Champagne Problems Quotes

Anyway, how about some champagne?” “Blaire, champagne won’t make your problems go away.” “You’re right. However, champagne makes everything better.”      

Yeah. I'm the fly in the soup. I don't like it any better than you do. Flies don't like being swamped in soup, especially when it's hot.

Pride combined with wealth leads to idleness because you falsely feel that God just wants you to have fun; if unchecked, this sin will grow into entertainment-driven lust; if unchecked, this sin will grow into hardness of heart that declares other people’s problems no responsibility or care of your own; if unchecked, we become bold in our sin and feel entitled to live selfish lives fueled by the twin values of our culture: acquiring and achieving.

The root problem with conventional currency is all the trust that’s required to make it work. The central bank must be trusted notto debase the currency, but the history of fiat currencies is full of breaches of that trust. Banks must be trusted to hold our money and transfer it electronically, but they lend it out in waves of credit bubbles with barely a fraction in reserve.

That’s just a champagne problem.” “A what?” “That’s what my professor calls problems that seem like a big deal, but aren’t in the grand scheme of things. They explode dramatically, like champagne, then fizzle out.

Christians always seemed like bad thinkers to me. It seemed that they could maintain their worldview only because they were sheltered from the world’s real problems, like the material structures of poverty and violence and racism.

I had this idea we would have ordered some good champagne, launched toast after toast to our humanity, which after all had created everything: the opportunities for the bug, the bug itself, and its solution. I think now it might have changed us, softened our failures, made us feel we belonged to—had a true stake in—those lives full of code we had separately stumbled into. I like to think it would have reassured him, saved him: To know that at the heart of the problem was the ancient mystery of time. To discover that between the blinks of the machine’s shuttered eye—going on without pause or cease; simulated, imagined, but still not caught—was life.

Champagne, m'lord?' 'Have we got any? One bottle would do. Even a half-bottle.' Smith's face puckered, as if manfully attempting to force his mind to grapple with a mathematical or philosophical problem of extraordinary complexity. His bearing suggested that he had certainly before heard the word 'champagne' used, if only in some distant, outlandish context; that devotion to his master alone gave him some apprehension of what this question—these ravings, almost—might mean. Nothing good could come of it. This was a disastrous way to talk. That was his unspoken message so far as champagne was concerned. After a long pause, he at last shook his head. 'I doubt if there is any champagne left, m'lord.

Nighy’s people almost got him on Instagram, with the promise they’d do all the work. “But I pulled out. I just thought: I can’t. One of the things that I would’ve been required to do was to tell people that I’m in a film. I’m never gonna tell people I’m in a film. It’s just never gonna happen.” At the London premiere of Living, he was asked by red carpet journalists what his favourite scene was. “And I couldn’t remember any of them. Normally, just to be sociable, I’d choose one. But I just didn’t have that kind of energy. “There are certain PR questions to which there are only PR answers. It’s not lying, but it’s a very edited truth. And if you are in any way a moral creature, that’s probably why it’s sort of enervating. It’s a very particular kind of tiredness not because you’ve been doing anything dishonest, but it’s just not quite normal contact with other human beings.” He hurriedly adds some qualifiers: it’s a champagne problem. And this isn’t abnormal. “This is nice and I’m not just smooth-talking.

The root problem with conventional currency is all the trust that’s required to make it work. The central bank must be trusted notto debase the currency, but the history of fiat currencies is full of breaches of that trust. Banks must be trusted to hold our money and transfer it electronically, but they lend it out in waves of credit bubbles with barely a fraction in reserve. We have to trust them with our privacy, trust them not to let identity thieves drain our accounts. Their massive overhead costs make micropayments impossible.

Raising champagne glasses, people said our industry was coming back, ournation, our way of life. Guests strolled outside beneath Venetianlanterns that led down to the lake. Under moonlight, the algae scumlooked like shag carpeting, the entire lake a sunken living room.Someone fell in, was rescued, and laid on the pier. "I've had it," hesaid, laughing. "Goodbye, cruel world!" He tried to roll into the lakeagain, but his friends stopped him. "You don't understand me," he said."I'm a teenager. I've got problems!" "Be quiet," a woman's voice scolded. "They'll hear you.

