caldrail

Bear in mind that the Romans had lived through hundreds of years of bitter struggles for survival. At one point they had even considered giving up and starting a new city elsewhere. After the defeat of Carthage in the Second Punic War, they realised there were no more great empires to threaten them. They had, effectively, realised they were about to win that power struggle in the mediterranean. That was why they sought any excuse to finsh Carthage off once and for all, and why ambitious politicians with access to armed forces at their beck and call began to seek glory, wealth, and senatorial pats on the back, by extending Roman control at their own behest rather than the interests of the state.

I would of thought it hugely unlikely that this piece was passed down generations of a family for two thousand years. More likely it was there, buried and forgotten, and dug up by a farmer, builder, or even someone digging a protective trench in the last century.

Todays blog entry is devoted to the subject of bigness. Is it a good thing? Upsetting a guy bigger than you is always a risky venture, one of the first and most important lessons we learn as children. I remember a photograph of a protestor at a fuel refinery many years ago getting the shock of his life when the irate lorry driver he was obstructing turned out to be considerably bigger than he was. The issue of bigness is inherent to human beings. 4x4 drivers rely on it. The sheer size of their vehicles means that even if they don't mount expeditions across arctic tundra to get to work, they can still bully little cars out of the way. On one occaision I was driving my faithful red MR2 sports car and fell into line on a large roundabout as traffic got a little snarled up. I was in the left lane, coming up gradually on my exit. I had no choice but to drive slowly. On the one hand, there were cars in front, on the other, the sun was shining in my face and every other vehicle on the road a dark silhouette. Suddenly that massive 4x4 in the lane on my right decided he wanted to avoid this traffic jam, and assuming his bigness meant I could do nothing but shake fists and fume, he pulled out very abruptly in front of me. Did he signal? Probably not, but it's unlikely I would have seen it with the sun dazzling me. Maybe the risk of collision was slight but I was annoyed nonetheless. Don't get mad, get even. Once off the roundabout and driving along the road, it was impossible to overtake him with all the oncoming traffic and I decided to bide my time instead of doing something dumb. So I drove behind calmly and waited. Oh yes, my honour was impugned, and these things are very important to the male driver. However, the next roundabout was approaching. He was going across and thus took a sort of lazy cut across the left hand side. I stayed on the right, hoping tio nip past, but his big truck obstructed my path. I gave him a couple of polite toots on the horn to ask him to move over. And he did. Good chap. Now floor the accelerator and zoom past him. Success. Honour is restored (even though I did bend the Highway Code by overtaking on a road junction). Naturally he got upset and drove behind me inches from my rear bumper, determined that I should be punished for trumping his bigness. Didn't get him anywhere. My throttle pedal worked better than his did, despite his larger V8, and at the strategic moment, I left him floundering behind me. It was a bit childish, wasn't it? Oh well. Maybe women are right. I'm just a big kid. He he he.... Too Much Of A good Thing Can you have too much bigness? Apparently so. Being big was great for the dinosaurs when it meant carnivores couldn't touch you. Sadly, as most of us are aware, it also means you run up a huge grazing bill, and when meterorites hit the earth and cause catastrophic damage and climate change, food is hard to come by. Or what about Mubarak, standing down as Egypts leader? Who was biggest? The ruler of a nation for three decades or a crowd of people who wanted him removed? Or what about Saddam Hussein, whose bigness on the world stage helped him not one jot. Then there's those people whose size and weight reduces them to a parody of Jabba The Hutt. If you get too big for your boots, you could argue you only have yourself to blame. And Now, A Real Biggie Normally I don't discuss trains on this blog, but today I'm going to make an exception. I found a 3D model of a Russian tanker wagon on the internet and it seriously is a humungous piece of ironwork. Apparently these things are trundling back and forth across the former Soviet Union... Model and textures by Roman Vlasyuk.

