Day one. The infernal machine isn’t working. I dreamt I had it all up and running last night, so obviously I assumed that today would be the day. I hate fate.

Still, obligations are obligations and the show must go on and once more unto the breach and all that nonsense. I suppose if I spend another hour or so and a snifter or two tinkering, no could blame me. After all it’s the effort you put in, not the goals that you achieve that count. And I suppose the fun you have along the way.

Of course none of the glasses are clean again. I really must do something about getting some help around here. Maybe they could help with the machine too. That’s the ticket: a warm body to tidy up, keep the snifter full and deliver a whack or two to that miserable hunk of junk. Now where is that bottle?

I simply adore this chair. The light is right, the view sublime and it is to comfort what a mediocre bottle of Californian Pinot is to a 78 Romanée Conti. In fact, sitting really reminds of that summer in Bourgogne. Of course that might be the smell of spilled wine. Ha. Still, a moment here won’t be wasted. After all the machine isn’t going anywhere, more’s the pity. Another splash, I think.

I suppose I could do something about that; who’s to notice? The wretched thing has been forgotten by everyone else. No one has asked about it in years. It just sits there, mocking my efforts, unmanning me at its convenience. Well, at least I don’t have to dust it. Whatever those vibrations are, they certainly keep it polished up nicely; plays hell with my decanters, though. Too bad, it would make a lovely end table.

Ah, that’s nice. I always did pity those unfortunates who couldn’t bring themselves to step up and acquire the good stuff. Life’s too short. Better to drink today than drown tomorrow… Must remember that one, sounds profound without committing myself to any real philosophy. Wouldn’t do to be labeled at my age now, would it.

Still, I suppose that we all have our prices to pay. And right now it’s that misbegotten hunk of whatever sitting right there in my sitting room, like it belongs there instead of in whatever bizarre vortex it manifested itself from. A plague on me. A plague on my family. A plague of unimaginable proportions, and someone else should be dealing with this. I have no idea what I ever did to deserve it. Where is that miserable bottle? Ridiculous situation. Simply untenable and ridiculous.

Still. Keeps me in refreshments. At least for the nonce. And the chair is comfortable. And the light, so warm, comfortable indeed.