Posh Golf, Get-Togethers, And The Sheer Hell Known As Small Talk.

Why do I complain about having no social life? Why? Just be careful what you wish for, that's all I can say.

"Don't forget tonight's fancy dress," says Max, while we're eating breakfast.

"What?" I say. "Fancy dress? Since when?"

Honestly, sometimes I'm sure he's got me well-insured and is trying to kill me off - though I suppose he wouldn't have attempted the Heimlich Manoeuvre if that was really the case. (Note to self: watch paranoia levels.)

Anyway, once I've finished choking on my toast, Max explains that Celia, his colleague, has decided that tonight's "little get-together" is to be themed. For God's sake.

"So what's the theme, then?" I say. "It'd better be something simple, seeing as you've left it until now to tell me about it."

"Um, no," he says. "Which is sort of why I couldn't bring myself to tell you. It's 'posh golf'."

Posh golf? What the hell is that? I suspect I become slightly hysterical at this point but, once I've stopped hyperventilating, Max admits that he has no idea what the stupid theme means either. Then he says that he's just going to to wear his suit, on the grounds that that's as posh as he ever gets.

"Oh, and we have to bring a hamper of food, as well," he says. "So we can have an indoor picnic, apparently."

I look at him as if he has lost his mind, before tearing upstairs and rifling through my wardrobe, which turns out, as expected, to contain no golf-related clothing whatsoever.

When my search area widens to encompass Josh's room, I do find an old fedora hat - which Max decides to appropriate - but, unsurprisingly, there's nothing to indicate that teenage boys have any more of a plus-four fetish than do their parents.

Meanwhile, Max has discovered, after a visit to the loft, that we don't possess anything that could pass for a hamper, either - which I could have told him if he'd asked.

Preparations are thus not going well at all, but Max won't hear of it when I suggest we tell Celia that we've suddenly gone down with the Winter Vomiting bug, not even when I point out that then we could stay in and watch The Killing on BBC4 instead - which would be a lot more fun, as far as I'm concerned. He says we have no option but to go, as this sort of socialising is unofficially required as part of his job.

So, after I've had several nervous breakdowns and have done more than my fair share of swearing, we make our way to Celia's dressed as Coco Chanel and an unidentified gangster - who is carrying a picnic in a Tesco carrier bag and doesn't even have a gun. This last may be a good thing, given that my mood is best described as murderous.

"I think we've missed the golf bit out completely," I say, as the taxi turns into Celia's road, but Max just shrugs as if it's of no consequence, which may be because he already knows we won't be the only ones. I just wish he'd told me about his bloody premonition, before I turned myself into a pearl-clad dog's dinner.

Half the guests haven't bothered to dress up at all, and even the couple who've made the most effort have missed the mark, unless they know something about golfers that I don't. They've come as a cowboy and the owner of the best little whorehouse in Northwick.

"Nice reference to Tiger Woods," says Max, who is scarily good at small talk, and obviously knows more about both golf and men's leisure activities than I do.

"Mmm," I say.

This scintillating comment is about as good as my contribution to the conversation gets. God, chit-chat is boring. And who the hell are these people? I ask Max, who says they're mainly clients, or people who work for companies related to his.

"The Beales brothers seem fascinating conversationalists, all of a sudden," I say. "I'd even be happy to see Steve Ellington walk in."

"Shut up,"  says Max, sotto voce. "This is how the cream of Northwick society amuses itself. Go and have another cigarette if you can't stand it."

I do as he suggests, and don't think anyone notices that I spend the rest of the evening in Celia's back garden but, even so, I'm pretty relieved when there's a beep outside, and Max comes to the back door to tell me that our taxi is here.

I thank Celia, (though I don't think I'm as enthusiastic about her husband's plus-fours as she would have liked), and then I attempt to do some air-kissing. Max is very good at it, and gets round all the female guests at lightning speed, but I really shouldn't have moved in to kiss the woman from the Chicken Ranch while talking at the same time.

"For God's sake, Mol," says Max, as he bundles me into the taxi. "Are you choking again?"

"Feather boa," I say. "Inhaled. Be all right in a minute."

The driver asks if I'm going to be sick, and has to be reassured that I've only had three G&Ts.

"Bit of a poor night, was it, then?" he says.

"Yes," I say. "All posh golf, Pimms, and talking about nothing. How's yours been?"

Max says I never know when to ask questions and when not to - but, honestly, the poor, poor taxi driver. It turns out that he had an awful experience with some students a few weeks ago, when he was driving them home from a night-club.

They were really drunk and made him drive them miles out of Northwick, claiming that they lived in one of the satellite villages.

"Then I felt a gun in my back, and one of them said, 'Give us all your money, now,'" he says. "I thought I was a goner."

