For my 34th birthday, my lady decided that it was time to get fancy, and booked a table at the Rogano in the city centre. It’s a distinctive place, specialising in fish and refitted art deco style in 1935 to match the interiors of the Cunard liner Queen Mary, which was at that time being built at the Clyde shipyards. There was drinking, much eating of scallops (tricky, while holding your left pinkie in the air, as you must when eating somewhere fancy), some modest* imbibing of champagne, cocktails, and beer, and a good time had. Thanks for all your birthday wishes – it’s always nice to be thought of.
As Jackie points out, I’m now older than Christ when he died. I’m also older than Alexander, who also passed on at the age of 33. One founded one of history’s richest, most successful cults and is worshipped by millions, and the other died owning pretty much everything he had ever seen (and he was well-travelled).
Great. Now I don’t feel like I’m underachieving at all.
* this is a lie, the drinking was grotesquely immodest…