You could almost hear the horror in Rosie's voice. It was a sight that a lifetime of broadcasting had clearly never prepared her for. On Saturday morning the BBC's former arts correspondent Rosie Millard was reporting for Radio 4 on the travails of non-doms (an assignment that, I have to say, ranks alongside a feature I once read on the difficulties of being beautiful as the piece of journalism least likely ever to be called crusading). The report was actually quite absorbing, as various millionaire hedge-fund figures lamented the terrible effects on our capital if they are compelled to leave. If you have tears, prepare to shed them now.

But what caught my ear most was Rosie's reaction when she was taken round a piece of real estate, apparently geared for the oligarch market. Apartments aimed at this particular demographic are now likely to be marked down as the supply of émigré Russian zillionaires is set to shrink. It's difficult to know whether that's due more to the duff reviews our sushi joints get in the Russian-language press or the imminent tax changes, but, whatever the reason, it seems that London is shortly going to be shy of a few Siberian gas moguls. Now that may be another cause for private grieving. The wrench to our emotional equilibrium aside, however, this exodus will also lead to a variety of intriguing properties coming to market. But if Rosie's reaction is anything to go by, there won't be a stampede to snap up these bijoux dwellings. Even as she listed the attractions of the property she was visiting, down to the £1,000-a-throw Egyptian cotton sheets, she was manifestly horrified by one, dominant, factor about the decor.

Rosie had clearly been prepared for a vulgar display of ostentatious wealth, all gold taps, Swarovski crystal and white leather sofas. Instead, to her obvious disappointment and regret, everything was beige. A subdued and tasteful oatmeal throughout.

The agent taking Rosie round explained that the clientele with an interest in this place had grown used to living out of suitcases in five-star hotels, where every room is a lighter shade of beige, and they had come to associate that gentle colour scheme with luxury. Good taste, even.

To my ear, Rosie seemed quite moved on behalf of those in thrall to this delusion. The poor dears, condemned to thinking beige tasteful. How grimly, corporately, homogenously, internationally, airport-loungely, Four Seasonsly, bankerishly dull. What could be worse than living in a world trapped somewhere between sepia and mud? And, indeed, for most people (such as Rosie) with natural style, beige is the colour not so much of bad taste as of no taste. Beige is what you get when you take the glamour out of brown. Beige, not black, is the real colour of death - a room in beige is a room starved of life, while a room in black is one charged with dark energy. What American Tan is to hosiery and Imperial Leather is to soap - the absolute negation of style - beige is to decor, clothing, anything.

Or so the fashion police would have you believe. Me? I love beige. Next to grey, it's my favourite colour. Beige, dun, oatmeal, ecru or, when it aspires to a certain grittiness, khaki. It's the colour of so many wonderful things, its every association is pleasing. Think of those things that make the transition from sleep to wakefulness tolerable. Tea. Toast. Porridge. All, in the best-run households, a uniform shade of beige. Or oatmeal, if you're being pedantic. And PG isn't the only dull light-brown drink that makes life bearable - the very best white wines, the sort of burgundies that, if you want to get a sniff of them these days, you probably need to know an oligarch or two, are a golden brown, with the accent on the brown. Beige, in other words. And, as I'm sure you've anticipated, the greatest of all drinks, manufactured from angels' tears and tasting of peat, the classic Islay malt, is a pure, clear beige. All of these associations may seem unconnected, but they build up - and in a way that reinforces the therapeutic quality of the colour.

For those of us in love with homeliness, creatures who live for their comforts, being beige is a sign that something suits us. It's not just tea, toast and tumblers of whisky that speak of the hearth and reassure with their bland light-brownness. Think of the quintessential comfort garment - the cardigan - and your mind inevitably imagines it, at its comfiest, as beige. Think of the trousers that speak of security, wearable at all times and in all places, and you'll think, if in your prime, of cavalry twill or, if a tad younger, of chinos. But what unites them, what underwrites their acceptability, is that both are firmly beige. Beige may also be the shade on the palette that Giorgio Armani favours, but for those of us drawn to the colour because of its magnificently homely blandness that doesn't matter. Armani clothing is, after all, just a slightly more expensive version of Marks & Spencer's Collezione range. Which is, I have to say, beige heaven.

Beige is thus not just the colour of comfort, the visual equivalent of an hour of reflexology, both relaxing and just a tad luxurious (because it's a lighter colour, it speaks of regular dry-cleaning), it is also the camouflage of the modern age, universally acceptable and thus a liberating choice for those of us who have no desire to show off, but simply want to look quietly smart.

For those of us who have no “look” that we want to make “directional”, who harbour no desire to be recognised as “creative” across a crowded room, who think that interior design is mainly a business of covering the damp patches and finding room for more bookshelves, beige, the colour of Gap trousers and flatpack furniture, is our safe haven. We love beige precisely because it isn't the new black - beige is the old bland - and that's the way we like it.

Backbone on the backbenches
The papers have been full of tributes to Gwyneth Dunwoody, the rather wonderful woman who represented Crewe & Nantwich in the Commons for 34 years and embodied the word “redoubtable”. But I would add one thing. Gwyneth's career underlined how, even as more and more power has been grabbed by the executive, backbench politicians can still contribute much more to the good governance of this country than many a minister. While there will never be another Gwyneth, there are still many backbenchers to admire. Some are well known, but others such as David Taylor, Lindsay Hoyle and Rob Marris have never held office or been in the limelight. They think for themselves in an environment where there's huge pressure just to follow the herd. They all believe in their party; but they believe in Parliament more. And it's that approach that made Gwyneth both more admired, and more certain to be remembered, than many others who held higher office.

Mired in misery
If Gordon Brown ever wants to know about real misery, I can take him through my past few days. Aberdeen Football Club, after a season that redefined the range of emotions encompassed by the single word disappointing, were in the semi-final of the Scottish Cup last week. They faced Queen of the South - not a club night in Brighton, but a football team from Dumfries. The last time Queen of the South were in a Scottish Cup semi-final Clement Attlee was running the country. Dumfries is a lovely town, but it has traditionally been to football what Reykjavik is to camel racing. Last week, however, they had their moment. In a game that was thrilling much in the same way as having someone set light to your trousers is exciting - ie, simultaneously dramatic and very painful - Queen of the South defeated Aberdeen 4-3. The misery doesn't go away.

Michael Gove is Conservative MP for Surrey Heath

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