On the cement basement floor where water seeps in after a particularly heavy downpour next to the white plastic shelving (that is euphemistically referred to as 'the wine cellar') sits a bright yellow carton replete with twelve neat cardboard dividers each holding a dark amber bottle of Cab. From Napa. A loon etched yellow floating proudly on the red label boasting of a night of bliss. Or at the very least, a smooth sail.
A gift from a friend. A card carrying Alpha Squared member for several decades. Who swears it is okay to keep off the hard stuff, but sip from time to time the nectar of the gods. But who am I to say whether this is gospel? I am both a heathen and a cheap drunk. One dirty martini, up, three olives ... or on occasion a glass and a half of wine ... will set my chestnut haired head a'buzz.
Ainsi je suis un peu davantage que confus. Mais c'est moi. Pas lui. Le plus assurément il est correct. Au moins de son point de vue. If you know what I mean!
If I am going to imbibe the fruit of the vine, it will most likely be claret with a hint of lavender and a scent of sorrel mushrooms and a soupçon of pencil shavings. Not a bona fide wine aficionado I just want it to please my palette. Not impress my guests. Decanted. From France, preferably. In my earlier days I was a budding Francophile with a modicum of fluency. A real lover of all things du Gaul: Louis Vuitton, Hermes, Perrier Jouier, evergreen scented Rigaud boudoir candles. You get the picture.
Mais un canard? If so, then definitely one with aplomb. Debonair. Dashing. Self assured. Naturellement.
And that's the truth, so help me God!