Story telling from Australia
We grow grapes. We even get to eat them when we can outwit the birds. The green table grapes are delicious, like a glass of elderflower champagne at an English spring wedding. The dark variety are more like a wake in the middle of winter. I’d rather drink purple grapes than eat them.
Two weeks ago following a rummage in Clyde’s study I found the last bottle of red wine in the house. ‘Did you buy this?’ I asked, not recognising the label. Clyde shook his head. ‘Maybe it was a gift,’ he said.
I unscrewed the top, splashed a heavy glug into the gravy I was stirring and poured myself a glass. The first sip took me prisoner, the second held me captive. It was like being locked in a cellar with a secret lover, plunged into a deep dark cave with cushions and Persian rugs. And handcuffs.
I drank half the bottle at dinner, even offered Clyde a glass. ‘No thanks,’ he said. Of course, I thought, you don’t drink. (Oh be still my greedy selfish skipping heart!) I sent up a silent thank you to whoever gave us the bottle and shuddered at the thought we could have taken it to a dinner party where I would have been forced to share the spoils. I finished the bottle the next night.
The winemaker’s website showed no sign of the label so I rang. ‘Sorry, that was a special for a wine club.’ I joined the club. There’s no point telling you the name of the wine because I bought the last two cases, at an absurdly cheap price, but I will tell you it was made by John Duval, who used to make wine for Penfolds.
I hope I never get to meet him I’d probably have to lock him in the cellar.
And throw away the keys to the cuffs.