Picture the scene.
You crack open the fridge, fumble past the leftovers and (hurrah!) locate that jar of mustard that you could have sworn was half-full. Only those deceptive splodges clinging to the sides of the jar are little more than a masquerade of thin smears and (boo!) the jar is, in fact, devoid of any appreciable content.
Where once there was mustard, now there is only disappointment.
Curses! Empty jar syndrome strikes again...
As I climbed out of the taxi, my driver, Anthony, had one last wish for my onward journey:
“Give them my love”, says he, “and tell them to keep brewing the Smithwick’s for me and for you”.
I think he might just have had a tear in his eye as he wished me well, being quite overcome at the thought that I was on my way to visit the Smithwick’s brewery. Having discovered my intended destination, Anthony’s eyes had lit up and his expression become more animated. At the mention of the Irish ale that is Smithwick’s, he had announced proudly “that’s my drink, so it is”.
We had swapped beer stories and talked about that certain solidarity that exists among Smithwick’s drinkers, perhaps the result of always being the odd one out in a sea of Guinness and lager stalwarts.
Smithwick's through the years
I will admit that, having been a Smithwick’s drinker for years, I was just as excited as Anthony was about my visiting the brewery. Forget that I was leaving a half-unpacked house behind me, a visit to Smithwick’s trumped all.