Book One: Chapter 42

Tuesday 14th March

I forgot to mention...that Spanish tasting the other week...I am pouring an preposterously heavy and presumably expensive bottle of Rioja into my glass. I stand there like a muppet for a minute or so, before it dawns upon me that the bottle is in fact. I have been duped by its two-inch reinforced glass.
What does this producer expect?
A member of ETA to try and assasinate the wine?
Give me strength.

Wednesday 15th March

Whoever declared moving house to be the seventh most stressful time of ones' life, I have news for you. It is the first. I feel pressure from all sides of this farrago. Nobody returns my calls, solicitors ooze condescension down the phone and constantly tell me that they are far, far, far too busy to deal with my petty matter. Tell me what is more important than my house? I think I'll just buy a caravan and park it outside daily tastings. At least then I will not have to deal with defective leases, inadequate sub-ventilation and mortgage retentions. Consequently I remain in self-exile from the social scene and occassionally e-mail friends reminding them that I still exist, but that I am presently unavailable for fun. I cannot be frivolous when my belly aches from worry about a chimney...a chimney that I may never own and if I do, needs repointing.

Friday 17th March

Tomoko's birthday! Seventeen yet again. Slap up meal at a Michelin-starred restaurant has been cancelled while the mirage of our house-move remains in limbo, so we settle for a local restaurant just a council estate away. We get absolutely trashed, one of those meals where you are three-quarters of the way through the first bottle by the time the starter deigns us with its presence and the slippery slope downhill is inevitable. Our stupor means we do not notice the average cuisine, not bad per se, just not worth the £100 bill. We stagger back through the sink estate oblivious to the danger that lurks within every pack of belligerant, bored teenagers skulking in the shadows.

Lily is deep in slumberland when we return. Well, I assume so. It is all a bit of a metholated blur.

Saturday 18th March

No hangover. Bonustime. Nothing much during the day, though I cook Tomoko a nice beef borguignon and open the best Spanish wine I have ever tasted, Vega Sicilia 1970 (nothing to do with my wife's birth year - the Vega Sicilia 1989 was not available, honest.)

Tuesday 21st March

New Zealand tasting at New Zealand House in Haymarket. The tasting is on the 17th floor, respendent with a 360 degree panorama of the metropolis. The Pinots are regrettably average but the Syrahs encouraging. I am wearing my Firetrap "cool dad" cardigan and Fred Perry t-shirt to complement that Jamie O. chic.

I end up having a sandwich (or two) with David Berry Green, Steven Spurrier and Simon Woods who steals the last chicken tikka sarnie (don't think treachery like that goes unnoticed Woods.) I consume nearly every salmon sandwich, so sincere apologies to other tasters such as HRH, Gluck and everyone else who assumed that the New Zealand Winegrowers Association opted for the economy selection of fillings.

A fascinating conversation ensues during which we discuss the New Zealand wines and the forthcoming 30th anniversary of the famous Paris Tasting that Steven Spurrier organized and changed the Old World's perceptions of the New World forever. As we depart, he unexpectedly makes the nicest complement about my writing imaginable. It catches me off-guard and I am taken aback, for he is the first established wine-writer to ever acknowledge my work. It means a great deal, though it is telling that the prose only made an impression when printed in ink instead of identical words on screen.

The English wine press has stuck its head in the sand over the internet, with the notable exception of HRH. They end up scratching their heads in bewilderment when their magazines go under and books stagnate on shelves. If they switched on their computers and opened their minds they would find some that the best writing is on the internet, from people bored with the status quo and starting their own sites or from the Forums that throng with debate and information.

But anyway, thanks Steven for what you said, though as you mentioned, you rarely surf the net so I doubt you will ever read this.

Wednesday 22nd March

Wake up, greet Lily supine in her cot, cocooned in her grow bag ready to spread her wings like a butterfly. Once was a time when I would digest BBC News in the morning, but now I settle down to watch "The Hoobs" (Hubba Hubba pictured right) and "Boogie Beebies", during which Lily and I shake our hips along with our cornflakes. This morning we recreate the movements of a carousel and yesterday miming the workings of a cuckoo clock.

