Nativity -4 days and yet the Black Death is still rampaging through the Martin family. I have daubed a red cross on the front door to ward away the citizens of Guildford. Hopefully, Lily will have recovered by Friday, otherwise my coercing her to study Meryl Streep DVD’s will be for nothing.
Lily has confessed that she will be playing the part of the “dame” in the nativity play.
I checked the Bible and I cannot find any mention of a “dame” involved in the birth of the Messiah. Turns out the by “dame”, she refers to the one mentioned in the nursery rhyme “Baa, baa black sheep…”
So the nativity has been turned into a musical now?
Who’s playing Hannah Montana?
I supposed if Andrew Lloyd Webber can do it, so can the reception class at Guildford Infants School.
Despite my own maladies, I struggle into London for an enticing vertical of wines from Gaja. I pay double my train fare so that I can arrive promptly at 10.30 at the Soho Hotel, as stated on the invitation, only to find them still setting up. Turns out that the tasting does not start until 11.00am. I chat with Anthony Rose and then finally take a pew for the presentation by Angelo Gaja’s daughter, the gloriously titled Gaia Gaja (I am slightly disappointed that her middle name is Lorenza and not Gaya.)
The wines are predictably impressive, including an exquisite Barbaresco 1961, but not quite as exquisite as Gaia herself, who certainly has her male audience (95%) transfixed…not just with the wine. I end up sitting next to her at lunch. We discuss the origins of her name, immaculate conception, speeding and her current penchant for bluegrass. If I was a corrupt wine critic who elevated his scores commensurate with the aesthetic attributes of winemaker, then Gaja’s wines would have scored a perfect 100 across the board.
After this thoroughly educational tasting, I bid a sad farewell to Gaia, stroll up to HMV to purchase a deluxe edition of Soft Cell’s seminal “Non-Stop Erotic Caberet” for my brother’s crimbo present and then with drizzle beginning to fall and feeling nauseous with cold, I catch the train home and collapse next to a coughing and spluttering Lily on the sofa in front of CBeebies.
I am officially bored of being ill. It’s the stultifying ennui that is more insufferable than the ailments themselves, the way that life loses it momentum. Before I go to bed, I chuck a towel over my head and inhale eucalyptus oil to clear the sinuses and pray that I can get a good night’s kip.