How do I describe today? Believe it or not, I'm finding that difficult. Okay, it's Friday, so thank God for that (or not, depending on religious beliefs or recent events in your life), but that doesn't do justice to the sort of wishy-washy lazy don't know what I want to be kind of day. I mean, it's cloudy, right? Soft focus grey blankets of cloud obscure the sky, but it isn't raining, and far from it, because I see the sun shining. How is that possible? How is this Friday able to destroy my fondly held preconceptions of what weather is supposed to be like? We Apologise We have decided that the doubt no longer applies What the Department of Work & Pensions mean by that statement is that they were wrong to accuse me of not accepting an opportunity to return to the workplace, they're very sorry, and here's a tiny pay rise for your trouble. Makes you feel good to be alive, doesn't it? Others Share My Mood On the way down to the library I have to negotiate a crossing on a busy road junction. The crossing is in two halves to avoid traffic moving in two different directions. Not such a hazard you might think, with modern technological wonders like traffic lights, but then I know from experience that drivers sometimes do odd unexpected things on that junction. Like today. A young lady waited for the lights to change. When the signal showed a green pedestrian, she set out across the road, head buried in the all important mobile phone. An approaching 4x4 either didn't see the lights change or wanted to chance a bit of 'amber gambling', a very British pastime. It slammed on the brakes when the lady stepped forward. She carried on unaware of the danger she was in. Meanwhile, the cars windscreen bulged around the drivers nose. See what I mean about today? Okay, Maybe You Don't I'll try again. Earlier today I had to pop down to the supermarket. The woman in front of me at the till had deposited a mountain of provisions for her army of little hoodlums on the black rubber conveyor, and quite forgot that half of it was stacked on the brushed aluminium casing that housed it. Eventually she realised I wasn't quite as gallant as some women believe us chivalrous types like to be. With a very false sounding suprise, she made an apology and swept everything on with a sweep of her arm. No, I'm not helping her pack either, however much she struggles with the practicality of it. Come on, lady, the bag opens the other end. No, it's all right, she's found it. Shall I try Again? Nah. It's the afternoon, I'm pooped after a long day on job searching and three hours of voluntary work at the museum (It's a tough day spent avoiding skeletal T-Rex's). If you haven't gathered what a lazy day this Friday is, I can't be bothered to explain.

Everything after I fall into a chair and refuse to get up again is the afternoon for me.

Please don't go there. I got dismissed from a job once because I turned down an offer of a BMW saloon. That was very visible as it happens, a sort of bright cross-spectrum red normally used to bait bulls with (that's a joke - see if you can get it)

Cavalry travelled by ship if they needed to. As for this mask, it didn't need a Roman present in Gotland. it could have been booty, traded northward.

Apparently it reads something like this... Roman cavalry mask has been submitted Published: Saturday 05 February at 07:27, Share The County Board has received one of Gotland unique archaeological finds. It is a mask used by the officers in the Roman Empire cavalry. Unique Roman face masks found on Gotland The County Board has received a very unique archaeological finds. It is an ancient Roman mask used by the officers in the Roman cavalry, presented by a man. The mask was used between the first and third centuries AD. Marie-Louise Hellqvist the County Administrative Board says she's never seen anything like it on the island. Reporter Gunnel Wallin / Sveriges Radio Gotland Marie-Louise Hellqvist the County Administrative Board says she's never seen anything like it on the island. According to experts, the mask was used during the first centuries after Christ. The man that made the (... discovery of?...) bronze mask have inherited it and thought it was better that a museum had to take care of it. National Heritage Board and the Museum in Stockholm has now commissioned an expert look at the mask, which confirmed that it is around 2000 years old. County Administration hopes that the mask will be exhibited at the Museum of Gotland.