The house fostered an easier and more candid exchange of ideas and opinions, encouraged by the simple fact that everyone had left their offices behind and by a wealth of novel opportunities for conversation—climbs up Beacon and Coombe Hills, walks in the rose garden, rounds of croquet, and hands of bezique, further leavened by free-flowing champagne, whiskey, and brandy. The talk typically ranged well past midnight. At Chequers, visitors knew they could speak more freely than in London, and with absolute confidentiality. After one weekend, Churchill’s new commander in chief of Home Forces, Alan Brooke, wrote to thank him for periodically inviting him to Chequers, and “giving me an opportunity of discussing the problems of the defense of this country with you, and of putting some of my difficulties before you. These informal talks are of the very greatest help to me, & I do hope you realize how grateful I am to you for your kindness.” Churchill, too, felt more at ease at Chequers, and understood that here he could behave as he wished, secure in the knowledge that whatever happened within would be kept secret (possibly a misplaced trust, given the memoirs and diaries that emerged after the war, like desert flowers after a first rain). This was, he said, a “cercle sacré.” A sacred circle. General Brooke recalled one night when Churchill, at two-fifteen A.M., suggested that everyone present retire to the great hall for sandwiches, which Brooke, exhausted, hoped was a signal that soon the night would end and he could get to bed. “But, no!” he wrote. What followed was one of those moments often to occur at Chequers that would remain lodged in visitors’ minds forever after. “He had the gramophone turned on,” wrote Brooke, “and, in the many-colored dressing-gown, with a sandwich in one hand and water-cress in the other, he trotted round and round the hall, giving occasional little skips to the tune of the gramophone.” At intervals as he rounded the room he would stop “to release some priceless quotation or thought.” During one such pause, Churchill likened a man’s life to a walk down a passage lined with closed windows. “As you reach each window, an unknown hand opens it and the light it lets in only increases by contrast the darkness of the end of the passage.” He danced on. —

The person who is a lost sinner has a problem with sin. That is, he is under God’s wrath and curse, at alienation with God, an enemy of truth and righteousness. His relationship with God is warfare! And until one bows down to God in humble confession and commits himself in faith to Jesus Christ, he will never be reconciled to God. That’s the essence of sin: rebellion against the living God. The saved sinner, on the other hand, struggles with sins (plural). He now walks with Christ, but by the same faith seeks grace to overcome remaining habits and failures as the Spirit works to conform him to the image of Christ. What does this mean in practice? I do not spend time talking with a non-Christian about his sins. That’s not his problem. His problem is his sin: his broken relationship with God.

After the dedication, Eleanor saw Bernard privately, probably at her own request. He came prepared to offer more spiritual comfort, thinking that she too might be suffering qualms of conscience over Vitry, but he was surprised to learn that she was not. Nevertheless, several matters were indeed troubling her, not the least the problems of her sister. She asked him to use his influence with the Pope to have the excommunication on Raoul and Petronilla lifted and their marriage recognised by the Church. In return, she would persuade Louis to make peace with Theobald of Champagne and recognise Pierre de la Chatre as Archbishop of Bourges. Bernard was appalled at her brazen candour. In his opinion, these affairs were no business of a twenty-two-year-old woman. He was, in fact, terrified of women and their possible effects on him. An adolescent, first experiencing physical desire for a young girl, he had been so filled with self-disgust that he had jumped into a freezing cold pond & remained there until his erection subsided. He strongly disapproved of his sister, who had married a rich man; because she enjoyed her wealth, he thought of her as a whore, spawned by Satan to lure her husband from the paths of righteousness, and refused to have anything to do with her. Nor would he allow his monks any contact with their female relatives. Now there stood before him the young, worldly, and disturbingly beautiful Queen of France, intent upon meddling in matters that were not her concern. Bernard's worst suspicions were confirmed: here, beyond doubt, was the source of that "Counsel of the Devil" that had urged the King on to disaster and plunged him into sin and guilt. His immediate reaction was to admonish Eleanor severely.

