caldrail

I left my home this morning in bright sunshine. There's a clear blue sky out there and although last night got pretty chilly, the sun has already warmed things up nicely. You'd never guess that a cloud of volcanic ash was floating overhead and stopping airlines from flying at the cost of

Because he derived personal prestige from his close affiliation from Augustus, because he didn't want the risk of being so exposed politically, and probably because he was less capable politically and knew it. Not everyone wants to be top dog. You will find plenty of people are happy to walk beside someone who is.

It's over! It's all over! My work experience placement has come to an end after thirteen weeks of banter and back-breaking labour. My boss thanked me for my efforts and apologised for not being able to take me on permanently. "Are you sorry to be leaving?" She asked me. It did feel like a bitter-sweet moment. On the one hand we'd had a fun day. Antics and malarkey throughout the morning, but sadly Miss L was on the receiving end of a management ambush after I'd given her a stockroom rally stage in my sports-cage. The awful part of it was that if we'd reacted better we could have gotten away with it. She was sat inside the cage out of view when the boss came looking for her. "Have you seen Miss L?" KS and I instinctively glanced down as Miss L stared back in horror. It was no good lying about it, the boss had noticed the sudden quiet and exchanged glances and knew something was up. So she was sent off to a firing squad but so far we haven't heard what action the bosses will take. In fairness, Miss L has been pushing her luck for a while now. It was a little unfortunate it all came to head after I'd pushed her too. Chin up girl. I did my best to defuse the bomb. The mood did lighten. I found a printed instruction sheet handed out by manager G for his staff and had it sent back to the office marked with all corrections and 4/10 - Must do better in Grammar if you want to stay in management. On the way out I said my last goodbye to Miss G. As usual she shivered in embarrasement and tried to get out of my target range as soon as possible. Bless her, she's such a fussy girl. Does need to remove the cork though. I stopped by the security guard and handed over all my tools of the trade - pens, pad of paper, safety knife - and for some strange reason he nearly collapsed in hysterics. Finally, at the main door, I stopped and thanked the department store so everyone could hear me. The public looked a little bemused and curious as to what the heck this idiot was on but their shopping wasn't impeded in any way. Audiences... So fickle... Small World Of The Week Yesterday afternoon was dragging on. My blog entry had been covertly written and posted, and we all sat around around waiting for our exit interview. There's been a blonde girl on another table whom I've spoken to a couple of times but given how attention-grabbing the girls on our table usually were, I hardly ever got around to speaking to her. As chance would have it we began chatting. In the course of the conversation she mentioned she lived in such and such a street. huh? The same one as me? My interest was picqued. Whereabouts? "Next to the chemist" She responded. What the? That's next door to me!!! Well how about that? Not only does it prove what an incredibly small world Swindon is, but also that neighbours can be human too.

Colonel Mustard in the Library with a lead pipe.

Minkybabe isn't mentioned at all. Your secret is safe with me.

Best not to ask, Minkybabe Nice to see you aboard. Enjoy the Roman stuff too.

I think the slavery angle is overstated. Certainly part of it, but what was more important was the lack of 'scientific' thinking amongst Romans. It wasn't that they didn't innovate within their culture (which was composed of their conquered and annexed populations too) but that there was no incentive to do so. I saw a tv program once that pointed at marks made in stone at a quarry used in Roman times. Apparently these quarrymen were using a three bladed stone cutter powered by water. An industrial innovation which no doubt helped their profits - an important factor, if not the most vital consideration in Roman minds. Would they communicate the secret of their success? I seriously doubt it. Why help your rivals? In order for science to develop you need to communicate ideas. Clearly the Romans weren't so inclined, so whilst the talent and inclination existed, it never took root on anything more than a local scale and then only if it worked reliably. On the other hand, there is evidence that technology was lurking on the bottom rank of Roman mentality. Plumbing for instance ended up with a set standard for lead pipes and brass bronze joints (Sorry about the gaffe there). We read of odd contrivances such as Nero's rotating dinner hall or the triton rising out of the lake to announce the beginning of Claudius's staged sea battle. There were definitely clever people around who knew how these things were made. It all comes back to money and making a living. If you know how these build these things, what incentive do you have to teach or show others how to do it? Those with the money to spend, such as wealthy people trying to impress the public with entertaining diversions, were generally conservative and image concious people who didn't want to be seen as patronising strange machines that fail spectacularly. So one might assume that you needed a certain level of confidence before you approached the important patrons with your ideas to begin with. A spectacular failure might end up with you taking your place in a spectacularum for the crowds edification and delight. A failure to adopt? Certainly, but money was often driving those decisions.

