Bodegas Time

The Linger Loco!

Chapter 5: Bodegas Time

‘Fuck this,’ Chris grumbles, tearing his heavy rucksack off

his shoulders. ‘It’s boiling, let’s get a taxi!’

‘We’re not getting another bleeding taxi!’ I snap, marching

down the street. ‘There’s a bus stop just around the corner

that’ll take us straight to the city centre.’

‘But I smell like the inside of a maggot box. We’ve slept

on a bus for the past two nights. I need a shower!’

‘Spray some of this on,’ I sigh, throwing him a can of

deodorant.

Muttering to himself, he slips the aerosol under his Tshirt

and blasts away the badness. We march around the

outside of the Mendoza bus terminal, and wait for a few

minutes in the street for a local bus to Plaza

Independencia in the city centre. Hopping aboard a

packed bus, we wrestle to find the right change and upset

our fellow passengers on their way to work by stinking out

the place and thrusting our dirty over-sized rucksacks in

their grumpy faces.

Arriving on the corner of the enormous central plaza, we

leap into the street with sweat dripping from our greasy

foreheads. Chilling at the roadside for a few minutes, we

down a bottle of water and try to gauge our bearings. It’s

eight o’clock in the morning and the beautiful plaza is

buzzing with activity. Artisans lay out their jewelry on

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brightly coloured blankets and children excitedly chase

pigeons around the square. We saunter over to a huge

fountain and enjoy the cool spray on our hot skin. In the

distance we can see the breathtaking peaks of the Andes

reaching into the sky beyond Mendoza. Passing the grand

Park Hyatt Hotel on the far side of the plaza, we leap over

deep storm drains and go in search of a guesthouse that

Chris found in the guidebook. We arrive completely

exhausted only to discover it’s full. Fortunately, the lady

on reception points to her friend’s place across the street.

We ring the bell to an unmarked building and are greeted

by an enormous fluffy Old English Sheepdog that clumsily

leads us inside. The reception area of the guesthouse

opens out onto a tranquil courtyard that’s drenched in

bright sunlight. A middle-aged guy welcomes us with a

firm handshake and pats the dog, as it excitedly runs

around bumping into every piece of furniture dotted

around the joint.

‘Pancho, tranquilo!’ he smiles.

‘Pancho?’ I laugh, pointing at the dog. ‘Hot dog?’

The guy nods. ‘Si, claro, Pancho.’

Following the guy up a narrow flight of concrete steps

leading from the courtyard, he shows us a large clean room

with two single beds and an old TV. Giving the guy the

thumbs up he hands us the room key, pats us both on the

back and leaves us to settle in.

‘Wow, a bed,’ Chris smiles, nose diving onto the mattress.

The bathroom is small but it’s more luxury than we

could possibly hope for, and stripping down to my pants I

leap onto my bed and flick on the box.

Heading out in the early evening, we turn right onto a

main road and spy a number of trendy restaurants further

up the street. The first restaurant we come across looks

expensive with a menu in a glass case fixed to the wall

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outside, and a large selection of wine on display in the

window. The restaurant is completely empty apart from a

bored couple sat at a table in the corner. Continuing up the

street we arrive at three more restaurants all competing for

business. One appears to specialize in Italian pizza and

pasta, whilst the other two seem more traditional. The

restaurant in the middle catches my eye, not solely

because of the sheer number of attractive women dotted

around at tables outside, but also due to the large barbecue

cooking away in the window. The chef turns large pieces

of meat over a hot flame, and wasting little time we find a

free table and wait to be served. A stocky, friendly faced

waiter wearing a white apron rushes over and places a basket

full of fresh bread and a pot of pink mayonnaise on the

table. We quickly order two 16oz rump steaks and a bottle

of Norton Cabernet Sauvignon – an interesting red from a

respectable vineyard located outside Mendoza. Our inch

thick steaks arrive, and slicing chunks off the tender piece

of beef we wash each mouthful down with a delicious sip

of wine. In the corner of my eye, I observe a fairly young

guy in his thirties sat alone on the table next to us. He

swirls a thick red wine around a glass and studies it closely

before inhaling its aroma and carefully considering its

taste. He looks fairly bohemian with piercings in his ears

and nose, and I wonder if he’s an artist or maybe a wine

critic from Buenos Aires or Chile.

