‘Did you tell the dentist that I’m here to network?’ Hot Danish asked. We were at a pop-up Oriental-themed party (located in an empty shop). ‘I’m pretty sure he worked that out for himself; you’re the only straight guy in the room,’ I replied.

He was also the only person who hadn’t followed the dress code despite watching (five-plus minutes of) a YouTube video on how to tie a turban (‘I didn’t have five metres of cloth,’ he said. Our hosts had used readily available pashminas for theirs.).

The following evening we dined at a Michelin-starred restaurant that had been booked via Restaurant Week. The restaurateur introduced himself; the staff cracked a few jokes; and pretty amuse bouches were soon brought out. The co-owner moved on to our neighbouring table… ‘He should have a few different scripts that he could rotate,’ HD whispered. HD soon acknowledged that an element of surprise was lacking due to the obligatory set menu. ‘At least we arrived before our neighbours,’ I said. ‘So we get to enjoy the dishes first.’

My local brasserie is one of those places where the service is terrible; the menu is safe as gilts; and it’s always packed to the rafters with a sharply-dressed, moneyed crowd. I usually snatch the menus from the bar and hunt down a passing waiter to avoid a long wait. When a bottle of water and two glasses arrived during a recent visit, an eagle-eyed neighbour said, ‘I think that might be mine.’
‘I’m sorry,’ I replied, reluctantly relinquishing the goods.
‘Did you think the waiter was telepathic?’ HD asked.
‘No, I was just grabbing what I could.’ The neighbours smiled conspiratorially.

None of us like to be pigeonholed (although we all pigeonhole others); most of us enjoy a surprise, which is arguably crucial to good art; but sometimes, as much as we don’t like to admit it, we find comfort in the tame, the conservative and even the plain bad.