Go to bed, ya jakie
Apr. 6th, 2006 12:14 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
leynosBe ill on four occasions inside of twelve months, and you have to attend a health and well being meeting. This is not a disciplinary meeting, you understand. It is merely out of concern. So I explain to my line manager, and I think that an explanation is due, that the reason I am attending weekly therapy sessions is that I have been depressed since before Christmas. He is quite understanding actually. He even offers me an hour a week on medical grounds to attend the sessions. I decline of course. So all is well at work.
They are migrating the office to Windows XP. I help my line manager by migrating his desktop shortcuts and Microsoft Outlook settings. I just want to help, but I'm scared that the IT guy will think that I am getting in his way. Maybe I am. Or worse, that I am after his job.
When I get home, there is a ticket waiting for me in a Whisky Society envelope. Woodford Reserve have organized an evening of bourbon and horse racing. I don't know much about horses, save what my Dad taught me on Saturday mornings, but I love bourbon. Especially when it's free. The event is also free. I just had to wait on the ticket arriving, and here it is.
Rick's Bar serve their hot chocolate with chocolate flakes sprinkled on top. You can't really argue with that. It's the perfect compromise between the vulgarity of a Cadbury's 99 flake accompanying your mug, and the urbanity of a dusting of cocoa. I remember this as I'm dwelling on a glass of 36.31, which my personal tasting notes describe as "The Speyside of the fucking gods." But I'm not really thinking of the hot chocolate, I'm thinking of the Muay Thai that I saw being prepared, which consisted of Appleton VX, bitters and a stupidly delicate blend of tropical fruit juices.
The Woodford Reserve Derby night is fun. Not least because of the badly mixed (and free) old fashioneds. We watch a DVD of Kentucky races, upon which we bet fake money, and, at the encouragement of our host, we yell and cheer for our chosen steeds. I win big on the first race, but the money quickly evapourates. Never mind, it isn't real, and I never win anyway. We're served some delicious canapés too. By judicious choice, I'm at a table of three, being catered for six, so there is plenty to eat. Smoked salmon on rye bread with chives and fenugreek is heavenly. As is asparagus wrapped in bacon with a mint and vinegar dip.
Like the money, pretend conversation evaporates without trace. Fueled by cocktails and dictated by circumstance, it was fun while it lasted, but you don't get anywhere if there's no connection, and connection doesn't form by magic.
Back in the members room, I collect a bottling list, and return to my favourite means of oblivion. Society whiskies are identified numerically. This has the effect of making it a little fairer on the little guys. After all, a 4 isn't all that removed from a 44, is it? They do give a lot of hints though. "Northern-most distillery"? I mean, come on, we all know that that one is a Highland Park. It's all pretense, isn't it? Still, number 44.26 (Craigellachie) is bloody fantastic. The darker side of Spey fruitiness with a smoky body and a little biscuit thrown in for a good measure.
And the Highland Park? Well, where else do you get a 20 year old HP for under a fiver? I know what HP tastes like, and this thing was HP++. Like someone took the floral god of the isles and dissolved a Toffee Crisp in it.
There was some conversation in here too btw. Mainly about whisky, although we also discussed the practicalities of the Society venues and the financial realisms of attending seventy-five quid dinners. Yeah, I was rambling like a barfly. I promised the bartender that this was my last one and bade farewell to my tablemates at this point.
The Muay Thai was damned good btw. As I write this, I'm drinking low calorie hot chocolate with skimmed milk. That's either progress, denial or stupidity. Good night.
They are migrating the office to Windows XP. I help my line manager by migrating his desktop shortcuts and Microsoft Outlook settings. I just want to help, but I'm scared that the IT guy will think that I am getting in his way. Maybe I am. Or worse, that I am after his job.
When I get home, there is a ticket waiting for me in a Whisky Society envelope. Woodford Reserve have organized an evening of bourbon and horse racing. I don't know much about horses, save what my Dad taught me on Saturday mornings, but I love bourbon. Especially when it's free. The event is also free. I just had to wait on the ticket arriving, and here it is.
Rick's Bar serve their hot chocolate with chocolate flakes sprinkled on top. You can't really argue with that. It's the perfect compromise between the vulgarity of a Cadbury's 99 flake accompanying your mug, and the urbanity of a dusting of cocoa. I remember this as I'm dwelling on a glass of 36.31, which my personal tasting notes describe as "The Speyside of the fucking gods." But I'm not really thinking of the hot chocolate, I'm thinking of the Muay Thai that I saw being prepared, which consisted of Appleton VX, bitters and a stupidly delicate blend of tropical fruit juices.
The Woodford Reserve Derby night is fun. Not least because of the badly mixed (and free) old fashioneds. We watch a DVD of Kentucky races, upon which we bet fake money, and, at the encouragement of our host, we yell and cheer for our chosen steeds. I win big on the first race, but the money quickly evapourates. Never mind, it isn't real, and I never win anyway. We're served some delicious canapés too. By judicious choice, I'm at a table of three, being catered for six, so there is plenty to eat. Smoked salmon on rye bread with chives and fenugreek is heavenly. As is asparagus wrapped in bacon with a mint and vinegar dip.
Like the money, pretend conversation evaporates without trace. Fueled by cocktails and dictated by circumstance, it was fun while it lasted, but you don't get anywhere if there's no connection, and connection doesn't form by magic.
Back in the members room, I collect a bottling list, and return to my favourite means of oblivion. Society whiskies are identified numerically. This has the effect of making it a little fairer on the little guys. After all, a 4 isn't all that removed from a 44, is it? They do give a lot of hints though. "Northern-most distillery"? I mean, come on, we all know that that one is a Highland Park. It's all pretense, isn't it? Still, number 44.26 (Craigellachie) is bloody fantastic. The darker side of Spey fruitiness with a smoky body and a little biscuit thrown in for a good measure.
And the Highland Park? Well, where else do you get a 20 year old HP for under a fiver? I know what HP tastes like, and this thing was HP++. Like someone took the floral god of the isles and dissolved a Toffee Crisp in it.
There was some conversation in here too btw. Mainly about whisky, although we also discussed the practicalities of the Society venues and the financial realisms of attending seventy-five quid dinners. Yeah, I was rambling like a barfly. I promised the bartender that this was my last one and bade farewell to my tablemates at this point.
The Muay Thai was damned good btw. As I write this, I'm drinking low calorie hot chocolate with skimmed milk. That's either progress, denial or stupidity. Good night.