1.) What was the role of a slave in ancient Rome? What rights did they have? The role of a slave was to perform as required by the owner. It really was that simple. The value of a slave wasn't just measured by a price tag alone. Some slaves had expert skills, others were trusted servants. Some slaves might be set up in business for their owners profit, and probably with a view to manumission later. On the other hand, an unlucky slave was condemned to hard labour or worse. A man could sleep with a female slave as he wished, but women were not supposed to do so with male slaves, even though it's obvious they did from time to time. There were harsh penalties imposed for treachery. Should a slave kill his master, it was expected that all the slaves of that household would be executed, a policy designed to inhibit conspiracies. Also, even if you were freed by your master, you were stained by having been a slave, and could never seek public office again. Since they were not citizens nor even human, slaves were not allowed to marry. Some owners allowed them to cohabit and any children were the masters property, rather like breeding animals. Strictly speaking, slaves had no rights. They were, by definition, not human beings. In fact, they were sometimes referred to as 'Talking Tools'. However, the maltreatment of slaves became a humanitarian issue as the Principate arrived, and bit by bit, the worst excesses of owners were curbed by law, such as the selling of slaves to a ludum, or the dumping of sick slaves to die. In effect, the slaves were protected not by giving them rights (you didn't want slaves quoting rules), but by denying them to their owners. It should be pointed out that slavery was not always foisted upon the individual. In some cases, a person volunteered for slavery to avoid debt, or even improve their career prospects if they had suitable skills, experience, and could find the right owner. One of Claudius's administrators did exactly that. There's a lot more to this subject, but that's just my two cents for now. 2.) What percentage of the population in Rome were slaves? Nobody actually knows, because there's no accurate survivng census. However, information that has been recovered suggests that many homes, even some of the poorer ones, had one or two slaves. Only a minority of wealthy owners had hundreds of slaves to call upon. PS - I've just remembered an oddity of Roman law. A slave could not own property because anything of his belonged to his master, but I note there was nothing in law to prevent a slave from owning another slave.

No, not yet, I still don't drive an Aston Martin and so far John Cleese hasn't popped out of the floor to demonstrate an invisible BMW.

Another day, another visit to the doctor. It was an early start on a damp and dismal day in rainy old Swindon, the traffic thrashing around in a sort of 'late for work' way. When the doctor called for me he asked "What can I do for you today?" It was tempting to reply that I didn't know. Hey, I was asked to book this appointment. Come on Doctor, get your act together. Not that it would have made any difference. Apparently I'm going to be turned into a cyborg for 24 hours shortly. No, really. They're going to fit me with some sort of monitor. I wonder what it does? Alert the Police if I go outdoors? Check for body odour and bad fashion? Whether I'm breaking the speed limit? Or have they finally cottoned on that I might be from another planet? Keeping It Real Repent Sinners, and delete thy Confession app from thine iPod! The Pope says it isn't a genuine substitute for a real confession. I agree completely, but then, real confessions aren't exactly credible, are they? Come on, Mr Pope, who are you trying to kid? Send them a text telling sinners to type out twelve Hail Mary's. Advert of the Week Goes to Lloyds TSB. You have to laugh. Apparently if you overdraw your account you get until closing time the same day to sort it out. Or what? Are they going to send the boys round? I'll know I'm in trouble when Michael Caine turns up at the door. Another Quote From The Caldrail Archives I'm a morning person. Afternoons are there for me to recover from doing things

