It dawned on me, with a chill, that I probably won’t live to drink the 2019 en primeur clarets that I’ve just forked out a substantial wodge for. It dawned on the considerably younger Mrs Ray, too, now busy earmarking which bottle to drink with whom as she throws aside her widow’s weeds and dances until dawn.
Disagree with half of it, enjoy reading all of it
TRY A MONTH FREE
Our magazine articles are for subscribers only. Try a month of Britain’s best writing, absolutely free.
Already a subscriber? Log in
Comments
Join the debate, free for a month
Be part of the conversation with other Spectator readers by getting your first month free.
UNLOCK ACCESS Try a month freeAlready a subscriber? Log in