A small sherry

To be honest, I've always enjoyed a sherry. When I was in my early teens, on Christmas Day we'd go to my Nan's house and, at some point, we'd pop 'round to see "Auntie" Helen, who lived next door but one. She was somewhat Thatcheresque in appearance (and, possibly, in politics) but she was always delighted to see us and to offer us a glass of sherry. It was oddly exciting.

I don't really remember much sherry drinking in the years after that until I got to university, when I would have a bottle in my room for a post homework treat (which, funnily enough, is the only intellectual evidence I have that I actually did any work in the evenings). 

Then, at the age of perhaps twenty-two or twenty-three, my bandmate, Ric, and I went to visit a friend of his in Warwick. We were, I remember suddenly, going to see Julian Cope play at the university that evening on his 'My Nation Underground' Tour. Ric's friend, whose name I'm afraid I can't remember, apologised for not having any drink in the house although he ruefully mentioned a case of sherry that his partner's parents had given them. Our eyes lit up at this and Ric and I spent the afternoon tackling this under appreciated gift.

These days I usually have a bottle of sherry in the house. The current one is a Madeira from Sainsbury's which is, you might be surprised to hear, absolutely amazing. This evening I had a small glass to tide myself over until the Minx's arrival at which point I anticipated tackling one of the bottles of prosecco that we handed out in the office, this afternoon (what with things going rather well).