Wine. Let's put aside the violent white wine rage, the blackened teeth, the alarming rate at which it makes even the most proper of us spew good lies and nasty truths in one single sentence.

Beautiful stuff, vino. Used correctly, it's the most effective aphrodisiac. Drink too much and, well, the only thing you'll be holding all night is the toilet.

Now, as a lady, I select my wine the proper way: Corner shop, prettiest label, under five quid, ooh, three for a tenner! Sold.

Nothing - not even dress socks and summer sandals - upsets me more than the poncy wankers who deliberate over the wine list, chatting to the sommelier about the best vintage and tilting the glass to see the "legs".

Please. Some perspective here, mate. The purpose here is to get me drunk. Let's save that hard-earned cash for my early morning minicab-of-shame home.

But as I get older (27 again next month), I'm starting to think that maybe I should know my Pinots from my Cabernets. Like with men, there's a point in your life when you start looking for quality over quantity, even in your tipple.

Enter Tom Harrow of A Movable Feast. This self-described wine chap brings the wine tasting to you. With cheese charcuterie, and a spittoon. Bloody brilliant.

What's better? He'll come to the office - at lunch - so you and your work-mates can finally find out that 'House' isn't actually a type of wine. Even if it is your favourite.