‘Yes, well,’ I said, ‘I’m not going to talk about it anymore. For all I know you’re right.’

It’s my Birthday Weekend. I don’t have to work through things if I don’t want to.

Also, could someone please put that block of perfectly-formed, gorgeously-wrapped, buttery-yellow, organically-expensive butter in the fridge before the dog manages to jump those extra few millimetres (straight up and down from a standing start on his back legs, entertaining if disconcerting) and grab it from the bench.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going back to the lounge to recover from yesterday evening’s over-indulgence, while the mister goes in to Harris Scarfe to buy a new vacuum cleaner. No, that’s not my birthday present. We have to replace the one that we used to replace that one that got destroyed by the bat guano.