caldrail

I knew it was going to be slippery this morning and I wasn't disappointed. There was a glass surface on the pavement outside my home. As it happens I was able to avoid a life and death struggle with gravity walking down the hill this morning because someone had thoughtfully cleared the pavement on the other side of the road. Normally that would be a hassle, but with traffic diverted I need only stroll across and around the roadworks. Job done. Unfortunately not all the ice is cleared in the town center. You might be thinking at this point that I finally fell victim to my clumsy sense of balance allied to a frictionless surface. Whatever made you think that? As it happens, you're right. Earn yorself a silver star. Why not a gold one? Because I managed to stay on my feet, and cavorted across the ice like a skater in the throes of an epilectic fit. The young blonde walking the other way was most amused. How she managed to stay on her feet in high heels in these conditions is beyond me. The woman has talent. Sadly my Gene kelly impression wasn't quite that impressive. On A Sobre Note Every year you things said about how pensioners struggle with winter. As I get increasingly old and clumsy I'm beginning to see what they mean. I really am feeling the cold far more than I did as a youth. Back then I would walk to school in a tee-shirt and jacket, thinking nothing of the freezing temperatures. these days I go out in so many layers I'm in danger of falling over and bouncing back to feet unpeturbed. Unless it's icy of course. This year though the sudden arctic snap has caught people out. I see the death count is rising. Old people especially are vulnerable and I can think of better ways of departing this world than freezing to death. It's very easy to get irritated with older people - I'm as prone to that as anyone - but apart from accidents and ill-health the cost of heating must be bringing some pensioners closer to the edge. A New Discovery That's quite enough about the trials and tribulationas of Britain in the grip of slightly colder weather. NASA have made a discovery. Not, I notice, strange new worlds and new civilisations, but a bug in a lake in California. Which kind of indicates how spaced out some of them must be over there. Anyway, to quote Yahoo News, How about that? Proof that life can adapt to different chemical systems and therefore broadening the possibility that life exists on other planet. Thing is though, why has it taken NASA so long to find that out? I mean, arsenic is poisonous, right? I know lots of poisonous people.

The 'Dark Ages' are something of a convenience, a label for the period between the Roman withdrawal and the Norman invasion, although some might argue that is also a convenient definition and biased toward a British perspective. After all, the Romans, under another convenient label as the Byzantines, were carrying on business throughout that period albeit with a problem or two along the way. In a literary sense, the Dark Ages certainly are apt. There are no survivng texts from that period. All we have are medieval copies, mistakes and all. Worse still, until the relatively enlightened post settlement part of the period, no-one wrote anything down. Our records originate from annalists who compiled their ambiguous lists of events centuries afterward, and then often from dubious sources as folklore, epic poems, and a few lost works. In fact, the only contemporary text (copied of course) from the settlement period (the middle bit of the Dark Ages) is the 'De Exidio et Conquestu Brittanniae' and that was a sermon against the evil and folly of godless men of his time, a vague and frustrating document to use as a historical source. As far as Europe or the rest of the world is concerned I'm afraid I'm something of an ignoramous there. That said, it is important to realise that the phrase 'Dark Ages' refers to the British perspective and not to events elsewhere. It's just that having catalogued history under that chapter, historians have tended to document history elsewhere in the same time frame.

