On my 30th birthday last year, a friend of mine gave me a bottle of Bollinger (Bolly, sweetie, darling) and it had been sitting in my fridge ever since.
See, I’m not much of a boozer, but not only that, I have a thing about champagne. It’s not so much champagne itself, but champagne bottles.
I think it stems from a fateful Christmas in 1998 when my kind-hearted employer saw fit to give all employees a bottle of Lindauer (classy, yes), a box of scorched almonds and a leaky pen. I took my Lindauer home and started to open it. As soon as I’d loosened the wire, I felt the cork start to move. Suddenly it shot across the room, and sparkling wine jizzed all over my bed. I wasn’t happy about that.
Add to that the fact that I’m super flinchy. I hate, hate, hate anything that’s thrown near my face. This rules out me participating in any ball sports and it also means I get tense and nervous when opening bottles of champagne as the cork may fly out and hit me in the face, which would suck.
So last night I finally decided to open the Bollinger. I went into the bathroom and carefully peeled away the foil and unscrewed the wire. Then I eased the cork out. It came out with a satisfying pop, but didn’t become a high-speed projectile, nor did it spew down the bath plug hole.
I had a glass, mused upon the fact that I was getting boozed up in my lounge, alone, on a Saturday night, had another glass then went to bed. It was good.