France Under Roof Tasting at Lords. A rather moribund selection of wines flecked with a few gems (a lovely Madiran from Clape and predictably impressive Chapoutier wines.) Bump into Simon Woods again. Bugger, I am wearing the same Firetrap cardigan as yesterday, but he does not seem to notice.

Thursday 23rd March

A highly enjoyable day sampling Californian wines at the Royal Horticultural Halls. Marylin Munro and Charlie Chaplin are there to greet me at the entrance (fortunately lookalikes not the walking dead.) I taste a few dozen wines, concentrating on my favourites: Ridge, Littorai, Peter Michael, Larkin and Togni.

Simon Woods is there. He remarks upon my Firetrap cardigan, commenting that I have worn it all week. I could say the same for his vermillion trousers but keep stumm. I make a mental note to vary my attire whenever a cluster of wine tastings featuring Simon Woods cluster along the calendar.

When I return home, there is a phone call for me from Tomoko.

Lily has been taken ill, the normally ebulliant, hyperactive baby suddenly turned limp and feverish. I fear it could be the initial symptoms of spontaneous combustion. Naturally, it is impossible for me to take her to a doctor since my financially crippling council tax does not cover such luxuries, but I call NHS Direct who I must say were very professional and helpful on the phone. I know she will be fine, but because this is the first malady to affect her, it's disconcerting all the same.

Despite this, I pen a flippant piece on Bordeaux 2005 in reaction to the growing bubble of hyperbole, just for kicks. Result? Over 4,400 visits in a single day. Who says humor and wine-criticism cannot mix?

Friday 24th March

Day off, a rare occurrence these days. I do the shopping at Sainsburys, early morning to miss the crowds of impatient trolley-drivers with their ululating kids. I take Lily down to the doctors, wait 30 minutes during which time a mental, bearded Rasta starts berating the receptionist for merely existing. I wonder which unfortunate enclave of London he inhabits and later find him walking down my own road. Christ, I hope he is not my new neighbour.

The doctor is very congenial, gives Lily a once over and prescribes some medicine. Her examination includes a look into her lickle ears, first the left then the right. Seizing the moment, I mention to the quack that my own ears have been over-producing wax and request her stick the instrument into my own lug-holes, which she duly does and gives me the all clear.

Return home and then once my mother has arrived, Tomoko and I abandon our daughter for the first time in 14 months, for tonight my wife is accompanying me to the University of Bath where I am conducting a Burgundy tasting. Taking a leaf out of Broadbent's book, Tomoko is my right-hand femme fatale (indeed hitherto I never realised how important Parker's wife was in his elevation to "Emperor of Wine".) The drive to Bath is painless and we arrive in good time.

Of course, mentally I was a student just yesterday, but I feel a bit of an old fogey driving through the campus as an invited speaker. Our lodgings are fine and once unpacked we head for "Munchies", the appropriately named fish 'n chip/pizza/burger/Thai/curry restaurant. Gareth Birchley appears, a 20-year old with the hubris of a successful forty-year old, who has single-handedly managed to obtain the services of the wine glitterati for the club (Broadbent is the next speaker, but his gaff is only down the road so he does not have far to go.) Anyway, good for Gareth - looks as if he is doing a great job. According to the blinkered wine press, you would assume that only Oxford and Cambridge boast successful Wine Tasting Societies. It is a pity that those universities' presupposed palate prowess is challenged by each other, rather than an open tournament that welcomes all-comers. Perhaps they are scared?

Against expectations, Munchies serves a damn good thin-crust pizza, although I have to order one with a radius of 2.5-metres in order to purchase a thin, not breeze-block slice. I offer portions of my "meat feast" to assorted members of Bath's Wine Society, who must assume I have mistakenly wandered into their wine event instead of the Spliff Appreciation Society's annual AGM.

The tutored tasting goes swimmingly, save for one guy (there is always one) who has a constant sneer on his face whenever I expound my judgment on the wines. I feel like expelling him from the seminar or at least ordering him to stand in the corner, but that would not be tasting etiquette. What is it with wine an one-upmanship? Can't he just feign genuflection and then mock whatever rubbish I spouted with his own clique down the pub afterwards?
That's what I do.

Anyway, the wines are intriguing in the sense that I pick holes in all of them, even the Clos-des-Porrets 1945 from Henri Gouges. Sixty year of bottled craftmanship traduced by moi. Bacchus will have me struck of the register of oenophiles. Tomoko and I walk back to our digs pretending that we have both pulled at the Friday night disco, but have an essay to write before Monday.

