Unless you're seriously strapped (armed), you're about to be not okay too.

Then the peepers begin on a high key, with a singularly sweet and lucid voice, somewhere betwixt a silver-whistle and a glass-bell, smacking little of the mid: 'Eep!-eep-eep-eep! ee ee-ee! eepee! eepee-peepee! peep-eep! eepepee! eepepee! eepepee!' accompanied by a few trills long continued...

No, don't be a clever arse. Did you or did you not eat all the ice cream?

This is an England of the literary imagination. It goes beyond bricolage; it is the mimesis of a book whose own internal mimesis is the result of the organic growth of a Bookland England. It is the Gramarye which, for most of [Connie] Willis's readers, began as [Geoffrey] Chaucer's pilgrims rode down Watling Street.