Most nights after I've sung 'Twinkle Twinkle Little Star' (twice) and smiled hopefully through a trembling bottom lip (not mine, although with the amount of sleep I'm not getting it's a close run thing) I pad down the stairs to an empty kitchen intent on another fast dinner and a speedy trip into bed.
Most nights I vaguely consider that this would be the time to sip a glass of wine, as I chop and stir and bolt down the meal. In another life I would have found it unthinkable to sit down to dinner without half a glass or so. I always appreciated the feeling chef Nigel Slater expressed when he reckoned that even a dinner alone was worthy of a decent drop. Nothing less than you would take to share with friends (as why would you treat yourself less well than those you love).
Some nights I do pour a splash of whatever is lurking in the fridge but mostly it's pedestrian stuff, reliable and on special at the supermarket. A far cry from my working days as Sommelier.
My little Sommelier is a joy but not conducive to contemplation of fine wine and in the heady-go-round of nursery rhymes and exploding nappies I'm left with little time for wine to fit in to life somehow.
