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....
Sunday, 27 July 2008
Friday, 27 June 2008
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.
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.
Saturday, 31 May 2008
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.
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.
Tuesday, 27 May 2008
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).
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).
Sunday, 18 May 2008
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.
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.
Wednesday, 30 April 2008
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.
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.
Friday, 11 April 2008
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.
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