“Look,” I said. “You could have told me we were having roast Martian with cantaloupe and I’d have still got the wrong wine because I know bugger all about the stuff. I brought it because it’s the sort of thing you bring to a dinner party. If I knew you better, I’d have tried to find something you’d actually like—flowers or Turkish delight or posh elderflower juice. But I don’t, so I couldn’t, so you got some crappy wine.”
