The gels have been engrossed recently in the Gone series of “young adult” angsty-fantasy-thrillers by Michael Grant.   (They’ve tried to explain the story to me – it’s to do with vanishing yoots with “special powers” who have to fight off zombies or whatnot while trapped behind some energy shield thingy.  Or something.  I confess I didn’t pay all that much attention, so perhaps this isn’t quite right.)

At any rate, it just so happens that Michael Grant is also the name of a (now deceased) famous classicist.  The Port Swiller Manor library contains several volumes of his popular histories of the Greco-Roman world, together with a couple of translations from the Latin that I used back in college.  (I’ve got his Tacitus, for example.)

Given the way the gels have carried on about their Grant, the thought flitted into my braims of suggesting that he and my Grant are, in fact, the same person and that they’d really enjoy reading my Grant books as much as they do reading theirs.

“Honest, sweetie, I’m sure there’s a part in the Agricola where the druids start spiriting away centurions and trapping them inside Stonehenge and making them fight tree spirits.  Just keep reading!”

It’s an idea.