Amidst the dimly lit ambiance of a mahogany-paneled study, Jack sits ensconced in a plush leather armchair. The crystal-cut glass in his hand cradles a golden elixir—the very essence of patience and craftsmanship.

The Cognac swirls gently, its legs clinging to the sides of the glass like silk on skin. Sun-kissed hues play hide-and-seek, revealing amber, russet, and hints of fiery orange. Jack observes, appreciating the liquid’s languid descent—a silent ballet of viscosity. 

He puts the glass to his nose and inhales with reverence.  The bouquet unfurls—a symphony of dried fruits, oak, and vanilla. Apricots sunbathing in orchards, whispers of toasted almonds, and memories of distant cellars. His olfactory senses dance, tracing the lineage of oak barrels and the ghosts of vintages past. 

The glass warms in his palm, a vessel of anticipation. He takes a sip—a mere kiss upon the lips of eternity.  The liquid envelops his tongue, satin against papillae. Velvety, yet spirited. A caress of warmth, like a lover’s breath on a winter night.

The Cognac unfolds its narrative. Raisins and figs pirouette, chased by whispers of leather and tobacco. A hint of orange zest flirts with the palate. The finish—an encore—lingers. Oak and spice, a tango of cinnamon and nutmeg. The afterglow of a thousand sunsets.

Jack leans back, eyes half-closed. Time bends, and he traverses vineyards, distilleries, and forgotten châteaux. He is no longer in the study but in the heart of Cognac country, where the land breathes history.

The glass is empty now, but the memory lingers. Jack knows that Cognac is more than a drink—it’s a passport to moments suspended in amber.  He raises his glass to the invisible artisans—the alchemists who distilled time itself.

And so, Jack savours not just Cognac but life—an elixir to be cherished, shared, and remembered.

And then pours another glass.

Zoe and I are having a massage at home this afternoon

I'd settle for some small muscles!  Never mind huge ones!!