After a long day's drive from Newcastle to York to Leeds, and an aborted attempt to pick blackberries from York Victorian Cemetery, I was feeling somewhat less than lovely. Claire hinted that we may not have a bottle, but I scotched that attempt at sobriety. The wine itself was inconsequential - fine, slightly sparkling, dry, no taste whatsoever of mangos - but it did its Sunday evening job. By the time I went to bed, life was looking better, if more blurry.
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