caldrail

I've just sat down to write up this mornings blog entry. The weather is pretty good again. A woman stopped me yesterday in town and couldn't help discussing what a nice day it was. What a nice lady. Todays there's a hazy sunshine with some bands of high altitude stratus cloud in the distance, looking a sort of pale pink and grey against the cyan sky. There's also something else. Swindon lies under air traffic routes so the contrails of airliners moving back and forth across the Atlantic are not unusual. Neither for that matter are light aircraft at a much lower altitude. Despite the presence of a military control zone, civilian pilots like to cross Swindon for some reason. But this morning, just five minutes before I actually typed this out, I saw something else. At first I just assumed it was another light aeroplane. A dark speck in the sky. Hang on, there's another, flying loose formation and heading east. Now that has to be military. A pair of Tucano's on a training flight? Nope, better than that. The lead aircraft was a Spitfire. The wing shape is unmistakeable, even at that distance, and I still get get a boyish thrill spotting one flying. The other aeroplane? Now that's probably... Yes, it is, the Spitfires Battle of Britain stablemate, the Hurricane. Both aeroplanes flew over the house at around 1000' with merlin engines burbling away magnificently, with just a hint of a combustive scream beneath that gravelly roar. I love it. This afternoon I shall break out the flight simulator and fly my virtual version. As much as I would wish for a chance to fly the real thing, I must be honest, the simulator is somewhat cheaper. It lacks the sound, the feel, the smell, all the subliminal sensations of flying for real. But unless I can find the

Some extra clothes, a few odds and ends to assist me if I get into trouble out there, two flasks of water, and whatever waterproofs I deem necessary. Sorry, no rambo-esque blades. As for thick undergrowth, I either find an easier path or rely on heavyweight military surplus trousers. In theory there's other stuff I could sensibly carry, but by and large I avoid taking food. I do sweat a lot and digestion speeds up dehydration as well as risking indigestive misery during physical activity. In any case, I'm well fed (officially fat since my Newcastle visit) so going without eating until I get home isn't going to kill me. Now you might question the necessity of preparing for anything when I'm probably never more than a few miles someone's home. It might seem I'm carrying a lot (it weighs in at a modest 15 to 20 lbs) but I frequent trails that aren't often used in some of the more remote parts of the Wiltshire countryside, and since I'm usually alone out there, I prefer to have some options available to me should a problem arise. It isn't that it's actually necessary, but it's practise for those rare occaisions when I really do stretch my legs in wilder places. Besides, it all helps the fitness doesn't it? And there is a certain satisfaction in knowing that you can still 'cut it' and haul that gear (which isn't as heavy as a soldier might be expected to cart around)

A couple of nights ago I watched a program on Channel 4 about some guy who wanted to see if he could survive on his own in verdant wilderness of the Yukon. It is still an area largely left to nature and the mountains, forests, rivers, and lakes create jaw dropping vistas of natural beauty, teeming with wildlife. His early optimism soon gave way to the ennui of solitary existence and the constant need to find food, however small and unappetising it may be. There was also the possibility of encountering bears, and whilst grizzly's are sometimes fooled by playing dead, black bears are less easily satisified. It came as no suprise to me that he suffered emotionally as well as physically. Human beings are social animals and we don't really like being on our own that much, though some individuals are better able to tolerate that sort of situation. Determination, discipline, and for some even religion all help you survive, but ultimately, you get worn down by the ravages of the enviroment and the lack of food begins to tell on your health. It reminds me of the survival programs by people like Bear Grylls and Ray Mears, both of whom stress determination, knowledge, and practice at the skills required to stay alive. I think one point they don't stress, though they often mention it in passing, is the limited time you have as a survivor. Very often people are forced to cope with conditions that don't suit human beings, possibly with scarce food and water sources. Some years ago a criminal had vanished and a nationwide search for him was underway. Eventually he was spotted in a dishevelled condition attempting to buy matches. Apparently the man had bought one of those SAS survival guides and thought that was all he needed to manage his covert existence in some woods out of public gaze. Clearly his experience was tougher than he expected. It also occurs to me that the densely populated English countryside isn't always the easiest place to hide in for very different reasons too. Walking back to Swindon from a hike into the farmland to the north I hauled myself step by step up the grassy slope toward Blunsdon village. The pack wasn't overly heavy, but it felt so, and it occured to me that my my relative lack of fitness, and mature years, were making this much harder than it had been in my youth. What will happen in a few years from now? Will I have to reduce the load I carry? Shorten the distance I walk? Commonsense tells me I can't keep this up forever. Another part of me eggs me on, willing me to push the boundary a little one more time. Of course I can afford to. I live in a nice warm brick cave with water available for the asking and supermarket shelves within easy reach. My survival isn't about finding and exploiting natural resources, but paying for them. I have to perform daily tasks to obtain the money I need to survive. I need to cope with the social isolation that unemployment generates. In a small way, I can sympathise with the man in the Yukon. Then again, walking along a main road on my way to the countryside, a passing car sounded his horn and the driver waved at me. About two hundred yards away, all I could see was a pair of shades. I have no idea who it was. Whereas in the Yukon there's probably no living sole for hundreds of miles, out here in the urban wilderness of Swindon, you're never far from someone. But doesn't that present its own survival challenges? That Was Close Crossing a busy junction near my home is a daily occurence. The single decker buses always turn right down the main road toward the bus station and so I often walk across the road knowing full well there's no risk. Yesterday evening one flashed his indicators to show he was heading my way. For a moment I hesitated, then seeing a sign of a swing to the right, I assumed his indicators were incorrectly applied and that I was safe to cross the road. Needless to say, I soon realised it wasn't and got out of the way very quickly! The urban enviroment has its own particular dangers . The thing is though, I'm used to them, or at least those I normally encounter. Attuned to them in some respects. It's second nature and you instinctively look for those hazards. Had I been born and bred in the Yukon, shown how to survive at an early age, hunting and fishing every day, perhaps I might have found it easier than the man from Channel 4. For now, surviving in Swindon is enough.

