It was a French strawberry yogurt, of course, and it was all we had in the fridge for breakfast. Tim and I tossed a coin to decide who’d get the first mouthful. Then we tossed the coin to see who’d keep the coin. Tim won both times. So there I was sitting at the breakfast table chewing my nails, which was all I had to chew, when Tim suddenly let out a great gurgle and started waving his spoon in the air like he was trying to swat a fly.

“What is it, Tim?” I asked. “Don’t tell me! You’ve found a strawberry!”

“No, Nick! Look . . .!”

He was holding up the silver foil that he’d just torn off the yogurt container and looking at it, and now I understood. The company that made the yogurt was having one of those promotions. You’ve probably seen them on chocolate bars or chips or Coke cans. These days you can’t even open a can of beans without finding out if you’ve won a car or a vacation in Mexico or a check for a thousand dollars. Personally, I’m just grateful if I actually find some beans. Anyway, the yogurt people were offering a whole range of prizes and there it was, written on the underside of the foil.

Congratulations from Bestlé Fruit Yogurts! You have just won a weekend for two in Paris! Just telephone the number printed on the container for further details and . . . Bon Voyage!

“I’ve won, Nick!” Tim gasped. “A weekend for two . . .!” He stopped and bit his thumb. “Who shall I take?” he muttered.

“Oh, thanks a lot, Tim,” I said. “It was me who bought the yogurt.”

“But it was my money.”

“If it hadn’t been for me, you’d have spent it on a Popsicle.”

Tim scowled. “But Paris, Nick! It’s the most romantic city in Europe. I want to take my girlfriend.”

“Tim,” I reminded him. “You haven’t got a girlfriend.”

That was a bit cruel of me. The truth was, Tim hadn’t been very lucky in love. His first serious relationship had ended tragically when his girlfriend had tried to murder him. After that he’d replied to one of those advertisements in the lonely hearts column of a newspaper, but he couldn’t have read it properly because the girl had turned out to be a guy who spent the evening chasing him around Paddington station. His last girlfriend had been a fire-eater in a local circus. He’d taken her out for a romantic, candlelit dinner but she’d completely spoiled it by eating the candles. Right now he was on his own. He sometimes said he felt like a monk—but without the haircut or the religion.

Anyway, we argued a bit more but finally he picked up the telephone and rang the number on the yogurt container. There was no answer.