It’s the shortest day of the year. We get a glimmer of sunshine around midday before it buggers off beneath the horizon. I make a mental note never to emigrate to northern Scandinavia…no wonder so many people there go mad and resort to death metal.
Today is the final tasting of the year at The Ledbury where around 20-25 oenophiles have escaped Xmas shopping with their wives to imbibe some serious juice. During the lunch I taste nectar such as Pichon-Lalande 1990, Pichon-Baron 1988, a lovely Corton-Charlemagne 1986 from Bonneau du Martray and Fonseca 1985 to accompany Xmas pudding. Outside it begins to snow heavily. I feel like I am in a Richard Curtis movie and Brigitte Jones will walk through the door any moment (which is apt considering we are in Notting Hill.) I stroll back home, snow crunching beneath feet, although disappointingly Guildford seems to have been spared a new layer of Festive white stuff and has to suffice with carbon monoxide infused slush. I wish that every Christmas landscape would resemble the one’s depicted on Christmas Cards. That’s why I don’t send any: so as not to raise hopes. Plus it’s cheaper…sorry, I mean eco-friendly.
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