My mum gave me two bottles of wine yesterday that she had left over from Christmas. ‘Don’t tell John – he’ll be really angry with me,’ she said, with genuine concern in her eyes.
Last night, I had just finished the vocal to new song The Girl Who Turned Into Herself, and, as I was tidying the studio, Audrey looked up at me with her big brown eyes as if to say: ‘Hey, father, you’ve just done a great job there, why don’t you reward yourself with a small glass of that lovely claret that grandma left you this afternoon?’
‘That’s a very agreeable notion, my girl,’ I informed her. ‘And, you know what? I think I jolly well will. But let’s not tell John, eh? Ha ha.’
Of course, I didn’t just have one glass. I had both bottles. My normally extra-strong resolve completely disintegrated after the third glass.
I blame Audrey; it was her idea.
This morning I feel fit and healthy and generally absolutely wonderful. (I’m holding up a big sign at this moment that says IRONY on it.)
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