Tomorrow sees me going back to work for the first time since September 21 last year. The DIY list has been blasted into a million pieces, the project list has grown and shrunk more times than the UK economy; my library at home is now a lean, mean repository of selected tomes as I have been busily financing my hobby from my own resources, so to speak and I have even managed to get a lot of stuff painted (well a lot by my standards anyway!) during my enforced absence from the land of gainful employment. However, all good/bad things (delete as applicable) come to an end and so the inevitable reality of the workplace looms large once again. I am truly delighted to be doing so - especially as the job I am embarking upon represents a change of career and a new direction and challenge. It will be a grand adventure and so I wanted to write something suitably witty and original but instead decided to let the bard himself do the talking as he can describe the situation and how I am feeling far better than through the medium of my own humble efforts!
SCENE I. France. Before Harfleur.
Alarum. Enter KING HENRY, EXETER, BEDFORD, GLOUCESTER, and Soldiers, with scaling-laddersKING HENRY V
Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more;
Or close the wall up with our English dead.
In peace there's nothing so becomes a man
As modest stillness and humility:
But when the blast of war blows in our ears,
Then imitate the action of the tiger;
Stiffen the sinews, summon up the blood,
Disguise fair nature with hard-favour'd rage;
Then lend the eye a terrible aspect;
Let pry through the portage of the head
Like the brass cannon; let the brow o'erwhelm it
As fearfully as doth a galled rock
O'erhang and jutty his confounded base,
Swill'd with the wild and wasteful ocean.
Now set the teeth and stretch the nostril wide,
Hold hard the breath and bend up every spirit
To his full height. On, on, you noblest English.
Whose blood is fet from fathers of war-proof!
Fathers that, like so many Alexanders,
Have in these parts from morn till even fought
And sheathed their swords for lack of argument:
Dishonour not your mothers; now attest
That those whom you call'd fathers did beget you.
Be copy now to men of grosser blood,
And teach them how to war. And you, good yeoman,
Whose limbs were made in England, show us here
The mettle of your pasture; let us swear
That you are worth your breeding; which I doubt not;
For there is none of you so mean and base,
That hath not noble lustre in your eyes.
I see you stand like greyhounds in the slips,
Straining upon the start. The game's afoot:
Follow your spirit, and upon this charge
Cry 'God for Harry, England, and Saint George!'
Over the top? Probably, even by my standards - but then I have never been one for the subtle or understated turn of phrase....;-)