I think my regular reader(s) would agree that I have been rather low-key about my bridge abilities of late. Defence for me became like a cataract-smitten eye trying to read the fine print — so much so that I began to bitterly judge myself Worst Defender in the Room every time I played.
But that was then. Since returning from my five-week self-imposed bridge exile things are looking up. The first weekend in September was the Crockfords Cup final. Eight teams who survived the six or so knockout matches met up in one of the ghastliest hotels in England hoping to claim the trophy. Chris Jagger’s (no relation) excellent squad won and… we came second!
Get Britain's best politics newsletters
Register to get The Spectator's insight and opinion straight to your inbox. You can then read two free articles each week.
Already a subscriber? Log in
Comments
Join the debate for just $5 for 3 months
Be part of the conversation with other Spectator readers by getting your first three months for $5.
UNLOCK ACCESS Just $5 for 3 monthsAlready a subscriber? Log in