God, I hate going into crowded pubs by myself.  Especially ones like this, with the creaky doors that announce your arrival to all and sundry.  It’s as if everyone’s obliged to look up from their pints to see who this is, letting all the cold air in and taking up even more space by the bar.  Relax, it’s not Kylie Minogue on a well-earned pub-crawl.  It’s just little old me. 

I head straight for the bar and order a Southern Comfort and lemonade.  The barman raises his pierced eyebrow at me.

“Sorry, this is a specialist wine bar.  We don’t do Southern Comfort.  And our lemonade is home-made, with real lemons.”

Specialist wine bar?  Who are they trying to kid; this is a backstreet pub in deepest Essex, not Mayfair – and perhaps all that elitist crap would seem more authentic if the barman didn’t have a shaved head, wasn’t wearing one earring and didn’t have ‘Love’ and ‘Hate’ tattooed across his knuckles.  Still, I smile and thank him politely (although I don’t know what for) and settle for a “supreme” gin and tonic instead. 

“This is going to be fun…” I whisper to myself as I scan the room, looking for my daughter’s headmistress, Miss Kelly, the one who’s responsible for dragging me here tonight when I could have been at home in front of the fire, watching EastEnders with a cup of steaming hot chocolate.

Finally I spot her, over in the corner, talking to some of the other parents from the private fee-paying school that we were desperate to send Alicia to, until she got in and we realised how much commitment it required from us as parents.  Such as going to pretentious wine-tasting evenings with people you’ve never met and who you’ll have nothing in common with except that your kids are in the same class at school.  But social obligations have to be fulfilled, and I beam Miss Kelly a false mega-watt smile as she approaches me.

“Hello there, how lovely of you to come.  We’ve reserved a few tables at the back.  Do come and sit down…”

I’m ushered over to a candle-lit table at the back of this windowless, spit and sawdust “specialist wine bar”, at which four other people are already seated and talking animatedly.   

“This is Sarah Parker” Miss Kelly announces as I take my seat.  The foursome look up and smile politely as Miss Kelly rushes off to greet the latest round of newcomers and they introduce themselves to me.  I forget their real names instantly as I notice that one of them is the spitting image of Ben Elton; his wife a plump Joanna Lumley.  The other couple remind me of TV’s Phil and Fern, hissing with laughter into their menus at a private joke. 

I’m painfully aware that I’m unaccompanied; my husband left me two weeks ago because he “couldn’t cope” with family life any more.  Oh, I know that’s a polite euphemism for “shagging his secretary”, but at least he made some kind of effort to cushion the blow.  I try to soften my expression and smile as I sit down; unfortunately I’ve got one of those faces that betrays every thought I have and I don’t want to get off to a bad start with these people…no worse than I know I’m going to, anyway.  Not once they all see what a fraud I am – no husband, no job, no prospects and bugger-all knowledge about wine.  And all at the grand old age of thirty-one.  I didn’t even go to a school like St. Helen’s when I was younger, just a common-or-garden comprehensive (and the top of a list of fifty worst schools in Essex, at that).

Ben hands me a list of the wines we’re going to be tasting tonight; on the top is written ‘Friends of St. Mark’s Wine Tasting’.  I suppose I’m more of an acquaintance really, but thanks for the thought.  The names of the wines make no sense to me as I scan the list, but I nod approvingly as I read through them.

“So what do you do then, Sarah?” Joanna asks me.  I hesitate as I decide whether to mention my part-time cleaning job, but it doesn’t matter anyway as she jumps in herself, telling me all about the theatre company she and Ben own together.  When Phil probes further they seem reluctant to admit that their last production was that pantomime on the seafront theatre “starring” Little and Large.  Still, it seems to bring the money in judging by their flashy ‘his and hers’ Rolexes and suspiciously dazzling teeth.

I’m saved from any further faux-questioning by the sound of an older man with a beard getting up and clearing his throat; you can tell he is the wine expert even before he opens his mouth and starts droning on about the differences between Spanish and Argentinean Rioja.  Everyone listens politely to his talk about the different wines we’re about to taste, and which is the correct pronunciation of ‘Bianchi’, while all I want is something hot to eat or drink.  There are packets of dry crackers on the table for us to eat between wines; I pull them gratefully towards me and the packet splits, showering crumbs all over Ben.  He smiles as he brushes his jacket free, but I’m cringing inside…this is the sort of thing I do all the time. 

The first two wines are poured into our glasses for us to taste; the first is some sort of Cava, the second something called ‘Brut Reserva’, which sounds exactly like another Cava with a fancier name.  I take a tentative sip of the first one.  It’s OK, I suppose – fizzy, alcoholic…what you’d expect Cava to taste like.  I’m asked what I think.

