Forecast: hand-cut, oven-roasted, lightly-salted, seal-packaged

Yesterday afternoon I received an angry phone call from the London Prodigal, telling me to book flights to Japan immediately. When I questioned the nature of the trip, he made some very rude remarks ('strumpetous, groin-dwelling bible salesman' was, I think, the Parthian shot) and hung up. At the time I was sitting in a bay windowseat of the Cary Grant, a pub that, ordinarily, only exists on a Thursday, but, in this case, had decided to make an exception. Shortly after this incident, a man touring with the Floridian Children's Disney Show sat down near me, and I spent the remainder of the afternoon telling him never to go to Spain.