DIARY
It was a New Year that demanded consumption and reflection, in equal measures. My gracious host, aristocrat and sage rootled around in his ancestral cellar and emerged with magnums of Margaux tucked under each arm like buxom milkmaids. Over the years, I have learnt, through experience, to bring my own straw, as even the most thoughtful hosts are prone to neglect their provision. Am I alone in employing a silver straw? That precious of objects, bosom companion of my top pocket, reduces the number of spillages down one’s shirt front and upper trouser leg, as well as doing away the tiresome elbow-work associated with the lifting and imbibing of fine wine.
Over the first bottle or two, I treated my hosts to my judgements and reflections on the year past and the year to come. “As sure as the horse follows the cart, so 2025 is set to follow 2024,” I opined, and then continued to expand.