(no subject)

It's comforting to know the Bard of Stratford, the Great Wordsmith, the man who gave the French language its nickname for English (la langue de Shakespeare), occasionally had his off days.

Possibly Shakespeare's worst lines, from Henry IV, part I:

"...Come, let me taste my horse,
Who is to bear me like a thunderbolt
Against the bosom of the Prince of Wales,
Harry to Harry shall, hot horse to horse,
Meet, and ne'er part till one drop down a cor[p]se.
O that Glendower were come!"

For the record, the speaker's nickname is "Hotspur."

Not much else to report, save that I'm a hairsbreadth from the halfway point on the great culling of my novel. And I'm still enjoying my readings for school.

Other than that, it's not been a nice day. I was almost paralyzed with pain from a toothache this morning and afternoon (I have a dentist's appointment tomorrow -- it feels like something serious). And I had to find my way back home from a commercial wasteland west of Namur station, after doing placement tests all alone -- buses in that region only run at peak hours.