I had occasion last year to visit a medical specialist, who undertook a lifestyle audit during the course of his examination. I sailed through the bits about smoking, regular exercise, and even elicited a raised eyebrow when he saw my blood pressure and heart rate.
I thought my half-bottle per day consumption (of life expectancy-extending red wine) should earn me a pat on the back. But no, he leaned back, fixed me with a concerned gaze, and told me that this was somewhat above the average. He was not amused when I suggested to him that perhaps there was a problem with the average.
I found myself stepping slightly beyond my own average last week when sipping my way through the greater part of a bottle of The Very Sexy Shiraz. It’s a wine that’s drinking so well at the moment (let’s not even consider a direct examination of the grammar of that phrase, and write it off to industry colloquialism) that I found it difficult to replace the cork once I’d reached the allotted demi-bouteille.
I was a victim of the wine’s deliciousness, without any free choice in the matter.
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