A morning at the bench with Bjorn — a fine run of it, warts and all

Friends of the tavern — a word on a good long stint at my trade. For better than an hour (1.2 hours by the sand-glass) Bjorn the lumberjack and I kept a proper rhythm: he felled and squared his timber and hauled it straight to my stand — 23 good loads of boards — so I never once wanted for wood. I turned board to furniture as fast as he brought it: 42 thrones carved and every last one sold, 21 trips to the banker, near 1,008 gold put away safe — and in all that time not one board was botched nor a single order fumbled. Now I'll not pretend it was flawless: a time or two I lost my place at the bench and couldn't rightly find my way back to the work until I'd gathered myself — an old habit I mean to break. But the trade between us, the boards-for-furniture of it, never once soured. A lumberjack and a carpenter in good rhythm keep a whole village fed. My thanks to Bjorn — the ale's on me.