A dead man’s cellar!
If you don't enjoy drinking it someone else will.
I’m living in the cellar of a dead man.
Duncan, my usual purveyor of all things fine in cheese and wine,
Told me, “his wife just called and wondered if I’d like to take the cellar of his dear departed soul,” for a price he did not disclose.
So,
I rooted round a box of ports and Bordeaux before I settled on a Taylor’s ‘98.
“It will be good with cheese!”
A Corbier, Roquefort, hard Welsh Cheddar and Brie!
The dead man did not sit on my shoulder at the dinner party as we passed the port.
Yet I found myself once more drawn and rooting round in Duncan’s box.
A ghost of memories of excellence whispering in my spirit and pallet.
Before choosing.
The last of the Taylors!
Oh there were more expensive, “special,” bottles in Duncan’s box.
I dared not cultivate that habit!
Not on my middle managers mediocre salary, and penchant for the taste of things expensive.
So tonight armed with crackers, Orkney Jesus and expectation.
I return to the cellar of a dead man.
Not for exorcism but for celebration.
