Sherry gone. Cheap brandy bought for setting fire to, gone. Marsala bought for sauces and gravy, gone. Wine, beer, gin, all gone - obviously. Port, tragically, always the first casualty. Survivors: Whisky, quite a lot left to hold our hands through the nights ahead. //Creepy Nigel Slater// The emergency, shop-bought Christmas pudding is still in its dischordant red crinkly wrapping, with a best-before date of about 2028 protecting its modesty. And animal fats, poured off various roasts, sit solidly in little pots at the back of the fridge - globular relics of the slaughtered beasts we feasted on, pulled crackers over, picked apart late at night with a guilty sideways glance. (PS Have never managed to sustain a "drinks cabinet" like proper grown up people. It's a bottle to bottle existence in the Max household. If there's booze in, it gets drunk and then we get some more when required.)