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One of the great truths of Britain is that for every run of good weather, you pay for it by rainy days to come. Right now the weather is prone to heavy showers. Typically I got dampened by drizzle as I arrived at the library, only to see sunny skies out of the window as I'm typing this. I'm not tempting fate by declaring when I want to go home. The other day I was watching the birds in the park. The feathered ones I mean. Their antics are fascinating, especially when one gets cross with another. They don't just spar and conclude it like mammals, birds really do bear a grudge and once they don't like somebody, the aggressor keeps attacking the victim incessantly until it goes away. Or until an RAF Typhoon fighter screams across the park overhead. What a racket. But then he was shifting, using that surplus of power for airspeed, going about his potentially dangerous business. I didn't think of it any further, other than he blasted across Swindon at more or less the same altitude that civilian light aircraft often do. Come to think of it - there weren't any light aeroplanes about. Perhaps the Typhoon had chased them away? Then I spotted the unmistakeable presence of foreign airmen trying to understand the British cabbie as they flagged down a taxi. Not in ordinary or dress uniform either, but in their flying gear no less. Hmmm... I surmise, Dr Watson, that an air show is taking place within driving distance. I further deduce that since RIAT takes place at nearby Fairford Air Base around this time of year, that the town is strangely packed out with shoppers, and the roads jammed with endless queues of cars, that they are about to take part in Britain's premier airshow. But you don't have to be Sherlock Holmes to work that one out. Life In The fast Lane Although I'm not a Formula One fan, I did watch the British Grand prix this weekend. It started under a cloud, literally, with one of those heavy showers. This made for some dramatic racing. The drivers must have been all too aware how easy it was to lose control of their powerful lightweight machines, not known for being easy to drive at the best of times, and you could see real seat of the pants driving going on as cars wobbled and slid all over the place. I though F1 was boring? This was good viewing. Here's the funny thing though. The danger hotted up as the sun came out and the track began to dry. With grip returning, drivers were pushing their cars harder right up until they strayed into a puddle and whoops - there goes another rubber tired car, sliding spectacularly for hundreds of yards, unstoppable in true Hollywood fashion by any of the run-offs or gravel traps. I saw formula one cars doing four wheel drifts as they coped with unexpected issues in the bends. You don't see that every week, not in a sport that relies on downforce and grip. The speed of pit stops was stunning. The last time I took any serious notice of F1 racing crews took six or seven seconds to change tires. These guys were doing it in half that. I watched spellbound as Verstappen overtook his rival on the outside, earning a 'fastest lap' in the process. Woah - that was racing, full on. But as the water evaporated the average speeds of all the cars lifted and the race turned into the usual high speed traffic jam. Yawn. Oh well done Hamilton. Nice victory. I fancy a spot of lunch. Time to raid the fridge. So there you have it. To rescue Formula One from the dullness of anonymous insectoid machines buzzing around the track in an endless technological blur, hold the races in Britain. Forget all those exotic foreign locales with guaranteed sunshine and yachts in the harbour. Bring it back home to Britain where the weather can turn a certain result into a jaw dropping spectacular. Or at least until technology eventually finds a gizmo to cope with British weather once and for all. TV program Of The Week I nominate Love Island. Get a bunch of working class hunks and babes and watch them compete for lurve. Or not, if you have the gumption to change channels before you get sucked into this pointless farrago. The television announcer breathlessly sets the scene for us, musing over whether one guy or another will get a certain girl. Oh how the tension builds. Truth is, the entire rationale appears to be that we watch a bunch of nobodies trying to be somebody by shagging anybody in front of everybody. Truly missable.

It is interesting isn't it? On another website I'm being bombarded by people who think the Roman Empire was technologically advanced, well organised, an example of societal perfection in all its glory. Yet so much of their activity was based on profiteering, bribery, threat, and conspiracy. Not just at the top with wealth and power available, it wasa cultural trait that was never properly addressed.

