Sunday April 2, 2006
24 days to M-day
The day started with us running out of milk.
“I’m sorry,” I said as Graham glumly contemplated his breakfast bowl of muesli, all dry and lacking entirely in milk. “I seem to have lost my routines.”
“Where do you think they might be?”
“I suspect you’ve packed them.”
“Well, you’ll just have to make new ones. I’m not going through all those boxes looking for them.”
“I can understand that. We’ll have to bring our trip to Tesco’s forward so’s I can start. And get milk.”
It was a lovely drive, along the long stretch of river bank, with the sun shining and Spring springing in all directions. The first leaves are appearing on the trees, with the willows leading the way, and now there are daffodils everywhere you look. The grass is greening up nicely, too, and early crops in the fields are wallumping their way towards heaven. Can’t complain at any of that.
In fact, as the earth greens over my soul seems to be responding in similar manner, and there’s very little in the way of complaint to be found in it. Which is just as well considering that most of my comforts and joys seem now to be packed safely inside cardboard boxes.
I did a good shop but, when I got to the wines section it was to discover that not only had the special offer on Jacob’s Creek chardonnay ended but they’d increased the price, too.
“Oh dear,” I said. “I don’t think I can really afford to pay that much for routine plonk. It’ll have to be beer, I’m afraid.”
“Nah,” said Graham. “I bet we can find something cheap and drinkable along here somewhere. You go off and get Dolly provisions and I’ll see what I can do. Trust me. I’m a barman.”
“I trusted you before you were a barman.”
“Don’t quibble. Just do as you’re told.”
I trotted off meekly, privately reserving my right to rebel against doing what I’m told at a more convenient time and place, sought out the cat provisions aisle, and began happily shaking cans of tuna to select those with a Dolly-acceptable level of watery squishiness. Some of them are packed very dry and don’t meet her stringent requirements in terms of squishiness.
“There you are,” Graham said, walking up with two bottles of plonk. “Quality wines from California. Can’t go wrong with them.”
When he told me, I whistled gratefully. “At that rate we might just have to switch our wine buying policy a continent or two.”
“Fair enough. We’ll keep an eye on the Jacob’s Creek price, though. Gotta keep our Commonwealth loyalties going.”
We opened up the first bottle this evening, a completely acceptable chardonnay from the Napa Valley, and enjoyed it greatly.
“It’ssh a bit sshttrong,” I said. “Not that I’m ebjocting, you undersshtand.”