My grannie, a proud working-class woman, had a fake crystal decanter on display in a glass cabinet, filled with weak tea. We all assumed it was sherry, and she didn’t disabuse us. I discovered the truth when I opened the lock with a hairgrip and took a swift glug. My face must have been a picture.
Grannie worked in service, cleaning the house of a well-to-do family on the other side of the tracks. I reckon they had a proper decanter filled with the real McCoy, and she would have had the odd swig of it to help her get through scrubbing the fire grates.
My relationship with sherry had a terrible beginning. I was 16 and was persuaded by some friends to club together to buy a pint of the loose stuff from the corner shop
Having been Britain’s favourite wine in the 1970s, today it is either ignored or laughed at.
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