Sometimes you just know something is different. it's a subliminal thing. You don't think about it, but rather it suddenly occurs to you that the world is not following the same old ritual. Such a minor epiphany happened to me last night. It was quiet. Too quiet... Now that my street is blocked by roadworks, traffic is diverted, and no longer uses the road to travel between the town centre and Old Town up the hill. At least most people are diverted. I've seen a few confused attempts by drivers of 4x4's and lorries to negotiate the full scale model of the Somme battlefield a few yards down from my front door. It makes you realise how much we do on autopilot. These people, who perhaps ought to show a bit more savvy when confronted with a road sign and a change of circumstance, are simply following their ritual too. They've probably driven up and down the road every day for the last decade. Mind you, it wasn't just the roadworks. The snow was falling last night too and that created an empty sort of ambience in Swindon. No-one wanted to go outdoors I suppose, but no-one was walking around, and as I looked out the back window last night, it was to a very festive scene. The presence of background noise in towns is so pervasive we just don't notice it anymore, unless you live on a busy road like I do, but even then it all becomes ordinary. After a day of workmen yelling and lorries engines vibrating outside, the peace and quiet was actually quite strange. Here I was in the middle of a town and nothing stirred. At least I'll be able to sleep for once. The Digging Goes On The brave and courageous workman using his jackhammer to dig up the sewer down the street has finally succumbed to the cold. They've now brought in another drill on a caterpillar vehicle with a hydraulic boom. There's quite an impressive trench along the road now, floodlit, and plenty of rusty metal panels holding the earthworks in place. More And More Stars I see from the internet news that astronomers have discovered swathes of new stars out there, mostly the lukewarm red dwarf ones that last the longest. Normally this item wouldn't be especially interesting because A - You can't see them without several radio telescopes in orbit, B - They're small and well behaved, and C - None of them are about to crash into the Earth and prove Hollywood was right after all. However, their claim to fame is that seeing as many are already 10 billion years old (Our sun is 4 or 5 billion years old and middle-aged - let's hope it doesn't have a crisis), then there's an extra probability of finding life on worlds orbiting them. Normally that would be fantastic except A - Virgin Holidays haven't managed to build a means of taking tourists there, B - Humanity has a habit of destroying newly discovered eco-systems, and C - it's unlikely they've evolved beyond something squishy that eats, bonks, and lacks any good conversation. But you never know. In any case, now that we've discovered all these places, how about discovering means to get there? How else can I buy Orion slave-women? Not so keen on salt-sucking monsters though. Just in case you thought I was completely chauvanistic.

My mobile phone beeped. That's almost a social event for me, and whilst most texts are usually reminders of phone services or the occaisional marketing ploy, I still give it a read. Just in case. Remember that you're due to attend a course the message said. Eh? What course? Why wasn't I informed? You see, with the current 'One strike and you're destitute' regime absence could cost me my payments. So naturally I'm a little annoyed by this bureaucratic oversight. Thanks for telling me guys. Not that it's their fault. The Department of Work and Pensions is notorious for not accepting culpability in any way whatsoever. They are simply never wrong, even when they are. In The Mood There's some droning music audible in the library right now. It's that sort of mystical mood music with a persistent basso chord in the background and occaisional twangs on an ethnic instrument. The town hall clock is also banging out the hour as I write, creating a strange medley of sound. Oh no. Someones started singing. Now some others are shouting at him to shut up. Typical day in the library then. It's very annoying. But then most things that happen in a library are annoying. That bloke to my right is chewing gum. That's annoying. So is the other blokes haircut on my left. The whispered vocal accompaniement to a song played over a headphone is very annoying, as the listener jerks on his seat as if he's suffering repeated mild electric shocks, or the child downstairs intent on letting everyone know how upset he is, and so on. This is proving to be an annoying day. It could snow later, too. More Cold Stuff last night was the coldest I've experienced for some time. The advice on the internet was to wrap up warm rather than rely on central heating. With energy prices going up faster than North Korean artillery shells, it's worth heeding. Nonetheless, despite being warm under the heaps of duvets and layers, it wasn't possible to feel comfortable. I don't get it. How do eskimo's tolerate even worse conditions than this? They even live in houses made of ice for crying out loud. Are they born with layers of blubber? If I grow some fat, I suffer media criticism, endless advice from knowledgeable people with serious sounding professions, and eventually fatal heart conditions. And I'd still probably feel cold.

