As my husband set off on his [Asian sex tour with the local rugby club], I realised with no small amount of horror that he’d left me with just three bottles of low-alcohol/low-joule sparkling wine to last me for twelve days. After some quick calculations, I worked out that meant he’d left me with less than one standard drink per day. Yes, that was per day, not per hour.
Of course, I’d like to add here that I am both capable of surviving twelve days with my children without alcohol in my system and of buying my own wine from the local Liquor Superstore, but there’s a principle involved here. Somewhere.
This wasn’t the first alcohol crisis I’d had to weather this week. My Annual Night Out with the Dashing Solicitor last Sunday saw us accidentally order a bottle of Sparkling Red, something the DS had obviously never encountered in the top London restaurants he usually frequents, as evident by his polite exclamation of “WHAT THE FUCK IS THIS SHIT?”.
“Oh, it’s sparkling red. Sometimes it’s quite drinkable,” I said, all the while thinking that the words “sparkling” and “red” should generally only be put together when describing the shoes Judy Garland wore in “The Wizard of Oz”.
We both took a sip.
“It’s like sparkling Ribena!” The DS all but spat his mouthful out, utterly appalled.
“With medicinal highlights!” I added, swallowing mine with some difficulty.
Before we’d even finished our first glass, the DS was already getting ready to leave, the rest of the bottle left untouched in its bucket.
Now, I’ve never left a bottle of alcohol undrunk like that. Although there was that one time at a party when my Mother’s Group made the spontaneous decision to all tip the “sweet shit” we were drinking into the garden and move onto something a bit more “Brut” or even “Brut de Brut”, which I’ve secretly always thought sounded a bit like Randy Macho Man Savage’s French nemesis.
Anyway, despite my misgivings, the DS insisted we leave that bottle behind and relocate ourselves to an establishment which would never dream of serving such a swill and would instead served us a chilled bottle of 2003 Louis Roederer Vintage Champagne with a suitably deferential smile. Which is exactly what we did and what we drank. And for someone who had thought ‘Roederer’ was Roger Federer’s J-Lo name up that point, I enjoyed it immensely.
Of course, now that my husband has gone, I’m wondering if I should have taken the DS to the local Liquor Superstore instead and asked him to buy me two dozen of the usual cheap crap I drink for the same price. You know, just sayin’.