You must meet Robert," people kept saying to me. "You'd get on really well."

It was New Year's Eve and friend Neil, who lives in an enormous house outside Haywards Heath, had invited everybody.

No one was telling me what it was about Robert which would make us get on so well, but I was quite happy to be introduced to anyone and Robert, as it turned out, was a young-looking 41-year-old, with Brad Pitt eyes and endearing smile, who was sitting on a sofa in Neil's conservatory with a bottle of wine when somebody said: "Oh, there's Robert. You must meet him. You'll have lots to talk about."

"Hi," said Robert. "Top up?"

"Please," I said, sitting down next to him, proffering empty wine glass.

"I don't know why that always reminds me of life jackets," he said.

"What?" I asked, wondering if he could possibly be referring to my very expensive, slightly gold chenille top which was a Christmas present.

"Top up," he said. "You know on aeroplanes they always say 'If your life jacket needs topping up, then blow into the whistle'."

"I think you blow into the whistle if you need help," I corrected. "And you blow into the blowing-up pipe thing if you need a top up."

"Well, anyway," said Robert, "I always imagine everyone floating around in the middle of the Atlantic with empty wine glasses and asking for top ups. I'm Robert. Nice to meet you. Like your top."

"It doesn't remind you of a life jacket, then?"

Robert laughed and said something suitably appreciative of sweater. He was sure we'd met before.

"Do you know Tony and Guy?" he asked.

"Only the hairdressers," I said. "And I don't go there. Too expensive and they always tell you you must spend at least half an hour blow drying and moussing and all sorts of other stuff or they won't ever cut your hair again."

"Well, I definitely don't know you from there then."

"Do you commute?" I asked, thinking it a reasonable enough question, as chances were Robert may have caught sight of me getting on or off a train. But, for some reason he stiffened slightly. "No," he said. "No, no, no. Not at all." He was very definite about this.

"There's no shame in it," I joked but he didn't find it funny. In fact he seemed rather anxious to change the subject. "D' you work locally then?"

"Well, sort of, round about really," said Robert, shiftily and was trying to change the subject when Neil joined us.

"So," he said, "you two have met. What are you chatting about, leaves on the line?"

Robert was shaking his head wildly and gesturing at Neil not to go on. But it was too late. "Why would we have been talking about leaves on the line?" I inquired.

"Hasn't he told you?" said Neil. "Robert's a leaf control officer."

"What's that then?" I asked Robert.

"Apart from a real conversation killer - especially conversations with people who commute," said Robert miserably, "it means I work for Railtrack. In charge of leaf control."

"I told you you'd have loads to talk about," said Neil, before leaving us. "She's always moaning about leaves on the line, amongst other things."

So that was how I spent New Year's Eve.