Book One: Chapter 34

Tuesday 9th August

(Right: Lily Miyu Martin - she can only find reverse.)

Leave Lily supine on her play mat and return ten minutes later to find her gnawing through my the laptop adapter cable. Also, for some inexplicable reason, she is obsessed with table mats that she is also trying to digest. Already the corner of one particularly flavorsome mat is displaying signs of gnashing gums. Perhaps she will be one of those people that can swallow lighted cigarettes and snooker balls?

Wednesday 10th August

I am going to sound like a middle-aged fuddy-duddy: but who the hell do the yoof of England think they are? Men aged between 16 and 24 are convinced that they are the reincarnation of Tupac, whilst girls regard aspire to Jordon as a role model, a career as a glamour model the height of human achievement.

This morning I have an unfortunate encounter with such a girl, when I arrive at the Crystal Palace dental surgery for my first check-up in six years. Her attitude slaps me hard across the face as soon as I open the door, as if Osama Bin Laden had just gate-crashed George W Bush's birthday party.
She sits behind the reception desk and ignores my presence; chewing gum and perfecting her sneer. We have the pleasure of her boyfriend's company, all ham-fisted raps and acne gel, acting like Snoop Dogg's bastard caucasian child.

She glowers at me. "Ya' got an appointment" she scowls without even acknowledging my presence.
Turns out I have arrived an hour early and my new best friend behind reception can barely hide her ridicule. She says the word "please" just once and that is only after a two second pause when something in her brain triggers her redundant brain cell responsible for politeness.

I feel like shouting at her: "You are only a bloody dental surgeon receptionist next to the kebab shop in Crystal Palace."
But what is the use? Why waste my breath?
When I return at the end of the month and I might just give her a piece of my mind, or at least persuade the dentist to sack her whilst he has me in his dental chair.

Thursday 11th August

Commence writing an article of the Chateau Cheval Blanc vertical tasting that included the 1934, 1947 and 1949 whilst vegging out in front of Big Brother. I am unsure whether such voyeuristic TV is conducive to creativity, but the title "The Evanescence of Love" seems appropriately quixotic, despite watching an overweight, inebriated wannabe BB contestent pleasure herself with an empty wine bottle. Maybe this episode spells the end of the Screwpull?

Saturday 13th August

Having vowed to avoid shopping at supermarkets, I get up early to drive down to the veg stall outside Somerfield. The problem is that I feel pressured by the harridan manning the stall and end up buying enough bananas to feed a family of gorillas for a month. Laden with veg, it is short drive to the butchers to buy some meat from an animal that I presume has not spent its entire existence in a darkened cage being fed GM food.

In the evening, I belatedly watch the brilliant "Sideways" on DVD. I had two opportunities to see a preview of this film, but delayed fatherhood got in the way. I look forward to Sideways 2, starring Steven Segal and J. Lo.

Sunday 13th August

Drive down to Leigh-on-Sea to see the folks. Vik pops round to see her god-daughter and say hello to Hammer the tortoise, who sits in the middle of the lawn contemplating life and chewing cucumber. If the weather was more sunny we would go out for a stroll, but the threat of rain impels us to remain inside and play with Lily who is busy radiating happiness over a ten kilometre radius. Only Hammer the tortoise is immune, his shell rendering him impervious to Lily's rays of glee.

Monday 14th August

I make a spontaneous purchase of Led Zeppelin II at HMV on the way back from work. At just a fiver, what have I to lose? I admit that hitherto I have not owned a Led Zep album. I always felt that they were overrated and their anthem, Stairway to Heaven was just too Tolkeinesque for me. I sit down to appraise the album with Lily trying to do press-ups in her activity centre mat, which I keep accidentally treading upon, triggering a nauseating Mozart concerto played on a stylophone that is impossible to switch off.

"Whole Lotta Love"? Yes, that's a classic, but the rest of the songs do little for me. It is only when I get to "Moby Dick" that I become aware that I am listening to a drum solo. This is the first time I have listened to a drum solo and it compels me to question why I am wasting my life.

