Yesterday was taken up with finishing my sonnet for the first assignment of the Open University poetry course and catching up with the various online discussion groups, both work and pleasure, including rasfc. Also driving to the cinema to see the new Bridget Jones film because G felt that he wanted to do something other than work on his college work and Ph.D. stuff for the entire weekend and a film would make a nice change. Film was OK in a leave your brain at home kind of way, so it served its purpose.
G is right, the weekends slide into the week and slide into the next weekend with no perceptable break if you don't sometimes deliberately break off. There is no end to work, after all.
Words today: 1266
Words in Chapter 13: 1376
Words total: 58,485
Reason for stopping: A point in the scene where I can pick it up and carry on tomorrow because it's time to get on with household stuff and print out the first stories my Start Writing Fiction students have written and start critiquing.
Other: I'm busily conflating elements from the stories of Santes Dwynwen/Saint Dwynwen, Lady Godiva and A Christmas Carol to produce the legend of the Blessed Ethillian, whose nude protest is about to inspire our ladies to new efforts of fund raising.
The women are busy finishing off the aphrodisiac charms they are preparing to sell to raise funds for the Save the Mountain fund. Ethil is telling the story of the Blessed Ethillian (after whom she is named).
"So this young lord took a serious fancy to the lovely virgin hermit. Realising that he'd not got off on the right footing, he started plying her with gifts. He sent her a tame white stag, with silk ribbons tied in its antlers, and he sent delicious fruits from distant parts of the empire -- this all took place when the Five Kingdoms were briefly united under the Ikkian Empire. He sent her doves and fluffy rabbits and every time his gifts were returned.
"Then he tried the more personal touch. He got the best writers of the age to compose poetry to her and he went and recited it outside her hut by the light of the full moon. He even spent hours learning the lute-harp and had music and songs composed, which he performed in the pearly light of dawn on the grassy area where he'd slain the stag. And still the lady spurned his advances. By now he was mad with love -- or lust as the lady said in the one reply that has survived to this day. 'You killed my stag and yet, not content with that, you kill the peace of the forest with your words. Your music silences the birds, your gifts despoil the far wildernesses and do not please my heart. What you call love is merely brute desire. So just piss off and leave me alone, will you?'"
Nansi, still busily ironing and folding squares of mallard green linen, tut-tutted.
"Language," Peg murmured.
"She was mightily provoked," Fillis said.