THE other day I sat across from my doctor – the punitive one – tugging at bits of flesh and slapping my jowls. "I can’t bear it," I wailed. "See, see, what the steroids have done to me."

Few doctors will ever admit that inhaled corticosteroids pile on the weight in some people and so, as expected, he shook his head.

"You’re not moving enough, which is understandable, but you’re therefore eating too much now."

How to tell a Frenchman you really haven’t, and never have had, an interest in food?

I tried.

"I eat one meal a day," I said. "Sometimes I forget to do that so I might be hungry the next day and have two. I eat to live, that’s all."

He has an unnerving, penetrating stare and I knew to justify that statement I had to give a little.

"Perhaps it’s the wine?" I said, with my woman of the world laugh.

It was a gamble. Years ago when we discussed wine I found myself in a clinic with my liver being examined in every test possible.

Barring a teensy bit of fat ("Normal," said the consultant. "You live in France.") it was perfect. I decided to switch doctors to another in the practice.

Now I’m sharing my favours. One gives me comfort and reassurance but no hope; this one gives me truth, harsh facts, still no hope, but ways around everything.

Except when it comes to alcohol. I braced. He shrugged, pincered his fingers to a mouthwash measure and said: "One with lunch – one with dinner."

When I stopped laughing, I realised he was almost chuckling too. I knew then I’d had it. Why bother stopping me drinking too much (in his eyes)…. with my lungs?

"It’s my last vice," I told him as I took my steroid renewal, "Leave me with something for God’s sake."

"Then make sure it’s good wine," he said, still smiling. I swear I saw the Grim Reaper behind him nodding his head in agreement.

When it comes to wine it is known in the area that this doctor is an exception.

Most see it as a blessing from the land. In hospital and clinic you are given a prescription for wine with your meals – a small carafe on tray or table.

The land – the terroir – is the beating soul of every Frenchman and woman.

"The soul of France" were words used this week by 64 of the country’s top chateaux producers in anguish at draft proposals by the health minister to reduce alcohol consumption among pregnant women and minors.

Agnes Buzyn wants two 2cm-wide logos in red on the front of each wine bottle.

French vintners are already obliged to use pictograms or a written message but there is no legal minimum size or rules on colour.

In a letter practically smoking the pages of Le Figaro, signatories of the most famous names in the wine world, including Cheval Blanc, Petrus, Yquem, and the Pol Roger and Roederer Champagne houses, accused the ministry of seeking to "spread fear" and even suggested its covert aim was to ban all alcohol consumption in France.

In typical French flourishes they warned that, as the soul of France with their produce, they encouraged thousands of tourist to discover "this France, bosom of the art de vivre that is the envy of the world and where wine plays a leading role."

All their endeavours would be risked they warned by turning wine into a "criminal product".

Earlier they had offered to pump millions over four years into adding to warnings but said they would not go the forced route of cigarette manufacturers with graphic cancer photographs.

Any warnings of excess damage should come from doctors and gynaecologists they said.

Of course I’m with them. France and wine are synonymous. The combination of terroir, sun and the ultimate "je ne sais crois," produce nectar; explosions of taste creating instant pictures; memories aided by the swirl in a glass, friendships forged in the gentle lessening of suspicion.

It is balm to both joyful and troubled souls; the warm bath of languorous indulgence at day’s end. It is the liquid heat slap with lunch under a vine arbour and the sigh of contentment as it gently tips harsh life into soft.

It is that last glass to smudge the corners of a nervous mind before taking to bed.

Of course excess of anything ultimately destroys. There, that’s my public health warning over to counter those who would say I paint too pretty a picture.

Possibly I do but I look to my farming neighbours to learn how to drink wine.

The old ones, in their 80s, still work their potagers; still drink wine – some of the men even now have wine with breakfast.

Their advice distilled over the years? Never, without food of some kind. Rarely white, for the heart thrives on red and thirsts for it; give it neither importance nor short shrift, simply enjoy it…and always, always give thanks to the ground that brought forth the vines.

Oh. And look to your parents. If they turned nasty with alcohol – so will you if you take too much.