caldrail

It happens today. it's inescapable. And it will cause suffering and hardship. That's the message I've been seeing and hearing in our media. It's a womnder there's no-one wandering back and forth the local high street with a placard saying "The end is nigh". I am of course referring to the imminent assault upon british shores of another arctic blast. It's now late morning and if I were honest, there's little sign of our impending doom. The sky is sombre with dark grey clouds under a lighter grey blanket, and if I were honest, yes it does feel wintery. So far though the temperature is not entirely uncomfortable. Chilly, certainly, but I didn't need gloves today. Maybe I might tomorrow? After all, the weather people have been warning us. The arctic apocalypse is coming, people, and we warned you sinners not to get used to balmy indian summers! Cutting To The Chase I see in the news that two policemen were stabbed in a London street yesterday. That is shocking news. Okay, maybe the police aren't very high on my christmas card list at the moment, but I don't want to see anyone hurt in this manner, and the fact that some idiot lashed out at our law enforcement in that way is depressing, even though such things aren't entirely unknown. It's just that it thankfully happens so infrequently and we tend to forget the episodes of previous decades that the media once related at every step in the media. Compared to an event I saw yesterday it makes the news of this attack is in a real sense very shocking. leaving the Job Centre I saw two police cars parked by the side of the busy dual carriageway, the constables crowding around a young man who was persuaded in no uncertain terms to get in to the car. I suppose in most cases that's how it is. Faced with stern and numerous opposition, the irresponsible youth realises he can't do anything but obey and suffer the consequences of his actions. As it should be. At the end of the day, our shock at the latest outburst of violence reveals, quite literally, how safe our streets usually are. And that's a cause for congratulation for those that enforce it. Trouble is, having said that, there's bound to be a politican seeking to take credit for this state of affairs, or enforcers seeking more authority to extend their 'rule of law', and all the other ambitions and vagaries of human nature. All I want is the perpetrator of my rusting car's demise sent behind bars. Oh well. Something to add to the list I'm sending Santa Claus. Weather Update Yes, it's confirmed. In the last ten minutes a darker, more threatening cloud has drifted into view. It's our own fault of course. They've been telling everyone to use less petrol for decades. Well now I don't use any at all. Can I be excused this wintery blast, please?

It is a fascinating thought. Were they just like us? It makes the Romans seem more familiar. We even share some of their customs, such as the various marriage rituals passed down via the christian church. Exchanging rings, carrying your bride across the threshold, and other such behaviour are essentially pagan Roman. However, be careful, because human beings have a natural tendency to anthropomorphise. We see ourselves in everything, be it cars or cartoon characters, and the primitive side of our psychology is designed that way a part of our recognition expertise. However, this very same tendency results in our desire to look and behave the same way as our colleagues, which is normal group behaviour, and thus we invent fashion and peer pressure. In fact, if you want a prime example, check out the wikipedia section on legion organisation. It's hilarious. Whilst the information is basically factual, the interpretation is interesting because they're describing a modern army. A lot of people want the Romans to have a modern style army so they see it that way. They see rows of identical shields and perfect parade ground order even when we know those things were not practicalible, or when archaeological evidence points toward variation we didn't expect. I'm not dismissing the fact that the Romans are our ancestors, and thus the same species with the same instincts and tendencies. I'm reminded of a wall painting at Pompeii in which two men argue angrily over whether one had cheated at gambling, and the landlord demands they take it outside. We recognise that situation immediately. We understand the confrontation implicitly. Therefore we assume everything else about it. If you think about it, there are plenty of details we don't know. What social class were the two gamblers? What game did they play? Was this a random game played between friends (former friends?), or part of a social event deliberately staged? Or was that painting merely instructions on the wall that such behaviour was not to be tolerated among customers of that establishment? The historian Mary Beard recently appeared on a BBC documentary about Pompeii and came to the conclusion that Romans were no more interested in sex than we are. Despite this popular image of decadent sexual orgies the imagery we see at Pompeii conveys a different message than we first assume. A changing room uses pornographic imagery to allow customers at a bathhouse to remember where they put their clothes. Romans found it titillating to daub art of a sexual nature on their walls. It was almost a manly thing. By displaying such imagery, you reinforced the the idea of Roman virility upon your visitors. It's almost like having a porno mag on your coffee table at home. Look how virile this person is. Yes, you can find associations and similarities that are familiar to us. But never forget they lived two thousand years ago in a different world. They had a different outlook on life, macho, chauvanist, and greedy. They had little or no concerns about the enviroment other than how it affected their profit. They had deep superstitions and strong peer pressures. They accepted violence in their society far more than we do, they accepted that soldiers would be badly behaved, corrupt, and larcenous, although they did try to curb the excesses. Yes, I agree, the Romans were as human as us and the discovery of something familiar is a treat. But never assume you're right about it. Always look further into it, because the reality isn't always the same as ours and we tend to forget that in the rush of recognition. At least that's my two cents anyhow.

