STANDING in Somerfield's wine section the other day, just browsing you understand, I had to smile.

There were numerous people looking at the wines on offer and it wasn't difficult to eavesdrop on their conversation.

'The Merlot's not bad but the Pinot Noir's a teeny bit thin. Try that Bulgarian Cabernet, it's got a bit of blackberry in it and the Bulgarian's do tend to turn out a decent red even though their whites have gone down a bit.

'No, not the Spanish, it's far too oaked, and don't touch the Italian on offer, ghastly after taste AND a plastic cork. Personally we're all New World these days, absolutely scrumptious, hard to fault, especially the New Zealand whites. Expensive though, but worth a pound or two more'. And so it went on.

It was like being at one of those wine fairs when people talk about cool breezes bouncing over the hills from the North Atlantic brushing the grapes with a gentle finger or glorious pretention of a similar nature.

Isn't it wonderful? There was a time no self respecting male would be seen lingering anywhere near the wine counter lest people think he was going to buy a case of Babycham. Now you see them all the time fingering bottles of Chardonney and talking knowledgeably about various grape varieties.

Years ago the only wine men were likely to come home with was something called 'British wine' a name which has no doubt haunted all those people who now produce perfectly drinkable wines from grapes grown in this country and consequently have had to call it English, Scottish, Welsh, Irish or Cornish wine.

Worst

One always suspected that a lot of British wine was imported in giant casks from France and was of a quality which no self respecting French person would dream of using even to cook the toughest old bullock in. Today, and it has to be said, the worst of the cheap wine still comes from France, while other wine-producing countries can somehow produce drinkable wine for under a fiver.

The week before Christmas is a dangerous time for me because I have to avoid all those temptations.

Firstly there is a temptation to buy something festive to wear. The shops are always full of them, aren't they? Tops and skirts and trousers with glittery Santas and sleighs on them, cheeky sequined reindeer peering from behind Christmas trees on black velvet tops. Pillar box red sweaters with bits of fur round the neck and cuffs. Basically, anything that is going to look very silly on January 6.

Then there's the temptation of the reduced giant salmon. Every year I tell myself we don't need any more food, Certainly not an enormous whole salmon which is going to reach its sell by date any moment now and will need cooking as soon as it gets home. However cheap it is, and at the last moment it can be very cheap, under no circumstances will I buy one.

Next thing you know I'm walking down the road with a large fish under my arm with no idea how it got there.

Last year I avoided the giant salmon trap by going to Germany for Christmas, which didn't stop me having to be dragged forcibly away from the fish section of a German supermarket by my daughter as I attempted to wrestle a very large fish (I think it was a pike) into the trolley.

She couldn't talk, she'd already nabbed two very much reduced geese even though we'd already bought one the day before, making us the only three goose family on the block. Well, there's not much on a goose, so we had one each.

Challenge

This year I'm really going to have to hold myself back because our big freezer has packed up and getting a sprat into the freezer section of the fridge is going to be more than a challenge, the giant salmon wouldn't stand a chance unless minced. The odd thing is, I don't really like salmon all that much, certainly not enough to want to consume a whole one.

I think I get these last minute impulses from my father. He was, my mother said, prone to bringing home huge teddy bears bought at the last moment as the toy shops were closing and he was on his way home from the Christmas party.

Once he decided to varnish the bannister rails on Christmas Eve, and consequently everyone who arrived on Christmas day had to be prised off the stairs.

He once bought two Christmas trees because they were the only ones left and the man let him have them half price. Sent out for vegetables he bought a whole sack of sprouts.

Speaking as one who has to peel a similar amount of pickling onions before Monday, I know the feeling well.

It only remains for me to wish all readers a very Merry Christmas and to thank them all for their cards, for Peter who has found me some decent bacon, for the nice German lady who sent me a postcard from Vaale in Germany telling me the German word for vegetarian after I said I couldn't find it, and which is actually vegetarier, and for all those who read the column on the web site and send e-mails from many parts of the world.

Best wishes from the cats too, who are no doubt at home now planning another assault on the tree.