The Sun-Herald

How to handle party stranger danger

At this week's parties, Amy wonders if it's ever possible to become comfortable plunging into the social unknown.

A very well-known female celebrity once turned to me at some crowded charity function and said: 'I don't know how you do this every night.'
She confided that she dreaded parties. The stage held no fear; the screen was her comfort zone. But strangers and smalltalk filled her with nameless horror.
I wasn't sure if she had it easier than me. At least when your face is as familiar to people as their own backyards, they'll talk to you because they think they know you. But they're also wondering who the man on your arm is and where you bought your frock and whether that's a baby bump you're packing under its waistband. So maybe it's better to be an anonymous person in a room full of anonymous people.
In this job, I often have to attend parties alone. But I've been doing it long enough and Sydney is small enough for me always to find someone I recognise. And even if the guests are unknown I'm bound to be acquainted with the waiters, chef, tech staff or doorman. (Often they're the evening's best conversationalists anyway.)
It was harder when I started. Back then I was required to parachute solo into groups I'd never encountered and had little in common with. I knew little about fashion, but had to saunter up to cliques of designers and stylists and insert myself into conversations about The Pant and The Hemline. I floundered amid the foodies' bewildering canon of culinary knowledge and struggled to comprehend the language of the hardcore art crowd.
Models, I found, were the easiest; they rarely speak to anyone anyway and so it is possible to stand beside one in companionable silence for long periods of time, after which you will be considered a friend.
TV personalities at the bottom of the food chain are good for a chat, too. They're primed by their agents to verbalise their resume as often as possible in public, under pressure to tell you whose clothes they're wearing and to plug whatever they're working on. All you have to do is stand there and listen.
Being a journalist helps. It's an excuse for bowling into conversations, asking blunt questions and - when all else fails - talking on the phone. It's a job which simply doesn't allow you to be shy. But even today, the prospect of stepping into a room filled with hundreds of strange (often in every sense) people can still make my heart beat faster, and I understand why some people loathe it.
How do you soften a daunting entry into uncharted social territory?
My first piece of advice: find common ground with your fellow guests. Easy if the party has a focus - art, food, wine tasting, performance - which allows you to share opinions. A simple: 'wasn't that clever/delicious/abominable/unfathomable?' is enough to kick off an exchange, debate or even a fight.
If the party offers no such catalyst, use a prop. I met a man at Hugo's the other night who was carrying a book. Privately I thought this made him a tosser, but I'll admit it was a conversation starter. Myself, I'd opt for something less Melbourne. A hat, perhaps. Or you could pick up a complicated canape and ask someone what they think it is. Be resourceful.
Always talk to the catering staff. They know who else is worth talking to. They can even introduce you. And they know where the real champagne is.
And above all, consider my Mum's invaluable piece of party wisdom, imparted before my first school disco: "Don't worry about what people are thinking of you because they'll all be too busy worrying about what everyone thinks of them."
In Sydney, this has extra resonance. One of the great ironies of our peacock, show pony party scene is that no-one really sees each other. They dress to impress, then spend the evening admiring themselves and hoping those around them will do so too, which they won't because they also have eyes for no-one but themselves. And so the room is filled with hundreds of performers playing to an audience of just one.
I've observed this mass narcissism in action on every pool deck, night club dance floor and balcony in this town and I've come to quite enjoy it because it leaves you free to wear, do and say pretty much what you like. When a friend of mine once became so drunk in a bar he began to romance a potted plant, no-one around him noticed and so his reputation remained intact.
In its oddly endearing way, a self-absorbed crowd is the easiest one to penetrate. All you need to do is find the nearest mirror and chat to that.