Well it seems somebody doesn't like what I said about flying. Okay, here's the reasoning. In the real world I took flying very seriously. Firstly because I need to fly an expensive machine within safe limits. Secondly for anyone who happens to be flying with me. As a pilot by law I must be responsible both for the conduct of the flight and the safety of passengers. Lastly, and most importantly, my own health and safety, as I remain the most valuable part of the flight Now about the scenario. In the temperatures at the South Pole, a DC6 can only lay up for two hours before the engines freeze and become useless. If you want to go, you have to go, and there's precious little capacity down there for maintenance or rescue. Now whilst in real life I would not have begun this flight, there are ways to maximise the take off performance. Optimal flap setting, full power against the brakes before setting off for max acceleration, and lightened load, which in this case would mean losing some fuel, etc. It is true that reaching the Falklands was not a particularly hard task for a DC6, I could have done it with 40% fuel and had no worries whatsoever. That would saved a lot of weight. But what if the weather at Port Stanley was too bad for landing? It's one thing to take off, landing requires more precision and care because instead of leaving the earth behind, you intend bumping into it, hopefully as gently as possible. Had the worst case happened, I would need to reach somewhere else, like Argentina or South Africa, and that required a long flight again over the South Atlantic either way, so I had to choose between making my flight to Port Stanley a one-way affair with no hope of reaching anywhere else, or put up with the weight of reserve fuel (which I did in the event since the scenario used random weather which I could not predict ahead of the flight) things aren't always so simple in the real world, and I conducted the sim flight accordingly (or at least I did when the sim reminded me that it was reasonably realistic)

In the last few weeks I've rediscovered a television series from the sixties. The Saint were the adventures of gentleman adventurer Simon Templar, played by Roger Moore, a sort of poor man's James Bond without the gadgets and evil villains taking over the world. Moore plays the part with his usual bond-esque humour but it is hard to imagine a real life counterpart so genteel and light hearted. In his world, just like Bond, he's infamous and known to everyone yet can wander around incognito until the he gets betrayed by a twist in the plot. The thing is, like most sixties television in Britain, production values were very low scale. You can see that corridor is a painted backdrop. That car chase across Germany looks more like Essex. The train carriage is a simple sound stage set. Paris no more than a backdrop of Notre Dame. But you don't mind that, because again, like most sixties television, these programs tell stories. The adventures might be contrived, predictable, sometimes even completely implausible, but unlike modern series the episodes don't rely on emotional wrangling or deep significance. It's actually fun to watch, a guaranteed gritty fistfight in every episode, and the sixties cut scenes and cars add period flavour. Of course, when Ian Ogilvy took over in the seventies, changing the charismatic Volvo P1800 sports car for a lumbering Jaguar XJS, the mood had changed. Gentleman adventurers were a thing of the past, aside from James Bond. American imports introduced us to the Ford Torino of Starsky & Hutch, Kojak and his lollipops, and in Britain, series like The Professionals had opted for a more down to earth and working class feel. The Seventies - when Britain joined Europe and the Old World finally withered away. Hmmm... We've just decided to leave Europe. I wonder.... Pole To Port Stanley The Douglas DC6 is a pleasing shape in the air, a fifties four engine propliner descending from that old warhorse, the Dakota. In the night sky a few miles south of the Falklands, the Pratt & Whitney Double Wasp engines, each capable of 2400 horsepower, droned on. Below us, hazy patches of sea mist lit by the moon. A few whisps of cumulus drifted by. Above, the stars, strangely static despite our two hundred mile an hour cruise. Most of the passengers would be dozing off by now, too tired by the white knuckle ride on takeofff and the subsequent journey across the South Atlantic to stay awake, too distracted by the vibrating rumble and the stale interior to sleep well. Finally, the radio messages became more frequent, and the command comes through to descend and head for the approach to Port Stanley. In real life my hand would have spread across four chunky levers, but with a couple of keypresses, the angry noise reduces to a quiet grumble, and the plane starts to lose altitude. But of course this isn't real. Finally with some time to relax and forget the busy schedule of the past year, it was time to break out the flight simulator. I'd been watching Pole To Pole, a travel documentary by Michael Palin, and fancied a go at flying down there. My first attempt was hopelessly inept. I ought to have known better, given my real life pilot training, but I took off without planning and quickly found the cold air causing engine failure after take off, made worse by the prospect of ending up in the icy waters of the polar seas. Not good. Okay. Lets think about this. The gravel runway in the simulator at the end of a rocky archipelago was too short for the heavily laden DC6 so I prepared every trick I could think of, and took a lot longer to warm the engines, running them up to power much more gently. Without that two hundred foot cliff off the end of the runway all would have been another disaster, and the random weather I took off in was appalling. All that had been coped with. There was the runway lights at Port Stanley. Realism? Well, Microsoft might claim its as good as it gets, but I certainly wasn't. Might have to practice a bit more before I get that phone call from a desperate airline. Crisis Ot The Week This star prize has to go to Brexit. it must have been obvious there was a chance the British public would choose to go, and everyone quickly forgot that until we kick off Article 50, nothing changes, and even then, there's still a two year negotiation period. Come on Simon Templar. Shoot the bad guys, kiss the girl, and put Britain back on course. At the moment you're a lot more real than some of our overpaid politicians.

