It will, probably, never stop raining

I won't be going into town, as I had planned. It's just too wet out there. Instead I shall sit here, picking nervelessly at what I wrote last night, trying to make sense of it so that I can carry on; and betweentimes I'll dive back into the black hole under the stairs, and wave the vacuum threateningly at the boys when they get too much under my feet (this only actually works on Barry, but it's a matter of principle with me that cats shall be scared of vacuums, so I carry on regardless in the face of young Mac's sneers), and with luck soon enough I'll be able to start putting things into that space rather than taking more out. It's like one of those sliding tile puzzles: what I really wanted was to clear some clutter from in front of some bookshelves to see if I could find a particular book, but there's nowhere for that clutter to go until I have made space elsewhere, which means... etc etc. But I did, eventually, find the right place to begin.

For I have been to Ludlow fair, and left my necktie God knows where

Actually, I have been to the back of the cupboard under the stairs: for yes, working on the novel is that grim this morning, that I would sooner grovel on hands and knees and grope in shadow. The shadows are metaphorical, for it's very well-lit in there; disturbingly so. I can read the small print.

I have found a couple of bottles of beer, five or six years past their best-by date. I don't know how much or how far or how fast bottled beer goes off; I am willing to make that experiment. But I have also found a bottle of home-made fruit wine, dated 1987. That's, um, twenty-one this year. It's legal! I can drink it!

I'm really, really not sure that I want to.

Should I discard it unopened? Open it just to see, to sniff, and then discard it promptly? Open it and drink it if it's drinkable? You decide...