THE NAME GAME

Archaeologists working on the excavated site of a Roman cemetery in Cirencester have unearthed a 2nd century tombstone dedicated to a lady named Bodicacia. According to Current Archaeology, issue 302, the upside-down stone was protecting a grave - the skeleton of which turned out to be male - and had thus been reused.
Once the stone was turned over, however, some fine carving and decoration was observed, along with a five-line Latin inscription which read: 'To the spirits/memory of Bodicacia. Wife. She lived 27 years.'
The conclusion seems to be that Bodicacia was a Celtic name, which in turn implies that the stone was originally carved for a young British woman, perhaps local to Cirencester, who had married a man rich enough to have commissioned an elaborate tribute. Bodicacia, and the male name Bodus, are thought to have shared the same language root was Boudica, the original meaning of which was 'victory.'

It is possible the gravestone was re-used even as late as the 4th century; and while the inscription itself, along with the name, may have been carved two centuries or more after the Boudiccan revolt, it does suggest that the name might still have been in occasional if not general use all those decades and generations later.

ON THE TABLE

I was nine years' old, pushing ten, when the Second World War rumbled towards its end, and the odd thing is that the actual moment peace broke out seems to have left little impression on me. I cannot remember Churchill's famous broadcast at all or recall any outburst of public or even familial joy, and there was certainly no dancing in the roadway. Not in the road outside our house, anyway. What I do remember, however, are the plans for the town's official celebratory outdoor tea which was to be held in the Market Place.

It is necessary to explain that at this time I was a somewhat solitary boy, one who preferred to play on his own, or read books. My greatest agony would have been an invitation to another boy's birthday party. I wouldn't go. Loathed parties, you see. Couldn't see the point of them. And the planned VE-Day party, to which the town's children were invited? Certainly not. I refused to attend.

In the end my constant complaint and off-handedness seem to have won the day, and I was officially excused. And so while the rest of the town's kids sat at trestle tables in the open air, surrounded by bunting, and tucked into corned beef sandwiches, cakes and jelly (garnered from goodness knows where), I sat patiently beside my father in the upstairs window of an ironmongery store, which happened to overlook the joyful panorama, while he attempted to a watercolour painting of the sunlit scene.

Thus while I have lots of memories of the Second World War, I have little recollection of the moment it came to an end. But I do have a copy of my father's unfinished picture.