The one you drink straight from the bottle, straight from the fridge, after work on a hot day.
The one a relative or friend buys you as a token of repressed but deeply-felt affection.
The one you have with breakfast at a grotty railway station or airport bar before embarking on an adventure.
The one that you don’t really want at the end of a night but drink anyway because you’re having too much fun to leave.
The one you drink on Sunday afternoon in front of the fire with a gale blowing outside, during a power cut.
The one you order to annoy a snooty waiter in a restaurant where they really think you ought to be drinking wine.
The one you have at lunchtime on a week day, while reading the paper, on a day off.
The one that tastes especially good about 72 hours after a terrible hangover.
The one you finally manage to open with your front door key after 15 minutes, having forgotten to bring a bottle opener.
The one you’re right in the middle of enjoying when you die.
We wrote this on our Facebook page back in 2013 but wanted to give it a more permanent home here on the blog.
