Middle Ages Mumsnet

[AnyFuleKno]

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

Doth other maidens ever covet the very cowl of Cadfael?

I would doth my veil and retire to the haystack with a moo of my father's oxen.

Cor!(eth)

I shall partake of the mandrake potion for I have killeth the silken thread and my shame is mine and mine alone. To the highest turret my weak and feeble body I will carry.

Anon, anon cruel world.....

Aaaaaaghhhh(eth)

Y feele your paine Mistress Harpie, I was once afflictede with an bastarde behinde ye olde two-wheele-carte shedde. Luckilye mine husbande hath suspecteth no thinge.

I fear I hath encountered a wyche! She is from ye Northern provynces and goes by the moniker of Madame McKeith. She asked that I do a motion in her devil's beaker rather than in ye midden so that she could "pokke it wyth a styck" Alas she seems to hath met wyth misfortune as my Lord found her buryed in ye midden when he hath gone for a post-prandial shytte! It was notte to do with me!

Alack, alack and alas. I liveth. Thou partook of the white wine draught whilst denying the mandrake potion and thine dearest and most potent wish to swoop to my end was thwarted when I fell over pissed on the the highest turret of Semi-detached castle and landed on the knot garden and squasheth the under maid.

[Bugger and a hey nonny nonny]

Sorry Eliza - you twere but a sweet maid (sluttish after a few yards of mead I heard, but I counseled caution to those rumours and had them beheaded)

I have killed the silken thread - I feel so proud and will weave a tapestry in testement.

With thon Boaste, thou hast practis'd Foul Necromancie and awakened my Slumb'ring Shade.

thisse threade ys nowe yn yon talke rounduppe of mumsnette ymail - thus shall itt bee ressurrecteyed forthwithe.

Aye.

sistres - be it me aloune who hath founde itt most harde to resiste puttinge an extra "E" on ye ende of alle ye wordes, thiss past se'ennight?

i am juste upsette that mye keye-bourd hath not an lounge S withe whych i canne make ye ss heyre.

Sistre Oliphante, thoue arte Crosse-EYe'de iffe thoue doste not see Howe Odde Thatte Dotthe Looke!

Verilye, Mistress of ye Perversiounes, am I cross-ey'd, tis a curse from the Lorde for frolickinge on ye sabbath with ye raven-hairede priestlinge. Tis, in my opinioune moste humble, moste worthe it, egad.

Hath ye heerde is said thatte ye Chief Heralde of ye Lorde of Englande hath strucke off his owne head? Tis a doing moste strange, methinks.

Toiletinge of ye chylder.

O wise mumsnetteres, what saye ye?
Mine own sonne is butte two sommeres ande 6 moon cycles old and for thys paste 4 blessed turnyings of ye sun, I have implored ye chyld to taketh leave of ye olde nappye and taketh relief of ye pottye insteade. Alas, mine sonne continues to pisseth and befoul the floores of thys fyne hovel ande doth refuse to weareth bigge boyye undergarmentes.

Shouldst I continue in mine queste to ridde ye chylde of the devils own stynkbombe and learne him the wayes of propere toiletinge?

Ladye of Bangor - canne nat he bepiss himself in ye guttere along with your goodman and yourselfe? It is a doinge most hygienick. Pottyes art an instrumente of ye devile, I hath herd telle.