Aug 3

“You know perfectly well I was under the impression I was taping a game. Imagine my surprise when- what did I actually get, Daniel?”

A small voice, addressed to a spot somewhere over Jack’s left shoulder, confessed, “The migration of flamingos across the salt flats of Namibia. You did get to see quite a lot of the game. I hadn’t accidentally taped over the whole thing! You enjoyed the documentary.”

Jack hooted, “I did not. I amiably tolerated it for your sake. Once the shock had worn off, and I’d broken out my Glen Livet. Then the Glenmorangie. Then the Glen Farclas - covered more Glens in two hours than a map of Scotland.”

“It was dramatic footage. That little flamingo, with the salt crust round it’s foot, falling farther and farther behind - you were mesmerised.”

“I was paralysed with boredom.” Jack said firmly.

“You did a fist pump when the film crew went back and saved the little flamingo. I distinctly remember that. It being after the end credits and all.”

That was, regrettably, true. Jack said defiantly, “I was stoned on cooking sherry by that point, out of sheer desperation.”

Daniel gave him a sad little shake of the head and murmured gently, “You’ve still got the tape, Jack.”