caldrail

Maybe the excitement was too much for her?

Now that really is interesting. The religious connations of the cross only ought to arise from christianity in the later empire because before that the cross was merely the preferred Roman means of executing criminals in a lingering torturous manner publicly. But now it seems there was a pagan significance to it, albeit a minor one. Treating criminals as they would a dog? As for crucifying a dog because one didn't bark a warning in 390BC, doesn't that seem a little odd? Animals were after all not human and could not make decisions in the Roman mindset. They behaved as dogs do. But it seems as if the Romans are seeking a cultural scapegoat for their embarrasement. This does of course highlight Roman attitudes to animals, which were regarded as no more than resources in exactly the same way you would view a quarry, although some animals were obviously more useful in agricultural or utility functions.

I have changed my mind. Such a decisive moment in my life is somewhat rare these days, but hey, there you go. The subject of this mighty mental re-evaluation is of course Star Trek. I've always dismissed Voyager as a bit wishy-washy, but after all this time and endless repeats of all the series, I'm starting to think Captain Janeway's politically correct attempt to reach home is the one that's maturing the best. The old Star Trek, the original, with all those iconic characters is of course pure sixties in scope. The Next Generation is looking a bit wooden and staid in places. To my utter horror, Deep Space Nine is resembling a parody of the universe I've come to know as well as my own. Enterprise? Never did grab you, did it? The characters all seemed so... well... uninspired. In the boredom of working in the stockroom alone (more on that later) I pondered how our Star Trek heroes would run the department store. James T Kirk would be facing a massive child maintenance bill and a rapid staff turnover. Jean-Luc Picard would fret and worry whether it broke the Prime Directive to talk to customers before they chose their purchase. Benjamin Sisko might well vanish into another department store for long periods, whereas Jonathon Archer would find ways to achieve sales in the face of Head Office interference. It seems we really are stuck with Voyager Stores Ltd. Stuck far from home in the depths of the Stockroom Quadrant, our isolated team of idiots explore the uncharted mess left by the afternoon shift as they struggle to find a way home... Todays Episode of Stockroom Street Baby Face KS continues to defy and flout the rules. Yesterday he got away with no job searching whatsoever (on the grounds he hadn't turned up for five weeks and needed to fill in all his timesheets - and he still managed to con them into thinking he was only missing four days attendence!). Today he got away with an extra twenty minutes on his lunchbreak. Now, really, these things are sacred to an englishman. Things are not all going his own way. He's broken up with his new girlfriend and is currently footloose and fancy free - when he drag himself from the nearest sandwich bar that is. More Not Working Properly Continuing from my previous blog entry I came across an advert in a performing arts newspaper left in the rest area at work. Remember those 'Come and have a holiday in California' ads where lots of celebrities pretend to be ordinary people and Arnold Schwarzenegger asks us "When can you kom?" You do? Oh brill, because they're making another. I have to conclude the last television advert hasn't prodiuced the desired results, thus the advertising company is now recruiting complete unknowns in Britain to film it. No no no, people, you've got it all wrong. We Brits don't care about famous, fun, or beautifiul people. We just want sun, sand, sea, breasts, booze, and loud music, in no particular order. Good grief, the Spanish sussed that out decades ago.

That's a curious one. It is true that the Romans used animals in some criminal punishments, but to crucify dogs in religious ceremonies? Not exactly a practical proposition given canine anatomy. A sacrifice of dogs perhaps, but I find it hard to accept they were crucified, since cricifixion was intended to be, quote, a nasty 'orrible death... It goes on for hours..., and if the idea was a religious ritual why were dogs veing punished by such a severe punishment instead of being 'humanely' despatched? Still, I might be wrong, so I too await any confirmation.

It's over - It's all over, the University of West England has pulled out of the negotiations to build a campus in Swindon. Those with ambitioious plans to create a city in the likeness of Swindon are in tears, hopes dashed, dreams smashed, plans trashed. The real reason it all fell around their ears was that government funding has been slashed. Whatever happened to Labours election battlecry "Education, education, education..."? The Old College site is to be flattened by the end of the year. It'll be sad to see it go in a way. That horrible edifice has been on the Swindon skyline since as far back as I can remember, and yes, I did my engineering courses there as a young man. How could I foget those production engineering classes on the south side of the main block, sun shining and everyone nodding in a desperate attempt to remain concious while the most uninteresting lecturer ever born droned on for an hour trying to see whether he could get us all to nod off. But no, it's to come down. Where are all the homeless people going to sleep now? What about Mr Fox and his family? Worse still, next year I'll be living next door to a major construction site as shops and cinemas are built on the site. Could it get even noisier on a Saturday night? He Had A Bomb Talking of loud noises, some guy wandered in to the local jobcentre and told everyone he had a bomb (He didn't of course. A real bomber wouldn't have walked up to reception with a silly grin on his face). Cue the evacuation and sudden arrival of a police car. Sadly I missed that having been locked away in a department store. No matter, at least Swindon isn't entirely dull. I suspect however, that particular blokes days aren't going to be quite as interesting for some time. Work Experience Session of the Week TB, our ever patient work experience advisor, finally read out the riot act today and told us to behave like adults or else. So much to her chagrin, we did, and she herself received one offer of a date from one freckled face youngster. Miss M, one of our companions, was pretty much in the mood for that sort of thing and never in my in life have I seen a woman try so hard to persuade someone (anyone) to sleep with her. Her intended victim was of course embarrassed and denied he was interested, so why was he walking away with her this afternoon? Am I envious? No... Not really. She's a little edgy for my liking. Still, at least the programme centre paid for a chinese meal for us all. Hey, it is the chinese new year you know. Do Jae!