Saturday 25th March

Wake up still role-playing students. I enquire what Tomoko is studying and what A-levels she has? She just tells me she is hungry and demands breakfast. Is that part of the role-play or are we back in reality?

I drive in to Bath: what a beautiful town. I would like to live here one day, the Roman baths, the quaint shops, the rolling verdure, the absence of spotty glue-sniffing teenagers and Class A-B-C dealers on every corner. We stop for a delicious breakfast in town, inexplicably lose the car in the Waitrose carpark and after 20 minutes of searching, finally locate the Clio and head back down the M4 to the sound of The Delays' splendid last album. As we drive past the rear end of Brixton Academy, the star-crossed lovers Chantelle and Preston walk past us arm in arm. So, it is not publicity stunt then. They really are in love.

Lily waves from the window as we pull up, she appears to remember her parents although refuses her afternoon sleep and supper. She was an A1 eater until her illness, but is now consuming just a few raisins (why raisins?) that without getting too descriptive, she is visibly unable to digest.

Sunday 26th March

Rainy today, but I don't want to stay couped inside the flat that is proving to be the bane of my life, the bricks and mortar source of all my woes. So we head out for Richmond via a log-jam through Tooting High Street and end up eating cakes in Richmond Park. It is chaos inside: a wedding reception in full flow, panic-stricken little boy trapped inside toilet cubicle, families deperately searching for seats and a surfeit of wailing tots. Still, the harvest cake is delicious.

Monday 27th March

Final preparation for Bordeaux next week. I confirm my reservation at the two hotels I have booked: just one that fails to have written down my name though we soon sort that out. Car has been hired (I pray it has a CD-player, for I have already mentally planned the soundtrack to the chateaux visits) and only Le Pin has not responded to my request for a visit. Have I said anything disparaging about the wine? I did diss the 1995 a few months ago in a blind tasting. Perhaps Jacques Thienpont is still piqued?

I buy two CD's, both candidates for Album of the Month: the Yeah, Yeah, Yeahs and southern soul legend and wine-journal favorite chanteuse, Candi Staton. Candi wins out by virtue of its stunning title track, but both come highly recommended.

Tuesday 28th March

What is it with my neighbours? One evening they are at loggerheads, yelling at the top of their voices in the middle of the night, a chime of "We're finished" at 3.00am; the next, it is all sweetness and light. I am considering putting a note through their door, advising that if they are going to break up, do it swiftly because I need a good night's kip. Then again, maybe he is a two-timing cad? Maybe I am eavesdropping upon two lovers, both ignorant of each others' existence in their menage-a-trois. In this case, my neighbourly note may cause ructions and yet more nocturnal disturbance. I just cannot win.

Wednesday 29th March

I had vowed not to cut my hair until I exchanged contracts, but since my hair is turning into a fluffy mullet and since I have Bordeaux next week, I pop into my my local hairdressers in Soho. Today I have an Australian lesbytarian cutting my hair: I can tell this by her porcupine haircut, the alignment of her bodily piercings and that she drops into conversation the fact that she could never have kids unless she adopted a child with her girlfriend. We discuss the endemic violence that is overwhelming this country, my daughter Lily, the travails of tasting fermented grape juice at nine in the morning and whether to shave the back of my head?
If anyone meets me in Bordeaux next week, please mention my neat cut.

Thursday 30th March

On the cusp of exchanging contract: so near and yet so far. When will my purgatory end? I feel that this is a new unchartered level of Faustian hell and it is called "Moving House In the UK".

Friday 31st March

Not the best of days. Firstly, the incompetent solicitors still cannot bring themselves to take that final step across the finish line and exchange contracts because that would mean they would no longer be able to milk all parties for more money. This means that I will have to go to Bordeaux without closure. Then at lunchtime I hear the expected, but still upsetting news that my nan has but hours to live. In fact, it turned out that her final minutes were ticking away and I subsequently receive a short text the simply says that she passed away at 1.55pm.

Nan dies and effectively my childhood with it, since she is, or was, the sole surviving grandparent and they are prerequisits for childhood status. But she had suffered enough and it was time for her to check out.

Good-bye nan.