My first school was Roseberry Infants and juniors at the top end of Pelton village, County Durham, just across the road from the Newfield inn.
As an aside I never thought of the gray and depressing mining village setting I grew up in as a village. I suppose it strictly is, but I guess I have spent too much time wandering around chocolate box rural villages to associate the grimness of where I come from with the term. You may already get the feeling that I am not exactly wallowing in nostalgia for the place I grew up in, and you would be right, I only go back there to see my dad. But there are some things about my past that do make me smile when reminded of them and the school details are important. This was a very busy road junction and someone needed to be in control.
Thankfully there was. The lollipop man – it was usually a man for us – was your friend and companion that shepherded my five to eleven year old self safely across the road with a smile and a wave.
I was reminded of this last week when up in the North East again for the combined reasons for the Great North run and more importantly my grandmother’s ninety-first birthday. It was as I drove up from the Team Valley to see my Nana in the care home she has just moved into, rich fruit cake in tow. Getting there meant driving past the local primary school. I would describe that as pretty much like entering the gates of chaos.
There were small children everywhere, with parents desperately trying to keep track of their various charges as the children randomly moved around in a sort of Brownian motion that I normally associate with small ducklings on a lake. At any moment you felt that some child was going to stray out into the road.
It is so easy for that to happen. Children, no matter how well schooled, are easily distracted. I know from personal experience. When I was about nine I remember leaving school one Friday with Stuart, one of my best friends. We crossed the road at the proper place with the lollipop man and continued chatting way down the road. Suddenly Stuart said a naughty word and explained that had left something in school and need to go back as “his mother would kill him”. I said OK and turned to continue walking and expecting him to catch up. He was still calling after me as he walked into the road and was hit by the car.
I just remember a horrible thumping noise and turning around to see a car with a group of people huddled around the front, hiding what was lying there.
Stuart survived. In fact he was very lucky and ended up with a broken arm and bruises. But it could have been a lot worse and you cannot drive too carefully or too slowly around children.
Back to this weekend and we were stopped in the road by the man in his high visibility jacket, cap and authoritative “Stop” sign. Order was temporarily restored. Children and parents alike were beckoned to – swiftly – cross the road safely with a smile and a wave.
However, maybe people were not crossing quite as fast as they could. This was mainly so that the children could say hello to their protector, and in the case of some of the slightly older children actually have a short conversation. What I think struck me as this man got his job right is that it was not the cars he was controlling, it was the children (and to be fair, the parents) calming them down and introducing some order into the chaos. And then the key final point for me, with all the children across, a glance behind to the drivers with a thanking smile and wave and back onto the pavement waiting for the next batch of charges to collect patiently.
Unnamed lollipop man, I salute you. Fellow drivers, be patient and let him or her do their work.

Calgacus could taste the smoke in his lungs as he ran through the backstreets of the city with the young legionary in tow.
The smoke came from the fires thrown up by the Iceni as they began to run riot. They were systematically torching the place.
‘We don’t have much time,’ he gasped to the young soldier. The boy seemed to have attached himself to the builder since their escape from the stables,’ I have friends who I need to get out of this inferno.’
The boy nodded, but still looked confused. Looking for orders, Calgacus guessed. From anyone who was prepared to give them. I had better oblige, then.
‘You can come with us or stay,’ Calgacus warned,’ I know a way out of this, but it stays secret until I have my friends, do you understand?’
‘I understand, ‘said the legionary,’ although I don’t think I can leave with you. I would be executed as a deserter.’
‘That’s your decision,’ Calgacus shrugged.
He had enough problems already without adding someone who should in theory be capable. The boy would have to look after himself.
‘My name is Adeodatus,’ the boy suddenly said and immediately looked embarrassed at the outburst. He rallied though to try and explain’ I thought if we were to die together we should at least know our names.’
‘I don’t intend to die today to be honest, ‘Calgacus laughed,’ but I take the point. I am Calgacus. Now come on, they cannot be far behind us.’
