A Duck writes

The phone rings, dragging me out of a deep sleep, where I am dreaming of stealing cutlery from my employers.

It is Misty, preparing for a Dark Ages Society weekender.

"Help! I'm trapped in 8th Century Yorkshire and they don't have internet access!"

This is true. Ecky-Thump net will not be invented for at least 1,200 years, and poor Misty is stuck there with nothing but a Ford Escort full of spears for protection.

"Good Gods woman, do you know what time it is? It's eight o'clock for Cliff's sake!"

"But... but... it's Pudsey's birthday tomorrow and I won't be able to get online to tell everybody to send Bonios. C... Could you?"

"Oh... alright then. And I promise not to bugger up your blogger template, unlike the last two occasions I gave you the run of my blog. Not too much, anyway."

"Cheers m'dear. I'm doing strange things to pork today."

Oh, Misty.

Nobody want to hear about the sordid nature of your life as a Viking. Not without full and frank clickage.