I am not a young man. And there comes a time when the daily grind of Lunch Counter labour seizes one by the greying short and curlies (with evil intent). Such was my fate on Friday evening last. The handwriting was on the wall; and the steel claws of Time were yanking for all they were worth.
I have therefore decided to entrust The Lunch Counter -- its inventory, property and out-buildings, chattels and accounts payable -- to the receivership of Al's Pawn and Grab Shop, until such time as I am fit enough to return to the kitchen.
The dead Earl of Oxford -- who bears a striking resemblance to Shakespeare (of the Sanders Portrait) -- has graciously allowed me to recuperate at his spacious digs. Together, we shall cobble together a few broadsheets for public consumption.
Thank you. And good night.