A few times now I've mentioned the obstacles caused by old people as they struggle to manoever around the enviroment. Of course I agree that one day it'll be me doing none too well and obstructing young whippersnappers going about their urgent business, but hey, that's life. In the meantime I'd like to record a few encounters of the aged kind. The first clue that pensioners weren't just obstacles came when I popped across the road during my lunchbreak. I use another department store as a short cut to the shopping mall, and along the m ain aisle is a female dummy sat on a chair in the latest fashions. On this particular day, an old woman shuffled up to her and said "Are you tired, dear?" The second clue came today, as again I popped across the road. An old couple were out in the morning sunshine and the man said to his wife "What you need on a sunny day like this is a beautiful woman". Oh? Sounds like the voice of experience. Thanks for the tip mate. More From Stockroom Street The banter was flying this Wacky Wednesday. I have discovered a terrible secret, one so dangerous that lives may be lost if mentioned in public. Of course I can't tell you for fear the security services might be listening, but let me give you a clue... KS might be dating a girl from the shop floor, but he was already dating another one. Gasp! Don't worry, Miss G, your secret is safe with me. And I won't tell anyone you like bald men. Revenge of the Bully It seems the anti-bullying helpline that employees of our Prime Minister had called regarding his overly pushy manner has been suspended. Need I say more? UFO Enquiry of the Week With the latest release of offical files into UFO sightings is one curious one dating back to 1952, when the Prime Minister of the day, our very own Winston Churchill demanded to know ""What does all this stuff about flying saucers amount to? What can it mean? What is the truth? Let me have a report at your convenience". We were going to fight them on the Hollywood sound stages. We will never surrender. Probably why then that all UFO incidents originate in America. Can't imagine anything worse than an abductee demanding a tea break.

As far as I'm aware, the Romans did not use drums in music military or otherwise. I've no specific reference but I could well believe they regarded such instruments as 'barbaric' and thus unworthy of Roman attention, though that wouldn't stop them enjoying an act from the provinces, as a curiosity. A lot is made of Roman signalling but you know, I very much doubt the Romans utilised any great complexity. Even though they were taught to fight in silence, the noise and cbhaos of battle mitigates against sophisticated signalling because it would inevitably get horribly misinterpreted and disaster ensues. In any case, and much to the chagrin of the 'modernist' element of Roman history, I also doubt that the Romans made much of communication during battle. We know that they did, but it's the level to which they went to. It's clear from the accounts of Caesar that centuries were semi-independent, acting to an agreed plan. Caesar is recorded as often inspiring his men by fighting in the front rank, thus unable to command his army dynamically. We also know that senior officers were moving behind the ranks ensuring soldiers stayed in the line - Caesar records his attempts to keep men fighting in this way. The reason I mention this is that trumpets would have had an audible but limited repetoire of sounds clearly understood by the legionaries. I'm not aware of any evidence whatsoever that the Romans used these instruments other than to synchronise previously agreed movements, or perhaps sound the attack or retreat.

We were all stunned this morning to discover KS had not turned up for work. Absence is a dangerous thing on a government sponsored placement. You could end up losing your benefits entitlement (or even your freedom, as one young lady was found guilty of submitting the bus expenses three times over and now faces a criminal prosecution). We were all discussing our missing friend. Has he been killed on a runaway bus, has his girlfriend locked him up as a sex slave, or perhaps more likely, had he gotten too warm and comfortable in bed to notice it was time to go to work. Well, a little later he turned up, moaning about how the bus broke down en route. Yeah, okay, we believe you. KS insisted this was the truth, so we gave him the benefit of the doubt. Then he let slip his day had started really badly. Not only the bus had broken down, but his bed had snapped in half. Erm... Pardon?... He reckoned it was because of his weight training. Now you know, even if like us you don't believe a word of it. Particularly since his girlfriend was happy and even smiled at me today. The Truth About Pineapple Juice We had a long session of innuendo and urban myth in the quiet hours of the morning before lunch. Like you do. yes, I know, but when you're bored and with workmates in a mischievious mood it's all hysterically funny. Now that I'm calm, mature, and sensible again, I really can't write anything amusing about it at all. So it's apologies on behalf of the stockroom team, and I hope Miss L recovers from her traumatic discovery that people sometimes do strange things in bed. Incidentially, we did share a few gags about our resident sex-change person. I know, you shouldn't really make fun, but it's impossible not to. As it happens, KS referred to her(?) as a whale. My response was the she(?) certainly isn't Moby Dick any more. I mention this in case you think pineapple juice is significant and that you're missing out. Trust me. You're not. At Last The snow arrived an hour ago. It's been a wet day, and one young lady apoligised for having wet gloves as she shook my hand in preparation of receiving a charitable donation. Give to charity? I live on charity. But I digress. Safe in the warmth of our local library the rain turned into snow. Is that it? Is that all the snow we're getting? All those warnings and amber triangles for ten minutes of slush?

