caldrail

Trusty Polybius rides to the rescue. Am I mistaken, or is Polybius describing a long marquee for each century? That's definitely an indication that the contubernium was a post Marian innovation, an attempt to continue the barrack room into the field, since we know later tents were only designed to shelter an eight man group.

"Does anyone know anything about the Work Programme?" Asked the lady giving us our induction to what is a two year course aimed to return long term unemployed like me to the workplace. Well there' been some horror stories circulating. "Like what?" That we will have to do 38 hours a week on our job searching. "Oh no!" She chuckled, "That would be like a full time job wouldn't it?" Exactly my thoughts. Well so far the programme seems very easy going, but I did hear hints that it could get much more stringent later. Sounds like we're bing eased gently into our New Model Army of Jobseekers. The square-bashing will pick up later. I wonder if we'll be issued uniforms? There's no point moaning. We're all in it now. Who do you think that you're kidding Mr Manager If you you think we're sat on bums We are the boys who will make your staff look lame We are the boys who will make you think again So... Who do you think that you're kidding Mr Manager If you think that job's not ours Well what did you expect? A song from Dame Vera Lynn? There'll be bluebirds over, the local job centre, tomorrow, just you wait and see.... No. We'll search in the hills. And in the valleys. We'll apply on the beaches. We will never surrender. Wel we can't can we? Our money gets stopped if we do. Quite A Thought Thirty years. It never really occured to me before a feature documentary on television last night covered the last flight of the space shuttle Atlantis. There was one guy who's been fitting heat tiles to the shuttles for nearly all his working life. Thirty years. I was barely out of school when they started firing up those oversize fireworks. I remember flipping through dozens of instrument panels in Space Shuttle Simulator and wondering what on earth all this stuff was about. How long will it be before anything else so significant to our efforts to conquer space rises from the countless ideas mooted around? It was interesting that the head of shuttle flights said that a future space vehicle of this kind will need to simpler and more reliable. Our space rockets don't look much, but their complexity is mind boggling. So are the risks they're built to defy. Famine? You Mean... That Famine? Fifty years. That's almost how long parts of africa has been living off international aid. In other words, they've been on benefits since 1963. The UN are moving toward getting people to raise crops, sorgum for instance, a hardy wheat that grows in arid confitions. Africans can make porridge from it. Food handouts ae therefore being reduced. Unfortunately for this brave new world the sorgum fields are afflicted with a disease that ruins the crops. Might be a while before this East African famine crisis gets resolved. And yet, despite this continual history of hardship in the area, we still see the media portraying it as if this was a disaster that happened yesterday. I guess it sounds more dramatic that way. Not Just Amy Winehouse Everyone who could get near the internet has already posted their thoughts and tributes so there's no point my adding to the huge response to her untimely death. Especially since I never listened to her music. My loss I guess. Well sadly she lost her health to such a degree that her body gave up on her. That said, it wasn't really all that shocking, was it? Hands up anyone who really didn't know in their heart that she was destined to be a tragic figure. It's easy in these cases to get philosophical. To talk about how fragile life can be. How fleeting the human experience is. Some of the people I knew in the music business are no longer with us. Good people. Talented people. Who remembers them? And As For Top Gear... I made a bit of a criticism of last weeks program. No, not this time, last nights show was better. Who could possibly be dissatisified with a trio of seventies moustaches? Richard Hammond succeeding in looking debonair against all odds, James May looking like that middle manager who now has to go home and tell his wife he's been made redundant, and Jeremy Clarkson looking like he dates old women for cash. Brilliant. But it gets better because I too had a moustache in the seventies. Yes. It's true. I am an Interceptor (cue title sequence).

In Blighty we don't usually see amrican versions of our own shows, both because the media in America is so all-pervasive, but also because no-one in britain buys them. What we have seen is a little perlexing to us. Okay, we sort of recognise who the main characters are supposed to be, but they're translated into a different stereotype and to be honsest, since much of British humour is based on absurdities concerning our way of life, the jokes from american perspective just don't work. That doesn't mean american comedy isn't funny - we fall off our seats with some imported shows, but these are home grown shows that are internally consistent. Perhaps one exception might be Shameless. I haven't seen the US version, but the trailers were as deadpan as British humour and I think that's why it might work for us too.

Oh my. Thanks. By strange coincidence the sun is shining today. it's well hot. Very, very hot... (gasp)... (wheeze)... Why is this hill steeper all of a sudden... Man, am I sweating...

