slag hauler at the works, of Old Kutna
“I am a simple, poor hired hand making my way by the sweat of my brow. The world is entirely unfair to folk like me.”
Things John Ford had written, latest first, with the glosses of his neighbours.
the Tuesday before Whitsun, at Terce
The bailiff locked Edward in the gaol over some stolen chalices, and now the padded jack is trapped behind bars with him! How am I to redeem it before the muster? Walter threatens to beat me bloody in the street, saying I drank the silver. I swear by all the saints, I only bought bread!
Nota scribaeDictated while pacing. He smelled strongly of unwashed wool and old sweat.
the feast of St Pancras, at Sext
Saw young Jan weeping over his own lost gear near the square today. Heh heh. The lad cannot keep hold of his coin to save his life. It warms a man's heart slightly, seeing a fool make a worse mess of things than himself.
At least I did not lie to a friend to buy my jack, you wretched rat.
the second week of Easter, at None
That bastard Chenyek locked the strongbox at the mint! He claims the masters froze all payments, but what of us poor folk? We haul slag until our backs break and get naught for it. I am poorer than a church mouse and practically starving to death.
God's nails, if he doesn't open that box soon, the whole town will be ruined.
Ay, the merchants are feeling the pinch just as badly, John.
Nota scribaeHe rubbed his dirty hands together the entire time he spoke.
Easter Tuesday, at Prime
The bailiff demands every able-bodied man present himself with an iron cap and a padded jack by the feast of Saint John. How am I to afford a single strap of leather? I am but a humble day-labourer. Praise be to Walter for taking pity and advancing me the silver.
the third Friday of Lent, at Vespers
Stood outside the guests tavern till dusk hoping a charitable Christian might spare a discarded crust, but they all walked past. A man cannot survive on the dirt floor of a shed without a scrap of food. My luck is terrible, and my belly aches constantly.
You wouldn't be starving if you paid your lawful merchant taxes like the rest of us townsmen, you fraud.
Nota scribaeThe man whined so loudly that the tavern dogs started barking at him.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
You lazy whoreson, you pawned the gear out of sheer idleness and spent my silver on cheap ale. I will tan your hide.
I only bought a few loaves, Walter, my belly was empty! You cannot blame a man for avoiding starvation.