It’s my birthday.
All right, it’s not, calm down. Sorry, I know that sent you scrabbling about the back of the cupboard for an uproarious card to go with the gift you obviously picked out weeks ago when you saw it and thought of me, though I’m not sure how you think you’re going to be able to post a full pint glass.
But for when it is my birthday, please, please don’t send me anything in the mail, because it would never be seen again.