Rome, sweet Rome

For some time now I have been aware that there was something badly wrong with my life without ever being quite able to put my finger on exactly what. Now, having watched Rome (BBC2, Wednesday), I know: I was born in the wrong place, 1,953 years too late.

Take religion. I don’t wish to knock my beloved Chelsea Old Church but I’d be lying if I pretended that it answered all my spiritual needs. I’m superstitious. I do kind of believe that there are lots of other mini-gods and spirits out there besides the main one. I’m constantly looking for signs and portents. I touch walls to ward off evil when I walk down corridors. I like tradition and extravagant ceremony. Now how cool would it be if you lived in a time where, say, your son was going on a dangerous journey, and you could find out whether he was going to live or die by the following means: suspend a huge black ox in a cage above your kneeling naked body; have the beast flayed by slaves and then its heart ripped out by priests; take a long shower in its hot, dark, pumping blood?

Then there’s sex.