Feeling incredibly satisfied we pay the bill and go in

search of the bar district. We ask a female police officer

standing in the street for directions; she’s attractive and

has a handgun strapped to her hip. I find this extremely

erotic, and make a mental note to jump on Google and

search for ‘girls with guns’ at the next available opportunity.

Following the police officer’s directions, we quickly find

ourselves on a long road heaving with bars and restaurants.

The streets are literally teeming with people sitting

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at tables, eating pizza and drinking beer. I notice a number

of exclusive backpacker hostels further along with fashionable

bars out the front. It seems truly bizarre that a

backpacker hostel could be considered exclusive, but in a

weird upside down world with constantly shifting economics

anything can exist. Finding a popular local bar, we

squeeze through a maze of plastic tables and chairs and

plonk ourselves down at a table conveniently positioned

opposite three attractive girls. It’s absolute chaos all

around us with the loud chatter of Spanish and the sound

of the national pop-music blasting from speakers.

‘This is more like it,’ Chris grins, ordering a large bottle

of Quilmes beer from the stressed guy waiting the tables.

Seeing one of the girls across the table looking curiously

in our direction, I look over and flash a ‘rock god’ smile.

She smiles back.

‘Where are you from?’ she calls mischievously.

‘Hey, you speak English.’

‘A little,’ she giggles.

‘We’re from England, near London.’

‘Oh, OK,’ she grins cheekily. ‘Please, can you tell me

something?’

‘Yeah, sure.’

‘Why do English men walk like a chicken?’

‘I, uh…didn’t know we did,’ I smile, surprised by her

question.

‘English men walk with the shoulders. When you’re

Latin you move with the hips. Are you brothers?’ she asks.

‘Yeah, how did you know?’ I reply.

‘You look different, but you have the same bump on your

noses,’ she smiles. ‘My name is Martina and these are my

friends Clara and Mercedes.’

Introducing ourselves, we reach over the table and shake

their hands.

Martina giggles. ‘You English are so formal. In Argentina

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we kiss when we meet someone for the first time – two

kisses.’

‘Really?’

‘Yes,’ Mercedes nods. ‘Also the men kiss when they say

hello, too. We are very passionate people.’

Chris clears his throat. ‘That would take some getting

used to.’

‘So, do you live in Mendoza?’ I ask.

Martina shakes her head. ‘No, we are on vacation. We are

students in Buenos Aires, but I am originally from Salta in

the north. Mercedes is from Jujuy and Clara’s family live in

the suburbs of Buenos Aires.’

All three girls are stunningly attractive in a completely

different way. Martina looks very Latin with thick jet-black

hair, Mercedes is petite and blonde with full lips and Clara

has long brown hair and an endearing smile.

‘We’re on our way to Salta after Mendoza. Is it a nice

city?’

‘Yes, it is beautiful. I am returning to Salta for the holidays.’

‘Maybe we could meet up?’ I grin, raising my eyebrows.

‘Yes, we can do that,’ she replies. ‘Let’s exchange emails.’

We all fumble for scraps of paper and scribble down our

email addresses.

‘So, Simon, what are you and your brother doing in my

country?’ Martina asks, slipping my email address into her

purse.

‘Well, we thought it was time to investigate South

America. You know, see how the Indians live.’

Her jaw drops. ‘Did you hear that, Clara? I told you all

Europeans think we are Indians. You backpacker people

are so stupid! You all wear those silly T-shirts with things

written on them and you have big scruffy trainers and

smelly hair.’

‘I washed my hair today, thank you very much.’

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She bursts out laughing and I feel my face turning red.

Clara smiles sweetly, her English isn’t as good as the other

girls and I make a mental note to try harder with my

Spanish.

‘I’m sorry I was joking about the Indians, but you’re right,

I think a lot of people back home have a pretty limited idea

of what it’s like down here in Argentina.’

‘You can say that again!’ Martina shrieks, playfully slapping

my wrist. ‘I lived in South London for six-months.’

‘Did you?’

‘Yes, I was lucky enough to go before the economic crisis

in my country in 2001. Do you know about that?’

‘A little,’ Chris replies.

‘It was a terrible time for our country. All of the banks

were closed here for ages and ages; nobody had any

money. Our currency used to have the same value as the

U.S. dollar, but after a three year recession the World Bank

decided it wasn’t worth that anymore and devalued it.

There was a mad rush as everyone tried to withdraw their

savings. Sadly, for many people it was already too late.

Businesses went bankrupt and people lost all of their

money. It was a very dark time for us. There were violent

protests in the streets, people were angry and demanded

their money back. The banks stole our money!’