After nearly half a century I've come to the conclusion that Wednesday is the worse day of the week. You're still traumatised by Monday, bored by Tuesday, payday is tomorrow, and you can't spend it until Friday. Last weekend is now a fleeting memory and the next one is too far away. As if being a cold, grey, and damp morning to start with was not enough, I forgot the Job Centre is closed for an hour for staff meetings when I should be signing on. Once again I burst through the doors bleary eyed to realise I'm facing a sign that politely informs me that I'm too early. Given how chilly it was outside, I decided to wait in the foyer for an hour. Upstairs, once Security had announced that we were allowed to go about our official business, I sat down and waited for another hour while other dole seekers got all the attention. Have I been sent to coventry? Is this some machivellian plot to put me in my place after my robust defence of my title yesterday? Apparently not. It was simply another symptom of Wednesday. The reason I'm bleary eyed is of course the nocturnal activities of youths who rather like my white Eunos convertible and decide driving it around a bit would be a jolly wheeze. Now obviously the young man was too polite to disturb my slumber at that early hour, and so ventured to take the vehicle quietly. Unfortunately, Wednesday morning affected him too, because he wasn't able to fulfill his driving fantasies. "I told you you weren't going to be able to drive it." Said his mate (the reason I woke and realised they were there) who had enough of a brain to realise that a hood ripped in two places and covered in black tape that wafts gently in the breeze, not to mention a gaping hole where a drivers side window once was, or the mind control unit that replaces the missing steering wheel, means that the car is not available for theft. A true veteran of Wednesdays, obviously. A part of me wants to be positive about Wednesday. After the low point of the wekk, surely things can only get better? Never mind we're due another arctic blast from the north tomorrow, because that's tomorrow and we can't blame Wednesday for that. Well we shall see. After all it's just turned mid-day, so who knows? Maybe if I speak nicely to it Wednesday will go away. Quote of the Week "You're not your usual self today" Observed my claims advisor this morning. Yes, you're probably right, but then it is Wednesday... Ooops. That's blown it...

Religion is never seperated from politics. Regardless of anything said about spiritual and social welfare, the reality is that if religion is organised, it exists to organise people who worship that faith. It provides a means of assuring conformity and obedience on whatever scale the religion is capable of. That said, some religions are worse than others, and it's no coincidence that christianity is so authoritarian in structure - because the relatively rambuctuous judaeans needed stern handling and the Roman empire that adopted and defined christianity cast it's methodology upon it. The greek angle on the story of Mary is interesting as I've not come across that before, but if nothing else, it points to the Roman interpretation of judaean faith via the acceptance of greek culture into their own. Fascinating stuff.

