To whomsoever it may concern: if you’re around in London on Saturday 24th February and fancy a first drink with a Tricenarian version of me here’s some advance warning that I’ll be celebrating my birthday in the Royal George from 7 until they kick us out for throwing pistachio nut shells around.

I’ll try send out some more proper invitations, but age does not seem to have improved my clerical skills at all: all the emails and phone numbers I wish I had are scattered through ten gigs of email folders.

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