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.