Little known fact: During what the unenlightened still refer to as the “Dark Ages,” our [cough] venerable académie was run by a staff of but six lowly functionaries – the only to survive the ravages of the Black Death. Imagine: Piles of berobed and buboed corporate corpulence, rotting outside DonKay’s walls while six decidedly lucky and unstiff underlings sat inside, manning the inkwells, taking submissions. They are, as you can imagine, an inspiration to us here at 1430 -- and to anonymous archivists everywhere -- but no more so than those blessed souls who took the time to submit at such a hellish time. Like Deborah Blackwood, late summer, 1348.
I know they all survived at Eame cause of their hairy cattl’, that looks so daft the devil chooses ‘em for death and lets the peoplefolk live, but ‘ere in Sussex we got ‘it ‘ard. I lost me brother and me aunt, plus me cousin. ‘Ow’d I make it then? Let me share this valuable information with you honorables at the académie, see if it ‘elps. Now I was right sick, laid up in me bunk, I had the scratchies, the bumpies, the cough, I was in bad let me tell you. I was so bad that me brother Francis left me for dead one night and went to the pub to knock off his melancholie an weepin’. Like a good boy he made him some bacon for he left. Well in the willies of the night I got out of me death bed, completely out of my buzzle-bum, blind mad, I hardly remember. But apparently I stumbled into the kitchen and tossed back the ‘ole pitcher of fat. Thought it was milk, I reckon. I hardly knows, it was that way that Francis found me, passed out front the hearth and with waxy white dribbles down me little chin. Next day I was betta’ and poor Francis died before Michaelmas was over. Who knew? But ever since, I’ve been a big fan o’ the piggies. Maybe the devil can’t do nuffink about those who’ll eat everything on god’s good green earth.