My last day at the Work Experience Centre! Free! Free at last! Free to experience sunlight, fresh air, and sensible intelligent people! But until that actually happens, I have to sit through the usual lecture and group activity. A part of me hopes my wierd brother will be waiting outside with his second hand ex-police car in a cool black suit and shades, mostly because of the fun adventures I

Technology did not appreciably develop in terms of 'scientific' advance, merely in terms of application of existing ideas (often other cultures but there you go) and some increasing sophistication. There wasn't much need for technical advance in the Roman world. As they became the dominant power they were strong enbough not to require technical advances as a means of winning domination, especially since Rome was intrinsically a conservative culture to begin with. Science as such was always a bit dodgy to the superstitious Roman mind since it was aping the powers of the gods. Also, why would a nobleman risk his reputation in a competitive cultural and politcal arena by investing in research? Surely a wealthy man demonstrates his wealth to his advantage by public largesse and the visible beneficence of slave labour? Science was also something very 'Greek' in Roman minds, and Greeks were.. well.. not to be trusted.

There was a general lack of managers at work today. Under normal circumstances that would be a recipe for noise and mucking-about, but with my dole payments in doubt I had other things on my mind. I even had to go to the Job Centre this afternoon to force them to arrange my 'Back To Dole Seeking' interview. Talk about DIY. Meanwhile, back at the stockroom, the quiet atmosphere was making it possible for others to attempt a spot of entertainment. Somewhat carelessly an asian lady started singing to herself whilst she searched the shelves for required stock in something of a 'whistle while you work' mood. Asian singing is complex and very odd to western ears, but she was tuneful, so when she mysteriously and abruptly ceased, I yelled across the stockroom for her not to stop. It's very cultural, I said. She burst into an insane fit of giggles. It was like the Wicked Witch of the West in a good mood. What a racket. At least she was amused. I always find these asians something of an alien culture. There's a guy who occaisionally comes up from the shop floor. We recognise him by his odd hairstyle which involves bundles of hair sticking out each side. KS thought he looked like Doctor Who which amused me somewhat, proving that all the Flash Bang Wallop of the new series rather distracts viewers from the essential realisation of just how little story there is. Anyway, I asked him whether he was the Doctor and he said no. I think he was telling the truth - He looked a little bemused by my questioning. Actually it is interesting that I mention Doctor Who, because his TARDIS (Time And Relative Dimensions In Space - I am such a geek sometimes) - the time machine that looks like a police box from the 1960's, is larger on the inside than it is outside. Sort of what happens in our stockroom. We have a different spatial configuration than the rest of the store and today the shop assistants put that to the test by constantly bringing stock up the lift to be stored. Unfortunately our relative dimensions are much smaller on the inside so the stockroom is now a mass of tangled socks and wobbly cardboard towers. Trust me - No Dalek could possibly reach us. Today I repaired various collapses of shelves and made new ones from spare bits scavenged from various black holes which are quite common in our cardboard continuum. For a brief while I even became an organic component of the stockroom architecture. Just part of the furniture. You could even stage a complete Doctor Who adventure in our stockroom. Where do all these work placementees go? Why does the telephone always stop ringing just as you finally clamber over jumbles of discarded boxes in a mad frantic rush to communicate with the outside world? How does J access the universe outside the stockroom, and what does he do with this mysterious power? More From Miss L2 Although KS failed to 'bash and dash' with Miss L2, she is never far from our thoughts. Apparently she's uploaded more jpegs of herself on a Facebook page and KS has seen them already. Now young Miss L2 says that she's a honeytrap, drawing men in. If that's the case, she certainly doesn't know what to do with them when she snares them in her machiavellian schemes. J made a somewhat gleeful observation that he would be like a bee, buzzing in to fertilise the flower. Thought you needed birds for that? Oh... I see what you mean. Well... I added that bees always fly back to the nest and communicate the directions to their great new find by way of a strange dance. Maybe J's bee-ness isn't so strong after all. Evidence For UFO's A few days ago I watched a television program about UFO's. The Secret Evidence or some such title. Out of curiosity I sat down with beer in hand and yes, the aviation expert hosting the program dredged up every single possible cliche to do with strange lights in the sky. I now know that UFO's are Nazi secret weapons used by the CIA to study little grey men in Arizona and scare off hippies from attending the Glastobury Festival. No, really it was on tv. So it must be true. Why would my television screen lie to me? The camera never lies...

