“They have re-launched ‘Cold Duck”, said my friendly neighbour. “The old drinking gang should get back together – it will be a blast,” she continued. “Bring a bottle and we will celebrate its resurgence. Let’s re-live those good old days of the 1980’s”
A trip down memory lane it was supposed to be. Housewives of the 1980s loved this red sparkling wine even though it was known to be made by mixing all the dregs of unfinished wine bottles with a sweet sparkling wine.
What I remembered about those days were the long hours coping with three young kids all day at home whilst the menfolk worked all day, stopping off for a pint or two on their way home. I also remembered that when wine became available at the supermarket it could be purchased along with the groceries. That was a trap for us bored housewives. No wonder we resorted to drinking Cold Duck in the late afternoon.
It was decided. The date was set. Simple rules established. Each couple was to bring a bottle of the relaunched 1990s vintage. We would play 80’s music, eat 80-style fondues and pineapples on sticks – and wear our afro wigs and flares.
The weekend arrived, as did the drinking gang of old. We lined up the bottles of Cold Duck – yes even the men thought they could join in and didn’t bring any beer.
The first bottle was opened. The old familiar aroma fizzed out of the bottle. “OMG”, said I. They do say that smells evoke memories. Unfortunately the memories were not so great. Chills shuddered down my back. My stomach roiled at the memories of those hangovers from long ago.
The advertising blurb should have been a warning to us – “Quackers is Back”
Cold Duck – such a delightful way to be bamboozled – NOT.
This is a response to a Flash Fiction prompt from ‘Putting My Feet In the Dirt’, July Writing Prompts hosted by ‘M’