It’s a cold night, full of mischief and threat; wolves howl, foxes fox, and I sit alone in my office, fire spitting at me in a desperate attempt to gain my attention. In one hand my pen droops whilst the other grapples with a wine glass’ shaft.
I step out of the window into the night, to take a long stroll through the city streets in a taxi. Sipping my wine and rocking the cab with my jumps of joy.
Sit back. Cradle the bowl of the glass in well washed hands. Remember that relaxation is nine tenths of the law. And now sit further back. See how far you can force your spine into the withering cushion of your chair. Feel it crack. You are truly relaxed.
Hi guys. We hope you’ll play along and have fun with this wine review. However, please enjoy safely. Before reading, ask your parents to help move chairs, tables and other objects you might bump into. And please remember: don’t run, jump or dance while drinking the wine.
Taking place over 5 crucial years, “The Last Five Years” follows the individual and shared lives of Cathy and Jamie, as they grow together and grow apart.
A wine for the ages, but only those ages old enough to have amassed an hereditary fortune equal to The Bank of Scotland. I toss back my golden locks, and deep-throat the bottle. Finally some good wine.
“I tenderly nuzzle at the pale flavours. Ah, the taste of dew flopping off an overladen grass blade. You can see the hairs of each leaf magnified by the silvering balls of juice.”
Some of The Oxford Blue’s readership may have recently found themselves spending more time than usual indoors, searching the cupboards and internet for things to do. To combat the possible boredom that the next few months may be tinged with, The Blue has decided to compile a list of cultural events that can be experienced from the comfort of the outfit that you have been wearing for the past five days.
“Isolation presses the bottle back into my arms and I sip again, this time with one of those curly straws that are impossible to wash. That nostalgic bubbling starts, a polyphonic outcry of Bordeaux against blue-tinted plastic. But still the wine yields no hidden layer. No yoke.”
“Very good!” I exclaim as an ice cream van rams me into the cliff, again. I stumble up, pulling handfuls of sand from my mouth as the van revs it’s Mr. Whippy machine.