Octavian was not officially crowned pharoah then, but accorded that status as the de facto ruler of Egypt. A sense of continuity must have been important to priests - as it usually is - and so the Roman emperors effectively formed a new dynasty of foreign kings. A stable regime in Egypt would have been very important and hence the continuity worked for Octavian. A simple example of realpolitik. In any case, Egypt was a land of barbarians so where was the harm in assuming the role of a king there? Actually, a clever Roman rival could have made much of that, given the criticism levelled at Marc Antony over his love affair with ambitious and crafty (not to mention ruthless) Cleopatra. Perhaps then it was wiser not to make any big deal of it, and if the Egyptians wanted him to have that status, well.. They were barbarians after all.

It's a very special day today. have you forgotten? You have? Okay, I'll remind you. This tuesday is World Pirate At Work Day. Now much of the eastern world is already back at home having missed this wonderful opportunity for japes, drinking songs, Johnny Depp impressions, Errol Flynn heroism, and old sea dog stories. Incidentially, most of America still has time to get involved, so come on America! Join us down the tavern for tankards of rum and a right 'ole sing-song. Here goes... This way, that way Forwards and back Over the Stockroom Sea Piles of clothes And boxes to stack That's the life for me That little sea shanty was written and composed by J, who wondered what I was on and where could he get some. My own contribution was... Old Silas had a pirate ship He sailed the ocean blue And on this ship he had a boss Who told him what to do With a yo ho ho And a ha ha harr Old Silas had a pirate ship Steered by that Blind Pugh Old Silas had a pirate ship He sailed around the world And on this ship he had a bird Who never said a word With a yo ho ho And a ha ha harr Old Silas had a pirate ship His parrot had expired Old Silas had a pirate ship He weighed anchor back in port He couldn't read his porno mag Because he had been caught With a yo ho ho And a ha ha harr Old Silas had a pirate ship His court case he has fought Old Silas had a pirate ship The mainbrace he has spliced He's not on the dole no more They found him working twice With a yo ho ho And a ha ha harr Old Silas had a pirate ship Ain't the government nice? Sadly the girls from the shop floor were a little confused by this outbreak of eighteenth century tomfoolery, especially Miss G, who by now thinks I'm a complete raving looney. Well, she was bound to find out sooner or later. Our Latest Reader It's with a big big hello that I welcome Miss A to the Rushey Platt Villa. Today she discovered piracy, banter, and the web address of my blog. So it's without further ado that I accede to her request and pass on a personal message... KS smells Well she should know. I have to say it was pleasing to discover this young lady has developed a taste for cider, a much maligned tipple much loved by me. I remember that short time in the eighties when cider drinking was fashionable. Designer brands and hugely inflated prices for what was in effect expensive scrumpy. Thankfully today cider is back where it was, a simple and alcoholic beverage for the discerning, and a source of oblivion for the undiscerned. Our Quest For Fame Our lunchtimes are normally quiet in the rest area, but I do notice how jokes start to fly back and forth whenever Manager G is present. On this occaision I was reading a newspaper which featured a series of photoshopped photographs, and one was a car festooned in cardboard boxes. Now I'm seriously jealous. That is a car to be admired. You see, the subtlety and variety of cardboard is much underrated. Even J, our trusty ships captain, hadn't realised how interesting boxes could be and when I suggested how much fun packing materials were, he suggested I was nuts. Surely cardboard is just a non-descript and dull colour? By no means. Let me educate you, J. I showed him a stack of cardboard boxes waiting to be crushed in the baler and pointed out the variety of shades. A yellowy beige here, a brown beige there, in smooth and rough textures. "He's right" Added a nearby manageress. And that was that. But I digress. The important point was that I decided that the department store should strive for immortal fame and fortune by being the first team to successfully sail a cardboard boat across the English Channel. "Sponsored by the Labour Party" Added Manager G. He has a point. P.S. Before I forget, friday is our last day at work, and also Au Naturelle Day. I will definitely be keeping my hat on regardless, just for decencies sake. Who is the mystery person that Miss L wants to see naked? We shall see.

