Things have been getting a bit desperate lately. Only four bottles of whisky left, and just one of those was a single malt. Not a good state of affairs: the top of my fridge, where said bottles sit, was starting to look a bit desolate. The single malt itself hasn't far to go, so whenever I've fancied a tipple I've been drawing increasingly on my reserves of the lowly blended stuff.
Last night I went to a gathering of bods who had been involved in one way or another with the music festival I had been helping at a couple of weekends ago.
As thanks for my travails (whatever that means), I was given a present: things are looking rosy again!
I like it when this kind of thing happens.
Meanwhile I'm away this weekend, visiting a couple of good friends and their wonderful 8-month old daughter in a lovely North Derbyshire village (so North it overlooks Manchester from a great height). Hence, things will be a little quieter here at the Press, probably. Unless I do some late-night, less-than-sober writings. Either way, have a good weekend yourselves, whoever might read this.