Saturday, 7 May 2016

Little ole wine drinker me...

Words from a Bird.  Day 128.

So another work week draws to a close.  One which finds me gainfully employed in my perfect job.  There are some people who would find it worrying that rooting around in peoples' rubbish bins would constitute a perfect job, but hey, it works for me...

To celebrate the end of a great week, and the fact that the sun had come out to play, the husband and I sallied forth to the piece of grass outside our house with a bottle of Rioja and two glasses, meeting our neighbour, Mr B, who was clutching six beers and a bag of nuts (he knows how to have a good time).  Mrs B joined us, juggling a bottle of Prosecco and two more glasses, and the quick drink turned into a three hour marathon, with takeaway pizza being delivered just before the sun went down.

Mr and Mrs B are in the throes of launching themselves into a new venture, gallantly opening a new café in Abingdon (If you're local, head down there in June once they're opened).  As someone who takes great delight in playing it safe, I have nothing but admiration for them.  My bravery extends to buying a different brand of mascara or buying Brazilian briefs.  Incidentally, I have no idea why these are different to hi-legs or midi briefs...perhaps if you wear them, your derriere looks like that of Giselle Bundchen? Mine bears a striking resemblance to two footballs in a carrier bag and we all know how much the Brazilians love football, so maybe that's why they were christened thus.

So after three hours on the meadow with a bottle of Rioja, a bottle of Prosecco, six beers, three bags of crisps, two pizzas and a bag of nuts, hypothermia had set in and the midges were dive bombing the balding pates of Mr B and the husband.  It's the problem with early summer evenings, once the sun has gone down, you either jumper up or head indoors.  Unfortunately, the drink had dulled the senses, and it wasn't until the husband and I got indoors that we realised how cold we were.  The husband headed straight upstairs for a hot shower, and I headed for the warmest room in the house to write my blog. 

You may think that the drink has made my writing a bit erratic, as the three glasses of wine I drunk were a lot more that the usual mug of PG which I treat myself to on a Friday night.

You'd be wrong though.

My fingers are like 10 fish fingers, cold and stiff, while my head is wallowing in a sea of Rioja.

It's not a good combination.

Normal service will be resumed where's the paracetamol?
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