Oh no... They've gotten to you too.... :D

I am partial to my takeaways. I know fast food isn't always as healthy as we'd like to believe, but they say a little of what you fancy does you good. As it happens, there's plenty of outlets in my neighbourhood. Down the bottom of the hill there's one kebab shop that changed hands and re-opened a week ago. Curiosity got the better of me last night. The Turkish lads waited patiently for select my choice of meal and promptly informed me that they only did that at lunchtimes. Oh you don't want to say that I told them, or I'll walk out. Give customers what they want - It's good business. It seems I do speak Turkish after all. All of a sudden the lads were all smiles, one giving me a playful handshake. As it turns out they cook a decent kebab too. The art of haggling is not yet dead. Business Enterprise With defence cuts looming in the wake of rising national debt, the RAF have taken the decision to lease their aeroplanes out to commercial operators. Can you imagine? Hello? Is that RAF Coltishall?.... Yes, I wonder if you can help. I've got an urgent business meeting in Amsterdam and... You have a back seat on a Tornado fighter available? Oh that would be great.... I do actually presume they mean transport or tanker aircraft only. So if anyone wants a cheap holiday in Afghanistan, nows your chance. They expect reservations to be available for a few decades yet. Plenty of sunshine and excitement. Joking aside, this decision is an interesting reverse. Back in the 1970's there was a plan to save costs by using commercial airliners as 'stand-off' missile platforms. Ladies and gentlemen, this is your captain speaking... We are currently cruising at thirty thousand feet, and if you hear any strange noises, don't be concerned, it's only our on-board nuclear missile being fired at Russia. Please enjoy your flight... Monster of the Week We do like monster stories. From time to time Nessie emerges from the Scottish loch for a photo shoot, or Sasquatch ambles past the sights of a backcountry deer hunter, or another rumour of an Abominable Snowman wandering around the mountains of Tibet. Dinosaurs have always been popular. I knew them all when I was a kid, and from what I see on the bookshelves today, it's no different now. It seems one film studio is cashing in by leaving a film prop on an american beach, dubbed the 'Montauk Monster", which has caused a stir. Now a strange beastie has been clubbed to death (albeit without any obvious wounds) by youths in Panama. Actually it bore a slight resemblance to E.T., Spielbergs cuddly alien. Not cuddly enough it seems. Boys will be boys.

One of college classmates is a farmer by trade. The difficult economic conditions have prompted a change in career (though I understand he now intends to work for his family farm). He's been pretty busy of late. Hundreds of hay bales needed to be collected for shipment and he was working into the small hours of the night getting those things stacked and packed. At first glance it seems the life of a farmer is all hard work, but he tells me that it isn't always so dull. The police called at his farm a few days ago. They'd had reports of people getting up to something in one of their fields at all hours of the night. That night, movement was spotted on the top field. With no-one else around, my classmate got into his tractor and drove up the path to take a look. He could see something highlighted by his headlamps up ahead, strange flickering presences like ghosts. Out there on his own in the dark his imagination was starting to make him think something seriously wierd was going on. Nonetheless, he idled forwards as quiet as he could in a tractor, and there, before his eyes, was..... Have a guess - The answer is at the bottom of the post... Excuse Mate, But... By lunchtime the dull cloudy weather had brightened considerably. Still very blustery, as often happens in Autumn these days, but it was time to trek across Swindon and attend another session at the College. My route took me past a recreation ground. This one has more facilities than most and that includes a nine hole golf course. Walking along the outskirts I could see a number of youths busy engaged in a round of golf. One of them paced back and forth impatiently as if totally uninterested in the game. As I got closer, he asked me if I would return his ball. There it was, just the other side of the fence, and as I tossed it back to them I made the observation that they hadn't had many lessons. "No," Responded one of the others earnestly, "But we're getting better." Apology To the young lady I spotted dancing on the pavement in Haydon Wick, I apologise for any embarrasement I caused. It was a little comical, if not completely incongruous, but suddenly going self-concious when you noticed my amusement was even funnier. Please feel free to dance whenever you like. Have a nice day. X Files of the Week Sorry to disappoint you, but the 'ghost' was in fact a scarecrow with a green reflective high-vis jacket fluttering in the wind.