After the ribald and violent cacophany of the saturday night, last night was as quiet as the grave. Taking advantage of this unusual stillness I gave in to curiosity and sat down to watch the British Film Awards. Award ceremonies aren't the sort of thing I usually watch. After the first few winners approach the microphone and say "Uuuh....", you kind of lose interest. Which is interesting in itself. I noticed that my attention varied in proportion to the awardee's ability and confidence at public speaking. What suprised me was how many 'name' actors and actresses stood in front of an autocue and read aloud horribly pompous and inflated praise in a monotone voice, body frozen in place, eyes fixed squarely on the invisible screen in front of them. Others spoke fluidly, full of natural movement, and to be honest, all the more interesting to listen to as a result. One or two of those and I started cringing every time the host, the ubiquitous Jonathon Ross, made another attempt to make the audience titter. Lots of expensive clothes, red carpets, flash photography, and I've forgotten almost all of it already. Geography For Beginners Every time I arrive at my local internet cafe I see the same thing. The Somali owners help other immigrants sort out official red tape in order to stay in England and claim our wonderful benefits. It gets a bit fraught too, usually over how many photocopies were printed off (I've seen some very creative accounting by some customers) or which document to be sent where, but on this occaision a heated discussion on where Muscat was, and was Jordan a Gulf-state? How odd that an Irish woman put them all straight. Bully In Office? I'm no admirer of Gortdon Brown, but the recent accusations of bullying at No10 caught my attention. Without a doubt it's a high pressure job and the fact that some of his offfice employees have sought advice from a bullying phoneline suprises not one jot. Now, I don't know what the truth of this media story is, but given how long the man waited to get into office and how grimly he hangs on to power, I really can see him as being extremely pushy. His public appearances are always designed as exercises as image improvement, thus in all probability an unreliable guide to what the man is like to work for. On the other hand, to be fair, I doubt working at No10 is a job for the faint-hearted. Bullied? Or simply not up to it? All a matter of perspective isn't it? One might claim however that Mr Brown really ought to have noticed his employees weren't happy. The Latest News From Stockroom Street My own personal soap opera has a new storyline just in. I came into work this morning to discover that J has spotted a change in the Facebook page for one of the girls on the shop floor. It seems KS has a girlfriend. His banter has won her heart, and of course being men we weren't interested at all in finding out the truth when she arrived at lunchtime for the late shift. Luckily for us she admitted it anyway despite our protestations we weren't remotely concerned whether the King of Banter was also a sex god. So, I asked her, what are you going to do with him when you meet up on Friday night? "Pffff!" She dismissed my question with some incredulence, "I'm not going to do anything with him".. Oh boy, is KS going to be bored or what?

In case anyone doesn't know, Archie is dead and Stacey did it. I imagine by this time the whole world has heard about that. Another thing everyone has probably already heard is that I don't like soap operas. That surreal glitziness of working class Coronation Street, that farcical drama and tragedy of rural life in Yorkshire, that irredeemably dystopic world of Albert Square. Those claustrophobic virtual worlds might be wonderful to some people, but seriously, I really don't care what happens. Why would I need a soap opera when I have one all of my own? Take this morning for instance. The image of Sunday mornings is one of placid calm after the joyful merrymaking of the night before. Not where I live. One of my neighbours decided to socialise noisily, thankfully without loud music, finally subsiding from his raucous observances on life, the universe, and everything by around six o'clock this morning. An hour later he had a quick and very loud argument with his mate who had by that time sobered up enough to realise his girlfriend was in the next room, an event he repeated again with his new girlfriend an hour after that accompanied with much banging of furniture. Are we there yet? Bad Boy On my travels this morning I saw the young man crossing a busy main road seemingly without a care in the world, oblivious to traffic, absorbed by the ephemera on his mobile phone. He just strolled across. One car passed him a little closer than he wanted and he gave it a hard stare. Ah. A young man with attitude. He was entering the same side street as me, on the other side, and didn't like the proximity of another car heading for the junction. With sullen temperament he gave the vehicle an indifferent kick. A dull hollow thud that didn't do any appreciable damage. Not suprifingly the driver got to to remonstrate with the youngster. It was a brave effort, but the driver wasn't giving off the demeanour of danger despite his irate manner, whereas the young man took offence at being told off. Gradually he got more and more aggressive, clearly spoiling for a fight, his hands starting to flex and form fists. The driver realised he was getting into a violent situation. He could hadly fail to with the youngster staring into his face and telling him he was going to... well... spoil things for him somewhat, to be polite. Personally I think the reason the young man was so bad tempered was because no-one would fight him. Maybe my next door neighbour could help? Just a thought.

It's difficult to discuss Caligula's empire because his reign foicuses on him as a colourful individual. Obviously it must have been somewhat Augustan, since it was within a generation or two of his reign without any great cultural changes... Or is that entirely true? I can't help thinking that the empire in Caligulas day was rather like the 1960's in our living memory. The wars are over, threats far away, everything is set up and working, people are getting wealthier and happier with their lot, veterans are settled, and a part of society is starting to push boundaries without the restrictions of wartime. Groovy man. If you belong to the right set. Okay, you can push the analogy too far, but I always find there's a hedonistic reaction from extended warfare after a generation or two.

