What A Chaucer!

I never read Canterbury Tales but Hallie did lend me the Cliff Notes.  I didn't read those either other than the character list so that we'd all seem clever and literate drunks.  As I search the interwebs now for some sassy Geoffrey-ism to inspire this post, the most endearing lines I can find are from A Knight's Tale:


"In Greece he spent a year in silence just to better understand the sound of a whisper. And so without further gilding the lily and with no more ado, I give to you, the seeker of serenity, the protector of Italian virginity, the enforcer of our Lord God, the one, the only, Sir Ulllrrrich von Lichtenstein!  Thank you, thank you, I'll be here all week."

So, out of sorts (it's January and not December) and short on time for costuming, we all do the best we can.  I bought a new wig (for I would be Phillipa of Hainault, Queen of England, Patroness of the Tosser Chaucer), Stacey bought a wimple, and John promised us a wig.  Joanna and Tom, fresh off a marathon babysitting mission, made a last minute run (in costume) for an eye patch and black tooth.  The eye patch flew off within minutes and the black tooth slid off but it's the effort that counts.

Stacey and I arrive early to peruse the crowd.  There are Elizabethans and many heaving bosoms.  We have our picture taken by the evening's photographer although he can't work the iPhone camera too well.  After posing for what seemed like an eternity, he finally gets the shots.

 Check out Stacey!  The Prioress with her three faithful hounds. 

 After about 10 minutes of sassing and iPhoning, we are let into the Great Hall and are first at the spiked cider table.  I note that our Spiked Cider Monger is cute in a very delicate way.  We then go hang out by the minstrel (the same minstrel from last year) singing his French songs.  We take more photos because we are a little bored.

We amuse ourselves in the normal fashion, by picking on other people.  There is a rather large woman who looks like Queen Victoria and we are not amused!  There are some assorted Vikings and Huns perhaps even a Cossack.  The Most Heaving of Heaving Bosoms enters the Hall, saunters over to the spiked cider table and falls head over heels in love with the Spiked Cider Monger.  Sadly she doesn't woo him with a "hey nonny nonny" but merely begins her evening of mooning over him like a Devonshire heifer.

Bristling with anticipation and already sick of the sticky cider, we seat ourselves to await John's arrival and what an arrival.  Part John, Paul, George, and Ringo, part Prince Valiant, part Purple Rain!



I love this photo - the flash was too bright so it ended up looking like an early Italian Renaissance portrait by Botticelli.

Joanna and Tom arrive and the group is complete.  Yeah, drink in the crushed velvet baby.

Before we enter the church to eat, Geoffrey Chaucer and his squeeky wife enter.  There is an award given to the largest group and I make an innocent remark to the minstrel that had it been a competition for the prettiest group, we should win.  Alas, the next contest was for the best costumes and the next thing I know, he's chasing me down.  Deftly I divert him to Stacey who is escorted to the stage.  Hands down, Stacey gets the most applause but it's rigged and they give it to some Tudor bitch.  I scream "Wrong century!" to no avail.

We are seated at the same table but are next to some lame group of octogenarians, one of whom is wearing a velour track suit in brown.  I call him Steve Austin.  They bogart the food and we are forced to explain that the different colored table cloths identify groups of eight who are supposed to SHARE the plates of food they are serving.  Eventually they get it but it's too late.  We hate them.  They suck and we're stuck with them all night!

Luckily the wine and ale was plentiful.  To our right we have a couple and a group of ladies including the Most Heaving of Heaving Bosoms.  They are okay.  I give them a 5 on a scale of 10.

The festivities are fine but we do end up singing Christmas songs which is kind of silly since it's January.  We could have sung something else.  By the time they bring the pig's head, I pretty much hate everyone at our table.  The Most Heaving of Heaving Bosoms shames herself by asking the Spiked Cider Monger is she can kiss him.  He says "okay" and she does.  It's embarrassing.  The look says it all!

Once again, we had fun but once again, it's not Christmas so it's lost something.  We go to La Dolce Vita but it's a ghost town and I can only wink and wave at the bored valets in the street.  Some folks from the Feast join us but they're dull too so we saunter on home.