The
bottle stood motionless on the kitchen table as I approached with the power
drill ready to make my attack. My association with this object had started with
desire, but had changed into hatred and, as the day had progressed, into
challenge. Pure challenge. In my mind this bottle had become almost human in
its defiance as this object had resisted all attempts to allow access to its
content. Earlier that morning, the clear blue sky and a light, warm sea breeze
promised a pleasant day ahead and in all my imaginings, I could never have
anticipated how events would turn out.
I left
the supermarket in high spirits anticipating my day trip to France with some
bread rolls in my sports grip resting close to a bottle of sparkling wine. The
image of a late breakfast in France looked an attractive prospect. The trip to
the hover port had been uneventful and with my ticket and passport now safely
in my bag, I moved on towards the departure lounge. Even though there were no
shutters in place, the refreshment bar was apparently closed as I felt a
growing thirst-like hunger. Rapidly images flicked through my mind of how to
satisfy my immediate needs and the picture of the wine bottle entered my
thoughts. I opened the bag and lifted out the bottle, feeling a momentary doubt
about what I planned to do. My thirst quickly despatched any hesitation. After
all this was a pre-Christmas day out and taking refreshment a little earlier
than usual didn't seem to be an issue.
I
removed the metal cage covering the cork and prepared to push out the soft
material to access the cool contents within. The curved top of the cork bent
slightly as I pressed up and down upon it with my thumbs. The cork didn't budge
and there was no familiar squeak as the cork should have been twisted upwards
and out from the neck of the bottle.
Silence.
The
loudspeaker announced the imminent departure of the flight to France and I put
the bottle back in my grip as I joined the small number of my fellow passengers
and moved towards the waiting hovercraft. The giant propellers were turning
slowly and blowing gently against the light breeze as it stood with its skirt
flattened under the weight of the machine on the apron. I took to my seat and
waited. The engines grew noisy as the hovercraft was lifted up on the cushion
of air and swung around to point towards the open sea. The machine quickly
increased its speed and flying over the sea even if only a few feet above the
surface was very uncomfortable. I couldn't see anything through the spray all
over the windows and thoughts of a car without tyres or suspension came into my
mind. Any excitement I had felt about my first trip on a hovercraft were
quickly dashed. Travel by hovercraft seemed very functional and not
particularly interesting.
Although
the journey was very bumpy it didn't affect my feelings of hunger or thirst and
my thoughts quickly turned to the image of the wine bottle in my bag. I
retrieved it with the full intention of opening it directly and having an early
breakfast. I continued to massage the cork to effect its extraction. It still
refused to move. I began to regret not having a conventional bottle opener,
even though this type of cork shouldn't require one. I pushed it and tried to
twist it. I tried a push and a twist together. Nothing. I grabbed the cork head
firmly in my hand and more forcefully pulled it. Twisted it. Twisted and pulled
it. No movement. I left my seat in search of cabin staff.
I was
directed to the car deck where I found a crewmember wearing a red overall. I
explained my problem and he disappeared to retrieve his toolbox. While he was
gone I looked at the cars in front of me. Never before had I seen vehicles
bounce to the full extreme of the wheel springs only held on the floor by the
restraining chains. If the chains had been a little weaker the cars would have
left the ground and really flown over to France. I vowed at that moment to
never bring my car onto a hovercraft.
The engineer
returned and we tried pliers, screwdrivers and various other strange looking
tools from his box. The cork remained in the bottle. The last action was to jam
the cork in the jaws of a closing door and tug on the bottle. The cork would
not move. I thanked him for his help and returned to my seat even more thirsty
than before all the exertion.
I
disembarked from the hovercraft with my unopened bottle of wine in my bag and a
grim look on my face. I knew that I should have abandoned the bottle, but it had
become a challenge to me. A glass bottle would not beat me though at that
moment it did appear to be winning. I bought some water in a plastic bottle
after I had cup of coffee, with the bread rolls left in my bag. I had no desire
for food.
A
thought struck me that the stone kerb would be a good place to crack open my
glass bottle until I realised this would not be such a good idea. The contents
were under pressure and smashing open the bottle would probably end up with me
being showered in glass. It could even be a dangerously explosive experience. I
decided to forget this brainwave and simply move on.
The
day progressed and I spent a large part of that day looking around shops and
noticed that all the local buses displayed a sign in French meaning a Happy New
Year. By that time I was in a festive spirit since after several cups of
coffee, each being chased by a brandy, thoughts of the wine bottle were almost
gone. The bottle was quite heavy so I did get a constant reminder that it was
still with me.
The return
hovercraft trip across the channel was more bumpy than the outward journey, but
I eventually reached my home. I emptied all my bags onto the kitchen table and
there stood that bottle with its battered cork still inside its neck. It seemed
to be looking at me. And I could see a smile in the glass of the bottle. The
time had come for a showdown. I would have the last laugh and the cork would be
beaten. I did need a power drill to help me. The bottle stood upright without a
cork and the contents still sparkled almost, it seemed, in contempt.
On my
lounge wall is a picture of a hovercraft covered by falling snow. A careful
look will reveal that the snow is writer's correction fluid painted on top of
many fragments of cork.
Louis
Brothnias 2007 (December)