There are basically two issues about Brexit I don't like. Firstly that Sturgeon and other Scottish politicians are behaving as if Scotland is already an independent country - it isn't. They voted to remain in the United Kingdom, and for that matter, what is democratic about saying "We don't like the vote result so we insist on another vote until we get what we want"? The second is the dangerously apathetic reaction of many British politicians. "Oh no... Crisis..." they tell news reporters and seem utterly unable to make decisions or take positive action, preferring to take advantage of perceived weakness to start stabbing each other. Luckily over the last few days sterner heads have calmed things down and leadership is starting to rise to the fore. Why the situation has to be a crisis I don't know. They all knew what the vote was about and what the potential results might be. So it seems so many of them were just sitting there expecting to be told what to do.

Sturgeon has an agenda and as much as she's a pushy lady at the best of times, there is no case for demanding referendums simply because she signed up to a deal that jumped ship. The facts are simple. Scotland voted to remain in the UK and the UK have voted to opt out of Europe. That much of Scotland wanted to remain in the EU is neither here nor there. The EU Referendum wasn't about British nations voting, it was a UK vote. She is obliged to observe the result or else her democratic principles are on very shaky ground. In nay case, it is possible for the UK to permit individual nations to negotiate some kind of associate membership of the EU in the same way that's being suggested for the UK now. The European Union means European Union. It always has. The problem with cooperative political entities like this is that they present vehicles for empire building, and let's be honest, the EU has some very ambitious bureaucrats working toward building a European superpower. The plans for national integration have been published for more than a decade. The whole of the EU, as it was then, had been divided up into provinces that did not rely on national boundaries. The reason that so much emphasis has been placed on educating people on the value of EU membership is that national identities, as we now see clear examples of, are obstructions toward acceptance of the ultimate goal of that Union. Even France, once one of the major players in dominating the EU's future, has now had to deal with many of the same issues that Britain has considered recently, and their economy is not doing well. In other words, the EU works because some member states were financially supporting the weaker ones. Our exit reduces the EU economy by 17%. That's quite a proportion, and note how keen the EU is to get rid of Britain now we don't want to play ball. My bubble is declared reinflated

The issues are actually quite simple. On the one hand, membership of the EU has allowed us access to the common market and enterprise grants of money. On the other, it demands we accept ever more immigration, continual taxation to support weaker European economies, ever more legal oversight from Brussels, and eventual absorption by the EU superstate. Under EU plans, Britain will at some point cease to be a nation state, becoming part of the Atlantic province along with coastal France. Scotland has already had a referendum on affiliation within the United Kingdom. It is quite stubborn and rather crass to then demand another simply because the UK wants to opt out of Europe, even though the process won't happen tomorrow. They made their choice. All fair and legal. Nothing was hidden from them. If the Scots can vote in a referendum and choose to remain, they have to accept that as part of the UK they also voted to be part of the EU, and even if much of Scotland wanted to remain - tough. The referendum was for al the UK, not just England. This morning at work the talk was all about the voting progress. No-one wanted to remain - we cheered as the votes began to roll in, though I have to say none of the Poles were present at that time. One colleague wanted rid of Cameron (I'm no fan of him myself) and it seems his wish has been granted albeit not until October. I must be honest - the result pleased me, but celebrations will have to wait because unfortunately withdrawal is not immediate nor a simple process. As much as I anticipate difficulties, the fact is Britain was already in a difficult economic situation and has suffered reversals along with everyone else. I'm shocked at the lack of strong will in the reactions of some politicians, especially those of the 'Remain' camp, who are now having to accept the result the British public have meted out. Of course Russia Today has managed to find some disgruntled political commentator from Scotland who has a negative, if somewhat odd, view of what is happening. His assertion that Britain is succumbing to right wing tendencies is hard to understand since most of us live and work in moderate and tolerant manner, but the truth is the increasing numbers of foreign nationals is making the job market extremely hard, especially for the low paid. Austerity in Britain has made the situation tougher - I've felt the effects quite badly in the last couple of years. The pro-European policies of Cameron, and to be fair, a great number of mainstream politicians of all persuasions, have become somewhat distant from popular sympathy. The last election had an apathetic turnout. Note how the issue of British 'independence' from Europe has raised the level of public involvement considerably.

