THE WINE TASTING BANQUET
I assume it was Jon’s idea. It could have been Caroline’s. Or ‘Caro’ as she now likes to be called. Come to think of it, Jon is really a John —not an abbreviated Jonathan—but you can call yourself what you like, I suppose. Funny how accumulating wealth and position is sometimes accompanied by abbreviating your name. Anyway, it doesn’t matter too much whose idea it was—only that it definitely wasn’t mine. What I know about wine could be written on a proverbial matchbox and I’m perfectly content living with my ignorance, thanks. ‘You’ll learn so much about the subject,’ Jon lectured, as we sat in the pub after work one day. Jon lectures. He doesn’t talk, suggest, ask. But he’s a Level Three and I’m a Seven. Not that he’s my boss or anything but you learn to know your place. So I nod. I realise the ‘down the pub’ bit sounds bad in these politically correct days when men are not supposed to neglect their wives and families whiling away hours at the boozer while their spouses are juggling dinner and kids. Nor, I suppose, should we admit to drinking when climbing into the driving seat of a car is going to be the inevitable sequel, even when we live within a mile of the hostelry. The drink / drive thing was probably the first successful attempt at Page | 1
foisting bad science on a guilt-ridden and susceptible public, wasn’t it? So, let’s set the record straight. We don’t go to the pub very often – perhaps once a month. A Level Three would not normally spend out-of-the-office time with a Seven but we live in the same village. And my wife hates me in the kitchen until there are pans to wash, so being at the pub could not be construed as stereotypical neglect. And the children, my children, are fourteen and sixteen, so they know to keep out of the kitchen at mealtimes too. And they don’t have to wash pans either. No discreet calls to Esther Rantzen in our family. ‘I don’t know,’ I said—a Level Seven’s way of saying “no” to a Level Three. ‘You should, you know,’ Jon insisted. Jon lectures, and when he isn’t lecturing, he’s insisting. ‘Just look at us, Jon,’ I said, spanning our glasses with an outstretched hand. ‘Okay, you’ve got a large glass of red that came out of a cardboard box. But I’m drinking what I like most of all—a good old pint of bitter. My preference is for beer, and that wine…?’ ‘… It’s better out of a box that one of those pumped efforts, I can tell you. I’ve heard that’s sometimes powdered and they add water when they draw it. And those label-less bottles are the pits’. Jon lifted his glass and momentarily held it under his nose before taking a sip. ‘It’s a bit like a Burgundy,’ he murmured, half to himself. ‘It says “South Africa” on the box,’ I said. ‘Is there such a thing as a South African Burgundy?’ ‘That’s why you should come,’ he said smugly. ‘Then you’d know.’
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