Am preparing for a trip to New York ahead of the publication of my next book, and first novel, Park Lane. A couple of dinners have been set up for me. I was told that my last book, The Bolter, led to people holding ‘Bolter’ dinner parties in celebration of my misbehaving great-grandmother, Idina. Eventually, I was invited to one and went along with some trepidation as Idina’s dinners were renowned for discarding clothes, as well as morals.

To my relief, the table was set outside on a beautiful roof terrace. Now, surely, I thought, the fact we were in plain view of so many other apartments would moderate affairs. The evening started well. Jazz music to take us all back to Idina’s roaring twenties, cocktails, and then a sumptuous many course meal.

Then the conversation kicked in. If the guests weren’t going to have sex, they were certainly going to talk about it. As the evening wore on, the subject matter became increasingly technical. And obscure. Ok, I thought, this is certainly unlike any other dinner I have ever been to. And then, mercifully, before it had been noticed that I was not contributing to a discussion that was now way over, or rather under, my head, it became late enough for me to plead an early flight the next day.

On the way home, curiosity had the better of me and I summoned the courage to ask a fellow-guest what the meaning of a particularly mystifying term was. There was silence and then, after a necessarily embarrassing pause, he said. I don’t know. I left it at that.