I'm a bit sad (not actually, but it works for the purposes of this blog post) because I've already drunk my two cups of coffee for the day.

I'm not one of those people who will lie awake staring at the ceiling if I have any caffeine after 2pm, but I have found it useful to have a hard ceiling on my daily intake of the good stuff for no other reason than I'd end up drinking five cups a day and shaking about the place like one of those little pagers you get in a food court to tell you your food is ready.

It's a bit the same with alcohol – though unlike coffee I've never particularly found that booze takes that nice, I have to have a strict limit (none) because otherwise I would be likely to partake a little too enthusiastically. There are three exceptions to my rule, however, because they do taste delicious and it would be incredibly rude to pass them by if they were waved in front of my nose.

Number one is the dangerously drinkable Clairette de Die sparkling wine from the wherever region of France – I'm talking the sweeter doux version and it has to be made by Jaillance because I'm refined like that. We always end up buying a load of bottles on our trips to France and it's a great accompaniment to a celebration. Or lunch.

Number two is a delicious Normandy cider, and again it has to be a sweet tasting cidre doux. This is the sort of thing they put in a child's packed lunch in France (next to the cigarettes) and this genuinely is very tasty with lunch, and opening a bottle is in itself a cause for celebration. The Normans are rightfully proud of their apples, though I would only rarely buy a cidre doux because there would be a danger that I stop drinking anything else. Except my two cups of coffee, of course.

Number three is a mild exception to the exceptions to the rule – I love a good mojito, it's one of the extremely rare alcoholic drinks that I think taste delightful. The problem is that a good one is very hard to find, and also that they're very expensive. And also that I've usually offered to drive ("c'est Sam, c'est celui qui ne boit pas") wherever mojitos are served. The other problem (so many problems) is that the gold standard mojito by which I judge all others was imbibed in a little bar in the charming German town of Wangen in the Allgäu. It was both long ago and probably terrible, but a prince among drinks in my hazy memories of yesteryear.

Time for a cup of tea, I think.