Rebecca,” she says coolly, grasping my hand. “You’re on Successful Saving, aren’t you?” “That’s right,” I say, equally coolly. “It’s very good of you to come today,” says Alicia. “I know you journalists are terribly busy.” “No problem,” I say. “We like to attend as many press conferences as we can. Keep up with industry events.” I feel pleased with my response. I’m almost fooling myself. Alicia nods seriously, as though everything I say is incredibly important to her. “So, tell me, Rebecca. What do you think about today’s news?” She gestures to the FT under my arm. “Quite a surprise, didn’t you think?” Oh God. What’s she talking about? “It’s certainly interesting,” I say, still smiling, playing for time. I glance around the room for a clue, but there’s nothing. What’s she talking about? Have interest rates gone up or something? “I have to say, I think it’s bad news for the industry,” says Alicia earnestly. “But of course, you must have your own views.” She’s looking at me, waiting for an answer. I can feel my cheeks flaming bright red. How can I get out of this? After this, I promise myself, I’m going to read the papers every day. I’m never going to be caught out like this again. “I agree with you,” I say eventually. “I think it’s very bad news.” My voice feels strangled. I take a quick swig of champagne and pray for an earthquake.

These Claudines, then…they want to know because they believe they already do know, the way one who loves fruit knows, when offered a mango from the moon, what to expect; and they expect the loyal tender teasing affection of the schoolgirl crush to continue: the close and confiding companionship, the pleasure of the undemanding caress, the cuddle which consummates only closeness; yet in addition they want motherly putting right, fatherly forgiveness and almost papal indulgence; they expect that the sights and sounds, the glorious affairs of the world which their husbands will now bring before them gleaming like bolts of silk, will belong to the same happy activities as catching toads, peeling back tree bark, or powdering the cheeks with dandelions and oranging the nose; that music will ravish the ear the way the trill of the blackbird does; that literature will hold the mind in sweet suspense the way fairy tales once did; that paintings will crowd the eye with the delights of a colorful garden, and the city streets will be filled with the same cool dew-moist country morning air they fed on as children. But they shall not receive what they expect; the tongue will be about other business; one will hear in masterpieces only pride and bitter contention; buildings will have grandeur but no flowerpots or chickens; and these Claudines will exchange the flushed cheek for the swollen vein, and instead of companionship, they will get sex and absurd games composed of pinch, leer, and giggle—that’s what will happen to “let’s pretend.” 'The great male will disappear into the jungle like the back of an elusive ape, and Claudine shall see little of his strength again, his intelligence or industry, his heroics on the Bourse like Horatio at the bridge (didn’t Colette see Henri de Jouvenel, editor and diplomat and duelist and hero of the war, away to work each day, and didn’t he often bring his mistress home with him, as Willy had when he was husband number one?); the great affairs of the world will turn into tawdry liaisons, important meetings into assignations, deals into vulgar dealings, and the en famille hero will be weary and whining and weak, reminding her of all those dumb boys she knew as a child, selfish, full of fat and vanity like patrons waiting to be served and humored, admired and not observed. 'Is the occasional orgasm sufficient compensation? Is it the prize of pure surrender, what’s gained from all that giving up? There’ll be silk stockings and velvet sofas maybe, the customary caviar, tasting at first of frog water but later of money and the secretions of sex, then divine champagne, the supreme soda, and rubber-tired rides through the Bois de Boulogne; perhaps there’ll be rich ugly friends, ritzy at homes, a few young men with whom one may flirt, a homosexual confidant with long fingers, soft skin, and a beautiful cravat, perfumes and powders of an unimaginable subtlety with which to dust and wet the body, many deep baths, bonbons filled with sweet liqueurs, a procession of mildly salacious and sentimental books by Paul de Kock and company—good heavens, what’s the problem?—new uses for the limbs, a tantalizing glimpse of the abyss, the latest sins, envy certainly, a little spite, jealousy like a vaginal itch, and perfect boredom. 'And the mirror, like justice, is your aid but never your friend.' -- From "Three Photos of Colette," The World Within the Word, reprinted from NYRB April 1977

