Sparkling Cyanide*

“You go in there and help your father.  You’re better at wine than I am,” Mum says, as we park at the warehouse.  “I’ll stay in the car.”

Pulling my raincoat on, I run after Dad, who’s striding towards the building.  It’s raining.  It’s been pouring non-stop all day.

Inside, the wine warehouse has various different tasting areas, and apart from these, the boxes of wine are arranged geographically.  Dad has scurried off somewhere so I start at Bin End Sale.  Find a nice Rioja and a Chablis.  Moving on to another section, I earmark a Bordeaux that’s “Wine of the Month” to show Dad.  It tastes good to me.

Wine is my other hobby-that-I-pursue-with-Dad, along with cycling.  We’ve shared many happy trips to vineyards and wine shops over the years.

“Oh, there you are,” Dad says, arriving at the Bin End Sale tasting area, with a trolley of wine boxes.  “What have you found?”

“This Rioja is good, I think,” I say, handing Dad a little glass of it.

“I trust you,” Dad says.  “If you think it’s good, I’m sure it is.”  He heaves a box of it onto the trolley.  “What we need is another white: we’ve got plenty of red.”

“Well the White Wine Tasting Area is over there,” I say, pointing to the left hand side of the room.  

Pushing the trolley down the aisle, almost sending a pile of boxes flying, I follow Dad.

“Oh, this Sauvignon isn’t bad,” Dad says.  “What do you think?”

Taking a sip, I say: “yes, it’s nice.”

So we add a box of that one.

Don’t fancy my chances of sleeping in the car now: it’s full of boxes of wine.
Wild animals we spotted on the way down:

1.  Hare – at a picnic spot.  Exciting.

2.  Mink – dead by side of road, sadly.

3.  Buzzards – on the fence by the motorway.

Happy Sunday everyone!

*1945.  By Agatha Christie.  Detective novel.

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