Note to Santa

Dear Santa

Next year, please deliver fewer self-assembly items.

With heartfelt thanks,

Yours sincerely,

Mr R

Camogie Mom

The summer holidays are well and truly over. Almost before they began. The weather resolutely refused to cooperate and it only now as October approaches that the rain has stayed away for long enough to allow the kids a bit of time in the garden after school. That's if they can fit in any time in the garden with all the activities that are scheduled around them.

Ballet - 'well she loves it so I'll put up with the astronomical fees, lack of parking on a busy road and associated stress levels just so that she can prance around in a leotard once a week.'

Swimming - 'it's a necessary life skill so I'm not going to suffer the ignominy of being the only mother whose child is still in armbands at the age of 5.' Overheated pool, regular ear infections and having to compete with the other mothers in the fashion stakes are a small price to pay for the privilege of watching the little darlings wait their turn to be yelled at as they struggle up and down an overcrowded swimming lane.

Arts and Crafts - 'an after school activity that gives me an extra hour to wash, iron, cook etc.' Impossible to resist.

Ball skills - 'he may be young but he's very gifted, my husband has already hinted that I should prepare my speech - it's traditional for the mother of the captain of the winning Senior Cup team apparently....'

It is as she unloads the boot of her estate car (while the children settle themselves in front of yet another useless TV programme and demand to know what's for supper) that Wine Goose loses concentration and slips into a dream. It goes like this.

She receives a call from Mary McAleese, up there in Áras an Uachtaráin. 'We've decided the country needs a Vice President.' 'Em, Mary, where did you get my number?' 'From the phone book'. 'Okay, but why me?' 'Well, you're a woman, and you fit the required age and address profile so we thought you might be interested. And you're on the local schools Parents Association so you have some experience of politics.' Wine Goose is flattered. She briefly thinks about calling Mr R with her exciting news, but after a few moments careful consideration decides against taking up the offer. There are lots of reasons for this - lack of real political knowledge and fear of exposing herself and her family to intense media scrutiny coming top of the list. And to date, her experience with the Parents Association has been one of enormous frustration, not least from having to put up with the slow pace at which decisions are made.

On the other side of the Atlantic Sarah Palin has no such reservations and enters the fray with such gusto that Wine Goose is left stunned. How on the earth does the lady manage to juggle? Who is feeding her baby? Who is raising her family? Who is she? Where did she come from? Are Hillary Clinton voters really going to switch their vote, when they have no common ideologies? Is it really a possibility that somebody plucked from relative obscurity could potentially become the first female President of the United States? Wine Goose wonders if perhaps she has been a little too hasty in her own decision.

According to Decanter magazine, Palin Syrah, a small organic wine from Chile, has found itself embroiled in the turmoil surrounding the Republican campaign in the US presidential race. The wine, linked, for obvious reasons, with the Republican vice-presidential candidate, has drawn media attention in the U.S. News organisations in the country are tracking sales of the brand and connecting the label's fortunes to the popularity of Palin's right-wing politics. Chris Tavelli, a partner in San Francisco's Yield Wine Bar started serving Palin Syrah before Republican presidential candidate John McCain asked Palin to be his running-mate. Following Palin's nomination, sales of the wine plummeted in liberal San Francisco. But Tavelli is reluctant to take it off his wine list. 'It's good, organic and affordable,' he said.

Camogie is a Celtic team sport, the women's variant of hurling. Palin wines are not currently available in Ireland.

Study Leave

Wine Goose is officially a student. Add that to my other titles and suddenly "I'm a housewife, I'm a mother, I'm a student." Back in the last century, before we were all 'worth it' Jerry Hall made a fortune from a similar pronunciation. Except that her case the line ran "I'm a housewife, I'm a mother, I'm a model" Lucrative, but surely not as challenging as attempting to achieve the WSET Level 3 Advanced Certificate in Wines and Spirits.

According to the Wine & Spirit Education Trust (WSET), the qualification objective is to provide a core knowledge of the wide range of wines and spirits around the world to equip those in a supervisory capacity with the authority and confidence to make informed decisions in a wide variety of trade situations. It is intended for people employed in the drinks and hospitality industries needing core information to advise with authority and make informed selections of wines and spirits; and also wine connoisseurs who wish to learn about wines and spirits in a rigorous and structured manner and gain an internationally recognised wine and spirit qualification.

Wine Goose considers that because of her part-time work in a Wine Shop she will have a considerable advantage over her fellow students and strolls confidently into the musty hotel conference room for the first lecture. Tonight's topic is broadly titled 'Winemaking', and deals with grape varieties, climate and weather, soils and topography, viticulture, vinification, maturation and bottling. She arrives early - there is more to an evening class to just studying and Wine Goose is keen to suss out her fellow students from an advantageous position at the back of the class. Predictably they are a mix of male and female, young and old, big and small; drawn from all walks of life and all keen to further their knowledge or keep their brains operational until time takes its inevitable toll and the process of forgetting everything ever learnt begins to take place. Wine Goose has a foot in both camps.

Very soon it becomes clear that this is not going to be easy. Various methods of training and pruning vines are presented, along with reasons for and against using them in particular wine regions, all of which we are expected to remember. Well I might have some chance if the presentation wasn't immediately followed by complicated diagrams of the fermentation process. My brain, by which I mean the small part that didn't turn to mush immediately following the birth of my first child, is filled to bursting point but there's more to come - vineyard pests and diseases. Carry this lecture on for an hour longer and the course can change its name to 'Cures for Insomnia'. Wine Goose glances around her in desperation - but all eyes are fully focused on the lecturer and what he has to say. Panic sets in, and Wine Goose considers fleeing. Surely at this early stage she can escape unnoticed. But then a reprieve - it's tasting time. Each student places 6 ISO tasting glasses on his or her desk and is served a small amount of 6 mystery wines. The exam itself will consist of 3 units - a multiple choice paper of 50 questions, a question paper requiring short written answers and (terrifyingly) an internally set and assessed blind tasting of one wine. We will be required to judge its appearance, aroma and flavour characteristics, then attempt to name it from a list of 4 possibles, as well as give it a retail price.

Help. I suddenly consider that perhaps I have been too ambitious and should really stick to flower arranging or French conversation classes. One hour, and lots of swirling and spitting later, Wine Goose concludes that she is actually quite good at picking up aroma and flavour characteristics, but needs to work on assessing tannin and acidity levels. It's a starting point, and she resolves to work on these weak points during the coming week. The lecturer sends everybody home with a clear message that they should read and absorb the chapter on French wine regions and wine laws by the following week. My heart sinks with the realisation that I am really up against it - my initial advantage has been completely wiped out. It is the summer holidays and Wine Goose devotes 12-14 hours of each day to pandering to the children's requirements. This does not leave much time for reading, much less retaining, any information.

But Wine Goose does not give up easily and continues to attend the lectures each week, hoping to absorb the necessary information to pass the exam (ambitions of achieving a Distinction have now been abandoned). And no more blogs until that exam is over. For a delicious summer dessert requiring minimum preparation simply pour some Pedro Ximinez sherry over a bowl of HB vanilla ice cream. Made entirely from Pedro Ximenez grapes that have been allowed to dry for two weeks in the sun after the harvest, this sherry is deep golden brown color, rich, sweet, and full bodied. It has an aroma of caramel and roasted nuts with a buttery, creamy richness on the palate and a luxuriously long finish. Good value at €12.50 for a half bottle (37.5 l), 17% alcohol.

Venetian Holiday

Wine Goose awakes early, tiptoes out of her bedroom to the adjacent kitchen, peers out the window before satisfying herself that it is safe to emerge, and then hauls open the double doors to the balcony. A weak Adriatic sun greets her efforts and she sets about arranging the terrace table so that Mr R and the children will enjoy a sun shaded breakfast. First mission completed she now quietly collects her wallet, dons her Fit Flops, then descends the stairs before making the short journey to the local supermarket.