"Why did you change your title to Lord?" Demanded my claims advisor. That came as no suprise to me. In fact, the only suprise is that it took a year to reach the point of confrontation over it. But then, I suppose it was only a matter of time. One of the frustrating aspects of human behaviour is the need to establish status. Some people are motivated by it unconciously to an incredible degree. For instance, on a recent job application I signed the letter as 'Lord Caldrail' as I'm entitled to do. The man responded by calling himself 'Capt. Smith, Msc'. Now I'm assuming he's being honest rather than mischievous, but if that's the case, it's clearly a boss whose own sense of superiority is threatened by someone elses title. I can imagine a serious dressing down at the first excuse for no other reason than to enforce his own pecking order. It's just so unnecessary. So I asked my claims advisor if we could get on with the signing. He refused, and clearly wanted to get to the bottom of this anomaly in his perfect ordered world. I suspect that a certain Captain has been pulling strings. How To Avoid Hangovers The latest guide to spiritual and physical wellbeing on the internet is a handy guide to avoiding hangovers. The article lists all manner of advice from checking labels to preparing yourself psychologically for the coming festivities. I fall off my chair laughing. If you want to avoid hangovers, don't drink. How simple does advice have to be? How To Avoid Busibodies There's a lady of mature age who's become a regular at the library. On the one hand, she's sociable, starting conversations with all and sundry. If only she wasn't so annoying. It's all about her, isn't it? Having discovered everything about her opinions, lifestyle, likes and dislikes, I can honestly say I want to avoid her if possible, if only to prevent a prosecution for violence. According to my logic of avoiding hangiovers, the easiest path is to simply not go to the library. But that's like being a teetotaller. You can feel smug about yourself but no-one invites you to parties. So for now I shall avoid eye contact, keep myself discrete, and give her discouraging one word answers to her enquiries about whether her opinion on whatever subject is worth listening to. Actually I'm probably being a bit hypocritical here, because this blog is nothing if not about my opinions. But then... You can choose whether to read it, can't you?

Point taken, yet I still find myself feeling a little disatisified with that apparent setup. Rome was after all a very (extremely?) class concious system, and yes, seating was segregated at amphitheatres to such an extent that you could be jailed for assuming privilege if you sat in the wrong area (I understand that one chap in Pompeii suffered that fate because he approached a senior Roman on some matter, and the wealthy patron took umbrage and had him prosecuted for sitting next to him even though the intent was only to speak to him briefly). This was not a society that found congregation with lower classes comfortable. Patrons kept court in their homes of a morning to receive such people. Julius Caesar was unusual as a politician and recognised as such because he went about the lower classes and spoke to them personally for support, as modern campaigners often do. And yet, despite all that, they mix in the baths without raising an eyebrow? it just seems odd to me. I actually don't think all that many of the downtrodden poor bothered themselves. It may have been permissable to go there, and for all I know you're correct, but there's an ambiguity about this even from Roman sources. I'm reminded of a story about Hadrian. He popped down to the baths with his associates and whilst there, observed a man rubbing his shoulders on a pillar. Hadrian asked the man why he was doing that. "I cannot afford a slave to scrub my back" the man answered. Hadrian rolled his eyes and summoned his purse, gave the man a few coins, and told him to go away and buy a slave. The next day Hadrian popped down to the baths, the entire bathhouse was full of men rubbing their backs on pillars. Apart from the amusing climax and the demonstration of rOMAn greed, notice something important. A man was bathing who could not afford the services of a slave, and that seems to be a unique occurence because Hadrian is curious and doesn't initially know why this is happening. One might presume therefore that there were sections of society that did not go to the baths out of embarrasement, or perhaps even a lack of self worth, and let's be honest, the downtrodden poor of any society aren't known for their cleanliness.