I then ask myself, what wine would you drink to a drum solo? These are the critical, fundamental questions of life that I shall endeavour to find the answer to.

Tuesday 15th August

It is the annual A-Level debate which gets on my nerves every time it comes round. Every year a higher and increasingly ridiculous percentage of students achieve pass-grades and of course, this has nothing to do with the fact that the exams are as easy as pie; that exams consist of a series of friendly, bite-sized, course-work projects that fit around Big Brother, plus the internet to copy and paste your thesis in a right-click of a mouse. Oh, and then there is "Media Studies", a subject I revise every single night.
No, no, no.
The teachers defend their students, claim they are being unfairly victimized by the unsympathetic public, that their prize pupils are simply more intelligent than the previous 20 years of academia, thereby denegrating the efforts of millions that sat and sweated over the same exam. Now I read of one girl that passes a law A-level by revising it in one month. What does that say about the law exam?
Sorry, just had to get that out of my system, apologies to any 18-year olds with their ream of straight A's.

Wednesday 17th August

Have succumbed to the charms of Canadian chanteur Rufus Wainright and is mellifluous vocal chords. Utterly pretentious, but utterly compelling, I open a bottle of cheapo Pinot Grigio whilst analyzing its minor/major/minor chord variations and compose a sonnet in Latin about the futility of life in immediately afterwards.

Thurday 18th August

Every night, Lily is put to bed in her baby grow-bag and Tomoko plonks the baby monitor next to me while she takes a shower. Usually the monitor stays silent, but tonight there is a strange sound, loud and repetitive. It takes me a few seconds to realise that it is Lily blowing raspberries before slumber beckons. Perhaps she is trying to communicate some profound insight before sleep gently closes her eyelids? I jot down the frequency and pitch of her raspberries, just in case it is some form of morse code. Amazingly I manage to decode the message.
It says "Turn the TV down."

Saturday 20th August

Epicures beware: Lily ventured into her first restaurant today, the swanky "La Trompette" in well-heeled Chiswick. I must commend this restaurant: superb food, attentive staff who accommodated the 7-month old Beryl the Peril with aplomb, relaxed atmosphere and most important, one of best, eclectic winelists in London. Its depth and price ensures that I procrastinate for hours over the vino, eventually plumping for a delicious Costieres de Nimes 2001 from Mas Neuf. I consider giving Lily a drop, but we have vowed that her first wine should be either Petrus or a DRC, so that she can brag about it when she is older. Alas it will also mean that she will be wearing mink coats, drive a Porsche and refuse to live further than two blocks away from Kings Road.

Monday 24th August

Business trip to deepest Suffolk, deep amongst the marshes where that fugitive Magwitch is still hiding from authorities. I enjoy a delicious lunch with some freshly caught skate and mussels deluged in garlic, along with bottles of Coche-Dury and Comte-Lafon. Alas, the garlic must have disguised a dodgy mussel and by the time I am returning to Ipswich Station with a taxi-driver giving me the Spanish Inquisition about Blossom Hill, my stomach begins protesting. I return home around six o'clock feeling not dissimilar to John Hurt just after eating a plate of beans on the Nostromo. Lo and behold by early evening I can definitely feel some kind of extra-terrestrial trying to escape from my body. Agony, absolute agony, but this is the price you have to pay if you want to enjoy delicious wines. Who said wine-tasting is not a hazardous vocation?

Tuesday 23rd August

Recover in time for a vertical Domaine J-L Chave tasting courtesy of Linden Wilkie. An intriguing gallimaufry of attendees, some of whom I an convinced are playing Devil's Advocate, their observations and comments pilfered from opening a cullinary dictionary at a random page. Oh well, the wines are superb, report to follow soon.

