In COVID induced lockdown, visits into my garage have emerged as a walk of shame for yours truly. Bereft of access to bottle banks, glass wine containers have built up to such an extent, while passing during odysseys to the fridge, it feels like I’m running a gauntlet of carafe contempt.
Feeling I’m being negatively judged by this glass line of dishonour, I sheepishly circumnavigate them with head bowed in contrition at this recent overindulgence upon fermented grape nectar. Sojourns to and from the chiller manifesting emotions of guilt and abashment.
If the bottle banks were open, in an attempt to conceal this unacceptable alcohol consumption in quarantine, I’d have nipped to the recycling centre in three or four trips. When finally bereft of empty bottles, I’d stand at the garage door with a contented smile. Bearing misguided notions, without evidence to the contrary, this shameful episode never occurred.
Of course, I won’t hold the global monopoly on alcohol over-imbibition during quarantine. Witnessing many examples of candid social media postings, it’s pretty clear this unhealthy practise is being mirrored by many of my global cousins. Irrespective, though, that fact doesn’t for one moment vindicate the accumulated glass collection defiling my garage.
I’ve pondered many possible solutions to make garage chiller trips less guilt ridden. Initially, I thought of melting the bottles down, however this was an epiphany which was only fleetingly considered as a viable option. After all, I’m pretty sure there’s no machinery in casa Strachan that could generate the extreme heat required to melt glass!….. Even if there was what would I do with the molten material after the fact?
If I could blow molten glass into shapes, I suppose yours truly could open a half-assed version of a Venetian Morano shop. In lockdown, though, I’d envisage securing premises for such a venture would bring in its wake a host of logistical problems. I also doubt my mum (with whom I’m currently residing) would acquiesce to any thoughts of running this preposterous operation from her garage.
On ditching notions to recycle these empty glass bottles into quirky ornaments, which aspirations of offering them to the public for nominal recompense, I mulled over thoughts I should merely shove the bottles into my garbage bin.
This a move that lacked the stealth I required for this project, that epiphany was also consigned to a metaphorical rubbish receptacle. After all, if I employed that solution, when the bin men empty my bin on Thursday morning there’d be a cacophony in our street akin to letting a rampaging bull loose in a Morano glass factory.
The next strategy considered to dispose of my vino over-indulgence evidence was to, overnight on Wednesday into Thursday, take this bounty of shame and shove them all in a neighbours wheelie bin.
On Thursday morning, I then stand on my doorstep awaiting the garage truck’s arrival. As the contents of their bins deafeningly spewed into the rear of the refuse vehicle, I’d judgementally tut and shake my head at the neighbour whose bin I’d defiled with evidence of my lax alcohol discipline.
Clearly, I won’t be undertaking the latter harebrained solution (I don’t think!). My mum has just mooted the simple solution to my problem was to not venture to the garage chiller for battles of cabernet sauvignon. A strategy meaning I’d not have to bear the ignominy of the walk of shame past the empties.
I thought about mater’s notion momentarily. However, deeming this an unachievable objective, I’ve come to the conclusion chucking them in a neighbours bin is the best option after all!!
2 kids who've flown the nest, 1 wife whose flown with Jet2. Born at a young age in 1960's Leeds, the author became interested in the literary life when his wife bought him a dog. Having an allergy to dogs, he swapped it for a typewriter. Being unable to train the typewriter to retrieve tennis balls, he reluctantly turned to writing...... Website - www.writesaidfred.org