‘That must’ve been awful. Do you hate to see tourists

come here with their dollars, eating your beef and drinking

your wine?’

Martina thinks about this for a moment. ‘Sometimes,’ she

nods. ‘Although, you bring us your pounds and I have a

job.’

‘Did you like London?’

‘Yes, it is an incredible city, but it is too cold in your

country. I am Latin I need the sun.’

‘Yes you are,’ I smile, completely overwhelmed by the

energy and colour radiating from this girl.

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‘When I told English people I was from Argentina, all

they knew about was Maradonna and the Falklands War.’

‘Who is Maradonna?’ Chris smirks.

Martina narrows her eyes. ‘You don’t know who

Maradonna is?’

‘No.’

‘Chris, please do not play games with me.’

‘OK, OK, I’m only joking. Of course I know who

Maradonna is, he’s that little Argentinean dude who likes

cocaine and was once really good at football. “It was the

hand of God!” Well, Peter Shilton didn’t think so.’

Mercedes and Martina simultaneously stop laughing and

fold their arms.

‘Peter Shilton?’ Martina snarls. ‘Who is this Peter

Shilton?’

They stare at Chris, daggers literally flying out of their

eyes.

‘You are stupid!’ Martina cries. ‘Muy loco!’

‘Loco,’ I grin. ‘What does that mean?’

‘It means crazy. You know, like in the Ricky Martin song,

“Living the Vida Loca”? Living the Life Crazy.’

‘Is Ricky Martin popular here?’

Martina shrieks. ‘No Simon, he’s a big loser!’ She makes

an ‘L’ shape with her thumb and index finger and waves it

in my face. ‘He’s a big loser like you. Now behave yourself

in my country! So, how come you don’t know anything

about Argentina?’

‘We do, but our knowledge of other countries has not

been taught very well in schools over the past few years.

We’re becoming like America.’

Martina laughs mischievously. ‘But you are not fat,

Simon.’

‘It’s true. We are becoming a nation of fat people.’

‘Why is this?’

‘It’s economics, I think. Our currency is incredibly strong

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at the moment and with industrial scale farming and globalization,

food has become cheap. It was the same in

America in the 1980′s.’

‘Please, you are referring to the United States not

America?’

‘Yes, the United States – America.’

Martina looks at me disapprovingly again, and smiles

cheekily.

‘What have I done now?’

Clara waggles her finger at me. ‘No, no, no,’ she scolds,

grinning the whole while.

‘You see, they do not care about us,’ Martina teases. ‘We

are Americans, too, you know, from the Americas.’

‘All right, all right, we are becoming like the United

States.’

Martina looks serious for a second. ‘Now, please brothers,

tell me why you are really in South America?’

‘We’re on our way to Arica in Chile on the Pacific Coast,’

Chris replies, sipping his beer. ‘We’re going to travel the

Trans-Oceanic Highway across Peru, over the Andes,

through the Amazon jungle and up into Brazil in search of

the real Carnival.’

The girls look impressed.

‘Wow, that sounds amazing,’ Martina smiles. ‘Are you

sure you can cross from Peru into Brazil? We were in

Cusco last summer and we never met anyone travelling

that way.’

‘To be honest with you we’re not really sure. A National

Geographic journalist did it a few years ago, but he flew

from Puerto Maldonado in the Amazon to Rio Branco in

Brazil. We’re just going to see what happens. It doesn’t

help that it’s going to be the rainy season, either.’

‘I guess that’s the adventure.’

‘Will you be in Rio to celebrate Carnival?’ Mercedes asks.

‘We’re not sure yet.’

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‘You must be very careful in Rio, it is dangerous and

there are many guns.’

‘Brazilian girls are very dangerous, too,’ Martina adds

with a cheeky grin.

‘Maybe you go to Salvador,’ Clara suggests. ‘Carnival in

Salvador is the best in Brazil.’

‘Yeah, I’ve heard Salvador is pretty wild. We’ll check it

out. Hey, talking of Carnivals, do you girls fancy checking

out another bar?’

Mercedes shakes her head. ‘No Simon, we have to go

back to our hostel now. Tomorrow morning we go trekking

in the mountains.’

‘That’s a shame. Maybe we will visit you in Buenos Aires

someday.’

Mercedes looks excited. ‘Yes, we can all go dancing! I

will teach you to Tango.’

