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Middle Ages Mumsnet

418 replies

AnyFuleKno · 15/01/2011 16:48

Dear mumsnet, mine husband hath broken his arm falling from atop the midden. How many leeches should I apply?

OP posts:
BoffinMum · 18/01/2011 11:13

It be ye well knowne facte that ye grasse is always greener on ye side furthest awaye.

Yegods! Is Somer icumen in? Was that a cukoo loudley singing?

ElephantsAndMiasmas · 18/01/2011 10:46

Ye Animales & Livestocke

Some deville is gettinge atte mine goates in ye night. They wille nat now cross ye bridge over ye streame to come to pleasaunte pastures on ye othere side. Alle ye three seeme moste discomfortede. Anie tippes or ideas hwat coulde be frighting themme?

BoffinMum · 18/01/2011 10:25

PS My Lord of Ocado also purveys ye parsnipps for ye needy wenches where lords and lieges have absented themselves for to attende manlie fightinge at ye crusades and the lycke.

BoffinMum · 18/01/2011 10:22

Haf startedde two threddes in yon 'Promotional Vouchers' topick with great things offered by ye merchantes. Turnipp and object of great exotick mysterie ye 'potatoe' on specialle offer, verily on account of ye 'Burns Night' (clearlie haf wytches hereticks been seen in these partes). Wymmin clearlie maketh a partie of itt. Thysse alle from My Lord of Ocado who will happilie forgoe 15% of groats in honour of wymmynne's custom. Other thredde is to do with Milch, 10 groats worthe of childer fodder, most usefulle in these tymes of tryal. Make merry ye maids and stuff ye faces happilie.

Saggyoldclothcatpuss · 17/01/2011 23:00

Good Dame Portofino, dost thou not knowe that wytches are hanged and notte burned in thys fair isle?!
Burnyngs are reserved for heretycs. To gyve them a tayste of the fyres of hell awayting them!

BoffinMum · 17/01/2011 22:52

Tis surely all in the nature of the dugs, fayre wymmynne of Mumsnette, not in the way of chickens.

kat2504 · 17/01/2011 22:30

Mistress Anyfule, thou art most wyse indeed. I have studied ye parchements of ye crone Mistress Zita, alack without becominge dyffed. Mine underbritches doth not yield omelettes. Mistress Zita proclaimeth that mine Lord muste abstain from ye mead. Mine Lord is not keen on thys and continueth to drinke ye mead but weareth not tyght underbritches.

AnyFuleKno · 17/01/2011 21:26

mistress Kat I hear tell that ye Clearblue be indeede a most costlye soothsayere and verily doth cause ye to piss on thine own hande if thy be not careful. A wizened crone hath scratched on a parchment the mannere in wyche a womanne maye become heavy withe childe. Amonge other sundrie thinges she doth recommend checking ye underbritches for egg whyte, though how it doth get there I know notte.

OP posts:
kat2504 · 17/01/2011 21:05

Goodwyves of Mumsnette I beseech ye to offer me good counsel. Recently I hath been to ye Apothecary Bootes and hath purchased a soothsaying machine from ye Clearblue. Each morn I must pisse on sticks and lyke magyck, ye machine doth foretelle if mine Lord should lie with me come eventide. Mine lord doth denounce this as wytchcrafte and sayeth that the Soothsayer of Clearblue is the worke of ye Devil who doth robbe me of my groats each moon-tide.
Mayhap mine Lord should rather that I perform ye deed all eventides, but alack, I must toil hard in ye olde schoolhouse each day, schooling childer in illuminated lettering.
Is ye soothsayer of Clearblue a wytch?

Portofino · 17/01/2011 20:48

Burning is too goode for some peyple!

