Strange days in Stratford. The Bard, preferring the hustle and bustle of London for inspiration, found it difficult to create; he had writer's block.
He was impossible; irrascible, huffing, puffing, cursing, drinking, belching, farting. His wife took the brunt. Spoiled manuscripts littered their house. Midwinter's Dream (too dark); Elisabeth the Virgin (too dangerous); Archimedes (too difficult). None would see the London light of day.
Something must shock him into action.
"Will hath a way with words, but winning ways with women he hath not!" thought his wife.
"Where's my dinner, woman?" called Will to no response. But Anne hath away!