Auld Lang Syne

I've been away. Where I've been away to will become clear in the fullness of time. First, let me fill in some gaps.


After such a surprisingly enjoyable Christmas, I was sure that New Year's Eve was going to turn into some sort of monstrous nightmare. Just to maintain the cosmic balance, you understand. After all, it would be unheard of for me to have an entirely stress-free festive period. Also, I kept being invited along to parties, meaning I had to pick the one with the least potential of turning into a complete hell-in-a-party-hat disaster. At close of business on 31st December, my party options were:


(1) Go to the Swan with Marxist Jim and drink myself into a stupor, surrounded by smelly old men, whilst watching Marxist Jim threaten people with a pool cue.


(2) Go to Wall-Street Phil and Mee-chelle's Barratt home for a dinner party and spend the night apologizing for my behaviour at their wedding whilst simultaneously trying to avoid eating her lasagne (Mee-chelle has the culinary skills of Delia Smith - if you were to cut off Delia Smith's hands, put out her eyes and then kill her).


(3) Go to some bars with Jasper, spend too much money and watch him take coke whilst talking about himself to other braying business types.


(4) Go to the Giannone's house party and be hit on by a brigade of Enzo's scary, orange-lipped aunts whilst everyone around me yammers on in Italian and drinks Chianti.


To be honest, I would rather cut out my own spleen than go to any of the above, and I said as much to Lucy. Her solution was beautifully simple. Don't go to any of them.


Me: What? Not go out on New Year's Eve? Is that allowed?


Lucy: We could have our own party in the shop... Why are you staring at me like that?


Me: Because I think you may be a genius.


So that's what we did. We had a little secret party for two. I told Marxist Jim that I was going to Phil and Mee-chelle's dinner party; I told them I was going out with Jasper; when Jasper phoned I told him I was going round to the Giannone's; and I told Enzo I was keeping Marxist Jim company in the Swan. Then, after closing, Lucy and I snuck back down to the shop, lit some candles, played some music and got outrageously drunk on red wine.


Midnight came. We cracked open some champagne (a nice Perrier-Jouet) - necking it from the bottle, such class. Then Lucy let off a confetti bomb. Sparkly paper went everywhere. Suddenly, the Bottle Shop looked like a particularly enthusiastic tickertape parade had passed through it.


Me: (giggle) Shiiit! (giggle) Marxist Jim's going to do his nut.


Lucy: Ah, he'll never notice.


So we continued drinking, surrounded by glitter. At some point in the wee hours, Lucy decided that she was hungry and staggered upstairs. She wobbled down ten minutes later, beaming, with a pan of spaghetti in one hand and a pan of Ragu bolognaise sauce in the other.


Lucy: I made pasta.


Me: Y'wha? It's 3 o'clock in the morning.


Lucy: Do you not want any pasta?


Me: Noooo.


Lucy: Ahhh, but I made loads. Fuck it then.


And she span around. Pasta flew everywhere. And a red line of bolognaise circled the shop. There was a moment of silence.


Lucy: Ooops.


Me: (giggle) Oh holy shit.


Lucy: (giggle) That's pretty. Glittery and tomatoey.


After our laughter had subsided somewhat, I realised that if Marxist Jim were to see his beloved Bottle Shop looking like this then it would be P45 time for both of us. That sobered me up sharpish. So I spent the first few hours of 2004 trying to clean Ragu off bottles of Cabernet Sauvignon, while Lucy scrubbed at the walls. She didn't do a very good job - I later found out that this was because she was using Jack Daniels instead of Jif. Still, Marxist Jim was too ferociously hung-over on New Year's Day to come in to the shop, giving me the chance to clean away any particularly noticeable stains (despite having a bastard hangover of my own).


Nevertheless, despite what shall henceforth be known as the Ragu Incident, it was a pretty cool way to see in the 2004. And for once I don't have the sense of dread mingled with depression that I usually have at this time of year. Which can only be a good thing. I may not touch spag-bol for a while, though.


