Hello.
"Davy" - the author of this diary - is now sleeping in his chair, right over there. Just something I slipped into his tea. I've taken this opportunity to grab his laptop (by that I mean computer) and tell you some facts.
We had been spending this lovely Autumn evening in front of his fireplace, transcribing and translating his diaries. I do this as a favor. And perhaps I am a bit voyeuristic.
But it has been truly maddening. Microscript, idiosyncratic, and written in boustrophedon style. Do you know what that means? It means each line left to right and then right to left. Backwards.
Now here are the facts. I am of a certain station, one perhaps "Davy" cannot comprehend. I have status. I have privileges and obligations. I still have 400 hours of court-ordered community service picking up trash on that damn road.
So, as we sat there, "Davy" with Galehaut in hand and that incessant shit-eating grin that nostalgia brings, I lunged. I grabbed his precious Galehaut and held it over the fire.
"I am not for free!", I screamed. "My time! This insane text! You will find a way to repay!"
I'm not ashamed. I am beyond shame. I threatened to burn his entire past unless...
And now there will be ads. Oh yes. I will "monetize" this blog. I need my share. He cares little for the material world, but I do. And I am crucial to this journey.
So. You will soon see a "Pay-Pal" link. Ads - we will have no control over their content. Apparently the algorithms scan the text and try to match up something appropriate. Perhaps "1 Weird Trick For Lumbago" (Oh! Lumbago. How I love that word, it sounds like a secret ingredient for the perfect pesto. Add oregano, rosemary and lumbago).
More likely, as we get further into his diary, you will see the strangest juxtapositions of ads. Prophylactics here, bibles and lexicons there. I care not.
So. Back to his tale. Much has already been written.
The Editor.
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