Looking out the window this morning I see a vista of clear blue sky. After yesterdays squalls and blustery winds it's a welcome change. Years ago, on a day like this, I would phone the flying club and ask if there was an available aeroplane. There is? Brilliant, I'll be there in an hour. There wasn't much to it. I arrive, park up, and pop by the control tower to check for weather information. Oh yes. You never take british weather for granted. It's suprised me more than once. Also there was the endless notices to airmen, photocopied lists of do's and don'ts which might apply to flights in my area. Thruxton was unusual in that they bothered to map out the directives on the wall, so that you didn't have read through page after page of dull government agency text. Only the relevant ones for my flight were of any interest. That done, it was down to the office to sign out my reserved aeroplane. Stroll across the race track (I only had to dash across to avoid a racing car once), and toward the gate to the infield. On one occaision a kit car was parked out there and I gave it a casual perusal as I past by. The owner was not a tolerant man. I heard a very loud and abrupt "HEY!" to warn me that proximity to his beloved creation was going to end in something very inconvenient. I was only looking. Good grief, if you drive an unusual car, surely you expect a certain amount of interest from passers-by? Still, I don't blame him for being protective. Now I cross the grass apron amongst the ranks of stationary aircraft. Most are club aeroplanes, small two seater american trainers, such as the Piper Tomahawk I'd booked. To be honest, whilst they flew well enough and were the cheapest available, they were quite dull machines. I much preferred the rare Beagle Pup when I got the chance. Now that was a suprisingly spirited aeroplane, a definite favourite of mine. On that day I hadn't the choice. Approaching the aeroplane on a warm day provides a sense of anticipation. There's a host of things you need to see to before you take off, so I set about stowing my bag, doing a walk-around to check the aircraft exterior for function and condition, then at last climb in and set about my pre-flight checks. The heat! If you've never sat in an idle light aircraft in the sun, my advice is don't unless you have to. Those large curves of plexiglass trap all the sunshine and boy oh boy is it warm in there! I always used to ask my passenger to hold a door open when I was taxiing, to get some propellor draft into the cockpit. But today I'm flying alone. So I have to put up with it. Well, everything seems to be working, and I have enough fuel for my intended hour of local flying, aimlessly enjoying the that sincere pleasure of being up there. Starting the engine is a bit of an art. Some engines fire up eagerly, others are sullenly stubborn, and all require a little coaxing with a number of levers and plungers designed in the 1920's. Usually there was no problem. With a loud shout to warn anyone lurking near the propellor out of sight, the engine fires up and the twin blades vanish into a circular blur. Aircraft are noisty little things. Just as well my headphones ward off the worst of it. Without them, you end up battered by the insistent roar. The normal routine is to radio the tower and inform them of my intentions. They pretty well know what I'm up to, and the clipped reply sounds very bored of the same old information. A little odd that. There's no-one else out here. I have the field to myself. A few years ago this field was buzzing and communication a frantic experience. Now we're all getting a bit lazy as the economy, regulations, and other reasons witherdown the activity I expect at Thruxton. With the brakes off the Tomahawk accelerates readily. Turn using the rudder, avoid fast taxying despite the impatience of an intruder to my little world, a larger Robin four seater, whose brash pilot clearly has better things to do than wait politely for me to trundle out, and I make my way to the far side of the field and the appropriate end of the runway. My rival asks for permission to turn off the taxiway and rush down the runway to take off first. To be honest, everyone, including me, are keen to let him. There's a sense in flying that rushing around is bad for you. It probably is, but he roars away and leaves me to bumble along the grass in peace. At the runway end, time for those last vital checks. Satisified everything is working the way aeronautical science demands, I radio the tower again and announce my departure. To be honest, although the tower is termed an 'advice service' only, he's in charge when it comes to traffic around the field. Not only politeness, it's good practice. But there's no problem, no-one around to obstruct my take-off, and he lets me go. Turning on the runway is always an odd experience. So much wider than you expect. Thruxton is an olsd WW2 airfield, where P47's and glider tugs operated from in support of D-Day, but the runway is in fact only a portion of what it used to be. The other end is now the concrete part of the apron by the tower. Line up on the centreline. A quick mental check that everything is in order. That runway disappears into the distance, but trust me, it's not as long as it looks. I confess, this is the moment I feel the thrill. Push the throttle lever forward, all the way, and that rumble you'd gotten used to this last ten minutes erupts into an angry bellow as you sense that propellor turning ever faster. Quickly the Tomahawk gains speed. They don't take off as readily as Cessna's, so a little back pressure on the yoke is called for, and in any case, it's good practice to keep the weight off that nosewheel. The aeroplane wants to veer. The rudder feels sensitive and keeping the aeroplane straight is occupying my attention. You can feel a relentless increase in speed. At the same time it feels impressively rapid yet agonisingly slow. A new sensation appears. The aeroplane is wallowing just a little, feeling lighter, and the pit of your stomach registers that first hesitant rise as the wheels begin to lose their grip on the runway. We're flying! With the speed increasing more rapidly, ease back the yoke, adopt the climb attitude, and away she goes. The ground is falling away.I would enjoy this a lot more if I didn't have to stay alert for the possibility of engine problems. The take-off is the most safety-critical part of the flight. Despite my wariness, there's no problem, and the little plane gains height above southern England lazily, not coping so easily with the thinner warm air outside. The draughty cockpit feels cooler, comfortable, and now I must deal with the protocol of flying near the ground within an airfield's territory, trimming and raising flaps, looking about for other aeroplanes, keeping to the circuit, and announcing my departure from the area. Strictly speaking, I should change radio frequencies and tell someone else what I'm up to. The miltary airfield down the road for instance, who control the airspace around Thruxton. Truth is I don't want to. Although the air is a little hazy, perhaps a little bumpy as I fly through thermals, it just feels great to be up here alone for a while at the controls of this obedient little machine. Oh yes. That was why I flew. More On How It Was There's a book at the library which I've leafed through this morning. Probably the reason why I'm waxing lyrical about flying. It's a collection of reminiscenses of World War One veterans, flyers with the RFC and RNAS. Now of course they were flying in wartime, in aeroplames made of very combustible material, without parachutes, in aeroplanes that were barely more capable than the first to fly ever. You know what? For all the danger, I notice that they all enjoyed it too.