From time to time I hear little snippets of wisdom such as "You can't teach an old dog new tricks". They sound clever at first, but I wonder if these phrases aren't repeated merely to sound clever, to conceal a lack of any real insight into the world. After all, an old dog is perfectly capable of learning new tricks, it's just that he's experienced enough to know he's being asked to perform for nothing. A case of "Lead a horse to water but you can't make him drink"? Just give him some maths homework... That'll turn him into an alcoholic... It's been a long time since I've been at school. Back in my early twenties, I'd finished my Higher National Diploma in Engineering and that had just about finished my interest in education. I'd had enough. To be fair, music was becoming ever more important to me and for another decade it would dominate my life. Dominating my life at the moment is the fruitless quest for work in economically depressed Britain which is the entire reason why I've been placed on this college course. Last night I was watching the news and following the death of Patrick Swayze, they broadcast an interview with him from a few years before. He stressed that so many people don't achieve their hearts desire for little other reason than fear of the consequences. That's no great philosophical milestone - Sun Tzu said much the same thing two thousand years ago in China. I often hear celebrities telling us to pursue our dreams. Of course they can afford to say things like that because they succeeded. It's very rare to hear those sentiments from those who fall by the wayside. I must be honest, my music never reached the giddy heights for which I had striven. Neither, for that matter, has my career. Since there's so little possibility of appearing as a celebrity guest on television or firing hopeless young executives eager for six figure salaries, I'll have to content myself with my college course. It isn't all maths. They have this demonstration board wired up to mains electricity, and they gave me a voltage tester to sort out which lamp fitting is faulty. So, following instructions, I prodded bits of wiring to find out which wires were live. I certainly found one that was loose. I broke the wiring.... Have you got any maths I can do? Pulling Apron Strings Talking about celebrities, they've been increasingly keen to adopt kids just lately. You have Madonna causing international incidents in her attempts to kidnap Malawians, and now Elton John is keen to express his new-found love for some poor youngster. Funny thing is, we only get to hear about these adoptions when bureaucracy tells them they can't have what they want. Clean Up of the Week I knew some guys were trimming the hedge along the alleyway yesterday. What I didn't expect was for them them to spread a new carpet of gravel there as well. Not only that, but our weed-infested front yards have received a fresh layer of gravel too. Gravel! Gravel everywhere! Fresh clean sparkling gravel! You just know it's going to end up on someone elses driveway.

Recently I drew attention to a school in southeast England that has been criticised for sending a sheep to market as part of childrens education. Whilst it may seem cruel at first sight, those kids are learning where food actually comes from and learning that emotional attachment comes at a price. Here's the problem though. The human race is multiplying at an increasing rate. David Attenborough tells us that in the last fifty years, the human population of the world has tripled. Vastly improved health care and the containment of large scale warfare have of course contributed. There is however a more basic reason. Remember all those rabbit and fox graphs you used to get in biology class at school? With food readily productive and available in the modern world there are no shortages to limit human expansion. Of course there are areas suffering famine or obstructions in the food supply. The point though is that if people aren't starving to death they're reproducing. Sex isn't entirely onerous, is it? So like the foxes, when times are good we increase in numbers. The sad truth is that good times cannot last forever. Climatic change, natural disasters, or perhaps even a significant meteorite strike might tip the balance, and human beings will starve in huge numbers. It's almost inevitable. So as people multiply food production must keep pace to feed the happy majority. This is why our food supply has become so mechanistic in the modern age, and with it, a somewhat crueller detachment than hunting in the wild. As far as I'm concerned, hunting, skinning, and butchering are extensions of the natural world. There does come a point when this realism crosses a border into a much deeper cruelty, and I'd like to thank Roger Moore for doing more than raising his eyebrows dramatically. The former 'James Bond' star has pointed at the production of foie gras which to my horror is done by force feeding geese with corn mash via a metal pipe stuffed down their throat, purely to cause a swelling of the liver from which the delicacy is made. There's an honesty about fresh meat on your plate (even if the reality isn't always what we'd like to see) but to cause an animal harm and distress purely for the pleasure of the wealthy isn't something I can agree with. Can you? Restoration of the Week I was woken this morning by the whining sound of power tools. It wasn't coming from the garage across the yard, which has been quieter this year than previously, nor was it coming from next door, which is being renovated after it's last tenants left. It was the alleyway beside the terrace, whose bushes have reduced the car park access to single file pedestrian only, and no shortage of discarded waste such as cardboard boxes and broken furniture. I doubt however that the council will upgrade the surface. Every so often they fill in the potholes with gravel which promptly vanishes after the first heavy rain. The alleyway is now three inches below the asphalt car park and eroding nicely. In another year, trimming the hedge will be pointless because you'll not be able to get a car onto the car park without damaging it.