It was inevitable. Even Swindon, a town usually immune from the hazards of winter, could not escape the onslaught of our current freeze... Truth be told we've only had a light snow fall, nothing like the experience of London and the Northeast. Trouble is this snow is the very fine variety that compacts readily and leaves icy conditions the next day. I see council workmen out and about spreading grit. Now that my road is closed for some weeks with a darn great pit in the middle of it, I wonder if the council are going to grit the pavement up the hill? I wouldn't want to have to clear it myself again. Who Let The Dog Out? As I opened the back window to take the picture above, I heard two lads having a sort of disagreement. neither could apparently decide who was responsible. For what, I wonder? The answer was Rover, a deliriously happy young rottweiller that bounded up and down the snow laden yard in sheer joy of discovering this fun white stuff that covered his otherwise dull old walkie trail. The two lads could not get the dog to come back. it ran here, ran there, tail wagging, exulting in the naughtiness and sheer excitement of it all. Meanwhile the two owners still couldn't decide who was to blame for the dog getting out of control and continued their rite of male dominance as they gave up trying to control the dog completely and decided to trudge home again. A Grim Vision The other night I had a bad dream. I was looking up into a blue sky and saw an airliner contrail. I noticed a sudden disturbance, as if the aeroplane was flying unsteadily. Then the aircraft, a large one like a jumbo or a 380, entered a flat spin and lost height rapidly. In my dream I watched as the airliner came perilously close to disaster, the airframe nodding lazily as the pilots tried and failed to break the spin and recover the aeroplane to normal controlled flight. My dream turned to horror. It went down into the town below, lost behind the mass of urban buildings, marked only by an expanding black cloud that marked the devastation. Dreams like that are vivid. They remain in your conciousness long after the usual ramblings of the mind are long forgotten. A part of you wonders if it wasn't some sort of prophecy. I sincerely hope not. That said, in the last few days an aeroplane has come down. One crash-landed near Swindon with eight people on board. It seems a grim irony that the pilot was airlifted to hospital. Ooops! Walking home from West Swindon the other day I passed under the railway bridge. Some years ago engineers fitted bumpers, big girders either side of the bridge in black and yellow chevrons, to ward off tall lorry impacts. It's difficult not to notice it. There was a large rusty blemish on the bottom edge. Oh? Has someone failed to notice the bumper and drove their vehicle into it? Swindon is notorious for large vehicles colliding with bridges, and so it turned out to be, the errant driver having been fined for carelessness.

I am so dull...

If you seek power, at some point you must break cover and make that attempt. perhaps Antony had reached the point where his confidence had overcome the risks involved in openly building toward that end? He may not have wanted a war with Octavian, but it seems he was willing to risk it.

No. They didn't try to romanize populations, they simply encouraged them to behave as they did both for practicailty and ego. The native populations continued right alongside, though in fairness, some provinces were more willing to assume Roman culture than others. Britain is the case in point. A lot of literature simply regards Roman-occupied Britain as nothing more than Rome elsewhere. Not the case. If you look more closely at the subject you discover that the southeast was the most roman-influenced, and the north and west extremes the least. Hative housing styles are known to have survived into the dark ages for instance in southwestern england, and I know from my own neck of the woods that farmers were still making roundhouses in the 3rd and 4th centuries. It is true however that the Romans respected local religious beliefs (usually) and brought these deities into their own system even if only on a local scale. That was a matter of political control as much as spiritual respect. In any case, the Romans showed far more pride in looking down on provincials than educating them. Trajan, in his first senate speech, reduced the patricians present to hysterics with his spanish accent. The 'romanization' effect is a poor concept in general. It assumes that the Romans demanded everyone become as they were. Not so. The Romans left that to the wisdom of those who wanted to get along with them and pay their taxes. This effect may well have been less pronounced in the 6th century since Rome was no longer the centre of a mighty empire. Having said that, I seem to recall that Gratian was heavily criticised for his habit of dressing as a goth in the 4th century.

Poor woman. Lets vote for her so she her disability is proven not to be an obstacle to a long, productive, and meaningful political life. Okay, lets not...

