As someone who can adapt so masterfully to different social situations, it is, at times, sobering (and I need a bit of that) to be reminded that for some people, the experience of the dinner party can be a harrowing and humourless occasion.

I am recalling an occasion when my dear friend, Moy, and myself were invited to a friend’s house for dinner, at which the host’s new boyfriend would be present. (To protect their identity, and add comic value, I will be referring to them throughout as Henry and Henrietta)

Moy and I went along with some trepidation, not least because Henrietta was not known for her generous food portions; many a time we’d had to supplement her meagre dinner offerings with a sausage roll bought from the local corner shop on our way home. As we were also staying the night on this occasion, there were concerns as to how we could, if required, discretely sneak out for more food.

However, our fears were slightly allayed when we were allotted three potatoes each (instead of the customary two) and copious amounts of wine put paid to any potential hunger. Perhaps Henry’s arrival on the scene had brought about a sea-change in Henrietta’s WW2–style food rationing.

The evening was progressing swimmingly as Moy and I asked all the right questions of Henry and entertained him with stories of our College days (some real, some imagined).

Admittedly, the potatoes were quite hard to cut but we didn’t let this spoil our fun. However, who could have predicted the devastating impact these tough spuds would have on the course of the evening?!?

At one point, Henry, nobly struggling with a particularly undercooked specimen, went for the kill, launching his knife at the centre of the tatty. (If I keep this up much longer, I’ll run out of different words for potatoes!) The result was instantaneous; the potato (told you) divided in two, with one half leaping off the plate, launching into the air in a magnificent arc and landing in the hapless Henry’s wine glass with a great splash.

How we laughed! Moy and I, that is.

It soon became apparent that neither Henry nor Henrietta were going to make any reference to the aforementioned incident, despite the fact that there was an increasingly soggy half-spud in Henry’s drink. Instead, Henry continued talking as though nothing had occurred and even sipped at his drink, carefully placing the glass at his lips in such a way as to allow the now potato-flavoured vino to flow past the crumbling pomme-de-terre.

Moy and I, instantly recognizing the signs that a misplaced decorum was being upheld (well, I think I had to hit Moy), attempted to stifle our laughter and not look at Henry when he was drinking from the offending glass. It was not easy, and I can still recall our bobbing bodies, helpless with repressed laughter (or just repressed) as we tried not to look at the cloudy spuddy liquid that Henry’s drink had become.

As ‘The Voice of Reason’ (Steve’s words, not my own, although I confer with them wholeheartedly), I feel I should explain to all you social-misfits out there (Mr B) of the correct procedure Henry and Henrietta should have adopted in such a situation as this - Moy’s behaviour and my own being, of course, completely beyond reproach. This advice counts equally for any food item launching itself into a wine glass at a dinner party.

A) Save the wine, obviously. A sieve would allow for the immediate and save removal of the potato, plus the retrieval of the chardonnay.

B) LAUGH! Life’s humourless enough (well, mine is) without letting an opportunity like this going to waste.

PS. On re-reading this (and who wouldn’t?) I realize that my re-telling of this incident implies that we were only given potatoes for dinner. This is a slight misrepresentation of the truth. However, the potato incident, and years of heavy drinking, means I am unable to remember what we had with the comedy spuds. Sorry.