That's it. Summer is over. Our three days of glorious sunshine has been brushed aside by grey cloud and chilly wind. Weather forecasters say it will improve this afternoon, which pleases me no end. Very soon we'll be in that dangerous Autumn season when car drivers forget that mist, fog, and frosty roads aren't as safe as the as they were in the last few months. Going back a few years, back in the days when I drove my trusty Toyota MR2, I was on my way to work early in the morning. It was still dark and the sun wasn't due to rise for another hour. The vehicles ahead were held up by one driver in a blue saloon who wasn't going to be rushed, much to the annoyance of all of us following adter. Eventually the cars in front either turned off or got past, leaving only a white van ahead of me which to my relief turned off the road. I accelerated to catch up with the slow moving saloon following the road ahead. I came round the bend and glanced alongside the car ahead. Can I get past here? Strictly speaking I could, but on a snap decision I considered the road to be too narrow and too short before the next junction to pass safely. It was easy to bleed off speed on the curve and I slowed down at a reasonable distance from the car ahead, which also seemed to be slowing down. Perhaps he meant to pull over for me but I shall never know. As I fell in behind him his car flipped into the air, right in front of me. It was a shocking experience. I pulled over to the side of the road after watching his car drop into the roadside ditch. I didn't know this at that moment, but he had in fact collided with a tree before he came to a halt (which hadn't caused the accident). What could I do? I stuck around, tried to help, and made myself known to the policemen who arrived shortly after. Clearly they had suspicions I'd pushed the man off the road. Of course I hadn't, and I was never prosecuted, but perhaps more importantly I never found out what happened to the badly injured man whose car had crashed for no apparent reason. There was one accident where I did see what happened. We were on our way to a gig in London and I was driving our somewhat scruffy van up the hill towards Membury. On the opposite side of the motorway, I saw a van bounce into the air, swerve off the carriageway, and up the grassy embankment. It rolled over rapidly and as it did so, the van body peeled open like a ripe banana. Several people had been sitting in the back. They were flung across the road like rag dolls and not suprisingly, there were deaths. Certainly I shan't ever forget that scene. It makes a strange comparison with events in Formula One recently. Felipe Masse being hit by a debris and driving unconcious into a tire wall, or Lewis Hamilton spinning off into a concrete wall at high speed at Monza this weekend with no more than inured pride. Speed kills? Apparently it's safer than everyday driving. Where can I buy a Formula One car? Finance available? I'll just have a word with my insurers... Car Accident of the Week Some young scallywag wasn't looking where he was going at the Rodbourne roundabout. In the midst of his conversation with his mates, no doubt conducted by telepathy over the noise of his mobile nightclub, he managed to force my sister off the road. No-one was hurt but we notice the young man chose to drive away. She really isn't that scary you know.

The old guy sat at the bar watched me order a pint of cider before wishing me a good afternoon by way of friendly greeting. The pub had looked inviting, and after returning from my trek up to Bincknoll Castle (a medieval site a few miles southwest of Swindon) the prospect of a cold pint was too good to ignore. With framed photographs of Lancaster bombers on the walls I knew this was a proper English country pub. He was a talkative chap. Pretty much a typical country bar-fly I suppose, but I was too tired to worry about it. At any rate, he got curious about my rucksack, and enquired how heavy it was. In a mischievous mood I handed it to him, and grinned mightily when the unexpected weight nearly hauled him off his seat. Wartime Naughtiness I was pretty much oblivious to anything going on around me once I sat down to enjoy my pint, but that didn't stop the old man from describing who he was, how poor he was, and why his father was such a rogue. It transpires that during the Second World War his father stole a number of chickens for personal consumption and ended up having to assure a policeman he had nothing to do with it, hoping the constable wouldn't notice the kitchen filled with feathers. There was also one incident when he stopped by a farm and asked the owner if he could have some apples. The farmer, in a very generous move, said he could take any apples on the ground. The old man's father promptly reversed his truck into the tree and scooped the jackpot. Sheep of the Week A couple of nights ago there was a news report about a country school in southeast England. Apparently, this school operates a very small 'farm' for the benefit of the kids education, and purchased a number of lambs for that purpose. The decision has been made that in order to retain some income and to illustrate to children where food actually comes from, one sheep must go to market. So it's goodbye to Marcus the Sheep. Not without some controversy. Some parents are horrified that their little darlings will get upset at a favourite pet ending up on someones plate. Personally I don't have a problem. Kids should learn to cope with making difficult decisions and emotional loss. A part of me wonders if a lesson in hunger might not teach them about the realities of farm animals too. This is part of a wider misconception we humans have. People see themselves as 'special' and above nature, when the reality is that we're just as much biological entities as any other creature, and not guaranteed survival, whatever the Bible might say. Since I'm part of the food chain too, I shall wander down the supermarket, pick up some lamb chops (sale price naturally) and thank Marcus for his contribution to my continued health. Sorry kids, but animals eat each other sometimes.

For the third day in a row, the weather is gloriously sunny. A little bit chilly first thing, but you'd expect that, and without doubt it's going to get somewhat warmer later this afternoon. Time then to enjoy a hike into the English countryside? I think so, especially after my last signing-on at the Job Centre. I could do with a break. I suppose from time to time they get suspicious. They're used to people who claim for no other reason thatn to avoid doing anything else. Unfortunately, I do make a moderate and consistent effort to find work, which means the otherwise pleasant woman across the desk has gotten a little curious about my jobseeker record. This last time she was replaced by another woman, a matronly dragon of a claims advisor, who took the record books I had with me and promptly 'lost' them. She then interrogated me about my efforts and clearly had no intention of believing a single word I said to her. That sort of thing, for me at least, is deeply annoying and de-motivating. What's the point of filling in these books (as they require me to do) and then discard them in such a casual manner? For one thing, it destroys trust, and creates an adversarial atmosphere. This wasn't the first time they've done this sort of thing and from this moment on, I'm writing out a copy of my job search record before I go in. They still won't believe me, but all the same, at least I won't have to put up with that sort of humiliation and pressure. Science in Farming I was chatting to guy the other day who lives out in the countryside. He's lost interest in farming seeing as cereal production is so variable and that dairy farming can't compete in today's market. His father is of course a little upset about that because understandably farming is still very much a family concern for many. Out of curiosity, I asked him about driving tractors, seeing I've never been near one. He tells me it's all science now. Tractors are guided by GPS and all you do is input the co-ordinates of the field you want to drive up and down over. Still, just in case the farmer hasn't quite caught up with the twenty-first century, the makers considerately provide markings to show the driver which way round the throttle is fitted. Rabbit and tortoise.

Sort of... But only one head and four legs.