I woke to the alarm clock this morning as I suspected I might. That's the price you pay for staying up late. I now have half an hour to get dressed and down to the job centre to sign on. Inertia is a terrible obstacle first thing, amplified by the frigid temperatures that only a siberian would scoff at. No, it's no good, I have to get out of bed. Having fallen listlessly sideways onto the carpet, I was suddenly aware that I was risking hypothermia unless I moved. Move I did. In fact, I was very lucky, because having gotten dressed randomly in a state of shivering stupor I was lucky to present anything close to a cohorent appearance. Maybe nearly fifty years of practice helped? Opening the curtains at the front of the house revealed the sandbags strewn across the road where some irate drunkard had left them. A road sign marking the diversion for traffic had gone missing. Not that anyone needs it. There's a placarded barrier across the road further down where they're digging the sewer up. Once out the door I was stunned by how piercing the air was on this grey and dismal morning. How can it get colder? How is it possible Britain is suddenly this freezing? This is an era of global warming for crying out loud. Maybe the young woman at the job centre had the right idea. She came in with the most outlandish pink furry boots ever, the sort you'd expect to prepare from the recently hunted corpse of a transvestite mammoth. A Philosophical Discussion Most of the conversations you hear in our library are pretty mundane. A woman tells her bored offspring to stay bored, a couple whisper about where to go on holiday together and fail completely to agree, an asian bloke making business deals over his mobile, a customer completely baffled by modern technology and seeking assistance from an equally baffled librarian, or that old woman who thinks everyone should know what she thinks. And so on... Today was different. A chap I once discussed philosophy with was there again, this time lecturing his colleague on the validity of God. His colleague listened politely, pronouncing it as an interesting point, and remaining unwilling to betray his lack of intellect by attempting to discuss it with the philosopher, who for his part wouldn't let anyone else get a word in and kept glancing at me in fear that I would get involved. I have to say that whilst he witters on about how logic dictates this or that, he does base his opinions on some astounding assumptions, such as... Ahh, but you're only reading politely too, aren't you? Test of the Week As part of my jobsearch I had to complete an online personality test today, to discover who I am and what I might be good at, and other deep philosophical questions urgently required in the fight for employment survival. Apparently I tend towatd behavioural rather than non-behavioural. I know some people who could tell you different. But in fairness the personality profile was around two-thirds corrct, or at least, that close to my own self-image, which, I'm assured by the local wildlife, is nowhere close to reality. At least I have the intelligence not to try to steal a car that's been disused for two years and shows physical evidence of vandalism. But the idiot tried last night nonetheless. He got quite upset that his chosen ride proved to be somewhat more static than he expected, but there you go. Must have been cold walking home last night. Overall my test scores were pretty good. I'm numerate, literate, and creative. Now, really, that's official. I've taken the test. But is that all I am? These questions and more will be answered same time, same office, next year.

Sorry to disappoint you all, but there aren't any camels in my bed. Far from it, I'm warm, comfy, and indulging in a spot of Sunday laziness which I don't often fall prey to. Why waste a day? Sunday is no different. However, the instinct to wake up and go about my daily business is quite strong. Russian scientists would point and tell me that's learned behaviour. They're almost certainly right. Look how dogs uncannily know what the time is despite being intectually incapable of using a clock. Luckily I'm not that canine, thus I can thrust aside my primeval instinct and ingrained ritual for a lay-in. Ahhh yes. This is is cosy.... For some reason I'm not feeling as comfortable anymore. Darn. Those Russian scientists will be smirking any minute now.... The Great Indoors It's no good. I'm going to have to get up. ind you, Britain is suffering an early cold snap and this morning is supposed to be as cold as Britain usually gets in winter. In order to test the water, so speak, I thrust my toes out from under the duvet. Cold! Very cold! In these situations I've always found that diving in headfirst is the best way. To do otherwise just prolongs the agony of low temperatures. Three... Two... One... Go! Gah! Extremely cold! Quick, where's my tee shirt?... I put it here the other day! Where is it? Cold.... I'm starting to shiver.... Oh to heck with it. I throw any old clothes on in a desperate attempt to stave off the freezing enviroment. With seconds to spare before I started to suffer colds, flu's, and frostbite, I managed to envelope myself in heaps of clothes, even if I now look like a penniless tramp. Erm... Also Very Cold Walking down the hill toward the library I see the road has been cordoned off and a lone workman busy with a pneumatic drill, a brave soul pushing his heavy equipment into the ground and clearly suffering from the cold as much as I was. Strange to see the hill devoid of traffic. Also From A Cold Place Excuse me? North Korea a potential ally? Is Sarah Palin serious? Maybe things look different across the Atlantic but here in Blighty we're sometimes bemused by American politics, or more usually completely baffled. I'm not anti-american at all but is there some sort of disease that afflicts politicians over there?

To me it illustrates the persistence of gothic culture despite the trappings of Roman lifestyles. The Romans themselves used to sneer and jibe the provincials for their attempts to emulate them - Tacitus is quite contemptuous of the Britons for that very reason - and unless you're born to that culture, emulation must have seemed laughable to those socially-concious Romans for whom society was second nature. It also illustrates indirectly the reasons why barbarian tribes were attacking Rome in the late empire, or at least one reason for that pressure on the west. It wasn't a war of conquest as such, although the various barbarian tribes would have eagerly done so had they thought it possible, but rather to loot and plunder Roman settlements. Of course once they did occupy Rome, as in the case of the Ostrogoths, they adopted Roman dress and customs to some degree because they wanted to rule. In order to rule they needed to be part of the system. That doesn't mean they gave up being Ostrogoths, just that they addeed a Romanesque layer to give 'Roman' authority to their social status.