What a gloriously sunny day! Now that I spend four days a week locked inside 'The Bin' as the shop staff call it, sunlight is a rare commodity for me. What do you do on sunny days? I've forgotten. Well let's find out... Sunbathing I must admit, stripping off in these temperatures isn't a comfortable prospect. Despite the warm sun it's absolutely freezing out there. I remember when I was 14 years old I went on a skiing trip with the school to Austria. On the day we turned up there were young ladies stretched out on loungers grabbing the ultraviolet despite the mountain snow. All that reflected sunlight really did make a tan. I came back from Austria so tanned my parents didn't recognise me. At least that was their excuse. Nice try. There was one time I was walking our dog along the old railway line. Although a wonderfully sunny day like now, the snow from the day before was thick on the ground. Out of the shadows it got quite warm, so I was walking along in a tee-shirt. A woman walking the other way in coat and mufflers couldn't believe I wasn't dying of hypothermia. I therefore conclude that we need snow. Brilliant. Just when there's a fantastically sunny day in winter there's no snow to enjoy it. I blame the weather men for my heightened disappointment. Just when is this snow supposed to arrive? Mind The Holes Holes are very popular in Swindon right now. There's plenty of potholes in the road (there's a fantastic one, almost a cave, just off a car park in town. You need a 4x4, map, compass, and Indiana Jones along for the ride just to cross it). More to the point, half the main shopping street in Swindon is currently being dug up. Don't know why, they don't seem to be putting anything in or fixing stuff, just making lots of muddy holes. Perhaps they're after buried treasure? You laugh, but Swindon has a long tradition of smugglers tunnels in the borough, and some of these covert trade links have indeed been found in Old Town, as scurrilous liquor merchants traded barrels literally right under the noses of Customs & Excise in the highly taxed 18th century. Even better was the Great Western Railway. Loads of stuff was put into cellars for safe keeping in 1940. They only found it when the railworks were being demolished in the eighties. Out of sight, out of mind. I therefore conclude that Swindon is the site of a mythical ancient civilisation lost to human memory and very soon we'll see Nazi's and archaeologists going head to head in the race to find the beam of sunlight that points to a hidden secret every year. I'll keep a lookout, just in case I discover it first. The first clue will be a choir of angels in the background. Oh, by the way, they did the car chase last light.

Roughly every two or three days we get warnings on television about heavy snow. The familiar amber triangle displayed on our screens is getting a little boring, especially when nothing happens. Take today for instance. Despite "The end is nigh" every half hour on the news channel, I've witnessed nothing but fair weather. Lovely day out there. Birds are singing, children are playing, the boss is smiling, and I didn't have to wait for a library computer. What could be better? Apart from millions in the bank account and a Ferrari on the drive? Todays Big problem No, not anything connected with work, but my attempt to pop down to the supermarket at lunchtime. It was an all out offensive by massed ranks of old people to get in the way. No matter which way I turned, no matter which aisle I chose, no matter which checkout I saw as shorter, those pesky old people sniggered and blocked my path. Even better, one old person at the library just now has gotten into trouble on her mobility buggy. This one is proving somewhat immobile, stuck in a corner between bookshelves. Why doesn't she reverse and come out the other side? Plenty of room. But no, the old woman decided that negotiating this corner was essential. Bump. Reverse. Forward. Bump. Reverse. Forward. Bump. Funnily enough that's the sort of day I had at work. What a strange coincidence. Age Is No Barrier J, my temporary team leader, is a young wiry chap who engages in a strange pastime called parkour, a fun exercise activity in which people find the most difficult method of crossing town. Nothing is too difficult. They leap up stairs, leap across gaps, leap down from tall heights, and generally get all the thriill of escaping from the Police without actually committing a crime. Naturally I look a bit confused about it because I'm too old to do it. If I tried to hurdle every obstacle they way they do, I would end up face down on the pavement very publicly and very red faced. I did mention that to J, who shrugged and said "I don't know how old you are, but I've exercised with guys aged sixty or so". Really? There are old people who are fit, lean, agile, and still capable of driving mobility buggies without getting out of breath? If only I would spend my old age in such good condition. The irony is if I tried to go down that route I'd probably die a little sooner. Ninja of the Week This prestigious award goes to KS, who not only turned up for work this morning, but remained completely invisible throughout the day. He is beyond Black Belt. A true master of the Cardboard Arts. I sit cross legged in his presence and listen respectfully to his banter, for KS is wise in the ways of gossip...

The manner in which the Romans had fought had changed since Constantine. The smaller legions leant themselves to a more flexible method of campaigning (something well understood by Sebastianus) and although Marcellinus implies the veterans were good at set piece battles rather than raiding, this doesn't explain the chaos of Adrianople, unless the the problem was entirely down to lacklustre leadership. You seem to assume that the Romans were automatically aggressive. Armies, even Roman ones, are compelled to follow the orders of their generals, and at Adrianople Valens attempted to negotiate a peace with the Goths (a surrender?) before any fighting was to take place. Very nice of him, but it only played into the hands of Goths, who used the time to wait for their cavalry to return and to make the suffering of the Romans in the hot summer afternoon worse by setting fire to crops nearby, causing smoke to drift into Roman lines. I personally think some Roman troops were good at large battles, provided they had experience of it and leaders who knew what they were doing. Since the Romans no longer fought organised armies as a matter of course (having conquered them all and now faced barbarian raiders for the most part, Persia excepted), there would have been little opportunity to learn how to perform in a large scale battle. It really isn't as easy as it might seem. But about the shield wall. The late Romans still used the testudo for protected advances where appropriate (even with oval shields of the time), or the foulkon (a double line of shields, one raised higher than the other) for line of battle. One reason the infantry didn't immediately attack is because by then the Romans found it more economic to let the enemy infantry attack first. Shield walls are not easily manoevered and the days of heavy infantry advancing remorselessly toward the enemy appear to have subsided along with the legion size. In any case, the Romans at Adrianople were waiting for orders, not for the enemy. Negotiations were still going on and Richomeres had gone back to the camp to fetch hostages for the Goths as part of this process when the fighting broke out, due mostly because the late arrival of Roman cavalry stirred the Goths into activity that the Romans in turn though was an imminent attack. The Romans attacked first (or at least one or two hot-headed and confused units did) Marcellinus doesn't discuss this because he either considers the details a little anal for a public history, or perhaps more likely he doesn't know. At any rate, I don't recall any mention of who formed the lines, as the main thrust of his narrative in the deployment is how confused it was. In fact, the Roman army was still arriving when the fighting began. It had taken hours for the Romans to bring their column onto the field. In all, a shabby and drawn out effort. That wasn't a Roman army formed for battle, but a disordered mass of men surrounded and pressed against each other both for protection and by a natrual reaction of those on the outskirts to attempt to pull back from the incessant Gothic attacks. No confusion whatsoever on our part. Can't say the same for Valens men.