Life in urban England is often portrayed as a struggle against ignorance, decay, violence, and theft. I've made the same noises myself sometimes, so I guess there's a little truth to it, having witnessed the depressing state that society sometimes gets into. Of course there are those who want to stop the destructive tendencies in our midst. A worthy cause, or perhaps a cause to further someones poltiical career? The trouble with dealing with problems of this nature is the uncompromising response it requires. To stifle violence one may well need more than the courage of their conviction, especially if the offenders sense they are stronger than you.. All too often, we don't want to get involved. Self preservation is a natural instinct though perhaps not our most glorious one. On the other hand, there are incidents in which those willing to stand their ground pay the price in injury or even death. Public behaviour seems to rising to the fore just of late. In particular, the easy availability of alcohol and the gimmicks designed to sell it are very much in focus as recent calls for controls on alcohol sales have demonstrated. However, things have gotten a litle more ridiculous. It's been suggested that mock fights should be staged on city streets in England to test and provoke public response. The idea, as far as I can tell, is almost to educate the public that they too can help maintain law and order on the streets. Possibly they can. However I wonder if this 'training' isn't more likely to result in more casualties, because confrontations are as likely to provoke violence as constrain it, and much depends on perceived threat. The attempt to create a community spirit that is willing to risk violence brings with it the risk of vigilante behaviour, and as is often recorded in news stories, the risk of finding yourself on the wrong side of the law in trying to confront others is very real, whatever politicans like to say. I'm reminded of a story I once read in a magazine many years ago, a true one apparently, although much of the detail I've forgotten since my teenage years. It concerned four men in the 'Wild West' at the end of the nineteenth century. They planned to rob a bank, and strode calmly inside holding the good people at gunpoint whilst they collected the money as quietly as possible. Unfortunately for them, an ice-cream seller (proof this wasn't a 'one-horse' town) recognized some of the baddies, and alerted the townsfolk. When the four robbers left the bank thinking they'd gotten away with a healthy sack of customers cash, they found themselves facing a town full of armed and aggrieved citizens. They were all shot dead. Is that really what British authorities want? The Police always tell us to phone them in such situations, and certainly the firearm laws in Britain preclude shooting villains without some form of legal restraint. The same applies to baseball bats and missiles. We are allowed 'appropriate' levels of violence to defend ourselves. Are we then allowed the same to confront others? What is 'appropriate' levels of violence? The considered appraisal of a judge in a courtroom, or the snap decision in the heat of the moment? It seems a bit hard to believe that to counter violence the public are being asked to risk it. Cattle Dog of the Week On my way to a session at the College yesterday I bumped into an old chap walking his dog, an incredibly cute canine with perky ears and stumpy legs. We got chatting and naturally I asked what breed it was. He did tell me the name, but I've forgotten it. However he explained it was a Swedish Cattle Dog. Oh? They have dwarf cattle in Sweden? The old chap was right. It is a bit hard to believe.

What makes me happy? Various things. I used to enjoy driving fast cars and flying aeroplanes, but sadly life in the fast lane is no longer available to me. A good game on the PC? It helps if your computer works of course. I got mine back from the repairers yesterday evening after a heated phone call only to discover that they hadn't connected the sound. What about sex? That's a luxury increasingly scarce in my middle age and a news item tells us that couples shouldn't sleep together because it's bad for their health. Fairly terminal for their offspring I imagine, though there is of course artificial insemination, which kind of proves how dull our Brave New World is going to be. There is another news item I spotted just now that suggests taller people are happier. Sadly, biology prevents me from getting any taller so that isn't an option. I shall content myself with a wander into the wilds of Darkest Wiltshire, enjoying the English countryside with it's verdant splendour.... That is, at least, until my legs get tired and my feet get blistered again. Pension Statement of the Week A long time ago I left work to go on the road with a rock band. It seemed a wise idea to set myself up as a business and open a pension account. The government of the day were very keen for people to do that, what with the increasing cost of social provision. It turns out my investment hasn't been too impressive. At todays prices, my pension income will be less than the benefits I claim as a jobseeker. All those thousands of pounds that accumulated in there really aren't going to pay off too well. Not only that, but the company pension I contributed to for fifteen years might well be declared defunct before long leaving me with little else. Buddy, have ya got a dime? Some years ago you occaisionally saw some hairy old guy in disvelled rags begging for spare change, at least before a policeman moved him on. Now there are certain places where you expect youths in hoodies capitalising on this source of income, and yesterday, a teenage girl clearly able to afford decent clothes sat in the alleyway between a car park and shopping arcade (now a popular and established haunt of beggars) asking passers-by for extra coins. Sorry, but you only have a few years left. I'm beginning to think that space is reserved for me.