Personally I find that a daft assertion. Their motives may have been many and various (mostly concerned with regular pay and booty I suspect) but they hardly wished to fight for suicidal reasons. No-one does. Of course that misses the point of the statement in that the writer means they helped create the situation that brought about Rome's downfall. Thing is, an individual soldier in the Roman legions wasn't in command. He didn't make decisions. He was, to all intents and purposes, an asset in the hands of the senior Roman elite. Since Rome was a succesful conquest state, we can hardly view the actions on one man in serving twenty five years as significant in the decay of the empire, especially since they were fighting to defend it for most of the latter half. Furthermore, it could be argued that with the diminishment of republican institutions in the principate, the increasing cosmopolitanisation of Rome and diminishment of latin values, plus the change from old to new money over the course of empire, the Roman peasant was reinforcing the bond of loyalty to the system by participating in it, even if his motives were essentially selfish rather than patriotic, in that the Roman legions during the pax romana were feudal in nature to begin with and not a national army in the modern sense, at least until the late empire anyhow.

'Tis another Monday, and in true Swindon fashion it's a grey foggy morning. The sky an anonymous pale stone grey that obscures the taller buildings. My days are busier now, mostly concerned with the daily routine of searching for gainful employment and collecting rejection letters. So that's my day pretty much planned then. Is that all that I am? Is there nothing more to life than endless letters and emails? In my post forklifting course world, what can I do to make life interesting? Museum Of Old Stuff In Swindon we are blessed with a museum of computing. No, really, we are. Displays of antique computers and calculators to thrill the soul and fill our hearts with joy as we wander around the shelves packed with little plastic boxes that lived and died in the Age of the Eighties. Oh all right. I admiit it. I visited the place this weekend. Most people seem to think it's a computer shop and get very confused when their urgent desire to buy a new motherboard goes unrewarded. On the other hand, I spotted the Sinclair C5 at the door. That was a sort of single seater conveyance, a bit like a sports mobility buggy powered by a washing machine motor. I remember one brave soul who bought one and actually used it on the road. Quite a traffic jam. He lasted three days before he grew tired of inclement weather, opinions offered by overtaking motorists, and a man walking sixty feet in front with a red flag. How could I resist a museum of technical things that sort of worked but no-one used successfully? The worst thing of all was the realisation that all these exhibits were things I used to use as a younger man. They even had a Dragon 32, a delightfully primitive Basic computer in the days when you learned the art of loading and saving by cassette recorder. Sigh. I owned one decades ago. My first computer. As simple as it was, the Dragon 32 was luxurious compared to the real trend setter of the time, Sinclair's ZX81 and its big selling descendant, the Spectrum. A tiny black box with multi-function rubber keys that destroyed so many lives. So cheap was the product that when one mysteriously arrived at our home, my father rang the supplier to ask if he wanted it back and they said no, don't bother, we can keep it. Then they sent us another, as a free gift for all the family. Wow. What incredible service. That was real computing. Programmers were men in those days. Who else but a square jawed hero could possibly type in the indecipherable lists of code printed in hobby magazines? And get it work afterward? After all, one does not mouth off when computing, does one? Unless you mess up the typing and have to start again that is... Then it hits you. Such is the pace of modern technology that these dinosaur devices are now museum pieces. Better move on, before I get picked up and labelled. That's What Happens When... One of the delights of living where I do is that you get occaisional passers-by who shout somethign out in the street at night for no possible reason whatsoever. Some people of course just like the sound of their own voice. Youngsters shout because shouting louder seems manly to them. If you shout louder, you must be more of a man, so the logic goes. Except the owner of the vocal chords tends to forget that it's whether anyone listens that matters, and who listens to a spotty twenty year old mouthing off? Seeing as last night was Sunday, you would expect a relatively quiet night, and so it was. The sewer has been filled in, the road returned to normal use, and few people wandered by on what was a damp and dreary night. Except for one spotty youth mouthing off. As they do. "That's what happens happens when you abscond from the services!" He shouted. Erm... What happens when you abscond exactly? I have literally no idea who he was shouting at. Can't be me. I was never in the services (though I did try), and none of the people I see living in premises nearby look anything like an absconded soldier. Most look like hells angels or teenage mothers and druggies. Oh well. Never mind. Back to something interesting on the confines of my personal computer. Give it ten years and that'll be a museum piece too.

