A load of coke

Two geezers ('workmates') were leaving today, so a farewell lunch had been arranged at the Premier Inn, a place out in the wilderness. We disconsolately tramped up there and chomped down our pre-arranged eats. For some reason I can't recall I had ordered a New York Pizza. I'm hamming it up; it was quite reasonable (well, once the large glass of Merlot arrived). In the car park was this symbol of festive jollity which was hard to miss.
And I arrived home to be annoyed anew that six bottles of wine I ordered from a vineyard down Engerland have been sent to the invoice address rather than the shipping address. So now they're out in some bloody warehouse in bloody Livingston.
I know, I know, get over it. Small beer. I blame the wind. No, not the internal stuff, the wind that woke me up too early and rattled the windows while I clamped the duvet over my ears and pretended that the clock wasn't rushing towards its 7am ring. Time for a cup of tea and my blood pressure tablets.