This piece was a winning entry in Britain's New Statesman magazine's weekly competition.   The challenge was 'We want extracts from the autobiographies of any famous female of your choice (fictional or real) illustrating [that women are complicated]'.   Intriguingly, the editor cut the final sentence of my entry:

Boudicea's Lament

I am leading my Celtic warriors against the Roman Legions tomorrow and I don’t have a thing to wear.   Destroying Londinium seemed a good idea at the time but maybe we should have just razed the villas and left the shops.   Central Londinium prices were horrendous but there’s no denying you could pick up some beautiful togas if you pillaged around a bit.   A nice red one would match the interior trim of my new chariot and wouldn’t show the blood so much.   As it is, I shall have to sally forth in these appalling animal furs and metal corsets.   What if we lose and I get paraded through the streets of Rome?   Having all those chic Roman women seeing me in this outfit would be just too humiliating.   Why couldn’t we have been invaded by the Welsh?

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