Except drunkards, obviously

generally speaking the Romans didn't like to discuss rebellions other than they happened and the perpertrators got some harsh justice for their trouble. The only detailed rebellion is from Taxcitus (that I know of) thus I chose it as an example of a mutiny that bad enough to deserve a write up. The impression I get is that in peace time the legions of that period were prone to labour relations problems. Caesar himself does record how easily a Roman legion could crumble in the face of determined aggression. however, this book http://www.jstor.org/pss/263434 might be of ineterst and at least the page lists serious rebellions in the available text if you don't want to purchase the whole thing. It's a starting point.

The widely accepted date for the beginning of the 'consular' legions is 300BC. Before that the romans employed forces organised according to greek/etruscan lines.

It is interesting. Studies have shown that the majority of women in viking colonies in Iceland and Greenland were british.

A falcon? African or european?

Okay let's see, what can I write for the blog this friday? I've done hikes, injuries, insults, urban foxes, job searching, and finally resorted to lame gags about badger culling. Luckily for me, I didn't have to think too hard about anything else because the museums resident journalist, DW, made his appearance. I first met DW when he was running a modelling agency which he assures us with a big grin was earning him truck loads of cash. After organising one event at a local night club with a number of celebrity guests of which even I had heard of, he sold the business, and refuses to talk about that cash anymore. Now he's a journalist for a community website. For some reason the conversation got around to the fairer sex. It usually does when DW is nearby. Today he was moaning because his girlfriend has just proclaimed her undying love for him. In true journalist style, DW refuses to acknowledge that love makes the world go round. Only money has that physical property. Nonetheless, I think DW is living in a world bereft of human kindness. He hugged our resident evil robot and attempted to hold hands with it. DW, you need a girlfriend. Talking About The Fairer Sex Our boss warned us to expect Miss M at eleven. She's a recent addition to the museum crew. I've seen her around once or twice but she got one of the interesting jobs downstairs, leaving me and the rest of the trolls to snare members of the public. Caught one today trying to sneak in without paying. By half past, my fellow troll manning the front desk concluded that Miss M "Isn't turning up", at which point she duly walked through the door as a brilliantly well-timed demonstration on the art of being fashionably late. Of course I found the whole thing very amusing and she rolled her eyes. Talking About Particle Colliders After Miss M went off to join the museum elite to create new interesting displays, the conversation got around to the CERN particle collider. It's that big circular facility buried under Switzerland that scientists spent millions to play sub-atomic marbles with. My fellow troll told me that the japanese built something similar twenty years in order to find a cure for cancer. Pardon? Curing cancer with a particle accelerator? That's like conducting life saving surgery with a machine gun. Case Of The Missing Eunos - Chapter 3 The latest update of my investigation concerns a woman who was one of the four individuals who asked if I wanted to sell the car. She was in fact the only one whose name I knew. Hi babe. My car got nicked recently. "Your car was stolen?" Yes. "The white one?" Yes. "Oh... I thought you'd sold it." No, it vanished. "Oh." Well it seems the police didn't interview her despite my mentioning her name as a possible line of enquiry. Oh yeah... I forgot... I have to investigate this crime myself. Usually in these circumstances the private detective (that's me) starts a relationship with the woman on the basis that whilst she might be responsible for 90% of car thefts in the area, she's also a perfect soul partner, and until we've done the sex scene I cannot exclude her from my enquiries. I had no idea searching for a lost car was such fun. Can't wait for the car chase.

That's brilliant. I don't think we we fully appreciate the scale of antiquities theft and fraud and I like to see that for once, the criminal fraternity have done the decent thing and added to our archaeological record. Even if they probably hadn't a clue what it was.