Chris looks horrified by the thought and Mercedes slaps

his arm.

‘And I will see you in Salta, Simon?’ Martina whispers.

‘I hope so,’ I smile.

* * *

It’s a glorious morning. Leaping out of the bathroom with

a towel wrapped around my waist, I skid across the floor

and slap Si around the back of the head.

‘It’s bodegas time, buddy boy!’

Si flicks his hair back into place and narrows his eyes.

‘You what?’

‘It’s bodegas time!’

‘What are you talking about?’

I sit on my bed and spray aftershave on my neck.

‘Jesus Christ, that stuff stinks!’ Si cries, wafting the air.

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‘Piss off. This just happens to be the finest aftershave on

the market?’

‘Don’t you mean off the market? It’s not Kevin Klein, is

it?’

I shake my head. ‘No, it’s not Clavin Klein, you dumb-ass.

It’s La Mode Aqua Homme.’

‘Aqua Homme, doesn’t that mean ‘Man Water’?’

‘Does it?’

‘Yeah, and I’m sure La Mode is French for toilet, or is that

commode?’ He snatches the box off the bed and reads the

back. ‘Where’s it made? Paris – Milan?’

‘Most probably Paris, it was very expensive.’

Si laughs. ‘You fucking liar!’

‘What?’

‘It says here, “Made in Daventry”’

‘Does it?’ I reply, my voice changing in pitch a few

octaves.

‘Come on, own up. Where did you get this cheap shit

from?’

I look down at the box. ‘OK, OK, I bought it from the

pound shop, happy now?’

‘The pound shop, is that where everything is a pound?’

‘Uh…yes.’

‘You paid one pound for a bottle of aftershave?’

‘I’m no friggin millionaire!’

‘Pure class,’ Si grins, spraying some on his neck. ‘Right,

so, what’s all this bodegas malarkey, then?’

‘Well, I’ve been doing my research and we should definitely

visit Bodega La Rural. It’s a winery not far from

here.’

‘Where did you hear about it?’

‘On the grapevine…no, seriously, Bodega La Rural produces

Rutuni and Trumpeter, which are very well respected

wines. There’s also a great museum and the free tasting is

supposed to be top-notch. We had a bottle of San Felipe

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from the same vineyard in that restaurant in San Telmo

when we first arrived in Buenos Aires, remember?’

‘Did we?’

‘Yep, now it’s time to go and see the actual grapes growing

on the vines and say hola to the dudes who make the stuff.’

‘Hold your horses, Crissy boy, isn’t it a little early in the

morning to be thinking about wine? My alarm clock says

eight-thirty.’

‘Haven’t you seen Floyd in action? Whenever it comes to

good wine – it’s never too early!’

Catching a bus from the centre of Mendoza to the delightful

town of Maipu, we head to a small tourist information

office opposite the beautiful central plaza. The cute girl

behind the glass desk doesn’t speak English, so we fire our

best Spanish at her and exit the joint with a handful of

leaflets and a slight semi in our shorts.

Jumping aboard a number 93 bus, we’re transported

through dozens of lush green vineyards, all soaked in

bright sunlight and set beneath a deep blue sky. We head

out into the open countryside for a while and eventually

pull up at a bus stop in the middle of nowhere. Seeing a

sign for the wine San Felipe, we leap off the bus and walk

around in a circle before locating a second sign with

‘Museo del Vino’ scrawled on it. Walking down a long thin

dusty road with the magnificent peaks of the Andes

behind us, we squeeze past a large lorry heavily loaded

with cases of wine and find ourselves at the gates of the

impressive Bodega La Rural. I feel like we’ve finally arrived

at the Emerald City and are about to meet the legendary

Wizard of OZ, well, not quite, but I feel pretty excited all the

same. The friendly security guard welcomes us inside, and

passing rusty agricultural machinery on display in the

yard we immediately enter a huge vineyard at the back of

the building. A bright yellow sign in front of the grapes

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reads Cabernet Sauvignon 1973, and cupping a bunch of

grapes in my hand I get Si to take a picture.

‘This place is amazing!’ I smile, posing for the camera.

‘Look at all of these grapes. I bet they taste delicious.’

Squeezing a grape between my index finger and thumb,

I’m about to pluck it off the vine and have a taste when a

tour group appears around the corner. I freeze as the surprised

tour leader, who is a confident looking woman in a

suit with a bird’s nest hairstyle, approaches us and barks

something in Spanish.