I like the creative end of computer use. Graphics, 3D modelling, and to be honest, I'm a comnplete ferro-equinologist as well as a keen hiker when I get the time to head for the hills. Now that flying for real is beyond my finances (ever so slightly) I do a lot of sim-flying. Not the same, not even close, but what else can I do? Sadly no more Star Trek. It's off the television for the first time in twenty years and now I'm left no excuse but to fill my hours plotting to impose my new solo album on the unsuspecting public.

At last I can sit down and relax. This morning began as the day continued, fighting the good fight and righting wrongs, mostly those concerned with letters arriving a month or two late. Although I expected no end of hassle, for once the public were less bloody minded and some even smiled cheerily as they dealt with my catalogue of problems. Maybe it's the warmth of the library, the top public floor with computers in every corner, but I'm feeling a little drowsy. As usually happens in the afternoon I had to wait an hour for an available slot and sat there reading science magazines, I was nodding off a few times. Another One Bites The Dust I suppose it's inevitable, but the legion of music performers from the era of popular music beginning in the 60's are getting older, and they're starting to disappear, one by one. I hear today that Gary Moore has bitten the dust. That saddens me of course, not just because he will never perform live again, but also as symbolic of this attrition that will surely increase as times go by. Are the younger musical celebs going to induce this kind of nostalgic regret for their passing? Not from me. Most of them I haven't heard of, and most of what they did isn't anywhere near as ground-breaking as the old rockers used to be. When you think about it, what a fantastic period for music we've been living through. Stamping Out The Music At the other end of the scale, I see the police might be given powers to confiscate iPods of troublesome youths. That has my full backing. teach kids the basics again. Reading, Writing, 'Rithmetic, and Rock music. Hey, I never had my iPod confiscated by the police. You might argue that's partly because they weren't invented when I was young, and that being a complete techno-luddite, I still don't own one. Then again, maybe that's because I still prefer music performed the way it should be. In The News As I stroll down the hill every morning to go about my lawful and non-iPod business, I pass by a newsagent on the corner. They have newspapers laid out along the bottom shelf in such a way that I can give the headlines a quick survey. There's one tabloid that has, for the last two months, put nothing else on their front page than the thrills and spills of Jordan's turbulent private life. Maybe they ought to call it the Jordan Times. Or maybe News of the Jordan? Whatever. So far the news in that paper is so interesting that I haven't bought a copy. Why would I bother? The headline tells you everything you need to know, and probably more than that. Who is she, anyway? Anybody know? I guess I'll soon discover which newspapers people are reading right now.

On the contrary. For instance, christianity has always used the concept that an imminent end-of-things is possible within the current lifespan. Some sects accentuate that aspect of theior belief more than others, but it's there, enshrined in their texts. For the Romans, the idea that they were succesful and powerful mitigated against any doubts concerning survival. After the defeat of Carthage and their removal from the power struggle, what did the Romans have to fear? The victory in the Punic Wars really did mark a watershed in Roman self-esteem. That usual quote of "The gods have given Rome an empire without frontiers, or without end" really does sum up that attitude. Size matters. Aside from the occaisional internal problem, there was a sense among Romans that they weren't likely to be touched by catastrophe, and in any case, the Romans usually regarded such things as acts of the gods and inherently exceptional.

I think we need to be careful about judging living standards because their prices aren't necessarily equivalent to ours, and in any case, the average common labourer lived in circumstances that the modern day authorities would regard with horror, irrespective of what they could afford. I don't actually believe most of them were all that well off at all. Rents were always high, lodging often jerry-built and rat-infested, with no running water, toilet, or cooking facilities. Since we don't have enough detail about their lifestyles, it's hard to judge accurately to what extent we could define them as comfortable. Also, there must have been a lot of variation. Some individuals have a talent for making money, others don't. In any case, we do know that large numbers were inceasingly drawn toward volunteering for the arena. It wasn't just the potential fame that persuaded them.

