It was meant as a compliment but somehow my innocent remark made at a dinner party last Saturday, went down like a lead souffl.

My husband and I were dining at the home of our friends Angie and Griselda.

Griselda, by the way, is not her real name. She has asked for her identity to be disguised, so I shall describe her as a 33-year-old Austrian mother-of-six who plays the saxophone into the small hours.

Angie, who adores publicity, is actually a 39-year-old University of Brighton academic with a party-girl personality and a passion for cooking.

We had been looking forward to eating at their house ever since the invitation a month earlier. Not only are they interesting and lively company, they live in a magnificent Brighton house and I had heard that Angie's flair in the kitchen could rival Nigella's.

To begin with, all was going well. We arrived sociably late and made conversation with their delightful brood of children while Angie put the finishing touches to the meal.

The main course was a delicately poached fillet of salmon on a bed of creamy, lime-infused risotto. It was heavenly. It was the food of angels.

I commented how pleasing it was to have friends these days who were such great cooks and how much nicer it was to eat lovingly-prepared food in intimate, domestic surroundings rather than pay a fortune for something substandard in a grimy, noisy restaurant. We all seemed to agree with this.

Then came my moment of shame. It happened just as Angie placed my desert in front of me - a slice of homemade chocolate cake with a swirl of double cream and a scoop of vanilla ice-cream.

She had decorated the plate with a sprinkle of icing sugar and the effect was so attractive that the first words to come into my head and out of my mouth were: "Oh, catering college."

Everybody's jaw dropped, including my husband's.

"I can't believe you said that," he said.

"I only meant that it looked so professional that ... "

"Oh, don't try to dig yourself out now," boomed Griselda.

"Yeah, cheek," said Angie.

"No, no, listen," I tried again. "It's just that this is so beautifully presented I feel like Lloyd Grossman in Junior Masterchef ..." (more tutting) " ... I mean, Masterchef."

It was useless. The more I tried to explain myself, the worse I sounded.

We began talking about Griselda's new haircut, which she didn't like. The rest of us tried to reassure her that we thought it was lovely and that it framed her face beautifully.

"I'm not convinced," said Griselda. "This is how I had my hair cut when I was 17."

"Ahh, but you don't look 17," I found myself saying. I was obviously on a roll.

My husband turned to me. His jaw had descended again. "Don't you know when to stop? What has got into you?"

"Sorry, sorry everyone," I said. "But you're not letting me explain myself. Griselda, what I meant was that what you feel you look like is quite different to how you look ..."

"You seem to have lost all your social graces," said my husband. "Perhaps we should leave now before you do any more damage."

"But I want seconds," I replied.

"That is exactly what I'm worried about," he said.