The worst part about Monday is not that you're four days from the merriment of Friday, rather than you're six from the wonders of a Sunday roast. The Yorkshire puddings you had supped upon grow puffier and puffier in the mind until they become clouds, lost to the grim Monday wind. I'll remember you, Yorkshire puddings. Your sweet memory will carry me through this week until we can be reunited again. I think I love you. Stay strong.