The Bottle Shop recommendation for today: Noble Road Merlot 2001 (Australia). Soft and silky with loads of intense fruit. And if the label has a bit of spaghetti sauce on it, please, please don't let on. £4.99 
7.1.04 16:35


Do you know the way to Toller Porcorum?

So. After New Year and the Ragu Incident I expected life to get back to normal (whatever "normal" means on the arcade). Hah. As if.


On Friday, Lucy disappeared off "somewhere" first thing in the morning and didn't come back until midday on Saturday. Naturally, I'd been worried. And I had no means of getting hold of her, because Lucy is one of that rare breed of people who Won't Have A Mobile Phone. Yet another indicator that she is two eggs and a sausage short of the Full English Breakfast.


So I was in the shop on Saturday, trying and failing to concentrate on work - all the while imagining her dead in a ditch, or tied up in the boot of a car, or in the throes of passion with some wildly attractive stranger that she'd picked up at the railway station - when a car draws up outside and Lucy gets out of the driver's seat. Relief and anger washed over me. I ran outside and, rather more forcefully than I'd intended, asked her where the hell she'd been. Lucy was unperturbed.


Lucy: I went to pick up my car.


Me: You have a car?


Lucy: Yeah, it was at my sister's.


Me: You have a sister?


Lucy: Yeah, in Preston. I had to stay overnight.


Me: And you didn't think to phone?


Inner Voice: Christ, you sound like your father.


Me: I didn't know where you were! I was worried.


Lucy: Well, I was in Preston. I had to get my car.


(I could feel myself being dragged into one of Lucy's twistedly logical arguments)


Me: Since when have you had a car?


Lucy: Since always.


Me: Then why don't you keep it down here?


Lucy: I don't like cars.


Me: Why don't you sell it then?


Lucy: Well, then I wouldn't have a car, would I?


Me: But what do you need a car for?


Lucy: So we can go on holiday.


It turns out that, as a surprise, Lucy had arranged with Marxist Jim for us both to have some time off. Now that is a surprise - Marxist Jim's usual answer to "Can I have some time off" contains at least five swearwords and means "no". Lucy must have done some serious persuading. I hope she didn't offer her body to him.


So on Sunday, Lucy and I went down for a little 3-day jaunt to Dorset. "Why Dorset?" I hear you ask. I'll tell you. Know how Screw Lucy has a thing about visiting places in the London A to Z? Well, that's not her only foible. She also collects weird place names. Seriously. And apparently Dorset has a whole plethora of them. So in between having post-coital breakfast in bed in our B&B and having Brobdignagian-sized portions of fish for dinner in a variety of country pubs, we drove about the little villages of Dorset. All very scenic and picturesque and normal. Until Lucy spotted a strange place name, at which point we pulled over and she took a photo of the sign.


"Ooh, look - 'Beer Hacket'. I'll have to get a picture of that one."


"We have to go to 'Puddletown'. I wonder if they have lots of puddles. I guess they would, in all this rain."


"Ha! 'Plush'. I bet it's not, though."


"'Ryme Intrinseca - they're having a laugh aren't they? Just hold the wheel, I'll get it as we drive by."


It was strangely relaxing, though, if toe-curlingly freezing (Lucy's Fiat having no heater 'n' all). A rather strange way to spend the first few days of 2004, I think you'll agree. But now we're back, and hopefully normality will resume any time now... Well...? I'm waiting....
7.1.04 17:28


This is not the wine you're looking for

I have been in a disgustingly good mood for what seems like ages. This is unusual for me. Normally there is some sort of fly in the ointment. For example: Late has a good job and is engaged to be married; Late gets ditched one week before the wedding and has a nervous breakdown, loses job. That's usually the way things pan out.


Knowing by past experience that anything good in my life is, in all likelihood, going to go spectacularly Mah-Jongg has made me wary of prolonged periods of happiness. So I get the jitters. I become hyper-sensitive to my surroundings. I become aware of fluctuations in the Force. I become Alec Guinness.


Which is all a long-winded way of explaining why this morning, rather than taking Keith's melancholy demeanour as a sign that his copy of the Fortean Times is late and telling him to buck his ideas up and go and price up the Fetzer Chardonnay, I actually stopped and asked him if anything was the matter.


