Mention food, booze, cats or George Clooney and my brain will light up

Ilove a “special” day, don’t you? Not that every day isn’t special these days – so far, I haven’t got Covid (touching every kind of wood I can find as I say that), I’m not completely broke (yet) and the Significant Other and I, having lived increasingly wrinkled cheek by now noticeably sagging jowl for the past 12 months, have not yet resorted to eyeing the kitchen knives with a look of longing and/ or sinister intent.

We are still speaking to each other – and not via Zoom from different rooms in the house – if occasionally through clenched, un-dentist-treated, teeth, many of which, remarkably, are still our own.

But in the pursuit of finding things to keep up the old pecker and generally elevate myself into a cross between Pollyanna and Little Mary Sunshine, I have been perusing the long list of events which every year, let alone this one, provides me with endless moments, not to say hours and weeks when there is little else to do, of entertainment.

I have called to your attention before, I think, the existence of National Gin Day which regularly passes me by because, in our house, how could they tell?

But as I write this on February 18 – and it’s still technically morning so even I haven’t resorted to the corkscrew yet – it is National Wine Drinking Day.

Now, looking back on my far from creatively mis-spent life, I have come to the somewhat uncomfortable conclusion that there were many things I didn’t really get to grips with along the way and many I could have done a lot better at if I had got said grip. The things I did actually put the work into, from studies and jobs to personal relations, tended to turn out rather well or at least not badly at all in the great scheme of things.

So you can understand a certain glow of pride coupled with a slightly embarrassed grimace when I tell you that if they ever have a National Wine Drinking Day competition, I can probably guarantee you that I would come out of it, perhaps not on top, but smugly sozzled and really quite successful, all things considered.

In keeping with this, I have to admit that I had ordered a case of big Italian reds this morning long before I consulted Google and found out what I might be able to plagiarise to pique your interest for this week’s column.

On the principle that most coincidences occur where – and I’m quoting proper science here, stay with me – “the brain sees a pattern that doesn’t exist,” it’s not that hard to work out that such seemingly random events happen when that beleaguered organ picks up, mostly, on things that it’s already interested in.

This, of course, presupposes the existence of a brain in the first place which, given my current state of mind, is a pretty major leap – intellectual or otherwise. Not only for immediately obvious reasons of sartorial eccentricity am I frequently likened to the Scarecrow in The Wizard Of Oz.

My brain, such as it is, will slide without leaving a trace over anything to do with sport, Nigel Farage, housework and Nintendo.

Thus, even if there is a huge linking factor with these elements and my life – my mother was a Rangers supporter, Nigel Farage likes a drink, I once read an article by Mrs Hinch and I have thought about buying a computer game for a “young person”, then purchased a book – they are unlikely to grab my amazed attention and make me think: “That’s spooky!”

Confront me with anything concerning food, booze, cats and George Clooney and what passes for my cerebral cortex will immediately latch on, catch on and exclaim: “Well, I never! Fancy that!”

So when I find that today – the birthday of one of my dearest friends, with whom I have arranged to have a very real lunchtime libation via yon virtual veejo thingummy – is, in fact, National Margarita Day, it should come as no surprise to me or anyone else.

It’s a very practical sign – something, somewhere, is telling me to ensure that my essential shopping this week includes tequila. The limes and lemons are already permanent fixtures – there is no fear of scurvy in this house.

And given that my own birthday, falling as it does (every year, it’s like Christmas, funny that) on February 25, is National Chilli Day, I can only surmise that I learned this by some kind of osmosis when I married a man who makes the world’s best chilli con carne. Brain food, indeed.

And surely just happy happenstance that, given a certain level of abstemiousness during this afternoon’s birthday swallie – not a certainty, by any means – there might be enough tequila left to last till Thursday to accompany this Mexican classic?

It was meant, you know…

There might be enough tequila left to last till Thursday...

MIND: “For immediately obvious reasons of sartorial eccentricity am I frequently likened to the Scarecrow in The Wizard Of Oz.”