ss of dry white wine,” demanded the Older Woman, making no attempt to hide the discomfort my bare midriff was causing her.
“We’re out of Sauvignon,” I said, apologetically. “Our house isn’t great, so I’d recommend the Chenin if you’re after something drier.”
“What do you mean ‘your house isn’t great’? Your house should be great. Why isn’t your house great? Why are you telling me the house isn’t great?”
She had said the word ‘house’ so many times that its meaning had become redundant. “What I’m saying,” I said, carefully choosing a sentence other than ‘it tastes like piss’, “is that I wouldn’t choose to drink the house white myself. OK?”
“Well,” she sniffed, “that’s disgraceful. You should get a new house white.”