Portofino · 17/01/2011 20:46

I know notte whatte of wych you speyke! I can assure thee that my lord has no problems in THAT departemente. I hath been speyking of cooking! The Helmeted Cock is one of Milady Delia's finest concoctions! Didst thou notte clickest on the lynk? Orr didst thou assume it was somethyng of a fylthy nature - you dyrty mynded varlet thou?

oldenoughtowearpurple · 17/01/2011 20:07

Odsblood Portofino! Truly the very thing! Goodman Tumunus, ye apothekary who physics my lord hath concocted an elyxir to daub on the offendyng part and my maidservant hath praised the power of this precious ungent in restoring vigour to ye offending cock. Father Tumunus hath named this elixir 'Vyagara' and a very flood of grayteful goodwyves is at hys doore beggyng for a dose.

Portofino · 17/01/2011 19:50

He hath struggled to get it astryde wythout it falling owt and going lympe.

Portofino · 17/01/2011 19:47

Did he have much success if getting to stand erect? My lord did much bemoan that ye cocketaile stycks hath not yet been invented as he hath a great difficultie getting hysse to stand erect upon ye pigling.

oldenoughtowearpurple · 17/01/2011 19:06

My Lord and master did me honour with a fine Helmeted Cock on ye occasion of the splicing of our troth: verily it was a merry mingling with much gladding and jesting and manye a gleeyfulle rufty tufty. But woe, the yeares did pass full sore and heavy and My Lord?s standing, betimes the pride of the demesne, hath sadly waxed; oft ye fine cock is no more & mine trencher must be satissfyed with a rabbit.

BoffinMum · 17/01/2011 15:13

Elephantjelly, þ ð æ were verily used early in this thredde in yon Beowulf momente, but the user was accused of intellectual snobberie.

Portofino · 17/01/2011 14:49

Recipes: Hath anyone ever presented a fine Helmeted Cock to theyre good friends and naybors? My Lord and Master is most keyne to mayke a good impression, butte I worrye that maybe he has ideas above hysse station?

Suncottage · 17/01/2011 14:15

Goody HopefortheBest

If oats are the causeth of swelling and irritable and noxious vapours then he must purge with brackish water and lark tongues 'til the passageway runneth clear.

Portofino · 17/01/2011 14:10

Recipe of ye day:

Pudding of porpoise. Take the Blood of him, & the grease of him self, & Oatmeal, & Salt, & Pepper, & Ginger, & mix these together well, & then put this in the Gut of the porpoise, & then let it boil easily, & not hard, a good while; & then take him up, & broil him a little, & then serve forth.

Portofino · 17/01/2011 14:05

I have heardest from yonder village that the varlet Liz Jones hath been found a wytche and will be burned at the stayke on the morrow. I must bizy myself with the mayking of ye old poppcorne.

HopeForTheBest · 17/01/2011 14:01

This reply has been withdrawn

This has been withdrawn by MNHQ on request of its author.

Spacehoppa · 17/01/2011 13:49

Woe is me, for I have not chauncd pon the goodly grocer of tes'co an so my gruel be all of water for I have no oats withal. I be a humble peasant though so I will take great cheer in my fyne bowl of water.

jugglingjo · 17/01/2011 13:41

Thia very morn I dids't mak afor my goodsel' a loverley drop o' gruel. Warmed the cockles of me 'eart on this cold day of first month. ( Methinks I talk more like unto Eliza in the storie "my faire ladye" with scorcery of moving picktuwers.

( I'm at home with my slightly sickly DS today and when he just asked what I was doing and I told him, explaining "we're all being medieval mums on Mumsnet today" he said "You Mums - weirdos " He then asked if I know any of you. When I said, "No, not really" he said "Never talk to strangers!" LOL )

Suncottage · 17/01/2011 13:16

A Recipe for Gruel

Bit long winded though....

You will need the following ingredients: oats; water.

The following equipment is essential: a big pot; a big spoon; the Holy Bible.