En route she is joined by an international mixture of fellow holiday makers - Germans, Dutch, Austrian, Swiss, English, Irish, Italian - work hard all year and you too shall be rewarded with your fortnight in the sun. The enthusiasm is catching. On arrival at the local shop Wine Goose works hard at hiding her astonishment at the prices. Despite loading her basket with luxury items her breakfast bill does not exceed €10.00 and she returns to her family with renewed vigour.

After breakfast a replete and clearly relaxed Mr R suggests a visit to the local beach. The offer is greeted with delight by the kids and Wine Goose swings into action, getting them into their swimsuits and applying sunscreen. Can't the manufacturers do a little more ground research before they launch this stuff on the public? A fortnight of twice daily applications is enough to drive a normally sane housewife to a home holiday. Bad enough that the children will not stand still, the stuff refuses to come out of the bottle unless in a massive gloop, and then adheres not only to the children but also to both sides of the mothers hand, with no possibility of removal until they are completely covered. Add the insufferable heat and it almost becomes unbearable. But it has to be done - to appear with sunburnt kids nowadays is akin to admitting to following Kabullah. Offering up a silent prayer for the days when they eventually take off to Ibiza with their classmates, Wine Goose hooshes the children out the door in the direction of the beach. Only when they are out of sight does she interrupt Mr R's persistent novel reading and send him sprinting in their wake.

Following a frantic session of washing-up dishes and sorting clothes Wine Goose joins the family on the gently shelving pleasantly warmed Adriatic shores. 'Where were you mummy?' asks our son. 'Oh, just back at the house applying suntan lotion' I reply. That afternoon, after yet another sleepless siesta and following a hectic session of child-watching at the swimming pool Wine Goose decides it's time for her to take a break from catering, and calls Mr R's bluff. She suggests that he comes good on his threat of cooking one of his signature dishes - Spaghetti alla Bolognese, something that he has heretofore claimed can only be achieved in the land of it's origin, with the requisite ingredients to hand. The entire family is happy to march him to the supermarket. The children are admirable in their ability to sniff out the finest peppers, mushrooms, carrots, aubergines and onions. A new take on the classic dish - Jamie Oliver watch out.

Whilst they are seemingly occupied with shopping Wine Goose takes a few minutes to wander the wine aisle. She is not expecting miracles, hoping only for a reasonably priced bottle of Chianti Classico or maybe even a Bardolino. Initially it seems like she might be correct in her prediction. The supermarket is clearly catering to the holiday market - Muller-Thurgau abounds. This is a spectacularly underperforming variety, offering wines of neutral flavours, but its a name that's familiar to the German market, and Wine Goose notices more than a few large bottles being removed from the shelves. Then there's Lambrusco. Keep walking; dolce (sweet) and amabile (semi-sweet) versions are enough to send the seasoned wine lover running for cover. But then she spots it. Hidden at the back of a shelf lurks a bottle of Lambrusco Secco - Wine Goose pounces - there is no more perfect accompaniment to Italian tomato based dishes. A lightly sparkling red wine, it has lots of fruit and just the correct amount of acidity to balance a superlative Bolognaise dish. Can Mr R deliver a meal that matches up to the wine? Readers, watch this space....

Bouncy Castle

To celebrate the occasion of our son's 4th birthday, we have agreed to his request for a Bouncy Castle. Said castle is booked (Spiderman), invitations issued and themed tableware ordered. Acceptances pour in and Wine Goose spends her 'free' mornings trawling supermarkets and €2 shops for innovative tat and cut-price sweets to fill the obligatory party bags.

On the eve of big day, the castle arrives and is sneaked into the garden as the children listen to bedtime stories. Wine Goose gets a quick demonstration and list of instructions from the supplier, then off he goes to enjoy his weekend, mentioning as he leaves that he can't collect it until the following Tuesday. We have four full days of bouncing ahead of us. Wine Goose is delighted by the prospect and envisages inviting all the neighbouring children around for a bounce in the days after the party.

Mr R sinks heavily down into his armchair, puts his head in his hands and asks if Wine Goose has checked if the supplier is insured. If anything was further from her mind Wine Goose can not at this moment think of it. Mr R reacts to this news by burying his head deeper in his hands and sighing deeply. He then goes on to suggest a litany of possible accidents that might happen, starting with minor bumps and bruises then working all the way up to spinal injuries and worse. Wine Goose reacts by opening a bottle of Valpolicella Classico, a light, fruity quaffing wine. She suspects that with the direction the conversation is taking she has quite some quaffing in front of her. There isn't really much she can say, but as she lurches off to bed she suggests to Mr R that perhaps the afternoon will pass without incident and the young guests will go home with happy memories of the party. He nods grimly. Wine Goose then spends the next 8 hours tossing and turning, scenes worse than those suggested by Mr R play themselves out in her head in the early hours, so that she is utterly exhausted by dawn. Mr R sleeps soundly, and awakes refreshed.

The unsuspecting children arrive down for breakfast to find a vast plastic carpet has taken over the garden; they have absolutely no idea what it can be and are thrilled when Mr R plugs it in. The bouncing begins, closely monitored by Mr R of course. Wine Goose is busy preparing the house so does not have time to dwell on potential disasters. The guests begin to arrive and launch themselves at the inflatable structure. No chance of limiting them to the recommended maximum of six at a time. One mother remarks on our bravery 'after what happened in England' as she sails out the door. Wine Goose offers up a silent prayer that Mr R is well out of earshot and wishes her an enjoyable afternoon. Mercifully the party not only passes without incident, but is a huge success, and weeks later is still being talked about by our son and his peers.

Package Holiday - end

"Ladies and gentlemen, we have now commenced our descent and in 10 minutes will be landing at Seville airport" announces Flight Attendant Anita. It is her first day on the tannoy and already she has irritated most of the passengers beyond belief with her annoying accent, poor pronunciation and erroneous announcements. She then goes blabbering on about fastening seat belts, extinguishing cigarettes (?) and putting seat backs in the upright position. But nobody is listening, Anita lost our attention the moment she uttered the word Seville. We all thought we were going directly to Dublin, so now there is intense speculation among the passengers as to the reasons for this sudden change of plan.

Wine Goose first checks that there are no flames licking the exterior of the aircraft. She then reassures herself that the back of the airplane has not become separated from the front. (No, she does not watch Lost, she does not have time. She has however seen the teasers many times and is familiar with the way the aircraft splits into two parts). Satisfied that whatever the problem is, it seems that we may well make it to Seville before disaster strikes; she turns to discuss the situation with Mr R, and those in the surrounding seats. What is about these type of announcements that prompt passengers to start talking disaster? The conversations start with "last year I was on a flight that overshot the runway," or "a friend of mine was on a flight from the Canaries that had to make an emergency landing in Spain a few weeks ago."

Wine Goose is not particularly superstitious, but she would prefer to withhold discussing such stories until she has been safely delivered into the terminal building. Now, she decides, thousands of feet above terra firma, is probably a better time to reflect on the falling value of her family home in the suburbs, or some such rubbish. And so she relaxes back into her seat, sort of, given that she has a young child on each side and is on an aircraft. "Mummy I need to go to the toilet" whispers our son. "That's fine, darling, as soon as we touch down in Seville we'll get you in there, only 2 minutes to go". Cue Anita: "Ladies and yentlemen (sp), during our refuelling stop in Seville, the toilets will be closED". We touch down; Wine Goose takes her son firmly by the hand and presents him to the first available flight attendant. "This little boy needs to go to the toilet. The toilets are closED" is the predictable response. So just how should Wine Goose respond "Well that's fine, he's 3 years old and will wait for another 2 hours while you useless fuel miscalculators refill the plane". The hell. Wine Goose suggests to her son that he find a suitable corner for his wee-wee. The toilets are magically reopened. For the next 2 hours, on the boiling hot tarmac of Seville airport, child after child files past to go to the toilet. Score 1 Wine Goose.

