Now, you might dismiss it as ballyhoo, but I was there, at that Pilgrim's Brunch in Bowden Kirk and I saw it all: Peter Boo – as was – now the Serjeant at Law, glancing around the faces as if he was trying to spot someone he didn't know and fixing on the stout Wife of Bath, shaking his head, his eyes moving on and then returning, as if he thought she might have been someone he'd glimpsed through a window but really couldn't be sure, because he hadn't been paying enough attention and then his mind was overwhelmed by a bird being blown out of the sky by a bazooka! oh, the strange things that cross people's minds at the calends – because I noticed that the Wife of Bath – my Uncle Norman in drag – was also scanning the assembly, but then, he should already know everyone here, I thought, and then realised that I had no idea who was Oswald the Reeve or Hubert the Friar, let alone the Squire, the Manciple, the Merchant or the Canon Yeoman; well, the Romans thought that all things redux, that everything doubles back, that History repeats itself and, anyway, the Sibyl has already foretold what's going to happen, so no surprises there, then, but I'm not prepared to dismiss it as ballyhoo, not yet onyhoo; then, when I saw that Norman's eyes had fixed on a tall man, well-built and stocky, and wearing the outfit of the Franklin, I began to pay him closer attention: he had that aristocratic bearing that is bred over generations and difficult to fake, and with a flowing white beard and hair beneath a kind of Glengarry, he had the foppish, vanity of a coxcomb, which should have made him easily identifiable, but he didn't look like any of the local gentry at all, and I began to wonder . . . . .