Something was the matter. George had dumped him.


Keith: George dumped me.


Me: Shit. Ah, shit, man... that's really shit.


Inner Voice: Great counselling skills, Late. Miriam Stoppard had better watch her back.


Me: Um... did she give a reason?


Keith: She says she met somebody else.


My mind boggled. This was a girl that, by all accounts, made Keith look like a life-and-soul-of-the-party, up-for-anything-coz-I'm-crazeee-me extrovert.


Me: Ah. Oh. Jeez. Where'd she meet him?


Keith: On an internet chatroom.


Inner Voice: Ah, now it all makes sense.


Keith: And I never even got to sleep with her. She let me finger her a few times, but that was all. Well, she did touch my penis once but I think that might have been an accident.


Inner Voice: Whoa! Whoa! Too much information!


I couldn't have Keith moping about the shop all day. It was depressing the customers. So I decided to give him a pep-talk. That's what you're supposed to do when you're management, right? Pastoral care, that's what it's all about. I placed a firm yet fatherly hand on Keith's shoulder.


Me: Now, Keith. I know you're hurting now, but in time you'll see George dumping you is a good thing.


Keith: I will?


Me: Yes. You may feel like this is the end of the world, but really it's the chance for a whole new beginning. Take it from one who knows.


Keith: Yeah, but when you got dumped you had a nervous breakdown...


Me: Yes, well...


Keith: ...And ended up working here.


Me: Yesss, but what I'm saying is it doesn't have to be like that.


Keith: It was for you.


Me: Yes, thank you Keith.


Inner Voice: You're crap at all this pastoral care malarkey.


Me: Anyway, think of this as a chance to start afresh. New horizons. Amazing new vistas.


Keith: I guess...


Me: And somewhere out there is a girl for you, a girl who will sleep with you. You just have to get out there and find her.


Keith: Yeah. Yeah. New horizons. Thanks Late.


Me: You're welcome.


So I seem to have cheered up my perenially-gloomy colleague. Award one gold star to Late Bland, Assistant Manager of the Month. I'm still waiting for the sky to fall on my head, though.


The Bottle Shop recommendation of the day: Carrascal 2000 (Argentina). A mature red with spicy, cedary fruit. Good for blotting out the mental image of two sci-fi freaks rutting like inept cyber-dogs under a Star Trek duvet. £4.99
12.1.04 16:31


The Italian School of Rawk

Enzo sauntered into the Bottle Shop with his usual swagger this afternoon. He picked up a case of Italian red for the Giannone patriarch, who gets through litres of the stuff every week in a futile attempt to evoke the Sicilian sunshine of his youth. Enzo and I haven't been hanging out much recently. I put this down to Lucy. Not that she stops me seeing Enzo, you understand. It's just that he probably had designs on our resident lady loon, and is annoyed that I managed to pull her before he did (thereby destroying his hitherto spotless track record). He's also probably a bit peeved that she's stuck around for so long - in our Sacking Sweepstake, Enzo had bet that Marxist Jim would have slung Lucy out after two days on the job. Enzo is now claiming that the sweepstake is null and void because "Marxist Jim is hardly going to fire the girlfriend of his assistant manager." I pointed out that it was exactly the sort of thing Marxist Jim would do, and gloatingly collected my winnings. I'd bet a month, incidentally. But seeing as Keith had bet that Lucy would be fired after two weeks, I came closest and am now £60 richer.


So I've got used to Enzo coming in, picking up the wine and leaving with only the most cursory of greetings. But today he hung about with a distracted air, looking like he wanted to ask me something. Then he asked me something.


Enzo: Uhh... Late. Can you play any musical instruments?


A slightly left-field conversational gambit, I think you'll agree, but I went along with it.


Me: I learned the recorder at school. I think at a push I could still manage 'Pease Pudding Hot'.


Enzo: But you don't play the guitar or anything?


Me: I've held a guitar.


Enzo: Nah, no good. What about you, Keith?


Keith paused in what he was doing (stacking the Oxford Landing Sauvignon Blanc into an attractive pyramid). He thought for a moment.


