Earlier today while wondering through central London I visited a specialty liquor store and purchased a beautiful bottle of honey vodka. As of yet I’ve been unable to find it in Australia. The proprietor wrapped it nicely and then handed it to me in a plastic bag. The intention was to bring it back to Sydney with me, although secretly I doubted it would survive that long.

Within 2hrs the bottle was empty. A large portion of it is now spread between Selfridges in Tottenham court rd and Green park tube station. As I left Selfridges my bag brushed gently against the door. I am still dumbfounded that this could have broken the bottle, but nothing else of consequence happened.

It was while waiting for a train that I noticed a puddle forming beside me. This discovery and my subsequent confused and jerky arm waving led to my feet and hands being covered in vodka. My jumper, which had been with the bag is now crawling around on the floor with no pants and slurring its words.

I am ashamed to say that my first desperate thought was how to save the remaining golden liquid that was still sloshing around in the bottom of the defective dipping plastic bag. After a quick vote and subsequent tally of the results my mouth was selected as the most viable replacement receptacle.

I did start to lift the bag in preparation, but whether it was the judgement I feared from the occupants of the crowded tube station or the niggling feeling that shards of glass didn’t feature in the food pyramid, I somehow resisted the impulse beaten into me since my uni days – ‘GOON, SHERRY OR PASSION POP, THOU SHALT NOT WASTE A DROP!’.

Defeated, I sought out a tube employee and enquired as to where the closest bin was. She informed me that there wasn’t one and then kindly pointed out that my bag was dripping.


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