Sir Guy of Gisborne's Diary

Entry 8

I have no idea of the date and frankly, I don't care. After suffering more than two weeks beset by problems, I am seriously thinking of becoming a crusader and going to the Holy Land. I might even kiss King Richard such is my current dislike of the sheriff.

On second thoughts, the Holy Land is damn hot, I recall, and my God how I suffered in my leathers when I went there to kill the king. Arrgh! Must try not to write about my failures so often; it is so demoralising. Anyway, I sweated in places I did not think sweat could accumulate.

Cornwall, where I was some two weeks or so ago, was I have to say, a pleasant respite from trying to avoid getting in the sheriff's bad books and constantly failing to woo Marian. Though I was unsuccessful in bargaining suitably with the earl who owns most of it and so got nothing for my troubles but a recipe for something called a Cornish pasty that I believe will never catch on. However, it gave me an idea for a castle cookery competition - the Great Castle Cook Off. Hmm, will muse on this. The upshot of not managing to buy Cornwall for the sheriff was that I came back empty-handed and paid for it big time.

The sheriff made me shovel night soil all last week and I ended up with a bad back, absolute agony. Could only walk in a peculiar shuffling manner, which had all the guards sniggering (they won't be laughing next time I give them drill practise - I'm thinking hot coals!). I found some relief by taking long hot baths (sniggering from the sheriff this time) and drinking copious amounts of wine, along with making some new leather cushions for my bed, a poor replacement for Binky, but I'm rather fond of them.

I am still in some pain, but at least I can ride my horse without grimacing and walk without looking as though I've cacked my pants, so progress.

Alas, this week hasn't been a great improvement on last week.

There were problems at the Treeton Mines. One of the workers said the mines weren't shored up properly and were a death trap (I nearly asked him if we could swap places; a dodgy mine sounded perfectly idyllic compared to shovelling shit).

When the sheriff arrived, I told him that the miners would rather die than go back down to the mine to which he replied: you're giving them choices? Personally, I think there's nothing wrong with having a choice; I had precious little of it as a young man. Anyway, having been put on the spot by the sheriff, I saw that I had no choice - yet again! I thought to brandish my knife, do a bit of threatening, but then instinct took over and I stabbed the outspoken miner. Oh well. He was quite old.

At his burying, the women folk started weeping and wailing the way they do. The sheriff said that he couldn't stand the noise. Good job then that he didn't see me pass one of them my handkerchief. I felt sorry for them, see. I can't tell you the number of times I've felt like weeping and wailing.

Lepers, the sheriff said. That's what women are. He knows about my father. I think he said it deliberately, the bastard. Tears filled my eyes. I wished then that I'd kept hold of my handkerchief.

There's more woes to this day. Hood set fire to the mines, Michael the Red failed to win the silver arrow for me at the Nottingham Fayre, Marian is rubbish at peeling apples, and I accidentally stabbed one of my new leather cushions in a fit of rage and then couldn't find a handkerchief to blow my nose into. But I don't want to write about any of that right now. Instead, I shall see if I can come up with some good ideas for the Great Castle Cook Off and possibly indulge in a bit of leather sniffing and solo sex.