At an inner-city cocktail gathering (women only, so why call it a cocktail party?), fairy-lights threw dim light on the high, high, high, stiletto-glamour. I sipped my apple martini (ewww), and surveyed the beautiful crowd.

Audrey, the friend of a friend, tried to engage me in a vapid game of, “This is my friend Rachael, try and guess what her profession is. Go on, go on…you’ll never guess!”

I glimpsed at Rachael, her eyes were bright, she enjoyed being the subject under scrutiny.

“Prostitute?” I ventured expecting a laugh (had there been men present, I would have got a laugh), but,

“No!” Audrey says, discounting my theory with a vigorous head-shake and a distinct narrowing of her eyes. She was right, I never would have guessed Rachael was an Army Captain (who really knows from just a look, what the in-her-civvies person you observe does for a quid).

After my third watery cocktail in a short space of time, I was not feeling even slightly on my way to becoming even slightly tipsy (must find the drink-source and remedy this insipid-drink situation).

On my way to the kitchen, I was drawn into a conversation with a very engaging woman in her mid thirties. She was as smart-as-a-whip and attractive. She relieved herself of a tale of her two current lovers, their sexual agility, and long-term worthiness of staying her man. It all seemed rather irrelevant when she revealed that her work was soon relocating her to their London office. (I think I hate you).

“That sounds like, um…quite an opportunity,” I said, with maybe just a hint of I’m-a-separated-stay-at-home-mother-from-the-suburbs envy.

“And can you believe I’ve a rent allowance of twenty thousand pounds?”

“Mmm!” I said eyebrows raised, nodding. (Oh don’t talk about money. How tasteless!)

Ms Engaging continued to reveal more of her wonderfully successful professional and fulfilling sexual (not love) life, but as she talked, I began to realise that she was not a self-obsessed ass, she was simply, genuinely overjoyed with the good in her life. Later in the night, after questioning me at length about my life, she admitted that she often wished for marriage and kids, but, as she had never been asked, she was a bit limited in her achievement of that goal.

A pregnant woman arrived, a small group gathered around her and the conversation (doesn’t it always) turned to her bump,

“…it’s twins. We are so happy, because it took months to conceive, (I shot a surreptitious look at my bestie, she’s been trying for 3 years) and I was really concerned because, I’ve only set aside 5 years for my breeding-block and,” she looked around before adding, “I am 41!” (Breeding-block, what the fuck kind of term is that?)

One woman replied with the expected, hand on breast, “41 really, but you don’t look 41!”

And I added (I still can’t quite fathom why, no wait, that’s not true, it was because she was a smug cow),

“Yeah, but the light out here is supplied by fairies.”

Yes, I know, it should have stayed in my head, in italics, but it came out and it adds to the gathering, now largish amount of evidence, that perhaps I should be seen and rarely heard.