[Editor’s Note: Lewis is less than enthusiastic about his editor having his weekends off again.]
—Let’s hope things don’t work out.
“Hey, why are you wishing me ill?”
—Nothing personal, it’s just that when you and She With Whom I Abide have the same day off, you go somewhere and leave your faithful companion behind . . . alone . . . in the yard . . . starving . . . thirsty . . . victim of an overbearing sun . . . or an ice storm . . . with lots of yellow jackets . . . and did I mention alone?
“That doesn’t happen every weekend.”
—Might as well, given how awful even one is: I can’t shake the memory for weeks and months afterward.
“Hey, wait a minute: I thought you couldn’t remember what you ate the day before thus explaining your enthusiasm for breakfast every morning.”
—Um, well, I . . . uh . . . only forget happy things?
“Sad, truly sad: get your stories straight, bub, then come whining.”