I’m a bit sore. Sore from carrying sand and tiles to revamp our backyard. But our combined efforts led to drinking Duvel in the sun’s splendor on our new terrace. Life’s good.
Geoff and I had an uncomplicated auction to 3NT.
West leads a small . I don’t want to endanger my contract so I call low from dummy. I win East’s Ten with my Ace, next my Jack gets covered by the King and Ace, and the same happens for the Jack from dummy. Just for sake of symmetry I cross to the Queen, and all four suits have been played in the first four tricks.
I continue cashing out on the black suits ( breaking) and I find myself squeezing West out of his five card suit and the King. All thirteen are making their bow to me… the 7 last…
So the juice I squeezed from my opponent magically turned into beer. Well, coming from Dombo I know, no, I feel! the 7 is a false prophet. The universe revolves around the 8. The 7 outranked in class, suit and number. There’s not a lot more to it than that.
But woe me, the invertebrate! The promise of beer and I set aside my beliefs (be it temporarily).