Bridge | 3 May 2018

Playing rubber bridge the other afternoon for higher stakes than usual (£20 per hundred), I had a memorably miserable time. I just couldn’t pick up any points, and began losing money at such an alarming rate that I told myself I’d play one more rubber, then quit if my cards didn’t improve.
 
What was I thinking of? As any rubber player knows, the bridge gods have a very cruel sense of humour; just when you’re praying for your luck to change, they give you one last, sharp kick. In my case, you could argue it was self-inflicted. I was finally dealt a wonderful hand, and bid a slam. Not only did I manage to go down by trying — unsuccessfully — to do something clever, but my partner, one of the least forgiving people I know, heaped humiliation on me in a loud and public rant. I was South.
 
West led the ♦4.