Once every four years, somewhere around June or July, I experience serious difficulties with my diary. This year was no exception.

“We’re invited to Rivka and Adam next Tuesday. OK?”

“Let me check – no, it’s England versus Germany, tell them we’re sorry.”

“Irit just called – they have got two tickets, best seats, for the opera Sunday night, they can’t make it and would we like to have them? Free!”

“Of course they can’t make it, who does Moshe think I am?  He doesn’t want to miss United States versus North Korea any more than I do!”

“Wednesday next week….”

“Forget it. Paraguay against Uruguay.”

“When is Israel playing Iran?”

“Excuse me?”

“Never mind. But seriously, we haven’t seen Amir and Rachel for ages. They’re inviting all the old crowd Saturday fortnight. I’d really like to go.”

“Amir did that on purpose – they both hate football. Go if you wish, but I intend to have the flu.”

“First Tuesday in July….?”

“Semi-finals day! Are you mad?”

“Wow! Look at this…an invitation to an intimate private dinner at the residence of the President of the State of Israel, July 11^th, 9.30 p.m., just Shimon, Bibi and Sara and us…”

“Ask if they have a decent size TV screen in the dining room, would you?”