Yesterday was vaguely halfway between my birthday and Jenny's birthday, so we decided to celebrate this vague non-date by going out for posh food in Wandsworth. Chez Bruce has one Michelin star – which must be good as I don't think Chicken Cottage has got any at all – but despite this prestiguous award, the miserable sods who spend their lives nit-picking in the comments section of london-eating.co.uk have consistently pulled up Bruce & Co for the state of their wobbly tables. Stop moaning and wedge a napkin underneath the bastard, that's what I say, although I didn't get a wobbly table myself so it's difficult to know what my reaction would have been. I may have gone berserk, laid waste to the cheese board and punched the sommelier. Who can tell?

Jenny and I conducted the evening's conversation in hushed tones, befitting the status of the restaurant. This changed when a posh couple arrived to sit at the table opposite; they chatted as if they were conducting a public debate in front of 2,000 people in Trafalgar Square, and we had to up our volume to compete. Within a minute or so we'd learned that two friends of theirs were on their way but stuck in traffic, and that the man – who sported a pair of bright red trousers in that unique manner that only the poshest men can – liked to experience "exciting tastes" in his mouth. When their friends – another posh couple – arrived, a bottle of champagne was brought to the table, and we learned that they were celebrating because the man in red trousers had given the other man a job. The old school tie, it seems, is hanging proudly in a wardrobe somewhere in SW17.

An Australian couple arrived, looking distinctly pissed off, and they sat at the table next to ours. He was far more pissed off than she was, and her attempts to console him and Make Everything Nice were continually rebuffed. The tension in the air was so thick you could pierce it with a silver langoustine fork, and eventually the man got up and went to the toilet for some much-needed relief. I also needed the toilet, and I followed him. After we'd done our business, we both had trouble getting the taps to work. "I seem to be having trouble getting the taps to work," I said to him. He looked at me with forlorn eyes. "It's a nightmare parking round here," he said. "We got lost, as well – it's taken us 2 and a half hours to get here." I apologised, because obviously it was my fault, and went to find someone to help us with the taps. A man in a suit was loitering nearby, and he politely instructed us how to operate the taps successfully. We soothed our hands with Molton Brown hand lotion and returned to the table.

The Australian guy still refused to speak to his partner, so consumed was he in his own vehicle-related grief. He found the menu perplexing, and his partner's attempt to explain "chateaubriand" and "tempura" were met with sullen disinterest. "Are you ready to order?" the waiter asked them; she said "I am, but he isn't, he's got a few questions." The waiter looked towards him, anticipating questions, but he refused to ask them, and instead took a miserable pull on his bottle of lager. Eventually they ordered, and sat there in silence. "Please speak to me," she said. "Can't we forget it? We got lost, it just happens." After 5 more minutes he grabbed his coat of the back of the chair, asked the waiter for the bill and walked out. She followed him. The room went silent; even the posh bloke in red trousers stopped shouting the word "hamstring" and guffawing loudly. But only for a few seconds. Soon, everything was back to "normal".

At the end of the evening the bill arrived; an eye-watering £162.13. Jenny and I went half and half, in that fantastically convenient way that many couples do, these days. The waiter arrived with the portable card-swiping machine, and handed to me. "Penniless," he said to me. "Sorry?" I replied. "Penniless," he said, smiling. "Er... well, yeah, it has cleaned me out, actually," I said, my brow slightly furrowed. "No, sir," he said, "I've charged you a penny less." He'd generously split the bill in half but charged the extra odd penny to Jenny. The Jenny penny, if you will. He then bent down and whispered furtively: "Could you tell me the gossip?" while gesturing towards the empty table next to us. I explained that they had got lost on the way, and that the evening had never really recovered. "It's a shame," said the waiter, "as when the gentleman booked the table, he told us that he was going to propose to the lady tonight."

There isn't really a funny side to this, is there, but if there is, I hope the Aussies found it somewhere on their way home in the car. And that the ring isn't still burning a hole in his pocket.