Stayed home from work today, coughing and eh. Slept more than I normally get to. Drank two pots of herbal tea and suspect that the headache I now have is from complete lack of caffeine intake today.
Did, however, get a buttload of writing done. ~2K on the YA thing and 2,610 words on The Stratford Man. Figured out what the bad guys were up to with much help from katallen, cpolk, and truepenny.
Got to write Frances Walsingham Sidney Devereaux, Countess of Essex, a little bit, which is always fun. Did take me fifteen minutes of googling to find out when she died. (She, like her cousin Tom, generally outlived the hell out of everybody and cleverly died just in time to avoid Cromwell. Go, Walsinghams!) (Monty Python has utterly ruined British history for me. I tend to find myself singing "OOOOOliver CROM-WELL, Lord PRO-tec-TOR of ENGland!" at odd moments.
Also, I get "Young Ned of the Hill" snippets at unexpected times.
Halfway through Act IV, Scene xvii. Am about to witness a very silly attempt at an usurpation, somewhat derailed as the would-be usurper couldn't pick a shirt.
I know sir, what it is to kil a man,
It works remorse of conscience in me,
I take no pleasure to be murtherous,
Nor care for blood when wine wil quench my thirst.
--Christopher Marlowe, Tamburlaine the Great Part II, Act IV, scene i