I think in the old-timey days party games were fairly commonplace. They seem to have gone out of fashion, replaced by I know not what, since my dance card has been blank for decades.

Since I am nothing if not old and unfashionable, I still try to inflict these quaint brain-teaser crowd-pleasers on innocent guests.

It’s a bit like setting out a punch bowl – glass cups, ladle and all. People know this was once a thing, but now? Really? Could I not make some effort to pretend I live in this century?

Quizzes are my weakness. I should go to Quizzers Anonymous, except such a thing would never work. Anonymity and wanting to jump up and down saying you have the answer don’t seem to gel.

My addiction is not restricted to the social or competitive. I will quiz by myself, against the clock or with no limits. In an all-my-Carnivals-come-at-once scenario, I recently discovered on YouTube a name-the-singer one. Ten seconds, four clues and you. Simple and perfect.

There’s a world in which I could cheerfully spend much of my day frolicking in endless, mindless trivia. Perhaps you too have succumbed to Sporcle. I once drank that Kool-Aid but I don’t think it’s the right fit. I need something more.

The hideous truth is that (eek, eek, blast, eek) I think I want something personal. Something that asks me to reveal something about myself or others. Not truth-or-dare.

But – and this is why I brought up old-fashioned party games – I like the ones that show you how you and your tormented friends think.

When I was younger I had a shameless obsession with magazine quizzes that supposedly told you something about yourself. What kind of friend you were. What your favourite colour said about you. What kind of dog was right for you. They were categorically absurd.

When I said I was shameless just now, I should not have attached it to one thing. I have minimal shame in general. So little shame have I that I decided to do that show-not-tell thing all the good writers say you’re supposed to do. I corralled a friend who has been getting into all sorts of scrapes with me since time was invented.

Lise, who compels me to refer to her as my macomere Lise, allowed herself to be drafted into the If game. The game is based on Evelyn McFarlane’s shockingly successful series of If books. I’ve lost count of how many volumes and special-themed ones there are. Are there truly so many other people who want to read hundreds of abstract questions just for so?

I never read the front matter of If or anything about it, so I thought I made this up. Turns out readers are meant to use it as a sort of parlour game. Parlour as in a sort of sitting room, not a shop. See, other people hail from the past.

I give you exhibits one through five of the withinsides of my macomere Lise and myself:

1. If you could spend one whole night alone with anyone in history, whom would you choose?

Lise: Jesus or my mom, Dolsie. So many questions for both of them.

Anu: The first person to draw on a cave wall.

2.If you could commit one crime without being ca