No. 0549 out of 1,000. The frolic, the bourgeoisie and the limited Star of Bombay.
D a she stands and looks at me. In the middle of the living room table. The No. 0549. Swallow! One of the 1,000 bottles of Star of Bombay Limited Edition in the world. I look at her and slide a fingertip over the filigree engraved laser engraving on the glass. The gold printed light blue tissue paper in the box at my feet rustles somehow automatically very English. I stare ... awesome. It's a dumb conversation. Between the No. 0549 and me.
When we came home from vacation, a nondescript, rectangular package stood in the corner hallway between bike and scooter in front of our door. While we balance various suitcases on the threshold, I have overlooked the first smooth. The child came up with it: Mom, a package - certainly for you. Jau. To me. From London. What. Unpacked, unpacked, read the attached cover letter and fell into paralysis.
I am bad with expensive and limited stuff. Right, really bad. Grottenschlecht. Somehow I have the feeling that I always have to keep it for DEN right moment. If necessary also for years for decades. Because these correct moments are rather rare. Yes, I know - that's totally stuffy. But I get out of this number only very bad. So I have already brought several widows around the corner. The titillating champagne ladies lay on my dresser for so long and were lovingly eyed and petted until they turned out to be amber pests with sherry attitude at the crucial moment (which often had - boah cliché! - had to do with foam baths in bathtubs). Widow murder by perseverance. Dreadful! Every time I vowed that the next time I would really and directly turn the stuff on Ex and cant. * Peeeep * on the bubble baths! A medium-heavy, hazy Tuesday evening is also perfect for a glass of luxury. It's like that. So much for the theory.
My reverent stare is interrupted by the man showing up with shark grins and matching glasses in the living room door. "A sip?" He coos. The man has no problem with rare stuff. And he even has the right, irritating jingling ice cubes. Smoothly he approaches the bottle.
"I just looked it up on the internet", the man explains casually and gently weighs the bottles in his hand. "Star of Bombay is hand-made at the newly opened Bombay Sapphire distillery in Laverstoke Mill, Hampshire. The whole thing is a mini-series, which should have a very intense aroma through a slower distillation and a special botanical blend with bergamot and ambrette seeds. And besides, they are particularly proud that the handpicked ingredients come from all the impossible corners of the world. "" Uh yes, I had just read that. "" I'm very excited! Do you want to open it or should I ...? "The man is serious. I nod to him. A blast goes over his face and then I hear him opening the bottle. Then he gives with a soft cluck. "Madam, your glass 5 o'clock gin." He gives the distinctively distinguished butler and with a little bow, serves the drinks. I take the cool glass in my hand. Hell with psychology.
The drop is sucked - the bottle is open. I can relax and enjoy myself. That's just how we do it now. The man heads the rarities for me and I wash my hands completely relaxed in innocence. That's a plan, is not it?Did he promise.