WHO NEEDS A DRINK?

As po­lit­i­cal grav­i­tas dom­i­nates (jus­ti­fi­ably), you might ap­pre­ci­ate a soup­con of hu­mour rooted in the breath­tak­ing Pri­o­rat vine­yards.

The Pri­o­rat DOQ and Montsant DO wine fair buzzed like pol­li­na­tors work­ing the nec­tar. Every May it blooms a lit­tle more, a hum of happy chat flow­ing be­tween the crowded stalls, sup­ple­mented with food ven­dors and places to re­pose.

The only flaws were the mis­judged, mi­graine-in­duc­ing techno beat noise puls­ing from the co­op­er­a­tive build­ing, and the usual plethora of badly parked cars.

With Mag­gie im­mo­bilised fol­low­ing a major foot op­er­a­tion there was pre­cious lit­tle time for me to linger. I had sud­denly found my­self jug­gling de­ci­sions way above my pay grade. And you try shop­ping when you have lost your list and the town is swamped.

By the time I and my trol­ley had done the cir­cuit of the fruit and veg­etable shop, the post of­fice, bak­ery and the weirdly quiet Spar I had re-found the list and was fraz­zled. I had for­got­ten sig­nif­i­cant things, as is the way when men ven­ture alone into a store, glaze and bolt for the door.

As I hurled the shop­ping into the van ready to high­tail it home I sud­denly no­ticed two mem­bers of the Mossos d’Es­quadra were clos­ing in on me at speed.

“Wait,” one of them said.

I im­me­di­ately mus­tered my Wal­lace and Gromit smile. (If you don’t know what one of those is you are miss­ing some com­edy gold).

“You have left the head of a don­key at the cash till!”

I had bought a bit of chicken as a treat for the dog, and felt sure I would have re­mem­bered if there was a head of a don­key. It def­i­nitely wasn’t on the list.

“We are sure it was you.”

“Oh.”

“You should go and get it.”

“I will. Yes, of course. I will. Yes.”

They watched me lock the car and go back to the store. Sure enough, I had left the head of a don­key – a bot­tle of CAP DE RUC local wine. It was on the re­ceipt but I have no mem­ory of buy­ing it. I am a berk. There are def­i­nitely times when the se­crecy of my work pre­vents me from know­ing what I am doing...

Get well soon my love. Then we can go back to nor­mal with you multi-task­ing, lead­ing the foray and dis­patch­ing me hither and thither along streets and down shop­ping aisles to fetch and carry.

Know any good names for wines or winer­ies ? Britons have a taste for bizarre drinks and pub names. We used to gather at The Mur­derer’s in Nor­wich. Back then they didn’t serve the ale called Santa’s Butt. A per­sonal pub name favourite is My Fa­ther’s Mous­tache in Lin­colnshire.

The city of Nor­wich, so they say, used to have 365 pubs and 52 churches. More use­less in­for­ma­tion from yours truly.