Wow. Yesterday’s blog offering was an unstructured mess, huh?
I was having a lovely time though, trust me. If only I could remember it.
You see, I’m catsitting in Twickenham just round the corner from Lidl. Yesterday I popped in on my way home and they were flogging these for £7.00.
I don’t profess to be a wine aficionado, but I know a little about what I like. And there are two words I look for principally as things I know I will absolutely enjoy. One of the two is on this bottle: Mourvédre.
It’s the type of grape it’s made from. It results in a wine that my tastebuds always enjoy. Flat and dry and thick and nom. Grows best around Provence and in the tiny Bandol region – HOT. (The second word I look for is Bandol – I like wine with loads of sun in it.)
I immediately bought four bottles of the stuff to keep for special occasions. Austerity be damned.
I got home and got a call and booked a lovely job. That self tape from the other day. Ding. Straight from tape to offer.
So… I was happy about getting a job, on my own in Richmond but accompanied by four bottles of my favourite wine, a cat and the tail end of summer. What is a man to do?
When I came down this morning there were still three of them thankfully unopened. The fourth one was completely empty with the cork still inexplicably jammed into the neck. I had at some point got around to making all of those loosely connected sentences, and my throat hurt from the sort of committed and deafening snoring marathon that can only come from such proud and foolish excess.
A man need not feel guilty every time he necks a bottle of wine, writes a rant and passes out. But this evening I’m on the water, a good healthy salmon dinner and lots and lots of cat stroking. He is currently sitting beside me purring himself to sleep. We have grown pretty companionable now he knows I’m usually going to open the door and put food in his bowl. I somehow managed both at 7 this morning despite all that tasty Mourvédre.