Drink - Victoria Moore thought whisky should be drunk unadulterated; now she's not so sure

No man who leaves his date naked between the sheets to disappear into the night can truly be considered a gentleman, regardless of any paltry country-to-save excuse he might proffer. That is why I've always had reservations about the supposedly debonair Mr Bond. Now having watched him, in The World is Not Enough, drink a single malt rattling with ice cubes, I am truly aghast. I cannot swoon before his form again. Even my father, who always says pardon, lounge and toilet, glowers with fury at those who adulterate whisky with ice.

But then I panic. Perhaps my father is wrong. Perhaps I am wrong, too. Perhaps it's one of society's favourite double bluffs, and only the most ludicrously non-U think it's U to drink malt whisky without ice. I worry because, staying with friends, I am offered a whisky nightcap. Naturally, I pounce upon it. Even as I do, a small, cold snake of anxiety begins to uncoil in my stomach. Perhaps I should have refused it gracefully. When, given a choice, I ask for Laphroaig, the stomach-reptile unfurls a little more as my host kindly suggests I might find it a little strong-flavoured for my palate. Best not to mention that my palate is extraordinarily robust and, right now, panting for the Laphroaig (an old favourite). Then he asks whether I want ice. I think I am safe. "No," I proclaim decisively and read my mistake on five politely perturbed faces.

Perhaps I am conflating two issues. Clearly to ice, or not to ice, is the key question, and perhaps if a lady is to be so coarse as to drink such a strong spirit, it is only proper that she dilutes it as much as possible. I ask a friend, in his capacity as a Scotsman, a gentleman and a hearty drinker, to advise. "No ice," he crows Scottishly. "Run hot water into the glass to warm it prior to pouring the single malt. This unlocks the whisky's magical tastes and aromas." I don't doubt that this is the best way from a drinker's point of view, but it doesn't quite solve the etiquette dilemma.

The answer to that lies, I am sure, behind the closed doors of St James's, where all that is masculine and English and proper can be found. But my guile is inadequate to the task of gaining me access to a gentleman's club.

"Even the fleeting presence of a female in the bar would probably cause a few monocles to drop out," apologises the secretary at one of the famous clubs who, to protect his identity, I shall call Alfred.

This is disappointing indeed, so I ask Alfred how he likes his single malt. "Ah," he begins, "the answer is that I am a rogue and this is my dark secret that I would never wish anyone to find out. The answer is that I drink my whisky with ice. I wouldn't dare ask anyone in a Scotch bar for it - they'd lynch me - but it's an atrociously wonderful drink."

So ice in whisky is, well, not the done thing? "Oh, it's desperately non-U," Alfred reels. "Ice takes away the flavour." I suppose anything that has a diluting effect on a malt is sinful.

So that's one thing sorted out. But should a lady be let within sniffing distance of a bottle of whisky? Alfred suavely supposes that, if I am as refined and delicate as my voice suggests, then perhaps it would be preferable if I were to indulge dilution of some sort, although, he adds excitedly, "some women do drink whisky nowadays, and once I even sat at dinner next to a woman who smoked a cigar! It was almost as big as she was!"

Alfred is too charming to answer my question properly. He doesn't need to. It is perfectly apparent from his evasions that James Bond is no gentleman - but nor am I a lady.

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