Of all the things I’ve considered myself a wannabe footballer’s wife was never one of them. The problem began when I received the very generous gift of a bottle of vintage Pol Roger champagne (retail £150).
When to drink it? Would it be my birthday? Well yes accept that got rather hijacked my other half belting out his midlife crisis, sorry performing with his punk band, to a kitchen full of pogoing Ramones fans. And I wasn’t going to share the Pol Roger with them.
Romantic situations came and went (this I find is a perennial hazard of life with 3 kids, 30 seconds of rediscovering each other before the 7 year old decides to join us – ‘wanna watch a movie?’ or the teens start to kill each other downstairs).
There was the hotel mini break, an obvious choice, but I’d set my heart on cocktails and call me a lightweight (I am) but champagne, followed by cocktails, followed by wine seemed too much.
So anyway we cracked it last Saturday, fire on, kids ensconced in various WiFi based activities, papers on our laps if we’d wanted to read them. But we didn’t, because this stuff, it’s like nectar. Quarter of the way down the first glass and we were reminiscing about our shared past and fantasising about the future like a couple of lovestruck teens. Trouble was it went down too easily and what on earth can you drink after that? Certainly not the prosecco that was lurking in the fridge. Long story short I need a vintage Pol Roger dealer and a Wag's income. That's my resolutions for 2015 nailed then.