Almost daybreak. I'm sort of drowsy, in a warm bed, and very unwilling to brave the chilly temperatures of the bedroom even with the heating on. So I dozed for a bit longer. Plenty of time. Not any more. Almost 9;30, and if I leave it too late, there'll be a two hour wait to grab a computer at the library. My life is full of these little problems. Quick! Out of bed - Cold! - and take a peak out of the window to confirm the weather conditions I'll have to cope with this morning. Oh no! This can't be happening! The yard out back is sort of covered in white powdery stuff. Yes, there's no mistake, snow has fallen overnight. How do we cope with snow? I sort of vaguely remember what happened last year but that's a distant fading memory and the trauma has blocked out that part of my nightmarish recollections of winter. Oh hang on, I've got an SAS survival manual somewhere in the house. Maybe that'll help? No, it doesn't. The volume contains all sorts of handy hints about eating jungle vegetation, stying warm, and avoiding enemy patrols, but nothing about coping with winter in Swindon. What sort of survival manual is this? Unless I plan to eat weeds by the fence out back for lunch, drag a duvet with mwe to the library, and stay well clear of traffic wardens, I have no choice but to challenge the conditions alone and unaided. As it happens, the snow has so far been very light, a mere dusting of the stuff, and I successfully avoided marauding polar bears and moslem insurgents to reach th library. Certainly is warm in here. Sleepy As I sit here typing this stuff out, there's a guy in the next cubicle chewing gum. Now he's not being noisy or deliberately annoying, but his robotic movement of the lower jaw is having a hypnotic effect on me. Good grief. Who knows what someone could do to me if I was hypnotised. I'm feeling sleepy.... Deep sleepy... I knew I should have dragged that duvet with me. Never sneer at an SAS survival manual.

One of the great bugbears of life is getting old. When you're young, you tend to sneer and roll your eyes, for the experience of age is something beyond you. Well, my hair began to go grey when I was a teenager so that never really made any impact on me. It all seemed normal and part of everyday life. I never got self-concious about it at all, even after enduring endless jibes about hair colour products for men. It seems however that I've recently attracted an unfortunate medical condition I could do without. Not officially diagnosed yet, just the symptoms reported and a prescription of pills to ward off a potential disaster. Nothing to do with sex either, so I can't boast about it, but rather I'm now in a certain percentage of the population at risk of such things as we get older. Therefore I'm a little philosophical today. My mind is on successes and failures in the past, though in fairness I'm not at the stage of writing out the top ten things to do that I should have have done twenty years ago had I realised I was going to get older. I actually found muyself in a pharmacy waiting for the young ladies to fetch the packets of pills necessary to ease my suffering. I chatted to them about the cold weather and we had a chuckle or two - Oh ye gods! - I've turned into an old codger! Young At Heart Last night I found I was running out of bread. No matter, all I need do is trudge up the hill to the seven-eleven store and scavenge one left over from the days trading. No sooner had I stepped out the door than I passed a young lady going about her lawful business. Have you ever caught someone's eyes in a moment and felt you knew that person? Yep, that's what happened. It's a curious feeling. You can say what you want about biology, pheromones, and cultural stereotypes, but she was perfect. She just was, and I knew she felt the same way in that brief encounter by the roadside. If only I was tenty years younger. I like to imagine she wishes I was too. Not to worry, it was fun while it lasted.

Got it. It appears that Geoffery of Monmouth was a bit fast and loose with history (as if we didn't know that) and the connection with Artorius Castus is only a literary one. In other words, Geoffery is giving Arthur credit for Artorius's deeds, a feature of Arthurian expansion since the beginning. The two men are identiofiably seperate. Arthur is primarily concerned with the defence of Britain, Artorius concerned with military adventures on the continent two or three centuries before.

