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When the Rich Beautiful People who spent their days having fun on the ski slopes and then lighting up a satisfying ciggie disappeared from our cinema screens a few years ago, I smirked puritanically and clapped good riddance. Like Rumplestilskin I danced in glee at the idea that sin taxes were being levied against the nicotenely unrighteous and that the filthy habit of smoking was being demonised.

As a young child in the smoking nirvana of the early eighties, my sister and I relentlessly hid my mother’s cigarettes up the chimney until she gave up smoking in desperation, or so we imagined. A few years later, on a train from Paris to Calais, I managed to expel a pair of galloises-smoking smoothies from my compartment by the sheer force of my will.

It might also have had something to do with my dramatically sniffing the air vents, pointing repeatedly at the yellowed no-smoking signs and eventually sticking pretzel sticks in my ears and up my nose. Horribly rude, utterly intolerant and frightfully inconsiderate behaviour, I know, but it takes two to tango and while I may be passive aggressive, I don’t want to be a passive smoker.

As is so often the case, strong aversions are balanced by intense enthusiasms for objects of affection. One particular favourite of mine is wine. The fermented fruit of the vine is life-affirming, complex, playful and affectionate. I can become quite emotional about a good bottle of shiraz, or a delicately noted sauvignon Blanc. Fine legs seeping lazily down inside a glass orb, the little red stain on the tip of a cork that’s been dutifully guarding its treasure for a few years. I’m not a connoisseur, but I have a passion for the stuff.

And so it was that I soberly reflected on a headline in the Sunday papers that 'New labels warn of dangers of booze'. My precious nectar, relegated to the leering term 'booze' along with its other alcoholic beverage mates, would within the year be emblazoned with a warning about its potential harmful affects - by law.

Where I had grinned broadly at the idea of the smoking fraternity wringing their hands in frustration at having to integrate stark health warnings into edgy branding, I now recoiled at the idea of an elegant label defaced by the words 'Drinking and walking on the road can kill you' or 'Drinking increases your risk to personal injuries'.

The shoe was now on the other foot it seemed, the cookie had crumbled just so and I was wondering who had been in charge of penning the warnings. My double standard on sin tax and the like was becoming evident, doing nothing to improve my mood and to add insult to injury; the warnings were almost comical in their lumpen phasing. One of my favourite things was being inelegantly branded a vice and its romance would henceforth be forever visually tempered by the cold reality of the destructive effects of excess.

Swanky dinner parties would never be the same. Guests of a few years hence would no longer be able to fawn over a label and coo approvingly at the impressive vintage or worthy estate without being lambasted by the strident tones of, 'Drinking is a major cause of violence and crime' or 'Drinking is addictive'.

Dinnertime flattery nose-dives to: "Oh Susan, what a super little bottle of red, and so addictive! And what have we here? A ravishing white that'll reduce your driving ability. Delightful!"

Turning away from the envisioned melodrama of future libations, I read slowly over the warnings again and, as reason would have it, in spite of their unusual phrasing they got me thinking. I was affronted by the implication that something I enjoyed was potentially destructive. But I couldn't argue with the ugly words and even on my high horse of cultural enjoyment and vague defence of moderation, I had to admit that I had glimpsed the dark side of my esteemed beverage.

Somewhat crestfallen, I realized I had in the past taken the wheel after a few too many and snailed home at 40km/h when I really should have accepted a lift. I’ve woken up the next morning convinced I had permanently damaged something important in my head and around the gall bladder area.

And once, after a particularly festive evening, I was convinced my liver was trying to escape by gnawing a path out of my back between my ribs. Misdemeanours not often perpetrated, but euphemistically painted and vivid enough to bring home the plainly stated facts of the warnings.

So, I'm not thrilled that in years to come when I cosy up to a merlot on the couch or top up a dinner party guest's glass I will be accosted by doom and gloom. I'm not an expert on advertising efficacy and don't know whether the warnings will limit the effects of excess they caution against, but perhaps there is something to be said for increased awareness amongst a captive audience.

If there's a chance that even a few more people arrive alive and a few less lives are devastated by the effects of alcoholism, then enduring the smear on the face of my pinotage isn't too daunting.