Then, hours later than planned, we arrive back at Dublin airport. Exhausted. Rather than battle with the fallout of the Sunday game at Croke Park Mr R decides to splash out on a taxi home. All the sooner to deal with the empty fridge, mountains of laundry, overgrown garden, piles of post....Vive les vacances. What else can Wine Goose do but pour herself a glass of deliciously fresh and fruity Torres Vina Sol, horribly sobering at €10.00 a bottle.

Package Holiday - middle

It's Groundhog Day. Wine Goose is awoken early by the energetic kids, keen to get a head start on building sandcastles. She urges them to keep quiet for another couple of hours - Mr R works hard for the money and needs his sleep. When the limited supply of toys permitted by the airline luggage allowance can entertain them no longer she wanders into the kitchen and rustles up a breakfast comparable to what they would be served at home. Bear in mind that in the comfort of suburbia she only has to make a very short journey from car boot to kitchen with the groceries, whereas here on the island numerous flights of stairs and sharp turns must be negotiated. Complete with a five litre container of water of course. The children predictably eat nothing, and in common with the home experience, Wine Goose drains the milk out of the cereal and scrapes it into the bin.

Her next task is getting them into UVF resistant swimwear. This is followed by face washing, teeth-brushing, and try as she might to put off the inevitable - sunscreen application. Can the manufacturers work on making it a little less sticky please? Better still, why can't they come up with a tablet so that all the child has to do is swallow a pleasant tasting pill before hitting the beach? It might seem a long shot, but given his ability to disappear at the crucial moment, it'll happen before Mr R ever gets his hands sticky. This process takes forever, so that as we arrive on the beach we are already entering the zone of deadly midday rays, so terrifying documented by our rep on the coach transfer. Wine Goose then spends her time closely monitoring the children. They have made lots of new friends and are busy playing imaginary games and creating fantastic sand structures complete with moats and drawbridges.

Mr R emerges from the apartment, clean-shaven and in yet another pristine set of holiday clothes. He settles himself onto a chaise-longue, angling the umbrella so that his face will be saved from the age-inducing rays. Carefully checking that his exposed lower body is sufficiently protected from sunburn, yet still likely to garner a golden glow, he opens up his third novel of the holiday. Wine Goose, meanwhile, has not make any progress with the dreadful chick-lit thing that set her back an arm and a leg at Dublin airport. Mr R is completely absorbed, but will from time to time acknowledge the existence of the children, perhaps helping them to retrieve a lost spade, or chuckling endearingly at one of their jokes. Wine Goose is not forgotten either - he occasionally points out how much she will enjoy the novel he is currently reading, conveniently forgetting that unless she cuts back to less than five hours sleep per night she will never improve on the current rate of one book per month.

As the week passes decisions become increasingly difficult for Mr R to make, so that instead of pushing him to choose between lunch at the pool bar and lunch at the apartment, Wine Goose organises a full day excursion to a local Water Park. The entrance fee is a prohibitive €77.00. What do we get for our money? Peeling paint, lopsided tiles and sleepy lifeguards. More terrifyingly, structures that look as if they are locked in a time warp. Helter skelters that claim to carry a dozen full grown men at any one time rest on a few rickety poles, the centrifugal force of the test ride selected by Mr R almost ejects him over the side, and the child friendly super slide entraps our daughter by her armband for a few terrifying seconds before Mr R manages to rescue her. Wine Goose fully expects Esther Rantzen and the entire "That's Life!" TV crew to come out of retirement and pop up beside her for a tragedy-filled half hour show on the dangers of ignoring EU health and safety regulations.

More and more families arrive, and by lunchtime Mr R is starting to feel naked without his tattoos. The children are lured from the pool by the promise of an ice-cream. Mr R then decides he has had enough, and so we leave the Water Park to return to the familiarity of the apartment. Mr R once more takes up his novel; Wine Goose once more looks after de-sunscreening and washing the children. Her task complete she dresses them in clean clothes, prepares a nutritious supper, before they all tiptoe past a clearly exhausted and by now asleep Mr R. It's time for the mini disco, and another attempt at keeping up with the Macarena. Vive les vacances. It must surely be time for a glass of deliciously fresh and fruity Torres Vina Sol (€5.00).

Package Holiday - beginning

Now that we've tried and tested both the Irish holiday and the independent option, Mr R has proclaimed that it is time to subject the family to a package holiday. The Irish holiday has henceforth been ruled out as being too expensive and too wet. Our experience to date has been one of imagining spectacular scenery through a fogged up windscreen with wipers hurtling furiously back and forth. 'Are we there yet?' begins before we escape the confines of our suburb, and were it not for the in-car DVD player the children would probably find themselves being hurtled out the window before we even reach the M50. Damage would of course be minimal as traffic on this particular 'artery' rarely reaches a crawl. Wine Goose is also happy to close this chapter. A particularly vivid memory of trying to scoop an uninspiring seafood chowder from lap to mouth squashed in a corner of a mediocre pub in the west of Ireland while all around her children devour yet another plate of nuggets and chips, not to mention having to open sachets of ketchup at a rate of knots, is enough to send her onto the next Ryanair flight out of the country, whatever the destination might be.

Coincidentally, the independent option did involve a Ryanair flight. Oh the joys of island life. We negotiate the mind-numbing queues for check-in and security; arrive at the gate warmed-up and limber, confident that we will make it onto the flight in time to secure four seats in a row. Luck plays a small part and we find ourselves on the tarmac with a slight advantage. We throw ourselves at the small dot of an aeroplane with the same fervour shown by those trying to scale the Berlin Wall. It's all going well and we arrive at the steps ahead of the posse. Then disaster strikes. Because we have not discussed who will be responsible for folding the buggy, and who will be responsible for loading the children onto the aircraft, we lose vital seconds. We can only look on in horror as passengers stream past us to grab the plumb seats. Even the shortest flight can be hell when a family is scattered.

So this time we take the easy option, push a few buttons on the computer, and before we know we are once again heading for Dublin airport, this time at the ungodly hour of 4.00 am. The streets are deserted but as we approach the airport roundabout it seems that end of the world is nigh. Endless queues necessitate bribing the children to behave; and by the time we reach our departure gate Wine Goose has already spend half her holiday money on sweet treats, bottled water and holiday reading material. The flight itself is uneventful and four hours later we arrive on the sunny island of Lanzarote. We are greeted by a rep with a strong north of England accent and a face that reflects many years of sun exposure, combined with regularly getting up in the middle of the night to stand in unventilated airports. Wine Goose immediately creates an imaginary history for her - escaped the monotony of an office job in an industrial town 20 years ago, met and married island boy, now freelances and has a wardrobe filled with brightly coloured blazers embroidered with the logos of all the tour operators in Lanzarote. Sometimes wonders how her life would have turned out if she'd returned home after her first season in the sun. The transfer to our apartment is mercifully short, as Wine Goose can only listen to so much advice on which hours to stay out of the sun, Spanish tummy and where to buy electrical products (ever hear of the Internet lady?).

The apartment isn't quite ready and so we spend the next couple of hours in the resort sticking out like sore thumbs - bedraggled, bad-tempered and overdressed. And that's just the children. Starting from this low base, the holiday is surely guaranteed to have some restorative effects. Wine Goose decides now is the time to start enjoying herself. She takes a seat at a shady table in the Poolside Bar, places an order for 2 portions of that international delicacy nuggets and chips, then pours her first glass of deliciously fresh and fruity Torres Vina Sol ($10.00 is in Ireland, half the price in another remote island off Spain). After the briefest of inspections of the label, Mr R too pours himself a glass. Vive les vacances or whatever the islanders say. Olé Olé.

George Li

Okay, so here's where we're at. It's the 21st century in Dublin, Ireland. We are part of the generation that have put in the years at university to become the most educated workforce in Europe. We then go on to build up our careers, taking a few weeks off to get married before returning to the treadmill, when suddenly the arrival of babies halts us in our tracks.

