James Hammond's birthday was the day before mine.
Now I live in Bordeaux in palatial (if pokey) luxury, in the bosom of my family, with dining table, patio and every comfort known to man. Well, every comfort I could reasonably hope for, shall we say. James lives far from his family in monastic isolation in his upstairs flat in the quarter judaïque.
So I arranged a surprise birthday party for him, using a surreptitious Facebook group I proposed that we do something festive on our patio involving sausages and cake. Picture my surprise when I was ejected from the group and the discussion continued. It did not need the deductive powers of Inspector Barnaby to realise that the birthday party was to have a double focus - for James and for myself.
Until the tummy bug struck. And the bad back flared up.
Our feeble physical form forbade us to attend.
Oh well. There's always another year.
Well, not always, but there's reasonable hope of another year this time, at least!