Sorry someone has asked me to write a play (well they had a idea they thought somebody should write a play about and said I'd have a go) and this is taking up my creative juices.
That and all those boring things like work and such like, taking my time up.
Normal service resumed shortly - when I have determined what normal actually is.
About Me
- Mercutio
- "and I fear you will find me a very grave man." "True, I talk of dreams, Which are the children of an idle brain, Begot of nothing but vain fantasy, Which is as thin of substance as the air And more inconstant than the wind, who wooes Even now the frozen bosom of the north, And, being anger'd, puffs away from thence, Turning his face to the dew-dropping south."
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