The Canterbury Tales: A Bluffer's Guide part 10

It's been a while.  Important disclaimer is here; if you'd like to read a proper re-telling of the Tales, try this.

The physician's tale:  Virginius the knight has a beautiful daughter, imaginatively called Virginia.  (Did you know, incidentally, that George Foreman has five sons called George and a daughter called Georgetta?  I wouldn't have picked George Foreman as a Chaucer man, but who knows; maybe Virginius was his inspiration.)

Virginia, who is quite beautiful, goes into town with her mother one day and is spotted by Appius, the town magistrate.  "Phwoar, I wouldn't mind a bit of that" he thinks when he sees her.  Appius doesn't have a single romantic bone in his whole body.  So instead of doing what any nomal bloke would do when confronted with a girl he quite fancies, like suggesting they go for dinner and a movie, or sending her flowers, he ropes in a villanous rogue called Claudius to help him concoct a plan to steal Virginia's virginity.

The plan is this: Claudius will bring a law suit against Virginius, claiming that years ago, Virginius stole one of his servants and brought her up as his daughter.  The magistrate, who would be presiding over the case, of course, will rule in favour of Cluadius, and demand that the girl is returned to him immediately. 

So that's exactly what happens; a somewhat confused Virginius is summoned to the court room, bamboozled with legalese, and before he knows it, finds himself having to tell his beautiful daughter that she's off to live with Claudius  and will have to do whatever he wants her to.  And I think we all know exactly what that will involve, don't we?

Virginius and his daughter know too, and between them they decide it would be better for Virginia to die, rather than to lose her virginity to a swine like Appius.  So Virginius, full of sorrow, cuts off his daughter's head and takes it back to the courtroom.  Appius is outraged and orders Virginius to be hanged immediately.  Luckily, the local people have also worked out what Appius and Cluadius are up to, and decide to get involved.  A mob of them march into the courtroom and throw Appius into prison, where he promptly hangs himself, and Claudius is sent into exile.

The Pardoner's Tale: The pardoner does a couple of things just before he starts telling his story.  First, he pops into the pub for a pint and a pie.  Then, as those who have just downed a quick pint are sometimes prone to do, he gives everyone a lecture.   Gluttony is bad, he tells them all (through a mouthful of pie). Perjury and cursing are bad.  Wine is bad.  Spanish wine is the cheapest and the worst, he says.  (I'm not sure I agree, actually; I had a particularly nice Rioja over the weekend.)  Gambling is really bad.  Eventually he begins his tale.

Three friends, who quite like doing all of the things the Pardoner has just told us are so bad, are drinking together in a tavern one morning.  They notice a coffin going past, and wonder who is inside it.  A servant tells them the dead man was an old acquaintance of theirs, and that he had been killed by Death.  Oh yes, chips in the landlord.  Death has been crawling all over this town lately, bumping literally thousands of people off.   He's a right pain in the neck.

The friends decide to seek out this guy Death and teach him a lesson, which sounds exactly like one of those ideas which makes perfect sense if, and only if, you're in the pub.  Just after they leave the tavern, they come across an old man who they are convinced is in cahoots with Death, and demand he tells them exactly where he is.  The old man isn't stupid and decides the best thing to do with three young, tipsy blokes is to humour them.  So he tells them they will find Death just up that path over there, under a tree.

They set off up the path, and sure enough they find a tree.  But underneath it, instead of Death they find a massive pile of gold.  This prompts them to forget all about Death, and they focus instead on how to get the gold home.  One of them, probably the least drunk of the three, points out quite rightly that they can hardly carry it in broad daylight, so they decide to wait until darkness falls.

It's still quite early, so they draw straws to decide which one of them should go back into town and fetch provisions to see them through the day. As soon as the loser has set off, the others conspire to kill him and share the treasure between the two of them.  Meanwhile though, he's thinking of ways he can keep it all himself.  So don't feel too sorry for him. 

They guy who has gone into town picks up some poison  at the local apothecary, and then stops in at the tavern, where he buys three bottles of wine, and puts poison into two of them. When he gets back to his mates they kill him straight away, just as they had  planned.  But then they drink the wine, so they die too.   At this point in a story one would normally say and they all lived happily ever after. It doesn't quite seem appropriate here. 

It's not a particularly heart-warming tale, this one.  Do you need cheering up now?  Perhaps some super-cute baby animals will do the job:

Scenes from a Chinese restuarant

I ate at an all you can eat Chinese restaurant on Saturday night. As all you can eat Chinese restaurants go, this one wasn't bad.

But then, these things are all relative.  Especially if twenty minutes before you walked into the Chinese all you can eat restaurant in question you had been right on the verge of walking into something else. Specifically, into the cheese room of the perfectly nice wine bar you were already in.  That's right, we were in a place with a whole ROOM of cheese to choose from.  In my head I was already enjoying a nice stinking bishop.* 

The problem was I was with a big group of people, a couple of whom didn't want to stay at the wine bar.  This became apparent just after two of us had definitely decided we were going to have some cheese, but before we'd actually set off on our expedition to the sacred room.  So it seemed rude to leave.

 One woman started the "maybe we should go somewhere else for food" discussion, then a few others joined in.  None of them wanted to offer an alternative of course, they just murmured vaguely about how somewhere else might be better.  A guy who kept reminding everyone how flexible he was and how he really didn't mind where we went and what we ate, said what he really fancied was a good steak.  Someone else muttered something about sharing plates.  In the meantime, the woman who started the whole thing had somehow managed to order a sandwich which she ate quite happily, and then announced it didn't really matter where we decided to go, because she was off home.

Anyway, eventually someone decided it was time to make a decision, which is how we ended up at the world's most technologically advanced all you can eat Chinese restaurant.  Not eating cheese.  I'm not complaining really, I'm glad someone finally made a decision, and it wasn't terrible meal. It just wasn't cheese.

What was this incredible technology, you might be wondering?  I'm glad you asked.  It was their signage.

To help you grasp the significance of this, let me explain: these are all pictures of the SAME SIGN.  A magic sign of many colours.   If I had done better research I could tell you exactly what brand of electronic, chameleonic sign it was, but I'm afraid I can't.  I am no Stieg Larsson.

Bathroom signage was less technically advanced, and more cave-man like:

But further evidence of their technical expertise came in the form of some rather impressive (although not, strictly speaking, Chinese) sushi:

You may not be as impressed with this sushi as I was. To start with, as was pointed out to me while I ate it, there is a distinct lack of raw fish. (Some may argue that this is a good thing. To those people I'd say: what are you doing eating sushi in the first place?) Speaking as someone who occasionally rolls my own (don't worry, I never inhale), let me tell you: sushi which looks like this would be pretty hard to make.  It's the mini rolls in the corners which would be the tricky bit, and to be honest I'm still not sure how they got them in there.  The physics of it all is enough to make my brain hurt.

Sushi wasn't the only thing on the menu:

The other thing I forgot to take a photo of was the tepenyaki chef in the corner who would cook food while you wait.   He was great.  If you looked like the kind of person he really wanted to impress, he even set your food on fire right before serving it up.

*cheese-wise, obviously.

Media Studies 101

Have you met Paul?