Keith: No.


Enzo: Shit.


Me: Why this sudden interest in our musical skills?


Enzo: I'm starting up a band. I'm going to be the lead singer, but I need guitarists and a drummer.


Ah, suddenly everything becomes clear. Enzo has always had aspirations to be a rock star. He's got the looks, God knows. But the few times I've heard him do karaoke at the Swan have made me realise that, should he ever actually make a record, the eardrums of the nation would spontaneously burst in bloody protest.


Me: You need a drummer? Maybe you should ask Marxist Jim.


Enzo: Can he drum?


Me: No, but he's good at hitting things.


Enzo took offence at the fact that we "weren't taking him seriously" (as indicated by the fact that Keith and I were doubled up laughing at the thought of Enzo singing in a band) and flounced out of the shop. At least he's got the rock star ego sorted - now all he needs is a band, some songs, a record deal and some talent. Should be a doddle.


The Bottle Shop recommendation for today: Château d'Or et de Gueules 2001. Pungent aromas of blackberry, mulberry and morello cherries combine to make this a very harmonious wine. Maybe Enzo should order a case or ten... £4.99
14.1.04 17:17


It's a bargain

Ian and Adrienne haven't been in the Bottle Shop for a while - since New Year, in fact. All the staff have their theories as to where our resident walking-adverts-for-Relate had got to.


Me: Maybe they've given up alcohol. Adrienne's probably trying to lose weight.


Lucy: Giving up wine isn't going to shift all that blubber. She'd be better off slicing a hole in her side and sucking the fat cells out with her Dyson.


Keith: (not entirely seriously) Maybe they've been kidnapped by aliens.


Me: Everything's aliens with you, Keith.


Marxist Jim: You're the f***ing alien. I'll tell you what's f***ing happened. He got f***ed off with that f***ing bitch and showed her the f***ing door, and good f***ing luck to him.


Lucy: (mildly) Or maybe they've started going to that new Oddbins.


Marxist Jim went purple at this. He hates Oddbins with a passion that only equalled by his hatred of The Harridan. In his book, a customer defecting to Oddbins may as well be deflowering Marxist Jim's only daughter (I don't think he realises that Hayley has probably already been well and truly deflowered by one of the Steves). That particular conversation ended with Marxist Jim storming off into the back room to crash crates about. Lucy has a natural ability to rub him up the wrong way, yet amazingly he never fires/kills her. I'm beginning to suspect that maybe she has some strange power over my boss. I have no desire to know the nature of that power. I'm certain that it would scare me.


Anyway, all speculation came to an end last night when, lo and behold, Ian and Adrienne came in. The latter sported a deep winter tan; Ian seemed to have turned into one big freckle. His nose was peeling badly. He looked like he was going to slough his skin at any minute. They'd obviously been away on some luxurious winter holiday. Probably skiing in Whistler. It didn't seem to have done their relationship any good though - they both looked as miserable as ever. The staff gathered behind the counter. I started silently counting the seconds until the arguing started.


...eleven...twelve...thirteen...fourteen...


Adrienne: Why do you always go for boring wines?


Inner Voice: Bingo.


Ian: I happen to like this wine.


Adrienne: That's because it's like you. Dull.


Ian: I am not dull.


Adrienne: Everything about you is dull. "Ooh, it's a bit too steep." "Ooh, I might just stick to the easier slopes."  "Ooh, I don't think I'd be any good at snowboarding."


Ian: And you were shit-hot at snowboarding, of course.


Adrienne: At least I tried.


Ian: And you looked like a tit.


Adrienne: I did not look like a tit.


Ian: You looked like a big pink marshmallow on a lolly stick.


Obviously, the skiing holiday hadn't been much of a success. The arguing continued, the volume level rose. Adrienne had picked up a French wine (quelle surprise) that we were doing a 3 for 2 offer on.


Ian: We don't need three bottles of wine.


Adrienne: But you get one free.


Ian: For fuck's sake, Adrienne. You're obsessed with getting things for free.


Adrienne: No I'm not.


