The feast was amazing last night, and I stayed up right until the end.
I’d just piled my plate with lovely food, when Dad tickled the back of his throat with a feather and threw up into his pot. Some of the vomit splashed on to my plate, so I had to throw it all away and start again.
After that, I stood in the corner to eat, where I was safe from all the rebounding spew.
This morning I sat in the garden with Brawnus and Dad, having a marvellous time talking about heroic things, until Mum came rushing out with tears streaming down her cheeks.
‘My priest has foreseen a great tragedy. It will take place on the Ides of March next year.’
Only the gods know why she gets herself into such a state. The Ides of March is ages away, so I’m sure this ‘tragedy’ will all have worked itself out by then.
You mark my words. The Ides of March will be fine ...
