Ok, not quite that. More like 48 bottles. And not on the wall. Lets not get sidetracked with details.
We siphoned the mort (fancy word for not quite beer) into the carboy (fancy word for jug). Sorry. I've got to learn to use these words. You get to bear with me. I tasted it; it's already tasty and smoooooth. Nice. I put the airlock back on, and now I ignore it for two weeks.
On to other things: I got hold of some human hair from a barber, and tossed some in the garden to scare off the deer. I've got a dozen butternut squash trying to ripen before first frost, and the deer have munched on one - the ripest one - and I want them to leave the rest of the squashes alone. Squashes. Is that a real word?