When my mother fell ill, my father felt it as a great burden. He paid a woman to look after her until the end, and sent me away to live with my aunt and grandmother, and I never heard from him again. He may be dead, for all I know." "I'm sorry," Leo said. And he was. Genuinely sorry, wishing he could somehow have gone back in time to comfort a small girl in spectacles, who had been abandoned by the man who should have protected her. "Not all men are like that," he felt the need to point out. "I know. It would hardly be fair of me to blame the entire male population for my father's sins." Leo became uncomfortably aware that his own behavior hadn't been any better than her father's, that he had indulged in his own bitter grief to the point of abandoning his sisters. "No wonder you've always hated me," he said. "I must remind you of him, I deserted my sisters when they needed me." Catherine gave him a clear-eyed stare, not pitying, not censorious, just... appraising. "No," she said sincerely. "You're not at all like him. You came back to your family. You've worked for them, cared for them. And I've never hated you." Leo stared at her closely, more than a little surprised by the revelation. "You haven't?" "No. In fact-" She broke off abruptly. "In fact?" Leo prompted. "What were you going to say?" "Nothing." "You were. Something along the lines of liking me against your will." "Certainly not." Catherine said primly, but Leo saw the twitch of a smile at her lips. "Irresistibly attracted by my dashing good looks?" he suggested. "My fascinating conversation?" "No, and no." "Seduced by my brooding glances?" He accompanied this with a waggish swerving of his brows that finally reduced her to laughter. "Yes, it must have been those." Settling back against the pillows, Leo regarded her with satisfaction. What a wonderful laugh she had, light and throaty, as if she had been drinking champagne. And what a problem this could become, this madly inappropriate desire for her. She was becoming real to him, dimensional, vulnerable in ways he had never imagined.

Maybe she does think her life is a friggin’ fairytale, like her friend Claire had said once when they were both very drunk. ‘Sophie, your problem is that you think life is a friggin’ fairytale. You’re so friggin’ optimistic you don’t just see the glass as half-full, you see it as full, of, of…pink champagne! And the thing is, the glass isn’t full, Sophie! It’s half empty!

you’ve done a bit of chemistry, you might recall that sodium carbonate reacts with CO2 to create sodium bicarbonate (baking soda). Well, in Klaus’s machines there is a hanging gallery of strands of a ‘sorbent’ resin – impregnated sodium carbonate – which react with the CO2 in the air flowing over them, the captured CO2 helping to create baking soda. Capturing CO2, though, is only one half of the job. Somehow you’ve got to get the CO2 off the sorbent if you want the apparatus to be reusable and therefore cost-effective. Restocking the whole shebang with a new supply of sorbent resin makes things prohibitively expensive and energy hungry. This is where Lackner’s resin comes into its own, by doing something that even Klaus admits is counterintuitive. In the presence of water the resin changes its affinity for CO2, shedding its recently collected bounty. The ‘collection’ reaction takes a reverse step. Sodium bicarbonate becomes sodium carbonate. What this means is that if Klaus pumps water vapour into his machines, CO2 from the sorbent will ‘fall off’ the resin, allowing the whole apparatus to be reused. Condensing that vapour allows the captured CO2 to bubble out the top, in the same way CO2 bubbles rise to the top of champagne. There’s a kind of sweet poetry to one greenhouse gas (water vapour) collecting another (CO2). After all, one of the problems with CO2 in the atmosphere is that it encourages more water vapour into the air, thereby amplifying the warming effect. Here, thanks to the chemistry of Lackner’s sorbent, the opposite is happening. Water vapour is being used as part of a process to take CO2 out of the air.