Wednesday 24th August

This is turning into a crap week bar none. So, I am in Berwick Street buying August's album of the month: Goldfrapp) and I pay with a crisp tenner, leaving me with a crisp fiver to buy a KFC. I walk up to Oxford Street, into the KFC and ask for a 2-piece meal comme d'habitude (three would be extravagant.) My meal is brought to the counter by an ice-cool maiden from Norway and it then dawns on me. That fiver has deserted me, leaving me with £1.86, £1.13 less than I need.

Blushing with embarrassment, I frantically search the deepest recesses of my pockets, but it is all to no avail, so I explain my misfortune to the cashier. I should have known better than to expect sympathy. She remains stoic and simply repeats the demand for cash several times, when it is obvious that I have lost the money. She revels in her superiority and I feel like screaming: "You are only a bloody Scandinavian KFC employee wearing a t-shirt emblazoned with the words Finger Lickin' Good". She eventually retracts the plastic tray plate and I punish myself with a an enervated 99p Rodeoburger from Burgerking.

When I return home I try to eke out some sympathy from the wife by falsely claiming that I had no lunch. Alas, I leave the BK receipt on the dressing table, which she finds while I am bathing Lily. She confronts me with the evidence. Fortunately she has not highlighted the price and date with a luminous marker but I am still forced to admit my guilt. I make a mental note to shred all fast-food receipts in the future.

Thursday 25th August

Boiler breaks down for the millionth time this year. Its timing is perfect, Lily has been undressed and is lying on the mat whilst I am singing the second verse of the "We Are Having A Bath" song" (the b-side of "Daddy Is Washing Lily's Hair".) Feeling the ice-cold water, I have to hastily retract the promise of a bath and a mildly confused baby is swiftly dressed and put to bed, whilst daddy explains that he is on the verge of a nervous breakdown.

Friday 26th August

Send Lily's photo off to a baby model agency for a laugh. The agency is called "Little Acorns" and I check the competition on their website, like the cliched doting father that I am. I expect a shoot in Venice with Kate Moss by the end of next week (I have appointed myself Lily's manager at a very reasonable percentage of her earnings.)

Sunday 28th August

Down to Middle Farm in Sussex again, to introduce Lily to clucking chickens, snorting pigs and shagging goats. No, I lie, we are actually going back to eat their delicious apple and rhubarb crumble, but instead we eat our just deserts since we arrive just after the last helping of crumble is served. Lily then breaks the law for the first time, well the whole Martin family do, as we stride into the Farm without paying the £5.00 entrance fee (well, no one approached us to pay.)
Is this the beginning of Lily's life of crime? No doubt the felonious tot is planning to go joyriding as soon as she can peer over the dashboard, fraud as soon as she learns numeracy and murder once she can get a good grip on the kitchen knife.

Wednesday 31st August

I have spent the last few months on tenterhooks, wondering whether hot water will flow every time I turn on the tap. The decrepit boiler has been making my life a misery, breaking down four or five times in the last 24 months. During this time boilermen have come, scratched their heads, made a few superficial adjustments and scarpered before I have time to question their extortionate bill.

I invited three boilermen to quote me for installing a new boiler and all three recommended a conveniently expensive model that would have frozen on the first big chill of the winter, effectively flushing £2,000 down the drain and leaving me without water or heating for several weeks i.e. grounds for divorce.

I finally find one decent plumber (G R Stone, 020 8651 9721 in case anyone is seeking someone) who does a superb job and leaves me with that rare feeling of not being ripped off. Our 19th century flat is thrust into the 21st century with a digital thermostat in the hallway, which I will have endless fun adjusting by one degree in the winter. Of course, the other benefit is that there is less chance of Lily dying of carbon monoxide poisoning.

Saturday 3rd September

Take 7-month Lily for her first dip in the local swimming pool. The National Sport Centre at Crystal Palace sits on the boundary of four London Boroughs and consequently its peripheral location means than none of the Borough Councils see fit to invest in what could be a magnificent swimming arena.

