The scene was set. I was at a get-together of extraordinary women. Talented, successful, all freelancers in our fields.

Some of us had worked together, some of us were friends, some of us were new acquaintances. We were all inspiring (and I was there too).

Everyone was happy. Until the bar we met in cranked up the music.

Why do establishments insist on playing thumping tunes so loud you have to mime Pinot Grigo to the waiter in front of you? At 6pm.

And before anyone gets all eye roll-y and suggests I’m getting on a bit, I am. It’s getting to the stage where I could have birthed the office intern and the maths would work.

But even when I was a bright-eyed and bushy-tailed Wharfer, I still hated bars that desecrated the decibels.

I love loud music, at a festival, or at a club. When I dance, I don’t want anyone to hear me singing along to Katy Perry.

But when I’m at a bar I want conversation. I want jokes and anecdotes and secrets. We wanted to talk.

Instead we shouted, missed most of what was said, and came away with sore throats.

At one point I Whatsapped my friend across the table from me to pass the water, because it was easier.

The longest conversation I managed all night was in the loo, where there were no speakers.

Who wants to sit in a bar and not hear the people they’re with? If it’s a mating ritual thing, and you’re not interested in your lover’s conversational skills, go to the club.

Otherwise, for the sake of raconteurs, relationship builders and buddies everywhere, please turn it down.

Follow Angela on Twitter @TheAngelaClarke .

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