Londinium

People have been living in the London area for over 5,000 years, although, like Israel, it was once boggy marshland. I don't know what this means, this 5,000 years business: does it mean no one lived there beforehand because it was a swamp, or that that's when residential records started, or at that point the native folk got massacred by nice white people who stuck their flag in the earth?

The Romans established the town of Londinium in 43 BCE, about 7 years after their invasion of Britain. Around AD 60, it was sacked (what does that mean ?) by the Iceni and their fiesty queen Boudica, but then it grew until, get this, in the 2nd century, it replaced Colchester as the capital of Roman Britain (Britannia).

I repeat. Colchester. Imagine that being the capital of our mighty frozen land. Shudder.

Talking about shuddering, these pictures were taken at lunchtime, the warmest part of the day, on our convoluted way past Henley's fields and icy graveyards as we looked for the effing pub. It was around minus 5 that night. All of us went out for a smoke but no one was shivering quite as violently as I was.












Roman London had 60,000 residents, as opposed to the squashy 12 million today. They enjoyed the largest basilica (Roman public building) north of the Alps, a governor's palace, temples, bath houses, amphitheatre and a large fort for the city garrison, all which, sadly, are no longer down Streatham High Road. Political instability and recession- yes, credit crunchers, a 3rd century recession - led to a slow decline.

At some time between 190 and 225 AD the Romans built a huge, thick defensive wall around it, although I don't know where that is either. Also like Jerusalem, the city has survived fires, plagues, terrorist attacks, war, bombardment and invasion. Both have witnessed mass immigration and growth, until tiny hamlets a day's ride from London, like Pinner, got enclosed in its great zone 5 underground map, and it spread almost to, well, Colchester. Ironically.



Fuelled by this newfound interest in the place I was desperate to leave for most of my itchy youth, I got in touch with schools for the kids for next year to, as they say in Amerikee, cover my ass. If I was to decide to come back then the kids having places in schools would be a serious consideration, but if I left it, that would be it. No chance. No option. Stuck with a capital uck and a different first letter.

So I called the secondary school that has a thousand kids vying each year for 'only' 300 Year 7 places and discovered the deadline passed in October; that my kids aren't in the country which complicates the application by a millionfold or renders it impossible (depending on which local authority you speak to). The school committee would have to consider Tamar's Year 9 application with great weight and deliberation if she ever rose up the extensive waiting list, and we'd have to get clearance from the Beit Din. Barnet were the least pedantic and beaurocratic council - well, they were the only ones who didn't scream with laughter at my request, or slam the phone down with disgust, or shriek outright, 'No way on EARTH, you mad, deluded witch.' So in my application, as long as I use Valerie's address, move to Hendon or Golders Green if I do go back, which is fine by me, lie, cheat, steal and kill all those who are on the waiting list before us, we'll be in with a slim chance. Hey, I wasn't daunted. Massive headfucks are run of the mill - I'm getting used to them - and where there's a will there's a way and all that proverby stuff. Plus it will leave my options nice and open one way or another.

Feeling not so trapped or stuck or weighed down, Israel felt a better place to be. Boring, uncooth and uncivilized, yes. Decent people have to scrum through flying mud for the remainder of the pickings and feel grateful they have work at all, yes. But that may be just my inbred intellectual snobbery and my blue blood surfacing. I could blame alot on those regal genes - I should remember to. I'm a PRINCESS, for crying out loud. I'll have to get that printed on a t-shirt.

Once landed, I spent the last 2 days arched over a computer with stiff shoulders writing summaries for Newser, which means making sure headlines are direct and contain verbs, putting numerals before certain things eg 40 years but forty candidates, italicizing books and some sources but not others, and turning 'encyclopedia sounding sentences' like 'Other threats to coral reefs include pollution and natural disasters, like earthquakes, the Guardian reports' to snappy lines like 'The report also zeroed in on additional threats like pollution...'

The New York chick training me seems to think I'll get there in the end and the snappy line thing will just click, but right now I hate the news with a passion. Three of my summaries went on air yesterday, with editing, of course. Do I get paid for these two whole days? No. And the three days beforehand? No. And the two days next week? And the week after, ad impecunium? Don't ask.

I see it as skill building. Or slave labour, depending which day you get me on. A Penniless Royal (Oooh, Penny Royal was some kind of ancient contraceptive stuff. Good name for a book.)

Kate said, 'some things just don't belong. Like a cactus in the rainforest'.

Hmm. Well, the cactus is back in the rainforest after a much needed restorative break, wishing the friends she could rely one, the ones who are there for her and made her laugh, were just down the road. But something is better, and the thought of being here seems less enervating somehow.

And, AND, I woke up this morning and said, ' No cigarettes today. That's it.' And I didn't either. Just wish I hadn't bought a stick of 200 in duty free.