He's an octopus (in case you hadn't noticed) who was born in Weymouth but now lives at the Oberhausen Sea Life Aquarium in Germany.  The staff there have discovered his amazing talent for predicting World Cup results.  They put two glass jars in his tank, each marked with a flag and both containing a mussel, and wait to see which mussel he picks first.  So far he's predicted all of Germany's matches correctly, including Sunday's win.  On Sunday he didn't just take the German mussel, he also climbed into the jar and pulled the lid over his head. Clearly he'd heard a few things about English football fans.

I'm probably telling you things you already know, because he's been all over the papers.  He has even been making international news; the Herald Sun in Australia reported the story with the rather brilliant headline Ink Germany in, says Paul the octopus.

Closer to home, the papers have all put their unique stamp on the story.

The Daily Mail focuses on the fact that Paul is English born, and brand him a traitor. everyone knows you can't trust a mollusk, they say. The Guardian, as well as poking fun at how the Mirror and the Sun cover the story, tackle the human rights issues it raises.  From Shaun Ingle's live football blog:

Apparently Paul had an 80% success rate in Euro 2008. Now, if he's two-years-old now that means he was forced into this gig from birth. The labour laws in Germany need to be looked at.

I couldn't find the Sun's version online but if the Guardian are to be believed, they use the story as an opportunity for a spot of German bashing. When I searched for octopuses (octopi? I'm never sure) on the Sun website, the closet thing I found was a story from a few years ago: Man admits to Octopus Porn. The mind boggles.

The Times focus on aesethetics, describing Paul as a "particularly ugly octopus".  I suppose that means a post-World-Cup career in the apparently flourishing octopus porn industry is out of the question.  Other quotes from the Times:

Sceptics claimed that Paul’s accuracy was well within statistical norms. Eight legs, two glasses - you do the maths. 

One thing is for sure: if Paul gets it wrong, the 22-legged England team will be entitled to tuck into a celebratory dinner in South Africa. The grilled calamari is said to be particularly tasty. 

They don't seem to care  much for cephalopods, those people at the Times.

Sunday Night Music Club (the sports edition)

If you know anything at all about me, tonight's song will seem like an odd choice.  In fact it may even seem like an odd choice if you don't know me at all.  It's not that great a song, to be honest.  But let me explain.

I watched half an hour or so of cricket with my Dad this afternoon. Watching cricket, as I've mentioned a few times now, isn't exactly my favourite thing to do.  If I was, for some reason, making an ordered list of all of my favourite things (to sing to a group of frightened children in the style of Julie Andrews, perhaps, which is the only reason I can think I might possibly make such a list, and even that scenario seems unlikely), watching cricket probably wouldn't rate a mention.  Not even if the list was really, really long and included things like DIY of any description, or sorting out my tax, or having my teeth cleaned by those dental nurses with the horrible pointy tools.

Even so, watching cricket with my Dad isn't something I get to do very often, and that's why there was absolutely nowhere else in the world I would rather have been this afternoon than sitting with him on a couch in Dulwich, with Australia v England on the telly.

And then while I was on the bus on the way home, my ipod shuffled to this, and it just seemed neatly appropriate.  I still don't get cricket, but I get that other people get it. 

If you're one of them, enjoy.

 



If you're not a sports fan,  normal service, in the form of a more-appropriate-for-a-Sunday-evening musical choice, will resume next week. (Truth be told, normal service will resume next week whether you're a sports fan or not.)   Also, if you are a sports fan, and particularly if you're a Bradman fan, you might be interested in the question being raised here.

Lost and Found

Wait!  What's that I can see, high up on my most difficult to reach bookshelf, balancing on top of the Baghdad Blog (very good, by the way) and a book I've just noticed I still need to return to a friend who I haven't even seen in about a year and a half?  It's the CANTERBURY TALES!!! I knew I had put them somewhere. 

No time jut now to regale you with the Physician's Tale, but rest assured, there will be soon. 

Tired. Very Tired.

I have worked for 4 out of 5 days this week.  Not that I'm complaining or anything, but seriously:  how do you people do it?

I spent today writing scripts for Microsoft Office training videos, which is exactly as exciting as it sounds.  I am still a little bit delirious I think.  This is going to be a short post because I have NO. WORDS. LEFT.  I can literally feel my brain shutting down.

If you are someone I know in real life, there is every chance that next time I see you I will randomly ask you to right click something, or babble incessantly about hovering mice, or get cross because you still don't know that Ctrl-C is a short cut for copying and I have already told you this in 45 different ways.

I can only apologise in advance.

I really mean it when I say I'm not complaining.  Delighted to have the work, and delighted about the fact that I'm being paid to write.  At least I will be, once my brain has stopped thinking about shortcut keys and menus for long enough to actually process those facts.

Not the Bluffer's Guide to the Canterbury Tales part 10

You noticed the first word in that heading, I hope.

I was all set to bring you the next installment this evening, but I have temporarily mislaid the book which is my main (only) source material. 

It's a disaster of the worst kind, I'm sure you'll agree.  But I will find it, don't worry:  I live in a studio flat so there aren't many places it can be.  And there is a good chance I might find it burried beneath the enormous mound of parsley:

That's a 2p piece in the foreground, by the way, just to give a sense of scale. 

If you look closely at that photo, you might also notice a packet of Well Woman vitamin tablets in the background, although they are hard to spot because they are mostly hidden by a bottle of gin.  This picture is not a representative sample of the things you might find in my kitchen, just so you know, although the more I think about it, the less sure I am about that.  The one thing I can say with some confidence is that my kitchen is normally a lot less garnished than this.

I'm looking to be whisked off to Paris. Any takers?

Yesterday I caught, quite by chance, a brilliant program on Radio 4 about Les Bouquinistes; the booksellers who work along the Seine. 



I only had half an ear on the radio when it came on (which was less messy than it sounds),  but within five minutes of it starting, I had dropped everything else I was doing, and was glued to the radio.  Within ten minutes of it finishing I was Googling cheap Eurostar trips to Paris.

I have just listened the whole thing all over again (thank you, BBC iPlayer), and have found out so many fascinating things, I hardly know where to begin.  I'm certainly not going to fit them all into one blog post.

To start with, I have fallen head over heels with one man featured in the program, who loves books more than anything else in the world.  He has also been unlucky in love, which is why I have a soft spot for him.  He told the interviewer within two minutes of meeting her  that he's reading a Patricia Highsmith novel because he has just had his heart broken.  (I am definitely going to try this cure the next time it happens to me.)  "I can't hold onto a woman, but I can hold onto my books" he says.  He has already stolen a little piece of my heart,  and I haven't even met him yet.

You have probably seen the bouquinistes if you've ever been to Paris; they each have four green boxes, and as long as three of them contain books they are allowed to sell whatever they like (neon green Eifel towers, mainly) out of the fourth one.  They are a diverse bunch; some are ex-lawyers, others were teachers, one used to be a fireman.  One has always been a bouqiniste and started because his friend's mother was one; he used to carry books around for her in his toy cart. Some sell books on the internet, while others complain about the problems of modern technology.  In winter, says one guy, they are lucky to sell five books in a week.  Before computers, it was more like thirty.

The one thing they all have in common is that they love books, and love to read.  One woman tells the story of how she was so engrossed in whatever she was reading one day that she completely failed to notice Woody Allen rifling through the books on her stall, and later was equally oblivious when ex-president Francois Mitterand turned up next door.   You get the feeling that this is not unusual behaviour. 

