You're not 90 every day

This event has been in the planning since the beginning of the year although it might be more accurate to say that it all began in 1921 when the guest of honour (sitting at the head of the nearest table, in a dark sweater) was born less than a mile away at a maternity hospital in Finsbury in the City of London. He was born a Cockney and has remained a Londoner.

The venue today was a topnotch restaurant that occupies the premises of an old smokehouse close to Smithfield Market; the 19 diners ranged in age from 90 (tomorrow) to 23, and had arrived here from Madrid and Paris, Montgomery, Manchester and Somerset (etc.) to celebrate the nine decade achievement.

Several commentators on my blip two days ago assumed, naturally enough, that the birthday boy was my father. However, such is the unconventional nature of my family that he is in fact my half-brother, the child of my father's youth whereas I was the baby born to his middle-age. Like those subterranean volcanic disturbances that cause the bedrock to shift and heave, so my family has been generationally riven into unexpected patterns. It makes the landscape more interesting, if awkward to explain.

I've been a little anxious about this event for - oh,months. Would the essential guests make it, would my bro be fit enough, would my sons look reasonably smart, what menu to choose, how to work out the seating plan, would the taxi arrive on time and could I actually stand up and utter any appropriate words...

But everyone came up trumps, there were no hitches, the guests gelled, the food was fabulous* and the old man is now fast asleep with a pile of cards and presents waiting to be opened tomorrow. I'm wiped out!



*Of this there was no doubt as we have eaten here before: St John's Smithfield.