Dear Diary,
Like some sort of academic pregnancy, I will subject the next 9 months of my life to some form of patient growing of what is hopefully my knowledge of wine. And I will subsequently hope that, somewhere, my diploma will be birthed out of a printer in the UK by some person whose accent sounds equally as charming as it is foreign – yet familiar, like fusion cuisine or a fucked up awesome bottle of sparkling Jura.
I can feel it already – I won’t have time to write to you about people for whom my heart beats, and instead I’ll be on my knees begging the Gods to reveal to me why I can’t tell the difference between a Grecian Xinomavro and a Piedmontese Nebbiolo.… read more