The host at a party has left me with a random person and bolted. Normally, my terror at this social ambush would be visible on my face.But as the graduate of a charisma masterclass, I’m without fear. I take a breath, smile, stand tall. Then I gesture towards a passing waiter and, my voice slow and low, offer my new acquaintance a drink — as if it’s my party.We’re soon chatting and laughing. I confide that the goat’s cheese and beetroot nibbles are my idea of hell — one tastes like goats smell; the other is like shovelling clods of earth into your mouth.
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