The other week I attended an awards ceremony in London and was seated during dinner between Jung Chang, the acclaimed author of Wild Swans, and an actress who stars in Holby City, a television series I have, unfortunately, never watched.

I mention this not to give the impression that I lead a glamorous life - my existence is as tear-strewn as ever - or that I was up for an award (I wasn't) but because something traumatic occurred between the main course and dessert.

In short, for the first time since the age of 13, I lost the ability to chat. For a period of what must have been five minutes, I just sat there, staring at my cutlery. It was awful. So bad, in fact, that the next day I did something shaming: I considered seeking professional help. And was surprised to discover how much was available.

Did you know there are self-proclaimed “conversation experts” out there who offer two-day seminars in the “art of small talk”? That tens of self-help manuals have been published with titles such as What Do I Say Next? and How to Start a Conversation?

The desperation of these titles had a sobering effect and I wouldn't, normally, have purchased any. But it became evident while browsing amazon.co.uk that many of these books were aimed at business. Which makes sense, really: while war may be, as the saying goes, 90 per cent waiting around, business is 90 per cent chit-chat. If you don't have the skills to witter to colleagues and clients, your career will go nowhere. Intrigued, and with this column to write, I ordered the most business-focused title: The Fine Art of Small Talk, by Debra Fine.

Now, before I proffer my low opinion of this book, I should state that it is not entirely useless. Fine recommends, for instance, that you should avoid “rubbing or fondling body parts” when speaking to strangers, which is pretty sensible advice. But this is where the book's merits begin and end. And if The Fine Art of Small Talk serves any purpose at all, it is as a demonstration of exactly what you should NOT do when it comes to small talk.

Fine suggests, for example, breaking the ice with strangers by inserting a series of up to four questions into an introductory conversation, with samples including “How are you able to tell if that melon is ripe?” and “What's your favourite thing to do alone?”

I can assure you that if you did somehow manage to get these questions into a conversation, the stranger's response to the second would be: “Drinking - without being bothered by loons like you.”

The author also recommends preparing “for a conversation like you'd prepare for an interview”, which seems to miss the point of small talk entirely - it is, by definition, spontaneous.

But even this woeful suggestion is better than her assertion that the following topics should be avoided at all costs: gossip; how much things cost; controversial subjects; health.

Leaving aside the fact that people over the age of 50 are incapable of discussing anything but their ailments, and the price of things, veering into these areas is in fact the entire aim of small talk. I never warm to a stranger until they've revealed something that might damage them if it were broadcast - it shows they trust you.

The Fine Art of Small Talk really is a ridiculous text. But I think I understand why. For a start, Fine's motives are confused. She claims she became fascinated by small talk because she was an overweight child, often excluded from conversation. But it seems to me the real reason she struggled was her name. The first question most people tend to ask strangers is “Who are you?” and Debra's response - “I'm Fine” - probably threw those trying to engage her.

Fine's other problem, or maybe it's our problem, is that she is American and advice about small talk doesn't travel. The British don't do earnestness and sincerity like they do in the US. And there are many other international differences when it comes to chit-chat: in parts of the Middle East, it is apparently normal to spend up to three quarters of an hour wittering before a business meeting; in China, the question “Have you eaten?” is as common as “How are you?” in Britain; and in Singapore it is not unusual to ask “How much are you paid?”, whereas the question is taboo over here.

Indeed, every country has a discrete set of conventions when it comes to small talk and in Britain I would say there are three particular rules to remember. Rule one: alcohol helps. Rule two: “What do you do?” is by far the best way to begin chit-chat. It identifies people and therefore minimises the risk of causing offence. That's why the Queen loves it.

Rule three: successful small talk with the intellectual, the beautiful, or the famous is virtually impossible. Intellectuals are allergic to banality, talking to attractive people turns the less attractive into blushing, babbling buffoons, and there is something about celebrities that always makes you try too hard, no matter how much you attempt not to be impressed. Plus you can never use the “So, what do you do?” opener with them.

My muteness over dinner, was, I fear, caused by a sickly cocktail of all of these factors. By asking the Holby City actress I didn't recognise “So, what do you do?”, I immediately alienated her by negating her apparent fame and couldn't retrieve the situation because she was too attractive to engage. Meanwhile, I was so keen to strike up a lasting friendship with the deeply impressive Jung Chang that I was rendered speechless by the task. Finally, I was due to drive home after dinner and was therefore horrifically sober - a mistake I will endeavour never to repeat.

sathnam@thetimes.co.uk

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