Monday mornings always have one thing in common. You know exactly what is going to happen. The alarm goes off, you get out of bed, get washed, fed, watered, and straight to work like some sort of condemned zombie. But not this monday. Today has an air of uncertainty brought about by the forthcoming end of our work placement. This is officially my last week at the department store. That means a return to unemployed status and all the red tape and bureaucracy that goes with it. KS has already been called to interview by the Job Centre. He was of course greatly annoyed at having to spend an hour in the town centre waiting to see the claims advisor after work, but if he doesn't get away with doing almost nothing about his job search I suspect he'll be much more upset than that. I haven't received a letter telling me when my interview is taking place. The tension is mounting. The Baby Crew After discovering myself the delights of working under Baby G, it's become clear how little respect the other bods at the department store have for him. Miss L spluttered dire curses at the very mention of his name, but then she'd been told to work on my section today and so she was fed up anyway. Since we're lesser mortals who don't understand the brilliance and wisdom of Baby G, we decided to follow suit and give ourselves 'gangsta' names. J told me that anyone who calls themselves Baby Whatever will not be listened to or respected in any way. So that means we have Baby J, Baby K, & Baby L. I was given Baby C, or Baby B (because of my high-vis label), but in the end I returned to my old 'gangsta' name, Alfred T. That's the one that Big Momma Miss J gave me way back when I worked with DS as my boss, which actually predates the start of my blog. No, there wasn't any point to this at all, but hey, we survived Baby G and lived to tell the tale. This last saturday and sunday his weekend gang did twice the work they normally do. Well done. So what was it he was claiming about working harder than anyone else? It seems his other claims are based on his fervent imagination and desire to be the biggest, baddest, gangstarest team leader in the whole department store. I wish him well on his quest and could he please stop talking about it and start out? A Bright Spark one of the hazards of the workplace I've found over the years is static electricity. Sometimes you can feel the arc between you and a piece of architectural metal, and it's literally quite a shock. I used to approach the lift at one workplace with great trepidation knowing full well I was going to set off a small blue spark the moment I touched it. Today it was KS suffering this phenomenon, and he thoughtfully passed on his electrical charge to Mrs T. I'll bet you all can guess what KS said when he told me about that. But he's not all bad. In between visits by Mrs T to see whether he was working, KS whipped out his mobile phone and ran an app that he described as a 'brain-trainer'. So far his brain hasn't responded to treatment, but we hope long term exposure to mental activity will improve his cognitive performance. Hi There Bumped into Sophie out in the street at lunchtime again. She's one of those researchers who stop and ask you questions before taking your name and address so you can be hounded for charitable contributions. I gave a her wave and said hello, and since I was being so cute, she let me go about my business unhindered. Have a nice day.

Actually the Roma legions c.AD50 were professional in terms of contract and organisation, but bear in kind they weren't the responsible caring sharing warrior we expect our soldiers to be today. Far from it, most were lowlifes with shields and swords, kept in order by brutal discipline and some clever regime factors such as the 'close friends' eight man grouping and the 'fraternity' of the legion. Also I think you underestimate the capabilities and qualities of the greeks at this time. In another century or so they would conquer an empire reaching as far as India. The Romans, even with their much vaunted organisation, failed to do that. I don't recall who wrote it, but one Roman left us an anecdote of a sitaution developing where he was, and although only a civilian, he grabbed a sword and rushed outside to see if he could do something about it. It so happened that an off-duty legionary had the same idea. He looked at this bloke with a sword and wasn't convinced. "What are you supposed to be?" He demanded. The man replied (dishonestly) that he was an off-duty soldier. "Oh? Then why are you wearing slippers?". The legionary requisitioned the mans sword immediately.

