If this wine was a novel then it would be written by Jodi Picoult. It sells really well but it fails to deliver and you are left wondering what it is that attracted people to it in the first place. It’s a nothing wine; there’s nothing unpleasant about it because I found myself being lulled through several glasses of it without really being aware that I was drinking it. It wouldn’t be the end of the world if you had to drink it but you may find yourself getting through several glasses of the stuff too quickly and do you really want that slightly heady feeling when you can’t remember what it tasted like? Maybe if you’d had a bad day then it wouldn’t be too bad, but if you’ve had a bad day surely you deserve more of treat than this? When the bottle was finished I was left with a sense of ‘is that it?’, which is pretty much what I felt when I read whatever it was that Jodi Picoult wrote. I can’t even remember how much I paid for it.
On the evening that I opened this wine I’d been shuffling down our street earlier, after having picked up the English newspapers from the international press kiosk. It was a beautiful sunny afternoon here in the northern suburbs but I’d just come back from visiting Nea Makri on the coast where it had been really windy. This was great for the kite surfers and wind surfers but it had left my hair in the style that is best described as ‘asylum chic’. As I walked back towards our place there was a couple walking towards me and I thought to myself, ‘that guy looks a bit like Mr Papandreaou,’ and as we drew level I realised it was the prime minister of Greece. He was clearly a bit more prepared than me and said a very gracious ‘yassas’ and managed to ignore the fact that I looked as if I’d got dressed while I was drunk and had had my hair styled by a food processor. You’d have thought that after 4 months in this country I’d have learnt how to say ‘yassas’ wouldn’t you? But, no, I’ve managed to maintain the Brits abroad stereotype of not ever speaking anything other than English and preferably shouting it. Except I squeaked rather than shouted.
I know I didn’t deserve a decent bottle of wine after that. I missed the opportunity to show how au fait I was with the lingo and I also failed to ask him the important questions like: Did Michelle make you and Barack stand on the back step of the White House to have a cigarette? Did Gordon punch you? Did Mrs Merkel flirt with you? How long did you have to wait for a telephone connection?
(Mr P – if you’re reading this then – Γεασασ και χρονια πολα)