"Oh, my God," I say. "What on earth happened then?"

"The guy started laughing, and said it was a joke. That he'd only stuck his finger between my shoulder blades. 'For a laugh,' he said it was."

Now the driver sounds as if he's the one who's choking, so I wait without saying anything. Small talk's not appropriate in every situation, after all. Then he blows his nose, clears his throat and continues as if he hadn't even paused for breath:

"Except it wasn't funny, was it?" he says. "This is the first night I've worked since then and, to be honest, I'm not at all sure I can handle it any more. Not everyone behaves like you people, and the money's not so good that it feels worth the risk of trying to handle the ones who don't."

Max leaves a big tip, which we can't afford, but he doesn't say much when we let ourselves into the house. He just goes straight to bed, leaving me downstairs, sitting on the sofa and thinking. Hard.

Why did I find the taxi driver more interesting, and easier to relate to than any of Max's colleagues? And why can't I do bloody small talk any more? I am obviously drawn to misery, and doomed to stay a caseworker forever.

Trained monkeys, Dr Snuffleopagus and the Drama Queen.

Things are really looking up. Today's the last day of Recess, and The Boss still isn't speaking to me, so Greg has to do surgery again. The usual suspects seem to be otherwise occupied, and work is thoroughly uneventful - which is just how I like it.

To add to my joy, Josh phones at lunchtime to tell me he's got an interview at the cinema on Monday. Bloody hell. So all my worrying about his unemployability may have been for nothing.

I'm not used to everything going so well, so I get a bit nervous - with reason, as it turns out. My whole evening is interrupted by various members of my family. First Connie phones.

"I hate my new job," she says. "I wish I hadn't applied for this bloody internship now."

"Why?" I say. Doesn't she realise what an honour it was to be selected? There aren't many internships as prestigious as this, nor that are as well-paid. Connie's earning almost as much as Max - though I haven't told him that.

"A trained monkey could do what I'm doing," says Connie, hiccuping with outrage. "Or a robot. And my boss is awful."

"Oh, well - join the club on that one," I say. I am still working on the principle that, if it isn't cancer, shut up about it.

"He hates women, and only speaks to me when he has to, Mum." God, this is like deja-vu. My maternal sympathy finally kicks in.

"Oh, poor you, Connie," I say. "I know all about that one. Give it another week, and then speak to him about it if it doesn't get any better."

"I would, Mum," she says, "But I can't pronounce his name properly. I can't call him Dr Snuffleopagus, which is what it sounds like, can I?"

This might appear to be a minor problem, but Connie takes such things very seriously indeed. She was once reduced to tears of embarrassment when she phoned the kebab shop to place an order, and couldn't understand what the man who answered was saying. She couldn't handle asking him to repeat what he'd said more than twice, in case he thought she was taking the piss - so, instead, she lost the plot and had to pass the phone to Josh - who presumably reminded them that his father was dead, and negotiated a discount.

I finally calm Connie down a bit, and am looking forward to an early night, when I get a text from Dinah.

"I've had bad news," she says.

This doesn't sound like something to discuss by text message so I try to phone her, but she doesn't answer. Instead she texts again:

"I don't want to talk about it." Oh, for God's sake. I text back:

"Then why bloody well text me in the first place FFS*?" I am definitely becoming more impatient by the day.

There is a lull, and then three texts arrive in quick succession. In them, Dinah spells out her distress at being diagnosed with a serious illness when she saw her GP this morning. Now I feel terrible.

"God, I'm sorry, sis," I type. "What is it?"

Back comes the reply, as quick as a flash.

"HPD."

What the hell is that? I didn't even know Dinah was feeling ill. Or not any more than usual, anyway. Hypochondria runs in the family.

"Dinah, I've never heard of HPD, I'm sorry. What is it?"

"Histrionic Personality Disorder."

I almost collapse laughing. Max thinks I'm choking and starts trying to do the Heimlich manoeuvre on me, until I fight him off.

"What the hell's the matter with you?" he says. "Are you hysterical or something?"

"Probably," I say. "Dinah's just been diagnosed with Histrionic Personality Disorder."

"How did it take them so long to work that one out?" Max says. "That's just another word for Drama Queen-itis."

Later, I go onto Facebook to try to work out where Josh has gone for the evening, and notice that Dinah has updated her status. It now reads, "Dinah is finding it very hard to cope with her HPD diagnosis." I resist the temptation to leave a sarcastic comment, but the effort nearly kills me, and now I need a lie-down. Attention-seeking Facebook statuses always stress me out, even though I make it a matter of principle to ignore them. It's never a good idea to encourage nutters, whether at work or in your private life.

*FFS - for those of you over the age of thirty-five or who do not have teenage children to keep you abreast of what's hip and happening in text-speak, FFS means "for f*ck's sake."