For the billionaires, champagne baths every morning and new Lamborghinis every afternoon couldn’t deplete the fathomless amount of cash on hand. “Your entire philosophy of money changes,” writes author Richard Frank in his book, Richistan. “You realize that you can’t possibly spend all of your fortune, or even part of it, in your lifetime, and that your money will probably grow over the years even if you spend lavishly.” There are dotcom entrepreneurs who could live top 1 percent American lifestyles and not run out of cash for 4,000 years. People who Bill Simmons would call “pajama rich,” so rich they can go to a five-star restaurant or sit courtside at the NBA playoffs in their pajamas. They have so much money that they have nothing to prove to anyone. And many of them are totally depressed. You’ll remember the anecdote I shared in this book’s introduction about being too short to reach between the Olympic rings at the playground jungle gym. I had to jump to grab the first ring and then swing like a pendulum in order to reach the next ring. To get to the third ring, I had to use the momentum from the previous swing to keep going. If I held on to the previous ring too long, I’d stop and wouldn’t be able to get enough speed to reach the next ring. This is Isaac Newton’s first law of motion at work: objects in motion tend to stay in motion, unless acted on by external forces. Once you start swinging, it’s easier to keep swinging than to slow down. The problem with some rapid success, it turns out, is that lucky breaks like Bear Vasquez’s YouTube success or an entrepreneur cashing out on an Internet wave are like having someone lift you up so you can grab one of the Olympic rings. Even if you get dropped off somewhere far along the chain, you’re stuck in one spot. Financial planners say that this is why a surprisingly high percentage of the rapidly wealthy get depressed. As therapist Manfred Kets de Vries once put it in an interview with The Telegraph, “When money is available in near-limitless quantities, the victim sinks into a kind of inertia.

What we gave mostly was wine. Especially after we made this legal(!) by acquiring that Master Wine Grower’s license in 1973. Most requests were made by women (not men) who had been drafted by their respective organizations to somehow get wine for an event. We made a specialty of giving them a warm welcome from the first call. All we wanted was the organization’s 501c3 number, and from which store they wanted to pick it up. We wanted to make that woman, and her friends, our customers. But we didn’t want credit in the program, as we knew the word would get out from that oh-so-grateful woman who had probably been turned down by six markets before she called us. Everybody wanted champagne. We firmly refused to donate it, because the federal excise tax on sparkling wine is so great compared with the tax on still wine. To relieve pressure on our managers, we finally centralized giving into the office. When I left Trader Joe’s, Pat St. John had set up a special Macintosh file just to handle the three hundred organizations to which we would donate in the course of a year. I charged all this to advertising. That’s what it was, and it was advertising of the most productive sort. Giving Space on Shopping Bags One of the most productive ways into the hearts of nonprofits was to print their programs on our shopping bags. Thus, each year, we printed the upcoming season for the Los Angeles Opera Co., or an upcoming exhibition at the Huntington Library, or the season for the San Diego Symphony, etc. Just printing this advertising material won us the support of all the members of the organization, and often made the season or the event a success. Our biggest problem was rationing the space on the shopping bags. All we wanted was camera-ready copy from the opera, symphony, museum, etc. This was a very effective way to build the core customers of Trader Joe’s. We even localized the bags, customizing them for the San Diego, Los Angeles, and San Francisco market areas. Several years after I left, Trader Joe’s abandoned the practice because it was just too complicated to administer after they expanded into Arizona, Washington, etc., and they no longer had my wife, Alice, running interference with the music and arts groups. This left an opportunity for small retailers in local areas, and I strongly recommended it to them. In 1994, while running the troubled Petrini’s Markets in San Francisco, I tried the same thing, again with success, for the San Francisco Ballet and a couple of museums.

She shrugged. “Some of it used to cause problems, like cancer. Most of it’s not very nutritious. They watched for carcinogens, but that’s because a consumer with cancer eats less. As for nutrition, the more air the better. My rule of thumb is if they have to flog the stuff on television it has to be bad.

I pop open a bottle of champagne and pour it into a flute. Then I remove the clear vial out of my pocket and dump all the contents into the drink. Taking a knife, I stir it around and then wipe it off on my already wet jeans. Picking it up, I hold it out for the blonde to take. She looks at me wide-eyed. They drop to the flute, and she swallows nervously, running her hands down her tight black pencil skirt. “Problem?” I ask. “No.” She shakes her head. “Uh, no, sir.

