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Paradise Lost

Paradise Lost

The other day, I had what I like to think of as a ‘George Bowling moment’: I had been looking at the face reflected back at me from our small bathroom mirror, telling myself that age had been, so far, not unkind to me, when the sun emerged from behind a gloomy- looking cloud on the horizon and illuminated a broad expanse of scalp through my thinning hair. Within the hour, I had booked myself an appointment with my hairdresser, and within the week I had adopted, on their advice, a more flattering haircut for a man of my age.
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Extract from The Wine Lover’s Daughter | Chapter 1

Extract from The Wine Lover’s Daughter | Chapter 1

My father was a lousy driver and a two-finger typist, but he could open a wine bottle as deftly as any swain ever undressed his lover. Nearly every evening of my childhood, I watched him cut the capsule – the foil sleeve that sheathes the bottle neck – with a sharp knife. Then he plunged the bore of a butterfly corkscrew into the exact center of the cork, twirled the handle, and, after the brass levers rose like two supplicant arms, pushed them down and gently twisted out the cork.

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