Then there's a pair of sisters who, when they are not selling books, are writing them;   detective novels, written under the pen name Claude Izner.  Their protagonist is Victor Legris, and when he's not busy figuring out out who done it, he also sells books on the Seine. Well, they do say you should write what you know.  The first in the series is, hopefully, winging its way to me from Amazon as we speak.
So far, I've barely scratched the surface.   I haven't even told you about the history of the bouquinistes; how they singlehandedly saved the French punk rock movement, their role in the French Revolution, or the 19th Century book collector who left instructions in his will providing them with a massive banquet;  his way of saying thank you for the hours he had enjoyed browsing their books in the Parisian sunshine.  Then of course there's the modern collector who claims he can find the books he bought from them in his collection simply because of the way they smell.  I blame him entirely for the fact that I spent a good twenty minutes sniffing my bookshelves last night.   Not for the first time, it struck me as lucky that I live alone.

It really is a wonderful  program.   I'm not normally this militant, but seriously;  go and have a listen , and make sure you do it before next Tuesday, which is when it's available until  I think.  It's only going to take you half an hour, and I promise, it's absolutely worth it.

In which I have a little bit of a boast. But only a small one, and I promise not to do it again.

It's late.  I've already posted today, and I really should be in bed.  Especially because I have a busy day of writing scripts for Microsoft Office training videos to look forward to tomorrow. I'm quite rock'n'roll, me.

But seeing as I come here when I want to have a moan about something, I kind of think it's only right to come when something good happens as well.  And tonight it has.

I've just been reading the feedback on a short story I wrote last week as an assignment for my writing class.   I was pleased just to get something written, to be honest.  I think it's the first full, finished piece of narrative fiction (ie a whole story I've made up, not a rambling blog post) I've written since I was at school, and when I started, I didn't think I would be able to do it.

We had the choice of writing a fiction or a non-fiction piece, and I very nearly went down the non-fiction route because  it's much more in my comfort zone.  But then I decided to take a risk.  And then, just to make it a bit more difficult, I ended up writing a story from the point of view of an old woman. With Alzheimer's disease.**

I wrote it, and re-wrote it, and then had to cut it right down to fit the word limit, and I sort of liked what I ended up with, but wasn't quite sure.  I handed it in anyway, and this is what our tutor said:

Fluid, engaging style and deft story telling…
Excellent – you have left me with very little to say.
Thoughtful, intelligent writing & a well crafted story

I can't begin to describe how I felt when I read her comments, but I am dead chuffed.  She said some other things too, which were more specific, which also made them more helpful.  They were equally positive, and just as chuff-inducing.
.
I really don't mean to make a habit of shouting about these sorts of things, by the way; and that statement alone is a little presumptious as it assumes there will be more occasions like this, which certainly isn't a given. (Or even particularly likely.) But tonight, for one night only, I'm shouting.  Because this made me really, really happy.



**Seriously, I don't know why I do these things.  But, never let it be said I don't like a challenge.  I once went to a tarot card reader (please don't judge me) who said something along the lines of "your life will never be easy, because you strive for great things".  He had NO idea.

Anyone know where Derren Brown was born? Was it Bermuda?

I don't do sci-fi. So I have absolutely no idea how I stumbled across clubalien.com, a website which is "your source for ghost, aliens, vampire, ufo, and anything paranormal", let alone how it ended up in my list of internet favourites. I feel a bit like a farmer who has just discovered crop circles in the back yard.

Anyway, if you've got a spare five minutes this is worth a quick read.  It's a discussion in their online forums about whether being born in a "strange place" (the Bermuda triangle, for instance, or in a haunted house) makes you more likely to develop psychic powers.  I don't think I'm selling it very well, with that description, but read it anyway. It's quite funny.

 My favourite line, tacked onto the end of one post:

 P.S.  I'm not psychic, I don't know what I'm thinking most of the time much less what anyone else is thinking

Vernon God Little

I've finished reading Vernon God Little.  I loved it, for lots of reasons. Mainly because the writing just sizzles:

Just let me say, in case you think that I'm secretly in love with Ella, that I've known her since I was eight.  Every boy in town knew Ella since they were eight, and none of them are secretly in love with her.  Her equipment ain't arrived.   You guess it maybe ain't coming either.  Like her equipment got delivered to Dolly Parton or something.  Ella's just skinny, with some freckles, and this big ole head of tangly blond hair that's always blown to hell, like a Barbie doll your dog's been chewing on for a month.  

Set in a small Texan town during the immediate aftermath of a school shooting spree, it was never going to be a 'nice' book.  Throwing in a foul-mouthed, vitriolic teenage boy as the first person narrator doesn't exactly help, especially when he's the best friend of the killer.  A killer, incidentally, called Jesus. You can see why some Americans got a bit cross.

After Jesus turns the gun on himself, the town is looking for someone to blame, and Vernon's their man.  The satire is savage; this small town and its residents are portrayed at their very worst, with the people Vernon should be able to trust -  his mother, his doctor, his lawyer - proving the most deeply flawed.  Although the characters are larger than life and deliberately designed that way, they still somehow manage to remain utterly believable.

Vernon's voice might be jarring at times; sharp and spiky, and full of loathing.  But it lacks spite, and occasionally something else glimmers through the coat of destain and anger which means you can't help but like him.   The way this is done is beautifully subtle; the odd mixed-up word or throw-away comment is enough to make us remember that this hard talking, sarcastic trouble-maker is really just a naive teenage boy who loves his Mum.

It's a cracking read.  Not nice, but laugh out loud funny at times, and heartbreakingly real, in a completely unreal kind of way.

Sunday Night Music Club - Live from RFH (almost)

Tonight's SNMC comes to you from the Royal Festival Hall, one of my favourite places on earth. To be honest, it's beautifully sunny outside, I'm contemplating a second glass of wine and the Sunday night blues are still far, far away.  But it could be different for you; if thoughts of tomorrow morning are already snapping at your heels, you're in exactly the right place.

I've been here catching up on a bit of admin (on a Sunday, yes - who ever said that a freelancer's lot is an easy one?) but have also been enjoying some rather lovely live music performances.  One of the artists was this guy, Johnny Flynn, who I had never heard of before today, but I will listening to a lot more of.  He's ace.  I particularly like the fact that one of his songs is called Barnacle Warship*, but that's not the one I've got for you tonight. Instead, may I present the Brown Trout Blues:




This clip is an accoustic version which is great, but the proper one, which is also on Youtube, is even better.** I can't embed it here, which is annoying, but it's worth having a little listen to as well.  Even if you don't like the song, you really should click that link if for no other reason than to read the comments underneath the clip.  I don't tend to bother with these usually, but this time a funny little exchange caught my eye, between Prufrocksong and some other guy:

10 months ago (Prufrocksong):
I love him. Saw him play a couple of years ago and he left such a lasting impression on me. Has anyone else noticed that he always incorporates food? Listen to his lyrics/song titles - cold bread, leftovers, flushed red apple skin, bacon rind, bread of christ etc..


3 days ago (the other guy):
@prufrocksong I'm sure there are a few extremist christians who'd say that the bread of christ is a bit more than food... more of a ticket to everlasting life :) Nice observation though..
 
That other guy is really on the ball.