‘Hablo un poco espanol,’ Si smiles, almost proud with

himself for saying such a long sentence without referring

to the phrase book.

The woman looks at him like he’s slightly retarded.

She turns to me. ‘Hablas inglés?’

‘Yes,’ I smile. ‘We’re English.’

‘Please do not eat the grapes.’

‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ I apologize, whipping my hand behind

my back.

‘Thank you. If everyone eats the grapes there will be no

grapes, and with no grapes there will be no wine and no

wine means no money and no money means no wine and

with no wine means there will be no job for me. You

understand?’

‘Perfectly,’ I smile, my face turning red.

‘You no on tour?’ she asks.

‘No, we’ve only just arrived.’

‘No problem, you can join this group now if you want

to?’

‘OK, thanks.’

‘Please follow me.’

She storms off towards the winery, with the group of

twelve bored teenagers and an overly happy couple in tow.

With her back turned I see my chance and quickly pluck a

grape off the vine and flick it into my mouth. One of the

56

bored teenagers catches me in the act, but we both smile

and zip our mouths. Wandering through the enormous

wine processing plant, the strict tour guide pauses by two

large metallic cylinders and explains first in Spanish and

then in English, for our benefit, the primary stages of the

wine making process. We nod our heads to show we

understand, and I’m fascinated to learn that the juice of a

green and red grape is the same colour. It’s the skin from

the red grape that gives red wine its rich colour and heavier

consistency.

Moving on, we enter a large room stacked high with barrels

of fermenting wine. It looks surreal, like the set of a movie,

and I find myself imagining James Bond running between

the aisles as he fires his gun at the bad guys and sprays the

barrels of wine with bullet holes. The tour guide informs

us that the barrels are made from French or American oak,

and the wine is left to ferment in the barrels for between one

to three years depending on the quality of the wine being

produced. We watch an attractive girl in a long white coat

squat down in front of a barrel. She turns the tap on the

front and fills a small plastic cup with wine. She scribbles

something on her clipboard and moves onto the next barrel.

Noticing the tour leader glaring in our direction, we jump to

attention like two naughty kids caught passing notes in the

classroom.

‘Todo bien?’ she shouts over to us, raising her thumb in

the air.

‘Yes, todo bien, gracias’ Si quickly replies.

Exiting the enormous warehouse, we turn down a corridor

and find ourselves in a stylish room with tables and chairs

dotted around. It’s varnished wood from floor to ceiling,

with some unusual art on the walls and a number of glass

cabinets displaying the different fine wines they produce.

Descending the steps, we follow the guide over to a bar

where she begins lining up a dozen wineglasses.

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I rub my hands together, and smile. ‘It’s wine tasting

time!’

She opens a bottle of red and a bottle of white wine that

have been specially blended for the visitors. She pours

some red into my glass and I quickly pick it up and take a

sip. It tastes delicious.

‘Hey, Si, do you fancy splashing out on something special?’

‘That’s a good idea I’ve never tried a decent bottle of wine

before. How much are we talking?’

‘Well, some of these are over forty pounds, but you can

get a bottle of Rutini for forty pesos. It’s a mix of Cabernet

Sauvignon and Malbec. Six months in a first cask

American oak barrel and six months in a French oak.’

‘OK, sounds good.’

Ordering the bottle of Rutini, the guide comments on the

incredible quality of the wine and before I’ve even had

time to say “bodegas”, Si is scribbling down his email

address on a paper napkin.

We wave goodbye to the winery and catch a bus back to

Mendoza. Within seconds I drift off to sleep with the bottle

of Rutini between my legs. I dream that I’m swinging in a

hammock on the porch of a beautiful old wooden house

overlooking a vineyard, and sipping a glass of Rutini

whilst listening to Carlos Gardel on an antique gramophone.

A pretty girl with long curly black hair runs barefoot

out of the wooden house in a bright green summer

dress. She dances across the freshly mowed lawn and

leaps through a water sprinkler. I take another sip of wine

and watch in awe as she begins to unbutton her dress.

Who is this girl? Soaking wet through her dress clings to

her slender body, her brown legs glisten in the sunlight

and her nipples stand erect. She shakes her hair in the

spray and pulls the wet dress over her head. She poses

model-like in her tiny white bra and knickers and waves

me over. I look over my shoulder and point at my chest,

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“me?” She nods and excitedly whips off her bra and knickers.

