It’s odd how, often, wine consumed at key moments is unintentionally appropriate.
My only consolation, as I now wonder what on earth I am going to put my Marmite on besides my finger, is that Mousie will have burst like a balloon with the amount he has eaten.
The only possible course for the ethical meat-eater is to accept that our diet, in common with so many other of our lifestyle choices, is a matter of what we feel comfortable with, and to leave it at that.
Cowboys may have been the architects of the American myth but a cowboy without his shot of whiskey would scarce merit his gun.
Grigson's recipes still have the power to surprise – God knows what readers in 1971 made of sushi with sweet beans – and her enthusiasm for her subject is utterly infectious.
It’s an all-you-can-eat buffet and soup kitchen combined.
In wine, the tendrils of power spread like well-nourished vines, wrapping around some surprising edifices.
I happened to walk into a shop near Richmond Park and found scores if not hundreds of withered and skinny dicks dangling from the ceiling.
Jam, not bombs.
The vegetarian movement has ground to a halt.
I’ve nothing against celebrated wines: enormous care and attention goes into their creation. Still, a little imagination is a heavenly thing.
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