Personally I've never liked the European Union. I support the Common Market, but the idea of becoming part of a federated European superpower sits uneasily with me. All empires, however accumulated, break up at some point, and it's never pretty, so whilst it's an opportunity for a few well placed politicians to get their names in the history books it will eventually leave a bitter legacy of some kind. As it stands, the EU is dangerously close to wobbling under its own weight, leaving Germany ironically with a European empire it doesn't want to dominate on its own resources. As much as there is something to be said for staying in, the advantages are short term. Long term, I would be happier with Britain resuming its independent stance. The 'Project Fear' is of little concern - Britain is quite capable of getting into a mess without Europe and the effects of leaving won't necessarily be felt immediately, but then, most of what we lose in legal terms can be re-introduced in British legislation anyway, and since our trading and security relationships are with individual nations and not the EU as a whole - where's the issue?

Right now the wildlife in my home town is on full throttle. Most of the older foxes I got to know and name have disappeared, replaced by lots of young striplings who are busy learning the art of surviving in Swindon now that mum has kicked them out of the nest. Along one street in particular, you often see rubbish in those blue polythene bags the Council supply left out for collection but in a few instances, ripped open and the contents spilled across the pavement. I suppose for the most part residents blame the very same foxes I see every night, as well as the ones you hear shrieking in the distance. But they might be wrong. In fact I know they are. I often see a badger on this one street in the early hours of the morning, waddling around at a brisk pace. Normally he sees me coming and scarpers. Once I surprised him in one of those tiny front yards you see in Edwardian brick terraces. Again, it made a quick escape. The other night I was heading the same way. There he was, snuffling at a bag of rubbish, a silhouette in the lamplight but unmistakeable. It didn't matter to me. I had other places to go, and so continued along the pavement, wondering when the badger would notice. he didn't. Tucking into someone's discarded takeaway, he was lapping up every morsel and enjoying his free meal to the max. So engrossed he was that I walked right up to him, stunned he could be so careless. There he was, right at my feet, a wild badger doing badger things. The moment had to pass because I needed to carry onward, so I tapped the ground and quietly said hello. Immediately the badger realised something was not quite right. He tensed. Then, with a careful sideways glance, he realised the danger, and immediately fled under a nearby car. I went my way, he went his. Life goes on. Oh No You Don't I live in what must be described a noisy part of town. Drunkards and partygoers often stroll past the house. In the quiet hours of the morning, they sometimes pay rather too much attention to my home than I would like. Last night I kept hearing noises that made me suspicious, as far as you can be when you're half asleep. Upon investigation I saw nothing untoward. However, later that same night, I heard the sound of a few miscreants being herded into a police van and driven off. Whatever they were getting up to, it ain't happening now. Scramble of the Week At the local park it's usual to see a swan or two on the lake. On one particular morning there were five, lazily drifting around the surface of the water aimlessly as they do. Now once in the past I witnessed an angry swan cross that lake semi-airborne, heading right for me. It was a fairly intimidating sight. But for some reason these five swans decided it was time for a squadron scramble. All of them hurtled across the lake, their wings audibly beating, stretching forward and really going for it together. Erm.... At the last minute they realised the Luftwaffe were not bombing Swindon and gave up their race across the lake, settling down into the water again with a noisy bow wave. Oh good. But that was definitely an experience.