By now they were approaching the quarter where the bar was located. Calgacus reckoned that there was nothing for it now, and there was no longer time remaining for subtlety. They would pick up Senodo and just storm Miletus’ town house, assuming they got there before the Iceni. They would take Vita by force and pray to the gods that they would make it through his escape route in time.
They came round the corner and stopped in shock.
A group of five or six Iceni were grouped around the entrance to the bar trying to get in. One had already thrown a torch onto the roof, and it had begun to catch.
The attackers were been held back by at least one person inside the building and as Calgacus watched, one of the attackers went down under the weight of another tribesman’s body that had just been hurled physically out of the door. Calgacus heard a bellow of anger from inside and knew it was Senodo.
‘My friend is in there,’ Calgacus said to Adeodatus. The boy nodded understanding and drew his sword. The two men sprinted and cut down two Iceni before they were able to recognised the new threat.
Senodo, seeing his chance, barrelled out of the smoking facade of the bar, wielding a broom handle like a staff and laying into the remaining attackers. Faced with the ferociousness of this counterattack, the two surviving Iceni just ran.
‘Let them go,’ Calgacus snapped as Adeodatus made to follow them,’ Senodo, are you alright?’
‘Yes,’ the big man gasped. He looked up at the roof of the building. By now it had caught fire properly and was being fed by the wind that was whipping it through the timbers.
‘The bar is done for, though,’ he added, sadly.
‘Is Exuperatus in there?’
‘No. I have not seen him for hours,’ Senodo admitted, clasping Adeodatus in greeting,’ hello young man, and thank you for your help.’
Adeodatus just blushed and tried to hide the pain from Senodo’s grip to his shoulder.
‘We are going to try and get Vita out – by force,’ Calgacus said,’ you don’t have to come.’
Senodo shook his head.
‘You know I have grown to love the girl too,’ he said,’ and anyway only you know the way out, remember?’
They both laughed at that. Adeodatus just looked at them as if they were mad.
The three of them made their way out of the alley and carefully began to wave their way through the increasingly deserted streets of this part of the city.
Most of the people were already trying to flee via the gates, running straight into and onto the swords of the Iceni. Others had barred their doors and windows in an attempt to hold out; they would be burned alive, Calgacus was sure. He thought briefly of Antonius and his wife, and hoped they were safe.
‘Oh dear,’ whispered Senodo as they turned the corner to view the house of Miletus.
Calgacus felt his heart sink as he saw it was already in flames. As they watched, one section collapsed.
They were too late.

I am not a fan of shopping.
I guess I am not alone in that, as I know many men and quite a few women who also view the retail experience as a chore. Shoe shopping is the worst, cannot abide shoe shops, they make me feel like a small child having to wait on a low padded bench for the bored shop assistant to find my size. Then comes the ritual of lacing, trying them on and doing some sort of complicated dance to pretend you know how the new shoes are going to feel outside in the real world (before parting with a ridiculous amount of money) for the par that fit the least worst.
That said, there are some shops that I can enjoy – bookshops for instance – but considering my reading pile is so large at the moment it has to have a flashing red light on top to warn low flying aircraft bookshops are not a place I can really feel I can go into for the moment. That leaves me one type of shop that I actually enjoy entering.
I confess, I like a good butcher’s shop.
Now, apologies to the vegetarians but I do like my meat, and I also like to know where it comes from. I should also say I now as I go down this carnivorous train of thought that I am being unfaithful to family history; part of my family was heavily involved in the greengrocers trade back in the day (I recall particularly the horror stories from my great aunt of the many and varied creatures that used to crawl out of the boxes of bananas in the shop in Gateshead).
But I find a butcher’s shop a fascinating place, and butchers themselves interesting people. For a start, most of the butchers I have patronised have been worryingly cheerful people. As they stand there, traces of blood on their apron, meat cleaver in hand and surrounded by death and the results of subsequent dismemberment wearing a wide smile you have to be a little disturbed.
