My friend Peter had invited me along that morning, saying his friend was having a house party and that everyone was welcome.

'OK!' I'd said, excitedly. 'What time?'

'Oh ... eightish ...' he'd said.

It was now 8.20 and I was still the only person there.

I could hear the stranger clattering away in the kitchen, moving bowls and getting canapes out of the oven. This didn't seem like a house party to me. This seemed more like a dinner party.

'Um ... excuse me? Sandra?' I called out.

'It's Sandi,' she said, walking into the living room and looking severe.

'Oh. Hey, this isn't, like, a dinner party, is it? Only Pete told me it was a house party and I don't want to look like I've gatecrashed ...'

'No ...' she said, flatly. 'It's just a small party.'

She was right. At this point in time, it was the smallest party in Europe. I waited for her to reassure me that I was not a gatecrasher, but she must've forgotten.

'I'm moving jobs, y'see,' she said.

'Oh! Congratulations!' I said.

'Yeah, I was made redundant.'

'I'm very sorry.'

'But I'm glad I'm moving.'

'Good!'

'My last job was full of ... bullying.'

'I'm very sorry.'

I had thought that by engaging my new host in friendly banter we might forge some kind of bond by the time any other guests arrived, but all it did was highlight just how little I knew about her. I tried to work with what I had around me.

'I see you've got a lot of Adam Sandler DVDs!' I said, pointing at a pile underneath her telly. 'You must really like Adam Sandler!'

'They're my ex-boyfriend's. He left recently and I've not had time to clear things up. Not with everything that's been going on with my mother.'

'No ...' I said, closing my eyes and nodding sympathetically, 'Of course ...'

I was hoping my silent, blind nodding would give the impression that I knew exactly what had been going on with her mother, but I think all it did was make me look a little simple. Inside, I was kicking myself Why had I arrived at eightish? You should never arrive at eightish! Other people hate people who arrive at eightish! I don't. I usually think promptness is much undervalued. But only if you know the person whose house it is. If it's the house party of a strange woman who's lost her job and had trouble with her mother, you probably shouldn't arrive at all. Promptness is rubbish.

Why had I done this? Why had I forgotten to come late? Why hadn't Pete reminded me of the etiquette when he'd said, 'Yeah, just pick up a bottle of wine and head over about eightish ...'?

Oh. Hang on.

Oh, God. I'd forgotten the wine, too.