Reading on through the comments, since I was already there, I learned quite a lot about an ongoing war between Twilight fans and folk music lovers.  Apparently R-Patz (in case you're not as down with the kids as I am, innit, that's yoof-speak for Robert Pattison, the sexy*** vampire bloke in the Twilight films) is a folk music fan and whenever he's in town, folk gigs tend to get over-run with obsessive teenage girls who couldn't give a flying fiddle about the music and are just there in case he turns up. I can see how it might be annoying if you're a proper music fan, but it's also incredibly sweet.





*

(Just a reminder)


**This is unusual for me; I often prefer stripped down versions of stuff. There's a particular song I've wanted to use for Sunday Night Music Club for ages, but I can't find the (far superior) accoustic version anywhere, which is driving me nuts. I will let you know if I find it.

***Unless you're Team Jacob, obviously.

The Canterbury Tales: A Bluffer's Guide part 9

After yet another heady excursion into the world of sport, I think it's time for me to return to more familiar ground. Like 14th Century Middle England, for instance.

 If you've always been mildly curious about what's in the Canterbury Tales, this is the place for you. If you're doing some exams which require you to actually know some things about the Canterbury Tales, you may want to try this excellent re-telling by Peter Ackroyd instead.

The Franklin's Tale: The Franklin sounds like my kind of guy.  He's a big red-wine drinker, for a start.  His tale is about a couple called Arveragus (male) and Dorigen (female; those names make it hard to tell, yes?)

They live together in Brittany, but then Arveragus has to sail away to Britain for a couple of years (we don't really find out why) so theirs becomes a long distance relationship.  Poor old Dorigen is pretty miserable, stuck at home by herself, so her friends all rally around, and try to keep her spirits up. It's good to have mates you can count on.

They all go to a party one night, and at the same party is Aurelius.  Handsome, young, strong, virtuous, all-round-good-guy.  (If you know a bit about how stories work, you might already be thinking  that this guy has trouble written all over him.   You'd be right; but let's not spoil it for everyone else.)  Aurelius and Dorigen start chatting.

Finally, Aurelius the wonder-kid makes a confession: he's seen Dorigen around the place and has been secretly and madly in love with her for a while.  She says she will have an affair with him if he can remove all of the rocks from Brittany's coast.  Don't get her wrong, Dorigen isn't a slag or anything, she really is still madly in love with her husband.  But she has already been worrying about those rocks, and is convinced his boat is going to get smashed on them one day, so it's sort of a win-win situation.  Plus, she doesn't really think Aurelius will be able to do it.

Aurelius, though, is a guy not be under-estimated, and he prays to the gods for some help. Then he goes to bed in misery convinced that he will die if the gods don't step in and sort those rocks out for him.  He might be young and handsome and clever and all those things, but tell you what, he isn't half a drama queen as well.  Meanwhile, Arveragus returns.

Aurelius has an older brother who is starting to get a bit worried about him moping around in bed, and steps in to help.  He decides that a spot of magic is what is needed, so drags Aurelius to Orleans, and they track down a magician.  One of the brother's old uni mates, I think.  They ask him for a quote, and like all good tradesmen he thinks for a while, says "ooh, that could be a bit tricky" and then charges them an extortionate rate which they have no choice but to accept.  They agree to pay half up front, and the rest later.

The magician does his stuff  (the Franklin takes great pains, at this stage, to remind us that magic is evil, and we shouldn't be trying this at home) and it works; the rocks all disappear.  Aurelius goes to tell Dorigen, but also says he'll let her decide whether she wants to keep her end of the bargain.

She is a little shocked, to put in mildly, and after worrying for quite a long time, she confesses everything to her husband. Risky move, some might say; others would argue that there's not point having a relationship if you can't be completely honest with each other.  I'm not Jeremy Kyle, so I'm going to refrain from judgement.   She really does spend a very long time worrying first; mainly to give Chaucer a chance to throw in a whole lot of clever classical references.
Arveragus is surprisingly cool about the whole thing, although he's pretty upset, as anyone would be I suppose, about the idea of his wife getting off with someone else.  But because he's such a decent guy, he tells her that he thinks she should keep her word, and send her off to see Aurelius.

Aurelius is initially delighted but quickly decides that he can't possibly make Dorigen go through with it, because her husband sounds like such a decent chap.  So he absolves her from their agreement. Aurelius, as it turns out,  is a pretty decent chap too.

Even though things didn't quite work out as planned for Aurelius, he still needs to pay the magician the rest of his fee.  When he tells the magician what happened, and how he didn't have a wild affair with Dorigen after all, the magician decides that Aurelius seems like such a nice guy, that it would be a shame to rip him off.   Being a pretty decent chap as well, he absolves him of the remaining debt.

So in the end, everyone gets a happy ending. Because they are thoroughly decent chaps who do the right thing, and that's exactly what people who do the right thing deserve.

I knew I liked the Franklin.  He is definitely my kind of guy.

Present Perfect

Some people are easy to buy presents for. Others are downright impossible.  My Dad falls firmly into the second category, making occasions like Fathers' Day (tomorrow, by the way, in case you've forgotten) a bit tricky. 

Because we live on opposite sides of the world, gifts which can't be posted relatively easily or cheaply are out, as are ones which might get broken in transit or anything which doesn't comply with the uber-strict Australian quarantine regulations.  Nearly all of his favourite foods fall into the latter category, annoyingly; customs officials don't look too kindly upon kippers. Or pork pies.

Then there are some things which *could* be posted but are still problematic. My Dad, doesn't, for instance, wear ties. I hadn't really noticed this until it came up in conversation one Christmas, just as I was about to hand over his carefully chosen and  rather beautifully (if I do say so myself) wrapped present: a tie.   He already has more golf-balls than you can poke a 5-iron at. Ditto golf gloves, umbrellas, tees, and related accessories.  He doesn't do novelty socks (or novelty anything else, actually), gadgets  just pass him by, and he's never been a particular fan of tinkering about with the sorts of things that might require him to own a set of tools.  My Dad has never, to my knowledge, even set foot in a shed, let alone pottered about in one.

It all makes shopping for him  a bit of nightmare really.  Which is why, when this book popped up on my radar this morning courtesy of Me and My Big Mouth*, I nearly squealed with excitement.

  This is the product description from Amazon:

"What I Love About Cricket" is the story of a summer when a 'master' cricket obsessive teaches his novice 'pupil' the wisdom of the game. Sandy Balfour is cast as the supposed master and his sixteen-year-old daughter's new boyfriend - the skateboarding boy wonder - is the reluctant pupil. This beginner's guide to the infuriatingly perverse game of cricket is a love letter addressed both to those who utterly fail to understand it and to those who need reminding why they fell in love in the first place. What unfolds is wonderfully observed, very funny and as much about fathers and daughters, love and life, as it is about cricket

He is going to love it.

My childhood summers were stuffed full of cricket;  if it wasn't on the telly,  it was being played in the back garden or at the beach, or in the local park; anywhere there was a spare bit of space and a rubbish bin to use as a wicket.   Greg and Ian Chappell,  Dennis Lilly, and Rod Marsh were plastered over my brother's bedroom walls and the sports pages of the daily newspaper; heralded as gods in baggy green caps. Debates about such controversial matters as underarm bowling and whether one day matches should be played at night raged  for weeks.

