The 1845

As I sat and accounted for my winnings against the good Mr. Smuckles this afternoon I discovered that I was in the mood to do one better than the usual domestic ales one finds around this house. In such a frame of mind I not one hour ago found myself at Lunecchi's, standing before a large open cooler of large bottles of beer. Lately infatuated with white ales, I scanned, left to right, top to bottom, the eye taking little journeys here and there to reminisce upon a favored label. Then, like a cold gust of air it seized me: squat, dark brown, beautiful...a glistening imperial pint of Fuller’s 1845. Ah, how the memories of losing my memories at the old Ensign Ewart did come flowing back like so much of the nutty brown stuff. As I write this now, a tall burnt-orange glass of it sits by the keyboard, capped with a beautiful creamy head. Now I must complete this entry and get to the matter at hand.