Lily and I pull up in the Clio, Lily having packed her luminous pink frilly swimming nappy, decorated in Nemo and assorted smiling crustaceons, plus Johnsons talcum powder and emergency Pampers. I pay the entry fee and enter the maze-like corridors that were due for a repaint in 1974: peeling, chipped walls in dull hues that would insult a high security prison. The mens' changing room smells of stale wee and the only place to lie Lily down is a red plastic bowl full of dirt. I am forced to lie a towel down on the hard concrete floor and leave Lily on the floor like an upturned turtle.

We leave the 20m diving board for another occasion and head straight to the family pool which is perfectly fine. It is not surprising that after an aquatic birth she takes to water like a fish, splashing like her life depended on it and unperturbed by the ululating children dive-bombing around her. In fact, she is such a natural that I am tempted to let go and allow her to butterfly a few lengths. Fortunately she does not leave a little present floating on the surface for the life-guard to fish out and we depart after an enjoyable 30 minutes.

Sunday 4th September

Down to Leigh-on-Sea for the last bbq of the summer. Lily is plonked on a blanket in the back garden surrounded by assorted multi-coloured toys that burst into song if tipped a certain way, whilst Hammer the tortoise circles around her, perhaps guarding the dribbling tot from pterodactyls.

Monday 5th September

Christ, what a mess in New Orleans. It is quite simple: global warming is taking grip, the oceans are becoming warmer, which serves as the catalyst for increasingly violent and regular storms that cause cataclysmic damage and loss of life. The question is how many hurricanes it takes before ecological treaties such as Kyoto are seen as the only means of preventing Mankind's slippery slope to self-inflicted oblivion?

In the evening, CECWINE Chateau L'Evangile vertical, which is all good fun.

Tuesday 6th September

Major tasting these evening, a Mouton-Rothschild vertical courtesy of Linden Wilkie's www.finewineexperience.com. I arrive early, resisting the double-whammy temptation of Burgerking and KFC that lurk outside Gloucester Road tube station. I sincerely do not want to write a tasting note for Chateau Mouton-Rothschild 1945 with the phrase "eleven secret herbs and spices on the palate."

Michael Broadbent MW is in da house. He sashays into the marbled tasting room and immediately marvels at the bottles lined up ready for sacrifice, including the 1982, the immortal 1945 and a preternatural 1870, the most ancient wine that has passed my lips. The thing about Broadbean is that even though he probably poured all these wines on his cornflakes this morning, his boundless enthusiasm and wonderment bubbles to the surface. Still, that does not stop him complaining about the fluorescent light tubes that causes a mild panic before the tasting has even commenced. Without means of deconstructing the ceiling and replacing the entire lighting system of the Bentley Hotel, the lights are flicked on and off like a Martin Creed installation, which seems to placate him somewhat (although comparing the colours of wines later under flourescent and natural light proves he has a valid point.)

The wines are nothing short of amazing, though a seat opposite me remains empty, with a glass full of Mouton 1945 lying forlorn and orphoned. Surely I cannot let it go to waste, that is sacrilege? I resist temptation to grab the glass and the absent attendee eventually turns up, half-Minotaur/half-Rolex; a man who exudes self-made success, who may have done me harm had I pilfered his Mouton 1945. Understandable really.

After the tasting I join Linden and Aiko for some Persian cuisine (I could tell you the name of the restaurant but I have been threatened with excommunication by Linden.) I can tell you however that a lamb kebab follows nicely on from Mouton 45.

Thursday 8th September

Morning tasting at Corney & Barrow at their offices near Tower Hill. I race through 20 or so French wines in their plush tasting room, decorated with empty bottles of DRC (a large double mag of La Tache 1962 caught my eye.) A couple of very nice Oliver Leflaive's and Tardeau-Laurent's later, I am upstairs tasting some New World offerings. From there, it is a few stops on the tube to the Napa Valley tasting. The proprietors are as congenial as ever, greeting me with a boisterous "Hi there, how ya doin'". Then their wines bludgeon me with their alcohol, many blockbusters at 15-plus percent. I'm feeling intoxicated after a dozen, whilst my poor colleague makes his excuses and crawls back to the office. I taste about 30 wines, of which two-thirds would leave me permanently brain-damaged if imbibed in quantity.