Some say... He's stuck in an ailing BBC motoring show. Some say.... He might soon have a new master. Poor old Stig. I've watched a couple of the new Top Gear episodes and I have to say it's a bit painful to watch. It's like the old Top Gear but without the same camaraderie or intelligent comment. Me no likee. Can the show be rescued from the evil clutches of the mad radio presenting tyrant? Well, rumours suggest an F1 star is being lined up, and has already pleased fans with his approach. Poor old Stig. Being ruled by someone who can drive a car.... Black Cats Crossing My path Can't remember whether it's lucky or unlucky, but black cats have featured in superstition for a very long time. Personally I haven't noticed any correlation between the proximity of feline mammals and events within my life, but then I suppose I'm not that superstitious. The other night however was noteworthy. I was walking along a main road adjacent to a trading estate, which for those unacquainted with British life is an area of small industrial or business units. The nearest was about eighteen to twenty feet high. I saw a falling object, hitting the ground with almost no noise, a black flash. It was a cat, emaciated to a degree I've never seen before, almost like an animal composed of black pipe cleaners, which had apparently jumped off the roof in a desperate move to avoid death by starvation. How the heck did it get up there? Clearly an omen. Never live on a roof, my friend. The Gods have spoken! More Bad Dreams I have two strange dreams to report. The first was a night time foray with me at the wheel of a car, heading into a rainy old Victorian terrace street, only to encounter trees lying in the road and a car that refused to obey the laws of physics by neatly skidding into position in a side street without obeying a single control input from me. A message that I'm not in control of my life. Good grief, I didn't need a dream to tell me that. The second was more interesting. I was at the wheel of a van minibus, filled with arguing migrant workers from some obscure poverty stricken part of the world. So I drove off, and followed the road into an area that seemed to be fenced off. Quite soon I found the road blocked. Oh pooh. So I turned around, and found my starting point blocked off too. No matter. using the van as a sort of low speed battering ram I pushed through the temporary fencing, whereupon hordes of nearby policemen descended on me and demanded to know what I thought I was doing disobeying road signs and breaking through their palisades. Fill in this form? Summons? Oh pooh. Still, at least it was only a dream, one I have no wish to live out. A clear warning from the spirit world to drive with due care and attention even though I don't drive and haven't for some years. Still, warnings are warnings. Loyalty Card Of The Week One of my local fast food outlets has for some time issued me with a loyalty card. Pay more than five pounds and I get a stamp. Five stamps and I get a free meal. it's been a good deal for me, I have to say. Only the other day the proprietor refused to stamp it because... erm.... Well he's from a racial minority and when upset his English is difficult to follow. So now I can only have my loyalty card stamped if I spend more than five pounds on meals numbered one to eight. I think that's what he said. But it says if I spend more than five pounds I get a stamp. He reluctantly stamped it, quote, for the last time, unquote. I see..... So what have falling black cats, fallen trees, and obstructions on her majesty's highways got to do with problems in paying for food? This omen business is hard.

No, this is a new one on me. There was a plethora of middle eastern cults yet strangely the celtic religions really don't seem to have resonated in Roman culture despite the obvious exposure. It just seems that western religions were assimilated more often than not, given latin charcter and names, whereas eastern cults seem to survive with more integrity.

tt was inevitable really. I know Britain has a reputation for being a damp country and my home town a reputation for being rainy among the British, but eventually the winds turn northward and bring hot weather from the south. Which is why, as I go about my business in the town centre, all of a sudden there are crowds of bellies and shorts ambling around like wot you do in warm weather. It's as if a switch goes on in the British mentality that urges them to wear those holiday clothes one more time before life goes back to dreary damp ordinariness. More Foxenders Sadly, I have to confirm the death of Frodo. There he was, laying inert by the roadside as I got a lift home from a colleague. Not to worry. Young foxes are everywhere. Far more than I saw last year. I saw one grab hold of a discarded lager can and run off with a foxy grin. I dunno.... The youth of today.... Strange Dreams Last night I had one of these strange episodic dreams. I was a detective in an American style undercover cop drama, albeit one in the lunatic dreamworld. The villain was a London style gangster who was suitably paranoid and psychopathic, who was ready to eliminate any minion who did not answer the phone after three rings. The crime had something to do with piles of documents. In the light of day, wide awake, and with the dream already fading in the memory, I cannot understand at all what the idea was or how any profit was made. No matter. The crime boss wanted me to do this task, the cops wanted me to do this task undercover, and I wanted to stay alive, a task made all the harder by the female chief detective who insisted on being in charge and wore her clothes in a style that amounted to pornography, almost like an open challenge to any male stupid enough to notice. Funny thing was, having gone through the ambling drama once, I went through the dream again, albeit with some differing details. Only with the same villain and the same plot. So it was just like those television thrillers after all. Promotion of the Week My job is strictly speaking a temporary post, albeit 'ongoing' work. However, to get the position as semi-permanent I had to prove myself, working hard, being on time, show willingness to undertake the most menial and pointless tasks. Just lately one of the regulars has been off on holiday (How does he afford that?) and his replacement, of the rare female warehouse worker variety, has been made semi-permanent after one week. Okay. I can deal with that.

