My parents always recounts the days of their early married life, and in particular the drinking of strange things such as barley wine and genuine west country cider. By all accounts these experiments were ill-fated, resulting in illness for the first, and waking up at 11:00pm with the curtains open and the sunday lunch remains still on the table for the second.

How I scoffed at their lightweightedness. Until now.

Zoë and I decided that we would try a bottle of cherry wine that we found whilst stocking up on bott polishing stripes bogroll loo roll in the supermarket. It was a happy pink-red colour. What could possibly be wrong with that? It tasted okay when we opened in and tried it at home – rather like cough syrup, but smoother (and more liquid than syrup).

Four hours later I woke up in the gathering twilight, to discover Zoë had only just woken up herself. That stuff is like white bloody lightning crossed with maximum strength Benzodiazepine. I have to say that that is one little tipple that will be used more sparingly, if at all, in the future.