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The Price Is Wrong

Many’s the time I’ve been enjoined, like the sullen and notched scrivener like that I am, to pick up my goose quill and etch - with quivering hand - my picaresque adventures in the wine trade. It would be a tale and a half told by an idiot full of the sound of carousing and the fury of eating. Never was a business so evidently bathed in such comity surely, in ostentatious revelry – here were funds of jolly anecdotes and much as I would like to recount “Five Go Mad In Madiran” (I will, I will) I have to admit that business is business and that the prosaic financial scrunch gnaws many dreary hours of my day as I seem to be forever entangled in number-juggling shenanigans with beady-eyed bean-counters.

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