They? Clearly we're talking about the top half of Roman society here. Did patricians share a convivial atmosphere with the cities plebians?

After a week of intensive forklifting that saw me spending most of it twiddling my thumbs in a dingy office, I can finally relax a little. Truth is I'm shocked how tiring I found it. Getting up early, walking to and fro from work, leaping on and off heavy and potentially dangerous industrial machinery, and worst of all, braving the queues at the local fast food takeaways for lunch. KFC weren't bad I suppose. They did point me toward the 'loser corner' seeing as I look like a neanderthal in a high viz vest, but there you go. Not cheap. I had no recourse but to opt for their bargain snackbox. Three bites and you're done. I can see why they make a profit. If only it didn't taste so good. Surely this can't be all that bad for you? I mean, the meat is real, isn't it? McDonalds aren't that much different except the lady behind the counter clearly didn't like the look of me. She simply bundled the food in a bag, thrust it across the counter, and gave a weak smile as if to tell me it was time to leave. Their deli's aren't bad, but what on earth happened to their burgers? I remember the last time I ate one and it wasn't that bad. This was truly awful, a tiny sponge bun containing something that looked like fired carpet, with a coating of yellow sludge and dead tomatoes. Not really appetising. But that's what you get for their bargain burgers for a pound. You want the good stuff?

Busy schedules are great until the insidious arrival of stress makes it a trial. They say it's good for you but in what way? What's the use of becoming a nervous wreck? On the other hand, there comes a point where your life is so busy that your memory can't cope, and after a few missed events, you turn to personal organising and thus descend the slippery slope toward a form of analism that is insufferable to others, so you lose your friends and thus end up fully organised with an empty diary. Go figure...

Okeedokee. Square shields are Augustan in widespread use. There are however examples recovered that are dated up to a century earlier, suggesting it began as a somewhat rare alternative. There are rectangular shields in use during late republican times. The thing is though that 'slightly rectangular' shields, either with rounded corners or bulging edges, date back to around 400BC. That might sound like an interesting coincidence except I should point out that republican shield design varies considerably. It might not have any historical significance.

Roman control was focused on towns serving as places to control tribes. Thus Calleva Atrebatum "Woodland Town of the Atrebates" or Silchester, Venta Belgarum "Market of the Belgae" or Winchester, and so on. Whilst it's true the Romans would have visited settlements to assure themselves of lawful behaviour (and more importantly, regular tax payments), as long as the Britons did as commanded they could go about their lives undisturbed. In fact, the system didn't work too well, and after the period you specify the Romans dispersed their civic control into smaller orbital settlements. On the plus side, there would be those who didn't want the Romans there, and thus would be willing to assist your escapees. On the other hand, opportunity knows no limit, and thus plenty of people would be willing to rat on them for a favour or a few sestercii. To some extent, your escapees are still running a risk, and bear in mind anonymity is suprisingly hard to achieve in a world where everyone knows your business. That said, the Romans might not know where your escapees went, so the long arm of the Roman Lex might give them a head start by arriving much later. They certainly would know about it eventually, though whether the governor of a distant province would bother himself unless the escapee was important or known to have arrived in his back yard. A villain in captivity is a feather in his cap after all. In terms of route, my advice would be to take ship to the coast of southern Gaul, and head north to the Channel. Roman roads are quicker and more direct but more exposed to Roman oversight. Ports were not exactly sophisticated at this time. Shallow beaches and wooden jetties are common ports of call, modest in capacity, and without a major settlement attached, a distinct lack of warehouses.

