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On the evening of Christmas Day, a wine glass in one hand
and a bottle of Californian white in the other, Julia realised that life was a
series of disconnected events, designed to make everything more difficult.
“First things first and first would be wine”, she muttered
as she opened the bottle and poured herself a huge glass. The wine tasted of
American sunshine. Somewhere beyond the icy roof tops of London was a place
that was bathed in sunshine all year round, where grapes grew plump and juicy
and nice Californian people spent their days turning the sun kissed grapes into
wine. Her thoughts were interrupted by a persistent scratching sound. It was
coming from the direction of the kitchen.
