''Home-made'' is an adjective that warms the cockles of one's heart when applied to steamed winter puddings and cable-knit jumpers. It strikes terror into the same organ when it precedes words such as ''parachute'', ''underwear'' or ''wine''. Even so, home-made wine doesn't have to be catastrophic. Pressing grapes in the backyard has long been the province of Mediterranean grandfathers, many of whom have been at it for long enough to produce perfectly likeable plonk for washing down a Sunday family feast.

But now, thanks to the miracle that is the internet, anyone can click on a link enjoining them to ''Make HomeMade Wine, Quick Cheap and Easy'' (sic).

All the would-be winemaker needs is bulk-bought grapes, a packet of yeast and a supreme indifference to the scarcely concealed dismay on the faces of family and friends as they sample the latest vintage of I Made it in the Laundry.

I have no doubt your friend of a friend revels in both his winemaking prowess and his generosity; it is by now too late and too unkind to tell him you dislike his creations. It might be more tactful to take a leaf out of Noel Coward's book (''It's discouraging to think how many people are shocked by honesty and how few by deceit'') and ferment some sort of white lie.

For example, you could say you have regretfully given up drinking wine due to a non-life-threatening but unpleasant reaction - a rash, perhaps, or a tendency to gastritis - and that further gifts of his wine would sadly be wasted on you. If, down the track, he springs you at a social gathering sinking some vino that is more to your taste, you will need to have an explanation to hand (''It's strange, but this particular variety/brand doesn't seem to cause me any trouble'').

If such an approach feels too dishonest or fraught with risk, you must resign yourself to continuing to graciously accept his gifts. However, don't feel you have to stockpile them. The sink is there for a reason.