Down the drain

This was the last bottle of red hanging around the house. I opened it last night, had a small glass and knew it was time to go on the wagon for a few hours days weeks months. 

Today is my annual torture Probus lunch with my father-in-law. Last year, after two hours of hip replacements, talk of people who had died over Christmas and a Joyce Grenfell tribute act, I vowed I would not go this year. Then when he asked me in about September the memory had faded and it seemed ages off so I agreed. 

I am beginning to think I would have needed that red wine this evening.....

Update: lunch wasn't anywhere near as bad as last year. Leaving aside me arriving to Wakefield late as I couldn't find my one and only dress (it was at the bottom of the laundry bin underneath John's smelly cycle gear), the meal was pleasant, I got chatting to a lovely old couple and the after dinner entertainment was mercifully short (and Joyce Grenfell free). 
I didn't even get upset when FIL introduced me four or five times as "my daughter-in-law, not the musical one". For t'is true. The other one is a music teacher. Introducing me as "the one who does all my washing and ironing" is much less romantic.