A spectacular end to the day as I strolled home. Bright orange and blue-grey waves of cloud against the pale blue sky and yellow horizon. Best of all it comes for free. In Poor Health According to the news, our National Health Service is on the point of collapse. So what? That's business as usual isn't it? The media have made claims of impending disaster for decades. Face it. For all its good work, the NHS is a disaster. Mostly because the people telling the media how ramshackle it all is are the very same people running it and seeking bigger budgets and pay rises. I suspect the system might not be as healthy as it could be (pun intended), but that predictions are management-speak for "We want highly paid sinecures". Am I sounding cynical? A National Hero Service Perhaps I was being harsh about the NHS. It's just that it never seems to live up to that quaint fifties movie image that politicians want us to believe that their reforms will return it to. But then we have other heroes to praise today, like that bus driver in Teeside who defied an icy hill and got his passengers to their destination despite horrible conditions. i know only too well well how difficult it for us British to cope with icy conditions on the road. Ice? It's just not British! Well done that man. A Nation Held In Second Place Typical. After all the hullabaloo about staging the Olympics in London in 2012, after all the promises of labour politicians and our idiosyncratic London mayor, it turns out that 2012 will be held in french. French? Oh come on. We defeated the French all over Europe on land and sea for centuries, knicked their empire, and they insist our capital must place the french language first where the games are concerned. Wellington must be turning in his grave. There's a slightly suspicious story that our traditional two-fingered salute evolved from taunts of medieval english bowmen, in that the French were supposed to cut off the 'bow fingers' of any archer they caught ("Look Frenchman, I still have my fingers!"). I am so tempted. Football Game of the Week I saw the floodlights switched on last night as I passed the local football stadium whilst going home. Apparently our First Division team, Swindon Town FC, have been defeated by Crawley, who aren't even a league team. Lucky for them they're not French, so I have better things to moan about.

It's an experience. Deceptively easy, right up until the point you realise you've done something you shouldn't (I knocked over two barriers this morning in a truck weighing three tons)

Serfdom in medielval england was a hard life. We have a description of a downtrodden farmer written in his day that spells out the pitiable state that some of them sunk to. However, much depended on the economy and the effects of war, climate, and disease, or for that matter, individual ability to do well. We know that serfs sometimes did very well for themselves, buying small plots of land and accumulating a certain level of prosperity when times were good. One thing that's been made clear to me about this period, two things were certain: Death and Taxes.

Inasmuch as the Romans were unable to stop the gaulish advance you would think the Romans would have learned from that. They actually wanted to abandon Rome and resettle at Veii, a move that Cammilius spoke out against, though it isn't entirely certain that Camillius was responsible for the reforms of the early 4th century. The Galatians were gauls who settled in the region around Phrygia (whose local population couldn't stop them either) and yes, there would have been cultural similarities. We know that both gaulish populations had a system of tribal judges that would later form the foundation of the Druidic movement in the west. We also know that the druids oversaw and moderated human sacrifice which was a gaulish custom of the time. It was said of the galatians that you should never surrender to them. So yes, there must have been a warlike streak in these celtic peoples. The exact moment of change from abandonment of the phlalnx and adoption of the consular legion isn't clear. However, the scutum, as a rectangular shield, was a later design. Most Romans used oval shields after the phalanx was dropped, a design that lasted until the end of the Roman West because it was the best compromise between utility and protection. I'm not aware of rectangular shields being used before the Reforms of Marius, but I will check that.