Starting the day in a good mood I went about my business. Everyone seems to be in a good mood too. Happy smiling shop assistants, and warm if cloudy weather. It just feels like it's going to be a good day. Or at least, it would be if I hadn't cracked a rib during my collision with the supermarket car park. It only hurts when I laugh. "Step into a recruitment office if you want to play soldiers" Growled a voice as I bounded joyfully up the stairs at the library. Oh great. Another clown. That's put a damper on my day. As it happens I know that voice and he ought to know better than advise members of the public in such a sneering manner. Play soldiers? I haven't done that since I left the Air Cadets. That was way back in... Erm... Ages ago. Decades even. Oh, I see, another sanctimonious upstart doesn't like my habit of wearing military surplus trousers. I don't care. They're available tio anyone on the high street, they're comfortable, useful even, and well suited to my hikes in the countryside. Hiking is about getting out and enjoying the countryside. It doesn't involve special operations behind enemy lines. As I waited for the woman on my booked computer to stop making her face up, I glanced out the window and spotted a guy in head to toe autumn tree bark cammo gear, driving a military surplus land rover equipped for an invasion of Normandy. I see him driving around now and then. I wonder if he gets any hassle? Why on Earth would I want to step into a recruitment office anyway? According to the news, the British Army is getting rid of 19,000 troops over the next few years, plus I'm nearly fifty, suffering middle age health issues, and I discovered yesterday that I'm not as agile as a teenager. As it happens I made a promise to someone as a child that I would never join the army. My grandfather had gone ashore at Gallipoli in World War One to assist in bayonet charges on turkish positions, and later went to the muddy hell of Verdun, France. I remember asking innocently what he'd done in the war, or something to that effect. He didn't relate any tales of derring do, or patriotic pride in doing his bit. Instead he made me aware of what war was. The simple fact was that he didn't want me to suffer the same experiences as he'd done in his younger days. He was a good man. I'll keep faith with him. Worse still for my male ego is the realisation that I was never born to be a warrior anyway. My calling was elsewhere. What's the point of playing soldiers when you're never going to be any good at it? You have to be true to yourself and I see no good purpose in allowing myself to be forced into a life I will never be happy with. That was always the problemn with my father, who wanted me to be soldier, just like him. He was, is, and always will be a petty corporal. If I can blame anyone for lifelong interest in things military, I can lay it at his feet. The army puts adverts on television to the effect that they spot talent and encourage it. Maybe so, but that message clearly never occurred to him, nor for that matter has it reached their casual recruiting agent at the library. But all of that doesn't matter. As always happens when someone wants to apply peer pressure, he spoke to my back. In my book, that's not courageous, admirable, or worth my attention. You stupid, stupid man. Oh the pain... The pain... Birds To The Rescue! The local newspaper tells me that eagle eyed shoppers have noticed birds of prey patrolling the library. I noticed them too this morning. A pair of handlers strolled around the building with a pair of very large Harris Hawks impatiently waiting for another chance to decimate the local pidgeon population. It seems pidgeons are a big problem. Their droppings filled five large sacks during the clean up operation lately, and I understand they spread more diseaes than rats. Given the government are now tackling badgers for the same reasons, I wonder what birds they'll be using? Huge south american condors probably. That'll be a sight.

What for? I mean, Wetherspoons aren't going to sell any. As soon as you order it you'll be frog-marched off the premises.

Having been so impressed with that new footbridge across the railway line, today I decided to head out for a hike in country. Get some fresh air, exercise, and a few cool pictures of no possible use to anyone. Of course I did the requisite job search at the library first. Always see to your chores. There we go. A bunch of cool pictures taken and time to head off into the hills. I did make a half hearted attempt to photograph a passing train, just for the heck of it you understand, but I wasn't in the best place so I abandoned the attempt. Not a problem. Fives minutes later an orange helicopter flew low and slow along the railway. Didn't realise photographing trains was actually illegal. How do those magazines get away with it? And the americans think railfanning is under threat in their country. We get pounced on by helicopter gunships. Back On Form I see in the news that someone is planning to make the entire town of Swindon a 20mph zone. That'll make it the safest town in the world won't it? Stolen cars will stand no chance of getting away at those speeds. Even helicopters fly in fear of speed cameras these days it seems. The thought does occur to me however that traffic jams won't get any better even with all these schemes being put in place manage traffic through the town. I mean, they're still arriving at 60mph aren't they? Never mind. At least Swindon is still on form. Back in the slow lane. Vice Girls Another news headline on the local billboards is that vice girls are back. Vice Girls? Are they a pop act? I mean, like the Spice Girls but sexy? Oh... I see... Ahem. Well you can sort of tell I don't indulge in that sort of service. I imagine it's only going to get easier for them too. After all, the helicopter gunships are currently busy chasing me away from railways. Condemned Sadly it appears that bovine tuberculosis is being spread by badgers so the badgers must go. As someone who enjoys the rare sight of wildlife going about its wildness, naturally that saddens me. It's easy for me to say that. I don't live in the country, and I don't have to deal with diseases that afflict farming. I remember walking past Wroughton Airfield once and seeing a badger impaled on a stick, left by the roadside for someone to see. There's a hardline attitude toward wildlife in some quarters, something I think our american friends particularly would understand. Where does expedience end and cruelty begin? I don't have an answer for that. It's no use complaining that our lads haven't enough helicopters in Afghanistan. We've got to keep our own green zones free of fundamentalist badgers and railway photographers. Ooops.. Oh No! Not Again! Every so often I make a complete pigs ear of making a simple ordinary everday action and look a complete idiot. Most of us do sooner or later, though I tend to when I'm sober. And today is no different. I crossed a road in town at the lights and intended to cut across the supermarket car park as a shortcut home. One quick leap onto the low brick wall, and... Having just arrived back in town from a ten mile hike I inadvertantly let my trailing foot drop. So I tripped, big time. In full view of the shoppers and drivers of vehicles on the road too. Hey, just another gig, yeah? I'd like to thank the driver of a passing lorry for looking to see if I was hurt. No-one else worried. They glanced over their shoulder while I screamed and fell headlong onto the pavement before continuing about their lawful business. At least the driver slowed down a bit. Cheers mate.

