:o(

One of the effects of having an English teacher for a father was that we were exposed to some bizzare literature LONG before we (ok, I!) was capable of understanding it! This, for example, was something I could recite by-heart, without ever getting it when I was in Class III!

"Tragedie is to seyn a certeyn storie,
As olde bokes maken us memorie,
Of him that stood in greet prosperitee
And is y-fallen out of heigh degree
Into miserie, and endeth wrecchedly."*

Anyway, it took some Googling around to dig it out, coz there were just phrases that were still wedged in my brain. Bits of it came back to me (and I undertand it now) after watching Zidane last night :o(

* Chaucer's definition of a Tragedy, Prologue to The Monk's Tale

Tribute to DragonVille, LIC

I miss my old home. The field in front. The steps inside. The terrace. The ladder to the roof. The skylight. The backyard. The jasmine tree. The slanting roof. The tiles. The screachy gate. The tree in front, growing into the window and sometimes touching the ground. The 2 sleeping trees - that folded like touch-me-nots in the night. The stupid whistle-blowing-guards patroling through the night. The choir of crazy howling dogs that only practise between 1:30 and 2:30am! The nutcase neighbours that beat their clothes clean from 7 in the morning! Bruno. And of course, our sweet, sappy, alcohol stealing maid Kanha.

Its been 10 days and I haven't been able to locate the new place on Google Earth yet!