Sing Your Bondage Freely

Brudenell and the firm retreat. But wind and rain seem certain to keep us off the links. No matter, the $300+ cabin is covered, mine designated aptly the "hospitality suite" - my employers know well who is likely to be last awake at any party betimes. Especially on a Friday. That grandest of days. And just look at its horizon: the 5th Master Keith's Birthday and free Sloan concert in which the old antlers will be donned again. the 12th a sunset wedding that, though inevitable, seems unimaginably close after all these years and voyages and emails and pints of Arthur clinked. She shall be a grand one, surely.

Off to the brave the elements with a smile. Berat has confirmed from Turkey the plans with his typical charming prose: "What a good news is that. It is great timing. Absolutley fine here with it. tell me what u wanna do, so we can arrange a lot of excursions n cultural events n dining outs n more n more sea-coast view some history n a bit of clubbing n more.." Ah yes. Fortunate life, is this. Even as we missed that ferry connection of yesternight. Where running 5 minutes behind costs you 2 and a half hours. But to the important thing, we have arrived, and type now awaiting the unfolding of this latest week's end.

Have yourself a merry one.

ARVIRAGUS
What should we speak of
When we are old as you? when we shall hear
The rain and wind beat dark December, how,
In this our pinching cave, shall we discourse
The freezing hours away? We have seen nothing;
We are beastly, subtle as the fox for prey,
Like warlike as the wolf for what we eat;
Our valour is to chase what flies; our cage
We make a quire, as doth the prison'd bird,
And sing our bondage freely.

BELARIUS
How you speak!
Did you but know the city's usuries
And felt them knowingly; the art o' the court
As hard to leave as keep; whose top to climb
Is certain falling, or so slippery that
The fear's as bad as falling; the toil o' the war,
A pain that only seems to seek out danger
I' the name of fame and honour; which dies i'the search,
And hath as oft a slanderous epitaph
As record of fair act; nay, many times,
Doth ill deserve by doing well; what's worse,
Must court'sy at the censure:--O boys, this story
The world may read in me: my body's mark'd
With Roman swords, and my report was once
First with the best of note: Cymbeline loved me,
And when a soldier was the theme, my name
Was not far off: then was I as a tree
Whose boughs did bend with fruit: but in one night,
A storm or robbery, call it what you will,
Shook down my mellow hangings, nay, my leaves,
And left me bare to weather.