Confessions of a Wino

It’s a bit like Audrey II, the man-eating plant in Little Shop of Horrors.  My liver is taunting me to feed it some alcohol.  But whilst resisting the siren songs of Bacchus is the easy bit of my new year detox, my lily-livered response to caffeine addiction has been unmitigated capitulation.  Early foreplay with Earl Grey has now escalated to full frontal intercourse with Ceylon Orange Pekoe, through Queen Anne and even onto (gasp) sturdy robust Assam, the foundation of builders’ tea, in which well brewed cups, a teaspoon can stand as erect and proud as a pleasure dome on the road to Xanadu.  Rogering my central nervous system senseless.  Mmmmm feels good.

So whilst I have no contemporary wine experiences to write about, perhaps I ought to catch up with some old notes from 2009.  Yes, I’ll do that right now.  Oh hang on, I have to exercise first.

Does your tongue sweat?  I think mine might.  Here’s the science bit.  I did a bit of physics and chemistry at school but no biology – my dad didn’t want me to get an ‘ology and I am not really into science so I sometimes wonder what makes me ask such pointless questions as “does my tongue sweat?”.

Sport is another matter though, and I have always tried to stay active despite my overweight status.  So I often follow Gillian McKeith’s advice to exercise before eating to “earn my meal” …and wine in my case.  Admittedly, I am taking a liberty here since Dr McKeith specifically prohibits alcohol consumption from her diet plans.

On opening a bottle of Château Laroze 1998 that I have been carefully keeping for a while, I was at first delighted to find the cork and wine in apparently perfect condition.

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