Lately, I've been starting far too many conversations with the words "let's have a drink”.
From diligently drinking our NZ apartment dry (the other option: leave it for the tenants) to moving to a country where the national sport is drinking, the temptation to drown happiness, anger, boredom and frustration in litres of velvety red wine has been very strong.
To be totally honest, one of the defining features of 2010 has been a passionate love affair with vin rouge.
I hesitate to count the ways in which this is wrong, but when my local off-licence operates on the principle of piling it high and flogging it off cheap (like the £3 Chilean Merlot we quaffed while watching the movie 'Nine' last night – nice drop, dreadful movie), it seems rude not to imbibe.
Concepts such as 'wagons' and 'climbing aboard' have been bandied about in a vague, non-commital sort of way but I'm slowly coming to accept that red wine is as sacred to me as cows are to Hindus.
I do wish the words “No, I don't drink, except for a rare glass of bubbly on festive occasions or to be polite” would tumble from my lips. But sadly I, the Animator and the manager of the off-licence all know that will never come to pass.
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