A Delicate little flower, but you'd be distressed by his Impudence

Burton's been down to the wine tasting in Bow Brickhill.  I wish he'd not do it.

He's come rolling back, singing "roll out the barrel."

He always goes to these things meaning to do it properly, assessing the bouquet, mouth-feel, all that rubbish wine tasters talk. He gives points to each wine for these features carefully, rationally and maturely. And, from what I can gather from Young Keith, he manages that for about an hour.

The next three hours he spends awarding random marks, regardless of any given wine's qualities. I'm told that this evening he gave a Merlot  π/10 for body. Now that's what I call creative accountancy.

Of course, this kind of riotous living is not without its dark side. Apart, that is, from all the rest of us who have to put up with him wandering round the Great House, singing Depeche Mode songs and walking into walls. In the morning he will find that, because he awarded imaginary numbers to that Muscat, he can't come up with a meaningful total for his sum enjoyment of the evening.

And then he's going to hate himself.