Bluebottle-buzzing heatwave, set for weeks to come. British brains parboiled, lethargy sets in.
The good lady invites a vintage selection of friends, makes delectable morsels. At 6pm the man of the house, hand on wine cooler, sighs in contented relief. The scene, a lightly oaked pond. Guests greeting, gently circling for places at the oasis. White wine. Fashion-led Felicity, be-Ray-Banned atop, (‘Doo call me Flick’).toasts each in turn, her grin caricatured, lopsided through her raised glass. The man thanks God for screw-tops. James and Jane, coming by car, are anxiously aware of each other’s consumption. As the day cools, the company warms. After the second glass, or the third, the brigadier, ineffable font of good graces, murmurs that the wine is indeed welcome, never more enjoyable than tonight. Words echo round the watering hole, praising temperature, freshness, it’s simply being here. For wine complements and enhances good company, and it is the Italians who know how to enjoy life outdoors as the sun sinks slowly lower. On such a Mediterranean night at water’s edge, the Society’s Verdicchio gently laps over all, cooling and warming, caressing those priceless moments shared with friends.