? The Malignant Pixie said hello to me yesterday morning. I passed her at the bottom of the hill, and to be honest, I didn't realise she was there. Good grief, that's the friendliest she's been toward me ever..

Not true at all. People were no less intelligent during the middle ages than they were before or afterward. It is true however that the dominance of christianity was not conducive to intellectual pursuit. A religion that demands conformity and faith does not want its literature or methods questioned, especially with so much money and political influence at stake. Nonetheless, advances were made during the middle ages. We see the likes of Thomas Aquinas pursuing philoosphy. We see colleges and universities created in european towns, often with royal support. Agriculture began to develop from the ruin of the dark ages (albeit with a few disasters along the way). Commercial activity restored itself after the fall of the Roman Empire, and we see large scale enterprises forming a crude analogy of modern multi-national corporations. We also see monasteries making the first steps toward industrialisation. Literature is no less represented. It's thanks to medieval writers and copyists that we know as much as we do today about the Romans, and whilst its easy to sneer, don't underestimate the market for fiction in the middle ages. Arthurian romance is nothing new. The medieval equivalent of paperback novels were on sale seven hundred years ago, and the creative impulse to write them ever present. Lets be frank about the renaissance. There was no instant change of heart. People like Leonardo Da Vinci are exceptional, but despite his enormous intellect, he achieved very little other than muse about the possibilities, nor did his ideas have any significant impact on science or technological development afterward, which instead went hand in hand with the ability of industry to supply the hardware needed for these developments. The renaissance had less to do with intellectual growth, but rather the beginning of emancipation of christians from a form of intellectual and emotional slavery. What you'll find is that there are always those in society who want in some way to bend you to their will. I know that sounds vaguely communist, but that's how human beings are. Intellectual thought survives because historically there was no way to prevent people from thinking, and in cases where a regime destroys the evidence of such thought, then the adherents to philiosphy and science merely go underground. That again, is normal human behaviour. There are more modern examples of this.

The gas bill arrived this morning. For the first time since I moved in nearly eight years ago, I've made a loss on that particular service. Worse still, the supply company have automatically doubled my payments. I can't afford to pay that much. My benefits don't cover domestic bills. It seems a bit odd in a way but all I get is Jobseekers Allowance plus Housing Benefit, and I have to pay for everything out of those two sources, which has never left me with a huge profit but now energy prices are being hiked up, I'm losing what little profit I once made. Some people think I live the life of Reilly. I imagine they enjoy a social life. Holidays abroad twice a year. I can't afford those. It's true I own this or that, but then, for the most part those belongings were my property before I became unemployed, and any major purchase since has come out of my savings, so I'm not exactly as well off as people imagine. Today I have to phone the gas company and ask them to terminate the service until further notice. It's a sad reflection of the times but I'll just have to do without hot water for now. On The Bright Side "I'd like to leave a message for Lord Caldrail" Said the recording played out over my mobile phones answering service. You know what? That's the first time in nearly six months that anyone has adressed me in that polite manner.

By coincidence I stumbled across something yesterday. Plutarch tells in his Life of Marius that Roman soldiers loved nothing more than a leader who eats the same food and shares in their labour. It's a very telling statement. Even in Roman times, when society was strictly layered with sometimes harsh punishments for those who transgress the rules of privilege, there is a sense of inequality in the lower classes. You might argue there was bound to be. The lower classes were rubbing shoulders with people considerably wealthier than they were. Despite the overall acceptance of the status quo, some may have looked enviously at the rich and asked themselves why it was they were denied such comforts. In our case study above, Blaesus is mentioned as having household slaves and even gladiators as personal guards. Rufus is described as using a carriage for mobility. So we could in fact add another motive... Envy.

