Wine

I've started drinking white wine.

This is odd for two reasons.

First, I'm generally more of a beer and spirits man, and the grain gives me less of a hangover than the grape.

And second, if I drink wine at all, it's generally red - one of those thick, treacly Australian Merlots which are especially nice on a cold winter afternoon.

But about a year ago I had a glass of Pinot Grigio in a restaurant, and have wished ever since that I'd bothered to write down what it was.

It was one of the driest whites I'd ever tasted, without being sharp or tart.

One glass was all I could have, because I was driving, but if I'd been on the tube, a whole bottle would have been guiltlessly tucked away.

Over the last couple of weeks, three other examples have been tried, and they were all quite different.

I recently watched Boris say 'ping pong is coming home' under the influence of a delicately fruity one, and our mayor, who makes me chuckle when I'm sober, had me guffawing like a Hooray Henry after half a jug of Pimms.

Maybe I should go on a wine tasting course, because the distinct varieties of taste available within the Pinot Grigio genre, if that's the right word, have got me a bit baffled.

My colleague from Choice FM, Charlie Girling, says, by the way, that Chardonnay is very 1990s, and smacks of sad Bridget Jones singletons drinking alone in their pajamas.

What you need now, she says, is a 'nice little sauvignon or a cheeky little pinot.'

So at least I'm on the right track.

More research must, and will, be carried out.

Hic