Apparently, the only day I should be asked for help or money is the 'day the whisky arrives'. This explains the looks of dispair on family faces today as I curse 'another bloody Islay malt' on unwrapping a bottle of Bowmore. For a moment I thought they were sensitive to my pain. It's not that I dislike Islay malts, I hate them. Islay enjoying friends tell me these evocative malts transport the drinker to the beautiful, dramatic island of their origin. If I wanted to be battered by wind and sea on an exposed rock, mouth full of peat and seaweed, I'd build lighthouses for a living instead of working in a bank. Bowmore is a little softer than the malts from the southern Islay distilleries with less peat and a little more sweatness. Am I converted? No. Do I drink it anyway? Of course. Do my family part me from my time and money? Regretably so.

If you can stand any more joy from Warren why not visit our REVIEWS section?