Perhaps the true sign of a successful dinner party is the relative blueness of the post-prandial conversation? I came upon this idea last night in a sprawling house in Brunswick, after a very satisfying, gently lit meal of handmade lentil burgers, chips and roast mushrooms. I was well-fed and relaxed, drinking from a tiny wine glass and enjoying the company of several charming musician types and a florist, and we were discussing poo. Someone mentioned that this was perhaps not the best after-dinner conversation when I remembered that most every truly enjoyable dinner party I'd been too involved intense discussions about bodily functions, depraved sexual acts and jokes about date rape and babies. Take Karen and Toby's recent, very mature Bastille Day party, where I learned that what I knew as 'the barracuda' was also known as 'the shocker.'

What do you reckon?