Here’s the thing: I do enjoy a cheeky red. Or a grunty red. I especially like a winter wine – you know, when you’re all rugged up with a book/kindle in hand and a smoooooth glass of red within easy reach? It almost makes winter bearable.
So it’s one of life’s injustices that all winter, every winter, I find myself fighting off colds, flus, and other vile ills. And I’ve tried that old kill-you-or-cure-you remedy, the one where you slug back alcohol in an attempt to drown the damn bug, and I’m here to tell you: It. Doesn’t. Work.
Not for me, anyway. It always kills me dead. Well, not exactly dead dead, but definitely out-of-commission dead. And always within twenty-four hours. The bug triumphs and I’m down for days.
The result? All winter, every winter, I’m too busy fighting off winter ailments to risk enjoying much in the way of wine, or anything remotely alcoholic.
And just to rub my nose in it, guess when the New Zealand Wine Society sends me a case of their European Red Wine of the Year? Yep. Mid-freaking-winter.
That case arrived a month ago.
I had a good first week. To be fair it was May so really only counted as autumn. And we had a few social catch-ups that week, so plenty of opportunities to savour that fantabulous Red of the Year and reflect on just how fantabulous it truly was.
Then winter hit. And suddenly I was fighting off head colds, chesty things, and then came the topper: some hideous gastro bug that took out the whole family.
I’m in mourning. That case of red is sitting in the corner, mocking me. And I just know that if so much as think about sipping even one teensy little glass, I’ll pay for it. Probably out of several orifices. (Lovely thought, isn’t it?)
Why, cosmos? Why? Is this your way of telling me I’m old? Sleep deprived? (Isn’t any mother?) Or–damn my fat writer ass–that I need to get fit? I know, I know, probably all of the above. If I was brave enough to drown my sorrows I would.