Then I started reading medieval and Victorian Arthuriana, collecting epigraphs for chapter headers. And now I am possessed of the finger-curling desire to write a murder mystery in which the detective is the elderly and somewhat doddering Lancelot, now ordained a priest in Glastonbury.
See what happens when you get to the slaughter late?
Ehn. I never liked Lancelot. Phyllis Ann Karr corrupted me young.