I wonder if it is being surrounded by death that generates that kind of attitude. It is possible I suppose. I think it is also because it is often a family business – in the butchers in Tewkesbury I was in at the weekend the owner’s teenage son was serving with great pride – so they care about the business and repeat visits. It is also a trade that give you an opportunity to show off. Want to know exactly how much mince you need for that Bolognese? A good butcher will know. Need a joint cut in a particular way? Leave it to the man with the big knife who should know both how to cut it properly and with a reduced risk of removing their own limbs in the process.
I suppose as someone who likes playing in the possibilities offered by an interesting piece of raw meat seeing it all laid out may engage me more than the average. With my education background firmly established in the dissection of the animal kingdom – half of my zoology course it was – maybe there is also an element of playing the anatomy game of working out which piece of the animal a particular cut comes from (without cheating and looking at those big exploded diagrams that seem to be prevalent on butchers walls, trying to convince you that indeed your nice piece of fillet was indeed once part of a cow).
I’ve nothing against buying meat in (at least some) supermarkets. But I do love a good butcher’s shop, including the decor with those encaustic tiles with unrealistic pictures of happy sheep (and shepherdesses – come to think of it did they really ever exist?) in some rustic rural ideal.
On a serious note too, a local butcher is responsible for the quality and sourcing of his meat and a lot easier to make accountable by making it clear as you look across the counter you are interested by the level of welfare the animal had, and, if you are into such things, an idea of food miles.
I was particularly amused while on holiday earlier this year in the Durham Dales to see a board in the butcher section of a farm shop off the A66 indicating how far the meat had all travelled. For most they clocked in at a journey of a few miles – but all were topped by the local lamb – 500m away from the field next door. It had me mentally reaching for the mint sauce there and then.

Miletus stood over Vita and glowered at her in the flickering candlelight of the bedroom.
‘You little spying bitch,’ he shouted, and moved towards her.
Vita, head still reeling from the unexpected blow shuffled frantically away on her bottom until her back was pressed up against the bed. She wrapped the inadequate protection of the shift around her and waited to see what the man would do next.
She could see the door behind him, but it was closed. She could not see how she could get past him now without him stopping her.
Miletus paused as he noted the bag lying as Vita had left it next to the open strong box. He picked it up, hefting the bag as if judging the weight of the golden contents and the torc it contained.
‘And intent in thieving too…’ he muttered and without warning the magistrate threw the bag at her.
Vita ducked instinctively and the bag missed her head, thumping into the bed and falling neatly instead into her shaking lap.
To her surprise the magistrate laughed.
’Well it seems to like you after all – so why don’t you put it on, girl’ Miletus sneered,’ the thing was made by your people after all. And you might as well look pretty when you die.’
Vita looked wide eyed at her attacker. She was certain that this time there was no escape. She hoped that he was angry enough to make it quick, to forget himself in his fury and strike out with a death blow.
‘I said put it on,’ said Miletus, calming.
Vita suddenly felt sick. Miletus was starting to enjoy himself again.
Not knowing what else to do, she did what she was told.
The torc was too large for her, and hang heavily around her neck.
Vita closed her eyes, feeling its cold metal against her skin and expecting his brutal hands to soon join it.
‘That’s better. You almost look the part too,’ Miletus said.
Vita opened her eyes. The magistrate was looking at her with a look of calculation.
‘I wonder if the original plan might just be worth another go,’ he said.
Vita felt that he was largely addressing himself.
’Though I’ll have to break you first as I cannot have you running off again.’
Miletus stepped across the room towards her.
‘So we’d better get started. Get up and lie face down on the bed,’ he ordered.
Vita got up trembling from the floor, and steeled herself for what was probably coming.
Suddenly, there was a knock on the door, followed by a muffled voice.
‘Master, come urgently!’ the voice, probably from a slave was insistent even from beyond the cubiculum door.
Miletus threw his arms up in annoyance and with a final glare at Vita turned and went over to the door. He flung it open.
On the other side was a wiry, weasel faced man the magistrate did not recognise.
Vita looking around nervously, suppressed a gasp of astonishment.
‘Who are you?’ Miletus demanded.
‘A man whose life, despite his best efforts, seems to get increasingly complicated,’ said Exuperatus.
