They all sat up, as they called it, an action no doubt fixed in Rachel's childhood, when sitting up, rather than sitting down, was compulsory. Joe didn’t want to appear rude and was sat bolt upright with his chest pushed out as far as he possibly could.
As he waited, Joe glanced along the oak runway and silently counted the number of receptacles that cluttered the table. The contents of the red cast-iron saucepan were transferred to similar vessels and then perched at regular intervals on ornamental metal trivets. In time, these spuds and sundry veg’ would find themselves on plates ready to eat.
Derek had been sitting up for Rachel for thirty years and Natasha, their youngest daughter, for over twenty, but they didn’t seem to mind. The Peterson family accepted having to sit up straight, and apart from slightly pronounced sternums, were (more or less) free of disability.
The wine hadn’t yet made it to the table and was waiting dutifully by the fire. It was undoubtedly a good one, smooth as wine buffs say - very smooth. Joe momentarily wondered whether it might be a fruity one, or perhaps possessed a hint of something or other, but he really hadn’t the nose for wine.
Sat at the top of the table Derek broke the silence. ‘Fifty pence a bottle in France’. He then hoisted the bottle to eye level and pointedly examined the label. In a soft Anglo-French accent, Derek proceeded to announce the grapes origin and hinted about the quality. ‘Produce of St. Emilion 1982,’ adding with the softest of sniffs, ‘You can't beat a good Bordeaux can you Rachel?’ Lowering the bottle within a half-inch of his considerable nostrils, the connoisseur, emitted a bolder sniff, and after a short pause, concluded, ‘Superb’.
‘Do you like a Claret Joe?’ Rachel asked politely while Derek tilted the wine bottle and gave the label another once-over...
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