Today was another session at the Work Experience Programme, in which we are supposed to fit a jobsearch in between the various group activities. I always find this very frustrating because what I'd like to do is turn up and get on with it, without all these infant school distractions. Todays distraction was about presentations, and our group (composed of the noisier elements of the class, myself included) were given a brief to assemble a presentation on facilities and assistance for drug and alcohol abuse. I did make a valiant effort to organise things... I did try... But to no avail. Miss T was there, bright and bouncy, and totally self absorbed as she always is. She and her gang wanted an excuse to get out of the classroom and wander around doing something they considered more interesting, which amounted to light hearted socialising with an official excuse. In the end I let them go and promptly they all vanished out the door. Fine with me. I found lots of stuff on the internet concerning the topic at hand. Now that sort of makes me sound like a party pooper. In my defence I have to say that Miss T was well on form today. Her constant need to be the center of attention is making her bolshy and scornful. She's literally starting confrontations for her own amusement. This time however she went too far. Not with me, I have to say, but rather her need for attention resulted in a disciplinary followed by an ejection from the premises ten minutes later. Miss T wasn't the only one. One of her friends, a skeletal blonde girl whose experience of life, the universe, and everything makes her uniquely unable to understand anything beyond a late night party, followed her shortly after. Short attention span Miss M has been warned. And warned again in case she'd forgotten. The Great KS Mystery Solved The absence of KS from work was due to a sudden bout of flu (which I probably inadvertently gave him) that kept him in bed for two days. He looks properly cured, fit, and able to resume his role as the King of Banter. Tomorrow I shall need to stay alert, to stay banter-ready. He needs to stay at work, because he's already used up all his absence allowance and could easily be dismissed from the course. In fact after todays session we both both strolled down the hill, engaged in steady banter (the sort of non-intellectual non-stop gag kind that isn't funny to anyone else in the entire cosmos). Cheeky beggar reckons my home is in a crime ridden area. How did he know? Good News Our resident sex-change person has landed a job interview in Bath. I wish her(?) well and hope she(?) lands that job.

It isn't military service that was onerous, it was actually doing something for the money that wasn't popular. That was always a Roman problem. As I mentioned, the younger recruits were mentioned by Marcellinus as being keener. That's the entire problem. They still do. The mystique of the Roman legion is still with us. Partly this stems from the capability of the soldiers back then, who for all their faults (and they were very faulty!) were sometimes extremely impressive for their day. Perhaps it would be more accurate to emphasise the ruthless and stubbornness of Roman legions. No matter what you do, they just seem to keep on coming. That creates an image we rather like, on the basis that they appear strong and that we'd like to stand with them (like hangers-on around a playground bully). The second problem is that the Roman obsession with organisation identifies with our modern age rather too much, and as Adrian Goldsworthy points out, we shouldn't foist modern values upon them. Our skill at pattern recognition sometimes draws parallels with the Romans that really weren't there, and as you no doubt know by now I'm a firm believer in drawing the distinctions between us and them, because I believe these distinctions exist. They really didn't quite do things the same way as we do. People, just like us, but playing the same games to different rules.

It was a damp morning as I left my home for work. The first glimmers of twilight are now visible even on overcast days like this. The usual crowd were there. The builder waiting for his mate to pick him up, leaning against the tool-shop window. The young lad dressed up for inclement weather striding up the hill energetically. The lady-owner of the flower shop at the bottom of the hill, beginning her daily round of smoking outside. The newsagent, who for some reason only seems communicative when you pick up a newspaper with the intent of paying for it. And lastly, but not least, the 'in-crowd' gathered around the burger van parked in a side street. Burgers for breakfast? That said, all these people are essentially strangers. I pass them every morning but for one reason or another I don't talk to them as I stroll by. I ought to make some effort really because at the moment there isn't much in the way of human contact. Once again I was lost in the trenches of no-mans cardboard and set to work classifying and identifying endless rows of boxes. I cannot even begin to explain how mindlessly tedious this task is. After a while, you end up staring at the list of articles in your hand and fail completely to register it as writing. The big event of the day was the collapse of one such pile of cartons. The first I knew was when a great weight pushed against my back. At the time I made some stupid sound, something like a hippo caught out by his less fussy mate in a rampant mood. Having realised I was propping up half a hundred-weight of jeans, I yelled out in Jeremy Clarkson style that I'd been killed. "What are you doing back there?" Asked a manageress busy sorting desperately needed clothes a few rows away. Dying, actually. In case the message hadn't gotten across. With so little room to work in I was literally pushing up through fallen boxes. Such a cruel world. No-one cares. Later J and I were chatting (mostly about my tragic death earlier - I am such a whinger sometimes) and we were caught by the boss, appearing with less than her usual cheeriness. "I've got an emergency!" She declared, requesting that we immediately locate pyjamas at once. J made a witty comment that pyjamas weren't quite what he considered an emergency, compared to something like... say... An earthquake. My own comment was 'Pyjamas for Haiti'. That went down well. Okay, it was a bit crass, but I got an icy look from the boss that sent shivers down my nearly unemployed spine. It is a cruel world isn't it? With all the best intentions, we human beings do enjoy a spot of black humour now and then. Humour is in the ear of the listener. Sunset of the Week A lovely pastel sunset this evening. Yellows and oranges colouring the thin veil of cloud on the horizon and the greyer broken cloud beneath it. Nice.