He then stabbed the magistrate through the heart with a kitchen knife.
The Gaul pushed the body aside without ceremony and looked at Vita. The girl’s eyes were fixed on the knife and the blood that now dripped from it.
‘You look very pretty dear,’ Exuperatus snapped,’ but now can you put some proper clothes on. We need to get out of here right now.’

No one loves wasps.

Well, that is probably not true. I suspect many of the people who study wasps – and they are interesting little beasts – probably have a soft spot for them. But I think it is fair to say that there are few creatures so universally vilified. I’m not a fan either, I confess. This weekend one of them stung my lovely wife for no particular reason that we could see. Just flew up to her and stung her as she was standing still in the middle of a sun kissed garden.
In that act of apparent motiveless violence (and in this case a pyrrhic one as the individual in question ended its days ground into the grass by a vengeful flip flop) is one of the reasons I think that many of us hate them.
I do try and speak out for even the most nefarious of creatures, but despite my protestations in their defence that they are useful scavengers, kill a lot of garden plant attacking pests and also are pollinators, most people I know take the ‘what on earth are wasps for?’ attitude. That is ‘what are they for’ apart from randomly stinging people and crawling all over food, anyway.
But what is any creature ‘for’? The bottom line is that whether you believe in ineffable design or that it is all a random process, everything certainly has a role to play and when you remove it from the picture you are going to have a number of impacts, many of which are difficult to predict.
Even the inevitable extinction of the panda (sorry panda fans, but I’m not putting any money on them still sitting and munching on bamboo in fifty years time, at least in the wild) will have some impact, if only to deprive conservation charities of a poster child.
We have had the message quite a lot this year on the subject of bees. Yes, some people are scared of bees too, but a lot of people are fond of honey and the stories of imminent crop disaster from a lack on pollination have been high profile in recent times and there appears to be (ho ho) a groundswell of goodwill. Plus, on the whole our British bees at least do not bother you unless you bother them – not true of all species of bee (globally) where some are extremely aggressive (as an aside, I have been stung by a bee once; I was eight, on holiday and I sat on the poor thing. My father found it very, very funny.)
So we have Miss. Bee provided for in little bee hotels set up for her over winter in; we are advised to plant bee friendly plants to encourage them, and even provide dilute sugar solutions to give them a little bit of an extra buzz if they work themselves too hard, the poor dears. But old grumpy Miss. Wasp gets fumigated, traps put out for her, newspapers and other devices thrown at her and generally a lot of hand waving and verbal abuse (I wonder how many young children learn naughty words in the late summer thanks to wasp related incidents. A fair few I reckon, although possibly not as many as result from interactions between road users when behind the wheel). And yet poor Miss Wasp is only trying to eat; most of her normal sources of food are limited now at this time of year
I have to confess though that I am also a wasp murderer.
In a fit of revenge against the attack on my family I took the battle to the black and yellow terrors and managed to drown at least one in a sink as a retributive strike. Do I feel guilty now for this premeditated act of insecticide? Not really… But at the same time I do think that if anyone needs a PR campaign in the insect world it is the wasp. As with many things we dislike there is an element of fear involved and while it can never be eliminated but with knowledge it can be mediated.
In some respects the wasp is a victim of its own success. The colouring, the buzzing and the infamous sting itself challenges us mightily it seems. Looking at it objectively, and for the majority of us that fortunate not to have an allergy to the sting (which throws thing into and entirely understandable reason to be concerned) it is still interesting that a wasp can reduce creatures many times their size and power into a fit of panic at the slightest appearance.

You have to give the little blighters some credit for that at least.

(And if you are turning into a wasp lover, find fellow enthusiasts at http://www.buglife.org.uk/discoverbugs/Wonderful+Wasps/Wonderful+Wasps+-+Wasp+Facts and http://www.royensoc.co.uk/insect_info/what/social_wasps.htm)

‘Senodo, darling,’ the young woman poked her head around the canvas door of the big man’s workshop and brushed her blonde hair out of her eyes,’ have you seen your daughter?’
Senodo looked up from the table leg he was working on with a lathe.
