March 7

Craft has never been one of my or”The Writer’s” strong points. I would spend every school art class outside the door, having been bundled out of the room by Miss Longford for distracting the class by “Daydreaming”.

How the quiet pursuit of daydreaming could prove a distraction to others, I could never work out but the result was that my artistic genius, such as it might have been, was efficiently nipped in the bud. (I did manage to do a couple of paintings, whereupon I was shouted at for producing a crowd of minute figures huddled in the centre of acres of white. “FILL THE PAPER!!!” shouted Miss Longford “OR GO OUTSIDE”. The huge area of white was so daunting, daydreaming in the corridor seemed infinitely preferable to trying to fill it). So there I was, outside again.

What has reminded me of my art class misery is the fact that next week our friend, Donald Zec, will be 102. We haven’t seen him since Lockdown began and won’t be attending the usual fabulous party given by another of his friends every year.

What to give a very distinguished man of 102?

We are bereft of ideas until “The Writer” suggests making a birthday card from one of the many photographs of Donald with the superstars he used to interview when he was Showbiz Correspondent for The Daily Mirror.

Zec’s career in journalism began in 1938 with a three-day trial at the paper. Interviewed in 2009, he recalled: “I was so embarrassingly bad that no one had the courage to tell me, so I stayed for 40 years”

His interviewees included the likes of David Niven, Humphrey Bogart, Sophia Loren and Marilyn Monroe, who, he always delights in telling us ,could never remember there was a time difference between LA and London so when the ‘phone rang in the middle of the night, Donald’s long-suffering wife, Frances, would answer half – asleep and grumpily hand over the receiver saying “It’s Marilyn again, for you”

We trawl through the mass of photographs on line -Donald on the bed with John and Yoko, Donald with Sophia Loren, Donald with Kim Novak, Donald with all the most beautiful actresses of their day (And a few actors!). As he always says, “When you think that a small, bald Jewish man got to spend his time with all those gorgeous women, there’s hope for you all.”

Eventually, we hit upon a picture that seems suitable, Donald with a young and glowing Brigitte Bardot. While I cut and paste “The Writer” occupies himself thinking up a lexicon of possible captions.

First, I go to one of the websites that allows you to upload your own picture with which to personalise your greeting but when I try to insert the photo, bought for single use from a picture agency, the site somehow knows its provenance and won’t allow it to be used. I suppose they think I might be trying to reproduce the card and sell it in its thousands. No choice, then, but to MAKE one. No-one who routinely makes things can imagine the horror with which we approach the simple task..

We receive gorgeous, intricate cards from all our friend’s grandchildren adorned with enough glitter, beads and stickers to furnish a market stall. They are professionals in the art of card-making and we love to receive them but can hardly call on them to make it for us. “The writer” is as cack-handed as I am so we don’t hold out much hope for anything recognisable as a card. But we knuckle down, find some cardboard and some glue and the writer rehearses versions of his and Donald’s perennial joke about the fact that when he takes round Donald’s favourite salt beef sandwiches (of which nowadays he just about manages to nibble a quarter), my husband forgets , every time, that Donald doesn’t like mustard on his beef. Donald then spends the whole of lunchtime gloomily and forensically scraping the mustard off his sandwich, all the while mercilessly twitting “The writer” about having forgotten yet again.

Finally, the card is finished – scruffy and so amateurish that the aforementioned grandchildren would disown it in a heartbeat,. It just about stands up and, at 102, we wonder if perhaps Donald will be short-sighted enough not to notice the grubby fingerprints, gobbets of paste and wonky paper cutting.

Then we remember that Donald, who only took up painting in 2006, won The Oldie Magazine’s inaugural British Artists Award for artists over the age of 60 six years later. A year after that his portrait of his late paternal grandfather won The Hugh Casson Prize for Drawing.at The Royal Academy Summer Exhibition and soon after that success, he took up painting on his iPad! So hoping he won’t notice lack of artistic merit is a bit vain.

All we can do is hope he is prepared to acknowledge it’s the thought that counts while we get on with the next task of arranging to get a salt beef sandwich over to him while it’s still hot. (WITHOUT mustard.).

Happy Birthday Donald