BAD times are upon the Smith household because I've had to face the fact I'm now a proper grown-up.

I know this because on Friday I went to a dinner party.

The clues were all there before: I'm going to be 30 next year (let's move quickly on), I'm married, have a child on the way and own several items of clothing bought solely for comfort.

But if they're the clues (left by the youth thief) a dinner party is the equivalent of being caught red-handed.

Or it's the civilised, wine-and-cheese-filled version of a giant sledgehammer to the head.

"Shall we retire?" asked the host at one point.

I screamed internally before realising he meant retire to the living room.

These are scary times indeed.

Until recently having someone over for tea meant getting out a takeaway menu and graciously letting the guest look first.

After-dinner mints? Pffft. I'd rather have cracked open a tube of Pringles (devoured in three minutes flat) as we all tussled over which film we'd stick on.

Conversation was as high-brow as celeb gossip, trashy American TV shows and whether the idiot on The Apprentice was likely to win.

But on Friday, my lovely (and equally grown-up) friends cooked us a delicious meal completely from scratch.

And we ate at the table, not in front of the TV.

After dinner we did not slump in front of a film, but conversed quite happily about DIY projects, 'grown-up' cars (I need one with a pram-sized boot) and the merits of real ales.

We also touched briefly on politics (and subsequently discovered that nobody actually knows where Strood is).

So we've invited them back to ours tomorrow and I've realised that - to my 21-year-old self's disappointment - the local chippy cannot play any part in the evening.

The takeaway menus have been cleared away, the dessert is chilling in the fridge and the wine is ready to be opened with plenty of time to 'breathe'.

I've even planned which board games we'll play.

Now if you'll excuse me I need to go and buy the piece de resistance.

After Eight, anyone?