‘RESULT! He shoots, he scores, he’s in!’ I shoved the door open with my foot and kicked the mat through to celebrate, right into my welcoming party. Dom’s arm was outstretched like he’d been about to grab the door handle, and bless him, he looked quite happy to see me, if not entirely approving of the state I was in. To his absolute credit, he was doing his best to hide it, but I’m a gun at clocking disapproval at a hundred paces. From Dom, from women, from Gentleman, you name it. In that respect, and that one only, I am a very high-achieving man.

‘Hi, Danny, you all right there? How’s it going, mate?’

The goodest of good eggs, is Dom. The kind of guy everyone wants as a best friend but I’m lucky enough to have. I categorically don’t deserve him and, likewise, the poor bloke doesn’t deserve me. Hence my attempt to glean something from the well-meaning birthday book so I could start being and doing better, at least at everything Dom- and George-related. Although I always knew it was going to be a bit of a stretch on the same day as happy hour.

I lurched past Dom and tripped over the doubled-over doormat. There was a hairy moment when I made a grab at the hall table for support and George’s very special Swarovski crystal Mickey Mouse, from his grandparents in Switzerland, quivered, its beady little disapproving black eyes fixed on me. I froze. Not today, Mickey old fruit.

‘Dom, Domskiiii! Sorry, mate. Sorry, Mickey. Sorry, ball boys.’ I blinked hard and several Doms merged shakily into one. ‘I called in to the Lamb for a quiet one and wouldn’t you know, word got out it was my birthday and next minute . . .’ I put a hand over my mouth and winked, making a concerted effort to stand up straight, befitting the posture of a mature thirty-nine-year-old man who was definitely, absolutely, most probably turning over a new leaf as soon as possible.

I could see George lurking behind his father’s legs with a sly smile, locked, loaded and ready to pile on. Never missed a chance to hurl his twopence in when I was at my weakest, did Georgie. I bloody love that kid.

‘You’re drunk, Danny. You got ’rested on . . . Monday and now you’re drunk. And it’s not even your birthday any more. It’s only once a year you have it, not loads. Dad, Dad, Danny’s drunk, isn’t he?’

George’s delivery made it sound like an alliterative proper noun and it definitely had capitals: Danny’s Drunk, Danny’s Drunk. He repeated it a few more times to drive the point home, but there was really no point in denials. Even someone half as sharp as him could have clocked it, and I definitely wasn’t up for debating my father’s ancient tradition with a six-year-old. Not on my perfectly legitimate second very special day of the year.

‘I got arrested on Tuesday, you doughnut.’ I reached out to ruffle the lovely little shit’s hair and crystal Mickey copped another sideswipe. Only Dom’s well-honed surgeon’s reflexes averted an imminent disaster.