Crêpe red wine

There are days when solitude is a heady wine that intoxicates you with freedom, others when it is a bitter tonic, and still others when it is a poison that makes you beat your head against the wall.

There are strawberries outside my window. I eat them.

There’s tuna sweetcorn in the fridge. It gets eaten too.

There’s wine in the bottle. Some of it, at least, will be drunk. I idly glance at the label and notice some bizarre ingredients. Sulphites, egg, and milk. Bizarre pancake batter.

Bill pops around to select a distressed strainer. We drink coffee in Claire’s garden. Claire phones from Skye. Megan messages from Nijmegen. I speak to west coast, mid-west, and Canadian customers.

Milk and egg in wine no longer seems so strange.