Leaping out of the hammock I down the wine faster

than I’ve ever downed a glass of wine before, and with my

blood pumping I chase after her through the vineyard. I

skid to a halt beside bunches of juicy grapes and spin

around, as I desperately search for this beautiful angel. I

hear giggling behind me. Ah, there she is. I’m out of breath,

but I force a smile and walk over to this mysterious girl

with olive skin. Her breasts are amazing!

‘What is your name?’ I ask.

‘Adjanai,’ she smiles, looking deep into my eyes.

She presses a finger to my lips and with a wink she rips

open my jeans and pulls down my…smacking my head

painfully against the bus window, I jump in surprise and

quickly grab the bottle of Rutini that’s slipped to the floor.

I turn and see Si asleep on my shoulder, so I shake him a

few times and push him away.

‘You what!’ he cries, looking around and blinking madly.

His eyes are red and for the first time I notice distinct signs

of ageing in his face.

‘You look like shit,’ I laugh. ‘The cracks are showing.’

‘What do you mean?’ he mumbles, furrowing his brow.

‘You need to watch those lines.’

‘Fuck you! Look in the mirror sometime, you’ve got more

crows feet than a cockin crow.’

‘Have I?’ I reply, studying my face in the reflection of the

window. ‘Bollocks, are we getting old?’

‘You’re as old as you feel,’ Si grins, trying to stay positive.

‘Yeah, well, I feel shagged.’

‘Me too, so, yes, we must be getting old.’

‘But we’ve only just turned thirty!’

‘I know and my back hurts, my balls are swinging down

to the floor and my teeth are definitely more sensitive

these days.’

‘You think that’s bad, I found a grey chest hair the other

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day.’

‘No fucking way!’ Si cries. ‘Ooh, it’s all down hill from

here, mate. “Roll on death, lets all have a good lie down”.’

The bus thunders through the streets of Mendoza and

stops a few streets from the Plaza. We jump off and rush

excitedly back to the guesthouse with the wine clutched

tightly under my arm. After tickling Pancho under the

chin for five minutes, I find a corkscrew and borrow a couple

of wineglasses from the kitchen. Si runs out into the

street and returns seconds later with some salami, a selection

of cheeses, half a dozen bread rolls and some salted

crackers. Placing the food on a small table in the courtyard

beneath our room, I turn the corkscrew and lever the cork

out with a pop. Si quickly dries the glasses with a paper

napkin and I fill them half full. Holding the glass up to the

sun, I admire the deep purple liquid before taking a sip.

My taste buds do a quadruple summersault with a half

twist and I sit back, close my eyes and savour the moment.

We go on like this for an hour, eating slices of salami and

strong tasting cheese in between mouthfuls of delicious

wine. I’ve never tasted anything like it before, and I begin

to feel quite sad knowing that when the bottle is finished

all other wine that we can afford to buy back home will

taste weak in comparison.

‘Can you taste the pencil sharpenings?’ I smile, swilling

the wine around my mouth.

‘No,’ Si laughs. ‘Can you?’

‘I’m not sure. OK, how about the chocolate and vanilla

vibe going on.’

‘Hmm, yes, now that I do taste! It really is absolutely

amazing. I always thought paying shit loads for a bottle of

wine was a load of bollocks, but I can see what all the fuss

is about now.’

‘Apparently, each bottle of wine has its own personality.’

‘Really?’

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‘Yep, we haven’t got much to compare with, but I would

say that this mix is quite complex in character.’

‘I know what you mean, I think.’

Taking a large sip, I swill the full-bodied wine around

my mouth and swallow it down. ‘If you were a bottle of

wine what would it be like?’

Si looks at me with rosy cheeks and a tranquil grin

across his face. ‘Tender, but passionate with a solid flavour

that remains consistent to the end of the bottle.’

I laugh. ‘Very good, although, don’t you mean an unreliable

and random mixture of unpredictability, that leaves

you feeling a little confused and heavily pissed at the end

of the bottle?’

‘That probably is a more accurate description. What

about you?’ he slurs, swaying in his chair.

‘I think I’m more of a whisky, to be honest with you; a

raw, strong, single malt with a brutal flavour that packs a

punch.’

We’re left feeling quite sad as we polish off the last of the

wine. I study the stains on the side of my glass, and sigh.

Si holds the bottle upside down and catches the last

droplets in his mouth. He smacks his lips together and

looks at me with bleary eyes. ‘Crissy boy, that wine was

incredible – I must lie down immediately!’

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