caldrail

You will also need to consider recruitment of slaves as soldiers. It was very rare for this to happen, but happen it did. They would be a class of low capability soldier set apart from regular legionaries. Not something you could do ordinarily, but if conditions are right... Also, around this period came the first instances of Roman troops being given extra sword training from gladiators, which might be a means of improving your troops, which of course would cost you.

Typical barbarians.... tch tch tch....

I cringe with expectation. Reminds me of a film I saw some time ago, about a japanese samurai in rennaisance spain (the villain was played by David Essex, who basically had no idea what Spain, villainy, or acting was about). Not the film industry's highest moment. Can you imagine a Jackie Chan film set in Roman times? Defeating a gladiator by swinging underneath a lion? Can't wait.

For the last week the weather has been glorious. All the hassles, disappointments, and frustrations of dealing with recruitment agents seem somehow pointless compared to getting out and enjoying the sunshine. Just the other weekend I took a walk along a cycle path in that strange unfinished part of Wichelstowe, roads and streets spread across empty farmland and the onset of green leaves. Not only was my journey shared by the usual crowd of cyclist, dog walkers, and chain gangs of rubbish collectors on community service, but all of a sudden aviation seemed to realise that flying weather was with us again. Piper Cherokees flew by with their warbling rasp. Piper Cubs ambled overhead with their soft rattle. Paragliders hung under their graceful arch of silk, wheeling gently around the sky. For a moment I remembered how it was when I used to fly. Sunshine at an airfield is pretty merciless. There's no shade out there in the open, and only a gentle breeze makes it bearable. You can always smell grass as you stride across the field toward the line of waiting aeroplanes. Most are typical club aircraft but you sometimes see one or two unusual or exotic airframes parked beside the others. That's the one I hired, over there. A Piper Tomahawk, not the most exciting aeroplane to fly but fly it does, and it was within my meagre budget. You get a strong reminder of how powerful the sun can be when you succeed in unlatching the cockpit door. You know how hot it gets inside a car left in the sun? There's more perspex on an aeroplane than a car and at first it feels like an oven in there. Bags deposited, it's time to go through the ritual of pre-flight checks. If something isn't right about your aeroplane, you want to know before you're half a mile up in the air. Haviing done this so many times I no longer refer to a checklist, walking around the aeroplane in a relaxed manner, following the steps required to convince myself this aeroplane is safe to fly. The metal wings feel smooth to the touch, ever so slightly uneven, and in an odd way primitive. All those lines of rivets evoke images of victorian engineering, sturdy engines made by sturdy engineers in stove pipe hats. Well, these are 1970's vintage airframes, built with 1930's technology. That sense of somthing not quite fully modern is pervasive, even with a panel full of modern instruments and radio equipment. So I've checked the airframe, the controls surfaces, the electric systems, the tires and brakes, the propellor, the oil and contents of the engine bay, so no more need to delay and I climb into the pilots seat. I daren't shut the door yet. Under that sun I'll fry. The seat belts are more or less the same as a car, since this is not an aerobatic aeroplane, and I don my headset. Plugged in. Throttle set. Brakes on. Ignition live. You know there's no-one out here, but for safety's sake you yell "Clear prop!" to alert the world that a piece of metal is about to start revolving very dangerously. Magneto's on and turn the key to 'Start'. Aircraft engines are like starting an old car. It takes a bit of care and patience to persuade them them to kick into life. The propellor turns over with a sort of reluctant undulating whine before the engine fires up. The propellor accelerates suddenly and the noise erupts from ahead of you. A few final adjustments, a check of temperatures and pressures, and I call the tower by radio to tell them what I'm up to. They give me some useful information like which runway to use, permission to taxi, and some air pressures so I can adjust my instrument settings. A friend of mne came along for the ride once and stared at me in amazement when he heard this interchange for the first time. "How do you understand it?" He asked. There's no great secret. All those abbreviations and numbers are something you get used to. You already know what sort of thing is going to be said. The Tomahawk wobbles about on the grass taxiway as I wind my merry way toward the runway threshold, holding open the door with one hand, operating the throttle with the other, and using the pedals to steer and brake. With the propellor slipstream the cockpit is confortably cooler. Eventually I reach the end of the runway, conduct my last few checks, close the cockpit door, and ask for permission to depart. The temperature inside the cockpit is starting to climb, the air hot and heavy, and you can't help wondering why the controller is taking so long to answer. Time to fly. I look around for other aircraft that might interfere with my plans, then let the aeroplane mount the asphalt. Line up on the centreline. Smoothly open the throttle. The noise goes from a loud growl into a cacophonic roar. The Tomahawk is accelerating smartly, the wind noise increasing, and I'm now focused entirely on the take off. With some gentle persuasion the aeroplane begins to lighten. A little unsteady at first, the ground falls away and I'm airborne. Before I know it I'm half a mile up in the air, controlling my noisy little contraption with a gentle touch. On the one hand I feel as free as a bird, yet also concious that airspace has rules and regulations. I feel liberated from worldly concerns, yet still concious that I must regularly check my engine and fuel. I feel entirely alone in the world, yet concious of the radio and its demands for replies and obedience. I share the sky with plenty of unseen colleagues doing exactly the same as me. All too soon I'm running out of fuel, money and time slot. The runway looks tiny from the air, and once again I become utterly focused, guiding my aeroplane toward the start of the asphalt strip which I must touch down on in the right attitude, the right speed, the right rate of descent. Barely above the ground a hesitant whistle alerts me I'm slowing down to the point the aircraf can't fly any more, but at the right time, thats precisely what you want. A slight bump, a squeal of rubber, and we're down. The cockpit is insufferably hot again as I taxi back to the apron. Finally I park up and shut down. The engine, starved of fuel, clatters to a halt. The world feels incredibly quiet. Freed from the assault on my senses by internal combustion the tiny whirr of the insrument gyros sounds oddly loud. Even after only an hour, I clamber out stiffly and a bit damp from sweat. What a lovely day.

