Pink wine

Dear Mr Publican: it's time for us to have a chat about pink wine.

Yes, pink wine. I am not going to call it rosé and the sooner you accept this the happier we'll both be. It's rosé for the French and it's rosé for Bournemouth hen nights wearing their L-plates to the local Wetherspoons; I will have a glass of pink, thank you very much.

Secondly, when I say pink, I am looking neither for fluorescence nor for a barrel of sugar in my glass. It may be a barely-there touch of colour or it may be a richer shade, but if it looks or (heaven forbid) tastes like a children's drink I am going to entertain serious doubts about the quality of your establishment.

Whatever we decide to call it, we are at least in agreement that it should be served cold. Nonetheless, if you give it to me with ice in my glass, my friend, we will be having words. You can also be quite confident that you will one day wake up up in a special hell reserved solely for compulsive icers and people who mix red wine with cola.

Finally - and really I do feel that this should go without saying - if my friends and I order a bottle we do appreciate the fact that you've provided an ice bucket. But for heaven's sake, will you put it somewhere we can reach it? Either that or make sure you've got enough staff on hand to keep the glasses filled. Three girls and a bottle of wine? The last thing you want is for the glasses to run dry.

Am I really being so unreasonable?