“Frightfully good gin, dahling,” they shriek merrily, holding out their glasses for more of the velvety Banapo. Inevitably, they end up Morris Dancing to Paul Simon’s Diamonds On The Soles Of Her Shoes. During this particularly English display of verve and energy, I sneak off to unearth the excellent bottle of Merlot I hid behind the sofa. I settle back comfortably, cat on lap, the good grape in hand, and watch my happy guests cavort wildly. All the while thinking smugly to myself that it is no wonder they lost the colonies.
(Aside: The above is a wholly invented scenario. I promise. I'm just grumpy because I'm cold..............and it's all Guy's fault for taking me out of the hot house.)