On my way home yesterday I went by the main shopping street through Swindon. As expected for a warm afternoon (despite the threat of rain - shoppers have no fear) the street was busy with people ambling around in pairs, or mothers pushing their kids in buggies whilst screeching at them to behave even if they were already tightly strapped in and incapable of mischieve. The open-fronted bars were busy and thanks, but I already know about my choice of clothes. A little bit further down the street was a series of benches for shoppers to rest in between mad dashes for bargains, but on one particular seat were a couple of teenage girls. One simply didn't appear on my radar, but the other I must confess was a genuinely pretty blonde who wouldn't have disgraced the front cover of a fashion magazine. Stop looking Caldrail, she's noticed. There's nothing worse than a teenager who thinks you're interested in her. "I'm thinking about it!" She announced in working class tones as I strode by. She can think about it all she wants. Thankfully I'm a little older and wiser than to succumb to that sort of approach. I suppose for her life is all fresh and exciting, and I've no doubt she wants to experiment and youngsters often do, but you have to wonder at the sense of trying it on with an older man she doesn't know. As it happens, I've no interest in teenage girls - not because my instincts are dulled, I did appraise her physical beauty after all, but lets be honest - can you imagine the grief she'd cause? Advert Ban of the Week It seems that pressure to improve late-night behaviour (and indeed, health) has resulted in doctors pressing for a ban on alcohol advertisements. I suppose that's a worthy cause as such, but then, the ban on smoking adverts hasn't really done much to stop smoking has it? As a matter of fact, I doubt that an advertising ban on alcohol will make any difference whatsoever. People get drunk because they want to, not because they want to spend money on a particular brand of booze. I really don't know what doctors are worried about. Pubs are going out of business anyway and whilst I happen to know that alcohol-related injuries are increasing in the Swindon area, at least when they're wrapped up in bandages in a hospital bed they're not out there getting drunk and destroying their internal organs. That's all they have to do. Better yet, ban teenagers. Then half their problems will go away.

The problem with blogs is that there's a tendency to reveal too much. There's been a warning recently about people giving away information on social networking sites that a fraudster or a burglar could use. I own a large vicious dog by the way, just in case that's of any use to you. If not, you can always smile at the cameras. But more to the point, something else has gone beyond a joke in my life and whilst there's a self impiosed limit on family news to be made public, I think it's time one piece of information (which is actually pretty useless to burglars or fraudsters so quite safe) should be placed on public view. My mother is a committed christian, and outwardly at least, a quiet and inoffensive member of the community. Certainly she wants to be seen that way. In fact, she made sure I was aware she didn't want anything written about her on blogs or forums. At the time, that was okay with me, but just lately, things have gotten a little more heated. My mother has always wanted me to be Christian. She took me to church on Sundays as a child and I remember those dull sermons and pointless rituals with relief I don't have to bother with them now. That's essentially the problem. With my spritiuality declared, mother wants me back in the fold. She was the one who mentioned earlier that 'You can always come back'. Quite why I don't know because I never a believer in the first place. But it gets worse. Mother is not the most sophisticated person in the world (even she would have to admit that) and I honestly think there were people in the Middle Ages who knew more about the Universe than she does. She once discovered my childish satanic paraphenalia that many Heavy Metal fans collect for the sake of it. At the time, all she did was fume angrily and grimly mutter "I know something about you" repeatedly. Hard to believe that people like that are still around in our otherwise so enlightened age isn't it? I've kept it quiet for a long time now, simply because that was how family life was, but seeing the extent of interference in my everyday affairs that has been going on and increasing both in frequency and spitelfulness, I would like it known that.... Your insults will get you nowhere Mum. Sorry, but I'm over the age of consent and that means I choose what I believe in. I choose to be a spiritualist (of a sort, anyway). There is no truth in Jesus if all he is is an excuse to control others. Class of the Week It's back to school for me today as I've just completed my first session on my Electrical Awareness course. I did think it was going to be a fairly inocuous series of lectures about wiring but ye gods next session I'm testing live mains installations with no rescue helicopter outside. School was never like this!

I got a phone call from a flustered computer technician on Friday. "Uhhh... We can't load your Windows.... Have you got a license code?" Groan. Yes I do. Please wait. Off I went, found the necessary document, and told him the code over the phone. He was happy and informed me the computer would be ready that afternoon. I hung up and went about my daily business. That of course means guitar practice at the moment. A short while later the phone rang when I was in the middle of a hot screaming solo. Oh not now you cretin! But a phone call is a phone call... I pulled the guitar of my shoulder and was about to put it on the stand when I realised I still had my earphones on. Oh... Ahhh.... Put the guitar down Caldrail, anywhere.... Oh no it's falling over!.... Whoops, I've just pulled the headphone socket out and dislocated my neck. Eventully however, I disentangled myself from those lethal rubber cables we musicians plug into everything and reached breathlessly for the phone. It ws the technician again. "We can't load your license number..." He moaned. What? Please don't tell me I'm going to have to walk across Swindon to sort this out... Yep, I am. That's an eight mile round trip in hot sunshine then. When I got there the repairman at the desk was busy chatting up the lady behind it. Not repairing my PC I see? Anyway, I handed him the info and he confidently promised the PC would be delievered next day. He'll phone. Next day I waited. Waited. Waited... Tired... Wait a bit more... Very tired... Wait... Zzzzzzzzzzz........ The phone rang to announce my immediate alertness following a cardiac arrest. A quick scramble for the handset.... "We've finished your computer. It's just been turned off." He happily announced, "Now it's ready for collection." Collection?!!!! Are they serious? "Oh, I meant delivery." He said quickly, "We can deliver on Monday" I'm busy Monday, all day. Oh all right, Tuesday it is. He'll phone me when they're ready. Simpsons of the Week I know this sounds like product placement, but the other night I fell prey to temptation and strode up the hill to the local fish and chip shop. The Chinese crew are all youngsters these days. There used to be an old couple in there who did a great job, but in all fairness, the youngsters aren't too shabby either. Apart from their dress sense that is. I know it's a bit hypocritical considering how fond I am of casual wear, but getting served by a guy in a soiled vest with hair hangin down his face doesn't fill you with confidence. That's all beside the point. On the television mounted behind The Simpsons were performing their usual buffoonery. Only this time it was dubbed in Cantonese with English subtitles. Talk about strange... Listening to young Lisa saying "Doh Jay Meester Pwinciple" was a seriously ridiculous thing to hear. But who am I to judge? At least the Chinese at the takeaway were enjoying it.

