Muffins for a Six Pence!

I think I have an extremely low form of schizophrenia. Either that, or it's an extreme form that's yet to be declared "extreme," in which case I would like to take some early action and label it "Xtreme." Because that's awesome.

I vary between the following two personalities:

1. The guy who hates anything with a laugh track, considers the Grammys to be "poetry by idiots who don't even write their own poems," and thinks every movie should be minimally as philosophical as I Heart Huckabees.

2. The guy who wants to be a 12th century cobbler.

Right now, I am the latter.

I've mentioned my desire to return to simplicity before, but this time I'm going to paint the scenario with some new colors. Because that's what artists do. They paint with different colors and then they show it to you, the public. And then you reject them and they head back to their studio in tears to bathe themselves in the only water they can afford - the same water they washed their paintbrushes with. Xtreme.

Consider my current dream:

I cobble all day and all night, making the best and only shoes in what is modern-day Portsmouth. I cobble shoes of all sizes for villagers of all ages and I love it and the people love my shoes.

I have a comely wife who, although only marginally attractive by today's standards (given her affinity to eat those huge racks of meat) is still more than do-able, and she cooks some killer muffins on top of that. We don't actually sell the muffins for a six pence because capitalism hasn't been invented yet, but we share them and we eat them and we think about selling them for a six pence.

I pay my dues to the lord of the fief and I pay my tithe to the church when the tax collector comes round, but ya know what? I don't really care. I'm the only one who knows how to cobble shoes this f'ing good and they're not gonna let me be so poor that I can't survive and can't cobble. They can't walk around those cold castle and cathedral floors with nothing but woolies on their feet, can they? Of course not.

Plus, I see them all checking out my comely wife when they stop by. Sorry boys. Swinging's not in style yet.

And that's it. All I think about is cobbling and my comely wife and that's it. Maybe the weather sometimes crosses my mind, and maybe a plague will come to kill us all. But I don't care. I know I have a purpose - to cobble - and as long as I do that then I've lived a good life.

Other Harry: What if we have no purpose? What if we mean nothing?

Curse my modern personality!

Okay guys, she's comely enough. Please don't bring any more.