And such is the fickle nature of MS that I’d walked two miles the previous evening over sand dunes and stony, woodland paths engulfed, no seduced, by the fragrance of wild garlic which grows so profusely there at this time of year; I even had the audacity to forget that I suffer from a debilitating, progressive condition.
The affair with Penfolds is by now but a memory, and the details of the previous evening dissipate whilst I have my third cuppa Tetleys. The men are yet to stir upstairs despite the humidity in the house after a night of torrential rain.
I didn't want to write anything along such a negative theme because that's not the way I was feeling in, so I finally gave up.
A paragraph springs to mind from a travelogue I once wrote:-