A small but worrying crowd has formed on the front stoop of my house in Brent. I know why they’re here – to get hold of some sweet red NW6, the crowd-trampled street wine some fifty of us made over the summer. 250 bottles have been ageing away in giant glass demijohns since September. But time is up. It’s bottling day.
It’s noon. The sun is high, but it’s arctic. Babies lie mute in pushchairs, too numb to cry. Kensal hipsters are warming their goatees to protect against beard breakage. But one thing is certain – we have got to butch it out in the cold. This is community wine, crowd-picked and ...
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