Language and the Canterbury Tales

I have scatter-brain tendencies. I leave things behind. Tragically, my books are no exception.

Foucault's Pendulum has proved to be a slow read. I brought it to work the other day. It is still there. Bereft and saddened, I picked up Chaucer's magnum opus.

And so was an earlier sin brought to the light. In Eason's on O'Connell Street, my true nature was revealed. In my willful ignorance, I had purchased the Big Girl's Blouse edition - a translation of the work into modern English.

To my shame, I initially considered the mistake serendipitous. In the shadow-laden recesses of my soul, I was relieved to have side-stepped a struggle against the tyrannical and unforgiving mires of Middle English.

What a fool I was!

Upon learning of my crime, the Language Police promptly confiscated the blasphemous work and replaced it with a copy less perilous to the soul.

And verily do I say that my eyes are now open.

Though I have yet to learn the meaning of the word 'eek', I can now see the One True Path. I have found my road to Damascus.