On a blustery winter's day, with a chill in the very marrow of your poor, poor bones, take the big pot & carry it, trudging through snow, to the rusty spigot on the other side of the village. Weeping, use what little strength you have to turn the spigot until a woeful driblet of brackish water appears. Make sure you place the big iron pot under the drip, so that water collects in it. With luck, & prayer, you should find that the pot is about three quarters full before twilight, when of course the village curfew comes into effect. The evil Grand Vizier proclaimed so in his ukase, to make sure that all pious people are behind their latched & bolted doors by nightfall. Place the big pot on your oven & set it on full. Remember that it can take electric cookers longer to heat up than gas ones, but do not despair. Once your oven's maximum heat is reached, the water will bubble away like nobody's business. To prevent steam escaping, it is a splendid idea to cover the pot. If, long ago, when you were feckless, you lost or mislaid the lid of your pot, or if indeed your pot never had a lid, for not all pots do, you can of course improvise a lid using all sorts of debris strewn higgledy-piggledy about your hovel. Just be sure you use flame-resistant debris, please. Now then, while you are waiting for the water to come to the boil, you can go & find the oats while I take a well-earned nap. Let's have a little musical interlude. ?..

I am now fully rested and in tiptop condition. Let us press on without further ado, for by now your pot of water should be boiling. Please pay attention, as the next step, if fumbled, will put paid to your dearest wish, which is to make a successful pot of gruel. With your right hand, scoop some oats from the pail. Grasp the lid of the pot, if there is one, in your left hand, & lift it free of the pot. Cast the handful of oats into the seething cauldron & replace the lid. You may repeat this step once or twice, but on no account overdo the oats, as this will spoil your gruel making it too thick, & as the only remedy for this would be to add more water, you would have to return to the spigot, breaking the village curfew, and so risk being clubbed within an inch of your life by merciless curfew-cadets, & your gruel, imperfect though it may be, would then go to waste. Sin upon sin.

You are now free to allow the contents of the pot to boil merrily away, although of course from time to time you ought to brandish the big spoon in your fist & give the gruel-to-be a mighty stir. In the intervals between stirrings, you must on no account remain idle. This is the perfect time to read improving passages from the Bible. Indeed, why not throw open your door, stand upright & magnificent in your weed-choked yard, & declaim the scriptures in a booming voice for the benefit of whoe'er may be within earshot in the vast & pitiless night? Two little reminders, though. However resounding your declamation, do not allow into your tone even the most minuscule taint of vanity. Remember that you are merely a vessel, & a singularly unlovely vessel at that - a tarnished urn, say, or a grubby beaker. Second, do not forget the pot, for if it is neglected you are likely to make not gruel, but an inferno. Oh, I said two reminders, but there is a third. Use your cuff to rub a modicum of grime from your hovel window. Do you see a bleak & illimitable vista of ice & snow? Are you marooned in an Arctic wasteland? If so, you may succumb to the delusions of piblokto, in which case you should refrain from following the directions of this recipe until you are relieved of your symptoms & are restored to your usual vigour. I need hardly point out the dangers of cooking when you are bonkers, although I have written an excellent little book entitled "Safe & Simple Snacks For The Bedizened & The Fraught" which is charmingly illustrated. The original pencil sketch of a cream cracker has been framed & displayed on the wall of my splendid restaurant in Haemoglobin Towers. Where were we? Ah yes. Once the gruel is fully boiled, replace the Bible on your lectern, or somewhere at any rate where it will be safe from defilement, if such a cranny exists in your hovel. Hold the spoon in your right hand, removing the pot-lid with your left. Give that gruel one last stir. Remove from heat. Allow to stand for ten minutes. Using a monstrous ladle, transfer into pre-heated tin bowls, & serve. Best eaten with a spoon. Suitable for home freezing.

ElephantsAndMiasmas · 17/01/2011 12:48

Yea Mistresse Manticore ( Y cleaveth to thy chaunge of nomme, for it is goodely) yeve them for provendere the renouned Bears of Pomme, that theye maie see theyr errours, and repent.

To Goose a Goodwyfe on heir Hinder Partes is no mattere for laughynge. [ye Shock]

Johanna ye Jugglere - say ye nat so! Fore Y werke fromme ye trumpinge of ye sparrowe til ye parping of ye ghastlie night-owle, and farre bettere thanne my godless spouse. Canne wommene nevere be free from thisse slaverie?