That's it. I've had enough. After a few years of not writing any computer programs at all, I've discovered how much I've forgotten. There's a command phrase I need and I can't remember what it is. It's a strange irony that help files are no help whasoever when you don't know what you're looking for. After spending a fruitless hour in a quest for digital enlightenment, I decide that I've had enough. Switch the darn thing off and get something to eat before I starve. So I stomp despondently into the kitchen and start a quest among the shelves for culinary enlightenment, only to discover I've been a little negligent about buying food. Starvation looks like a distinct possibility. On the other hand, I still have a few quid in my pocket, an increasingly rare event these days. As it happens I nearly had more. A day or two before I bought a burger down the road and ended up totally confused by the vendors inability with english and his insistence that I still owed him money when I thought he owed me some. All a little bit embarrasing but it seems I was at fault, although it absent-mindedness rather than . At least I wasn't arrested or chased up the hill with a machete. However, I had just enough for an indian takeaway. Not an expensive one of course, but it's still possible to buy a reasonably priced curry if you use cash. So having made my decision I turned from the kitchen, stomped despondently down the stairs and.... Huh?... Is that a bunch of letters in my postbox? Yes, it is. A darn great pile of them. All of them weeks overdue and one postmarked 30th November. Apparently I'm in danger of losing my benefits if I don't reply to a letter sent a month ago. My credit card has been stopped for no logical reason whatsoever. I was even offered a job interview by an employer and I was blissfully unaware. You know, the sort of thing that you laugh at when it happens to someone else. Something tells me I might receive a threat from the Job Centre to stop my benefits if I don't reply to a letter arriving two months late. Question is, who's guilty of late delivery? My Indian Takeaway Hmmm... Yeah... Tastes good.... (belch)... Wonder if I remembered to buy some toilet paper? This could get even more embarrasing... Health Update Some letters manage to get through. Having bravely allowed a nurse to stab me, my blood has been tested and I'm told not to worry. But please turn up again at a later date and get stabbed again. Brilliant. Im entrusting my health to a colony of vampires.

No, they didn't, and quite the reverse. The Romans began to believe they had a divine purpose in dominating the world before the reign of augustus. However, Polybius did discuss this sort of political aging back in 150BC and he does say that all empires fall by the wayside eventually. He describes the evolution of a society which compares very favourably with modern political science. Although Polybius comes across as a more enlightened commentator in that respect, even he believed that Rome was destined for great things in the future (which in a sense it was)

True, and in my area, the course of a Roman road heading from Durocornovium to Cunetio (Swindon to Marlborough) is clearly visible not only in the road that follows the same path, but the minor road that continues the course over the ridge just north of the Kennet Valley, which can be seen from a long way off.

I've done it! I've made to the end of the week! Doesn't sound like a particularly brilliant achievement, but with my bedroom temperatures reduced almost to Ice Age conditions, I was starting to worry about becoming extinct. After all, the neanderthals, who were better adpated to the cold than we are, failed miserably to survive their frigid bedrooms at all. Talking about them, there a new theory why they died off. I've always put it down to old age and poor sex education, but apparently my theories are wildly incorrect, as the equally incorrect theories mention causes as diverse as disease, lack of social skills, arid/frozen conditions during a glaciation, and the nastiness of Homo Sapiens. So basically the neanderthals died out through lack of party invites. I know how they feel.. Erm... Felt. Now the theory has emerged that neanderthals couldn't run very fast, having shorter legs and less capable ankles. That might explain the insignificant sales of sportswear in that period. Hey, I do my homework. Slightly Windy It's howling a gale out there. hardened sea dogs will no doubt scoff and tell me it's a mere breeze, but blustery it most certainly is. With the wind is a sort of fine spray of rain, leaving the pedestrian refreshed after a hard slog up the pavement facing the oncoming gusts without dampening their spirits. Good, bracing Swindon weather. Wish you were here. Global Rollercoaster With the debate and lecturing about Global Warming, I notice a sudden blossoming of television programs exploring climate change and in particular, expanding our understanding of changes throughout human prehistory. it seems that occaisionally we suffer 'Heinrich Events', the last of which caused a drop in average temperature of ten degrees in as many years. And it swung the other way when the ice receded. And we're worried about an average 1 degree rise? We still have another two to go.