We bask in the glory of Ireland's economic success by forking out more money than is sensible on a house. Some of choose to juggle (awful word, sounds like the children are being tossed around in the air as the mother rushes for a bus), while others, Wine Goose amongst their numbers give into exhaustion and opt to stay home. Either way it's a long day. The nappy changers regularly fantasise about their days in the world of corporate banking, complete with lunch break, and vice verse.

Whatever our choice, it is surely inevitable that at the end of another tiring day we all slump on the couch praying that the little darlings will keep their eyes and mouths tightly shut for 10 hours. And how does the national broadcaster reward us? After catching the last few minutes of Fair City (more than enough to keep up to date with the storyline I assure you), the gap before the 9 o'Clock News is filled with such rubbish that one wonders if RTE exists in a bubble. If it's Monday night it's got to be 'Life Without Me'. Intriguing title. Something to do with bereavement perhaps. But no, in this misjudged attempt at entertainment, a person is 'removed' from their family for a week, and we the viewer gets to see to how everybody else in their lives copes. Surely fascinating for the immediate family and a few neighbours in the village that time forgot, but hardly compulsive viewing for the most sophisticated workforce in Europe. 'Househunters in the Sun Revisited' - it must be Tuesday. Missed it the first time around, thankfully. Don't intend to revisit. And on it goes, insult added to injury - Diarmuid's Pony Kids (well Dermo did well in the Chelsea Flower Show, he's bound to succeed on de telly). No lessons learned from Anna Nolan then were there?

Nine o'clock, blessed relief. Our News. The interchangeable blond (sometimes a fringe, sometimes not) recounts the days events with a carefully modulated grown-up DART accent, expressing the same level of interest in a major nuclear disaster as in a midlands turf cutting competition.

But watch carefully, she does break into a small smile as she introduces the devilishly handsome Economics Correspondent, George. A major beneficiary of the country's success he encapsulates all that we are (square jaw, square glasses, expensive suit, flash car probably). He started off with a small slot on part 2, but right now he's competing with the Health Correspondent for top billing. This is no surprise to regular news watchers, Wine Goose included,who will surely have noted the man's ambition and how much more he seems to be enjoying the job nowadays. The transition started slowly - perhaps interjecting a curve once a week - a small factory in an obscure location closing down or a leader in a far off land making a decision that had a potentially disastrous impact for Ireland. Gradually he has grown in confidence and his screen time has increased exponentially as he brings us even more devastating economic news - spiralling interest rates, more closedowns, GDP and GNP (whatever they are) revised downwards. His excitement grows. He is on a roll. Property is no longer where it's at. Every report is prefaced with 'devastating' or 'has disastrous consequences'. The further the country sinks into economic doldrums the more excited he becomes. George Li is clearly a communist.

Can't afford to buy that sublime bottle of Ata Rangi Crimson Pinot Noir (€27.00). Don't blame Bertie, blame RTE.

Where's the wine?

It is Friday evening. It's the end of another long week. Wine Goose is worn out and has rustled up a curry from a previously untried recipe, tonight using a selection of worn out vegetables - tired onions, rubbery mushrooms and bouncy carrots (all easily found at the bottom of most fridges on any given day) livened up with a healthy can of chick peas. Difficult though it is to go wrong with vegetarian dishes, perhaps Wine Goose was on this occasion a little heavy-handed with the spices. In an attempt to detract from the limited success of the meal, she runs her hand over the wine rack and selects a bottle of Clos du Val Zinfandel (€20.00) to accompany the meal, reflecting only momentarily on her increasingly expensive taste in wine.

Mr R is impressed. Tony Soprano drinks it with veal marsala, Sean Penn's 21 Grams character spends at least 5 minutes of valuable screen time with his hand wrapped around a bottle. It has also reared its neck in episodes of Desperate Housewives and Curb Your Enthusiasm. More importantly, at €20.00 a bottle, it actually has a lot more wine per bottle than your average €10.00 purchase.

Splash 1. That's €5.52 spent on tax, exise, duty and VAT. Splash 2. €8.00 forked out on packaging, distribution etc. And splash 3 leaves us with just €6.48 worth of wine.

Compare it lets say with a bottle around the €10.00 mark - Cono Sur Pinot Noir perhaps. Splash 1 takes up €3.78 on tax, exise, duty and VAT. Splash 2 consumes €4.00 on packaging, distribution etc. And splash 3, a meagre €2.22 worth of wine.

If the same process were repeated in Germany, Italy, Spain or Greece the price would instantly drop by the cost of the tax, as the excise rates on wine in these countries are, at nil, the lowest in Europe. Depressingly, Irish excise duties on both still and sparkling wine are the highest in the EU, and 6 times the EU average. All these facts and more are available on the very informative Wine Development Board website http://www.wineboard.ie/.

So when our local wine shop or supermarket presents us with special offers, how are they managing to cut costs? Wine Goose doesn't know, but welcomes suggestions. As a rule, if it's half price and you've never seen it on the shelves at full price, steer well clear. And of course if it's regular stock at a discount, snap it up.

Spa Break

It is impossible to stay in any hotel in Ireland nowadays without feeling compelled to escape the stresses of modern life by spending a couple of hours revitalising and rejuvenating in the luxury Spa. "Your health and wellbeing journey awaits you.... From the moment you walk through the doors your journey to tranquility and relaxing begins, feel the stress of life leaving your body, as you slowly inhale the delicate scent of natural oils... Embark on a delicious journey of self-discovery..." How can Wine Goose possibly resist all that the promotional literature offers?

Recent experience has suggested that these are all very similar havens - dark caves with lots of scented candles, twinkling lights in the ceiling, the sound of dolphins groaning or the dreaded pan-pipes playing in the background and smiling therapists all contrive to soothe us into a feeling of relaxation and well-being. An hour or two in this atmosphere and Wine Goose should positively float back up to the bedroom.

The occasion is a long overdue night away with the 'girls' (an awful Americanism that permits us to think that we are much younger than we actually are). We arrive at the hotel on the Saturday afternoon, and as soon as our blood pressure has returned to normal after discovering that our reservations have been mixed up, we make our way to the Spa in robes and slippers, with hair scraped back and faces cleansed of make-up. It is of course inevitable that, looking like this, one of us bumps into an old flame in full conference attire - suit, tie and over-sized name badge legible from 50 paces. The embarrassment is acute; we all blush and behave like 16 year olds, before vowing to make it a ladies only venue the next time. At the current rate that's another 10 years away and all the old flames will probably have retired by then so our fears are surely groundless.

Wine Goose has booked a deluxe facial and eye lift lasting 90 minutes. This facial treatment "concentrates on reviving the skins natural moisture and pays particular attention to the delicate eye area, helping to minimise the appearance of fine lines." The therapist will be spending more time on my skincare in one afternoon than I've spend in the last 5 years, so I'm expecting to emerge transformed. Her name is unpronounceable, she is young and unlined, and she talks me soothingly through each stage of the process. I am then guided to the Relaxation Room - more twinkling lights and scented candles - where I am instructed to drink lots of water. I fill a plastic glass from the water cooler, settle myself on a recliner, and promptly fall into a deep sleep. I wake up and have no idea where I am so I stumble out of the room, before trying to feel my way back down a dark corridor to the exit. Eventually I make it back to the bedroom where I find my friends in a similar state of greasy facedness.

The high point of the stay is the dinner, more importantly the conversation, gossip and red wine that we enjoy over dinner. Having chosen lamb as our main course, we allow the sommelier to suggest an Argentian Malbec to accompany it. It's a very good recommendation and matches the lamb perfectly, but when it comes to ordering a second bottle we opt for a Spanish Rioja, something we all enjoy, and on this particular night, to excess.