The amber triangles are proudly displayed on the weather report again. This time it's not heavy rain and the attendant risk of flooding, but the arrival of this years first snowfall, which shouldn't affect Wiltshire as yet. Nonetheless the temperatures are plummetting. This morning was no exception. I've resorted to gloves for the first this year. Even my claims advisor mentioned how cold it was. Hey, that was almost conversational. Yesterday had one advantage. It was a bright sunny day, abeit a chilly one. Since it wasn't going to be a busy day - something I decided rather than tread the same old weary routine - I went for a stroll through the environs of the local area. Just for the exercise. Like you do. As it turned out I made one major mistake. I was walking in a sort of anti-clockwise direction, which meant the low afternoon sun was always in my eyes. It might be approaching winter, but that sun can be very bright. What struck me was the changes in Rodbourne. I used to live in that area when I was younger. The row of shops along the main road gave the place a sort of village atmosphere. When the developers built the bypass to link with the Outlet Centre in the old rail works buildings, traders complained it would harm passing trade. Especially since the plan was to block the road through Rodbourne at one end. They eventually listened and left the road open, but after a decade it seems the effect is starting to make itself felt anyway. Shops are mysteriously mutating into private homes. In a sense it's a good thing because the former shabbiness is being swept away. On the other hand, maybe two or three shops are still trading as they were when I was young. The rest are either offering different services or gone completely. Somehow it all seems as if the area is losing a community atmosphere and becoming a dormitory for the rest of Swindon. The Protest Continues More student protests? Whilst there is something to protest about, I suspect there's an element of youthful defiance turning this affair into a sort of game. Police baiting has risks that go with the sport, as some youngsters are finding out. But is this behaviour really going to help? If you want lower tuition fees, then eventually a peaceful settlement is going to be necessary. What governbment is going to surrender it's credibility by surrendering to large gatherings of deliquent students (or those purporting to be students)? Down She Goes British forces have apparently sunk a Somali pirate vessel. About time too. The lesson from history is that unless you deal with piracy ruthlessly it will persist. Whilst we want to be gentlemanly and civilised in our approach to maintaining order on the high seas, is that really going to suppress this sort of activity? As the Somali learn their craft, become more professional and adept at avoiding naval interdiction, the situation see-saws back to where you started. Unless you sink them. That's the cold hard logic of this particular game.

Yesterday channel is rather like Discovery, except they avpoid 'shark week' and instead show programs about Nazi's. Sometimes though you do get a decent documentary. I remember seeing one on the Flying Tigers in China that was something I didn't know much about (That's a group of american aviators in World War Two, not some rare breed of aerial carnivore, in case you wondered the Chinese were sniffing suspicious substances). On the bright side, Yesterday is showing the Colditz series. I remember watchin g that back when it came out in the seventies. It's all about the POW's and their attempts to escape the old castle from under the noses of their German guards. It's a darker tale than I remember it, maybe because I'm older and understand the subtleties more, and despite the occaisional inconsistency it's still nonetheless an excellent portrayal. The nostalgia of watching an old favourite from my formative years is one thing, and let's be honest, what blue blooded Englishman can resist a tale about daring-do in the Second World War? We base our entire culture on victory over the Hun. There is a curious analogy to my Wednesday mornings however. You see, every Wednesday morning I go down to the Job Centre as I should on every other day. Wednesdays are Staff Meeting Days, so the throng of impatient claimants gather in the foyer to wait for the sharp-suited security guards to stop trying to get a response from the other floors on their walkie-talkies, and darn well let us in. I mean, what's the point of having a 9:00 slot when they don't let you in for another hour? Occaisionally a brave soul enquires at the desk whether they can go through and obtain a comfy seat. The ladies at the helpdesk quickly destroy that initiative. Sometimes a braver soul attempts to sneak past the guards, or even attempt to bluff their way in. It's all rather like Stalag Luft Job Centre, but in reverse. We sneak, leap, and tunnel our way in every Wednesdays to sign on and get our money. The way the government are talking, barbed wire, searchlight, and machinegun posts will be fitted as soon as they can find the money to buy them. They are bailing out Irelands ailing economy too, you know. Funny that. One moment the country hasn't got any money and savings must be made, the next we're paying Ireland because they've run out too. Closed For Business I saw the temporary road sign a few days ago, but a letter was posted through my door telling me that my street is to be closed. Huh? Not profitable enough? No, apparently the sewer is blocked and it's causing all sorts of problems, like subsidence, roadworks, and diversions. Naturally this problem needs to be fixed. But quite how the drunken population of late night revellers are going to cope with lines of bollards, signs, and gaping holes is anyones guess. I look forward to seeing some of their work.

Antoninus Pius was well regarded by the Romans largely because he gave them what they wanted and didn't make waves. Like Claudius, it appears he ordered some military adventures to give his reign military credibility - almost an essential qualification for Roman acceptance - by pushing the british frontier to the wall of his name. He was however not a military man, and never left Italy during his rule.

