A Friday Wine.
It has been a good day. I had an excellent lunch with a couple of writerly friends in Liverpool and now feel convinced that I have a plot outline for my novel.
I like this feeling before I start to write a book - a sort of excitement (and also a small amount of fear) as I contemplate the blank page or screen. I have often heard other writers say their book is like their child. If that is so then I guess this is the anticipation of birth. Sometimes I think I can feel it fluttering a little inside my head the way Hodmandod Minor's and Major's feet and hands flailed out and my skin transiently stretched to take their shape - a vague brief outline.
Then, when they born, they were perfect (or so it appeared to me) - unscarred by the sharp edges of the world - and all things seemed possible. And so it is with this book which resides only in my mind. It is perfect as any fond dream can be.
However I was meaning to talk about wine and really I can't think of anything to say. Except it has the deep redness of oxygenated blood, and when I poured it into a glass it was so dark I could see myself reflected on its surface. It smelt just of wine, no berries, no fruit, just wine. I have not tasted it yet but since it is (i) mis en bouteille par Y.M. (ii) un grand vin de Boredeaux (iii) two years old, (iv) has a smart little crest on the bottle and on the label featuring a dragon (which looks much like a Welsh one to me) and (v) has a really excellent name (albeit spelt wrongly) I am optimistic.