The next morning we are all slightly delicate. Add the dehydrating effects of too much overpriced and mediocre red wine to hotelface and Wine Goose appears to have actually accelerated the ageing process. Not only that but she has parted with her hard-earned cash for the privilege. Next time, she vows, it will be a straightforward manicure, followed by a full 60 minutes passed out in the Relaxation Room. From this she will emerge refreshed, and more importantly with something to show for her time. The polish will have dried to such an extent that no chips will appear, and should therefore be able to withstand even the most demanding glass lifting it is forced to undergo.

Paying a hotel bill is never a pleasant experience, especially when the extras make the room rate appear reasonable. Not only will I spend more wisely when it comes to treatments, I decide, I will also invest in a padiwrap, a neat little 2 bottle carrier which fits snugly into most suitcases. This will have added bonus of removing Wine Goose and her gaggle from the restaurant at a crucial point, no doubt depriving fellow diners of our lively and entertaining conversation, as we continue to enjoy a few glasses of wine in the comfort and privacy of our bedroom.

What to put in the padiwrap? The experts have yet to suggest a wine that is suitable for consumption in vast quantities long after the food has gone, and Wine Goose is not going to be the first. Choose something you know and like, and make sure that the alcohol content doesn't exceed 12.5%. You'll thank me the next morning.

Hotelface

No relation to pramface, defined as a girl who wouldn't look at all out of place at 14 years of age pushing a newborn through a council estate; hotelface is the face that Wine Goose wakes up with after spending a night in one of Ireland's newly refurbished and soul-less hotels. A glance in the mirror reveals a layer of rhinoceros hide, most likely caused by leftover builders dust settling on the skin and mixing, cement-style, with the perspiration caused by a combination of the hermetically sealed double-glazed windows and the non-functioning but very noisy air-conditioning unit.

Several applications of over-priced moisturiser do little to improve the situation. Moved to consider that perhaps the grandiosely named 'snipe' of bulk-produced Australian chardonnay (the only wine accompaniment on offer to last night's chicken stir-fry) may have been a factor, Wine Goose risks appraising her fellow diners at the breakfast buffet. All are victims of hotelface; even the men have a glassy-eyed look, as if they'd forgotten to remove their mascara before retiring for the night. And several women have compounded the problem by adding make-up, the resulting look bringing Frankenstein's monster to mind.

This being the west of Ireland the commonsense solution is a brisk walk in the lashing rain and howling wind, more effective and a lot cheaper than microdermabrasion, before undergoing the process again the next night.

SUV or not SUV

The 'if only everything in life was as reliable' car has developed a wheeze. It sounds a bit like the exhaust is falling off, except that exhausts don't fall off cars nowadays, especially cars that spend their lives gliding around the flat-surfaced familiarity of the suburbs between schools, playdates and tennis lessons. This happens soon after a two-day stay in the garage for the car equivalent of a hip replacement. Lots of new spark plugs can't prevent the inevitable so Wine Goose is faced with the prospect of trading her in for a younger model.

Wine Goose is a woman, and so she takes a practical approach to choosing a replacement vehicle. What she needs is something that holds three passengers most of the time, but sometimes has to carry five, four of whom require booster seats. This because our socialite daughter likes to bring her friends home in pairs, and younger brother cannot just yet be left in charge of the house while I get the girls home. Anyone who has transported children in recent years will know that is not physically possible to fit three booster seats across the back seat of a normal saloon car. Environmentalists and right-on types can moan all they like about the prevalence of off-road vehicles on the streets of the suburbs, but it seems that as soon as the third child arrives the saloon must go, to be replaced by a 7 seater.

Wine Goose will not consider a people carrier. These vehicles are designed for mothers of large families (nowadays defined as 3 or more children) who devote their entire lives to ferrying children. This is definitely not the message about herself that Wine Goose wants to send out to fellow road users. Mr R gently tries to steer her towards a Sports Utility Vehicle (SUV). Good idea, I respond. 'How about a Jeep Grand Cherokee?' He is momentarily stunned. He expected a vehement no. 'I was thinking more along the lines of a Volvo XC90 or BMW X5' is the response. Aha, all his research has been conducted in the car park of the self-described 'exclusive leisure club' that relieves us of a sizable portion of our disposable income each month. Strange, I always think, that exclusive should not include enough car parking spaces for members, but the upside is that Mr R has had plenty of time to check out the merchandise while circling in search of a space. 'A Jeep Grand Cherokee' he repeats slowly, indicating to Wine Goose that he has never seen or heard of such a thing. He consults his well-thumbed SIMI (Society of the Irish Motor Industry) handbook, which gives the prices for all new cars, and nods sagely. It is clearly a ridiculous proposition, not least because it is all of 3 feet longer than our front driveway and would permanently obstruct the footpath. I remind Mr R that when first we met I was driving a Citroen 2CV, and probably still would be, if it were an option. My current car, while certainly not iconic, does contribute in a small way to the sense of individuality I like to think I have retained despite conforming in so many ways (3 bed semi-d, 2.2 children, husband a member of the professional classes - need I go on).

We take a break from our discussion and Wine Goose serves an open roast chicken and salad sandwich, accompanied by a glass of Rizzardi Pinot Grigio 2006 (€9.99). Pinot Grigio, with it's light, lemony characteristics is typically discounted as only suitable for summer drinking, however this single vineyard wine displays a lovely creamy nuttiness, and is full of delicious flavours of peaches and pears. A little glass of joy.

Replete, Wine Goose is inspired to question Mr R further about his choices. By now we are both fully aware of the carbon footprint (bad) and safety (also bad) issues associated with driving such monsters, so instead I focus purely on aesthetics. For example, does the purchase price include sufficient beauty salon, hairstylist, chi-chi boutique and liposuction vouchers to ensure that the driver of such a vehicle never leaves the house looking less than fantastic? Or does the car dealer politely but firmly turn away all potential drivers who don't meet the grooming and deportment criteria imposed by the manufacturer?

We are not getting very far. Belatedly I decide to find out about the regulations governing child safety in cars. Google directs me to the Road Safety Authority (RSA) website, which (in common with most 'official' websites) has lots of useful information for those who speak gobbledygook. A little more searching and the equivalent UK (also subject to EU laws) road safety website proves much more informative and user-friendly. From their FAQs I am amazed to learn the following: 'In many cars, there is not room for three child seats across the rear seat. If two occupied child seats or boosters prevent the fitting of a third, and the front seat is not available, a third child aged 3 years and over may then use just an adult belt in the rear. This may be a lap belt. It would be safer for the third child to travel in the front seat and use the correct child seat or booster but see below about air-bags. In all my school-gate conversations on the subject nobody has been able to supply any such rational or clear information. Spread the word.

I order the child car safety booklet from the RSA but it never arrives. I then book my car an appointment with the mechanic and mentally prepare myself for the humiliation every woman has to face as he explains that the problem was really very easily fixed, and then overcharges me for the privilege of fixing it. I cut the arms off a polystyrene booster cushion and fit it snugly in the middle of the back seat. I invest €12.99 in a booster cushion for the front seat. The front passenger airbag was already disconnected when I bought the car so I now find myself in the enviable position of having one of the smallest cars capable of safely transporting four children in all of suburbia. I decide against asking Mr R to gift me the car purchase price that my research has saved.

Midweek Supper

Mr R has had another of his hare-brained ideas. This time we are to host an informal midweek supper for some of his closest friends. He requests that I mark the date in my diary (Wednesday night at 8.00 pm) and proposes a simple repast of lamb casserole and a dessert of my choosing. Not that he will be involved in any aspect of the preparation or cooking of the meal of course. Time has taught Wine Goose that it is necessary to give in to some of his ridiculous schemes in order to have the power of veto over the bulk of them, therefore I don't bother to point out that most weekday evenings at 8.00 pm he is to be found either working in his office or drinking pints in a Dublin pub.