Ian: You fucking are!


Adrienne: Can you stop swearing please?


Ian: "Come and get your face tattooed."  "I don't want my face tattooed."  "It's free!"  "Well, hey, tattoo away kind sir."


Adrienne: Fuck you!


Ian: Now who's swearing?


At this point, Keith leant over to me with a puzzled expression.


Keith: (whispers) Has she really had her face tattooed?


Me: (whispers) No, Keith, that's called sarcasm. Now shut up, I'm losing track of the argument.


But it was all over. With a "Fine, get your boring bloody wine then!" Adrienne had stormed out of the shop. Ian looked a little shell-shocked. As, no doubt, did we. This was the first time that he had been allowed to buy the wine of his choice. Ian gaped at the door as it jingled shut. He looked at the bottle in his hand, then carefully put it back on the shelf. Shamefacedly, he picked up three bottles of the wine Adrienne wanted and brought them to the counter. He saw three pairs of eyes staring at him, incredulously. He gave a wry little shrug.


Ian: I'd never hear the end of it.


Poor bastard. What a way to live.


The Bottle Shop recommendation for today: Terra Vitis Corbieres 2001 (France). Smooth, rich and elegant with floral, fruity notes. And if you buy two, you get the third free! Free, free, free! Free, I tell you! £4.99
21.1.04 13:18


Light the blue touchpaper and stand well back

Lucy and I have been living in each other's pockets since she moved in, and it's been strangely harmonious. So it was perhaps inevitable that we were going to have some sort of bust-up. I'd kind of been expecting it. But when we did finally have The Row on Friday night, I wasn't expecting it to be quite so explosive.


During the day I noticed that Lucy wasn't her usual sunny self. Her smile had been replaced by a frankly terrifying scowl - at least one customer came in, saw Lucy's fearsome visage and beat a hasty retreat. Later on, a junior member of the local youth was kicking a football against the shop wall.


Bam. Bam. Bam...bam...bam.


Lucy's eye twitched.


Lucy: If he keeps doing that there's going to be bloodshed.


Bam. Bam.


Lucy: Right, you little shit.


She snatched up a corkscrew, strode outside, grabbed the little boy's football and plunged the corkscrew into it. Pfffsshhht. One deflated ball. One tearful (and terrified) ten-year-old. She stormed back into the shop. I mildly pointed out that maybe she'd been a little extreme, and was somewhat startled to have the aforementioned corkscrew brandished in my face.


Lucy: You haven't seen me be extreme yet.


Me: Shiiit Luce!


Now, I'm a pretty mild sort of chap. I try to avoid confrontation if at all possible. But having a corkscrew thrust towards your baby blues is enough to get anyone's dander up. So The Row started. I'll spare you the details - let's just say that it quickly deteriorated into a slanging match. Lucy did most of the slanging, as it happens (I quickly came to regret having told her all about the Nell fiasco - so nice to have all that thrown in my face) but we both said some pretty nasty things. I think I'd just called her a "fucking psychotic bitch" when she picked up a bottle of wine and threw it at my head. Fortunately I'd been expecting something of the sort, so I managed to duck. Eight quid's worth of Chilean Pinot Noir shattered behind my head, creating a Rorschach of subtle berry and vanilla aromas on the back wall of the shop. Lucy turned and walked out. I watched her leave, red wine pooling at my feet.


She didn't come back on Friday night, which was fine by me. I was still mad with her on Saturday. But when she still hadn't come back that evening I started to get paranoid.


Inner Voice: Well done, Late. Another relationship down the drain.


Me: She'll come back.


Inner Voice: Yeah, right. She's probably rutting with some other poor schmuck at this very moment. You're never going to sleep with her again. No more playing hide the sausage - it's back to the five-finger shuffle for you, Late my boy.


Me: Oh crap.


The prospect of a future devoid of energetic Lucy sex filled me with gloom. Wall-Street Phil dropped in on Sunday afternoon, noticed my hang-dog expression and asked me if anything was the matter. I explained the situation. He was sympathetic.


Phil: Oh, heck, Late.


Me: Yeah. Quite.


