My palate and the plague

Later this week, on Spectator.co.uk, I will resolve a mystery that has featured in a lot of Zoom traffic around St James’s — plus a lesser–known puzzle. The first: why has Anderson been absent from The Spectator? The second: why has he been more or less off the grog for a month? The two are related. I have had the plague, and though I am recovering, my superb doctor thinks I should stay dry for a little longer.

I have no wish to become a virus bore. Those who would like more information can read Coffee House; those who are already yawning with tedium will know what to avoid. But just before my little life may have been almost rounded by a sleep, there was an outstanding tasting: suitable for a condemned man’s last drop. It was organised by my friend Jim Guiang: oil-man, huntsman, more than useful with a musket, oenophile and all-round bon œuf.