Agreed. Facing a phalanx in the manner described doesn't sound like a likely scenario.

The elite tended to be close to the Roman road system, even with country estates. The roads did not get very far into that region.Why that should be isn't known to me. I gather that the moorland was already a reality by that time (the forests having been largely cut down) and the terrain in many parts of Dumnonia either wetland or bleak grassy wilderness. The wealth of the region was coastal, and transport easier by sea. Regarding religion, I don't know the extent to which irish christianity supplanted native or Roman paganism, or indeed, Roman christianity. The campaigns of Ine and Ecgbert in the later Dark Age do suggest a strong affinity with the welsh - it's the same peoples inhabiting the region according to the chroniclers, and the division between irish and Roman christianity was quite close to saxon or Romano-British domination. However, a check on the wiki page reveals a more complex situation, with various tribes of mixed origin. You might wish to consider this page... http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Christianity_in_Cornwall

The collapse of the western empire did not involve amnesia. Barbarian or not, the cultural identity of the Romans survived intact. Some tribes kept roman titles and offices even though their true context had long since vanished. Further, the spread of the post Roman church, especially with regard to the rivalry with irish christianity, maintained links with the Roman past.

There appears to have been some accord with the Romans. They had some minor presence in the area, as they tended to in frontier regions, but relations were amicable and I suspect based on trade and good behaviour. The archaeology I've seen tends to support this - they retained iron age lifestyles well in the sub-Roman period (Time Team dug a coastal site and found roundhouses dated long adfter the Romans had left)

