I don’t know which it was; it was so long ago that he gave me a CD as a gift for the first time. It may have been Crowded House – which had just hit our shores in a big way that year – but I rather think it was Rick Estrin and the Night Cats – which featured a humorous (at the time, and prescient now), lyric about ; ‘dealing with my next ex-wife’. We’d agreed there’d be no arguing when we split our music collection on Friday morning, so I took the Crowded House. Ditto the Leonard Cohen, which he’d never liked anyway. In the end I came away with many less CDs than I’d purchased over the years, but no matter really, in the grand scheme of what else I was losing.
Amongst all these CDs was the proof of early Saturday mornings, while we put on a movie for our child to watch so that we could spend some precious time making early-morning love. Into the charity box went the dreaded purple Barney, countless editions of those scary Teletubbies and all the adventures of animated cars, bears and resilient vacuum cleaners named Wall-E.
Then we tackled the photo albums. He only withdrew those I’d taken of the children. Not one of the two of us on a sandy beach, laughing around a barbeque, not even the one of us saying our wedding vows. I carried the albums over to my cottage in a carton and plonked it down next to a picture of him holding my pregnant tummy almost fourteen years ago.
He refused to move the chandelier I’d recently had made for my kitchen, saying it would leave an ugly hole in the ceiling and went off to the hardware store to buy the necessary equipment to change the locks so that I could ‘stay in my box’ and out of his space.
Nostril-hair-plucking was not proving enough to make me vent my grief, so I phoned my doctor. He’s really quite nice about early calls and never seems annoyed at being woken at 7.30am on Good Friday. He’d given me ‘special occasion’ tablets, which – he said – would prevent me from accidentally dying of sadness. These are called Stilnox and he told me to get into a velour tracksuit immediately, take two of these tablets and get into bed. I do not own a velour tracksuit, but it seems de rigueur attire for the depressed woman, so I think I shall have to invest in one soon, accidental death in unfashionable kit would truly be the final humiliation!
It so happened that I had been invited to a brunch which would lead to supper later that afternoon. Kind friends had agreed to fetch me as I am not a reliable night-driver. I confess that my abject self-pity didn’t spare a thought for them and I passed quickly into a comatose state, mercifully free of dreams.
Saturday morning brought a volley of concerned messages, mostly instigated by a friend who was quoted as writingS “I suspect she was drunk by lunch time and passed out. It is so sad,
but until she admits she has a problem with alcohol and needs help
there is nothing any of us can do.” Sunday and Monday brought more messages of concern and help and advice about reputable rehabilitation facilities. It is now Thursday and – in the past 10 days – I have had random urine and blood tests for alcohol, all proving that these body fluids may as well as have been taken from a Catholic priest. Let’s retract that, shall we, our Father Padraig’s results may have been less forgiving.
Allow me now to explain my relationship with wine, by reprinting a previously published poem:
Wine is one of the most civilized things in the world and one of the most natural things of the world that has been brought to the greatest perfection, and it offers a greater range for enjoyment and appreciation than, possibly, any other purely sensory thing.
My cherished ritual,
Ceremonious selection of glass:
Ornate, baroque, clear crystal.
Careful extraction of cork.
Faithful as the clock;
For a moment
Forget the news.
This entry was posted on August 21, 2010, in poetry and tagged cindy taylor, cindy taylor blog, KLEINE ZALZE, lifestyle, original cin, poem, poetry, relationships, the only cin, wine, WINE AMBASSADOR.
Here, unless there is a riotous party, is my daily wine routine:
- Pour a glass of wine that will accompany the meal I am making.
- Sip it while I cook, normally 1 hour’s occupation.
- Dish my food and pour another glass of wine to accompany my meal.
- Take remains of glass to bathroom after dining, complete ablutions and return empty glass to kitchen sink.
- Retire, after taking prescribed medication, to bed and read until slumber attacks.
I presume there are millions of us that follow this routine, bunch of horrible drunks that we are … except of course, those virtuous souls amongst us who have never had to dismantle what was once a happy home or redefine their place in the world by ending their marriage.
Call me what you will, I am going to continue my duo of daily grape nectar, and I will get my chandelier!
In other news: Fritzl The Dastardaly Dacshund ate my Lily bunny and I got retrenched at work. As both events happened during dayight hours, I did not turn to wine. I ate several bars of chocolate instead, wearing my new velour tracksuit.