Hungarian Red Wine
Rain. Not really a deluge (is it ever?) but an indecisive London drizzle. When the gods pour scorn on this city the downpour is like the madman who can’t quite make up his mind whether to cross the road or just stagger in the middle of the carriageway to the curses of car drivers. The night is deceptively cool but not cold; infuriatingly warm but not hot. In other words, it’s here but not there (or there but not here, oh I’m confused), much like my mood tonight. Should I step out or curl up sofa-bound? Should I dance on my toes so not to disturb my downstairs neighbour or could I find a bear-soaked dance floor where I can moonwalk rooted to the spot? With nothing tonight as it seems am I mistaking hallucinations for reality? Is my life real or God’s capricious punishment for past misdeeds? But then I don’t believe in pre- or afterlives. Or God. It’s the wine. What else? I feel, at once, trammelled and unbreakable. Red, the wine. It burns the esophagus as it gushes downwards to the gut where, mixed with the salmon still in the oven, it will bring sustenance and nourishment to famished cells. The bouquet is like London drizzle, neither here nor there. Is it plum or chocolate or peppery spice? Cherries or berries? Ho-hum. It’s Hungarian, that much I’m certain, and it’s not bad.