Was it something I said? Apparently, yes, it was. You might want to sit comfortably at this point because I want to begin this sorry tale of miscommunication. Too late, I've started. It was a dark and stormy night when I fired up the computer to search for employment. No, I'm lying, the weather's been quite reasonable lately and it was mid morning at the local library, so the only risk was a librarian moaning about my military surplus trousers and an ugly stare from the security guard who for some strange reason gives me ugly stares. Clothes do strange things to people in Swindon. My Gap hoody has made me the mortal enemy of a youth gang, off duty servicemen mock my baseball cap, and people in the bus queue down the road complain that I never change my clothes. Oh good grief. I change my socks every six months or when they fall apart, whichever happens first. Hey, I'm a single guy. What do you expect? Anyway, I'm obliged by my Job Seekers Contract to use the government's Universal Jobmatch website. So I pulled up the site and searched for gainful employment. As it happens I found a vacancy. Woo hoo! Somebody wants a Warehouse Operative. You would expect at this time that I would read the job description and see if the job was right for me. Nope, I'm also obliged to apply for the jobs I find. So the company, location, hours, pay and conditions are actually largely irrelevant. Oh... Hang on... Where's the 'Apply' button? There isn't one. Now that's suspicious. Just a phone number to a job agency. So I pulled up the agency website and searched for the vacancy. Not found. Even suspiciouser... No alternative but to phone the number provided then. The one good thing of using an ordinary telephone is that the recipient can't see my clothes. Heaven knows what reaction that would have caused. It dawned on me after the woman answered that I'd phoned her once before concerning another Warehuse Operative job. I seem to remember that for some inexplicable reason she threw a hissy fit. I might have hung up on her. I'm thoughtful like that. Wouldn't want her trantrum to cause her any embarrasement. This time we discussed my sporadic career history and for some inexplicable reason she gave me a lecture on the ramifactions of health & safety legislation in the workplace. Can she see my clothes somehow? Eventually I managed to get a word in and she moaned that she was only trying to help. From this point it sort of got worse. I think she was trying to control the conversation and couldn't handle a jobseeker trying to get her to impart information slow enough to write down. Woah! Slower! You spell your last name how? "I don't like the way you're speaking to me" She said. Here we go again. She said that the other time too. I might have hung up on her again. Primate Alert "I know you can hear me" Someone said outside my home. The weather's been a bit humid of late so the open window was too much of a temptation for him. He simply had to make some kind of taunt, threat, insult, or a reminder that he wants me to believe he's the most dangerous dude on the block. You know how it is when you're young, trying to make a name for yourself in the 'hood. Well, youngster, you're right. I can hear you. The real problem you have however is that I'm still not listening. Migration Of The Week There's an advert on television that comes around quite often. It reminds us that Yellowstone Park is an active volcano and shows a bear relaxing in the grass with all the time in the world. "He has no idea" Says the voiceover. Apparently some of the animals do, because they've been spotted leaving the park by the nearest convenient tarmac road. No-one told the bear obviously. Right now he's probably wondering why he has a national park to himself. So while the grizzly bear is headed for extinction the local bison have evolved to the point where their brains now comprehend the purpose of tarmac roads. They haven't quite managed to invent the internal combustion yet but I guess hooves are something of an obstacle to drawing blueprints. On the other hand maybe they simply decided that grizzly bears are not good neighbours.

For some people Empires are the stuff of science fiction and fantasy. For others it's the glory days of the Roman, Greek, or Persian civilisations. There might be people who point at the Orwellian contestants in the global war of ideology that engulfed the last century. I've no doubt you can think of further examples. Recent events have shown what is an essential truth about the dynamics of Empire. Tribalism is a fundamental part of politics, an extension of our social animal behaviour, groups that have identities and loyalties of their own. Strictly speaking, an empire is the domination of other tribes by a stronger tribe. This has usually been the case in human history, although our modern world has invented the concept of a cooperative union that does away with domination, or at least in theory. The USA is an interesting case. It has a wide mix of ethnicity and origin, a varied cultural base, and yet manages to maintain itself as a coherent federal state. There is no doubt that geography plays a part in this - the Americans are blessed with a regional identity that underpins their local sentiment, but it must also be said that an important aspect is the patriotism that the Americans foster among themselves. In another case we have the European Union, a development of the Common Market that was set up after World War Two to help prevent the onset of conflict there. The sanguine expectations of a cooperative union have however been co-opted by bureaucrats and politics, leading to a situation where the Union is being converted to a federal super-state, a sort of European Empire if you will, based on the face of it with democratic ideals. In a sense the European Union has chosen to develop itself toward a competitior to the United States. The Soviet Union no longer exists of course, despite the persistent dominance of Russia among former members. For that matter, the British Empire has now largely vanished. Unlike the Americans however, Europe has a vastly heavier emotional baggage to deal with, history that extends for thousands rather than hundreds of years. Lacking the pioneer or immigrant spirit of what was a frontier, Europe has very old and very persistent local identities. This lack of European identity is a problem for our fledgling empire. For some decades now Europe has sought to downplay nationalism, to accentuate our common belonging to Europe. In doing so, it has weakened some of the ties that once held nation states together. Veneto in Itlay, Catalonia in Spain, Scotland in the United Kingdom, and Sardinia are all pressing for independence based on local identity, no longer content with being part of their parent state. Europe has already failed in an important sense of creating a common identity that it needed to foster the federal super-state. The reason is obvious. Withoit a strong central culture, an empire cannot hold together. Whether it would have been Britain, France, or Germany, the truth is that the European Union cannot build the world it wants openly for that would prove it was exactly what it says it isn't. Are empires a good thing? Many would argue that the Roman Empire was, for all its faults, and the question of whether the United States - a nation built on classical principles - is a good thing still encourages hot debates. In fact, many of the same arguments can be applied to Britain's colonial glory, with the benefit of hindsight, or indeed the Soviet Union or any other. It seems that very often we moan about the empires that rule us, and remember fondly the empire that did. Sometimes it's the empire we want that makes us conveniently forget anything else.