“Ermmm…I think they’re both very nice, thank you!” 

Oh, how horribly twee…no wonder the conversation is then directed elsewhere, as Phil, Fern, Joanna and Ben discuss the merits of small over large bubbles.  I sit and drain both glasses of wine.  Disappointingly, there is only minor glass swilling and absolutely no spitting out.

Phil and Fern are talking about their impending skiing holiday.  I smile politely and ask nice questions about skiing as the next two wines are poured into fresh, large-sized glasses.  These are red wines, a Rioja and a Mendoza, or whatever it’s called.  I knock both of these back without really registering their taste, even though Ben describes one of them as being like “burst cherries on your tongue”.  Personally I think he could have rephrased that and smile, but then I see everyone else seriously nodding along, so I join in.

Then the port arrives and I’m noticing how loud everybody’s voices are becoming.  I’m feeling much more relaxed now and there’s a strange buzzing in my head.  I suddenly feel a strong urge to tell Phil and Fern all about my upcoming two-star package holiday, even though they didn’t actually ask me anything about it.  At least I think they didn’t.  But I tell them anyway; shamefully tiny villa and all, and then I just start laughing uncontrollably.  No idea why, but damn it if Joanna doesn’t ask.

“Oh, just me, at a wine tasting event!”  I hear myself saying (or is it slurring?) "I don’t even know anything about wine!”  More laughter.  “And mixing with you lot?  God, we’ve got about as much in common as shit and shandy.” I cringe even as I say this…my Essex accent becomes a lot coarser with drink and I can hear it even more acutely now, grating on their delicate ears. 

And then I take a swig from the port bottle conveniently standing on our table, but suddenly it tastes like poison, so I grab Ben’s glass and spit out my mouthful of into it. 

There is a stunned silence.  Not just around the table, but among the whole group of wine tasters.  And suddenly I’m not in control of my brain any more, as all I can do is laugh uncontrollably again as Miss Kelly approaches the table and suggests…what is it she says?…that I might be better off at home.  Patronising cow, I think, and I tell her so.  Then – and I don’t know why – I burst into tears and suddenly I’m sobbing uncontrollably on Miss Kelly’s shoulder.  A tad embarrassing seeing as I’ve only ever met her twice, and it’s obvious that she doesn’t know what to do; she’s just standing there, rigid.  For a fleeting second I hope she’d be a bit more comforting if my little girl ever goes to see her in tears.  And then it dawns on me – my God, these people all have little girls too, who know Alicia – this could get round the school. 

This thought sobers me up a bit, and I start apologising profusely to the blurry faces around me.  I feel like I’m floating above the ground, watching myself as a pint glass of water is brought over to me and I calmly blurt out the whole pathetic, sorry story about my husband and how I feel like I’m worthless and can’t cope, and God only knows what’s going to happen to me and Alicia.  That’s it now.  I start feeling around for my coat and handbag; they’re going to throw me out, for sure.

And then a funny thing happens.  Fern comes over and puts an arm round me and tells me not to worry.  Phil’s her second husband, the first one walked out on her, and she actually doesn’t know anything about wine either.  People start nodding in agreement, and suddenly everyone’s queuing up to recount their most embarrassing alcohol-induced moments.  A well-dressed man in the corner explains in his plummy accent that he once mistook his washing machine for a urinal, much to his wife’s disgust.  There’s raucous laughter coming from every which way, and we’re attracting a lot of amused attention from the pub (sorry, ‘specialist wine bar’) regulars.  Joanna and I are clumsily demonstrating the ‘Macarena’ to Phil, who’s never heard of it before…or so he says.  Ben’s telling an anecdote about Little and Large, backstage groupies, champagne and some dried fruit (you don’t want me to go on), and even Miss Kelly’s having a laugh.  The only person who’s still a bit non-plussed is the wine expert, but come on, what else do you expect, supplying a large group of people with endless glasses of wine?  Anyway, he cheers up a bit when we all buy a bottle of wine each – I don’t think anyone cared which one.

And by the end of the evening I’ve arranged to meet up with Fern and Joanna for a girls’ evening next week, and Ben has given me some free tickets to their next production (an ABBA tribute musical, but beggars can’t be choosers).  And I guess I’ll have to learn all their real names now. 

There’s a funny, warm glow enveloping me as I finally leave and say goodbye to everyone.  Yes, I know it’s mostly the alcohol but I seriously haven’t felt this good in a while, and there’s a genuine smile on my face as I get into a cab and head for home.  It might take a bit of time, but maybe things will turn out alright for me after all.