The Sunday Joint

It wasn’t much of a day of rest for my mother when Sunday dinner took half a day to prepare. If there was swede involved, or sprouts, it could be even longer as she liked to boil the Jesus out of the veg.

My father wouldn’t have lamb in the house ever, since a stint working in the local slaughterhouse. He said he only had to look at a leg of lamb to hear the plaintive bleating of those he’d despatched before their prime. So, the…




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Simon Goss

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All this, and Welsh too. Join me here —

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