Saturday 10th September

I drive down to my cousin's wedding reception in deepest Essex (Woodham Ferries in case you want to look it up in a map.) Tomoko and Lily stay at home watching Pop Idol as its too far for Lily to travel in such a short space of time, but I manage to get there surprisingly quick. It is one of those do's where I know no-one, save for my own family and the smattering of aunts and uncles. This explains why it takes a few minutes to realize that I have walked into the wrong hall, although the fact that everyone is wearing name badges should have notified me of my error. I seem to have strayed into a freemasons convention, turn to hurry out only to find my exit blocked by an old woman in an electric wheelchair doing a painfully slow three-point turn.

I finally manage to find Matt and Zoe's reception and furnish the bride with my felicitations, though her reply is an amorphous string of slurred vowels that are impossible to decipher, so I just nod and wish her all the best. I only stay for an hour, grab a few sarnies and a slice of wedding cake so that I can get home early. I survive the tropical rainstorm over Dartford and the subsequent flooding of the M25, turn the radio up nice 'n loud to keep awake (some superb hip-hop: Kanye West, Ying Yang Twins and Paul Wall) and pull up outside home around nine, pour myself a beer and veg out to the repeat of Pop Idol on ITV2. So much for living on the edge.

Sunday 11th September

Take Lily for her second swim at upmarket, chichi Beckenham Spa. Note the word spa instead of swimming pool. The changing rooms do not smell of wee although I am initially perturbed by the unisex changing room. I am not mentally prepared to expose my privates to wanton women. Fortunately there are baby-friendly cubicles which make it far easier to change Lily into her luminous pink swimming nappy. Poor Lily, she is a bit tired from missing her morning nap, so she is naturally quite shocked when I dunk her under the water as part of my life-training program. She gives me a "what the hell was that" expression but does not panic, which bodes for stage two, when I squeeze her into a rubber ring and dump her into the Thames Estuary off the back of my dad's boat.
No, don't worry...I'll call the NSPCC.

Monday 12th September

This week I have arranged an interview with none other than actor/vigneron Gerard Depardieu who I last saw in the French countryside being driven to an early grave by his neighbours in Jean de Florette. I make a mental note to watch all his films as part of my research over the next few days, though when I discover there are over 150, including one called "Bimboland", I elect just a couple.

England win the Ashes. I feel elated and proud to be English, until my crappy train is cancelled for the millionth time this year and I curse this the Motherland. I tell Tomoko about England's triumph, she feigns interest but lets face it, when was the last time your read about the Japanese cricket team in the papers.

Tuesday 13th September

It is easy to take living in the capital for granted, to give auspicious occasions and events a miss and let history pass you by. With the England cricket team celebrating their Ashes win in Trafalgar Square, I walk down Regent Street to the thronging, jubilant crowds who have amassed to wave flags and sing an atonal Jerusalem. The team bus finally crawls into Horatio Nelson's square at 2.1 mph, twice the speed of a regular London bus, and eleven hungover, bleary-eyed cricketing heros stumble out and witness the euphoric crowd, many of whom have no idea about cricket except that we won.

In the afternoon I taste around 30 Barolos and Barbaresco's from the 2001 vintage and accumulate yet more notes to write up. When I return home, Lily tries to rip of my nose, leaving me with a vertical cut that will make me look ridiculous in front of Depardieu. Great, bloody great.

Thursday 15th September

In full-tasting mode at the moment, a frenzy of activity on the Riedel front.

In the morning, 52 Chianti Classico's and IGT's from the 2001 vintage, where I spot HRH Jancis and her pet laptop. I am tempted to press Control-Alt-Delete when her back is turned, but decide that would not do my chivalrous reputation any good at all.

