Maderia wine

As part of the antipodean inhabitants of London, I’m among that small group that actually doesn’t dream of a white Christmas. Nor do I crave hunks of slow-roasted meat, sausages wrapped in bacon or buttery greens. Instead my bones ache for platters of glistening oysters, large Atlantic prawns and slithers of cold meats while men in singlets grip cold beers in stubbie holders and rest an idle leg on their eskie.