An Easter w(h)ine

It’s Easter Friday and I’ve been working on my essay on nineteenth-century historiography all day. Between the autumnal nip in the air and seven straight hours spent in the company of Messieurs Ranke, Macaulay and Gibbon, I’m craving a big ol’ glass of red (much as Gibbon makes me laugh). My local shop carries a decent selection, including the truly delish Mt. Difficulty Pinot Noir, but can I buy one? Can I hell. Because in this secular, rationalist twenty-first century nation, you still can’t buy booze on Easter Friday in deference to a fable. A charming fable to be sure. Betrayal, torture and human sacrifice – hey, what’s not to like? The irony in this, of course, is that this is a holiday that’s all about the wine (or blood-drinking, depending on which branch of the Christian superstition you happen to support).