Such is the good weather we're getting this weekend that Yahoo is making a news item of it. That said, I look out of the window this morning and the sky is a plain white sheet of cloud. Perhaps Yahoo need to be a bit quicker off the mark with their journalism? Grand National We have a horse race in Britain called the Grand National. It's something of a national event these days. It was televised yesterday and some outsider won it, leaving bookies with huge losses. One complained that they'd lost last years profit in one hit. Dodgy game that, horseracing. Personally I'm not that interested. Those horses who get in front at the start generally stay there, and curiously enough the winning jockey was being lauded as a hero when the race finished. Erm.. Didn't the horse run the race? Oh look. Who should crawl out from under his stone but fatboy John Prescott, telling the British public that the Grand National is a public event and should remain on freeview, not payview, and he went on to make a political point and criticise the opposition.. Well I suppose that's to be expected, thre is an election around the corner. But does he actually believe I care about the Grand National? It can go on payview with my approval. At least that way the neighbours won't be able to afford to watch the race with the sound turned right up. Surely there's something more interesting to do this weekend? Modelling The Latest On my way from the library yesterday I passed a crowd assembled outside the model shop justacross the way. That model shop is a small place, but stuffed full of wonders to delight a child of any age. It's been there since I was very young and still does good business, though sadly I'm less of a customer than I once was. There's something wonderful about assembling a plastic kit. You get a box of light blue bits and create a shape, a scaled down facsimile of something that was real, and of course in your childhood days the completed model is a doorway to games and fantasies. On the other hand maybe you just get high on fumes from that horrible solvent glue. But I digress. The reason the crowd had assembled was due to an impromptu display of a pair of radio controlled trucks out on the pavement. Big, american style lorries, one tanker and one box freight rig. I have to say it was an impressive performance. The models generated all the correct noises. Diesel, horns, reversing beeps... I wonder if there's button for the driver to lean out the cab and yell suggestions to other motorists? Thing is though both models were finsihed in chrome. Okay, it was bright and shiney, and thus all the more impressive as models go, but is that really how a truck would appear? I recall that recently some guy bought himself a BMW-Mini finished in chrome and got spectacular quotes for insurance. A Ferrari would've been cheaper. Ahh, who cares... Look, the rear doors open remotely... Wow...

I am officially upstaged!

Professionalism? In 480BC the Roman armies were citizen levies gathered for the campaign before they all went home again. They were, to all intents and purposes, a militia. Hardly professional in the correct sense of the word. But that isn't what you mean. The 'professionalism' of the imperial Roman legions is something of a seductive image. if you read the sources you can pick out clues that show them to be somewhat less than the image suggests. Oh for sure they were well organised, and some of their activities are hauntingly familiar to our modern experience, but the quality and behaviour of Roman troops was often less than desirable. The Romans were very keen to encourage the image of their 'invincibility' and that image survives to the modern day. A real success for ancient propaganda. What sort of person became a legionary? In 480BC they were men keen to prove their adult credibility. Ordinary people, whose naturally aggressive instincts and sense of civic responsibility would have led them to volunteer. There was quite a long winded selection procedure, much like playground kids choosing which friends will play for their team, and even if you volunteered there was no guarantee you'd be chosen. Sons of perfume sellers need not apply. If you're discussing the later imperial legions, then what sort of person do you have? For the most part, pretty much the same, but in this case they join as a career choice rather than any sense of duty to the state. The Romans wanted thugs and toughs in their armies. If they bribed a centurion or two, or if they requisitioned the odd animal from a civilian, isn't that worth the price for the knowledge these men were willing to fight for Rome? That was the theory on which they operated. Bear in mind however that Roman politics were very competitive, even cut-throat, and that senior officers were not career soldiers. They were men of good family or political ambition. These legionaries had just as many deserters as in previous times, or as many as other armies for that matter. The flip side of brutal discipline is that not everyone can cope with it. My own feeling is that the presence of 300 Romans would have made no difference to the Persian advance, except possibly the Persians may have lost fewer casualties (since the spartans blocked the pass with phalanxes and the Romans wouldn't have)

