The seasons come and go. The years turn. Boys grow into men. They disappear to fresh and distant conquests. Only FB's ineptitude endures. There is always another 11 year old at the other end, nonchalantly flipping the ball from one hand to the other. There is no escape. It is the tale that has been told throughout the history of poetry and story. And FB must tell it.
On several occasions he has described to Mrs FB his need to reclaim his place in the great literary tradition - she has not discouraged him. To be fair, neither has she encouraged him. Indeed, she did not think it worth it to pass any comment other than to suggest he might not yet again leave his shoes in the exact spot she is likely to trip over them.
So he turned to the keyboard with a renewed resolve. But his firmness of purpose wilted as he suddenly brought to mind that it was his birthday.
Again? So soon after the last one? The gloom of the January day deepened. He could hear that 11 year old at the other end chuckling devilishly to himself. All seemed lost.
But Mrs FB was on hand to save the day with a splendid hattrick.
He he scoffed the cake, he dipped into Blowers and savoured Mahler: that 11 year old leg spinner would just have to wait.