‘No. I thought Arduinna was with you. She is probably playing down by the river. Or she may even be fishing. When we invoked the Huntress at her naming we were more right than perhaps we knew. ’
‘I thought you were going to start teaching her how to carve today,’ Messalina continued, coming over to stand by her husband,’ she was very enthusiastic about it last night.’
Senodo shrugged.
‘I was. But the day is fine and warm. This place is dusty and boring on a day like today. Let her play, I’ll have plenty of time to teach her when it rains.’
‘You don’t think it is strange, my love, do you?’ Messalina laid a hand on her husband’s arm. Senodo stopped his work and kissed her.
‘What is strange?’ He asked.
‘Teaching your twelve year old daughter to work wood… After all, it is a man’s job,’ Messalina frowned,’ and Arduinna spends too much time acting like a boy as it is.’
Senodo laughed.
‘She’s my daughter. The carpentry is in her blood, my love. And she is only twelve. I am sure that she will be a fine woman like her mother when she comes of age.’
‘You wanted a son, I think,’ his wife chided.
‘Yes, of course I did. But I love my wife and daughter. They are everything to me,’ Senodo took his wife in his big arms and held her tightly to him,’ and there is always the chance that a boy might come along, if we keep trying.’
Messalina ran her hand tenderly tracing the contours of a huge bicep and looked up at her husband, whose eyes had begun to twinkle cheekily.
‘Well, I guess that if our daughter is currently entertaining herself, and I have already interrupted you from your work, we could always have a go at giving her a brother now…’
Then Senodo heard screams and could smell burning, and he realised that his strong arms were empty, and would always be that way.
Senodo sat in the empty bar and wiped the tears from his eyes.
It was almost ten years now. He gripped the end of the table so hard that he thought his fingers would tear through it. Then he let go and sighed.
‘They’re gone, you old fool,’ he told himself,’ you didn’t fall on your sword then, why do it now?’
Senodo got up and went back into the cellar area. He had already stripped the house of any valuables that could be reasonably carried, mostly tools and the bronze household gods. Exuperatus had vanished with most of the money hours ago, making excuses about needing to buy supplies. Assuming they did get out alive they would have to be in hiding for some time.
Senodo had known Exuperatus for a long time now but still was unsure that he could really trust his partner. Like him the other Gaul was too scarred by his own experience to be idealistic about life in the way that younger people were and thus was less drawn to the conventions of friendship and honour.
Senodo listened carefully. The noise of battle was increasing all the time.
They had agreed that Calgacus would try and rescue Vita and meet him and Exuperatus back here at the bar, and then they would make straight for the bath house. That was the plan and Senodo hoped that they would get a move on.
There was a muffled thumping at the door and Senodo sighed again, this time with relief. He went over an opened the door.
He immediately recoiled as an axe struck out towards him, missing him by inches. Senodo continued to stagger back as the Iceni warrior entered the bar with a cry, with others behind him, some carrying an assortment of weapons, others were carrying torches.
The Iceni brought the axe around for another strike.
Senodo felt behind him for a weapon and felt the leg of a stool he had lovingly crafted.
He was thinking of his Messalina and Arduinna as he smashed it against the warrior’s head.

Still on my travelling adventures this last week and I have been exposed to a much greater number of members of my own species than normal. It reminded time and again of what an interesting bunch we are.
Every so often there are times when I do wonder if the best thing to do is to develop a passion for bananas and climb back into the tree, but as we have managed to cut most of that habitat down maybe my second career as an Orang-utan is a bit of a non starter although my general physical form combined with some ginger hair dye might at least achieve the look.
But generally I felt positive towards the human race this week. Or found enough people to make me smile rather than make me frown.
Three different groups of people made me smile this week.
First off were the lovely people at Cincinnati zoo, where we were having a series of business meetings. Now, as a middle age man it is not difficult to be charmed by a bunch of young women with cute animals, but really they seemed to have found what makes people sweet and bright (I guess by genetic sequencing, pretty much every other living thing has had its genome determined as far as I can tell) and then bred a whole set of people who were more than happy to smile and chat about immature flamingos, giant tortoises or the habits of pygmy pigs.
