The time of dawdling tractors is upon us again: queues of irate drivers trying to overtake the grape laden vehicles, as they make their way to the squashing plants. Chez nous, it's a small affaire, a couple of bowls of green and purple muscat grapes. Each year Mark says, "hey we could make our own wine!" and I say, "what's the point when we are surrounded by excellent producers." My only memories of my fellow student's efforts were bidons of foul-smelling cloudy stuff which would be brilliant for maintaining a car battery. It was often drunk at the end of some sordid party in the days when we still didn't remember what it would be like waking to find your brain had been taken away, jumped on in the night, and put back the wrong way up.