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Call me naïve, but I never suspected what havoc writing a book about conversation would wreak on my social life.
When I meet someone new, however well we are getting along, the instant this fact is revealed the other person takes a deep breath, then a step back. Then they start apologising, assuming I'm about to rate their conversational prowess. Or - and this is worse - they expect me to dazzle them with spontaneous repartee.
I'm not yet a recluse, but it took some temptation to break my post-Christmas party fast last week, when I ventured from my home to Albemarle Street, an elegant Georgian thoroughfare off Piccadilly.
You might make such a trip for several reasons.














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