Early this morning, before first light, I trudged along the route to the test centre. It's located in small industrial estate (the map pointed at an alleyway a hundred yards further on) and as I turned the corner I spotted one of my trainee colleagues leaning against the wall, as the premises weren't open just yet. As I got closer, I noticed he wasn't moving. Curious... Hello mate? How are you this morning?... No answer. He just leaned there immobile, well and truly asleep. Poor lad. I let him gather a few winks in peace. Like me he would soon be subjected to long waits and short bursts of frenetic forklifting. The Results Of Frenetic Forklifting Yeh verily I have journeyed far to complete my quest. For twenty years I have struggled in the wilderness, but at last, the mythical and legendary forklift license is mine. Apart some dumb mistakes as the test began, I conducted the entire test routine in a respectable nineteen minutes out of the thirty or so allowed, and scored eleven demerits, an above-average result for a novice forklifter. I'm quite chuffed. All that bearing in mind I haven't driven a forklift truck before and indeed, haven't driven any vehicle at all for nearly three years. Ah well. Back to the daily grind. Let's see what jobs are on offer this week... At Last! Not only have this day seen me rise to the ranks of forklifthood, but the new heaters turned up. Warm air! Oodles of lovely soothing hotness!

Firstly this was early in Roman history. Their legions (They had no national army and recruited a militia as required) were as capable as any of that period, given that the Romans developed that system from their tradition as tribal raiders combined with Etruscan and Greek ideas. Whilst they might have lacked the overbearing discipline (and lax enforcement of it) of later times, they were much more 'patriotic' and motivated toward protecting their homes and families, plus they weren't quite 'civilians' as recruits of later times might have been. Instead, think of them as advanced 'barbarians' attracting civilised ideas. Secondly, the gauls in question were in their expansion period, moving across Europe into the Balkans and Asia Minor. The gauls of Caesars time were more settled, less warlike, and a lot lazier. They had lost the keen edge of the warriors who strode into Rome's senate and demanded tribute. You suggest that if Rome had a better army at the time, perhaps history would be different? Yes, naturally, provided the army is properly equipped, motivated, and well led. But warfare in those times wasn't quite the same deal as that of the Empire. It was much smaller in scale, much more focused on singular columns of militia, and the concept of a professional soldier was two hundred years away.

Didius Julianus. If ever a man was promoted beyond his ability, it was him. And he had to pay the praetorians for the privilege of being ignored by the Senate and abandoned by slaves and family. I guess it seemed like a good idea at the time.

To us British, the depths of a midwest American winter is something of an alien experience. We just don't get that sort of weather here,, with our milder atlantic climate, or at least not usually. The winters of 1961 and 1947 are exceptions of course, savage reminders that nature hasn't forgotten us. on the other hand, the glorious photographs of winter in railroad magazines are well known to me. Whilst I haven't experienced that sort of climate for real, I have become familiar with that monochrome wilderness and the extraordinary coating of frozen moisture it leaves as a calling card. Except... For the first time I witnessed a modest version in Swindon today. As I trudged through the thick frost on the darkening sky of the early evening, with that sharp relentless chill, watching the last crimson embers on the cirrus clouds against a yellow horizon, I became aware that here, here in Swindon of all places, successive frosts were building a similar vision of winter right under my nose. Beautiful. Cold, but beautiful. Talk of the Devil As we sat out the tea break and made frequent if shortlived attempts to make conversation as we briefly defrosted from our session in the unheated warehouse out back, the subject got around to women. It usually does with gatherings of men. We do like to relate anecdotes of sexual conquest both real and imagined, but in fairness, this was a more honest sort of exchange in which our human failings provided the laughs. The subject matter began inexorably to focus on the woman who runs the training site. Normally she's busy, businesslike, and as we all noticed, one senses a certain threat of a poison sting lurking under that friendly if somewhat guarded manner of hers. No sooner had we discussed her merits as an object of conquest, the gossip concerning things we shouldn't know about, and our league table of probability, she turned up in her car. There you go, talk of the devil... I think she was impressed by our friendly smiles and warm conviviality. She might not be if she knew what we were thinking. Or then again, perhaps she knew full well what was going on as she's a mature lady with long experience of working class males. At any rate, she was kind enough to provide funding for a replacement heater or two for the warehouse, now that the gas burning jet engine in one corner has finally surrendered to the onslaught of winter and lack of fuel. Never hurts to smile, does it?