So Theodosius didn't enlist 40,000 Germans/Goths to secure his borders after Adrianople? I wouldn't have written it if I didn't think so. Times had changed since the glory days of the legions. The general public had a love-hate relationship with them even bacjk then, depending on whether the legionaries next door had 'requisitioned' stuff from them, legal or not, and as many bruised citizens discovered, complaining to the legion commander wasn't as clear-cut a judicial procedure as they would have liked. Later the increase in germanic peoples enlisted without Roman training and billeted in private homes can't have done anything to improve the military image. As for Vegetius, no, I won't forget him. He did write a manual, as any read of it will show, but I agree it wasn't intended as a detailed document, rather a template of what legionary practice should be. If it wasn't considered necessary, why did he write it? Vegetius may not have been a soldier but at least he looked on from the sidelines and decided to do something about the shabby performance of his day. One might argue he too was dreaming the dream of Roman invincibility, but can you really blame him? He is after all one of the sources for his period. If you ignore the Roman writers completely all you get is fantasy. Now I do understand that some people enjoy the myths about the Roman legions - it's an enduring image that's been in place for two or three thousand years and appeals to some corner of the human psyche - but the study of history is based on their evidence surely? Agreed. However, Caesar was leading superstitious soldiers across open seas to a mysterious island on an amphibious offensive, whereas the later campaign (mentioning no names ) was a defensive action against Gothic rebels running riot in their own back yard. You'll always find those avoiding military service, and serving legionaries were only too keen to find sinecures and safe havens (well, perhaps they had good reason. For all its romantic associations, life at the sharp end of Roman military service might easily have a big drawback). Tiberius was sent by Augustus to check on people hiding in rural slave barracks to avoid theirs for instance. It isn't that this went on, but the scale of this behaviour and the attitudes involved in it. Republican armies were composed of volunteer levies. Late imperial armies by conscripts and press ganged 'volunteers' more often than not. However, this unwillingness to get involved was mostly a post-Marian situation when soldiers, despite a career to look forward to, were making the best of a twenty-five year liability. Prior to that the Romans used a militia rather than a professional standing army, relying on citizens volunteering to do their bit for the cause. That identifies a martial spirit dominating Roman culture. By the late empire, people were doing everything possible to avoid it.

The sound of heavy breathing made itself apparent as I sit here in the library. Poor chap sounds like he's going to expire of a heart attack before he gets to the second floor. I do sympathise, having to climb stairs all day at work too, but he's going to need oxygen at the top of this climb. He does make it to the top of the stairs, waddling slowly onto each step with weary persistence. Hang on a minute... If that was such a physical performance, why isn't he breathing deeply and resting? Instead he waddles onward. Now this begins to picque my interest. He approaches the nearest bookshelf, and instead of turning his head to search for whatever title attracted his attention, he turns his whole body stiffly, waddling on the spot. Don't mock the afflicted, Caldrail... Solo Performance KS didn't turn up for work today, and although I asked around, no-one at the department store knew (or cared) what had happened to him. My guess is he's gone down with the sniffles I had over the weekend. Nasty little bug that one. The former ambience of the stockroom has vanished,. I'm the only one working up there all the time. No more sounds of packing tape and merry banter. Just me and the air conditioning. After a while I realised that someone else was working up there too. One of the ladies was busy stacking clothes to take downstairs and she'd managed to creep into the racks without attracting my attention. Now that I was alerted to her presence, I asked her how she could stand working up here alone. "I like my own company" She shrugged. Okay, okay, I'll wander away, lonely as a stockroom assistant that floats o'er cardboard boxes... Little Things For Amusement J made his usual fleeting visits to ensure that I was still alive. During one he had a screwdriver in his hand. What's that for? "Oh this?" He said, "Dunno, just found it lying on the floor. Always finding stuff lying about." He shrugged, "Yesterday I found a spanner." Oh? Well, maybe you could throw these things at each other to keep people amused? "Yeah" Replied J with misty eyed visualisation of victory from the trenches of the cardboard no-mans land, "We could play Spanner Tennis." Chortle. You might might be sceptical, but believe me, after three hours of solitary tedium that was hilariously funny. He muttered something about the war going on and wandered off to lecture some managers about how a stockroom should be run, screwdriver in hand.