The sunshine is glorious. It really is. Not a cloud to be seen and for a warm saturday surprisingly quiet in Swindon. You would think the place would be humming with people out to enjoy the day but apparently this isn't the case. I wonder why? Is it the recession? Has anyone got any money left after Gordon Browns Tax Police have slapped bills on everything that moves and almost everything that doesn't? Or is it the danger of collapsing walls at our plentiful building sites, following this weeks shock horror near-disaster (saved only by the scaffolding knocking against a lampost)? Me Tarzan, You Recycle Tarzan is coming back. Our jungle dwelling loin-clothed knife wielding gymnast is making a comeback. Ah yes... I remember Johnny Wiesmuller shouting "UNGOWA!" to scare off lions and rolling with rubber crocodiles in muddy water. But that, I'm afraid, is the old Tarzan, a horrible politically incorrect quasi-victorian macho figure who doesn't belong in our more sophisticated and ecologically concious world. Yes, you've guessed it, Tarzan is going green. No, not ripping his shirt off at the first sight of Nazis colonising african film-sets, but a new eco-warrior to meet the needs of the modern day, fighting against loggers and hunters and generally being very caring toward animals that once used to be so ferocious and aggressive back in the thirties/forties. Jane will be there too, this time with an I-Pod. Just the sort of handy gizmo you need for survival in the rainforests. Hang on a minute... Where does she get the power for that device, I wonder aloud? The manageress in the stockroom rest area looked up from her copy of Russell Brands autobiography and said "Maybe it's solar powered?". Of course. How stupid of me. Just ask the woman in charge. She'll know the answer. Me Tarzan, You know better. Somehow I don't think this new Tarzan will work. I sort of guessing he'll have a modern intellect and a cute line in gags (in between bouts of stand offs with greedy corporate exploiters). I hope he's not squeamish. Jungles have lots of insects. Looks like he might have his work cut out protecting Jane from the dangers of jungle life... Or am I being too sexist? Too stuck in a bygone era? We know who wears the trousers in african jungles these days. More Disquiet At The Library? A few times in the past I've mentioned the unwanted noise that some people generate in libraries. I'm going to mention it again, largely because this is saturday morning and I haven't got anything else to write about. The number of times some woman has parked her offspring in the next cubicle to me and ignores the frantic and confused efforts of her child to communicate with the world around it. And naturally, being ignored just makes them louder. The impromptu business meeting is taking place on the other side. Two middle aged guys concentrating hard to figure out how to access this or that and what it actually means. neither really knows but they try to convince each other they know. Each points at the screen and reads off the text to the other in an attempt to make the other understand what it means. At least they're too busy talking to use mobile phones. Young asian lads are the worst for using mobile phones, far more casual and ubiquitous than teenage girls. There's one now, chattering away in that sort of monotone gibberish, making deals, catching up with gossip, maybe even plotting the downfall of the western democracies for all I know. A bald headed chap wants to sing along to the mp3 he's downloading but obviously that wouldn't be appreciated, so he sort of whispers it in a tuneless chant. It seriously is creepy and I don't think he realises how loud he is. Then there's that big guy who always sits near the top of the stairs. Quite a jolly chap, but he gets so wrapped up in the videos he downloads of boxing matches. Everythings quiet... Just a background rattle of computer keyboards... "GOO ON MY SON!" He roars in appreciation, and adds "Can't beat a good fight." He might enjoy the one he's about to get with Dragon Lady, the scottish librarian who doesn't stand for any of that noise malarkey. There's going to be blood...

"It's our last week" Claimed KS. Not only does he fail to understand how a baseball cap should be worn, he also can't count. So convinced was he of this final week at our work placement that we all thought he was right, managers included. Today the issue was sorted as my boss went off to the office and returned with confirmation that we all have another week to run. Good news for J, who had to take the day off work because it's his girlfriends birthday (Full marks there J). He was so keen on a booze up after work to celebrate the completion of our tour of duty. Actually I noticed a few of the managers were asking whether we had another week to run. Makes you feel wanted, it really does. That brings me neatly round to the subject of Baby G. He's the understudy for J today while he's off work. Normally he covers the weekend when we're not there, but this friday he opened the door for us and out poked a gimpish head. He's a youngster. Oh no... I hate youngsters with authority. I'd been warned that Baby G was something of a prat and I must admit, there was a wave of pratishness as he leaned out the doorway to appraise these two dole seekers he'd never seen before. He never bothered to introduce himself. Not a word. He just handed out tasks for the day in that irritating "Do it, Doleseeker" kind of manner. Worst still he assumed I didn't know how to do the job. After twelve weeks? With two decades of warehouse experience behind me? "I'm going to be a supervisor next year" He told me. Oh? Really? Am I supposed to be impressed? Every five minutes he gave me a job to do and as soon as I'd gotten into the swing of it, gave me another. No wonder the stockroom is such a mess every monday morning - no-one gets to finish anything. Conclusion - Wet behind the ears and a little full of his own importance. He didn't like me either apparently. I imagine he found me a little harder to impress than his mates. Anyone who gives themselves a 'gangsta' name like Baby G deserves to be taken for a fool. They say first impressions count. At least I know how to. From The Heart A few pieces of poetry I discovered discarded on notepaper in the stockroom. No idea who wrote them, but here they are, as written... Let me in from the rain Never let me go again Feel the water run down my face A little piece of me moves on I keep on walking down this road I've seen a million people change I used to think if I never tried I would never fail Now I realise I can do anything Take another photo for your book Because I won't be there A little piece of someones inner thoughts and emotions. No, I'm not poking fun at it. Sometimes we get drepressed and unhappy about the way the world is and our failures at coping with it. I know I have from time to time. A part of me wants to help. Well... Whoever you are, smile. Take pleasure in small things. The world can be a crap place sometimes but it's up to each of us to make it worthwhile. Stick around. You might like my photos. Or maybe other peoples too. Wouldn't want you to miss out on that.