Despite this constant exposure, when comes to cricket I don't, as you may have spotted before, know much.  But I do know that I definitely fall into the category of "those who utterly fail to understand it".  

Other sports are fine.  I can get excited about most of them if I try hard enough; give me a reason, any reason, to root for one team over the other, and I'll be right there with  everyone else, shouting at the umpire, watching the scoreboard with one hand over my eyes, and feeling my heart soar with hope one minute, then come crashing back down the next.  Cricket is the exception. I just can't get  it, no matter who is playing and how much I care, or should care, about either of the teams. It all seems so pointless. And time-consuming.

I know there are people, because I've met them, who argue that it's about the long game rather than what's going on mintue by minute, and that the mind-numbingly slow pace doesn't necessarily detract from the excitement or tension.  Fair enough. I appreciate that it's a sport with an incredible history and which is full of grand traditions.  I know that cricket matches can sometimes test the players' behaviour and sportsmanship as much as their sporting prowess, and that occasionally the game will provide an opportunity for a player to do something quite remarkably noble.  I get all that.  I still just don't get cricket.

My Dad, who doesn't so much gets cricket as positively devour it,  knows this, and stopped trying to convert me years ago, but his attempts to have become one of those ongoing jokes which tend to run on and on and on in families, until no one even really remembers how they started in the first place. He's coming to visit next week, and for the first time in years, I can't wait to give him his Fathers' Day present.  I might even have to have a sneaky read of it first.


*Scott Pack's blog; the same  Scott Pack who runs the Firestation Bookswap in Windsor.  Two quick things about Bookswap, which I went to again this month: First, it was just as good as last time I went, which you can find out all about here if you are so inclined. Second, if you live in London and think Windsor is too hard to get to on a school night, there's a bookswap in London on August 5th.** 

**You're wrong, by the way; it's really pretty easy to get there. About an hour on the train, tops. Windsor is a lot closer than you might think.

Three things you probably already know about Formula One racing

1. Button, not Bunsen.

2. Races can be won or lost on tyre tactics alone.  Those cars might look fancy, but when it comes down to the line, it's all about the tyres.  Strategic decisions need to be made about when to change from hard to soft and back again; get your tactics wrong, and you're history.

3. The Canadian course, in particular, is excellent. If you are going to only ever watch one Grand Prix race during the season, make it Canada.  It's the most exciting one.

I'm crazy busy today but recently I promised, for reasons now completely beyond me, to write a blog post about Formula One.  This is the best I can come up with.  I watched for the first time ever on Sunday, and was more surprised than I can say that I really, really, enjoyed it.


.

They might be good at football, but they're hopeless at dealing with unexpected traffic incidents

You could be forgiven for thinking the only source material for my (excellent and in-depth) knowledge of current affairs is Yahoo!, given the number of times I mention their news service on these pages.  It is not; it's just that I have a Yahoo (exclamation mark implied from now on, if that's OK) email account and tend to notice the headlines when I'm waiting for my mailbox to load.  Two things about Yahoo News:

1. They have a somewhat quirky news agenda.  Current breaking news over at Yahoo is
New Brain Drain As Grads Seek Jobs Abroad

It's a big issue, I'm sure, but really, breaking news?  (Unemployment figures quoted in the article are from March, incidentally. I have no problem with this; no doubt those are the latest figures available.  But it hardly helps convince me of the urgency of the story).
 
2. Their headlines are often fun.  Sometimes, and annoyingly I can't find any examples of this today, they deliberately make them very vague, and then pose a teaser-style question in the corner to make you click through to the story.  If you like your news to come in the form of a guessing-game, it's quite neat.  If you're in a bit of a rush, it can be irritating.

Today's headline which caught my eye was definitely one of the not so vague ones.

Student Attacks Hell's Angels with Puppy
  
A German student created a major traffic jam in Bavaria after making a rude gesture at a group of Hell's Angels motorcycle gang members, hurling a puppy at them and then escaping on a stolen bulldozer.   German police said on Monday that after making his getaway from the Hell's Angels club, the 26-year-old dumped the bulldozer, causing a 5 km (3 miles) traffic jam near the southern town of Allershausen, local police said. He then fled to his home nearby where he was apprehended by the police.  "What motivated him to throw a puppy at the Hell's Angels is currently unclear," said a spokesman for local police, adding that the student had lately been suffering from depression.  The puppy was now in safe hands, the spokesman added.

**Update**  Yahoo have clearly been reading this blog.  The do, now, have one of their exciting quiz-question type news stories online:

Airline to Charge for In-Flight Films  (How much?)


It's £7.50, by the way.  Should I have included a spoiler alert?

Dear sir or madam will you read my book?*

I've been writing  a lot this week.  In places other than here, I mean.  One of the reasons for my big decision to jump ship at work last year was to free up some time to see if writing was something I could do, and wanted to do, rather than just something I entertained fantasies about.  Fantasies involving a writer's garret full of quirky vintage furniture and chocolate biscuits, solo holidays in seaside cottages with just a laptop for company and the occasional side gig moonlighting as a detective, mainly.  (I watch a lot of Jessica Fletcher).  I'm still deciding; but it has been nice finding out.  Things I have learnt so far are:

1.  Writing is HARD.

 Really hard.  Some days it comes easier than others, but it's not like playing the piano or riding a bike, where progress more or less looks like this:

My ability to get words on a page, or at least words which I'm pleased with, looks more like this:

Less difficult some days than others, but there's no rhyme or reason to when the less difficult days are.  And see that blue line?  That's the point, roughly, where it feels anything even remotely approaching "easy".


2.  I like the idea of writing more than the act of actually doing it.

That's not to say I don't like the doing bit at all because I do like that bit, a bit.  It's definitely a challenge though. Taking up writing has been a lot like taking up running.  I don't know if you've done much running, but basically there are three main phases:

Phase one - preparation

Decide to go for a run.  Tell yourself that today you are definitely, absolutely, going to clock up 5km / 4 miles / 45 minutes, or whatever goal is on the complicated training plan you devised several months ago, then spent several days fiddling with in Excel to make it look pretty before completely ignoring it.  Spend some time in iTunes creating the perfect playlist for the occasion.  This should take a while; neither the relative merits of U2 vs INXS, nor the question of whether Elton John's early works should come before or after the Scissor Sisters are matters to be taken lightly.

 Put on new running clothes, the purchase of which was justified by the fact that they will motivate you. Hang around the flat for several hours, waiting for the motivational effects of said new running clothes to kick in.

Tackle several vital tasks which absolutely, definitely have to be done before you can start your run. Sorting the contents of your spice rack by colour, for instance.  Do not underestimate how heinous and/or unnecessary some of the tasks which will magically take on an aura of staggering importance and necessity at this time could be. There are extra points for cleaning tasks involving the removal of mould. Eventually, when you have exhausted all other posibilities, actually leave the house.

Phase two - running

 Sigh, moan, and feel clunky at the start.  Suffer a lot.  Feel frustrated that you're not finding this any easier than you did yesterday.  Glare at people. Mutter under your breath about what a stupid idea this was.  Glare at more people, who now think you're mental for talking to yourself.  Wish you had put different songs on that stupid playlist.  Cry a bit on the inside. Notice how different the reality of running (red face, pain in legs, ungainly stomping of trainers on cement) is from your  mental image (graceful glow, antelope-like strides, not a hair out of place). Wonder when the legendary "runners' high" is supposed to kick in. Very, very occasionally, have a sense, about 35 minutes in, of this being, acutally, not quite so horrible. Decide that "runners' high" is somewhat over-rated.

