And If My Choice Is To Sit

The Bus Timetable Sites Are All Run By An Inbred Cabal Of Malicious Gnomes. Who Don’t Speak English. And Who Don’t Count Very Well Either. Or Tell Time. And They Certainly Can’t Read Maps.

But The World Turns, And Even Legends Change; And Somewhere There Is A Border, And Sometime, Perhaps, Someone Will Decide To Cross It, However Well Guarded Its Thorns May Be.

And If My Choice Is To Sit Graciously In My Best Robes And Accept The Inevitable Or To Bail A Sea With A Bucket, Give Me The Bucket.

I've Always Been Fascinated By The Grassroots Folktale Level Of A Culture, And As A Storyteller, I Have To Follow What Seems To Be Leading Me On.

The Magic In That Country Was So Thick And Tenacious That It Settled Over The Land Like Chalk-dust And Over Floors And Shelves Like Slightly Sticky Plaster-dust. (housecleaners In That Country Earned Unusually Good Wages.) If You Lived In That Country, You Had To De-scale Your Kettle Of Its Encrustation Of Magic At Least Once A Week, Because If You Didn't, You Might Find Yourself Pouring Hissing Snakes Or Pond Slime Into Your Teapot Instead Of Water.