The phalanx is very specific in terms of composition although numbers vary. The important point is that solid mass of men advances with multiple ranks of pikes presented to the fore. Other formations had other names but the problem is that the phalanx was effective in its heyday and thus became the predominant formation for infantry until some leaders (Romans amongst them) realised the shortcomings of this rather inflexible attack strategy and formulated means to counteract it. Warfare has a triangle of options that has always applied whether in ancient or modern times. Firepower, Protection, Mobility. Any unit (or machine if you want to include the modern day) can only have a certain maximum potential which is shared among the three factors with differing emphasis. If you wear more armour, you're better protected, but your mobility will suffer. And so forth. With the phalanx, the emphasis is on 'firepower', albeit limited to the forward direction, the idea being that it's difficult to stop a big block of men closely packed together with row after row of sharp points ahead of them. There are other ways of attacking with pikes, but essentially that means you've opted not to form Phalanx. Unless you have better protection or mobility, the only way to counter a line of phalanxes is to form phalanx and advance back at them (may the sturdiest phalanx win).

Today is... Errr... Let me think... Oh yes, Thursday. That means Programme Centre Day. It also means a lie-in, so if you

I woke up this morning in a sort of tired downbeat mood. Sort of like that monday feeling but delayed by two days for extra suffering. Wednesdays in Swindon are always greyer than normal. Don't know why, they just are. It's traditional. You see, the thirteen weeks of my placement are coming to an end. I hate to admit it but I've actually enjoyed being there. Well, maybe not quite all the time, just enough of it to bring a tear to my cheek as I look back and remember my time as J's disciple. So inspired were we by his leadership, his sense of humour, his complete lack of respect to authority, and his general "What am I doing here?" attitude, that we left a big message scrawled on carboard and taped across his favourite baler. "WE LOVE YOU J" it said. Now before you start thinking that working in a clothes shop has radically altered our sexuality and self image, I would like to point out that KS today made strong hints that his love life isn't over. And that from a guy who reckoned he was temporarily celibate. So to celebrate our last day under J's tutelage we headed down to the sandwich bar at lunch and got all nostalgic. To be honest, what I really wanted to do was get drunk, but... Stupid Tax of the Week The Chancellor of the Exchequer had announced in his latest budget that cider is going up in price. Oh brilliant. Does the government really think I'm going to apologise for my criticism of their cack-handed financial skulduggery? Not only have they made life more expensive for me, but now they want me to foot the bill for it too. Except... The second item of good news today is that the government might not be able to raise the price of duty on cider after all, because they're all so busy fighting for their political lives now the election date is set for May 6th. Woo-Hooo!!!!!!! Stupid Repair of the Week Today they fixed the air conditioning. So now the winter is over the heating has been turned on. "We want it at least twenty degrees all over the store" Proclaimed the management. More like twenty five to thirty. It was sweltering hot under that renovated fan. So hot in fact that I felt it important to my well-being to strip off and enjoy the summer-like heat. Mrs T even popped her head around the corner in disbelief I'd done that. How she giggled. She was in such a good mood she even let KS play with his mobile phone. And she came past for another look. J saw me too and crept past in embarrasement. The Rampant Rabbit saw me but claimed he hadn't looked. And my boss enquired later that afternoon as to why I had my shirt on. Miss L had already gone home and was spared the psychological trauma of seeing me in the flesh. Song of the Week That old classic by The Eagles On a dark Swindon highstreet Cool wind in my hair Warm smell of burgers Rising up through the air Up ahead in the distance The place to earn my pay My head grew heavy and my sight grew dim But I'd found the shop okay There I stood in the doorway I rang the outside bell And I was thinking to myself "This could be heaven or this could be hell" Then a manager opened the side door And he showed me the way There were voices down the corridor I thought I heard them say Welcome to the lonely high street stockroom Such a lovely place Keep up the pace Plenty of room in the racks of the lonely stockroom Any time of year You can find it here The manageress is twisted She got the Mercedes-Benz She got a lot of pretty, pretty boys That she calls friends How they dance in the shopfloor In amongst the clothes Some dance to remember Some dance to forget So I called the supervisor "Please bring me my pay" He said, "We haven't had any money here Since 1968" And still those voices are calling from far away Wake you up in the middle of the day Just to hear them say Welcome to the lonely high street stockroom Such a lovely place Where we work in haste They're living it upstairs in the darkened stockroom What a nice surprise Bring your alibis They've just fixed the heating At some outrageous price And she said, "We are all just prisoners here Of our own device" And in the managers chambers They gathered for the feast They stab it with their steely knives But they just can't kill the beast Last thing I remember, I was Running for the door I had to find the passage back To the place I was before "Relax," said the night man "We are programmed to unpack You can check out any time you like But you'll only get the sack!"