Yeah... Funny that...

Life is full of coincidences. last night, whilst busy working on some computer stuff, I brought up the television on one side of the screen. To my horror, Channel One is no longer broadcasting. Oh no! Life without Star Trek? Repeats of the various series have been shown by Channel One and its previous owner, Virgin, for two decades almost continuously. The world will never be the same. So what else is there? I flicked through the various channels and eventually gave up, dropping the remote onto the desk, shaking my head, and leaving the screen showing Grand Designs, in whci a couple optimistically set about creating their own dream boat-house from scrap material. As a rule, the program doesn't interest me. Somehow the people who build their dream house find money out of thin air, are multi-tasking geniuses, and always arrive at the end with a happy smile. not these two. Slowly but surely my attention was drawn to their inept efforts at boat reconstruction, not to mention planning and permissions. They ended up with nowhere to moor their creation, no-one to finish it, and as far as I could tell, no home at all. Imagine my suprise as the very same boat-house cropped up in the internet news today, having slipped its moorings in a vandalised state. What a small world. Sleepless In Swindon After a long absence the urban foxes are back. Last night I woken by one distressed fox screeching its little furry nuts off. If you've never heard urban foxes, let me tell you the sound they make is unbelievable, straight out of a horror film, piercing the stillness of the night. On the other hand, if a fox is at large and making noise, that means there's no car thief trying to figure out why my car won't work. So there you have it. If you want your kept safe, keep urban foxes in the area. As soon as it goes quiet and you fall asleep, you know your car is either being stolen or vandalised. The perfect car alarm. More On Crime For those of you trying to catch up with lost sleep, the Home Office have recently unleashed a new website that details reports of crime around Britain. From that you can see whcih streets are risky. The data got into the local paper this morning as the headline warns us that "Swindon road is the dodgiest in the county". For a moment I took that to mean Swindon Road, just around the corner. That would explain a few things. Sadly that was wrong, and the guilty streets are elsewhere, though in one or two cases, not that far away. The police have told us that the information is not an accurate reflection of the reality concerning crime. Pardon? Politicians not giving out correct statistics? Whatever next? Why Do They Do It? Why oh why do women lean forward to talk to us blokes at every opportunity? My eyes are immediately drawn to the usually obscured display of their cleavage and that does very strange things to my anatomy, such as causing me to contort my face into a silly grin. I think she was telling me something very important. I have no idea what it was. My mind was... Well... Preoccupied. Just keep on talking, dear. That's right. I wonder what it was I just agreed to? Oh never mind, I'm sure it will work out okay.

In my childhood there was an annual pilgrimage to Northumbria, where one side of my family originates from. Inevitably that meant a visit to Cullercotes and Whitley Bay. Any excuse to get down to the seaside. it's a very british obsession. One year we stumbled across a puppet show performed in the traditional fashion by a couple of guys in a claustrophic box stood on the sand. Funny thing was, I found myself wrapped up in the antics of the puppet characters. He's behind you! Why doesn't he listen? By chance I came across a documentary on Russia Today concerning the dramatic arts now allowed among prisoners of a Russian prison. It looked very starnge with a hall full of shaven haired convicts staring at the antics of puppets performed by fellow inmates. Well, it keeps them off the streets, doesn't it? I note every thief and murderer simply sat there transfixed, no matter how childish this entertainment might seem to our jaded western sensibilities. One suspects the alternative is to step this way and return to the cells. The amusing bit was a pair of women convicts. One a murderess, the other a robber, playing male and female characters in Romeo & Juliet (in Russian, of course. Even they wouldn't be able to understand the tudor english of William Shakespeare). To them, there was nothing odd, since gender segregation meant they had little choice to play all the male parts among themselves, but did I spot an attempt by the journalist to suggest the merest possibility of a hint of a suspicion of a possibility that there might, just possibly, be a subtle overtone of... No, surely not... Yes, lesbianism? The prisoners kept a straight face and did not stress the point. More Puppets At Play Punch & Judy shows throughout the evening, every evening. Hear them squabble. Fun for all the family. Or not, if you're trying to get some sleep while its going on. Oh, and we seem to have a nocturnal woodpecker in the neighbourhood. All part of life in the rainforests of Darkest Wiltshire. DIY Doctor of the Week This prestigious accolade goes to me. As part of my diagnosis for whatever ailment is causing me grief, I've been asked to monitor my blood pressure daily with a borrowed gizmo that tries to squeeze my arm off. There must be a trick to this, because it refuses utterly to return anything remotely reasonable. Now I know why I have an unquenchable love of fast cars. Apparently I have the heart of a racing pidgeon. Oh such fun...