It's a sunny morning, a clear blue sky, so I thought I'd drop by the park and enjoy the sunshine. There was hardly anyone around but eventually this old guy hobbled to the edge of the lake and deposited half a loaf of bread in the water. The nearby ducks eagerly paddled after this awesome prize and began tugging at the sodden excess of white loaf with relish. To them, it was a veritable feast. Over the lake was a flock of seabirds. Small white ones, petrels I think, though I'm sure I'm wrong. One flew to the fountain, then hovered back and forth, beating it's wings furiously to stay airborne. I've never seen a bird do that before. getting a wash while flying. That's a first. Once satisified his feathers were bright and white (birds have yet to invent washing powder) he circled over the ducks and realised they were feeding. The little petrel chose his spot then descended on a duck, stealing whatever bread he could snatch away. The other petrels spotted this mugging and thought they too too could enjoy a feed at the expense of the suprised ducks, who were already thinking of moving away. The entire flock repeated the exercise, attacking the ducks like a rampant gang. Survival of the fittest, demonstrated in the safety of the park. Ahhh... There's a bunch of youths over there, beercans in hand, looking around for something to do. You know sometimes how you just know it's not a good idea to stick around? Hoodie of the Week Yesterday I was walking through our local ghetto area. I was just about to cross the road and looked behind to check for traffic. Instead, I spotted a black youth behind me. Well I couldn't fail to, he was only a few feet away. At any rate, I slowed down to wait for traffic to pass, and after the young man had sauntered past me, I spotted something in his hand that looked remarkably like a jacknife handle. You know sometimes how you just.... Well, youi know what I'm saying.

Sorry, but it looks as if I'm going to have to repeat a point or two. Roman legions of the Pre-Marian Republican era were simply not permanent institutions. They were supposed to be raised annually for the campaigning season (armies generally didn't go to war over winter though there were always exceptions). This is well attested to by various sources, please check out works by Adrian Goldsworthy or Peter Connolly, or perhaps one of the Osprey series if you need a precis. Ooops... I've clicked my fingers... Sorry about that. Secondly, whilst we are blessed with Roman sources, it is noticeable that the literary quality can be fanciful at times. Cassius Dio in particular liked to relate speeches that couldn't possibly be memorised and put to parchment later. Did Livy and Polybius really know the motives of Fabius at every stage? I seriously doubt it. We are talking about a culture who gloried in war, even in their earlier stages, the Romans were always a martial society. It stands to reason then in relating the story of Fabius, they write about him in a favourable light. This was after all written by the man you described as a supremacist. But isn't this pretty much what I said? The Romans had no answer to Hannibals War. They had lost four battles severely and weren't willing to confront him in that manner again. Fabius was playing for time, not annihilating the enemy. Polybius has merely rationalised what was an unadventurous policy designed to minimise the damage rather than sweep it away. If Fabius was such a success, why was it necessary for Scipio to force the issue? Hannibal wasn't going away, part of the senate at least were considering surrender, a portion of Roman territory had sided with the invader, and the war was lingering on at no benefit to the Romans. Of course the Senate slapped themselves on the back and said the Fabian Strategy was the key to success - politicians always back the winning side after the event. Praise for Fabius was an indication of his political acceptance rather than any real military ability. The fact remains that Fabius didn't win the war. Hannibal lost it. Fabius may have been correct in address to the senate in that he had cornered Hannibals army in one place. Fair enough. But then again, Fabius had a vested interest in reporting something positive. All Roman generals were politicians in this era, not career officers. If fabius had gone in their and shame-facedly announced he hadn't won, what was that going to do for his reputation? In short, Fabius exaggerated the success of his actions - I don't doubt Hannibal was having a hard time, invasions are not easy to sustain over long periods even in the modern day - and he could get away with that because events turned away from Italy. Granted, Hannibal may have been less able to deal with the situation than he had, but that doesn't justify a victory. Polybius was writing in such a way to accentuate the importance of Fabius, whio was very typically cautious as the Romans preferred their commanders to be. lastly, Hannibal had lost the initiative after Cannae, at the very time he had the greatest opportunity. Like so many ancient commanders, Hannibal was a brillant commander on the battlefield but not so impressive in strategy.

With my long suffering PC now deceased, I find myself with a lot of time and no means to occupy it. Socialising? Not any more, my bank account is in danger of floating away, if anyone still remembers me that is. Music? Well why not. I now have some time to get a little much needed guitar practice. As it turns out, I've had a chance to play a somewhat expensive guitar, one of those 'Explorer' style instruments (if that means anything to you) that is twenty five years old. I've heard it said wooden instruments mature and sound better as time goes by, which is one reason Stradivarius violins are so valuable, and it's true. The neck was a joy to handle (unlike the unwieldy effort on my own guitar) and the sound had a fine quality to it that you just don't hear very often. Put it back, Caldrail, you can't afford it. The thing is, materialism aside, instruments like that bewitch you. They seriously do. Music is a form of communication and with familiarity you do express yourself through these contrivances. It's like finding a better voice, a better vocal range, better lyrics, clever grammar. All of a sudden you can express yourself easier and more fluently - at least, that is, as far as your skill allows. Pick up the old guitar, Caldrail, and practice some more. Practice Makes Pain When I handed my guitar to the music store for a little fettling recently, I did mention to them it would be nice to hear it played by someone else. I'm used to a certain sound through my own amplifier played with my own particular style (which is none too sophisticated, believe me!). The chap who whisked off a few rapid chords smoothly asked if I practice. Well... Not often. "There you are then. If you practice you'll get better." Said the young whippersnapper who risked a stern response. But he was right, I don't practice enough, and that was always a bugbear in my drumming days. So I'll while away some hours today happily pretending I know how to handle this wooden beastie in my hands, and push the boundaries of my ability just a little bit further. Ye gods my fingertips hurt....

