Noelle McCarthy: When even small talk gets too hard

No matter how great the party, if you're not in the right frame of mind, even small talk can be a chore. Photo / APN

What is happening at the moment is that I am looking for my edge. Auckland is exhausting me. Life is exhausting me.

I am running on an empty tank. It won't stop raining, I'm worried about everything and I am always late for the bus.

I went to a party last week, a birthday party for a magazine. It was a lovely party, put on by some women whose work I respect and whose company I really enjoy.

It was beautifully catered, and the speeches were funny, and everyone was well dressed. There were fresh orchids, and men in sharp suits, and the drunkenness bubbled softly in the naughty corner, and everything unfolded as it should.

The DJ was a total fox, and the room was full of people I knew. There was the gay diva in TV makeup, and the stylist with a cap of black feathers in her hair. A fistful of fashion designers radiated the creativity and narcissism that gets you an entourage. Two men I wouldn't mind kissing some day, and one who might give me a job.

A very Auckland party I suppose it was, but Auckland is the only place I've ever been to parties, so I've got nothing to compare it with. I felt awkward and abstracted the whole time I was there. For a terrifying while, I was entirely at a loss, like I'd turned up for a test completely unprepared.

People were saying things to me, asking me questions, and I was groping for answers, as though they were speaking in code. There is no code really for "how are you?" and yet it was an impossible question all the same.

I felt too big for my body, and also too small. Nodding to the rhythms of small talk, I suddenly got an image of one of those little dogs that bob up and down on the dashboard of the car - something cute and synthetic and utterly manic. This is when I knew I'd tipped over, and I'd better move on. It is impossible to talk about Fashion Week and ask people how their children are when you're picturing yourself as a dashboard dog.

So I left the lovely party, and went out for dinner and had some conversation, and then I went home. And I felt a little bit better, but not much. I used to be better at parties, I didn't nod so much, or so stupidly, or maybe I did and I just didn't care. Making conversation is very difficult, though, and the thing about small talk is you have to keep it small.

No money, or heartbreak or religion, it's kids, work, gossip, or what she's done with her hair. The remit is limited, and with that the potential for depth. And that's with good reason, probably.

Parties aren't the places for deep and meaningfuls, well, not now that we've all stopped doing Ecstasy and it's no longer cool to lie on the couch and tell your friends how much you love them while playing with their hair. No, the point of going to parties is to entertain and be entertained.

You must be a refractor, and a mirror, listening to your fellow conversationalists and drawing from them pearls of insight which you then exchange for your own.

You banter, and you parry, and you save the talk of how you "really" feel for your priest, or mother, or lover. This is exhausting. And damn near impossible if you're in the wrong frame of mind.

The trick to it is, your do-I-give-a-f***?-ometer has to be on the right setting before you leave the house. Too high and people will think you're a weirdo, too low and it's obvious you don't care.

Mine is broken, which is why I had such an uncomfortable time. All I have are my instincts to tell me how much I care.

No one wants to be operating in this manner. It makes it very hard.

But not without bright spots. The best thing about small talk is those moments where suddenly you break the surface and there, for a split second, is something else.

One minute it's all kids, work and yada yada, and the next, somebody says something and the spade cracks through the ice.

You're having a talk with somebody who knows you and hears you and space around you becomes elastic and infinite and shared. I live for that moment, I'd trawl through any number of parties to find it.

And I got it at this party, twice. I wasn't expecting it at all, but it happened. Somebody said something to me that they really meant, and I responded honestly and before either of us could stop it, a moment of real-life conversation had taken place. Of course, in both cases neither of us really knew what to do next, so we just stood there awkwardly until we could decently drift away.

It really happened, though. It really happened. I went to a party here in Auckland, and not one, but two people said things to me that were sincere and honest. Such are the little consolations in a winter of discontent.