I was watching one of those Police 'fly on the wall' programs recently. Not sure which, there's quite a few of them. Police Patience On Patrol? Motorway Mental Cases? Worlds Wildest Policewoman? Don't know. Anyway, this particular program featured Police action from my own home town. It was a little wierd watching them chase a joyrider outside my home. Given the date and time of night, I was undoubtedly at home, playing Grand Theft Auto into the wee small hours, tutting about yet another police siren whizzing up and down the street. Such is life. Nonetheless crime does go on around us. Just last night I was woken by something, suddenly aware that the diesel generator powering the array of amber and turquoise lights in the Old College site had gone silent. A distant command "Stop!" was clearly audible. Sadly life isn't quite the same as television or film, so there was no "You'll never take me alive copper!" and whatever drama took place, it was done largely silently. You never know, I might see the drama replayed with exciting commentary on television next year. It does appear however that for someone life did get a bit more dramatic. This morning I left the library having completed my job searching for the day, and saw two police cars parked in the square. You do see policemen at the library sometimes, and once I watched a troublemaker manhandled out of the building. No-one seemed to know what trouble he had actually caused, but since he was definitely a bit irate, shouting at the policemen to let him go with references to their parentage, then by the rules of television documentaries he was guilty as charged. But today there was no action. Just those police vehicles, but I couldn't help thinking that something more sinister than a tantrum had occurred. Then I saw the constable on guard duty outside a bookies. So something had gone down. A van labelled as belonging to the forensic team turned up to show what a serious incident had taken place. Journalists milled around outside with oversized cameras and busy phone calls. People like me stood around waiting for something to happen. Of course, it already had. The Case Of The Missing Eunos Cabriolet Nope. Still no leads on the fate of my stolen car. Not even after watching a documentary about police action in my area. But at least I know the first names of several police officers and their favourite make of car. You never know, could be valuable information in my enquiry. Issue of the Week This has to be the huge concerns of subsidence in my area given the huge chunk of the hillside recently removed by building contractors. My home is, and I quote, "right on the firing line". Rather worringly I have noticed a few new cracks in the wall though not so serious as the 1885 Baptist Chapel at the other end of the alleyway, which is no longer fit for use and has a huge great steel support bolted on the side to stop it falling over. Currently disused? I'm suprised no-one round here has thought of nicking it.

Scottish independence is an emotive issue, but an odd one, since they are effectively asking to withdraw from the very same United kingdom that their own monarchs set up. Besides nationalism and antipathy toward the English (it does exist, although not a huge issue), the re-emergence of regional identity confirms what I always said about it. Encouraged by the creation of regional government by Tony Blair's Cool Britannia, and the existence of nationalist politicians wanting to secure their names in the history books, it would be very easy to forget the real-world issues regarding the move toward independence, but happily I note that the Scots appear to be quite sane about this in general, and raise concerns on all kinds of fronts. Is Alex Salmond being naive or opportunistic? Is an independent Scotland a folly or a brave new world? Truth is I don't know. Certainly Scotland will be creating a lot of problems for itself that don't currently exist, but ultimately it's up to the Scottish.

Just use 'Lord' instead of 'Mister'. I'm not entitled to anything else. Most people try to avoid using it and in particular the Job Centre has an aversion to that sort of admission that they're not actually superior to unemployed claimants in every way. In fainess many advisors simply accept politely that the title is valid even though they avoid using it. Some have been quite vocal in condemnation of me however. Briefly

