Loire 2024
Mademoiselle Agricultrice rolled over on her bunk, her cerebral cortex beginning the slow and unwilling transition from somnolence to sentience.
Her senses activated in turn, and as they did so she became aware of the continued pitter-patter on the skylight above.
“What a surprise,” she groaned. “It’s raining. Again.”
It was June 2024. And it had been raining on and off – although with much more ‘on’ than ‘off’ – since November 2023. Eight months of almost constant rain. The volume of water that had fallen on her many parcels of vines since January was already approaching the average annual total figure. And there were still six months of the year to go.
She swung her feet off the side of the bed, and pivoted into an upright position. She stopped moving at the appropriate moment, although the room around her seemed to continue in a swirling and perpetual motion, building into a nausea-inducing spin.
“Oh,” she groaned again. “That’s not good. What in God’s name did I drink last night?”
She reached out for the crumpled packet of Gauloises sitting on an upturned bucket at the side of the bed, and after a brief fumble around she located some matches. Lighting the cigarette, she lay back down.
“I think,” she spoke out loud, “I will lay here for a while.”
She inhaled deeply, and closed her eyes.
-o-
One litre of rehydration, two hours and five cigarettes later, Mademoiselle Agricultrice was brewing coffee in her kitchenette – little more than a sink and kettle in the corner of her cellar – when there came a knock on the door. And in walked her friend and mentor, the renowned Anjou vigneron Barf Martelli.
“Hey, will this bad weather never end?” he shouted across the cellar, without even looking up. “I have never seen such miserable clouds!”
