I’ve managed to develop a stigma. I don’t yet run to stigmata. It came about in an unexpected way.

I’d bought some nice white wine. Since I don’t drink now, that was rather like Helen Keller buying a parrot. No doubt my simile will offend somehow. Everything seems to. If you make a light remark about a statue falling over, someone will complain that their aunt was crushed by a statuette representing Commerce toppling on to her during repair works to the Albert Memorial in Manchester.

Anyway, Helen Keller could not see the colours of a parrot, though she could feel its feathers. She could not hear its squawk, though she could detect vibration in its throat. She would know its bad-tempered nip in greedily snatching a segment of orange from her fingers. It’s the same with wine and me. I can sniff it but have no inkling of its balance or complexity, and I’m aware of the price.