It's unlikely that tents were given the same level of oversight that a barracks room would, so I would expect each tent to be utilised in a somewhat customised manner. That said, legionaries were used to sleeping head to foot four to a side with their gear ready at the door. There are however the matters of security and volume. Soldiers on the march are not as law abiding as we would prefer, and legionaries were known to be larcenous, something frowned upon yet never eliminated (probably because the centurions sometimes obtained kickbacks by way of bribe or bullying, but also because the centurions didn't like intereference with the conduct of their century from outside sources, civilian or military). In a tent it would be relatively easy to purloin desired equipment. We must allow however for the idea of 'fraternity' the centurions encouraged (that was what the conternurnae were for) and some realisation that stealing amrs and armour was not conducive to group survival. As regards volume, I'm not actually sure how big the tent was. I would expect some variety in size depending on who made them and the availability of soft leather from which they were made. Since the legionaries don't appear to have the same sense of privacy and private space we associate with modern living, my guess is that training and routine would typically lead the layout of a tent to be similar to a barrack room but constrained by a smaller space. I must add that I'm not aware of any sources that cover this aspect of the march. Writers were generally educated senior officers who weren't concerned with the comfort of their men, nor would they consider the grim realities of life as a Roman legionary a suitable subject for civilised readers.

Pfah! That's nothing. I've got the Department of Work & Pensions plus all their subcontractors trying to change me.

The lady on the supermarket till is an endangered species these days. They're all being replaced by robots. Well, until a bunch of guys with dark suits and sunglasses escort this particular lady to a large black vehicle waiting outside, I'll avail myself of the customer service. "Are you going to Fairford?" She asked. I looked out the window, surveyed the grey clouds and damp ground, and said no, I wasn't. She meant of course the RIAT air display, our annual traffic jam north of Swindon. Fairford is a bit far to walk anyhow. Usually on a RIAT weekend you know there's an air display going on. Crowds gather in Swindon shopping centres. Formations of jet aeroplanes cruise overhead. This year I witnessed none of that. Only on the sunday did I spot a distant pair of aircraft turning west of Swindon. Only once did I hear that familiar distant roar of afterburners fading in and out. What a miserable day for an airshow. Low cloud, patchy rainfall, and actually quite blustery. Worth a few hours wait to get out of the car park afterward? Couldn't Get To RIAT? Yesterday, as you all know, I was taking a wander out into the local countryside while it still exists. On my way back along the disused railway (I know its a cycle path these days but I remember it with tracks still present) I heard an approaching aeroplane. An unfamiliar metallic vibrato. To my pleasant suprise a 1940's Beech twin flew over about five hundred feet up, taking care to stay below cloud level on what was also a none too sunny day. I watched the silver painted aircraft head southeast toward the Marlborough Downs. Well, I might not have been able to get to RIAT, but that was a nice little airshow all of my own. Poor Show Lads I am unashamedly a Top Gear fan. Or rather, I enjoy the show and remain fanatical about some of the more extreme cars they enjoy driving on our behalf. It's a public service they provide. Another public service was the burning of a caravan, this one the buffet car on the Audi train. Maybe it's just me, but wasn't that a bit predictable? They got away with doing a fire on a camping holiday in Devon. The jokes been done twice now and it's wearing thin. We viewers demand more for our license fee. Why wasn't the entire train set alight? They could have burned the Audi too. How we would have smiled. I suppose I can forgive them for that, the reason being being they hit a lower point still. Having invited Rowan Atkinson onto the show, what do they do? Hand him a list of words to say in a funny voice. The audience obediently tittered when required, but be honest, it wasn't funny. It wasn't amusing. If you're going to interview a celebrity, then give him something more interesting to say. Like a witty story maybe? Not their finest moment. Laugh of the Week Bob. Aww come on, it worked for Rowan Atkinson. Oh great, now I'll have to think of a joke. No wait, I don't have to, because I've just spent the last two days phoning a woman at a job agency who tried to phone me. Apparently she can't understand that I don't live in an office, and I can't understand why she does.

