So, anyway – as predicted last Wednesday, this week’s shopping trip took me in the opposite direction to the mad mayhem in Ashbourne, and downhill instead to the relative sanity of the Trent valley (it’s usually the other way round, actually, but that’s another story.) And, also as predicted, they didn’t have porter.
I bought a bottle of Old Growler instead. According to the label, it’s robust, superior and dark; and to illustrate the fact, the label also sports a pen and ink drawing of a crumpled old bulldog wearing a bowler hat. I’ll be sampling that at about 7.15pm EST. Or even 7.15 PM EST, if you prefer.
And talking of crumpled old things, I saw an example of exactly what I don’t want to become. He couldn’t have been that much older than me, and was sitting in the Costa Coffee franchise in the supermarket, munching on an egg mayonnaise sandwich. And he had flecks of egg on his bottom lip…
Now, there isn’t much you can do about the lines, folds, wrinkles, receding hairline, aching joints, fading muscles, inflexible tendons, and so on. But at least you can lick the egg off your bottom lip and put it inside your mouth where it belongs, can’t you?