kin right Doc

My boss was busy. Downstairs, out on the shop floor, crowds of youngsters on their half-term holiday were pouring in through the door demanding the latest fashions to wear incorrectly. I, the unkempt apprentice, was given my chores for the day and left to complete them. This was going to be a trying day. Piles of boxes had been set aside for me to process and unpack. If only there were an easy way to deal with this onerous task... If only... In the dark and stygian stockroom, I opened a carton of jeans (stonewashed, low pockets, zip fly, 13 to 14 year olds) and lo! What is this strange garment wedged in amongst the trousers? Gasp! A woolly hat! Well, the temptation to try it on was too much. Sadly I too suffer from being unable to wear the latest fashions correctly so the various descriptions of me were... J - "You look like you burgled my house" Miss L - "You look like a beggar" KS - "It suits you, Caldrail. Makes you look like Santa Claus" My Boss - "What's the matter, Caldrail? Your head feeling cold? Hmmm?" You probably get the picture by now. I would describe myself as Noddy at a heavy metal gig. Or perhaps Santa's Little Coal Miner. Still, it made the stockroom a fun place. Now, as for these boxes... The first was easy. Then another. Then a trolley was filled and more boxes arrived to fill the vacuum left by my endeavours (cue The Nutcracker Suite). I was indeed the Manageresses Apprentice. The Wizard Of Blighty After being snowed under with unpacking I decided to get rid of some of the waste cardboard that had pretty well filled the aisle. I spotted Miss L standing in the lift. She glowered impatiently with arms folded. What's up, L? "'Kin lift won't work" She moaned. She was right. The doors remained open defiantly. Okay... Let Caldrails Magic Woolly Hat work wonders... I studied Evil Lift for a moment then tapped the brushed aluminium door frame. DING! and the door slid shut with Miss L staring at me in stunned amazement. Well I'm not australian so I can't claim to be the Wizard of Oz, so instead, I'll settle for the Wizard of Blighty. News From The Dole Queue Miss M has now decided that her former target is no longer of any interest (mostly we suspect because the poor lad complained of being stalked). Unable to spend life without her primal urges satisified, she spent the day at the Programme Centre (after I'd left) reserving her future boyfriends by marking them on the back of the head with a black marker pen. An excellent idea for finding partners at short notice. Simple and easy to do. Such is her determination to find true love amiongst the dole-seekers that she's decided to keep on turning up even now her thirteen weeks are finished. I have no idea which bloke is her current object of obsession, but I hope he likes temporary tattoos. On this subject the Malignant Pixie has begun to show interest in KS, and tried to arouse his passion by demonstrating her ability to swallow a pen whole repeatedly. She desperately needs to stop eating sugar too. Falling Over There's a building site just a few doors down from Department Stores Ltd where another rival store is rebuilding its premises. Today the facade fell over. The area was cordoned off, police and other disaster services wandering around asking people to move on, there's nothing to see here, but sadly it was too much for one old lady who tragically collapsed. Strictly speaking, a joke about this event would be crass and insensitive, so I'll move straight on to the next paragraph... Gah!... Urge to poke fun rising... Cannot resist pressure to write gag.... Oh all right then. It was KS's lunch break. No, really, it was. Smugglers of the Week Three and a half hours before I sat down to write this blog entry a pair of women attempted to smuggle a corpse through Berlin airport on a wheelchair, telling everyone the man was merely sleeping. Luckily airport staff are trained to spot dead bodies and immediately became suspicious. The smugglers are now detained for questioning. Wasn't there a comedy film about taking a dead man on holiday? Life imitates art. In this case however, the two really ought to have declared the man dead for tax purposes.

Me? Old? (*splutter*) No, not old, just matured in oak vats for a hundred years or so for extra taste. Mind you, given my recent behaviour in singing very loudly at work (and the boss catching me with a silly baseball cap on, and attempting to traverse the north side of the pillow stack) one might question whether oak vats work.