Octomore (more than I can afford, that is)

The establishment at which I’m staying at present has a rather fantastic bar. Not only do they stock a wide variety of locally produced and specialist ales, ciders and beers – which I could definitely be persuaded to give a try, but they also do a fine line in gin varieties, (not really my thing, but if that’s your poison, who am I to question?)

Where they really excel however, is with their whisky collection – the list runs to 25 pages and 164 varieties, ranging from traditional Scottish, Irish and bourbons to Welsh, Japanese, Indian and even Swedish distillations. Amongst them are featured some of my own favourites, although I’ll be the first to admit, I’m no expert in the matter, and neither do I walk the hallowed paths of the rarest and most cherished blends and single malts, although, there are those moments when I simply can’t help wondering…

Behind the bar sits a distinctive bottle, the pale turquoise of a February morning sky in the Scottish Isles: a Bruichladdich Classic Laddie Scottish Barley… £355 a bottle; but even that pales into insignificance next to its slim, dark, slightly oddly shaped stablemate… The 2003, 5 year old First Edition Octomore – a snip at £950 a bottle!

How much would I love to give them a try?… But, since the prices per measure are conspicuous by their absence on the aforementioned list – even though a full, and otherwise complete, loving description of every other aspect of each is given, I’d feel both a little bit afraid, and a whole load of stupid, about asking the cost of a dram or two, knowing it’s likely to be well above what I’d be prepared, or able to pay; so I can but look longingly at those bottles, gently mocking me from their spot behind the bar.

One day, maybe.

I guess until that day comes – if ever it does – I should resign myself to being happy with my lot, something that I’ve grown accustomed to in relation to SL.

You see, if I could, I’d be super sizing my inworld activities and living my SLife to the absolute max. Right now, I’m probably at my limit – I’m custodian of a pretty decently sized plot, big enough to give me plenty of room to breathe, space for my Gallery, nightclub, living space, a couple of railway stations and my own miniature narrow gauge railway, happily steaming away. All that, and I still have room for a build space and a fair bit of expansion.

You’d think that would be more than enough, and to be honest, it really should… But, deep down inside, what I really want is a whole region to myself: Somewhere I can build mountain ranges, sprawling cities, great expanses of parkland, and – of course – a fully functioning railway network, unconstrained by parcel boundaries, neighbours or the need to conserve prim counts. Absolute bliss!

Unfortunately, such space and freedom comes at a cost – maybe not quite the same degree of extravagance as a bottle of Bruichladdich, but certainly beyond my means at the present time, and like the whisky, even if I could afford it, I really don’t think I could justify the expense. You see, at heart, I’m really not a high flyer at all and when it comes to splashing the cash I’m not tight-fisted, but I’m also not going to be flashy just for the sake of it. So even if I could, I probably wouldn’t.

That’s not to say that I won’t continue to imagine what it might be like to have all that space to play with,but sometimes the dream can be better than the reality,and I can’t help but wonder if I’d even be satisfied with that – would I always be wanting just that little bit more space? A smidgen more land? A tiny bit more room to expand into? The truth is that I don’t really know, but I probably would and that is probably the best reason of all not to aspire to greatness… Maybe I should just be happy with what I’ve got and enjoy what I have, because – in reality – it’s unlikely that will change, so why not make the most of what is, rather than being unhappy with what it isn’t?

And whisky doesn’t have to break the bank to be good!

s. x

Musha rain dum a doo, dum a da
Whack for my daddy, oh
Whack for my daddy, oh
There’s whiskey in the jar, oh
Thin Lizzy – Whisky In The Jar

This entry was posted in Builder's bum, Philosophicalisticality, RL, SL. Bookmark the permalink.

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