Tonight we went to the Scotch Malt Whisky Society, where we ordered drams not by distillery but by tasting notes and clever names. I drank “Eating custard in an old Jag” and “Ice Cream Sundae” and neglected to find out what they actually were. On purpose. Some experiences are not meant to be replicated. We will be back to the Vaults, of course, but I appreciated the mystique and wonder of this introduction, especially after so many years of FunkyPlaid wanting me to see it, and especially on Hawk’s last night in town.
I am not going to dwell on that “last night in town” part, although it is weighing on me. As I write this, we are all sitting companionably in our lounge like we live in the same city, like we did before. The hardest part of this move was always going to be this ache of separation from those we hold dear. No surprise there, but the feeling does not seem to lessen with time.
Grasping, flailing at the now. I’d like to be better at this existing in the moment thing everyone raves about, but I will settle for melodramatic, whisky-fuelled journal entries.