Seriously, art just brings out my fluffy side

Before I know it I've completely forgotten to look at the art. My inner "people slut" has gone for a waltz around the room, making any sort of critical engagement impossible.

I live for the arts. So why does every intelligent thought go out of the window when I get a sniff of champagne? This is hardly party central. People are here to be engaged, provoked, educated. It's not appropriate to be thinking about a new boyfriend.

I look furtively round the room. Is anyone else having such superficial thoughts? Apparently not. They're gazing at the sculptures with real intelligence. A famous art critic approaches and asks for my opinion. Is he mad? This is the best night of the year for people-watching. Clearly I'll have to come back another time.

The trouble is I don't really do cerebral. At the best of times my response to art is partial, self-involved. What does it tell me about my life? How did that artist deal with rejection? Would I actually look better in purple? I keep waiting for the transcendence thing to happen. But generally I have feet of clay.

Later on at the Philharmonia's opening concert at the Royal Festival Hall I spent half the night in a reverie about the conductor's hair (very good for 50). And the other half idly wondering whether women violinists dress to disguise the upper-arm problem.

"Don't worry about it," a friend insists. "That's the beauty of live performance. you get to sit in the dark watching someone's ballet or play - and soon you're thinking about what to make from the Ottolenghi cookbook."

I hate myself for cultural drift, I really do. But sometimes you just have to admit you're human - and trade the cutting-edge art experience for yet another canapé.