An infection, a reflection, a beer

Let's establish the facts:

Moved house. Contracted a chest infection. Been out-of-this-world-knackered for days. Recovered enough today to fill a skip with the flotsam from my cultural ebb and flow. Now particularly knackered, but in a pleasantly-tired way rather than a my-body-is-eating-itself way.

So there's been neither time nor inclination to write about beer.Let's change that.

I could write about this time last Saturday; a handful of brewers, a table full of beers and a fair few backslaps and man-hugs as we said goodbye to Kelly 'Tigger' Ryan from Thornbridge. But you don't want to know about Bracia, Thornbridge lager and home-made gueuze, do you?

You do? Sorry. Ain't gonna happen.

Here's what's happening this Saturday. I stink. Six hours dipping into a skip and introducing a lump hammer to recalcitrant furniture does that to a man. When I'd finished, I knew just what to do.

I didn't want harsh citric hops. I didn't want treacle-caramel malt.

I. Just. Wanted. A. Beer.

So here I am, with a six-pack of diddy Stella bottles and that aaaaaaah moment.

As in - aaaaaaah, beer. Not ooooh! Triple-dubbel-cranberry-hefe!

Just. Aaaaaaah. Beer.

A cold one. Something to glug. To knock the froth off. To scratch that itch halfway down by dusty throat.

Why Stella? It's the first beer I ever bought from the off-license. It's a beer I know I can buy from my local off-license today.  It's the beer I've been drinking at one certain bar for over sixteen years.

It's because I rather like it.