Then on to the tasting of Bernard Magrez/Gerard Depardieu wines at some swanky restaurant near Pall Mall. It is very PR-orientated i.e. the bar is crowded with 20-something, blond PR-girls swigging champagne whilst I count about two people actually tasting their wines. My meeting with Depardieu is scheduled at 2pm so I taste a dozen or so whilst devouring any canape that comes within sight. To be honest, the wines are not my style, over-extracted and porty. I sit down and chat with Magrez, which is not exactly a laugh a minute and unfortunately "Cyrano de Bergerac" is taking an extended nap, fatigued from rigorous interviews. His PA apologizes profusely for cancelling our tete-a-tete but hey, I guess that is what happens when you drink 10 gallons of wine each day. My meeting with a film-star was never meant to be, though I am comforted by the news that Mick Hucknall might be at a Christies pre-sale next week. That would excite mum.

Friday 16th September

How shall I put this? Parents. Babysitting. Dinner. Bottle of wine. Another bottle of wine. Vague recollections of a pen-fight over the creme-brulee. Impaired vision. Parents procrastinate whether safe to leave Lily in our care. Fall asleep on sofa. Hangover inevitable.

Saturday 17th September

Hangover.

Sunday 18th September

Sunday papers: naughty Kate Moss caught in a blizzard of cocaine. Tut, tut. But I still love her, she's just a Croydon girl made good.

Hangover part 2 - my penance is prolonged for another day and I feel I can sympathize with Ms Moss.

Tuesday 20th September

Interview with Wine Spectator's James Suckling. We rendezvous at the Davidoff cigar emporium in Saint James' Street with Suckling imprisoned within the walk-in humidor, inhaling the fumes of vintage Cubans (cigars, not the people.) I am attired in my Paul Smith for the occasion, although I need not have bothered since he is dressed casually in jeans and what looks like a 1970's battery pack attached to his belt (I find out that its something to do with his blood pressure.) Actually, he is looking pretty fit and I comment how is appears to have shed pounds since I last saw him. Is this a faux-pas? I didn't intend to imply he was once over-weight.

Anyway, he is very affable and refreshingly candid about his career, wine and life. He even pays the bill, though by that time I had impressed on him the size of my tiny flat in a less salubrious part of South London, which he can appreciate since he once lived south of the river, the needs of an 8-month old baby and how my etiolated wife stands at the entrance of West Norwood train station each day and begs for money to buy next year's en primeur.

In the evening, I am at Vintners Hall for a Bordeaux 1995/96 horizontal comparison courtesy of Farr Vintners. I have a brief chat with Jean-Guillaume Prats about the 2005 vintage, you know the one that was abundant in the summer but will now be a small crop thanks to the miraculously shrinking berries.

I take a pew at the back, sitting just behind morning TV-presenter Phillip Schofield. I should pounce on him for an interview but decide to bide my time, wait until I am universally famous and he comes to me for publicity. The wines are very fine, although I cannot understand exactly where James Suckling is coming from when he disses the imperious Chateau Margaux 1996 (maybe the batteries have run out on his belt, a blown fuse perhaps?) After the tasting I retire upstairs for some Krug and canapes. I consider taxi-ing over to Linden's La Tache vertical but I feel I'm too late to soak up the dregs. In fact, I could have just made it and guzzled La Tache 1959, 1978 and 1990. Oh well.

Wednesday 21st September

In the evening, a pre-sale tasting at Christies. The wines are at best average, although the Christies MW's are out in force: Broadbent, Hanson et al. But they are overshadowed by Mr Simply Red himself, Mick Hucknall, disguised in dark shades just in case one of the MW's asks him to sign their copy of "Stars". He is very orange, more so in the flesh than on TV. It may come as a surprise to those who follow my left-field music tastes, but I have a soft spot for his early work and vividly recall listening to "Picture Book" on my Sony Walkman whilst on holiday in the Isle of Wight. Even "Stars" is a top-drawer, AOR song, though I never went as far as buying the album.

Anyway, Mr. Hucknall, just like Mr Schofield, seems to be an oenophile, though I resist interjecting when I overhear him recommend an execrable Pomerol to his girlfriend/wife/latest flame. Why can't he buy Petrus with his wealth?
I guess money's too tight to mention.