Don't tell me you're too old for me!

Don't tell my husband, but when I was in England for four months I had an affair. It just happened to be with a dead guy. 600 years dead.

I did an exchange through my university at the University of Hertfordshire in England for four months. It was one of the best experiences of my life. I experienced history, surprising cultural differences, and most importantly I got to grovel in the footsteps of authorial giants. People like Thomas Hardy, Phillip Sidney, Francis Bacon, and yes, my main literary squeeze, Chaucer (sigh, giggle).

I have to admit, while I was there, away from my husband, family and friends, I got a little lonely. Well, one thing led to another and I found myself alone and vulnerable in Westminster Abbey. The first time I visited that grand building, I was there for four hours!! The security guys started thinking I was scoping the place out. I was a literary pilgrim following faithfully behind my host, the man who wrote about The Hoste, Geoffrey Chaucer.

As I stood in front of his Tomb at the head of Poet's Corner I tried to breathe in his genius. If I could inhale even a speck of dust containing the memory of his poetic brilliance I'd be a thousand times better a writer than I am right now. So I stared at the slab of stone that housed the actual bones of the grandpappy of English Literature, and I admired.

Soon a little girl came by and started scratching at the tomb with her fingernail. I glared at her like a jealous lover. Some hussy eight year old trying to steal my man! But at the same time I thought, how interesting that this little girl who probably has no idea whose tomb she's trying to scratch a mark into, chose this very tomb. Is it poignant that she was attempting to make a permanent mark in the tomb of the man who made a permanent mark in the history of the English canon? Most likely she was just wondering why this crazy lady had been staring at this block of marble for half an hour.

After she left I ran my finger over the spot where she tried to scratch. Was I trying to wipe her off my literary lover? I don't think so. To be honest, I think I was hoping she had released some dust from the tomb and I might be able to collect it in my fingerprint, as though it would settle into the cracks of the print that identifies me.

I went back many times. I visited Chaucer over and over, eventually not even stopping to admire the beautiful building where he rests. There are so many important figures that lie in that one building. Queen Elizabeth the first, and Mary Queen of Scots right next door to her. Hardy, Byron, Shelley, Keats, Bronte, Wollstonecraft and on and on and on. But it's Chaucer who I went to see; the one who sits at the head of Poet's Corner, as though in Grandpa's chair at the head of the table.

I've always had a thing for older men.