Today, I am forty. Tomorrow, I shall be forty-one. A couple of people have suggested that I should mark this arbitrary threshold with an event of some kind and, always eager to please, I rush to comply. It seemed reasonable that I should seek to involve a pub in some way.
On the day itself I'm at a client site far from London, so I'm deferring these activities until Friday.
On Friday, in the late afternoon and early evening, I shall be in the Melton Mowbray pub on High Holborn in Central London. There's a map here: The pub is a few yards further east than the green arrow implies. If you emerge from Chancery Lane tube station by exit three, you'll find yourself walking eastwards along the right-hand-side of the road and the pub will be on your right just as that long traffic island in the middle of the road draws to a close. Unusually, I'll probably be on the ground floor, but you may have to walk around a bit to find me.
They have beer. They have other drinks. They have pie. They have vegetarian pie, and assorted other bizarre foodstuffs. I'll probably arrive sometime around four and stay until around nine.