March 12, 2006
"Come with me, Marsha," Manfred, Lord of Salisbury, said. "Come back to me to the wheat-ripened glens of Leeds, where you shall be, figuratively, my queen, and I shall be, in a non-legally binding sense, your king." "Gracious," Marsha replied, "there is nothing I should like ever so much, unless it is to be very, very tall and powerful." "Then do let us return," Manfred smiled, "for it is threshing time back home, and the little field mice are covered with glistening drops of egret vomit." "They are NOT," Marsha frowned, "and that is disgusting." "Please, Marsha, come back."