Somewhere in Britain, a bottle of champagne is waiting for somebody to get engaged. Another, bought for a birthday ending in zero, has survived several birthdays ending in other numbers. Relatives, unless exceptional, generally get prosecco.
This is flattering to champagne and not entirely helpful to Champagne, which has attached its wine so successfully to life’s exclamation marks that the popping cork has become almost shorthand for good news. There are, inconveniently, considerably more Tuesdays than engagements.