Indeed I strongly suspect that there is indeed a captive breeding programme at the zoo that they are not telling us about, alongside the ostentatious ones such as the newly arrived Black Rhino. In fact this breeding programme might well be more important to the world than the aforementioned rhino, so I rather wish them well with it.
Up next are small children. I always wanted to be a dad, although that was not to be. So I guess I am a bit of a sucker in having my heart melted by small kids on a regular basis (and I admit, I don’t have to deal with all the difficult stuff being able to hand them back just as they go off on one.)
But what I love is the joy that small children express and the innocence and generosity in which they express it. Wave at a two year old and he or she will wave back, even though they have never seen you before and probably will never see you again.
Up until the age of six, generally you seem to skip to places rather than walk. I personally think it is a shame that we don’t skip more often as adults (it is an effective way of covering ground quickly).
We were at Osborne house on the Isle of Wight this weekend and were treated to a Punch and Judy show which again showed the ability we have when we are small to just get wrapped up in things without the barriers of cynicism. One little boy in particular was fully into assisting the policeman in the apprehension of the wayward Mr Punch, shouting at the police puppet to turn around ‘very quickly and you might just get him!’ and then lamenting sadly at yet another missed opportunity by the short felt arm of the law to catch the miscreant – ‘oh, it didn’t work this time!’
(as an aside, a policeman friend of mine who was also watching noted that it was interesting to see how few of the adult audience seemed prepared to shop Mr Punch to the forces of the law, despite him having just thrown the baby put of the window and beaten his wife to death and buried her in the cellar.)
Finally the smile from the baby being carried off the plane at Heathrow on Friday as she looked back and saw my floppy (and therefore quit silly) summer hat was huge and honest and utterly adorable. Again, as adults we lose the ability to show our joy n this way, even replacing that smile with a guarded and measured display which – while perfectly fine – lacks the vitality of such a wild grin.
So that deals with the kids. The last group of people are the other end of the spectrum. I was getting off a different plane earlier in the week behind a Chinese-American family of three generations. The tiny wizened grandmother with her leopard skin top and wild white hair had been sat next to her sunglasses wearing, gum chewing granddaughter. Typically the girl didn’t look up from her phone the whole trip, leaving her grandmother to sit in silence staring off into who know where.
As they got up to leave the plane, however, and as I let the older lady out into the aisle, she suddenly grinned at me wickedly, pointed at her younger relative and made hand gestures behind the girl’s back mimicking frantic thumb action. This was followed by an “eyes cast upwards in despair” look that almost had me in hysterics. And then she was off.
A priceless moment of humorous non verbal communication between complete strangers, and something I will treasure. Never trust the really old folks. They’re the naughtiest of the lot – and they are not worried about petty things such as embarrassment any more.
So, I’m still happy with being human (and to be honest, I’m not the greatest fan of climbing trees or bananas)

Vita sat down on the bed and shivered in the thin white tunic she had been forced to wear. She looked around at the scented furnishings and drapes of the cubiculum. This place had been in her nightmares since she had escaped. Both the place and the slimy feel of Miletus himself as he touched her.
Unfortunately she was not dreaming this time.
Miletus had not beaten her badly yet. He wanted his fun with her first before breaking her bones or covering her in bruises. When he was done, then he would start to torture her. Hence he had gotten the other slaves to bathe and perfume her; and put her in this little silk shift. Vita admitted to herself that it felt wonderful against her skin; but only as a piece of underwear.
The man’s lust however was keeping her alive, and it gave her moments like this where she could look for evidence against him that she might be able to get to Aquila. Vita did not trust his lackey, but the Investigator himself seemed at heart a good man. Like Calgacus.
Her poor innocent, loyal Calgacus… Vita missed him, and she knew that he would be desperate to get her back. She was certain she would need his intervention to get out of this mess. Miletus would not let her get away a second time.
