Thus can my love excuse the slow offence

Putter, putter, type, type.

Slogging along. The suck-monkeys are up to my arse and gibbering; send booze help.

Words: 17 877

Mean Things: Decapitations fast, slow and medium, rapine, pillage, plunder, making people cry.

angevin2 is at 18 743, because just as I was about to catch up she sneakily became productive! *cheers her on*

The Black Prince, that young Mars of men...

It's Richard II's 640th birthday today *sends him cakes and ale, wherever he is*

Have left the Tower to simmer and started writing the prologue-y bit, because when you have a bit wot refuses to be written and a bit wot screams to be written, well, hell, life is hard enough, yes?

Words: 18 309.

For now, anyway. There might be more later, but now I want food and a shower and possibly a nap. This needing to sleep huge amounts is annoying, and I wish I could mail some of the excess sleep to the_red_shoes, who is having trouble sleeping lately.

Still owe emails and phone calls all over the place.