The Cave is cold, and I am a thinned skinned troglodyte. But I have high hopes for a rugged future, and towards that end every day is a contest to see how long I can go minus the next layer of clothing. It's four o'clock and I'm already up to the hoody/hat combo. That's not good.
So when Monty came out of the cellar earlier today gingerly cradling this broken bottle of Port, I thought - hey, great, let's try the Port. Monty was wearing shorts and was not cold and asked, but what about the glass? "It'll sink."
I really just wanted to try Port. I know it's a fortified dessert wine (not typically my preference) that also, for the last ten years, has seen steadily declining sales in an otherwise robust market. Wine has its fads, fashions, funks, and fancies, and right now Port wine is perceived as the grandpa of the barrel.
So I siphoned some off into a glass, dumped the rest, (picked the shards of glass out of the sink), waited a few minutes to be sure, and then gingerly sipped my first Port. Mmmm, tasty, this stuff. Sweet, a little boozy, a little fruity, and perfect for this time of year, this kind of weather. Cold, early nights, a fire in the fireplace, a small glass of port...not at all an unpleasant way to go.
Also, Monty, a person who no longer drinks alcohol, is selling his collection. Let me know if you're interested. All the other bottles are shard-free, I assure you.
Fifty more minutes and I get to turn the heater on. Where are my gloves?