Corkscrew by Peter Stafford-Bow

Author:Peter Stafford-Bow [Stafford-Bow, Peter]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Humour, Satire, Fiction, wine, Drink, alcohol
Publisher: I_AM Self-Publishing
Published: 2016-09-06T04:30:00+00:00

4.1

Harvest Day

“Well, that’s all very entertaining Felix, but you’re not really giving us what we need, are you?” The woman placed her pen on the table and sighed.

“I’m getting to it, officers. This is important context. The slightly more, shall we say… edgy… episodes won’t make sense otherwise.”

“If you’re bullshitting us, you’ll regret it,” declared the man, with an intimidating stare.

I shuddered slightly. I didn’t doubt it. But the Madame Joubert’s had emboldened me and I felt the whole story had to be told. Then they would all see what a terrible misunderstanding the whole thing had been, and I could get back to doing what I do best – gallivanting around the world drinking fine wine and generally indulging in nature’s bounty.

“I need a drink before I continue.”

“You know where the sink is,” growled the man, tipping his head back.

“No, a proper drink.”

“The pubs are closed, smart arse. And you’re going nowhere.”

I leant down and unzipped my laptop bag, withdrawing a rather fabulous Southern French number that I’d intended to share with Wodin, Fistule and Mercedes that evening.

“You have to be joking. You’re not drinking that.”

“I bloody well am,” I declared, “otherwise you can whistle for your information!” Reckless talk, perhaps, given the power these coppers had over me. But I sensed I had the upper hand, for the moment. They wanted to hear my story and I was willing to tell it, but on my terms. Which meant it would be accompanied by an extremely pleasant Minervois La Livinière, one of the Languedoc’s finest reds.

I always carry a corkscrew and a robust plastic wine goblet in my laptop case, so within a minute the cork was out and I was inhaling the heavenly scent of the French countryside. “I’ve only got one bottle so I won’t be sharing,” I explained.

“We don’t drink on duty, Felix,” said the woman, with a thin smile.

Well perhaps you should, I thought. Might stop you taking everything so bloody seriously. I took a deep gulp and gave a gentle sigh of pleasure before clearing my throat.

***

And so, with the triumph of the Christmas Media Event still ringing in my ears, I attended the final lecture of the year at the Worshipful Institute of the Minstrels of Wine, a fifty-wine comparison of French versus South American Malbec.

I sat next to Valentina, the gorgeous Argentinian winemaker with whom I’d been flirting all year, whose wine-stained pout and Spanish-infused theatrical wine descriptions made me weak at the knees. Fourteen other students from our initial class of sixty had made it this far. At the end of the lecture we spilled outside, christened ourselves ‘Les Quinze’, and had a joyous group hug outside the side entrance to the Institute. Valentina hugged me particularly gratuitously and gave me a long, Malbec-flavoured kiss on the lips, so no complaints there.

Heads spinning with success and red wine, we tumbled down Chancery Lane and into the Gaucho Grill, gorging ourselves on fillet steak and ravaging their fine wine list. Valentina made

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