The wine club phoned today. That may sound bit flash, but really it's just a vestige of our old lives, when we had time and money to care about what we drank. We carried on being members of the wine club once our own lives were placed on Live Pause, because they are difficult to say no to, and once we say yes to them they deliver pleasant and inexpensive wine to our door. Saves the embarrassment of that clinking shopping trolley, and children running to their teachers with too many statistics on Mummy's drinking habits.
The down side of the wine club phoning to ply us with their wares is that they inevitably ask awkward questions. (Not, "Christ have you drunk the last shipment already?" because that would be financially imprudent of them.) My favourite is, "So, what are you enjoying at the moment?" I have toyed with telling them the truth. I'm enjoying hiding around the corner from the children and stuffing chocolate in my mouth, and trying not to choke as I rush back to break up the fist fights which will inevitably break out the minute I hide around the corner. I'm enjoying the fact that, although Violet thinks she is enormous, she is in fact three years old, and tiny, and she can't reach the door-handle to intrude on me in the toilet. I'm enjoying occasionally taking a shower without Laurie bursting into the room to take a shit, and have a chat. He's cute, and it's nice that at the age of ten he'll still take any opportunity for a bit of one-on-one time with his mum, but it's hard to feel fresh afterwards.
So far I haven't confessed any of this to the wine club. Usually they call early in the evening, so I'm still sharp enough to figure out that they are referring to the wine I am enjoying drinking. Now, let's be clear, I do enjoy wine. I like Shane putting it into a glass for me (so closely attuned to one another are we, after 15 years, that I only have to shout, "Splishy splashy!" at him a few times before he tends to my needs), and I like putting it into my mouth, and feeling it trickle all the way down to my black, sinful liver. I like the way it makes me a better mother. But it's hard for me to be precise about which wine I am enjoying. To be honest, I don't always read it before I suck it down. And I suffer from an inability to identify the variety of wine I am drinking. I'm fairly clear on the white vs red distinction provided the lights are on, but beyond that I'd struggle to tell you what exactly I have in that glass. I have a similar problem with actors. Shane finds this hilarious. I struggle to identify the actors in a movie. I cannot make the link between the person in the movie I am watching, and the person in the movie I watched last week. Or even last night. Bruce Willis I can spot, because he's generally playing the same character, but the minute somebody does some actual acting, that's me completely fooled. And I am passionately engaged with that glass of wine in my hand in exactly the same way.
So, when the wine club phones, I generally fake my way through the uncomfortable first part of the conversation by mumbling something about a pinot frottage, and then we move on to organising for some more lovely bottles to arrive at the door. Occasionally I have hissed at them, over the frankly astounding background noise, that I have four children so will drink turps if that's what I need to do to dull the pain. They laugh because, as far as I can tell, they are always drunk when they call. I suspect they have a note on my file. So, what am I enjoying at the moment? I'm enjoying whatever that wet stuff in my glass is. And it's getting a bit frigging low. Shane, splishy splashy!
No comments:
Post a Comment