She wondered how her friends were doing. She was sure that the attack on the city had started by now. Miletus and his household were intending to leave soon by the East Gate; Vita was unsure if he meant to take her with him, or just strangle her and leave her corpse to adorn his town house as the Iceni presumably burnt it to the ground.
The room was much the same as the day she had made her initial escape.
The strong box was in the same place, although this time it was firmly shut and locked. Vita looked around for something to attack the lock with. On the dressing table she saw a number of bronze tools, part of a toilet set. Discarding the nail cleaner and the ear scoop, she settled on the pair of tweezers and padded lightly back to the box. She began to work the arms of the tweezers back and forth to see if she could dislodge the lock.
To her surprise and delight Vita felt the barrel move. Carefully she tested the lid and opened it up.
The box contained a number of folded scrolls and documents, and a number of bags that Vita guess contained money. She picked up one of the bags and opened it.
To her surprise, it contained a shining gold torc. She marvelled at how beautiful it was, fashioned from multiple strands of gold wrapped together like several snakes entwined. There was something familiar about it, but Vita could not remember where she might have seen it before.
Maybe as part of a wall plaster mural, she thought, and reluctantly put it back in the bag, but placing it next to the box rather than in it. She could not leave something like that with a man like Miletus. Vita then began to sort through the documents.
Most of them were accounts. She could read them but they made little sense to her. But she was sure that Castor would find what he was looking for in them. As far as Vita could tell Miletus was ambitious and would happily do anything he could to further his desire for wealth and power.
Vita started to make a pile of the most interesting looking documents. In doing so, she noticed one next to the torc that looked different, was made form a different quality of paper. She reached out for it, curious.
A moment later, the fist that had caught her on the side of the head deposited Vita a full foot away from the chest.
Framed in her blurred vision she saw Miletus standing over her his face scarlet with rage.

On Sunday I was on a plane when a group of Amazons boarded.
I was quite surprised. At first I thought that recently writing a short story set in ancient Greece had created a rip in the space/time continuum through which the Amazons had fallen through, all of them young, fit (in the we work out sense) and over six foot. However, their identical blue track suits betrayed the fact that they were in fact not a mythological group of all female warriors but the University of Dayton women’s basketball team. Apparently on the way home from a successful tour of Italy (well done them). I know that because the pilot made sure everyone knew (cue applause). I love this about the US. If this had been a UK flight you might possibly have had a slight ripple of clapping; but the poor girls would have shrunk, embarrassed into their seats. The Dayton Flyers took it in their long strides.
And why shouldn’t they? After all, the one thing they couldn’t do was to try and hide in their seats.
Because the bottom line is that they poor girls could hardly fit in the Delta economy seats. Some of them could fold themselves up a little better than others but some of them looked dreadfully uncomfortable.
For not the first time in my life I was happy to be average/below average height. I felt sorry for the girls in this situation; I do not like to see anybody being uncomfortable.
I know a lot of people – mostly women – who wish they were taller. I have never really understood this. As a man I would like to have grown a bit more (up, rather than out which is unfortunately more the case) but airplane seats, being able to drive sports cars, and not braining myself on low doorways have suggested that there is nothing bad about being average to short in stature. But I do understand that the image we have thrown at us does suggest a norm that in reality is not the case.
However, I also felt quite proud of these Amazons. Because at their height they possess one of the natural gifts for something like basket ball, and I think it is a fundamental to our happiness to come to terms with our limitations and embrace our strengths. I would never be – before we even talk about my fitness I am just too short. If anything, I’m a rugby build (but lack the aggression and commitment). But we all have talents.
Those can be physical or academic or something in between; let’s call that one attitude and outlook. One of the things that I have had a huge amount of satisfaction from in recent years is finding a role in life related to the encouragement of others.
I am never going to be an outstanding sportsman. I am quite useless when presented with a musical instrument. I have managed to get by in academic studies but lack the application even there to perhaps do as well as I could have. However, if feedback is to be believed, I am pretty good at boosting others..
I am utterly convinced that everyone, everyone, has real skills and talents and with some development can excel and feel good about themselves. The problem is finding those talents. For some it is route one, and I know a lot of really bright, talented, skilful people where some of their abilities, at least, are blatantly obvious. For these people it is more are they making the most of those gifts rather than finding out what they are.
