Out with the cocktail crowd in Chiswick, a London burb full of mee-ja folk, I gingerly enter a pretentious private club newly spawned from a West End luvvies' haunt. The problem is, Chiswick luvvies are home with their families. So the place is filled with smart bridge and tunnel folk playing table football. I arrive after a workshop for board directors. "I've discovered I'm a theorist!" I announce to my bemused mates who, bizarrely, are lounging in slashed cocktail dresses and slinky kitten tops. "That means I only take action when I understand what it's for and why it's necessary." They're confused. I explain the other types: the pragmatists, activists and reflectors. "We have to know each other's MO, so everyone's learning needs are met by the board. It's about personal diversity." Even I can't pretend interest after this point... Taking collective comfort from drink, we indulge in a mixture of flirtinis, fruitinis and other bastardisations of the real thing: the perfect raspberry martini. Nothing touches the one at Smiths:-o As our brains slow, conversation becomes a foot-dragging meander around celebrity liposuction and increased sex drives during pregnancy. One of our party tells a story of a friend whose husband has announced he won't father her child but "doesn't mind her having one by someone else." There's silence. "He's clearly a mix between a reflector and a pragmatist," I say:-o