“You have left the head of a donkey at the cash till!” BRITONS HAVE A TASTE FOR BIZARRE DRINKS AND PUB NAMES

As political gravitas dominates (justifiably), you might appreciate a soupcon of humour rooted in the breathtaking Priorat vineyards.

The Priorat DOQ and Montsant DO wine fair buzzed like pollinators working the nectar. Every May it blooms a little more, a hum of happy chat flowing between the crowded stalls, supplemented with food vendors and places to repose.

The only flaws were the misjudged, migraine-inducing techno beat noise pulsing from the cooperative building, and the usual plethora of badly parked cars.

With Maggie immobilised following a major foot operation there was precious little time for me to linger. I had suddenly found myself juggling decisions way above my pay grade. And you try shopping when you have lost your list and the town is swamped.

By the time I and my trolley had done the circuit of the fruit and vegetable shop, the post office, bakery and the weirdly quiet Spar I had re-found the list and was frazzled. I had forgotten significant things, as is the way when men venture alone into a store, glaze and bolt for the door.

As I hurled the shopping into the van ready to hightail it home I suddenly noticed two members of the Mossos d’Esquadra were closing in on me at speed.

“Wait,” one of them said.

I immediately mustered my Wallace and Gromit smile. (If you don’t know what one of those is you are missing some comedy gold).

“You have left the head of a donkey at the cash till!”

I had bought a bit of chicken as a treat for the dog, and felt sure I would have remembered if there was a head of a donkey. It definitely wasn’t on the list.

“We are sure it was you.”


“You should go and get it.”

“I will. Yes, of course. I will. Yes.”

They watched me lock the car and go back to the store. Sure enough, I had left the head of a donkey – a bottle of CAP DE RUC local wine. It was on the receipt but I have no memory of buying it. I am a berk. There are definitely times when the secrecy of my work prevents me from knowing what I am doing...

Get well soon my love. Then we can go back to normal with you multi-tasking, leading the foray and dispatching me hither and thither along streets and down shopping aisles to fetch and carry.

Know any good names for wines or wineries ? Britons have a taste for bizarre drinks and pub names. We used to gather at The Murderer’s in Norwich. Back then they didn’t serve the ale called Santa’s Butt. A personal pub name favourite is My Father’s Moustache in Lincolnshire.

The city of Norwich, so they say, used to have 365 pubs and 52 churches. More useless information from yours truly.

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