Being a bit late, I found myself running two miles, through the streets of London in the pouring rain to get to a tasting this week, leaving me sodden and weary. Cursing silently my irrational resistance to umbrellas, I was not in the best frame of mind to respond to Victoria, the (very lovely) PR lady at reception, who said “Oh you look so well . . . you’re one of those people who doesn’t look bedraggled after a walk in the rain.” Yeah, right.

It was a kind, well-intentioned fib and, knowing her as I do, it was impossible not to be cheered. Good wine PR firms are worth their weight in gold and the majority of my experiences are good. However, they are not beyond a little bit of gentle needling.

Take, for instance, the beautiful, blonde whippersnapper from Scandinavia who stood easily a foot above me and seemed to be almost entirely made of leg. It was hard to miss her legs because they were effectively entirely on show, pretty much to the point where leg becomes hip.

They were also attached to the craziest five-inch-heeled shoes I have ever seen, all of which meant that when she came to chat to me about the tasting I found myself conversing mostly with her belly-button. She was charming but seeing her in that attire it was amusing to think of her leading a vineyard tour.

You would think that one of the top priorities of any public relations man is to make sure that all of his invited guests arrive at the winery he has been employed to promote. It was (ultimately) amusing to find myself, some years ago, left behind in a rural Spanish village for over eight hours.

I had simply nipped to the loo after lunch and when I appeared in the square to get on one of the two mini buses, it was a bit of a shock to see that they had both left. Worst of all, the organisers did not realise they had left me behind until they returned that evening and found me sat in the hotel — not so patiently waiting for their return.

I once arrived at a winery that requested all visitors have pre-arranged appointments. Having done so, I arrive at my allotted time to have the door answered by a spindly, severe-looking dame who started to speak to me through the smallest chink in the door.

“Yes, who are you?” was the clipped welcome. “Sarah McCleery. I have a 3pm appointment with M. Blanche.”

“Really?”

“Yes, I called last week and spoke to Mme Blanche. It’s all been organised.”

The door opening was narrowing.

“I know nothing about it.”

Nobody moves.

“Well, can you just go and ask. I’m sure it’ll be okay.”

“He’s not here. I can’t.”

By this point I am getting more than a touch tetchy.

“Can you ring him?”

“Look, no I can’t. We only take visitors with an appointment and you don’t have one. You’ll have to call to arrange a convenient time.”

“I have made an appointment! It’s a real shame he’s not here; there’s obviously been a mix-up. Can I ask who you are please?”

“Martine”

“Do you work here?”

“Yes, I’m in charge of marketing and public relations.”

And with that, the door closed.

Martine, most definitely not a woman from the Victoria school of PR!