A sign I saw in a caming shop (somewhere in south London . . . .) during the sales;

Now is the time of our discount tents . . .

Should have been, of course;

Now is the winter of our discontent
Made glorious summer by this sun of York;
And all the clouds that lour'd upon our house
In the deep bosom of the ocean buried.
Now are our brows bound with victorious wreaths;
Our bruised arms hung up for monuments;
Our stern alarums changed to merry meetings,
Our dreadful marches to delightful measures.
Grim-visaged war hath smooth'd his wrinkled front;
And now, instead of mounting barded steeds
To fright the souls of fearful adversaries,
He capers nimbly in a lady's chamber
To the lascivious pleasing of a lute.
But I, that am not shaped for sportive tricks,
Nor made to court an amorous looking-glass;
I, that am rudely stamp'd, and want love's majesty
To strut before a wanton ambling nymph;
I, that am curtail'd of this fair proportion,
Cheated of feature by dissembling nature,
Deformed, unfinish'd, sent before my time
Into this breathing world, scarce half made up,
And that so lamely and unfashionable
That dogs bark at me as I halt by them;
Why, I, in this weak piping time of peace,
Have no delight to pass away the time,
Unless to spy my shadow in the sun
And descant on mine own deformity:
And therefore, since I cannot prove a lover,
To entertain these fair well-spoken days,
I am determined to prove a villain
And hate the idle pleasures of these days.
Plots have I laid, inductions dangerous,
By drunken prophecies, libels and dreams,
To set my brother Clarence and the king
In deadly hate the one against the other:
And if King Edward be as true and just
As I am subtle, false and treacherous,
This day should Clarence closely be mew'd up,
About a prophecy, which says that 'G'
Of Edward's heirs the murderer shall be.
Dive, thoughts, down to my soul: here
Clarence comes.



but the window woudn't have been big enough .

You really should start taking the tablets again Balham

clare

or maybe she is taking some sort of tablets .......obviously not good ones.

They sound all right to me !

Blame Scooby .

Poor Richard III, a much maligned king, I fear.
Loyaulte me lie.

just seen this --I've been busy ok? my first thought was -- someone looking for a porta-loo?

In the 15e century? There you are on the field Richard about to go into his "A horse, a horse, my kingdon for a . . . . ." and the William Catesby comes along,
"Sire, thou doust really look a bit Tom Dick, shouldest thou not maketh use of there yonder portaloo?"

"Good Catesby, that has me has serveth so well, the end is nigh, then find me a horse that I may travel to yonder portaloo, for it is there that I will breath my last rather than on this wretched damp field" .

Richard a spies a passing soldier, "you there, your horse, the colour?"

"Pink my liege"

"Bring it here, good King Richard has use of your animal" calls Catesby.

Richard pauses, "Catesby, for it is my final moment, wouldest it be known for future generations that King Richard travelled on a horse of the colour pink, then mine life would be in vain, that I would suffer to be mounted on a black horse, even a mutli colourd horse, to reach yonder portaloo, but a horse of the colour that is neither red nor that is of the colour white but is of an intermediate shade, forsooth"

"My lord" Catesby exclaims "The Duke of Norfolk, his charger is at your disposal"

"No, Catesby, it is here, here that I layeth my soul for eternity, a horse, a horse, my kingdom for a horse, as long as it is not pink".

agreed said Blaze as she walked to the pub in Bosworth.

The Old Black Horse in Bosworth, here.