An expensive bottle of wine

The other day I went completely mad and spent nearly $25 on a bottle of Joie Farm rosé. There was a time when I could easily afford to do this on a semi-regular basis. That time is long since gone, but, damn it, I was making myself a nice prawn and pasta dinner and I wanted a good bottle of wine to go with it. Normally these days, my definition of a good bottle of wine has never exceeded the $15-18 range, but I wanted a good rosé and none of the cheaper ones on offer seemed likely to meet my criteria.

So, what’s the harm, really? A good bottle of wine every now and then can’t be such a bad thing, can it? Well, it turns out it can if you’ve forgotten the monthly car insurance payment hasn’t yet gone out of your account. Oops. I now cannot spend any money until Friday. No going to the pub for the $10 burger and beer special tomorrow night. No more bottles of wine. (Unless I drink the last bottle of Oyster Bay in the wine rack and I’m not going to do that, because there is no special occasion this week.)

Fortunately I have all the ingredients I need to bake bread (there is a loaf in the oven as I type) and make granola. There is a large tin of crushed tomatoes in the pantry cupboard and some pasta. I’m certainly not going to starve. If the car, which is running close to empty, has to have some petrol put into it, that will have to go on a credit card, but I’m hoping what there is will last four days.

I’ve said this before and I will say it again I’m sure: being poor sucks. It really does.

I would have been all right this month, but the property tax had to be paid. Every year, after those hundreds of dollars disappear from my account, I tell myself I will start paying this in instalments, so July doesn’t end up being such a tough month and then I forget. And then all I have to do is spend $25 on a bottle of wine to be completely fucked until the end of the month.

Oh, look, I’m saying it again already: being poor fucking sucks.

But the occasional rebellion against poverty has its charms. I’ve limited myself to one glass per night of the rosé, which means there is a glass left for this evening.

And it’s bloody good.