Friends find £15K of Roman currency in a field
TWO pals found a hoard of more than 3,000 Roman coins in a buried pot using metal detectors.
The biggest haul of copper alloy coins ever found in Britain, the treasure is internationally significant.
Rob Jones, 59, and Craig Paul, 32, had spent years searching land near the village of Rauceby, Lincs. Engineering teacher Rob said: “It’s incredibly humbling knowing the last time someone touched it was nearly 2,000 years ago.”
Lincolnshire County Council archaeologist Dr Adam Daubney said the coins, from AD307, appeared to be “a ceremonial offering” and “pointed to ‘ritual’ hoarding in Roman Britain”. Estimated at £15,000 the coins, found in July 2017, were declared treasure at an inquest and must be offered for sale to a museum. Finders usually split proceeds with land owners. HUGE Hoard LIKE four out of five fathers these days, Prince Harry was at the bedside when Meghan gave birth to Archie.
His ecstatic remarks to camera captured the joy of bringing a child into the world.
“The most amazing experience ever imagined,” he gushed. This is very modern stuff, in line with the contemporary image the Royals are keen to promote.
“Being there for baby” has become absurdly fashionable. Dads insist on being at the midwife’s elbow through the whole gory process of childbirth.
“Bonding with baby” they call it.
But men often get in the way. In his brilliant bestseller This Is Going To Hurt, former obstetrician Adam
Kay relates how one father insisted on being first to touch the baby – even though it was a caesarean section.
Another was “d**king around on a birthing ball and fell off, cracking his skull on the ground”. And one fool kept cracking jokes, culminating in “ever had a baby come out a different colour to the parents?”
“Does blue count?” he replied. Ouch! That shut him up.
With our first, I was only allowed to look at her through a glass screen. Men weren’t allowed anywhere near the labour ward.
Next time, I was there for Josephine, Harry was at birth but only because she arrived prematurely – in the kitchen, on the spare bed from which I’d just evicted the lodger.
I nearly missed the show, discussing my books with the university GP. As instructed by the doc I burned the afterbirth, wrapped in brown paper, on the fire. This was 1964, not quite Archie Mountbatten-Windsor royal nativity.
On the whole, I think the place for the father is the pub, wetting the little un’s head rather than bothering the medics.
Bonding will come, when baby starts to walk, talk, sulk and misbehave, and eventually ask for the deposit on a flat. Parenthood is for life, not dad-dramatics on the maternity ward.
To rephrase Shakespeare’s parturition is such sweet sorrow.
Best place for the father is down the pub wetting little un’s head
Juliet,