30 October 2005

Sunday, Ruddy Sunday, or
     The Old, Grey Jer, He Ain't What He Used To Be

We warmed the glass slightly at a candle, filled it a third high, swirled the wine round, nursed it in our hands, held it to the light, breathed it, sipped it, filled our mouths with it, and rolled it over the tongue, ringing it on the palate like a coin on a counter, titlted our heads back and let it trickle down the throat....
'Ought we to be drunk every night?' Sebastian asked one morning.
'Yes, I think so.'
'I think so too.'
      --- from Evelyn Waugh's Brideshead Revisited
      After Goodness-Only-Knows how many consecutive hours of answering emails and commenting on essay drafts and so on and so forth-- and my back now as brutally buggered as Ned Beatty's butt in Deliverance-- I can finally utter those five little words I've been aching to say for days: "Wolf Blass, take me away!"  

      Right?   I think so too.   And I'm shiraz hell not coming back until my Bacchus better. Power grapez, my friends, power grapes.

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