Never really thought much of rosé. Until now.

I'm into the hard stuff: dark chocolate, red wine, espresso, and (until recently) rare meat.

But we had a heat wave last week. And I fell from grace. Well, we both did.

We started drinking rosé. Specifically, Ménage à Trois, from Folie à Deux Winery in St. Helena, California.

So tonight, we had to get through the evening somehow. We took the tots to a park where there are sprays of water. And we let them run naked in the jets while we sipped rosé in our stainless steel camping wineglasses (very classy).

And I started to feel... so happy. Light and silly. And we laughed at the funny people who passed through the park: that guy in his speedo on the bicycle, and those other two guys who had shoulders big enough to fit a whole Jason inside each one. And the tots jumped under the spraying water and I watched the trees waggle their tiny friendly branches.

Who knew rosé could be so much fun?

Playing tag with the tots

We were in a sort of controlled figure-8 pathway with lots of hiding places and stuff. Mr. Nibs and Imogen were racing around. There were other people there, and cats. I was hiding by lying down on the grass. Neither tot could see me, but I was hardly hiding. Finally, I got up and went to find them. I slipped slowly into conciousness. It was 7:11am.

No more wine.

No more wine.
No more wine.

Book as dream

We watched the films, now I am reading the books.
Millennium. The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo.
I read this 850 page book in under a week.
I would wake up in the middle of the night and burn through a hundred pages, lying on the couch.
You just fall through this thing, I tell you.
Not a deep book. Not a complex book, finally.
But a helluva ride. A dream of a book.
I wonder how autobiographical this book is?
I wonder if it will spur a new kind of journalism.

Mysterious house guest: Benjamin Brunet Rasteau

Lately I've been getting off on wines that come in the door with a little dust on their lapels. I think the adjective would be musty... but in a good way.

And this round little darling (Benjamin Brunet Rasteau Côtes du Rhône Villages 2007) was just one of those mysterious house guests. It came in all discrete, the French wine sitting so quietly but so conspicuously at the table. And at the appointed time it beguiled us with tales about the meaning of time and experience. Much enjoyed.

Number 23 Wine

Cracked a bottle of red wine last night, first in weeks.

Funny little wine, that one.

No comments, really. It was definitely red.

Shooting strangers in the Square Mile

Hmm. Strange dream last night.

Must have been all that Grand Theft Auto over the holidays, coupled with the acupuncture I had yesterday.