the feast of St Pancras, at Terce
The nights are getting warmer by the tavern grates. The ovens keep the chill off my Ralph's bones. Heinz walked past looking half-drunk and mean, but he left us be. God grant us a quiet summer.
Nota scribaeDictated outside the tavern. She smelled strongly of unwashed wool.

Keep the alley clear of rubbish and I won't have reason to bother you.