It's nonsense not only because your logical process is flawed at multiple points, but mainly because you're just explaining your own personal guesses.... What, like most historians do? Nothing wrong with my thinking process at all. I just don't agree with you, that's all, but then, why would I consider you the last word in Roman history? Same sources as you more or less. Sorry, I just disagree with your interpretation. I come here to discuss Roman history, not to sit silently while Scylla lectures everybody. What's the point of an internet forum if you can't contribute? In any case it doesn;'t matter. You're just trying to browbeat me into silence for your own reasons. I suggest you cease and desist from that behaviour. Especially since you don't like quoting sources either. It's a lot of trouble to go to isn't it From Wikipedia... The Fabian strategy is a military strategy where pitched battles are avoided in favor of wearing down an opponent through a war of attrition. While avoiding decisive battles, the side employing this strategy harasses its enemy to cause attrition and loss of morale. Employment of this strategy implies that the weaker side believes time is on its side, but it may also be adopted when no feasible alternative strategy can be devised. Scylla - that's exactly what I argued. I therefore submit that I do know what Fabian Strategy is and that you're doing nothing more than attempting to discredit my contribution. On hearing that Lucius Caecilius Metellus and other politicians were at the point of surrender, Scipio gathered with his followers and stormed into the meeting, where at sword-point he forced all present to swear that they would continue in faithful service to Rome. Fortunately, the Roman Senate was of like mind and refused to entertain thoughts of peace despite the great losses Rome had taken in the war

My own personal view is that Polybius was around at a time when Rome was rising out of the almost disastrous Second Punic War and rebuilding its strength and confidence, so perhaps he can be forgiven for some national pride. It is true that he saw the Roman constitution as something inherently stronger by virtue of its checks and balances, but then he doesn't consider that the balance might go too far one way. Since 'change' is an inherent part of our cosmic reality and moves from growth to decay in all things, he is underlining a truth about politics, yet his pride in Roman culture clearly wants his own state to rise above the inevitable fall from grace that he predicts in all things political. I do rationalise that a little. My own feeling is that whatever the ultimate outcome of Roman history was to be, he saw Rome on a rising trend and thought the best was yet to come, so in terms of his own human longevity, experience, and indeed political thinking, he had every reason to feel positive about the city state he lived in.

Where do we all come from? I'm not sure. I seem to have sprung forth from inside my mothers tummy but it's a bit difficult to see how we could all get in there. My physics teacher assured me it was the birds and the bees (which means I'm actually a feathered insect). A comedy author however insists I'm descended from apes, an idea put forward by Darwin who got laughed at. Paleontologists tell me my dim distant ancestors (through various gerbils, mammal-like reptiles, amphibians, fish, and several-celled jellyblobs) are slime. Then again, Fred Hoyle says life did not originate on Earth at all, which makes me a space alien. Some people have ventured the suggestion I come from a looney bin, whilst others tell me they know where I come from but never elaborate because they're too busy disagreeing with what I've just said. But then again, it seems the stuff we're all made of were once fused together in a long gone star, which implies we all come from a small tiny spot that contained everything. And we blew that up too

Caligula: Divine Wrath is the offending title. On no account buy it unless you want porno stories about Caligula, Claudius, and Commodus, not to mention some astonishing (and quite ridiculous) revelations about the behaviour of arena crowds. No it isn't, I've just checked, and Scylla is correct. However I won't be checking the ciontents again.

Until a few months ago, one of my usual 'get-fit' routes was to follow the farm trail to Southleaze and cross the M4 motorway on that concrete arch bridge. For some reason it was decided the bridge must go, inspired partially by the new housing developments taking place on Swindons Front Lawn. Yesterday I went that way again out of curiosity. A new bridge has been installed but I wanted to see if it was accessible. It was. Not by cars anymore however. The bridge has steps on one side instead of a steep embankment, and the south side no longer has that curved approach path. That's all been torn up, and the track leading from the road now ends at a field. Which, incidentially, is also what happens the south side of the bridge. There's a long gravel path leading down to a grassy field, and you have to cross a potentially muddy area to reach the old track. That's progress I guess. Progress on Personal Fitness I can still sprint a respectable 100 metres. True, I'm not likely to challenge Mr Bolt (my legs just aren't long enough and my athlete to pensioner ratio isn't getting any better) but hey, I can still do it. Unfortunately, this 'get-fit' stuff isn't doing much for my endurance. I reached the top of a long rise gasping and sweating exactly like the unfit individual I'm trying not to be. Is there an easier way to get fit? What's the point of trying hard to stay healthy and active in later life if you die of a heart attack through exertion? Same time tomorrow then.