Our brief dalliance with sunshine is over. Freezing fog obscures the land and makes my toes feel very uncomfortable. I notice the weather people are warning us of more wintery weather to come. Really? Who would have thought it? His Other Car Is... Another day on the farm. Huddled in a small office warmed only by a primitive electric heater, I meet up with a band of disparate doleseekers and prepare for another course, another day of learning how to be joyful happy droids earning taxes for the government to squander on ailing economies. I was lucky to find it. The map pointed to an alleyway a hundred yards down the road, and we were there for two hours waiting for waifs and strays to arrive. Not good, especially now the freeze is back and I have to say, if it wasn't for that electric heater, we would have re-enactmented Napoleons 1812 Retreat From Swindon. It was surreal. How can it feel hot and cold at the same time? Bizarre. Still, at least we only shivered intermittently. In between sniffles we actually got some paperwork done. The conversation got around to the matter of how much cars cost. It was generally agreed by all present that buying expensive cars is a silly idea when your young and newly qualified. Given that's a foregone conclusion that the car will be wrecked shortly afterward, a fact of life underwritten by stubborn insurance firms, surely a cheap old banger is more sensible. We were asked out of curiosity how expensive our cars were. "Which one?" Said one gentleman. "I have many cars." That raised a few eyebrows. Okay, what's the most expensive car you own? "

There were conventions about clothing in Roman times that went above fashion, such as the toga as a symbol of formal authority, but be careful, because the Romans were concerned with status in terms of clothing rather than affiliation, thus legionaries clothing varies and there's no specific mention in the sources that I know of concerning military uniforms, since legionary clothing and equipment was designed with a functional rather than symbolic ideal. Certainly, as still happens, the quality of clothing is a visual guide to a persons wealth and in Rome that meant an outward display of your social status. Look how irate Caligula got when a visiting king went to the arena in a fine purple cloak. Caligula soon got rid of him for that faux pas. In terms of fashion, the cloak was probably little different to anyone elses apart possibly for an ethnic origin, but that the colour and quality were the factors that caught our naughty emperors eye. Colour was very important to Romans.

What? Sunshine? Surely not? There was I expecting another grey dull and bitterly cold day when out pops a clear blue sky. That said, the pavement is dangerously slipery in places where the sun doesn't melt the frost, but so far I haven't bowed to the inevitable and made an undignified close inspection of the paving slabs. Suprisingly, given the clear skies, it wasn't as cold today either. I hardly needed gloves. Now if only I can manage to stay on my feet... This'll Warm You Up Although Swindon hasn't entirely been inundated with snow, some areas have, and I see a country pub was cut for a week by deep snowdrifts, leaving customers surviving off rations of booze and savoury snacks. I wonder what their bar tab is like? I know Yorkshire people are reputed to be generous, but that is ridiculous. It seems that after three days they got a little tired of the impromptu partying. Seeing as the boss is unable to get there due to blocked roads, one wonders how secure the jobs are for bar staff. This anecdote does at last reveal the fate of the Neanderthals. After being trapped by ice and surviving happily on bar snacks for generations, the boss finally turned up after the ice receded. You're fired, said the Chief. Just goes to show there's nothing original on television. More Stranded Britons As if our own climatic woes were not enough, the Spanish have decided to strike and that means our holidaymakers are stranded in Spain. You know what? I support the spanish air traffic controllers. Keep our holidaymakers. It's quieter in Britain without them.

My own feeling is that the most important aspect of this has been ignored. The Republic never fell. It was subject to a series of hostile takeovers and whilst power was snatched away by the Caesars, the republic institutions were intact and not without influence. The early Caesars were always keen to keep the Senate happy because it was composed of wealthy, influential men, and not a few who wanted the top job for themselves. It is noticeable that the homes of these powerful families were destroyed in the Great Fire of Rome in 64 under suspicious circumstances. It would seem then that Nero might have been the first Caesar to attempt to sweep aside the Senate as an insufferable obstacle to his rule.