I was quite conscious that the next story in this potted story of me so far was ostensibly about whisky when I attended the convivial gathering after the English Carol Service in my village on Thursday evening. I cannot claim, despite a burning desire for it to be so, that I experienced the expanded state of awareness Deepak Chopra refers to when speaking about synchronicity at either of these events, but what I can tell you is that I was not in the least surprised to win quite the nicest prize in the raffle: a one-litre bottle of six-year-old Canadian Club whisky. I mean, it would be stupid to have won the box of chocolates, when I have no corresponding story on chocolate, now wouldn’t it?
Although there was a period in my life when whisky was indeed my drink of choice, I must confess that I am not in the least bit inclined to open this most recent acquisition nor can I think of anyone in my immediate vicinity who would like it. So there it sits in our food cupboard, replete with a fancy bit of yellow ribbon around its neck until the next synchronous event. There was a time, however, when whisky was useful in my life:
Whisky is a good bargaining tool.
I was 17 when my sister and I became the joint owners of a 1965 Fiat 500 “bubble” car. We had to persuade my dad to buy it.
The deal closer with my dad was the fact that the total value of the car equated to a mere 44 bottles of Scotch – not even a year’s supply in his case, back then.
It was grey, with red upholstery. The engine sat under the back seat. I made my sister’s boyfriend sit there once, and cruelly checked his reaction in the rear-view mirror as things started to warm up.
The next story speaks for itself:
In spite of indulging in a fair amount of nonsense, I have always loved studying. I love books, pens and paper, and sitting at my desk. I love the physical act of writing, and reading, and thinking and thinking.
I love daydreaming in between.
I get utterly carried away with words and the complexities of language; the intricacies involved in translating from one language to another fascinate. I love my work as a translator and using the Internet as one enormous encyclopaedia. I am thrilled and delighted that I shall never run out of things to learn.
I realise that perhaps I could be a member of a minority group because of all of this. Did I mention that I border on being a workaholic?
It is a fact that the first time I ever said the word so charmingly illustrated below was when I made a typing error. Absolutely effing incredible, but true:
THE REAL F-WORD
The first time I heard myself utter this expletive was at the age of 19.
I was the happy owner of an old portable typewriter which made writing essays at university a real pleasure.
Except on the rare occasion I made a typing error.
With computers, all that changed.
Now, I only swear when I make the same typing error in the same word three times in a row.
More errors, less swearing. Life is beautiful.
Next time, I shall treat you to another brief story involving the sloshing about of alcoholic liquid on a train and other rites of passage into young adulthood. If you cannot wait for an as yet undetermined date in the future, you can purchase the real book immediately from Amazon, if you like. To order your own copy – or 10 or more as gifts to all those relatives who are tired of socks and which will probably arrive in the post long after the Christmas pudding has been enjoyed, click on the picture below:
© 2015 Allison Wright
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