The Plashing Vole

I was staring at the denuded milk shelves the other day, and found myself if this is how it felt to be Romano-British in the 400s. One day t...

 I'm not sure which act of the Shakespearean - or Websterian - tragedy my institution is now at. There's definitely been a murder, b...

Well this has been a marvellous new year. Christmas was relatively good: a few days off and catching up with siblings and their children I h...

It's one thing to know that your entire existence and purpose means nothing to those in charge: it's another to hear it articulated ...

Maybe I am dead after all. I certainly haven't been blogging at all: too busy teaching (every day) and preparing classes in multiple for...

 'I Aten't Dead' is the sign the ultimate brommager   Granny Weatherwax leaves next to her body while she hitches a ride in ani...

 A couple of days ago I posted a quick piece on my disquiet about the BBC offering members of parliament anonymity to discuss government p...

Amidst everything going on at the moment - graduations, preparing for a whole new semester of in-person teaching, examining a PhD, writing a...

Hi all. I've been on holiday in Ireland for the first time in two years, where the shelves are groaning with food and coronavirus appear...

I'm picking up hints of a 1990s revival. I don't like it, but if there's no choice, it's got to be the right  version of the...