It isn't just possible, it's part of the archaeological record. Some legions in the reign of Tiberius used them, and if I remember right, some republican legions did too. I'll check the sources on that.

Oh no! I've been so wrapped up in an interview this morning I've forgotten to do any job searching! Heresy! I'll be rendered destitute if the Job Centre finds that out (Please don't tell anyone). With that minor disaster in mind I popped straight down to the library for a frantic internet browse of the job sites. The library is often crowded at lunchtime, and sure enough, not a free screen to be had. I'll have to book one. None of the computers have got a two hour slot available for the next three hours, so it'll have to be an even more frantic search in half the time. Which computer?... Decisions... Decisions... Oh, I'll book this one. It's a quiet spot by a window. I got down there and found the desk cluttered with a pile of personal possession belonging to someone else. Have I got the right computer? Yes, my name is showing on the screen. I'll just move all this rubbish to one side so I can get on... "Excuse me!" Called an irate lady from the helpdesk. "I'm going to use that computer." Oh no you're not, I replied, and continued to shovel her belongings aside. How can one person carry so much garbage? What's it all for? No, don't ask, it's none of my business. "Don't touch my stuff!" She yelled. I took no notice. I've booked a computer and she can darn well accept I'm going to clear the desk. She rushed over and repeated her annoyed command. I simply advised her that that all I was doing was moving the 'stuff' to one side. Having no choice but to accept my boorish dominance of the desk, she grumbled and gathered the mountain of 'stuff', moving back to the helpdesk where Dragon Lady awaited her complaint. Of course Dragon Lady swept her argument aside like the true scottish lady that she is. Good for you, dear. But she still made a caustic joke at my expense as she walked past on another customers errand. Thanks for that. Can I get on with my job search now? Save The Tiger The television advert makes it all very clear. From around a hundred thousand tigers living in the wild a century ago, we're now down to four thousand, and they're still dwindling. It's a great shame, of course, and in spirit I support the efforts to preserve the wonderful beast. I had to laught though. The advert, in an effort to get the public to part with cash to help save the tigers, offered a cute cuddly tiger toy. Pardon? What's cuddly about a tiger? It's a dangerous carnivore twice my weight and strength. It could rip me to pieces if it wanted. What a silly thing to offer. As if I wanted a cuddly toy at all. I'd far rather have the real tiger as a pet, then at least burglars would be eaten. Hiow about that for saving a tiger? A good home, free food, and it helps law and order at the same time. You Started It! I just caught the news that North Korea has been shelling an island belonging to their democratic neighbour. Well, after supplying their armed forces with twelve thousand artillery pieces to threaten the border with the south, I suppose it was only a matter of time before North Korea decided to try them out. It's all a stunt though. Prod the south and claim you're defending yourself? Just another tactic to sustain the fantasy world of the dictatorship. The trouble is, all this sabre rattling is costing lives, and if my instincts are proven correct, there's going to be a much bigger casualty list before they're finished.

The problem is we see the goths as a coherent tribe with a single leader. This wasn't the case. They were made up of a variety of factions, including non-goths among them (Goths welcomed anyone who wanted to partake in their warrior lifestyle), and there a number of them that comprised a sort of ambiguous upper class, Fritigern and Athanaric being only two of them. Their fortunes waxed and waned according to circumstance. It just so happened Fritigern had his hands on the reigns at Adrianople - partially, I suspect, for his escape of the mass assassination attempt earlier and his subsequent victory over the hastily mobilised Thracian Army.

The Romans began in their earliest days with leaf-shaped shields. Oval shields were used from the early republic right until the end of the western empire a thousand years later. It was the most convenient compromise between utility and protection. Rectangular shields became popular during the height of imperial power, representing the use of close order heavy infantry. However, hexagonal shields were sometimes used, such as during Tiberius's reign. There was always a mix of shield shapes - it was never completely standard.

Whether Commodus wasn't quite as bad as protrayed in the historical sources is not going to excuse his deeds, because he certaibnly wasn't a good man. However, he was the son of Marcus Aurelius, who needed to ensure the progression of rule was assured. By making Commodus co-emperor for a few years before his death, he was able to groom his successor and tried to make him an able ruler, plus it also dissuaded others from attempting a coup when Marcus Aurelius died. A throne without an assigned heir would be a recipe for disaster. It has been said of some emperors that they deliberately made a bad man their heir, so that they would be remembered fondly. Whether that's actually true I can't say - it certainly says much about the attitude of the Roman public for thinking that - but then it might simply be that Marcus Aurelius wanted his son to 'grow up and lead a good life' as fathers do. In that he failed, but then, the temptations of power, wealth, and luxury are not easily dealt with. However, your question was why he didn't promote a more able man, instead of his own son. Perhaps that would invite political and violent contests for power. On the other hand, as emperor, Marcus Aurelius was surrounded by people claiming to be able and worthy, thus he might have chosen his son on the basis of 'better the devil you know'.