Timing is everything, and in order for the food to be at its freshest and tastiest, Wine Goose must not only forgo her weekly Bodypump class, but also do all the food shopping accompanied by our son. This results in an unfit wife filling a supermarket trolley with lots of non-nutritious but cleverly-marketed food items in order to avoid potential tantrums in front of all the other perfectly behaved suburban children and their perfectly groomed mothers. These extra items also mean that the household budget is blown and wine will have to be very carefully chosen, or substituted with cartons of sticky juice, of which we by now have plenty. Feeling more than a little resentful as she pulls out of the supermarket car park, Wine Goose makes an unscheduled stop at a local deli and splurges on a 'homemade' raspberry panna cotta, beautifully presented in a pottery dish. 'How clever of you, Wine Goose' whispers a little voice in my head, 'and while you're at it why not nip into to the wine shop next door?' And so I risk destroying the place by letting our by now sugared-up and hyperactive son loose while I peruse the merchandise. I pick out enough wine to serve at least twice as many people as we are expecting, expertly key in my credit card pin number while looking in the opposite direction, and scrunch up the receipt.

The afternoon is taken up by chopping and peeling. The children help by setting the table. Table mats are piled high with a jumble of plates, napkins and cutlery; condiments are arranged symmetrically along the length of the table; a bottle of mineral water is placed at each end. Our daughter writes out names and decides on the seating plan. She includes the herself and her brother in the party. We are segregated, with the girls sitting at one end of the table and the boys at the other. Long may that last.

We pop the casserole into the oven and head upstairs to get ready. The children are cajoled into pyjamas and dressing gowns and Wine Goose settles on last season's mummy uniform of a wrap dress and boots. Make-up is quickly applied and we head back downstairs to ready the house for the arrival of the guests. Wine Goose pours herself a glass of Louis Latour Chablis 2006 (€20.00), "the ultimate expression of what the noble Chardonnay grape is capable of on the region’s famous kimmeridgian limestone slopes. The wine is perfumed, lively, clean and steely-tasting with a crisp finish." So goes the website description, and I couldn't have put it better.

The guests arrive and accept our offer of a glass of white wine to whet their appetites. The children pass around the nibbles, with plates held at dangerous angles so that most of the contents end up on the floor. Quite endearing we all agree. We chat amicably and soon it is time to pass to the table. I manage to dish out the meal and we are seated. The children dominate the conversation and I ignore the few curious glances that pass my way - yes I am aware that it's late for them to be up but I'll put them to bed when they're tired out and more likely to fall asleep. With the lamb casserole I have chosen a Poggio Teo Chianti Classico 2003 from the Valiano Estate in Tuscany (€15.99). A beautifully structured wine I point out, full-bodied, with a pretty core of ripe fruit, fine tannins and a creamy, fruity finish. It will also match nicely with the cheeseboard, reducing Wine Goose's workload. Compliments abound, then there is the sound of a key turning in the front door. I shrug apologetically. 'Unavoidably detained in the office' explains Mr R as he takes his place at the head of the table.

Terroirisme

Mr R has taken off on one of his business trips, and in the flurry of activity prior to his departure he managed to recycle the entire mountain of newspapers that has been piling up around us for several months now. Included in this mountain was Wine Goose's stock of celebrity magazines, so that when I eventually get the children off to sleep and sit down for half an hour of 'me time', instead of looking at few glossy photos (I'm always far too tired to ever bother with reading the accompanying text, and as everybody knows it's utter rubbish) before passing out in bed, I discover that the only magazine in the house, apart from some back issues of Barbie and Bob the Builder, is a sober looking periodical entitled The Economist. It may well have been a deliberate move on his part to improve my dinner party conversation, but if he thinks I'm going to spend the few minutes that I have to myself reading about banks and oil and that sort of thing he is off his rocker. I almost decide to give myself a home pedicure, as advocated by another of my favourites, Good Housekeeping, but it's all too much effort and so I start flicking through The Economist, in the hope of coming across an actor's obituary or something similar that I can actually absorb. Then I spot an article entitled 'Unleash the war on terroir' and I am delighted to find myself on familiar territory.

Essentially the article starts by pointing out that few things annoy French winemakers more than other winemakers' irreverance towards the terroir. It then goes on to examine the topic of transgenic wine, something that sounds really scary, so those of you who want to learn more about that can click on the link above and read the entire article. Right now Wine Goose is going to focus on unravelling the mystery that is terroir. Contrary to what the article states, the expression is not restricted to the winemakers; it is a word that is freely used throughout the wine trade, from Wine Goose when selling a fine bottle of Bordeaux, to restaurant sommeliers persuading diners to opt for a decent bottle of Pouilly Fumé.

Originally a French term used not only in wine, but also in tea and coffee, terroir denoted the special characteristics that geography bestowed upon these products of the soil. Nowadays there are many definitions of terroir but by far easiest to make sense of is 'the combination of soil, climate and terrain that shapes the character of the vines that grow there'. So far so good - this goes some way to explaining why France's Sancerre and New Zealand's Cloudy Bay taste so different, although both are produced from the Sauvignon Blanc grape. So the expression terroir can therefore apply to wines produced outside France, or can it? My answer to that is yes (watch out for the forthcoming assault on Wine Goose by the French wine trade) - but not to all of them because the importance of these influences depends on the culture of a particular wine making region. This is key, and generally a terroir-driven wine will be labelled accordingly - with the region, vineyard and quality certification more dominant on the label than the grape variety or the producer.

Lots of other factors that can enhance or interfere with the terroir characteristics come into play during the winemaking process - use of yeast, use of oak, decisions about pruning, irrigation and when to harvest. For example the use of oak is a controversial element since some will advocate that its use is beneficial while others will argue it can mask the influences of the terroir. Then the question arises as to whether in this modern era of the flying winemaker and enormous investment in hitherto far outposts of the wine world, can the terroir be lost in the expensive technique?

Open a bottle of the Argentinian Norton Sauvignon Blanc. Swirl it, sniff it, taste it and you will be rewarded with a lovely crisp textbook white wine. No more, no less. Great value at €8.99. Now pour yourself a glass of Domaine Magellan Grenache-Carignan 2004. Go through the same process and the aromas from this bright, lively red will transport you to the Languedoc. As soon as you taste it's soft plummy flavours you are watching the sun set over the vineyard as you knowledgably discuss last years harvest with the wine-maker, in this case Bruno Lafon, whose family in Burgundy produces tiny quantities of four-figure Montrachet at Domaine Comtes Lafon. All that for just €13.95. This, to Wine Goose, is the essence of terroir - a wine that tastes like it came from somewhere, rather than just a marketing concept.

Ten Thousand Calories

Hot on the heels of Christmas it is Mr R's birthday. Not a significant birthday, but a reason to celebrate all the same. As we have just about reached the stage where the children no longer treat restaurants as indoor playgrounds, and will actually sit still for periods of up to 10 minutes at a time, we decide to expand their horizons beyond the Happy Meal, and so we decide to treat ourselves to Sunday lunch to a 'fancy restaurant' in a top Dublin hotel.

Contrary to what we might have expected, children are welcome in this luxurious dining room - paper and crayons are provided, there is an interesting and varied childrens menu, and the staff treat the little ones with the respect they deserve. The adults fare just as well. The surroundings are comfortable and soothing, the tables are large with lots of space between them, and the menu is certainly extensive to the waistline. Wine Goose has spend most of her adult life counting calories and each time she dines out she is struck by how blatantly these places flout the guidelines constantly being drilled into us by health experts.

Mr R orders himself a vodka and tonic, which leaves Wine Goose in no doubt that she is designated driver for the return journey. The wine list here regularly features in 'best restaurant wine list' top 10s, and with her recently learnt knowledge Wine Goose recognises that it is indeed well chosen, with a wide-ranging selection of fine wines to suit most fat wallets. Our Bank Manager would thank us for travelling by car. We settle on a half bottle of Chateau de Pez 2000, a relative bargain at €48.00. My reasoning here is that 2000 was a very good year for Bordeaux wines, and Saint-Estephe is considered a good match for the rack of lamb I have already mentally chosen as my main course.

