It has been my habit for a long that, when my body starts telling my head at around 6.00 pm, “Erh hem! About time for a snifter?”, I stop drinking for a week. This is probably just superstition, but for the first couple of days, there is this odd feeling, not unlike an awareness of a shy butler waiting to be asked to fetch a wee dram. By the end of the week, the butler has gone away, but I do look forward to a decent single malt again.
I suppose it might be possible to import a case. But (a) a case of whisky seems rather a lot and (b) this smacks of desperation. Can’t I just have another whisky? No! This is the one I like.
In Pakistan, where I used to go for work from time to time, you can buy spirits in hotels, but only if you sign a form saying, in effect, “I am a heathen and I need it”. And what you get there – locally distilled apparently – is truly awful. So better there to take your own.
I am mid-week, and looking forward to a single malt next Thursday.