(Alternative phase 2 - not actually doing it after all.  This is a dark, dark, place.  Change out of running clothes and attempt to do something else, while repeatedly berating self for being so pathetic. Eventually give up and collapse on sofa in a sulk and stay there, feeling grumpy and irritated, for much longer than you would have spent running if you had gone in the first place.)

Phase 3 - after it's over

Feel smug.  Realise that wasn't so bad after all, and wonder what you were ever complaining about.  Congratulate yourself repeatedly, even if you've not run as far or as long as you were going to, because just starting was better than doing nothing at all. Causally drop the numbers - how many miles, how many minutes - into as many conversations as possible for the rest of the day. Feel smug again. Engage in copious amounts of chocolate eating / alchohol consumption / clothes shopping by way of reward.  Retain smugness levels. Try not to think about the fact that you are going to have to do it all over again tomorrow, and the next day, and the next day, if you want today's efforts to actually count for anything.

So far, in my humble experience, writing is pretty similar.  Just substitue word count for miles, and pretty notebooks and paperbacks with titles like "A Novelist in a Year", "Solutions for Writers" and "How Not to write a Novel" ** for new running clothes.  Oh, and the sound-track is less rock/disco/power-ballad, more singer-songwriter/accoustic/classical.  Otherwise, the experience is more or less exactly the same.  Phases 3 and 1 are the ones I like best.   There is no runners' high in the world of writing but there is a magic and mysterious concept called "flow" which I am yet to experience, but am told is quite wonderful.

3. Sometimes it feels awful

 It doesn't matter how many times people tell you that being rejected is all part of the process, and it happens to everyone, and that Steven King was once told he would "never sell" or that Harry Potter was turned down by seven hundred and thirty two different publishers. It still feels pretty horrible.

My first thanks-but-no-thanks email arrived last week, hot on the heels of my first submission.  On the grand scale of tragic events, this one should barely register:  I had entered a competition type thing where the 'prize' was an opportunity to pay to take part in a workshop.  So on the bright side I have saved £50.  Also, in my heart of hearts I was still only about 80% happy with what I had written by the time the deadline arrived.

I didn't expect to win a place, really, and just the act of submitting something was scary enough.  I would have been a bag of nerves if I had actually had to turn up and do writer-y stuff with real writer-y people.  None of these things made me feel any better, of course, when *that* email arrived.  It was a perfectly nice email.  Very polite, in fact.  But reading it still felt like being gently run over by a very well driven truck.


One of my favourite lines in any film ever comes from Love, Actually where Thomas Sangster (who, if you've seen it, is the cute little boy, and  if you haven't seen it, he's a cute little boy) turns to his step-dad, played by Liam Neeson, and says

"Let's do it! Let's go get the sh*t kicked out of us by love!" ***

Now I might be more than a little rusty when it come to being in love (don't worry, I'm fine, really) but from what I remember, this is a pretty accurate description of what it's like.  If you don't ever risk being beaten up once in a while, you miss out on the good bits.  Of course I still sort of hope that love will track me down one of these days and kick the sh*t out of me all over again.  But I've learnt that writing, actually, is pretty good at doing that too.





*Just a rhetorical question-slash-Beetles-reference, to be clear, not a genuine plea.  Although technically, I do have a book.  I didn't write very much of it, though.  

** these are all actual  titles of actual books that I actually own. Welcome to my world.  I have more of them, too.

***1.  If you're wondering, that's a filter-friendly asterisk, rather than a prudish one; I have learnt my lesson.  2. Also the only movie line I have ever known to have its own facebook group.  It's a great line.

Let's-All-Just-Pretend-It's-Still-Sunday Night Music Club

Missed posting this last night. Sorry about that; it's because I was out watching the football. Please be gentle with me. 

The Canterbury Tales: A Bluffer's Guide part 8

Did you spot the deliberate error last time?  (Here's a hint: I am now being haunted by visions of students up and down the country writing "Walter is an idiot, innit" or "beanbags are, like, SO 14th century" on their exam papers).  Yep, I forgot to include my usual disclaimer.  I'm not always entirely accurate so if it's a matter of national importance that you get your Canterbury facts straight, I heartily recommend this book by Peter Ackroyd. 

Briefly, because I've got a picnic to get to, here's the Squire's Tale:

The Squire's Tale:  Genghis Khan is having a birthday party. Now, Genghis Khan might have had some pretty bad press over the years, but he also has his fans, and the Squire is definitely one of them.  I'm not for a minute saying that I condone some of the stuff he did, but it's sort of irrelevant to this particular story and it is his birthday, after all. So let's put aside thoughts of killing and torture and mass slaughter for the time being and give him the benefit of the doubt.  All you really need to know about Mr Khan for the purpose of this story is that he throws one hell of a party.

Everyone's having a brilliant time and the catering is particularly excellent.  While everyone is tucking into some food, a gate-crashing knight arrives, but it's OK because he brings presents from the King of Arabia and India. And this is a King who knows how to shop. One of the presents is a magic brass horse, which, as well as being "the horsiest horse anyone had ever seen", could take you anywhere in the world, instantly. There's also a mirror which handily warns you about any impending doom so that you can make plans to avoid it,  and a ring which lets the wearer understand the language of birds. Always useful.  Finally there's a sword which cuts through metal like butter, but also has magical healing powers.  Not a bad stash, even if you take into account the fact that the ring was actually a present for Genghis's daughter Canacee, and not the birthday boy.

The party continues and there's quite a buzz about the presents; they're the only thing anyone is talking about.  The knight sticks around and he struts his stuff on the dance-floor with Canacee for a bit, has some food, and then gives Genghis instructions for how to use the magic horse (quite a complex arrangement involving various pins behind its ear).
It's quite a heavy night and everyone sleeps in the next morning, except Canacee who was sensible and left the party early to get her beauty sleep. (Don't you hate smug people like her?)  She's up bright and early and goes out for a walk.

 On this walk she comes across a falcon up a tree, who is repeatedly stabbing her beak into her own chest.  It's not a pretty sight, so I hope you're not squeamish.  There is blood everywhere, so much blood that there is a real danger that the falcon might faint through lack of blood and fall out of the tree.  Of course, Canacee is wearing her new ring (what girl wouldn't have taken the chance to show off a brand new piece of bling?) so she asks the falcon what the matter is. The falcon is so shocked to see a human who is fluent in bird-speak that she faints and falls out of the tree anyway; but once she comes to, she tells her story.  The falcon is self-harming because she has been unlucky in love.

She takes a very long time to tell her story  (I don't have one of those magic rings, so I don't know if the tendency to over-act is a characteristic common to all falcons or if this one in particular was just a bit of a drama-queen. I suspect the latter.) The bones of it, though, are that she was madly in love with this boy bird, a tercelet, and he did the dirty on her with a kite.   If you ask me, she should have known better than to trust a tercelet.

Canacee takes the bird back home and nurses it back to health.  Somehow, eventually Canacee's brother reunites the two birds and the Squire says he's going to tell everyone the story of how he did it, but first he wants to tell them about the history of Genghis Khan, and also about his other son Algarsif who won his wife by magic, using the horse, and then about the pair of brothers who both wanted to win fair Canacee's heart and had a big fight over it.