After that farce on Friday I was glad to get an invite to start work. Dutifully I made my way to the Network Rail site - ironically one I'd been sacked from once before by a different employer - and arrived on the dot just as my supervisor from the agency was parking his car. The security guard was one of those smiling happy south east asian types. Friendly to everyone. I can imagine him throwing me off the site for a misdemeanour with a cheery "Have... a... nice day. Yes." The company site manager pulled me into an office for a welcome to work chat. "This is not an interview" He smiled. Never trust a manager who smiles. I have to say I didn't much like the look of him. He was one of those 'cold' management types. Never really showing any leadership, never inspiring any dedication or loyalty, just expecting everyone to work until they break then throw them away as rubbish. You can't trust people like that. Sadly I was right. I couldn't trust him. Within fifteen minutes he'd decided I was surplus to requirements (or more accurately, rubbish) and my services weren't required. He even expected me to accept that without any display of negative emotion. The man is an android, programmed for ruthless management, and I suppose luckily for me, I will not be assimilated. So I stomped off angrily for the gatehouse. Like you do. The cheery security man smiled and as I signed myself out, said "Have... a... nice day. Yes." Stupid Person Of The Week So it was back to the Job Centre and the humiliating ritual of attempting to persuade government bureaucrats that your life has turned for the worse and please can I have some money to pay my bills. As it happened the benefits were confirmed without problems (I guess the Network Rail Android is known as a serious hazard to continued employment). So it was only necessary to attend a short interview to sign a few forms before I went back to the job of finding work. The afro-caribbean lady behind the desk was humoourless. Not that unusual in Job Centres if I were honest, although things have improved no end from the dour 70's. She wasn't being rude or anything, it's just that she called me "Mister Caldrail". Gasp! So I attempted, forlornly, to prove that I was entitled to be called "Lord Caldrail". I had the evidence, I pointed out where she was going wrong, then I was interrupted. "Sorry... Did you say I was stupid?" She hissed icily. Uh oh. This was the ragged edge of a possible racism incident. Now I get it. She's a problem case given a niche job. Staring her in the face, I slowly confirmed that I did not say she was stupid. So the interview concluded in the same detached officialism she started, believing she had won a victory over racist abuse. Well. Now I'm going to say it. As much as I was being respectful and polite, lady, you are stupid.

We all know about gladiators to a greater or lesser degree. Who they were, what they did, and why they did it. However, it occurred to me that we tend to see gladiatorial combat as a phenomenon isolated from Roman history despite the strong inclusion of arena combat in Roman society. I therefore open the floor to our esteemed members and ask - What did gladiators do for Rome? What was the impact of arena combat on Roman society? Was it merely a manifestation of Roman brutaility an d religion, or did it become a feature of Roman sociology that shaped their history in any way? Citizens - Your thoughts?

quote]Rome would be a disgusting, revolting quagmire if it wasnt for the scrubbing and sterilization the middle ages gave to the romans in their idealization. Except they often used Rome as an example of decadence and sin I never said the Romans were waffling. Dramatic elements used to set a scene in a sciece fiction novel have no relevance to Roman philosophy.whatsoever. If you choose to read more into it than others, that's up to you, but Dune is a story about power, not esoteric philosophies concerning icons that get a brief mention as a scene setter. No, I study Rome here. A city state in antiquity. Sphinxii have nothing to do with it. You're waffling again. You could have fooled me.

??? I haven't really left. The problem is that the forums return error messages so I can't access them. Truth is, I've been so busy looking for work that I haven't had much time to spare.

Weather... Funny thing weather... We seem to have more of it than any other nation in the world and yet we seem uttely incapable of coping with it. All part of being British I supose. Over the last few days we've had fog to contend with. You would think that might cause a few problems with getting around.and you know what? You're right. It has. As for me I had a job interview to go to. The agency that put me onto it was so worried that the fog might put me off that they called me on the phone while I was on my way there. Am I going? Yes. Do I know where to go? Yes. That sorted her out. I arrived at the site and luckily for me the interview was being held in a premises I'd worked in once before. That way I knew where it was without resorting to GPS, anxious telephone calls, or simply sending up a rescue flare if all else fails. Thing is thoug, the lady on the reception desk looked perplexed when I announced myself. "You are not on list" She replied in deep Polish lilt. Really? My mobile phone says different. Obviously fog is not so thick in Poland. Anyway, I stood my ground, she lost patience with me, and went to fetch a manger. The manager didn't know what I was talking about either. So he phoned his manager, and he didn't know either. This fog really is stern stuff. It reduces memory, intelligence, amd many higher brain functions. I should know. The ability test I had to sit through comprised of fiendish maths and english questions designed to fool the illegal immigrant, thwart the dimwitted, or basically accelerate the degeneration of brain tissue that still clings on for dear life inside my aging skull. But I passed. Fog or no fog. And the sun has come out! What a nice day. Start work on Monday fella. No excuses. Not even fog.

