from Bonnie London Town. This is obscure season 4 in American tragedy. I am your host,

your friend. You are your lover, your literary mansplain or in chief and Georgianologist

Michael E. and Black Southern gentlemen, Esquaw. Just returned from a midday luncheon,

it's Sunday here in London Town and the traditional Sunday meal is the Sunday roast, which

you can find in homes and pubs and grills all across this fair nation. And the Sunday

Roast is just a monstrous meal. It's usually some sort of roast meat accompanied by potatoes

and veg and I don't know a rocket salad and some sort of crumble or pudding, you know, the

way the Brits eat like, like savages. I had my first Sunday roast last week. We went up to

outchend where some friends live, enjoyed a terrific Sunday roast. I opted for some lighter

fare. The wife got herself some booth. There was also lamb available. I started with a smoked

salmon appetizer and then had some sort of fairly bland salad for my main and then sampled

the pudding afterwards. Well, today the wife returned to our friends in crowd chend and our

friend Jessica is going to be preparing a Sunday roast of her own lamb shoulder, but I opted

not to go because I need a long time. This has been one of the big problems in our European

subatical Martha. I think enjoys my company and I enjoy hers. The problem is I also enjoy my

own company and need it just to keep my head on straight. You know, this is the mark of the

introvert. I need to be alone. I think I've talked about this before. I need to be alone and even

when I'm with my bride, my lovely, lovely bride, oftentimes I'm thinking to myself, can you

get the fuck out of my face? She's doing nothing wrong. She's being her perfectly lovely

self when she's not yelling at me about various things I have done wrong. The problem isn't

her. It is my, it's not even a desire. It really does feel like a need to be alone. So I

said to her today, I said, lady, you go up to crowd chend, you enjoy your Sunday roast.

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