It's that time of year (already), the daffodils and primroses are in bloom, and Nelson bakes his buns (no pun intended). It is a time of tolerance, when colonial delicacies are accepted on my august furniture, I hear we will be feasting on 'burgers', I hear they resemble sandwiches, but without the margarine and cucumber. I will humour my little transatlantic friends by giving in to their amusing customs.
On Sunday 7th of March, we will start by drinking unbecoming amounts of tipple, before cooking the aforementioned foods. As usual, uninvited individuals will turn up, much to my dismay, but my chivalrous and conciliatory personality will forestall any disparagement.
You will report to my pastoral lodgings when the sun is high, therefore around noon (earlier if you see fit). Since the fascists have taken over the world, curfews have hampered social interactions, but we will thwart the enemy as we did during the Battle of Britain, godspeed!
