Last night I had a little party. The wine we drank was “Cape-style wine - Red”.

The carton box that housed this liquid is now a husk. We used it to give our bonfire it’s last push.

Cape Style Wine - Red …

First, I’d like to take a moment to appreciate and comment on its container. A cardboard box lined with a sort of aluminium inner. According to science, aluminium keeps things fresh and it sure did folks, well for the night. I sit here now with a miserably not-fresh headache.

A quick PSA, all the following events took place under low-lit conditions — I didn’t do the ‘wine styled as wine’ much justice as I used an IKEA handle-less mug, which was quite narrow, so the ethanol didn’t have much space to release any much needed aromas.

Additionally, my sinuses were fairly clogged up by our fire smoke. We were huddle closely in desperation to stay warm.

Alas, I swirled the wine, gave it look, gave a sniff and I sipped.

Her colour was a deep deep deep prune. I won’t comment here much as I might tell a lie. But what is the truth without a lie … It was dark.

On the nose, she doesn’t really say much. While I did struggle to get to know her “nasally” I imagined her to be tightly clothed, lip-lined and to smell of a one-note musky perfume.

Shirley, I think her name’s, Shirley.

She also dances a bit stiff. There was no sensual swirl around the palate either. Her moves were a little quirky, and she delivers a mean fist pump. My heads not happy with me this morning.

Shirley knew that she was no dirty dancer either. Her palate was flat and tone-deaf. I picture her face to be quite accustomed to this truth too.

These are the only moments I fully remember my time with Shirley. The rest is quite a blur. A small fling with a big bonfire. Quite memorable.