It is the colour of danger, a red rag to anyone jaded by cocktail-world bull.
Wine is our compensation: the soft landing as we tumble on to the wrong side of 30.
Who knows, if things keep on this way, Britain may well become the sort of country where the outcome of a televised baking competition becomes a matter of high social and political importance.
It’s a national handicap: a survey a couple of years ago claimed that 38 per cent of us would never complain at a restaurant, however bad our experience.
The fridge has become, literally, unhinged. What now?
This Canadian version of an old standard is a good substitute for dinner.
It wasn't just the carrot cake that crumbled.
The slight lip around the edge is no mere bourgeois affectation; it keeps the food contained in its proper place.
On the pop culture podcast this week, we talk the patronising critical reaction to Ryan Adams’ Taylor Swift cover album, The Great British Bake Off, and The Lives of Christopher Chant by Diana Wynne Jones.
Then, upon my return, there it was! A visitation! A miracle! What a joy it is to be alive in Jeremy Corbyn’s Britain.
From astrology-based Tinder profiles to retail assistants masquerading as whimsical shop spirits, the city that never sleeps no longer has any self-awareness.