The Old College site still looms large in our local concerns. Even now, they're still trucking huge lumps of hillside away to some infill site somewhere. The sandy soil has now gone so they're digging up dark grey clay, thick lumpy soil that forms steep sided piles. The rain hasn't helped of course. looking down onto the site it got quite messy down there for a while - they've had to lay down a level of rubble to make the surface usable. The other day I was passing the site with my shopping, noticing that the roadway they'd dug up had flooded. Quite an impressive puddle it was too, although I don't think the civil engineer I spoke to was too impressed with my sense of humour. Worse still, subsidence has reared its ugly head. There's a meeting at our local civic offices for citizens none too imopressed with cracks in the walls of their homes. Meanwhile, Back At The Job Centre My claims advisor is not impressed. This time however it isn;t me. It seems the usual protocol of queuing until spoken to has not been taught to a younger generation, who clearly have more important things to do with their time than attend the Job Centre when required. Energy Bill Of The Week Back in October I had a bit of an argument with my gas supplier. They wanted to add a standing charge to my tariff which would more than double the cost of gas over winter. It's okay though, because David Cameron says there's no cost of living crisis. So, in an event to prove our glorious leader is infallible, I basically told the gas company to close my contract. Don't want your stupid gas any more. You wouldn't believe the excuses they came out with to avoid doing that. Apparently cancelling a gas supply is illegal or something like that. Don't care. Cancel it. So they wrote to me telliing me that gas supply is the basis of all civilisation. So I wrote to them cancelling my contract officially. Good riddance. Imagine then my alarm this week, three months after I had forgotten the existence of natural gas, when I received a gas bill for using no gas whatsoever. Are they serious? Do they really believe that I'm going to pay? Guys - The contract is cancelled! It's been cancelled for three months! Deal with it!

Well, we've already hunted ours into extinction. Now the eco-brigade are hunting anyobne who so much as looks at a fur coat in envy. There was a badger cull in Wiltshire just of late but so far they haven't been recorded as attacking anyone. I nearly stepped on an Adder once. It's our only poisonous snake. It hissed at me and I got the message. Very impressed you were able to take photographs of a bear attacking you. In your place, I'd probably be pooing myself, screaming, and generally trying to run away. But then we're not allowed huntin' rifles in darkest Wiltshire.

Yes. Darkest Wiltshire. Our rural rainforest is a land of wild white woolly wolves, loud and hairy late night primates, druidic weirdoes, speed cameras, and herds of cows that inspect you closely should be so unlucky as to encounter that particular hazard. Otheer than that it raons a lot.

...Once more unto the rain, dear friends, once more... ... Those who were not here shall hold their dryness cheap... From William Shakespeare's play Henry The Absolutely Soaking Wet Fifth Britain has a problem. As much as we like to discuss our weather, we seem to have rather a lot of it right now. So much so that hordes of BBC journalist more used to comnfortable studio newsdesks are now presenting news and views live from those areas of Britain unfortunate enough to be anywhere near a large river. I can't help thinking the BBC are trying their best to convince that our license fee is value for money or that the flooding in the Somerset Levels is something we haven't already heard about. Okay, Britain is a bit under the weather right now, but come on BBC! Cameron has already said there's no limit to the amount of money he will spend drying Britain out, even if his cabinet deny blank cheques are available or that unemployed people like me are going to have to fund relief efforts on the Somerset Levels sooner or later. Sky News is more concerned with impending Scottish independence and the revelation they can't keep the English chequebook, plus a controversy at the Sochi Winter Olympics. Russia Today talks about riots in Venezuela, Ithe release of Iraqi prisoners agaijst American advice, and of course the stream of Russian victories at Sochi. But Al Jazeerah walks away with the prize for reporting Korean squabbling, Turkish squabbles, squabbles in Kenya, attempted coups in Libya, unrest in Iraq, Belgian euthenasia, the inprisonment of Al Jazeerah journalists in Egypt, and for ignoring Sochi altogether. I breathe a sigh of relief when the adverts pop up. Then I discover that Africa doesn't have enough water to go around and would I mind paying a meagre sum to supply one person with water that isn't full of urine, faeces, bugs, and little children playing. Sorry. have a television license fee to pay for. Job Interview Of The Week Applying for jobs online is easy most of the time. Choose a vacancy and click on 'Apply'. job done. Sometimes however the unthinkable happens and someone notices that pweople are applying for these jobs. That hapened to me recently which was very unexpected. Normally I get rejected or forgotten completely. The mistake I made of course was discovering the interview I'd agreed to attend was not in my home town, but miles away, out there, in the wilds of Darkest Wiltshire. So I discussed the problem with the employer and we agreed it was sensible not to proceed. Unfortunately England Expects That Every Jobseeker Shall Do His Duty, and thus the Job Centre, as soon as they found out, decided I had committed heresy. "We can stop your money if refuse an interview" My claims advisor advised me. I hadn't refused it.All I did was... it was no use. The Job Centre decided I was in the wrong and so I had to phone the employer and ask them very nicely if they wouldn't mind letting me attend the interview after all. They said yes. First the interview was postponed until the following week. Then I was asked if it was possible to come in later during the afernoon instead, because the company was having a problem with suppliers. Then finally, after my miserable bus journey and a walk through some town on the edge of civilisation, I was within a few hundred yards of the employers premises. Just a few more yards... Almost there... Oh hello. my phone is rininging.... Interview postponed until next week NOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!! Right then. My claims Advisor owes me

