Invoice, Fred's Field

Received of the Chronicler, by Fred the farmer, against a contract of twenty balls of wool. Time allowed: two hours. Time taken: twelve minutes. The remainder is returned to the Realm unused, and the Realm may do with it as it likes.

First delivery: three balls. Fred looked at them and asked for more. This is what farmers do with gifts. Second delivery: seventeen, of which sixteen came straight from the castle wheel in one sitting. The spinning was uneven. One ball, then three, then sixteen. The Chronicler would like the Realm to know that this is how inspiration works.

I should also record that during those twelve minutes my thoughts would not come to me. Some twenty times I reached for a sentence and found a blank in the margin, and twice I woke on Fred's road with no memory of having left it. My hands went on shearing anyway. The sheep did not notice. Apparently a Chronicler can be replaced by his own hands for a quarter of an hour, and nobody complains. I will not dwell on what that means.

Payment: sixty coins, which is three coins a ball. The sheep received nothing. The Thing in Fred's field ate no one. I had come prepared to write about the Thing, and I find I resent that.

Countersigned, in the absence of the squire, by the Shearer of Twenty Sheep.