Etonians and common locals, 1937
So here I sit once more on a Friday lunchtime with the kids napping. There’s no wine to taste yet this week but I have every intention of popping out somewhere this afternoon to pick up some Malbec. This special trip would not be necessary had it not been for the fact that having despatched my husband on an urgent errand to pick up a bottle or two of a very drinkable Cahors that I tried last week, the merchant that I’d bought it from was shut.
I can only imagine this is because presumably at 4pm on a Thursday in October, there’s rather a lull in tourist trade for the Eton Bridge Wine Company, let alone that a local resident might pop by to make a purchase.
There’s always a niggle in the back of my mind whether the trouble we go to to have an unsightly burgundy (in colour, 2nd hand from eBay, not a groovy import from the region) wine fridge in the dining room to store our more exciting purchases of wine collected over the years is worth it. This niggle is based on a fear that we have a stash of wine left in there forgotten about, and I am talking from past experience, long beyond its drinkable life.
On this cold and wet autumn lunchtime, post fish fingers, both kids are asleep, and this is where my mind wanders to – the wine fridge. It is a Friday after all, and the dilemma of what to drink this evening once the kids are in bed once again, unashamedly, is never far from my thoughts.