A Port-drinker's Nightmare

[DRT]

Once upon a time in a far away land there was a port-drinker. He spent many years drinking port at home, secure in the knowledge that no one would steal his precious juice.

Then, one day, whilst he was out in the snow chopping logs for the fire, a wicked witch appeared at the kitchen door and said "can I have a glass of your port?". The port-drinker was worried about the consequences but reluctantly agreed. A few days passed and each day, when the port-drinker was out chopping logs to keep his family warm, the wicked witch would appear at the door and ask for more port. Very soon the port-drinker realised that his days of opening a bottle of port and knowing it was all his were gone.



Port-drinker.

[jdaw1]

"can I have a glass of your port?"

I like the careful phrasing: she was not seeking permission (‟may!”), she was seeking validation of the strength of her evil spell-casting. And given the subsequent disappearance of the poor wood-chopper’s Port, we can know that:

• He did not sell his family reserve to a large port company for re-sale at enormous expense;
• The spell-casting of the wicked witch was indeed powerful.

[DRT]

"can I have a glass of your port?"

I like the careful phrasing: she was not seeking permission (‟may!”), she was seeking validation of the strength of her evil spell-casting. And given the subsequent disappearance of the poor wood-chopper’s Port, we can know that:

• He did not sell his family reserve to a large port company for re-sale at enormous expense;
• The spell-casting of the wicked witch was indeed powerful.

To summarise: "A Port-drinker's Nightmare".

[jdaw1]

Once upon a time there was a man, not wealthy, with a Gladstonian habit of killing trees, who drank without pleasure, merely for the alcohol. There lived nearby a witch, a good witch, though age had diminished her looks, once Billie Burke, now Margaret Hamilton.

This witch knew of her neighbour’s inheritance, and that it was being wasted on wasting him. She also knew that, with drink inside him, her neighbour was a tyrant to his family. So, by some witchy mischief, the details of which are a secret of her profession, she took away that 1855 inheritance, and sent it to some English gentlemen whom she knew would appreciate it.

The man became sober, and took a job as a hotel manager somewhere in Northern Portugal. Everybody lived happily every after.

[DRT]

sent it to some English gentlemen whom she knew would appreciate it.

The wood-chopper spotted the sculduggery and sent forth a plague of diappointment and evil thoughts to his once friend who had taken to living amongst the tadpole-bearers.

[jdaw1]

If a real witch sent me Port, I’d share. Might even let you taste it first.

[Alex Bridgeman]

So, is the morale of the stories "Don't run out of port lest the wicked witch starts to demand even worse"?