One does suspect that very little imperial policy was being made either by Elagabulus or his mother. Sine the young emperor was too busy being a teenage weirdo and his mum a female only tolerated in Senate circles, it does follow that either the bulk of policy was being decided by the Senate or the imperial household, probably more likely the former, and such decisions were not enough to rise to the attention of Roman writers more concerned with headline grabbing world affairs. In other words, the empire was bumbling along under momentum rather than actual guidance with increasing frustration in high circles.

I wonder how Italians feel with a map showing "United States" daubed across their peninsula? I see the Nile has flooded again....

Erm... Okay.... Do the inhabitants of Nevada, Utah, Colorado, Oklahoma, Mississippi, and Alabama know they're at the bottom of the sea? Why on Earth was this graphic made? Oh. I suppose it shows the scale of empire. Fair enough. It's just disturbing to find that my home is buried under the Canadian Rockies.

Wow... That's some serious ruts. The surviving Roman road surfaces in Britain are nothing like as indented as that.

"It's Starwars Day" proclaimed one of my colleagues at work. Huh? What's that all about? Well, it turns out that "May The Fourth Be With You" has become an annual urban festival amongst those who cannot tell fantasy from real life. My boss noted my disapproving expression and chuckled. So in order to restore the balance of the Universe and allow the Dark Side its right of public expression, I suggest "May the Sixth Be With You", which for those who have lived in backwoods cabin for the last three decades is a play on words between the date, sixth, and the alien dark side faction, the Sith (Who featured in Starwars Episode One, The Phantom menace. Okay. You can go back to sleep now. Wake Up Call Trumpy has done it. He's got the Republican US presidential nomination. A triumph for celebrity tycoonship. In Britain we're a bit more canny, preventing Alan Sugar from world domination by making him a noble. However international politics will change as a result if he wins the final vote. Expect hard bargaining and a gruelling thirteen week 'last man standing' battle as America seeks its Apprentice. Talk about the Dark Side.... Cute Moment of the Week The other day I discovered Herbie the Hedgehog has a friend. There they were, both snuffling in the grass together. Awww..... Funny thing is normally hedgehogs end up as a somewhat flat pile of squishy goo, and given that Herbie snuffles next to a main road, you have to admire his survival instincts. Or perhaps he stretches out with his feelings? Letting the Force guide him in his do or die struggles with Dark Side motorists?

AAAARGH!!!!!! The idea that railway tracks were sized to Roman patterns is simply not true. Railway gauges were a matter of experimentation in the early years of steam and the only reason a 'standard gauge' emerged was because many beginning railway companies went with whatever had been successful by people like George Stephenson, allied to an increasing oversight by authorities to ensure smooth cross-country travel.

There is no Roman influence in Japan. The Japanese are very keen on their cultural sincerity in the same manner as the Chinese, and Roman influence in the day would have been essentially zero.

A lot of people have suggested that a vehicle was sized to fit a road - actually it's far more likely the vehicle was sized for convenience regarding its chosen means of beast of burden, and the road sized to accommodate such traffic. However, ruts are a good clue if you have that info. Coaches were certainly in use by the Romans - Tacitus mentions a legionary officer in Pannonia who never went anywhere without one. I think for the purposes of fiction you can adopt similar dimensions to more modern vehicles which were effectively designed and used in more or less the same way - that still gives you a fair amount of leeway.

For me was it was film and tv. Hollywood sword & sandal blockbusters. Kirk Douglas snapping 'the symbol of Rome'. Victor Mature grimacing hopelessly as he strides out into the arena. John Hurt's psychopathic Caligula shocking a bunch of senators believing they were to be executed, only to witness an impromptu dance rehearsal. The image of a monolithic empire teetering on the brink of collapse because of some nutter on a throne was intensely attractive. I know better nowadays of course, but instead of the former image, I have now come to like the liveliness and civic spirit of Rome, even if it was a violent civilisation in the worst possible way.

