Protolibber

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You know what it’s like when they call you in and offer you that construction job in a new country and you punch the air, stop to buy the missus a brand new toga at the market on the way home to break the news to the family, and the missus, instead of saying, “Wow, that’s amazing, well done darling,” just stares calmly and quietly at you for a few seconds and says, “Well, you can go if you wish but if you think the rest of us will join you in a bath-free wilderness where there are no proper roads to speak of, where the local populace have no idea of how to handle a fork at the dinner table, and where hordes of blue-faced barbarians are constantly charging down from the north in order to raid our reserves of precious wheat, well, forget domus et placens uxor. For Jove’s sake, Cassius, they don’t even speak Latin there. How do you think that’s all going to impact on the little ones?”

So here I am, back at the barracks, saying, “Sorry boss, can’t do, wifey won’t hear of it.”

Doesn’t do my career any good at all.

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