I'm kidding about the dog bit, kind of. Anyway, I'm jumping the gun. My good friend Robert called me from the frozen wastelands of the North. Not the one from Stalling Walling, the other one who also lives on the side of a hill in not so sunny Derbyshire.
I knew something was up as soon as I picked up the phone. I'd spoken to him just after 7/7 when there was that flurry of calls from friends to check I had not been blown up by Islamicists.
Normally, it would be another several months before such another conversation. That's rule number one relating to friends who do not live in London.
After we had caught up on the goings on in the intervening seven days he cut to the chase.
"The reason I was calling..."
"The reason, I thought this was a social call?"
"Oh it is, but..."
"But? I'm not a fan of buts, I'm convinced that it will be followed by the words cancer, pregnancy or some weird dating invitation. That could, of course, just be me."
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