We are to select our starters from the 'tasting station'. I have already consulted the list of what's on offer and decided on a few carefully chosen morsels, but as I undertake the journey from our table, a journey of no more than twenty seconds, the numskulls get out their little hammers and start tapping away at the food control section of my brain. These are the creatures I manage to keep under control about 90% of the time. In return they occasionally force me to eat a loaf of fresh bread or the entire contents of the treat box in a single sitting. Subliminal whispers along the lines of 'it makes no difference if you eat a lot of a little, you still can't shift the weight; surely it's okay to break out from time to time, and it would be a pity not to enjoy such lovely food', mean that I make the return journey with a plate piled high with one of everything from the large selection on offer.

Mr R's sirloin of beef, cooked rare on his instruction, looks like something you would throw to a lion to buy yourself some time, if you were to ever find yourself in such a threatening situation. I decline his offer of a taste but do try the mash, which has dominant flavours of butter and cream, with just the smallest hint of potato. My own rack of lamb, cooked medium, is delicious. The children make short work of the chicken fingers with fries - nuggets and chips by any other name.

The dessert tasting plate, which the waiter descibes as a selection of five small desserts is in fact made up of five full-sized full-fat chocolate offerings of differing shapes. Wine Goose once heard that is a sign of good manners not to polish off the entire contents of your meal, but to leave a small amount on the side of your plate. This apparently indicates that you have thoroughly enjoyed your food, and have been served an adequate sufficiency. This is exactly what I do. A piece of dark chocolate, no bigger than a grain of rice is cleared by the ever efficient wait staff.

By my calculations ten thousand calories would not be an exaggeration. To burn this off I have a number of options. I can walk briskly for 40 hours, take a 30 hour spinning class or play a singles tennis match for 20 hours. The bill arrives and provides the solution - we can't afford to eat for a week.

Back to Work - Part II

Day One. I am making the too-short journey from my home to the wine shop. Despite all attempts to keep my head clear and focus on the day ahead, my mind keeps drifting to that wonderfully quirky movie Sideways.

I am appropriately dressed and made-up. Because it would interfere with the delicate aromas wafting from the wine bottles open on the tasting counter I have reluctantly not worn any perfume and kept lipstick to a neutrally-coloured minimum. I have assuaged my 'bad mother' guilt by spending a quality morning with my somewhat bewildered children and the possibly even more bewildered Mr R.

The scene that is playing itself out in my head takes place at the first wine tasting stop of the film, the Sanford Winery. Miles is giving Jack an introductory lesson in wine tasting. At the end of the process he delivers his expert opinion of the wine (citrus, strawberry, passion fruit, asparagus and nutty edam cheese - what can it possibly be?) Clearly impressed by his friends knowledge and enthusiasm Jack declares 'you could work in a wine store'. Miles, who has a lot more on his plate than Wine Goose responds with a whispered 'yeah, that'd be a good move'. I break out in a cold sweat. Before I know it I have parked the car and doused myself in Eau Dynamisante. I take 10 deep breaths, plant my sunglasses on my head, and I march in.

The manager greets me less deferentially than in the past. As the shop has been busy earlier in the day he asks me to tidy up the shelves. I wander off and do a few laps of the floor. Then I settle down to the task of rearranging bottles and use the opportunity to familiarise myself with the wines I don't know. There are lots of them, to my personal relief and professional horror. I keep my head down and ears pricked. The average customer is a lot more knowledgeable than I had anticipated, and has a lot more buying power. I am flabbergasted by the quantities being purchased. Then it gets busy and I am assigned to the till. The last time I stood this side of the counter was as a student working a summer job in a London pub. Back then I added up the round of drinks in my head, keyed in the total, and then returned the change - also calculated in my head. All so much quicker than scanning barcodes and knowing which combination of buttons to press to allow credit card payments. Thanks to recent experiences with supermarket self-service checkouts I am not wholly disgraced - only one customer asks if this is my first day.

There is an afternoon lull and the manager suggests it would be a good time for me to take my break. Break? Yes that's correct - I have half an hour to myself. Off I go to the local coffee shop and sit down in a comfy chair. I finish a large coffee before it hits freezing point, and read the newspaper from cover to cover; two things I last achieved over five years ago. Bursting with caffeine and enthusiasm I return for the second half.

While I am clearing glasses from the tasting counter a lady approaches and asks to try the Sancerre. I look around frantically but discover that yes, she is speaking to me. Before today I had imagined that I would spend most of my time at this very counter, discussing the characteristics and qualities of each wine on offer, with customers listening respectfully before offering their own thoughts. The reality so far has been that as soon as anyone looks vaguely interested in pouring themselves a glass I scuttle off to straighten up the New World section. But right now I have no option but to smile my 'what good taste you have' smile and pour a small amount into her glass. She takes her time to check the colour, swirl the liquid, sniff it,and eventually taste it.

'What do you think?' I ask brightly. I then go on to espouse its superb qualities - 'this Sancerre offers intense green fruit flavours with predominant notes of gooseberry. On the palate it has exceptional flavour intensity... '
'It's not bad, but not as good as...' she mentions a rivals offering. 'They have a really good Sancerre'.
I mumble my protestations - surely at this price you cannot find a better balanced example from the heart of the Loire Valley - but she is not for turning. In an attempt to salvage the situation I suggest she try the exceptional Rioja we also have open, but the lady is not a red wine drinker. She leaves empty-handed. Disappointed, I return the bottle to the counter and am taken aback when I see another open bottle of Sancerre. I remove the cooler wrap from the white we were discussing and am horrified to discover that she was not in fact tasting Sancerre, but the altogether steelier Italian Gavi. As we've already learnt from Miles, wine tasting is not an exact science. And as the sceptics say, a glimpse of the label is worth fifty years experience.

The day ends and the manager sends me off with a bottle to try at home. As I'm not really sure what I'm in the mood for, he inevitably suggests a bottle of Riesling. This time it's German. Loosen Doctor L Riesling 2006. Wine experts, affectionados, call them what you will, all rave about Riesling. I'm not there yet. Yes, I enjoyed it. What I liked was the slight sweetness (I think the technical term is 'off-dry') combined with a lovely, crisp acidity. I also liked that it is low in alcohol, at just 8.5%. 'Very drinkable, and very enjoyable at the end of a hard day's work' was the verdict of the exhausted Mr R. Widely available, €11.49

Character Assassination

As visitor numbers to the Wine Goose site continue to climb, with the global audience now into double digits, Mr Q has requested that his anonymity be preserved. In a transition similar to that experienced in Dallas in 1984, when Donna Reed briefly replaced Barbara Bel Geddes as Miss Ellie, he will henceforth be known as Mr R. Let's hope he doesn't wake up and find that his life with Wine Goose has all been a dream.

And so to dreams - to dream of drinking wine forebodes joy and consequent friendships. For a young woman to dream of drinking wine indicates that she will marry a wealthy gentleman. To dream of breaking bottles of wine foretells that your love and passion will border on excess. All this and more from the Global Oneness dream interpretation website.

With St Valentines Day approaching, Wine Goose is encouraging to Mr R to surprise her with a delicious bottle of Prosecco, an Italian sparkling wine made from the grape of the same name. Do not expect the body or complexity that you will find in a chardonnay-based sparkling wine like Champagne. (How very French not to provide any translation of their official Champagne website). Instead the vat-fermented spumante is light, bubbly, fresh and gently fragrant. Brut is the driest version, while 'dry' is confusingly the sweetest, and 'extra dry' is somewhere in between. The best Prosecco comes from the hills between the towns of Valdobbiadene and Conegliano so look out for either of these names on the label, and you will be rewarded with more intense fruit flavours. Sweet dreams.