For the others it is harder. At this time of exam results it is very easy to think of yourself as a failure if you’ve missed the target and while obviously it is disappointments if that happens but you just have to get over it and move on. Because somewhere there is something better waiting… But you have to find it. It isn’t a case of one door closes, another opens. You have to go and keep trying the doors (and giving them a good shoulder charge as well, as sometimes they may be unlocked but need a little encouragement to actually open.)
Anybody not happy with the current situation should be encouraged to try new things and take risks. To put aside the Plan A that seems to be the path everyone is encouraged to go down regardless and wander down another track instead. Be creative if Plan A isn’t working. If you don’t think you are creative – find someone who is to help and let them throw ideas at you and catch them with an open but discerning mind.
And my role in this is to wipe the brow, hand you a gourmet sandwich and then give an almighty shove down the path you have found, while trundling along behind in the support van (just in case).

When Calgacus finally got to the area of the West gate it was obvious that even with no military training, he could see that they were losing.
The attackers had broken through the gate and were now being held back by a few disciplined but increasingly outnumbered legionnaires and a rabble of townspeople carrying a miscellany of weapons. Roman tactics, so effective out in the open were not proving effective in the brutal dirty fighting of the town streets.
Calgacus looked for somewhere he could make a difference.
Scanning, he caught the eye of a middle aged Roman in what was once a smart tunic but was now splattered with gore. From the effective way he was laying into the enemy with his sword the blood was mostly from his vanquished opponents. However, this champion had begun to be separated from the rest of the Roman force as a number of Iceni had found a weak point in the defensive rabble.
Calgacus made for the man and his remaining defenders and reached them just as one of the two remaining bodyguards went down, his throat slashed by a scythe. A spear came in towards the man in a tunic and Calgacus batted it aside with his stolen weapon and, with the ferocity born of desperation, he ran the attacker through before he could react.
The Roman looked at him and smiled grimly and briefly.
‘Thank you for that,’ he said simply, before addressing both the Briton and the remaining soldier,’ now by the authority of Emperor, I command you two to get me a horse.’
‘This way, sir, quickly,’ said the soldier, who Calgacus could see was little more than a boy. He was a Hispanic like many of the Ninth, maybe only seventeen or eighteen, and had probably seen as much actual combat as he, Calgacus guessed.
The three of them disengaged from the combat and turned to run through the streets to where the cavalry were stabled. When they got there they found that most of the stalls were empty.
‘I need a horse,’ the tall Roman demanded of a terrified groom who he had grabbed by the arm,’ a good one.’
‘The best horse left would be the Commander’s sir, but –‘
‘That will do. This is my seal,’ the Roman pulled out the mark of office from a pouch and waved it at the confused boy,’ I am Marcus Flavius Aquila of the Imperial service and I am requisitioning this animal.’
The groom handed him the reigns. That was enough for him. He was more frightened of the attackers outside and this man whose grip held him firm inside, than any possible later repercussions.
‘He’s a bit sprightly, sir,’ the groom warned.
‘Good.’
Aquila turned to the stunned Calgacus who had just realised whose life he had just saved.
‘Thank you again. I must ride to make contact with the Governor and his forces. Maybe I can persuade him to change his mind and relieve the town. Until then,’ he clasped the shoulders of Calgacus and the remaining soldier,’ you two will remain especially in my debt. May Fortuna be with us all.’
Aquila leapt onto the horse and taking it in hand galloped out into the street and promptly disappeared around a corner.
A moment later, a horde of Iceni came hurtling back around the same road junction and started to batter down the now barred stable doors.
The few horses left began to rear in panic.
Calgacus looked at the young soldier, who seemed confused as to what to do now that he was separated from his fellows.
‘Come on, man. Let’s get out the back, while we can,’ Calgacus said.
The two men ran for the rear and the possibility of escape, with the splintering noise that accompanied the demise of the main door behind them provided significant impetus to their flight.