No, that's not right. You are correct about time dilation but remember that the universe is relative to the observer. As a fast traveller, your life continues as normal even if everyone has long since ceased to be. You can only travel into a future if it's possible to get back. Otherwise the relative movement in observational sequencing is meaningless. You're simply... there. Unfortunately the presence of an observer in another time would automatically 'change' things irrspective of how far they went back. As for folly, governments like them a lot. Many of us said it was folly to build massive stocks of nuclear weapons but it diodn't stop two factions aiming thousands of the things at each other for decades. An assumption. Would moving a rock six inches cause profound changes in the far future? If so, I'm staying well away from butterflies from now on. Possibly, but then, possibly not. given human behaviour is spread across certain alternatives in a bell curve, the changes over great lengths of time might not really affect things significantly, especially when you consider that the location of an event is often more important than who set it off.

Anyone expecting something about Led Zeppelin is going to be sorely disappointed. Today I took a stroll across some farmland not to far from where I live. In the not too distant future these fields will be gone, replaced by modern brick shoeboxes we call houses, all packed densely together around a maze of curving streets that defies anyones sense of direction. I'd already had a good view of Wichelstok, the latest addition to Swindons housing needs, built in the Ray Valley between Swindon and the M4 motorway. Not entirely an idyllic position then. But that wasn't the whole problem. This new urban village looked false and artificial in pristine orange drab. Anyway, I passed by and continued to where this doomed farm now stands. I've never bothered to walk the footpath on this particular triangle of farmland because it leads across the Great Western main railway line. I don't know what the legal position is. Footpaths are established public rights of way in the countryside, but usually a railway line is No Admittance. Not that it matters. Crossing a double track on a curve that carries fast freight and express trains isn't all that clever. Thing is though I looked across the fields and saw a collection of roofs on the skyline toward West Swindon. Odd. I've never noticed a farmstead that close to the line before. My curioisty aroused, I fell over the crumbling stile and barged my way through the flock of sheep bravely guarding the field against trespassers. One or two showed their displeasure by weeing. It turns out the roofs belong to West Swindon on the other side of not only the railway, but the dual carriageway alongside it. The trees had been cut down because someone has realised that once this stretch of farmland has become a housing estate, the local kids are going to try and risk a crossing. In place of that simple stile and warning sign had been built an extraordinary footbridge. It looks way over the top as it stands now, with only a muddy field to lead to, but what a great place to watch trains flash by. But of course I have better things to do. I wonder if I should rent a movie for tonight? Handed In That's it. The form has been filled in. My record of job searching submitted to my new invisible masters. What will they say? What will they do? The tension is mounting. All the worst because I hear a rumour that jobseekers will now have to spend as much time during the week on their search as they would be prepared to work. What? A full 38 hour week doing nothing but job searching? Hang a minute, I don't think there's enough vacancies or employers to keep that level of activity going. Worse still it means I'm working fulltime at something like

You forgot to add expensive :D

Cars are often an expression of personality. The M5 driver zooms past you because he wants to look important and the car is not only a badge of status, but a means of competing aggresively for position on the road. Personally I liked sports cars for the buzz. I find them interesting, challenging, extremely rewarding, and it must be said a source of endless frustration. I'm not bothered by anyones elses opinions of it. Beware of drivers who buy cars for for show - in my experience, they usually drive in a thoughtless manner. But not everyone sees cars as status symbols or expressions of personality. My father always bought cheap cars because he revels in counting beans. For him, having found a car that returns good fuel economy and running costs means he can shuffle more beans onto something else. I've always found it hilarious. He's so proud of his Prius and literally cannot understand why I fell over laughing every time he spoke of it's innate superiority over forms of motor vehicle. So if you like your little Toyota Doc, you enjoy it. There's nothing worse than being stuck with a car that doesn't please you.