Something better? Here's the problem. The Romans were extremely sensitive to social status. To imply one legion (or any other Roman unit type) was more elite than another was actually insulting to the others. Now, some units had titles attached - you mention palatinate in particular. This partly recognises the role the unit plays but also acts as an honourific. Does that make the unit elite? No, because the honour can be removed just as quickly. Whereas a modern regiment can be viewed as elite and has a fixed standard for recruits to attain (even if they fail to), in the Roman legions the standard required is set by the commander of the day and varies accordingly. Although the legions were an organised body of men with certain qualities expected, they were not the professionally minded soldiers of the modern era and the Romans clearly didn't want them to be. They actually wanted these men to be hard as nails, willing to kill on demand, and if that meant tolerating a lot of macho and bad behaviour, so be it. Unfortunately the soldiers themselves were no less lazy and indifferent thean any other time and place, and we see this mentioned by Roman writers right from Republican times. To pretend to enumerate the different nations so formidable of old, all which now are subject to the Romans, would be tedious. But the security established by long peace has altered their dispositions, drawn them off from military to civil pursuits and infused into them a love of idleness and ease. Hence a relaxation of military discipline insensibly ensued, then a neglect of it, and it sunk at last into entire oblivion. Now will it appear surprising that this alteration should have happened in latter times... De Re Militaris (Vegetius In other words, not only were Roman troops lazy by nature (as soldiers often are if not kept busy) but that their officers were worse. The worst failing of the Roman legions was that their commanders were not career officers (which was why the centurionate was so vital to maintain standards and why standards fell after the civil wars of the early 4th century, which disrupted the continuity of the centurionate) thus many were only doing enough to keep up appearances and preferred to enjoy their extra-curricular activities instead, at least when not campaigning. They were therefore not always quite as focused on discipline and training as the myth would have us believe, and indeed, the early performance of Roman legions in campaigns was usually pretty poor (after which some officers were replaced by one means or another) The problem for the late empire officer is that he isn't well regarded anymore. Whereas his counterpart in earlier times was well-respected by virtue of his military service (essential for political success in Republican times), by the late empire military service was looked on as a dreadful chore. Local magistrates were bribed not to recruit locally, which meant they used the money instead to hire press gangs to enlist 'volunteers', which could hardly have improved the legions image at all. How does a unit call itself 'elite' in a regime where such opinions would induce derision, scorn, or possibly even punishments for getting above themselves? In a regime where the general public view them as armed thugs? In a regime where the officers are promoted to command by virtue of their place in society rather than a respected career? Would an elite legion demand to be paid before it fought? Would it require lengthy speeches to consider beginning a campaign? Noticeably, Vegetius refers to the troops of his time as lacking in strength and substance, a damning endictment from a man who wrote a manual to raise standards back to the levels referenced in former times. Certainly the elite status from the public eye wasn't evident. Roman soldiers were not entirely popular with civilians in their heyday, so much less praise would have been forthcoming in times when troops were billeted in private homes as a matter of course (and not at military expense either more often than not) In considering whether troops were elite amongst each other - it was accepted that certain elements were (ie - the first cohort, or the horsemen) but be aware that the legion wasn't just a military unit, it was a familia to the Romans. A sort of extended family, with loyalty formed from the bonds between 'close friends' and the networks of bribery that got people promoted or out of menial duties. The legion was it's own little world and in many respects every legion viewed itself as elite in it's own eyes. The honour system of the Roman military replaces our own modern elitism. Whereas we have units with fixed reputations to which all entrants must rise, the Romans had a system of honour where a legions reputation was only as good as its last battle. What we might assign elite status to might only be a description of function in the more specialised late empire world. Let's be very clear about this. Whilst the Romans had developed vague and mutable versions of national armies by this later period, if any unit started calling itself 'elite' then the Roman command of the day would certainly insist on that unit proving they were worthy of such high status, especially since the troops were largely foreigners by that time and certainly not of noble blood.

There's only word for it - gutted. Miss T has decided that our friendly department store isn't for her and she's arranged to get work experience at another one. So it looks like I won't be flirted with for the time being. Funny how you only miss these little interactions when they vanish. Never mind. I'm sure she'll make up for lost time at our next session together. You see, that's how to survive the dreary tedium of joblessness.... Get a blonde to flirt with you. Works for me. Ousted Mister G was a guy at our work experience session. He's a distinctive chap, a tall afro-carribean guy who looks like an aboriginee in a down-and-out coat. Apparently his work experience placement weren't too impressed with his appearance and told him he wasn't supposed to be there, so he simply took everyone else with him back to his place to smoke a spliff. Class. Sheer class. It's apparent that he feels a need to be high all the time. When he isn't smoking suspicious substances he's taking swigs from a subtlely concealed bottle. When he isn't doing either he's asleep, dozing away despite the best efforts of our advisor to keep him interested in word games to further his education. In a sense it's sad, but he's been ousted, dropped from the course, possibly facing a loss of benefits. A part of me suspects it won't hurt him financially too much. It certainly won't make any difference to the cannabis cloud hanging over east Swindon. KS tells me he once got a placement at the same place and stayed there for ten weeks without getting mugged. An achievement he reckons. I believe him. Demolition At Last? People have been busy at the Old College site just across the yard from where I live. Cars coming and going from the back entrance, Men In Suits wandering around taking photographs (and admiring my much maligned car too. Four thousand quid and it's yours, mate... Oh suit yourself...). You have to laugh. Are they seriously going to build a new shopping centre with our old ones 20% empty?

