The double Tipo Tinto and Sparletta Sparberry cooldrink he hadn’t finished the night before.

Taunting him, the devlish concoction evilly smiled its sadistic hyper-red grin of victory over his inability to quaff its contents. He walked past it on his way out for his first verandah coffee for the morning, and from his dining room table inside he could hear it sneeringly say “You’re weak!” followed by a vaguely audible tirade of further verbal abuse, belittling him for his inability to consume alcohol “with the big boys”, followed by all manner of accusations while he stood outside taking in the scenery.

It was a beautiful morning with a deep red glow on the underside of the scattered fleecy clouds, suspended motionless above the wind-still and awakening green valleys and hills, which were themselves immersed in folds of white and grey mist interspersed with blue streaks of smoke from chimneys of the valley’s many rustic homes.

He finished his coffee while drinking in the view and then walked back inside as all the while, the Mozambican Rum’s tirade continued.

He was about to walk on by with his coffee mug to the kitchen but suddenly pulled up short at the corner of the table, reached down and picked the glass up to his mouth, after which with three big gulps he swallowed down the lot.

“I will not be spoken to like that in my own home!” he said, putting the empty glass back down.