When we walked into the function suite, we were met with a wall of sound;
a mobile discotheque had been set up and the floor was already packed with dancers,
ages ranging from five to eighty, all illuminated randomly by some unimpressive colored lights.
The dancers seemed to be pretending to ride a horse in time to the music. I looked up at Raymond, very much out of my depth.
“Christ,” he said, “I need a drink.” I followed him gratefully to the bar.
The prices were gratifyingly low, and I drank my Magners quite fast,
comfortable in the knowledge that I’d brought enough money for several more,
although Raymond had, despite my protests, purchased this one.
We found a table as far away from the source of the noise as possible.
“Family dos,” Raymond said, shaking his head. “It’s bad enough when it’s your own family; when it’s someone else’s...”
I looked around. I had no prior experience of such events, and the main thing that struck me was disparity;
age range, social class and the sartorial choices made by the guests.
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