As I was stamping around in the freezing cold the other day I was contemplating my long-held desire for a hip flask for a wee nip while standing at the tram stop. Those scumbags on the tram with Jim Beam and cola have no style, but a hip flask spells class!
I first started drinking whisky, when suffering from the cold after two years in the tropics I discovered it was the answer to just about everything in the universe. It cures chills, aches & pains, bad circulation, sadness, happiness, and is the perfect full stop to the end of the day. It is Captain Haddock’s preferred drink. My favourite variety is Glenfiddich, but I’ve never said no to a Glenmorangie. I’ve even been known to drink Canadian Club (just for the name).
When my hands and feet are numb, whisky creeps down and chafes me briskly with fiery hands. When my throat is sore, some lemon, fresh ginger, a bit of honey and a drop of whisky usually cures what ails me. When I’ve got cramps, two Panadol and a double whisky makes me completely numb from the waist down. When I’ve been writing all day, the jangle of ice swilling through the amber fluid is one of the finest sounds I know.
If I have kids, I’ll bathe them in whisky to make them tough. If I ever get stabbed with a native’s spear, I’ll sluice whisky on the wound like in ‘Greystoke’. If I’m ever rich, I’ll have a castle in Scotland, with a whisky cellar.
In other news:
Today I am embarking on the first three-day juice fast, and shall be a new woman. Yesterday I nipped up to La Manna for some of those giant baskets of fruit and veg for $1.90 a pop, which makes me delighted on all different levels. My parents have kindly lent me their juicer. They are convinced that I have anorexia, which queer parental logic also delights me in many ways. It is well-known that all anorexics announce their intentions to everyone, blog it, buy vast amounts of veggies then fast for but three days. I saw it on A Current Affair, so it must be true.