That bit about a Roman eagle? That might be true of Napoleon and his vision of a French Empire, but remains an assumption that is unsupported by textual source in America, and also ignores the significance of both the geographic separation of the country and the significance of native birds, the American Bald Eagle among them. Whilst I agree that many classical ideas were reworked by the Americans politically, the cultural importance of the eagle symbol probably has an origin closer to home, since America was born from a desire to create a country free of European servitude rather than a European Empire that inherited Roman military glory.

Right now - this moment - it just started pouring with rain. Sunshine and showers the report had said and lo and behold as soon as I risk a journey to the local library, fate punishes me for my presumption with a cascade of water down the windows. So now I'm trapped in the same building as the rest of library going public. Oh ye gods, the rain it doth rain harder. It has just become a veritable deluge out there. Stand by for more updates as we go Live At The Library. Changes at the Industrial Estate Every day as I plod back and forth from work I pass through an industrial estate, and in particular, the back of one factory. Over the years a growth of silos, ducts, electrical transformers, cabling, piping, and extractor fans has spread out of the back wall like some industrial fungus. The racket it used to make was extraordinary. I swear one of the reasons I got into trouble not so long with benefit payments was because I answered my mobile in that locality and the person on the other end thought I was stood next to a jet airliner at an airport. Now it's all gone. Swept away by the cutting torch. All the myriad holes in the wall covered over with plywood and wire mesh. And in it's place the inevitable result of a blank canvas. The graffiti mice are busy decorating the wall with the usual urban hieroglyphics. More Foxy Stuff I saw three foxes hunting together a week ago. Three. If that's a mating trio, something strange is going on in Fox-Enders. Having spotted a number of foxes I don't recognise, clearly the wee beasties are doing well. Bertie the Badger still noses around peoples houses late at night, and Herbie the Hedgehog still snuffles in the grass beside a main road. Oh... Hang on.... Weather Latest The rain has stopped. yes, ladies and gentlemen, in a surprise move Nature has decided that Swindon will be spared any further downpour, or at least until I venture out of the library. And now, back to the normal program.... Yet More Foxiness I was told something interesting by a work colleague. He keeps a young cat and because he lives close to a main road, he only lets it out late at night. One night he'd gone back out to the call the cat in. It didn't answer. Naturally he began to worry. Again and again he called but no cat. Fearing the worst, he was about to give up when his precious pet wandered back through the undergrowth happy as larry, with his latest friend, a young fox, walking beside him. Awww.... Cute. Secure Shopping Now that the new shopping mall is available and just around the corner from where I live, I have begun availing myself of its products and produce. This frequent visiting has resulted in the security guards watching me closely, and to be fair, some of the comments made by the fresh meat staff haven't been exactly complimentary. The other day I'd had enough of the close scrutiny, so as the security guard passed me, I followed in a non-provocative manner watching him. He got the message. Now they watch me from thirty yards further away. And Finally The sun is out so it's bye for now. This is rainy old Swindon you know. Use that sunshine while it lasts.

We do resonate with certain sound. For me the subtlety of poetic or socially meaningful lyrics does not compute. It's the expression of instrumental music that gets me tingling, but genres like jazz of folk really don't hold any interest, however well played. For me the sound of an electric guitar in the hands of a master is something else, and as Brian May observed, the electric guitar can emulate any sound the voice makes. Once at a gig I watched the support band beside the lady who did our sound desk. The Drummer made a mistake during one song and I mentioned that to her. She looked quizzical and replied she hadn't heard anything wrong. Ahh, says I, but I know drumming, so I pick up on details like that. "Doesn't that spoil it for you?" She asked in all seriousness. No, I replied, because I also notice when someone does something that little bit special. And much later, when she had learned more about music herself, she told me she finally understood what I meant.

I know the feeling. Instead of five terrestrial channels we used to get in the hazy days of analog signals I now receive something in the region of one hundred and fifty, albeit some are locked out, others restricted like those ridiculous *or* channels, and radio. In one sense it's great because if I miss a program, you can guarantee it'll be repeated at least once during the week, sometimes even the same day, only.... Truth is I only generally watch five channels out of the plethora my television is bombarded with. Isn't Freeview wonderful?