The storm’s name is Eileen. I think. Hitting UK and the continent bigly. I have one of those massive Strandkorb chairs on one of my five balconies and I just missed being able to film the thing being toppled over as though it were a leaf in the wake of an angry woman scorned. So I left the hallow wet-noise of the upstairs and sought some refuge with Beckett the killer pug on more solid ground flooring. I turned up the hifiberry stereo with trip-hop, hip-hop, downtempo instrumental and watched the rain pound the windows of my atrium. BTW, I have no idear what trip-hop or downtempo is but I like it. I fits well with a stormy afternoon and an early scotch. Also. I guess I’m glad it’s not hailing. Big hail would certainly break a window or three of my atrium. Or? #Nomatter.
To go with storm gusts in the middle of flatland Germania I cracked open my birthday present. A bottle of fifteen year old single malt scotch. It tastes like caramel and seared chocolate and at forty-six percent it hits the nostrils hard but then a poof of forestry and shaved fresh timber hits my smell centres as I move it to throat. The high alcohol doesn’t hit the tongue as hard but smooths out a pathway touched with a silky, mighty, albeit mild aroma that may or may not have ridden the crack moon of a peat field. But then I sensed a slight flowery bouquet–which I thought couldn’t be right. The flower stuff is in my second birthday present which is a twelve year old Japanese bourbon that I can’t wait to crack. Then I realised that, perhaps, that smell was coming from my better-half’s tulips that her useless husband bought her for Valentines day. Remember those days fellow worst-writers? The days we bought the chicks flowers to help smooth out the evening. But now that you’re committed (locked), smoothing things out is a bit less demanding. Or is it? #Nomatter. Yeah. The bouquet of tulips might be influencing my scotch–but in a good way. And there’s still the hint that woman scorned could strike anew.