Author Joe Rigney has traced the movement in this term, empathy, and he suggests that while empathy certainly has a place in our lives, we all tend to use the term selectively.17 We empathize with perceived victims only. (Who, for example, wants to empathize with a murderer or rapist?) Selective empathy is one of the key contributors to tribalism and polarization. To Rigney, empathy is dangerous because if the highest form of love is standing in someone else’s shoes, no one is left standing in a place of objective truth. If someone is drowning in a river, jumping in with him may break up his loneliness, but having two drowned people produces an even greater problem. Sympathy allows someone to stand on the shore, on the solid ground of objective truth where real help might be found.

No positive without a negative. No give without a take.

a champagne problem is when something good happens but it interferes with something else, usually planned, which is either very important or also good.

Bel Air (music) Fresh Prince". About how My life upside down backwards. I would like to take a moment. Sitting there I can tell you that I was a prince of a town called Bel Air. Born in West Philadelphia. I spent most of my court date. All is well for fun "Relaxin" Maxi. And every school to take some balls B-. When a few good ones. The problem started in my field. I had to struggle a little afraid of my mother. He said: "You went to live with her aunt and uncle in Bel Air.". I confess and diary But boxed me on my way. He kissed me and I gave him my card. I put my Walkman and said. "I can" I first layer is bad. Champagne glass of orange juice consumption. This is what people who live in Bel Air? Ah, this could be good But wait, I hear you're a prude, all middle class. This is a place where you just need to write a cool cat? I do not I do not know, but I do not understand. I hope you're ready for Prince of Bel-Air. Good landing, and I A police man at my name. However, any attempt to stop. I just moved here I grew up at a high speed, I lost. I whistled for a cab and asked him to come. Put the dice "live" and a mirror. If what I say in the cab are small. But I thought, "No, we must not forget.". -. "I'm home Bel Air". I went to the house about seven or eight. The taxi driver where I wanted to scream. "I do not smell it.". I looked at my kingdom. Eventually, I was able When he sat on the throne, Prince of Bel Air.

her ear. She was stick-thin and pretty, with a loose pink top that let her breasts sway and rose-colored tight pants, but other than her Vegas body, she wasn’t making any effort to look glamorous. Her brown hair hung limply to her shoulders in a mess of curls. She hadn’t put on makeup or jewelry, except for a gold bracelet that she twisted nervously around her wrist with her other hand. The whites of her eyes were lined with red. Amanda began to approach her but found her way blocked by a giant Samoan in a Hawaiian shirt, obviously a bodyguard. She discreetly flashed her badge. The man asked if she could wait, then lumbered over to Tierney and whispered in her ear. The girl studied Amanda, murmured something to the Samoan, and went back to her phone call. “Mrs. Dargon wonders if she could talk to you in her limo,” the bodyguard told Amanda. “It’s waiting outside. There’s a picture of Mr. Dargon on the door.” Amanda shrugged. “Okay.” She found the limo without any problem. Samoa had obviously radioed to the driver, who was waiting for her with the door open. He was in his sixties, and he tipped his black hat to Amanda as she got in. “There’s champagne if you’d like,” he told her. “We have muffins, too, but don’t take the blueberry oatmeal muffin. That’s Mrs. Dargon’s favorite.” Amanda smiled. “She

Nicolas Appert, a talented chef with no formal education, wondered whether the method he used to put up sugared fruit in glass jars might be applied to the problem of conserving soup, vegetables, beef stew, and beans. “A dynamic and jovial little man,” according to French historian Maguelonne Toussaint-Samat, Appert began his experiments by funneling peas and boiled beef into old champagne bottles, corking them, and sitting them in hot-water baths for varying lengths of time. As curiosity became obsession, Appert sold his Parisian confectionery business and retired to a small town just outside the city, where he spent the better part of a decade perfecting his method. In 1803, Appert delivered the first batch of preserved food to the French navy for field-testing. The contents of his bottles received rave reviews: the beef was pronounced “very edible,” while the beans and green peas had “all the freshness and flavor of freshly picked vegetables.” Appert was awarded the prize and promptly used the money to finance more experiments. Rather than patent his technique, he published a book of detailed instructions so that anyone could master “l’art de conserver.” Perhaps unsurprisingly, he died a pauper. Despite being formally recognized as “a benefactor of humanity” by the French government, even his wife eventually left him, and he ended up buried in a mass grave.

