'Oh, right,' I say. 'I'm not very keen on dogs.'

None of them say anything for a while; there's not much they can say, really, about my lack of enthusiasm for dogs.

'Is that size of flat, or childhood fear, or the smell, or ...?' asks Clara, very sweetly.

'I dunno. I'm just ...' I shrug hopelessly, 'you know, not very keen.'

They smile politely.

As it turns out, this is my major contribution to the evening's conversation, and later on I find myself recalling the line wistfully as belonging to a Golden Age. [...]