The whisky tasting on Friday went very well, and no recovery was needed on Saturday. I think last weekend reinforced the virtue of moderation to me. That and the drams were still a tad pricey, but very good for London standards nonetheless. As the night went on I found myself looking at the bottle prices and increasingly thinking they were looking reasonable. I needed to keep my wits about me lest I end up coming home a full fledged member with a couple of bottles under my arm.

I did have some great whiskys and one that was interesting, but not anything I would order again. It gives me a bit of a thrill to drink a whisky from a closed distillery that is as old as I am. It was fun to have that kind of experience, because I certainly don’t drink that kind of whisky any other time. I do wonder who gets the job of writing up the descriptions of the whiskys. Some I think were pretty accurate and described the flavour much better than I could, while some were just perplexing. I like this whisky, but I’m not sure I’m picking up the hints of orange peel and creosote. I’m not sure what kitten and plaster should taste like - and I don’t think I want to - so I’m pretty happy with my simple tastes.

I got the silent treatment from La Mujer on Saturday. It had nothing to do with going out for whisky the night before, but instead was a result of my facial hair. I shaved my beard but left a thin mustache that she said looked awful. Actually she said I looked like a gay Errol Flynn. She also said she wouldn’t talk to me until I shaved it. I did shave it that evening before we went out because it was just a lark and never intended to actually be worn out of the house. But when she sets her mind to it, she can be stubborn. I don’t want to spoil it, but I have to admit I did have kind of a relaxing afternoon. I got to spend a couple of hours doing my own thing while she did hers and that was nice. Of course if I grow a mustache every saturday, she’s bound to catch on.

We went out Saturday night to some posh friends’ flat for a cocktail party. It was in Hackney, an area so hip no one outside of it really knows how hip it is. Everything is hip, even the crackheads. The  place was really nice, but I always feel out of my element with them and their friends. They are nice enough, it just isn’t my thing. I did get chastised by the hostess for standing in the kitchen having a conversation at one point. She can be a bit high strung, but it’s a party. Everybody ends up in the kitchen, that’s one of those laws of nature. You can’t just arbitrarily decide that people won’t end up in your kitchen when you have a party anymore than you can suspend gravity to avoid spilled drinks.

La Mujer fared worse as she actually burst into flames. That might be overdramatizing the incident. I wasn’t there at the time so I just saw the charred remains of her skirt. She stood too close to a candle and her skirt caught on fire with flames running up her side. I was annoyed to hear that nobody jumped to help her, but she excused them saying that she was surrounded by gay men and Canadians. She was only annoyed that her favourite Italian skirt got about 3 inches shorter on one side.

On Sunday we went to the Spanish Film Festival to see Alatriste. It’s a film about 17th century Spain and her golden age complete with lots of wars and political intrigue. It stars Viggo Mortensen who is famous for his role as Tex in Texas Chainsaw Massacre III and some trilogy with rings. It was a pretty long movie that pretty much consisted of a cold, dark, wet battle in Flanders, followed by some political conspiracy in Madrid. Then another cold, dark, wet battle in Flanders and a conspiracy involving the Inquisition. Then a dark and wet battle, but not really cold in Northern Spain followed with some more betrayals and intrigue with the church and royalty. Finally there was a cold, wet but well lit battle in France. Two hours and fifteen minutes. You do get your money’s worth because those two hours and fifteen minutes don’t fly by. I was distinctly aware of each one slowly ticking away. Where’s the whisky when you need it?

whisky film festival london

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