As so often happens, a young asian lad sat at the next library computer began chattering on his mobile phone in a montone barrage of meaningless syllables. He just didn't draw breath. He didn't notice my cold disapproving stare. Coughs did not attract his attention. So eventually a 'Hey!' roused him from his hypnotic mantra. He nodded, and after another minute or so of constant chat, finally hung up the call. At last! He came back five minutes later and started his phone call all over again. Today as I begin to log on to a computer, some bloke behind me loudly proclaims where he is and what he's doing over his phone, almost as if the world needs to know. He was pounced on. The librarian on duty came at him veritably spitting and snarling - "You cannot use mobile phones on this floor!" He said with respectable finality. Obviously taking lessons from Dragon Lady. I shall have to watch my step. About Mobile Phones I never saw this, but the story was told to me some time ago. On a rail journey some businessman was making those annoying calls and getting up everyones noses. Eventually his bladder could take no more, and as he needed to visit the toilet desperately, he rather foolishly asked another passenger to watch his belongings for him. Once out of sight, the passenger grabbed the mans phone left on the seat and threw it out the window. When the businessman came back, he bagan searching for the missing device and asked whether the passenger had seen it... Erm... Nope. A part of me wants to do that in the library. Sorry mate, but no mobile phones allowed.... There you go... It's out there, on the pavement. Might need a repair. But then my own mobile phone never works properly either. Even when calls manage to stay connected, the battery brings an air of excitment as you never know if the wretched thing will give up halfway through your conversation. The salesmen insist a charged battery will last two or three weeks, but two or three days is more accurate, and the device is programmed to lose power in the midst of the most important phone calls. There I was, talking to an employer about getting a job for in excess of

Yesterday afternoon I sat down to watch the news while I got on with other projects. It so happened I chose the moment when the space shuttle Atlantis returned to base for the last time. It was a majestic sight, watching this bulky and heavy 'aircraft' swoop down onto the Florida runway at three hundred miles and hour, a testament to the co-operation between crew and control, never mind the technical gizmos that enable this accuracy. Although the shuttle is going to be hangared and serviced, they don't plan to fly it ever again. With the tragic loss of two of the fleet, the rising cost of maintenance of an aging vessel, and the economic realities of our day, it's just too expensive to operate. I am genuinely saddened by this. I remember those heady days in the sixties when, as a child, we were all told to go into the school hall in front of one of those primitive black and white televisions mounted in a tall mobile cabinet, to watch men land on the moon for the first time. And we don't go there any more either. meanwhile, Back At The College What do I see in todays local newspaper? The government have made no secret of their plans to cut spending in order to tackle the mounting national debt, and that means the redevelopment of the old college site might have to be abandoned after all. It's expected the development agency will lose something like 7% of its budget anyway. That kind of makes me curious. How does this affect the plans to rebuild the canal through Swindon town center? Their money was going to come from the EU (which means us, in a roundabout way) and they once told me it wasn't going to cost the local community anything. I wonder if they'll find the cash? Stars of the Week I am due to become more outsppoken, according the stars in my local paper. The influence of Uranus will not be thwarted (no jokes please). My claims advisor will be so pleased. She loves putting people in their place.

The chances of being freed by the editor of the games were actually not good. Succesful fighters were a source of profit for their owner, and whilst the crowd might cheer the editor for his act of generosity, the owner would have to be paid compensation for his loss. This does not apply to contract fighters. Such men (or women) volunteered to serve as a slave in the arena for a fixed term, usually five to seven years. Since the statistics we have available suggest the average life expectantancy for a gladiator was four years, it was more likely he would meet a sticky end than walk away. In terms of rebellion, it's also unlikely such people would become disobedient. They had after all volunteered for this life, either to earn money to pay off debt, or perhaps they simply wanted stardom - much like modern youths want to be rock stars today.

The shape was in the clouds, presumably a gap through which the sun shone. At any rate, I'm not aware of any astronimical event. It makes little difference because Constantine wasn't exactly being honest. He needed a rallying call, a unifying factor, and used christianity for his own ends. It may well be he was talking out of his subligaria and no such vision was actually revealed, but then, soldiers were notoriously superstitious and easily manipulated.

