Ruby acted as a mule for me when returning from her Christmas hols, bringing me back a nice bottle of whisky from the airport shop - Talisker.
I only managed to finally meet up with her to collect, after a week or more of near-misses and postponements, last Thursday.
I was walking around with it in a carrier bag, but just as we were entering a hole-in-the-wall restaurant to nab a few quick chuanr before checking out some music.... well, I still can't fathom how this happened, but somehow the darn bottle squirmed out of the bag (curse you, slippery material of MaoMaoChong carriers!), popped up in the air, performed two or three taunting end-over-end rotations, and then fell - from fully four feet off the ground - on to the hard, tiled floor... where it bounced tinnily, once, twice, thrice. And it didn't break.
I was amazed. Giddy with relief, but amazed. As soon as I saw that I wasn't going to be able to make the saving catch, I'd given up on my expensive treat, written it off as lost. The sight of the bottle lying at my feet - rocking from side to side, and with its gorgeous contents clouded, positively fizzing with the unwonted energy I had imparted to it - produced a lurching feeling of cognitive dissonance: it simply did not seem possible that it should have survived unscathed.
I'm going to enjoy drinking this all the more now.
Gosh, they know how to make glass - as well as whisky - in Scotland!
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