(Uncomfortable silence).


Phil: Heck. Well, um, what are you doing tonight?


Me: Oh, I dunno. Probably drinking bleach. Or contemplating the emptiness of my existence.


(I am skilled in the art of self-pity, thanks to years of dedicated practice).


Phil: Well, Mee-chelle and I are having a "gathering" at the house tonight...


(He made little inverted commas in the air with his fingers).


Phil: ...Do you fancy coming along? It might cheer you up.


He winked at me. Now, under normal circumstances I would rather drink bleach than go to one of Phil and Mee-chelle's "gatherings". But staying home on the offchance that Lucy would come back smacked of sad desperation. So I thought "Fuck it. Why not?"


Me: Fuck it. Why not?


And so it was that last night I found myself heading off to a dinner party. It's a sign that you're no longer in the first flush of youth when you start getting invited to dinner parties. It's also a sign that I'm not in a good frame of mind when I start accepting invitations to dinner parties. It was with a degree of trepidation that I left Keith in charge of the Bottle Shop and made my way over to Phil and Mee-chelle's Barratt home. I can never find their house because it is identical to the forty-odd houses that surround it - it's as if somewhere there's a mad scientist who's cloning maisonettes. I wandered round their estate for ages, marvelling at the builders' oh-so-tasteful use of pale brick and mock-Tudor gabling. It was like being back in the Village of the Damned. By the time I finally got to their house (called "Badger's Rise", with a delightful little metal plaque depicting two frolicking badgers screwed to their front door) I was a good hour late and they'd already started on the salade de chèvre chaud. Goat cheese and rocket. Jesus Christ. Mee-chelle must have thought she was Jamie-cocking-Oliver. Anyway, I soon twigged why Phil had invited me. As well as Sir and Lady Briggs of Badger's Rise, there was a couple who I'd never met and whose names I can't remember for the life of me (let's call them Mr and Mrs Dreary) and a blondeish, plumpish 30-something woman. Who looked at me with such naked hunger that I might as well have been the main course. Great. I was being set up.


I was introduced to the Drearys, and to the single-and-desperate, who was apparently called Jacqueline or, as she was quick to point out,"Jacqui, that's J-A-C-Q-U-I, not J-A-C-K-I-E". She laughed a terrible snorting whinny of a laugh. Mee-chelle explained that Jacqui-with-a-C-Q-U-I had just moved down to London; then I was introduced - Late works in the wine merchants, assistant manager, yadda yadda yadda. Then both couples looked at us expectantly, as if we were going to rip each other's clothes off and fuck on the dining table right there and then.


So began a very uncomfortable evening. The food was godawful - Mee-chelle is obviously a demon in the bedroom, because Phil sure as hell didn't marry her for her skill in the kitchen. The Drearies could bore for England - I now know all there is to know about contents insurance. And Jacqui spent all her time being outrageously flirtatious, giggling girlishly and batting her eyelids and touching my hand. From anyone else it would be flattering; coming from Jacqui it felt like being hit on by Vanessa Feltz.


I made my excuses as soon as I could ("Gosh, no more coffee for me thanks, got to make a move, no rest in the wine trade you know!") and got the hell out of there. On my way home I glumly considered that if The Row had signalled the end of my relationship with Lucy it meant that I'd probably have more of these horrendous evenings, wherein well-meaning friends attempt to set me up with totally unsuitable women.


I climbed the stairs to my flat with my heart in my shoes. When I came to my front door I noticed that it was open. My first thought was "burglars!", but then I heard music coming from my bedroom. I went in and saw Lucy lying on the bed, totally starkers and spattered with blue paint. Above her head, painted in blue three-foot-high letters on my bedroom wall, was the single word "SORRY".


I'd forgotten that the nicest thing about having an argument is making up afterwards. Maybe that's why Ian and Adrienne argue so damn much. And I never realised before how very fetching Lucy looks in blue...