The Franklin, realising that at this rate they are going to be there all night, steps in at this point and sings the squire's praises  "That was great!  I'm LOVING the falcon!  I wish my son was as clever as you!" he says.  The Host, also keen to shut the squire up, takes the opportunity to remind the Franklin it's his turn to tell a story next.  So we never do get to see the falcon reunited with her cheating tercelet.

Vuvuzelas aside......

I probably shouldn't be blogging about football, for all kinds of reasons. Whatever to that. 

I've just watched the England/US match and, like everyone, my thoughts are focused on Rob Green, our goalkeeper.  (I'm saying "our" because today I'm English.  Tomorrow I'll be Australian, and if Australia and England both do as well as I want them to they will have to face each other at some stage, which will probably make me spontaneously combust with confusion.  But let's not worry about that until it happens.)

Rob Green, as you probably know, let in a goal just before half time.  You may also know (unless you were watching in HD, apparently)  that we had scored very early on, so the miss brought the score to a level 1-1.  As misses go, this was a particularly bad howler.  You probably knew that too.

What you probably also knew, but *might* have forgotten by now, is that then, half way through the second half, he saved a goal. It was a pretty good save, as far as I could tell.  Also according to the commentators, who I assume know more about these things than I do. 

The match ended up in a 1-1 draw.  Not a great result for England, but not as bad, by definition, as a loss would have been.  I'm no expert, but as I see it,  Rob Green did two key things tonight: just before half time he turned our lead into a draw, which was bad, but then, part way through the second half he stopped our draw turning into a loss, which was good.

Ignoring, for a moment, the unknown qualities of whoever would have replaced him, let's imagine Rob Green hadn't been there. In the first half, we would have been ahead 1-0, but then the US would have scored that goal  in the second half and the game would have finished EXACTLY THEY WAY IT FINISHED TONIGHT.  A 1-1 draw. 

Like I say, I'm no expert.  But I bet everyone forgets this tomorrow, and blames poor old Rob Green for the fact we didn't win.  I say, for what it's worth, let's big him up a bit.  After all, he also stopped the game turning into a 1-2 loss.

It's hard to argue with that.....

I do love Yahoo Answers. Often, it's the questions themselves which tickle me, but today, it's all about the response.
This was the question:

What does Fabio hai il portafoglio pronto? mean in italian?


What does this dialogue mean?

Fabio hai il portafoglio pronto?

Che cavolo! Non ci credo!

Che sfortuna! Perdo tutto!

Stai tranquillo! Sono solo soldi!

by irene

This was the best answer (chosen by voters). When you consider the source, it's not hard to see why it won.

Fabio, do you have your wallet ready?


What the heck! I can't believe it!

What a bad luck! I'm loosing everything!

Don't worry about it! It's just money!

Source(s):  I'm italian

It's not you, Booker-Prize-Winning-Novel, it's me.....

I have a chequered relationship with recent Man Booker winners-slash-nominees. I loved the The Line of Beauty (2004), but hated Life of Pi (2002). Quite liked The White Tiger (2008).  It has just taken me two different reviews and the best part of 10 minutes to work out if I've actually read The Inheritance of Loss (2006) or not.  I have, as it turns out, and from memory I quite liked bits of that too.  I certainly liked it a lot more than I liked The Secret River, which was on the short list that same year and is a book which irritated me beyond belief.

On the other hand, Cloud Atlas was on the short list the year The Line of Beauty won and is my favourite David Mitchell, assuming we're not counting the one off the telly.  I adored Atonement (2001 short-list) but thought The Night Watch and The Children's Book (shortlisted in 2006 and 2009 respectively) were a bit over-rated  (neither was terrible, just nowhere near as good as I had hoped*).  The incredibly chilling Notes on a Scandal (2003 nominee) still gives me goosebumps every time I read it. 

At the moment I'm reading Vernon God Little which won in 2003 and has been on my bookshelf for absolutely ages.  I'm only about a third of the way in so far, but already I'm blown away. I can't remember the last time a character's voice fixed itself in my ear so quickly and firmly as Vernon's has; the pages almost crackle with his hostility and frustration. Author DBC Pierre has captured that univeral teenage attitude, somewhere between distain and permanent irritation, absoutely perfectly. 

The one thing I can be sure of when it comes to a Booker-listed book is that I'll either love it or hate it. Or maybe find it just so-so.  This one's going to be a keeper, I think.



* To be fair, I started reading the Night Watch thinking it was going to be The Little Stranger so maybe I only have myself to blame.

The Canterbury Tales: A Bluffer's Guide part 7

I've been putting off writing this next installment, mainly because the protagonists in the next two tales drive me nuts.  Seriously, they are both idiots.  I was irritated and grumpy earlier this week for no particular reason, and even the mere thought of these two was enough to drive me insane.  I am over it now, although be warned; they are highly irritating people.  Don't expect to like either of them very much.

The Clerk's Tale:  A dashing young Marquis called Walter (yes, Walter.  It surprised me too.) decides he wants to marry a poor peasant girl called Griselda.  He arranges a completely over the top wedding, the kind which would get at least eight pages of photos in OK magazine, maybe even twelve in Hello, and then goes to ask her father's permission.  He even checks with Griselda to make sure she is OK with the idea, which is a) pretty token since we all know she is going to say yes and b) not as decent as it sounds, because what he's actually checking she's OK with isn't the getting married bit, it's the handing over complete control of her life to her husband bit.  Basically, he makes it pretty clear that he's going to be the boss.

They have a bling-tastic wedding and she's the model wife; very virtuous and modest and noble, and does what she is told, and produces a lovely baby daughter. All is well. Everyone LOVES Grizelda and Walter.  There were the kind of couple who, if this were a modern tale, would be known as "GrizTer" or "WalZelda" or something equally silly.

Sadly, as is so often the case with couples as golden as these two were, things start to go a bit wrong.  It's all Walter's fault, really.  I did warn you about him.  Out of the blue, right in the middle of this perfect lifestyle he has, he decides  to put his wife to the test.  So he sends his dodgiest goon to go and visit Griselda and force her to hand over their baby daughter.  Not only that, he tells the goon to give Griselda the impression that her daughter will be killed.

So that's what happens; the dodgy goon shows up and Griselda reluctantly hands over the baby.  Except the baby isn't really killed. Walter arranges for his sister to look after her, and she's brought up in complete luxury.  Poor Griselda doesn't know this, though, and she's absolutely heartbroken.   But, good wife that she is, she puts on a brave face and doesn't burden her husband with her woe and despair.  She stays true and loyal and good and kind and so on. Basically, Griselda has passed her husband's ridiculous test.

Four years later she has another child, a boy this time, and Walter does EXACTLY THE SAME THING.  Idiot.  The same dodgy goon shows up, Griselda hands over the baby, is just as devastated as last time, maybe even more, but doesn't show it.  She passes the second test with flying colours as well. 

Is this enough for Walter?  Of course it isn't.  Next, he fakes documents from the Pope giving him permission to marry someone else.  Still Griselda doesn't complain.  (By this stage, to be honest, Griselda is starting to irritate me a bit too.)  Then he arranges for his children (now 12 and 7) to be sent to him.  He doesn't tell anyone they're his children though; what he does tell them is that the girl is going to be his new wife.

