It is a Friday night and I am pleasantly wibbly. Whilst I write I am eating a mixed fruit cobbler (only a little burnt because we failed to hear the pinger during Torchwood) and slurping a mug of bush tea.
I opened this bottle after coming home from Ian's Dreadful Octet - except this time Mary and Patrick were missing, so we played sextets badly instead. But with six of us, rather than eight, there were fewer versions of the tuning note. I left half an hour earlier than usual on the excuse (which was true) that I had barely seen Claire this week. Therefore, our first glass was drunk, lying in bed reacquainting ourselves.
The remainder was drunk tonight on a lazy, pleasant Friday evening where nothing much has happened in a thoroughly satisfying way.