House Wine

"Any objection to the house wine?" asked our host at a recent dinner to celebrate his lovely wife's birthday. All present shook our heads and mumbled incoherently to one another about our lack of wine knowledge. And so he proceeded with the order. The staff at the restaurant in question, La Taverna di Bacco, responded by plonking 2 bottles of white and 2 bottles of red onto our long narrow table overlooking the River Liffey. A good start; few things irritate Wine Goose more than watching a wine waiter circle a large party with a bottle of each hidden behind his back. Take it from me, asking for more information about the wine on offer is generally a waste of time - at most you will be rewarded with a quick flash of the label. Further probing might be rewarded with a heavily-accented and intentionally incomprehensible mention of the country of origin and/or the grape variety.

When the wine arrived my mind drifted back some 9 or 10 years to another occasion, on which Mr Q and Wine Goose celebrated a significant birthday in a restaurant with a large group of friends. A few minutes were spent wondering what had happened to the intervening years, then I remembered the house wine. It was served in a carafe, and was surely a 'blend' of the roughest, cheapest wine available in Dublin at the time, plus the previous night's leftovers, all finished off with any returned 'corked' bottles. Be thankful for small mercies, wine 'recycling' was not really an option for Dublin restaurants - we Irish customers have never subscribed to the international practise of leaving a small amount in the bottle so that the staff can keep au courant with the wine list. And in those days our understanding of corked was lumps floating on the surface. As I recall, we polished off several carafes.

So what exactly is house wine? From honourable European beginnings, when locally made wines reflected the restaurants cuisine, they rapidly became a rip-off. House wine was the safe option for those unfamiliar with many of the wines on the leather bound 'telephone directory' handed to them by a snooty sommelier. Unscrupulous restaurateurs weren't slow to pick up on their diners desire to make their choice before dawn, and it wasn't long before quality fell and prices rose. Not only bad to drink, they became one of the biggest money-makers in town, with restaurant price per glass approaching shop price per bottle.

Discerning diners (and winers) are gradually stamping out this practice. And some restaurants never pursued it in the first place. Nowadays, a good restaurant wine buyer or consultant should pay particular attention to the house wine. The next time you're in a restaurant take a tip from Alice King and order a glass of house wine to drink while you're perusing the menu. Her theory is that it sets the tone for the list, and if it's bad, the rest of the wines are also likely to be poorly-chosen. The opposite should also hold true!

Top marks to Il Taverno di Bacco. At €23.00 a bottle their house wines tick all the right boxes. Importantly, they are well-priced, suit a wide range of the dishes, and don't overwhelm the food. From Piedmont, the Deltetto Langhe Favorita 2006, with it's delicate orange blossom flavours is a medium-bodied delight. From Puglia, the Palama Salice Salentino Alba Rossa 2005 boasts fresh, clean fruit and earth flavors.

Abstinence

Abstinence definitely makes the heart grow fonder. As part of our 'New Year New Us' (fitter, slimmer, healthier) resolution Mr Q and Wine Goose decided to give up alcohol and caffeine for January. It's easy enough to begin with. Weeknights at home are usually very tame - a simple supper followed by TV then off to bed after the 9 o'clock news. Friday comes and instead of rewarding ourselves with a glass of wine for getting through another busy week Mr Q settles for a Becks non-alcoholic Beer and Wine Goose sips a glass of Amé. It's no substitute for the real thing so we set about filling the void with mountains of cheese. When that's all gone we raid the remnants of the children's selection boxes.

Watching the soaps on TV we have a more heightened awareness of the omnipresence of alcohol. These people spend all their time in the pub. Mind you their houses are so garish I'm not surprised. Don't the creators watch any design programmes? And when they do get home, usually to resolve a massive crisis in their lives, it's all done over a bottle of wine. Some time when I run out of other things to do I must calculate how many alcohol units the characters in Fair City consume during an average week.

11 days into the project and instead of losing weight and looking fabulous, we have piled on additional pounds and look miserable. Mr Q plans a nice dinner of veal with mushrooms and garlic served with creamy mashed potato and baby vegetables. He reasons that such a fine meal deserves a fine wine, and he cracks.

Not a man to do things by halves, he produces a fine Italian Amarone della Valpolicella - La Serra 2001. Amarone is one of the world's biggest, fleshiest red wines, made from semi-dried grapes in a Verona Hills tradition that dates back to the Byzantine Period. The traditional Valpolicella grape blend (Corvinone, Molinara and Rondinella), plus up to 15% of other local or international grapes authorised for the region, is used to create a truly powerful wine, with alcohol levels ranging from 14% to 16%. La Serra is rich and savoury, boasting a gamut of flavours reminiscent of Christmas - plum pudding, raisins and almonds with just a hint of cherry. €39.99.

Christmas Drinks Party

Mr Q and I had discussed holding a drinks party in the run-up to Christmas. We carefully compiled a guest list which included a suitable mix of old friends, new friends, work colleagues and neighbours. We spent many hours debating food and wine selection. Wine Goose threw herself into the task of wine selection with gusto, reading up on the subject and regularly bringing home samples for tasting. With everything arranged and only the choice of date and issuing of invitations remaining, we ran out of time. Mr Q was required to attend several 'unmissable' work related parties, and Wine Goose found herself, on more than one occasion, sitting at a restaurant dinner table with a group of mothers. Factor in Nativity Plays, preparing for Santa, and hosting the in-laws for Christmas Dinner, and it just slid to the bottom of the pile.

Wine Goose is possibly the only mother in Ireland whose threats of 'Santa won't come if you don't stay in your bed' ran like proverbial water off her 3 year olds sons back. Hence Santa almost didn't come as the children continued to run around, and their parents dozed on the couch in exhaustion, only getting around to assembling in the early hours of the morning. A quick leap on the top of the Green Bin (think grape pressing) to hide the evidence, then into bed for a short nap, before a fantastically excited little girl came running into the bedroom trailing a stocking. 'He came, he came'.

With another Christmas Day under our (now extended) belts, we decided to go ahead with our plans and issued invitations by the thoroughly modern method of sending a text. Nobody responded so we looked forward to a large turnout and planned accordingly. The morning arrived, and our fridge was bulging with the ubiquitous smoked salmon on brown bread, fancy nibbles that just required popping in the oven, and lots of white wine to accompany the food. Red wine was opened to breathe and soft drinks were laid on for those who had the misfortune of being designated driver. Then the phone started ringing - sick children, busy parents, cars broken down. All surely genuine excuses, but the numbers were dropping. Of course at this point we regretted not including a few of those we had balloted out because of space restrictions, but we'll know for next time.

The hour arrived, and Wine Goose busied herself introducing people, pouring drinks, serving food and enjoying occasional snatches of conversations. Mr Q poured himself a large vodka and tonic and settled down to enjoy the afternoon. The children wreaked havoc. Conversation flowed. Suddenly 3 hours had passed, the house was ours once again, and we were able to take stock of the situation. There was a lot of food left over, and thanks to the generosity of our guests, we now have more wine than we started with.

As wine is generally intended to be served with food, choosing party wine is a difficult task. Up to a few years ago, Old World wines would not have been considered, but modern winemakers and wine-making techniques have resulted in more fruit-driven wines, ideally suited to serving without a meal. Putting this theory to the test we served Chanson Macon-Villages 2006, a well-balanced white Burgundy combining floral, apple and honey tones, wrapped up in a crisp finish. The New World did win out when it came to red - Torbreck Old Vines GSM (Grenache Syrah Mourvedre) 2005 from the Barossa Valley. This Australian take on the traditional Cotes du Rhone blend combines ripe fruits and spice with a juicy richness. Lacking the structure needed for food it was an ideal choice. We have plenty of both left in our cellar. €10.99 and €12.99 respectively.

And a post-script. In his Irish Times column of 22 December, wine correspondent Joe Breen suggested Felton Road Pinot Noir 2001 as an ideal accompaniment to the turkey dinner. You read it here first.