That's right, and it can't be stressed enough that professional bouts were different from the 'spectacles' staged to wow the audiences, in which we see the larger scale slaughters going on. One on one fights were indeed rigidly controlled and taken very seriously by all concerned. In some cases, gladiators were chained at the ankle to a large stone in the centre of the arena, possibly to another gladiator at the other end, in order to restrict the space they could move around in and add to the drama - one such stone is depicted on a mosiac in Britain and I believe one was actually unearthed not too long ago. I suspect lesser fighters were subject to this sort of match, and it might have been a bit hard to be disobedient while so constrained. Gladiators who spoke the same languages were seperated in the ludum, the training school, to avert any attempt at organising break outs, and even before the escape of Spartacus it's clear that weapons were only made available immediately prior to the event, the gladiators being left with wooden practice weapons for most purposes, yet even with that restriction some researchers have stated they believe up to a third of trainees, whether volunteers or condemned men, were either killed or invalided out before their first bout. Also, a newbie gladiator was often set against an experienced man. This veteran fighter was worth more, a source of profit for his owner, so in a sense the fight might be skewed in his favour both to keep this man alive to earn money, but also to please the crowd with another victory to his credit. I don't know if newbies were aware of this. It certainly didn't stop them volunteering. At the height of gladiatorial combat in the Pax Romana, it's believed perhaps half the men fighting were volunteers, the era of the pampered professional star fighter, a big change since the days of Spartacus when fighters were expendable slaves and little else, not to mentioned treated very brutally. Professional training as an athlete (as opposed to merely a fighter) was something that came more or less with the empire. There are stories of those being sent to fight who simply couldn't face going out on the sand. That shouldn't suprise us. Not everyone is a natural fighter. For these people, who did things like push their heads through the spokes of a moving wagon wheel and so break their necks, or the man who suffocated himself with a toilet sponge, their disobedience was a case of suicide rather than face combat with sharp swords. I don't think there were many cases of this, but I must add that men with spears were on hand to prod reluctant fighters back into the fray. I recall the scene in an african town, where Russel Crowes Maximus loses patience with his lot and demands to know whether the audience were entertained by his slaughter of his hapless foes, then throwing the sword at the editor of the games in disgust. A great fighter or not, any gladiator who behaved in such a fashion was going to find the Romans had plenty of nasty ways to entertain a crowd. That said, we don't read of gladiators behaving like that. Possibly because they didn't live long afterward. They took the business quite seriously, and a professional attitude is something our sources point at. I also note the games at which Caligula complained that the fight had been spectacularly bad and unimpressive. One man snatched a trident and slew his suprised opponents in quick order. He did this to please his emperor, the games editor, and strangely enough Calgula was disgusted at this action. He was after all the man who slew gladiators armed with practice swords at training sessions and danced about in victory.

The stifling warm spell seems to run its course. Last night was a blessed relief from lying there gasping for breath, a definite cooler feel to the air, and this morning was actually quite chilly. At last... A chance to get some real sleep.... But no. For some reason every alarm in the neighbourhood was going off. The abanonded office across the road made its usuall insistent bleeping. Car alarms went off one after the other in the streets behind my home. A burglar alarm sounded into the small hours. What is going on? A mass invasion of teenage thieves? I just want to sleeeeepppp...... A Question of Time Here's something for the scientifically minded to ponder.... Our view of space time is effectively einsteinian. That is, we have three dimensions plus time, which Einstein recognised is linked to our mundane cosmos. Most people wouldn't go any further than that - it isn't a big real world issue. Now, most people would simply regard our three dimensions as all there is and that it's a simple rectilinear description of the volume of space we observe. There are theories that other dimensions exist, seperated from the ones we can perceive, and curled up so small they'd be invisible anyway. But our familiar three dimensions might not be so rectilinear. Einstien himself recognised that space-time is curved. A theory now describes the universe as 'crinkled'. In other words, although we see everything as sort of flat, it isn't, because light and other electromagnetic energies we use to observe the universe around us are simply following the curves, thus we don't see them. Now we consider dark matter. A strange, mysterious substance that cannot be detected yet accounts for a bulk of the theoretical mass of the universes contents. It should be there, but we can't find it. A theory describes dark matter not as some exotic form of 'stuff', but as the gravitic footprint of ordinary matter like stars and planets that to us appear very, very far away, but that because of the folds in space -time are actually quite close. Now consider time. Traditionally this is seen as a dimension of its own, like a river, or in some peoples imaginations, a container for all possibilities. Scientists are now coming around to the idea that time does not exist. There is only Now, this moment, flicking from one quantum state to the next at the rate of ten to the thirty four times a second. This means there is no past and no future, no co-existence of things happening in other time periods. So this means that time travel really is impossible. But wait a minute. We know space-time is curved, We know time runs at different rates according to velocity of the observer and the gravity well of whatever mass is close by. We think electromagnetism follows the curvature of the universe, and that gravity doesn't. What if then, if it were possible to do the same as gravity - to cut across folds in space? Certainly that would make science fiction come true in that you could travel huge distances instantly, but because of the relative variations in time rate, you would also be travelling back and forth in time, because everything is relative to the observer. Think about that the next time you see a blue 1960's police telephone box. Or not. Depending on how much time you have, how busy your social life is, or whether you give a monkeys