How things change. Years ago, in more affluent times, I could drive into town and quickly find a parking space while I popped down to the shops. Pay for a spot in the council car park? I think not. The situation changed with the resident parking schemes. Fed up with visitors like me clogging up the streets - though in fairness it was the long stay parking of commuters from outside the town who were the worst offenders - Swindon was divided up into zones and if you didn't pay the fee, you got the ticket for parking there. That was all very well, but what happened shortly after was that council officials sought out every possible non-taxable parking spot and daubed double yellow lines on it, which made it a breach of the law to park there. Now I see that some local councillors are pressing to create new parking spaces in town. At the moment they're fussing over details of the scheme. Expiry dates, days, times, places, all are being minutely examined for the least possible obstruction to the daily lives of the residents concerned, which I find a bit odd because obstruction to parking is the whole point of the scheme. Now I Know I now have proof that wishful thinking can work. The old Mecca bingo hall, previously a cinema, had been abandoned for some time. Passing the premises on a daily basis I often thought it was a waste of a good theatre. If only someone would turn it into a music venue. A proper dedicated music venue, something that Swindon lacks, despite regular big names appearing at the Wyvern Theatre or the Oasis Sports Hall. To my suprise, someone has done exactly that. Now called Meca, it's going to open as a 2000 seat venue for music. We are most pleased, entrepenours, continue with your decorating. One of the other changes in Swindon that's been mooted over the years is a pedestrian crossing on Kingshill. Most of you won't know it, but it's the western exit from Old Town and quite a steep road, especially at the top. Back when I was a schoolkid and took the bus home to Rodbourne, it was a popular form of entertainment for those kids riding bicycles to race the bus down the hill. Time after time one of the 'bad lads' would earn cheers from the top deck as he nervously swept past the bus peddling frantically in the face of commonsense. One day, we had Animal driving the bus. Now he was cut from a different cloth to most bus drivers. I think he was a frustrated racing driver. At any rate, spotting the youth on a bike preparing for mad dash past the vehicle as it ponderously and noisily wound it's way down the hill, his competitive spirit kicked in. He was not going to beaten. So Animal gunned the throttle and the double decker bus careered down the hill with an astonished bike rider in it's wake. Hardly a safe thing to do, was it? Well, that was back in the seventies, when such malarkey was common if not officially approved. So now, in our current post-nanny state, we have residents pressing for a crossing along the road, making it safe for children and old people to avoid being mown down by the contestants in the 2010 Double Decker Bus Grand Prix (which of course doesn't happen any more, following the introduction of speed cameras and a nrew hard line attitude from policeman about motoring offences). I know it's all safer and better for everyone, but in a funny way, I miss the freedom we once had.

Artorius Castus has been suggested as the origin of the King Arthur myth for no better reason than to inject some historical credibility to the tales. It's because people generally want the legend to be real. It isn't. Whilst I'm not decrying anything Artorius Castus did, the interesting fact remains that Arthur, as a name, becomes a popular name after 500. There isn't any mention of anyone with name beforehand that I'm aware of, and several nobles are named Arthur in the next couple of generations. Had Gildas not made an ambiguous reference to the 'real' Arthur, then I might have regarded Artorius might have been a source of the legend. We cannot dismiss the contemporary nature of the Arthurian mythos. Assuming the association with the battle of Mons Badonicus is correct, then we have a fixed period in which to place the man. If a roman commander had been the origin, why was the legend of Arthur not accounted for earlier? Why did it take two centuries for the man to be promoted to legend? It's a part of human nature that a legend is spawned in their own lifetime. Geoffery of Monmouth wanted to impress his patron lord and thus gave Arthur a royal title to boost the credentials of the list of previous kings, which was what his history book was about. Noticeably, contemporary historians (yes, the middle ages had historians too) made it known they regarded Geoffery as a complete fantasist - and if you read his history of the kings of Britain, you'll see why.