Welcome to the days of wine and poses

I am just returned from a honeymoon in Italy to find London in turmoil and my own finances, post-wedding, looking a little Lehman Brothers-esque. Now comes the pinch, a new winter of discontent.

But while I was in Italy, staying on a vineyard, naturally enough, I picked up an expensive habit: chianti classico. Oh, and vino nobile. Anything, really, as long as Hugh Johnson says it's worth a try and it's not pinot grigio. In short, I have become that most insufferable and ruinous of philes: an oeno.

Now, part of me reasons that this is a becoming interest for a married man, a logical extension of an interest in cooking. It is a satisfying thing to be able to penetrate a restaurant wine list, to pronounce Gewürztraminer properly and to escape from Oddbins with your ego intact.

But it is also the only passing hobby I have had where I find I like myself a little less the more I learn, where the more I learn, the more likely I am to ruin myself.

There was the moment at the annual chianti fare in Italy, where bored with tasting, my wife repaired to a café to read and I continued to stagger from stall to stall like the guy from Sideways. "Are you here alone?" asked some fellow wine-tasters. Erm no, my wife of two weeks is over the square, drinking mineral water while I cavort like Keith Floyd's bastard grandson over here. It just doesn't look good.

There was also a tasting back in London last Friday organised by Jascots (www.jascots.co.uk), a fine independent merchants in west London. Initially, you have the feeling of a kid in a sweetshop — my friend Jack and I dashed to the German stand and began to discuss the underrated delights of riesling. Then you're comparing malbecs; lamenting the prices of burgundy; ejecting South African pinotage where it belongs: the spitoon. It's about the best way to spend an evening I can think of.

But where does it leave you? With a stonking hangover on Saturday morning. With snobbish reflexes and unfulfillable expectations of pub wine lists. And wondering if a rich buff really gets more fun out of Château Mouton Rothschild than a Wag does from Blossom Hill.

Oh well. I console myself that, for a credit crunch night in, a DVD and a bottle of barolo are still a lot cheaper than a bad meal out. I am intrigued that the trade in fine wines still seems immune from the credit crunch. But I am relieved that my taste in beer remains proletarian.