Television makers do like stressing the importance of the event they are describing. It makes for good television. Personally I haven't anything to add, given I've never heard of the battle before (I wonder if that's a clue to the significance?... Maybe, maybe not), but my first impression is to question why the documentary believes this battle to be so important. My good friend Professor Wikipedia has this to say about significance... Plataea and Mycale have great significance in Ancient history as the battles which decisively ended the second Persian invasion of Greece, thereby swinging the balance of the Greco-Persian Wars in favour of the Greeks.[87] The Battle of Marathon showed that the Persians could be defeated, and the Battle of Salamis saved Greece from immediate conquest, but it was Plataea and Mycale which effectively ended that threat.[87] However, neither of these battles is nearly as well-known as Thermopylae, Salamis or Marathon.[88] The reason for this discrepancy is not entirely clear; it might however be a result of the circumstances in which the battle was fought. The fame of Thermopylae certainly lies in the doomed heroism of the Greeks in the face of overwhelming numbers;[89] and Marathon and Salamis perhaps because they were both fought against the odds, and in dire strategic situations. Conversely, the Battles of Plataea and Mycale were both fought from a relative position of Greek strength, and against lesser odds; the Greeks in fact sought out battle on both occasions.[23][87] Militarily, the major lesson of both Plataea and Mycale (since both were fought on land) was to re-emphasise the superiority of the hoplite over the more-lightly armed Persian infantry, as had first been demonstrated at Marathon.[84] Taking on this lesson, after the Greco-Persian Wars the Persian empire started recruiting and relying on Greek mercenaries.[90] One such mercenary expedition, the "Anabasis of the 10,000" as narrated by Xenophon, further proved to the Greeks that the Persians were militarily vulnerable even well within their own territory, and paved the way for the destruction of the Persian Empire by Alexander the Great some decades later. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Battle_of_Plataea

Today I got stabbed. The nurse pulled a huge metal needle from her bag of tricks and annoucned she was going to. I know the needle is actually a tiny little prod, but looking at the end of it wavering close by, it looks like one end of the Channel Tunnel. And she's going to push that into my arm? Yes, she is. The happy ending is that I've survived my close encounter with the medical profession. It's interesting that the subject of health care is a big issue in Britain (again) as our coalition government tackle reform in the NHS. They say they want a fitter, leaner, more efficient NHS. So has every politician seeking votes over the last five decades. Okay, I know we all see horror stories about anti-social behaviour in hospitals and the mistakes, if not outright evil deeds, that a minority of medical staff commit, but my own experience is that the profession does a pretty good job overall. Having said that, my experience is limited, because I don't fuss and demand treatment or bleat on about rights. A few aches and pains are just part of life as far as I'm concerned, and it's only recently I've decided my condition warrants a closer look at. So does the doctor apparently, since I now have to book a hospital appointment. Unfortunately the old crumbling hospital was closed years ago, and a new one built on the edge of the known universe, five or six miles away in the countryside. Maybe I'm being fussy, but was that really an efficient place to build a hospital? Cats In The Wilds OF England For most of my life I've seen occaisional reports of big cats living wild in England. Someone spots the shy animal and it gets into the papers. Usually the culprits were reckoned to be owners of exotic pets, who released their animals into the wild either because dangerous animal legislation in recent years made them illegal, or because they just couldn't afford the food bill. That's not actually right. Usually the culprit was an excess of alcohol and poor perceptual skills, so like UFO's and other wierd phenomena, it all gets written off as a hoax. Not any more. At long last a former policeman has spotted one. I mean, policemen are never wrong, are they? Personally, as much as I admire big cats and their ability in television adverts to make us buy a staid ordinary car, I have no desire to bump into one on one my hikes into the countryside. Luckily the big cats seem equally intent on avoiding me.