I’ve got my wife, Judy, in the car,” John said. “I’ve heard of her,“ a young man shouted from the crowd. “What you heard about her is not true,” John replied. “They never went to bed.” Smokey was astonished. John was crazy drunk, making no sense. “This guy is a killer,” John said, pointing at Smokey and throwing the problem of the stranger his way. Smokey backed away and guided John outside. “What the hell was that about Judy?” Smokey asked. “It’s between us,” John replied. In the limousine, the others were drinking champagne. “ I’m tired of you fooling around ,” John said to Judy. She threw her glass of champagne in his face. John leapt out of the car and ran toward the club. Smokey followed and grabbed John in a full body embrace, locking his arms at his side. “Let me celebrate my birthday!” John yelled. He broke loose, turned and clutched Smokey’s jacket. “You piss me off,” he said. “Don’t ever grab me again—never, never!” Smokey nodded. They walked to the car. Before they had driven the four blocks to Morton Street, John had passed out. Smokey carried him inside, undressed him and put him into bed.

Tom buchannan had his polo ponies brought up from Lake Forest," I told Stewart. I'd read Gatsby right around the time my family moved from a small development to a larger home on a main road, the summer I was twelve... I liked to imagine Daisy's horses had been stabled there, beneath the trees I could see from my window - enormous oak and ash crowns that moved softly at night. I saw each clutch of forest and granite escarpment for the first and last time, dignified it with my seeing, and bade it all farewell. St Paul's just wasn't going to work out. I was thinking about the ponies, was my problem. I wanted to understand them (How were they chosen? Who loaded them into the trailers? Who rode east with them? Who greeted them when they arrived?) when I should have been, like everyone, smitten with Daisy, and the whisperings and the champagne and the stars.

have never been so sure of anything in my life as I am of the fact that my purpose in this lifetime is to love you.

How sad indeed for someone who is already weighed down by sin to be denied the true remedy for the problem. That is what gay Christianity does. It denies the sexual sinner repentance and immerses her in the futile task of trying to domesticate her sin. Trying to deal with sin in your own flesh is what Pharisees always encourage. Jesus speaks to this: “Woe to you, scribes and Pharisees, hypocrites! For you travel across sea and land to make a single proselyte, and when he becomes a proselyte, you make him twice as much a child of hell as yourselves” (Matt. 23:15).

The problem with your father and money,” Mum had said, “one of them, is that he’s prone to get overexcited whenever he has any. He lays it on with a trowel for everyone: champagne, escargot, cigars, then we’re back to starvation rations and panic over your school fees. Not that I minded the sacrifice.

I was having what my sister Jem calls a champagne problem: a champagne problem is when something good happens but it interferes with something else, usually planned, which is either very important or also good.

Why?” she says. “Did my sister call you and tell you to stop? Did Harper call?” “No,” he says. “The problem is my sister. Sadie.” Franklin’s sister, Sadie, is the wife of Dr. Reed Zimmer. Franklin’s sister, Sadie, is the woman who slapped Tabitha and threw champagne in her face. These are the extenuating circumstances. Franklin sits on the edge of the sofa, holding his head in his hands. “I can’t work for you anymore,” he says. “And I can’t see you.” “What?” Tabitha says.

Aside from getting champagne in your eye or being snapped at by your pet toucan, bemoaning a lack of purpose is the most privileged problem in the known universe so I won’t drone on about it.

There was an open bottle of champagne in the ice bucket, and already the level was down as far as the label. ‘Are we celebrating something?’ I asked as I took off my coat and hung it in the hall. ‘Don’t be so bloody bourgeois,’ said Tessa, handing me a champagne flute filled right to the brim. That was one of the problems of marrying into wealth; there were no luxuries.