Thing is Doc, the male of the species is designed by nature to want sex. Hey, I'm no different. See that attractive young woman walking by? I guarantee I'm thinking about sex in some form or other before she passes by and vanishes from my concious memory. All us chaps are like that to a greater or lesser degree. It's our compensation for closing the toilet seat on a regular basis, or helping with other household chores. It's also, I hasten to add, the result of our male domination struggle. You see, if I have more scratches on the bed post than that other guy, he's pathetic, useless, a loser. If I have more scratches on me, then I'm obviously partnered with women of a much more dangerous calibre, and thus reflects on my big game hunter psyche. At heart we're still cavemen. After all, Gene Roddenberry suggested in his Star Trek series that mankind doesn't solve its political, economic, and cultural problems until the 23rd century, and even then Captain Kirk can't help going wide eyed every time an Orion slave girl flutters her eyelids at him. So I guess if you want a moonlit evening on the holodeck with Mr Right, you're going to have to wait three or four hundred years. Starfleet turns out perfect men by the shipload. By now I've probably depressed you totally. But be honest Doc, all those failed cavemen who are trying to date are actually phoning you. That's goota mean something. My own view is that you should set up a thirteen week competition between your prospective partners. Set impossible challenges each week like doing the cooking or beating up the noisy neighbour. Only the winner will get a date, and each week, one of them will be mentally scarred for life by your withering rejection. As for me, I don't worry about it anymore. Been there, done it, so to speak. Plus as an older bloke my keyless ignition is not quite as reliable as it was. But you know, I still have fun. people are what they are, and it's only when the issue of 'ownership' comes up it all gets a bit wearisome. Personally I think you should buy a whip. Your life will be transformed

Sunday morning and the rain has eased. Some might claim that was proof God exists, but I know different, because he wouldn't have foisted BFL upon the world. There she was in the library foyer, sat waiting to find her next victim. She smiled to herself as I scowled. Luckily Mr R opopped in. He's a regular at the library too, a cheerful chatty sort of guy who seems to spend all day there playing 'fruit machine' programs. Before he gets there though, he too runs the gauntlet of BFL. Too late. She's seen him, and in a swift move she pounces, launching into a conversation with me stood nearby desperately trying to avoid shrapnel. "I've had enough" She told him in no uncertain terms. Apparently her studies are testing her patience. In true generosity, she shares the pain by testing ours. No sooner had she realised that no-one was interested in her studies (it seems the psychology part of her social sciences degree course is paying dividends) she moved on to travel. You may not know this, but BFL likes train travel. No, really she does, I heard it from the horses mouth. It makes her feel in control, she says. Pardon? Has no-one told her the front compartment is for the engine driver? Also she regards a bicycle as a lonely means of travel, and coaches are the work of the devil. At last! The bells! The town hall clock sounds half past nine and the security guard opens the door for us all to rush inside in a mad desperate attempt to escape BFL first. She always takes the elevator. Partly because she doesn't like the stairs (yes, she told us that too) but also I suspect because she gets thirty seconds of conversation with other people who can't escape. Mr R climbed the stairs beside me and asked how I was. A bit ear bashed, but okay. Case Of The Missing Eunos - Chapter 2 Never fear, Caldrail Holmes is still on the case even if the police have given up. So far I've eliminated Al Qaeda from my enquiries, and I still haven't found any evidence that UFO's abducted my car. "All he has to do is buy a Toyota" (Comment made on the street late saturday night 16-7-11) What an interesting comment. Normally I get reviews of my manhood, but what, I have to ask, is manly about Toyota's? Have you seen the local dealership? Packed full of mobility buggies in monotone colours designed to blend with the urban landscape, or perhaps the hair colour of their buyers. More to the point, why is buying a Toyota going make any more difference than other makes and models? Is that what the streetwise private detective is driving this year? Curiouser and curiouser. Have You Tried Our New Burglary? "Don't worry, we'll get in the next time he goes to town" (Comment outside the back of my home, 7:45am Sunday 17-7-11) Thanks for the heads up guys. It's nice to know that our friendly neighbourhood burglar is so publicly spirited to book an appointment. Sadly I'm going to have to cancel as I've just discovered that burglary is in fact illegal, and has been for some time. Political correctness means that we don't chop the hands off convicted thieves anymore. Nor, as science fiction script writers have predicted, do we transport criminals to an island where they can live out their lives in anarchic barbarity - though I do believe we tried that for a while some time ago. Obviously not a succesful policy for the government of the day as the criminals descendants tend to be better at cricket than us. The police don't seem interested. I guess there's not enough news headlines in it. Never mind. If they won't listen, I'll tell the whole world instead.

Wow. I'm putting that on my CV!