By now a few other people are coming to the conclusion that Walter is, indeed, a bit of an idiot.  He tells Griselda that this is all her fault; the reason no-one likes him any more is becuase he has married beneath him. Then he sends her off to go back to live with her father in their old cottage.  She can't take any of her clothes or jewelry or anything; just the clothes she came in, except those have all been turned into cleaning rags by now.  She walks all the way back home in an old coat someone gives her and bare feet, which I imagine must have felt like the world's longest walk of shame. Being Griselda, she doesn't complain.

Walter's new "wife-to-be" (who, in case you have forgotten already, is really his and Griselda's thought-to-be-dead-by-Griselda daughter) arrives, along with her (also-thought-to-be-dead-by-Griselda) brother.  Remember how everyone hates Walter now?  Well, when they meet his fake wife-to-be who, being her mother's daughter is pretty and kind and sweet and noble and so on, they conveniently forget about Griselda and decide they quite like Walter again.  People are stupid.

Walter summons Griselda back to the palace and asks her to decorate it for the wedding, just to twist the knife a bit more.  She tells him his new wife-to-be seems very nice, and asks ever so politely that he treats this one more kindly than he treated her.   He kisses her and tells her who his "new wife" really is and and offers some lame excuse about how he wasn't being cruel, really, he was just testing her, and isn't he a hero for reuniting her with her thought-to-be-dead children.  No, Walter, you're not.  You are an idiot.

 The clerk, after he tells this tale, claims he's not suggesting wives should be submissive, but that all of us, male and female, should strive to be as good and pure as Griselda is.   Given the loser husband she ends up with, I'm not sure she's such a great role-model, personally.  But maybe that's just me.

Just time for a quick picture before the next tale:

The Merchant's tale: If you thought Walter was bad, just wait until you meet this next guy. He is called January, and his name is the least ridiculous thing about him. January (it doesn't get any better no matter how many times you say it) is a bachelor knight who, at the age of 60 decides to cast aside his lusty ways and get married.

He asks his friends to find him a wife, and his main criteria is age; he wants one who is about 20, because anyone older than that is getting past it, quite frankly, and as for women over 30, they (we) are apparently just bales of straw and beanbags. (I didn't even know they had beanbags in the 14th century, but there you go. Apparently they did, and apparently I am one.)

His friend Placebo spends a very long time giving him no advice whatsoever, and his friend Justinus basically says "who do you think you are kidding". The rest of his friends decide, after lengthy discussions, that January should definitely get married to whoever he wants whenever he wants. Basically, January has surrounded himself with a bunch of yes men.

He finally picks a wife, who is called May. January and May. What are the chances? With names like those, these two are clearly made for each other. However, January suddenly realises he has a problem: if he marries May he will be blissfully happy, and then how will he ever get into heaven? (Apparently you need to have struggled a bit in life in order to earn your spot.) Nowdays, if you were a 60 year old man set on marrying a 20 year old this wouldn't be your most pressing problem, I am guessing, but maybe things were different then.

Anyway, his friends convince him it's all going to be fine, and the wedding is arranged. It's a grand old affair. January thinks himself a bit of a stud, and spends much of the wedding concerned about whether his wife will be able to cope with him and his manliness (so much manliness) when it comes to the wedding night. Do I need to remind you, at this point, that January is 60? I won't say much about that night except that May wasn't impressed. I don't think that "too much manliness" was the issue. She stayed in bed for the next 4 days to recover.

January, by the way, has a squire called Damien. Better storytellers than me would have introduced you to Damien much earlier, instead of suddenly shoe-horning him now, just as he's about to become integral to the plot. I forgot. (While I'm shoe-horning things in, though, I may as well take the opportunity to mention January's secret, walled, handy-for-a-quick-spot-of-outdoor-sex garden.)

Anyway, Damien fell madly in love with May at the wedding, so much so that he left the party early and went to bed crying like a baby.  He was so love-sick, in fact, he decided to stay in bed and sulk forever.  January finally notices that his squire is missing in action, so when May finally surfaces, the frst thing he does is send her over to check on Damien.  Silly old January.

Damien cheers up considerably when May arrives, which will come as no great surprise to anyone who has been in love.  He writes her a very soppy love-letter, which she reads then immediately flushes down the loo so she doesn't have to deal with it. (I must admit, I kind of like her style.)

We get the impression that May isn't all that interested in Damien, but then she goes off to see her husband and after a repeat performance of their wedding night she suddenly decides she is madly in love with Damien after all. It's not hard to see how he might be a more attractive option. The two decide to embark on an ilicit love affair, but in order not to arouse January's suspicions May still has the occasional romp with her husband (they are newly-weds after all; it would seem odd not to). These often take place in the secret walled garden which you already know about because I am such a skilled storyteller.

One afternoon, when May and January are in the garden, either romping or about to romp, January is suddenly and inexplicably struck blind.  May is delighted, thinking this will make it much easier for her and Damien to conduct their affair, but in fact the opposite happens; January becomes insanely paranoid and jealous and demands that May stay within reach of him at all times. So Damien and May are reduced to making eyes at each other across crowded rooms.  One thing May does manage to do, though, is make Damien a spare key for the secret garden.

One particular day (June 7th, actually, although why we are told this I really don't know) January and May go to the garden and Damien, under May's instructions, follows them.  While she is in the garden, having a conversation with her husband about being a good faithful wife (oh, the irony!), May uses sign language to tell Damien to climb up the nearest pear tree and wait for her on the first branch.  I will let you imagine for yourself what these gestures might have looked like.

Meanwhile, Pluto, the King of fairies, has also chosen to wander around the garden this day.  I don't know how he got in, becuase May didn't make him a key, but maybe fairies don't need keys.  It's worth knowing Pluto doesn't like women much, and he arranges things, in the way that only fairies can, so that January will regain his sight the minute his wife is unfaithful to him. Pluto's wife Prosperina, on the other hand, is firmly on team May, and swears to use her power and connections to make sure May can bluff her way out of the situation if she is caught cheating.

May pretends she is hungry and tells January she is just going to nip up the pear tree to pick some fruit.  He gives her a leg-up, and unwittingly pushes her straight into the arms of Damien. Even though it's not the most romantic of settings, the two lovers waste no time getting down and dirty with each other for the first time.

January, of course, instantly regains his sight at this point, and the  first thing he wants to imprint on his newly claimed retinas is an image of his beautiful wife.  Even if it has to be the view from underneath which, let's be honest, is no one's best side.  when he looks up, of course, the first thing he sees is May and Damien going at it hammer and tongs.  Naturally he's a bit upset by this, and wants to know what is going on.  May, with some assistance from Prosperina, no doubt, comes up with a brilliantly audacious three point defence plan:

1. "I was told that if I was to struggle up a tree with a man, you'd get your sight back. I'm just trying to help."

2. "You didn't actually see us having actual sex; your eyes are still not quite right.  Hallucinations are a normal part of the healing process."

3. Cry a lot.

Some unspecified combination of these tactics does the trick; May leaps into January's arms and all is forgiven.  We don't find out what happened to poor old Damien in the end.  For all I know he could still be up that pear tree.

Next time it's the Squire's turn and his Tale involves  a celebrity birthday party.  If you can guess who the birthday boy is I will be more surprised than I can say.