Hope NN doesn't mind a quick answer to Auxillia... The essential problem about elitism then is who exactly is awarding that status. I got the impression that the elite status you mention when extra latin titles are added to a Roman military unit automatically infer status. This isn't a dig at you, but please be aware that's it you awarding that status, not the Romans themselves. If you read Roman accounts, they don't emphasise status amongst their military units (unless you can find a mention and prove me wrong). The reason is that they don't want elitism - it would tend to encourage rebellions, and this was borne out with experience of the elitist Praetorians of the earlier empire. I do accept that cavalry tend to be regarded as elite (I do mean the independent formations, not cavalry attached to a legion as a scouting element - if such was still the practice in later times. Anyone know?) since just about every cavalryman ever trained or hired has seen himself as a cut above the infantry in every period or nationality since horses were first ridden. Also, as I mentioned before, elite cohorts were standard practice - it gave an incentive to performance within a legion. Okay, I'm done. Please carry on chaps...

Some bright individual has now decided that society would be a better place if there was zero rubbish. What a wonderful image. Almost reminds you of those whitewashed cottages hiding in the midst of verdant rose gardens. Don't see many of those these days. I think they fell into disuse about the same time Ealing Studios went bust. The trouble is of course our beloved socialist government, who now have the power to enter your home and arrest you for littering it. These days we're not even allowed to drop litter on landfill sites. It isn't just me who's getting a tad concerned about this messianic mission to recycle everything we use. So what can I do to alleviate the eco-disaster of supermarket packaging? Well.. I could starve of course... I'd be somewhat wealthier for a short while. But wouldn't that reduce sales and put lots of people on the dole queue? What's cheaper? Proper rubbish clearance or lots of dole claimants? Before long we'll be fined for sitting down. And this in a country where despite rising prices and falling standards of service, politicians of all parties are talking about raising taxes between 20 and 40%. They really do think they can spend money better than we can. Which is rubbish, considering the mess they've gotten into claiming expenses from our paypackets. You know, this has less to do with ecology and climate than micro-managing private lives in some Orwellian agenda. Britain really isn't Middle England anymore. Rubbish Performers I saw a newspaper article today about the Simon Cowell franchise, television shows like X Factor and Britains Got Talent. It seems that the entrants are exploited. No! Surely not? Shock horror! Our five minutes in the spotlight remain a tantalising window to a new life in many peoples minds. It's because show business appears glamorous and the activities of various celebrities seem to imply that our hum drum lives will be so much better when we become famous. As someone who's kicked around the lower echelons of that business (and been kicked out of it, well and truly), I can assure the public that their dreams will be just as much a nightmare no matter how many television cameras broadcast it to the world. But hey, who's listening to me? I can imagine the same ideals, hopes, and dreams were the motivation of volunteer gladiators in Roman times. Most of them died a death too.

I don't really see which part you don't get it.......I mean ''If you accept some legions were elite, then what set them apart? Why were they 'elite'?''???????? Isn't it obvious? Ever heard of terms like Limitanei, Pseudocomitatense, Comitatenses, Palatine? What set them apart?????? Oh, come on man are you serious? Very. The whole point of the legion was that every single one of them was equally capable, or at least, in theory. Now I grant you that by the late empire some formations had become specialised and honoured, but to call them elite is to foist modern concepts upon them. Remember that the Romans did not by habit collect soldiers into elite legions, but into elite cohorts. Parts of a legion might be considered elite, not the legion as a whole. And since the author is claiming the army was composed of elite troops, he's making a huge error. Marcellinus describes them as veterans, not elite - there is a big difference. Furthermore, the training of the period was lacklustre (which is why Vegetius produced his manual on how to make a legion). As for having 'greater will', it's clear that many troops in the late army were anything but willing. It is true that Valens had experienced men in his army. Sebastianus had also been given some opportunity to train men prior to the battle. Zosimus provides a colourful description of the capability of Valens army

These days my flying is limited to to the computer. But I still dream, and I hope you enjoy my artwork based on screenshots of my particular hobby. Exuberance I was sat at a computer the other day, browsing flight simulator forums and enjoying some banter about the Second World War, when I heard the light aeroplane flying around outside. That isn't unusual over Swindon. For some reason the town is on a north-south route for private flyers much to the chagrin of the controllers at Lyneham Airbase down the road. I saw the aircraft, a C152, quite low over the back of our house. In fact, considering the rules concerning flight over built up areas, he was lower than might be considered safe or legal. Not only that, the pilot was very hamfisted on the controls. Every movement was sudden and the little Cessna wobbled unsteadily in the sky. Not being funny, but that pilot isn't going to impress anyone flying like that. I remember chatting to a guy at Thruxton when things were a little quiet. He claimed he was a glider pilot by trade and was interested in furthering his aviation experience with a fixed-wing license. Being the generous chap that I was, I took him out onto the apron and let sit in one of the flying clubs Piper Tomahawks. He started talking about the challenges of long distance flight. Was he serious? Did he really think he could glide a Tomahawk cross-country by flying in a series of climbs and dives? My thought went to a recent incident. A Piper Arrow had crashed when a wing fell off. Now, wings are designed not to do that, so there must have been a reason, and eye witnesses on the ground said he'd been flying up and down. The investigation report said he was flying with his kids back from holiday, so understandably, you might suspect there was a certain amount of exuberance and he paid for that by over-stressing the aeroplane once too often. I turned to the chap sat at the controls of the stationary Piper (who actually didn't look all that clued up about being in a cockpit at all) and suggested he talk to the instructors before he tried to push the envelope of an aeroplane I might be flying next week. The days when I headed down to Thruxton for my weekly dose of aviation are now long gone. It was of course an excuse for a chance to let my sports car off the leash, and back in those days, we had yet to suffer the tyranny of the speed camera. Ah yes... Exuberance...