The Bottle Shop recommendation for today: Cosme Palacio Blanco 2002 (Spain). Bags of fruit and soft vanilla oak. Or, as my still-psychotic but nonetheless deeply lovely lady would have it, "the sort of wine Robin Hood would have made if he'd given up all that robbing the rich to give to the poor malarkey and invested in a vineyard." £4.99.
26.1.04 17:49


Let it snow, let it snow, let it snow

"Whatever is Late doing on the computer so early in the day?" I hear you ask. "Surely his brain doesn't function before noon." Well, normally you'd be right. But today is a Snow Day, so the normal rules do not apply.


Snow is one of the only things that can get me out of bed. I love it. As a kid I'd spend hours in our garden building snowmen and snow-women (once with accurate genitalia, until my mother saw and made me knock them down, after first hitting me on the back of the head with a wooden spoon). At University I stole trays from the buttery to go sledging rather than attend lectures (yet another reason why I only just scraped a 2:2). And I may have been crap at cricket, but when it came to snowball fights in the schoolyard I was king. I still look back fondly at the time when I hit Oliver Birch square in the face with a snowball packed with ice and split his lip right open. Happy times.


So when the snow started falling yesterday afternoon, I anxiously monitored its progress. Would it stick? Was it too wet, too light? But by 7 o'clock there was a nice thick covering. It was time. I made the phonecalls to Wall-Street Phil and Enzo. I nodded to Keith, who changed the sign on the door to "Closed" and went to put on his coat, hat and gloves, his face set in grim lines. Lucy looked confused.


Lucy: What's going on?


I zipped up my coat and pulled on my gloves.


Me: Get your coat on, Luce. It's snowball time.


(I have to admit, by this point I had the A-Team music playing in my head).


I should explain. We have a tradition on the arcade (well, I say tradition - it started last year). When it snows, all the younger staff of the shops - me and Keith, Enzo and Tony from the café, Wall-Street Phil from the estate agents - unite to pelt the Steves and their cronies with snowballs. It's a pitched battle that lasts until all the snow has turned to slush and all the combatants look like life-size Mr Whippys.


Last year we had three snowball fights. The first one we won easily - we had the element of surprise - but by the second battle the Steves had marshalled their forces and had recruited more troops from whatever school they are currently playing truant from. Overconfident, we suffered a humiliating defeat (thanks, in part, to Keith wussing out because he'd forgotten his gloves and "couldn't feel his hands anymore". A feeble excuse. Admiral Nelson lost a hand, and did that stop him winning the Battle of Trafalgar? I don't think so).


So last year was a draw (or two-one to the Steves, but I don't think the third fight really counts, because by that point most of the snow had melted and the Steves were just pelting us with ice). We had to win last night's snowball fight. It was a point of honour.


We all met up in Giannone's café to discuss the battle plan. As the best thrower, I was to be in the vanguard, taking out the opposing side, sniper-style. Tony and Enzo would work as a pair, pelting anyone who threatened me. Keith and Wall-Street Phil were given the task of making snowballs and defending our patch (both of them having the throwing ability of epileptic amputees).


Lucy: What about me?


Tony: Can you throw?


Lucy strode out of the café, balled up some snow in her gloved hands.


Lucy: What do you want me to hit?


Tony: The wing-mirror of that car.


He pointed at a Renault Clio that was slowly making its way up the street. Lucy squinted, drew her arm back, let fly. KA-POW! The snowball hit the wing-mirror of the car, sending it swerving across the road. Tony let out a low whistle of appreciation. The rest of us gave a small round of applause.


Tony: You can be a sniper with Late. Do you know what that means?


Lucy: Yeah. Take the bastards out.


(The A-Team music was reaching a crescendo in my head).


What can I say? We creamed them. Six fully-grown and adrenalin-pumped adults against a badly organised gang of teenagers. They didn't stand a chance. At least two of them went home in tears.


Inner Voice: Yeah, cry away little man, 'cos WE ARE THE CHAMPIONS!


The Bottle Shop recommendation for today: Patamar Reserva 1999 (Portugal). A firm, smoky wine with lovely cassis flavour. The sort of wine Nelson would have quaffed had he just pummeled a bunch of delinquents into a sobbing, snowy heap. £4.99
29.1.04 12:56