The double Tipo Tinto and Sparletta Sparberry cooldrink he hadn’t finished the night before.
Mocking and taunting him, the devlish concoction evilly smiled its sadistic artificially red grin of victory and dominance over his inability to quaff its contents. As he walked past it on his way out for his first verandah coffee for the morning, from his dining room table he could hear it say “You’re weak!” followed by a vaguely audible tirade of verbal abuse from indoors, berating him for his inability to consume alcohol “with the big boys”, followed by all manner of accusations and belittling 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 awakening green valleys and hills, which were themselves immersed in folds of white and grey mist interspersed with blue streaks of smoke from fires in the hearths 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.