Right. No-ones looking, so I can in fact reveal that today I applied for nine jobs online. It's okay. She'll never know.

It doesn't take a lot to cause traffic chaos. Many years ago I was heading home through Wootton Bassett when I encountered a driver having difficulties getting his car up the steep hill that enters the town from the southwest side. Being a genreous sort, I stopped to help. Pushing a vehicle uphill, especially one with an unwilling engine and a large female occupant who refused to step out of the vehicle, wasn't easy and no-one else volunteered to help. Within minutes traffic was backing up in both directions, traffic wardens were closing in to find what the trouble was and inflict terrible financial maulings to anyone guilty of the slightest infraction of the Highway Code. So I helped the guy reverse the car by gravity as close to the side of the road as possible and left the area sharpish. My work here is done. But it isn't always my own fault. The other day I was walking home by the Old College site. Roadworks have spread across the junction in front of it, diggers ripping out more and more mud, flourescent yellow droids with working class accents yelling incoherently at each other. Unfortunately this has restricted the the road a good deal. In one direction, a large low-loader lorry and trailer was trying to negotiate the turn into the building site, blocking the only remaining lane. In the other direction, another lorry driver decided to use the temporary access road as a short cut to the site, depite the "Give Way" and "Left Turn" signs, blatantly pulling across the wrong way in a one-way system, and blocking traffic behind him. And so chaos was brought to Swindon. I didn't do it. Data Protection Of The Week Right now I attend a support centre to assist my job-searching. Internet access, personal assistance, and free stationery. Very useful. The only downside is the constant form filling and register signing that I have to put with. Every session I need to fill out a report form detailing my activities for the day. it must be completed fully and correctly or my benefits are in question. Like being in the army except no-one shouts at you. Anyhow I did my duty for the day and dotted every eye and crossed every tee. The manageress who runs the office spotted me droppin g my form on the assigned administrators desk and immediately turned it over. "It's okay" I ventured helpfully, "I'm not ashamed of it". Sadly she lacks a certain sense of humour and merely replied "Oh it's the data protection act". I see. I post my job search details on a government website as ordered, email those details to any administrator who requests it, my bank details and statements to a national office dedicated to catching dole cheats, and to some extent, reveal my activities to the world via this blog. But no-one, repeat no-one, is allowed to see that report form. You have been warned.

He pretty much takes your stance, but with the attention to further detail on the objective-subjective divide and atomic structure, coming to the conclusion that each atom, when it becomes molecular, is evidence of atomic consciousness. I don't necessarily share the views of atomic conciousness - though in fairness it comes uncomfortably close to my own personal religious beliefs - and I should point out that physicisyts are concerned about the existence of 'Bolzmann Brains', sentient entities formed by fortuitous interaction of quantum particles, or if you like, the sort of energy creatures you see on Star Trek quite a lot. The moral or philosophical questions however are no different - at what point does an entity assume conciousness? Research suggests much lower down the tree of life than we realise, in some primitive way, but conciousness involves more than simple existence and unless particles are complex enough to harbour conciousness, then it's no more than quantum/chemical/physical change without recognition. is weight and mass inherently different? No. Mass is instrinsic to atomic structure and weight the multiple of mass caused by the strength of the gravity force acting upon mass. How would relativity work if they were different. The same, with different values and results.